Of her own noble class of vessels, the Harpy was among the finest; and she had a picked crew, and dashing commander. Cæsar O’Brien was an Irishman of humble family, and yet at the early age of twenty-four, he found himself a post-captain. But to no underhand interest was he indebted for his rapid preferment. His career had been gloriously distinguished; he could look back upon it with honest pride, and claim every step he got on the score of professional deserving. Justly considered one of the ablest officers in the service, it was strange that upon his merits his own crew held a divided opinion. The younger portion declared him a man without a fault; the older, however, discovered a failing in his character.--“The captain,” they complained, “_had too much fight in him_. It was true, he had an Irishman’s good luck; but, in the long run, it would bring him into trouble.” To you, Julia, the details of sea-life would have little interest. We were stationed off the coast of France; and from our captain’s daring character, he had been intrusted with a sort of roving commission, and allowed to employ the frigate almost as he pleased. During a six-months’ cruise, nothing, for brilliancy or effect, could exceed the services he _had_ rendered to his country. In every French harbour the Harpy’s exploits were known and her captain’s name associated with those of England’s most daring and fortunate commanders. From the moment I entered the frigate as a volunteer, I had been fortunate enough to become a favourite with Captain O’Brien. In a successful night-attack upon a battery and privateer, in which we dismantled the one, and Cut out the other, my conduct was honourably mentioned by the first lieutenant, and the captain’s clerk having been killed on the occasion, I was promoted to fill the vacancy. In this confidential situation I acquitted myself with credit--and to the hour of his death, was treated by the warm-hearted Irishman more like an equal than an inferior. The period of our cruise had expired, and an order came for the frigate to return to England and refit. At sunset, the vessel sent to relieve us was seen in the distance; and before dark, she had exchanged numbers with the Harpy. In all our gallant crew not one heavy heart could have been discovered. After a daring and successful cruise, next morning the frigate’s head would be turned to the white-cliffed island from which, for nine months, we had been estranged; and all, from “the noblest captain in the British fleet” to the smallest ship-boy, felt the charm which attends a return to fatherland, and slept to dream of “England, home, and beauty.”