My father, George P. A. Healy, was born in Boston, July 15, 1813. He was of I rish descent on the paternal side; his father, a naturalized A merican, was a captain in the merchant service. The vessel he commanded happened to be in Moroccan waters in 1812, at the time of the troubles caused by pirates. As my grandfather was surrounded and capture seemed imminent, he caused his sailors to disembark, blew up his ship and barely escaped with his life. When he returned to Boston, the captain married an American girl. He soon found that the qualities which made of him an able seaman and a fearless fighter were not such as were likely to make a successful landsman of him. Yet, at one time he must have been in pretty good circumstances, for he sat to Stuart. This was one of his eldest sons earliest recollections. Once, when the child was playing in the street with other urchins, one of these exclaimed: There goes old Stuart! I yfather looked up, but only caught a glimpse of old Stuarts back. Nothing seemed to predestine the Boston boy to an artistic career. He was soon old enough to realize that his pretty young mother had much difficulty in making both ends meet. His one aim was to find some means of helping her.
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