consists with what is not less sacred in our regard, justice and delicacy to the dead. She who died under the circumstances now to be narrated, reminded us, at parting, of an old promise to take such charge of her writings as events might require, and to see justice rendered to her name, adding, as well verbally as by letter, "I have in you the most affectionate confidence." It is with the keenest remembrance of this, that the attempt is here made to trace her thoughts and actions fairly, from the evil hour when, sailing from native England, she was seen by her old beloved friends no more.
The voyage presented no remarkable feature to report; the ship had fair weather, and accomplished the passage in about the usual time. The delicate and inexperienced voyager shared the usual fate attendant upon sea-travelling, but her health was re-established, and this sort of sickness she could well bear. In short, she encountered bravely all the privations and pains incidental to the passage.
We subjoin a few extracts from the journal which she kept during her voyage.
"Never is there one moment's quiet—the deck is about a yard from your head, and it is never still; steps, falling of ropes, chains, and the rolling of parts of machinery, never stop: if you sleep, you are waked with a start, your heart beating—by some sudden roll. There is one peculiarity about sea-sickness, it is accompanied by constant craving—you first wish for one thing then for another, not that anything does you any good, but I could think of nothing but what I had nice when I was with you; I do think I should have cried with joy, if I could have had a glass of jelly—then the
