Early in the nineteenth century, in an autumnal month, a corvette, a light built Spanish vessel, passed the Bar of Dublin, and, with all her canvass crowded, rode gallantly into the bay, after having weathered, for a period of five days, one of those tremendous gales, which occasionally agitate the Irish seas. A southern port of Ireland had been her original destination. Stress of weather had driven her up the Channel; and the injury she had received in / her unequal contest with the elements rendered it necessary that she should undergo repair, before she proceeded on her coasting voyage. On her stern she bore the name of ‘Il Librador;’ and, though now unarmed, and the property of a private individual, she had evidently been a sloop of war in some foreign service.

The dawn was breaking in tints of gold and hues of crimson, as the corvette cut her way through the brightning waves; and the happiest aspect of the Irish coast presented itself to the view of two persons, who stood in silence at the helm; – who had stood there since the first pale flush of light had thrown its silvery line along the eastern horizon.

The elder of the two was the master of the vessel. He was still in the very prime of life and flower of manhood; / and as each lovely feature of the Irish shore gradually developed itself, and arose bright and fresh from the mists of the morning upon his eager gaze, he presented, in his own person, an image, that denoted the intention of the creator, when he made man supreme above all, to reign over his fair creation.

He stood erect, his arms so folded as to give to his square chest and shoulders a peculiar muscularity and breadth of outline.