We were not particularly fortunate in making many captures on the Halifax station, in our early cruises, after the war broke out. But the change which the renewal of hostilities made in our habits was great. Instead of idly rotting in harbour, our ship was now always at sea, on the look-out,—a degree of vigilance, which, as will be seen, had its reward in due season. In the meantime, we discovered that a midshipman’s life was full of interest and curiosity, especially to those who thirsted to see new countries and new climates. Of this matter of climate, I find a characteristic enough touch in one of my early letters. “We have been on a cruise for many months; but we did not take a single prize, although all the rest of the ships of the station have been making captures. I hope we shall be more fortunate next time, as we intend to go to a better place. Our last cruise carried us a long way to the southward, where the weather was so very hot, that it became impossible to do any thing in comfort, night or day. In the night time we could hardly sleep, and in the day we were scorched by the sun. When our candles were lighted, they melted away by degrees, and often tumbled on the table by their own weight, or, perhaps, fell plump into the victuals!” Even at this distance of time, I have a most painfully distinct recollection of these dirty tallow candles in the midshipmen’s birth—dips, I think, they were called—smelling of mutton fat, and throwing up a column of smoke like that from a steamboat’s chimney. These ‘glims’ yielded but little light, by reason, possibly, of a huge wick occupying more than half the area of the flame, and demanding the incessant application of our big-bellied snuffers to make the darkness visible.