Ay! now it breezes a little—now we gather headway—and now we pass the cutter. See her long, taper, raking masts, her taut stays and shrouds; and hear, as the stripes and stars are run up to her gaff, the short roll of the drum, the “beat to quarters.” Hah! Davy,—old fellow, dost remember that note last war? How many times, at midnight, we’ve sprang from our beds as that short, quick “rub-a-dub” warned us of the approach of the blockading frigates, as they neared the town. But, no, no,—forgive me, old tar,—I recollect, indeed, thou then wast captain of thy gun, on board the dashing _Essex_. Ay! well now do I remember, brave old sailor, thy conduct in her last desperate battle. Eighteen men hadst thou killed at thy single gun. I think I see thee now, as grimed with powder, spattered with blood, thou didst advance, through fire and smoke, and approach thy saturnine commander on the quarter-deck. I hear thy brief, business-like request, “A fresh crew for Number Three, Second Division. All my men are killed!” And the short, stern response, “Where is your officer?” “_Dead_,—swept overboard by cannon shot.” And well can I see the momentary play of anguish round his mouth, as, resuming his hurried walk, he gloomily replies, “I have no more men—you must fight your gun yourself!” Ay—and as thy proud ship a helpless target lay, for twice superior force, I hear poor Ripley, thy brave comrade, severed almost in twain by cannon shot, crying, with short farewell—“Messmates, I am no longer of use to myself or country,” as he throws himself, his life-blood gushing, overboard.