his name or my own, I have taken no liberties with
history other than such as every writer of fiction is privileged to
take,--indeed, must take, if fiction is to be written at all.

The story having been once published, it passed out of my hands. From
that moment it has gradually acquired different accessories, for which I
am not responsible. Thus I have heard it said, that at one bureau of the
Navy Department they say that Nolan was pardoned, in fact, and returned
home to die. At another bureau, I am told, the answer to questions is,
that, though it is true that an officer was kept abroad all his life,
his name was not Nolan. A venerable friend of mine in Boston, who
discredits all tradition, still recollects this "Nolan court-martial."
One of the most accurate of my younger friends had noticed Nolan's death
in the newspaper, but recollected "that it was in September, and not in
August." A lady in Baltimore writes me, I believe in good faith, that
Nolan has two widowed sisters residing in that neighborhood. A
correspondent of the Philadelphia Despatch believed "the article untrue,
as the United States corvette 'Levant' was lost at sea nearly three
years since, between San Francisco and San Juan." I may remark that this
uncertainty as to the place of her loss rather adds to the probability
of her turning up after three years in Lat. 2 deg. 11' S., Long. 131 deg. W. A
writer in the New Orleans Picayune, in a careful historical paper,
explained at length that I had been mistaken all through; that Philip
Nolan never went to sea, but to Texas; that there he was shot in battle,
March 21, 1801, and by orders from Spain every fifth man of his party
was to be shot, had they not died in prison. Fortunately, however, he
left his papers and maps, which fell into the hands of a friend of the
Picayune's correspondent. This friend proposes to publish them,--and the
public will then have, it is to be hoped, the true history of Philip
Nolan, the man without a country.

With all these continuations, however, I have nothing to do. I can only
repeat that my Philip Nolan is pure fiction. I cannot send his
scrap-book to my friend who asks for it, because I have it not to send.

I remembered, when I was collecting material for my story, that in
General Wilkinson's galimatias, which he calls his "Memoirs," is
frequent reference to a business partner of his, of the name of Nolan,
who, in the very beginning of this century, was killed in Texas