re for long years he remained a
prisoner. Sir Richard left an account of his 'Voyage to the South
Sea'--a 'record of misfortune, but of misfortune which did no dishonour
to him who sank under it; and there is a melancholy dignity in the style
in which Hawkins tells his story, which seems to say that ... he
respects himself still for the heart with which he endured a shame which
would have broken a smaller man.' A second William Hawkins, Sir John's
brother, commanded a Huguenot vessel under the commission of the Prince
of Conde; and yet another William of a younger generation went as
ambassador of the East India Company to the Great Mogul, and succeeded
in setting up a trading station at Surat.

Every Plymouth hero, however, is eclipsed by Sir Francis Drake, who is
always counted their chief, though he was born near Tavistock. 'Could my
pen as ably describe his worth as my heart prompteth to it, I would make
this day-star appear at noon-day as doth the full moon at midnight,' is
Risdon's ecstatic exclamation.

When all his grand qualities and successes have been contemplated, it is
still rather surprising to find the extraordinary impression he created
in that epoch of heroic enterprise. The stories of magic that have
clustered round his name witness to his wonderful personality, for
naturally they are much more significant than those that have been woven
around the older heroes of a more superstitious, less civilized age.
These legends must have been handed down to generation after generation,
for, writing about 1835, Mrs Bray mentions that the peasantry near
Tavistock still talked of the 'old warrior,' as they called him. To
choose one or two at random, there is the story that once, after he had
been away for a very long time, his wife supposed him to be dead, and
thought that she was free to marry again. A spirit whispered the news to
Sir Francis, who was at the Antipodes. At once he fired a great
cannon-ball, 'so truly aimed that it shot up right through the globe,
forced its way into the church, and fell with a loud explosion between
the lady and her intended bridegroom. "It is the signal of Drake!" she
exclaimed. "He is alive, and I am still a wife. There must be neither
troth nor ring between thee and me."' Another story tells that after he
had finished the ever-famous game of bowls on Plymouth Hoe, which was
interrupted by tidings of the Armada, Sir Francis cut up a block of
wood, and flung the chips into the se