Three full generations have passed away since the last fight mentioned in these pages was fought, and in that long period nearly every detail, even of the bravest among them all, has been forgotten. At Falmouth, where there is still a considerable interest in the ancient service of the Post-Office, no one has collected the facts or given any labour to preserve them from perishing. One by one, as the survivors of the Service died, their memories died with them. Captain Cock has passed out of recollection in the town of his adoption as completely as if he had never lived. Nobody remembers Captain James. The “Morgiana” and the “Montague” are forgotten as absolutely as if no remarkable events had been connected with their names. A few stories are known, half-a-dozen officers are named, but of precise information there is little indeed to be found where it might have been sought most confidently. The present writer, after wandering about the neighbourhood all day in search of recollections, found himself at last towards evening in the pleasant churchyard of Mylor. The ground slopes rapidly down to the beautiful harbour, the blue water and the white sails of a passing boat were clearly visible through the openings of the trees. Sitting on a low wall in the sunshine was the sexton of the church, an old man blind and bowed with age, who had crept out, supported on two sticks, to taste the evening freshness in a spot where every detail of the scene was clear before his mental sight, and whence he could hear the water lapping on the shore below. Sitting here the old man pointed out that many of the graves lying round were those of Packet officers; and turning his memory back towards those days of which few people, he complained, cared to talk, he brought forth many an anecdote of the Packets, told with an old man’s relish in the times which are gone by. At last, warming to his subject, he plunged into the story of the “Antelope,” telling with spirit and enthusiasm how Pasco, the boatswain, had lashed the Packet to the Privateer, and boarding bravely, had won a noble victory. Not far away, across the harbour, was the little hamlet where Pasco lived. The sexton had known his children; and, when a child himself, had even seen the golden call which, as told in the third chapter of this work, was presented by the Postmaster General to the hero of the fight. It was a pity, the old man thought, that Pasco was forgotten. But all the others were forgotten too; many a statue had been put up in honour of people not so brave. In this way the old man rambled on till the weariness of age overtook him, and he could draw forth no more recollections. He stayed there sitting in the sun until the child who led him returned to guide him home—a not unfitting symbol of the decay which has fallen on the Service for which his enthusiasm was reserved, and on the reputations of the officers who made it great. INDEX.