would never rise again. The sight, indeed, was so shocking that I could witness it no longer; I went below and threw myself into my little birth. Captain Kwas struck with my agitation and asked the cause. I desired him to go on deck. He returned an instant afterwards. I have seen many sights (said he) but never one

like this.

"Venit summa dies, et ineluctabile tempus

Dardanice."

said I to him on one occasion that the vessel received a fearful shock;

"Nudus in ignota, Palinure, jacebis arena ;"

he replied with a groan; the first and the only one I heard from him. The captain now came down, and, as well as he could speak, addressed the passengers-he told us that he was at a loss to know what to do-that the gale was so dreadful, the vessel so crazy, and the men so exhausted, he was almost certain of foundering if we kept to sea; that Drogheda river, which lay a little a-head, was, he understood, a very dangerous one, even to those who knew it best; that he was utterly unacquainted with it; but, as the lesser evil, would prefer venturing if we had no objection.

We told him we were incapable of advising, and begged him to do whatever he thought best

for the safety of the vessel, and the preservation of all our lives.

We shaped our course (as we thought) for, Drogheda river accordingly; the sea roaring. with a violence of which it is impossible to form an idea, though the darkness hid it from our view, -we saw nothing-we knew nothing of where we were, or where we were going; we were ignorant of every thing except that danger surrounded us on every side; that shoals and rocks were round us, and about us, and that little short of a miracle could save us.

The horrors of that night can never be erased, from my recollection; I am sure the agonies of death "if any sense at that sad hour remains," could alone equal it. It was so long-that nightoften when the gust came violent and bore down the little bark that bore us and our hopes when I raised myself in the wretched birth where I lay and by the miserable lamp that glimmered in the cabin, making "darkness visible;" 1 observed the slow progress of time-I exclaimed in the words of a German poet "will this eternal night last to the day of judgment !"

If time is to be reckoned by succession of ideas, that night was an age of misery; nor would I spend such another for the sea's wealth.

Strange as it may appear, my mind was active and busy-all the incidents of my past life passed before me with inconceivable rapidity; many

passages from our poets, presented themselves to my memory with extraordinary distinctness, with a heart that vibrated to the sentiment I repeated, I am sure a hundred times,

"O the cry did knock

Against my very heart; poor souls, they perished!"

At intervals the cries of the women in the hold mingled with the blast, and gave it new horrors; more ear-piercing and heart-rending than the others were those of a female I had noticed the day before, for her extraordinary attention to an infant which she carried at her breast. She was an interesting-looking young woman about twenty, going to Ireland to her husband, who is a corporal in some regiment here; if she were as affectionate a wife as she was a mother, his general would have had reason to be proud of her.

The stoutest seaman confessed, by his groans, by his short but energetic prayers, how terrible. was the death that seemed to await us-maternal solicitude was her only feeling-for herself she had no care-she thought not of death-she thought of her child.

Even at the instant I write this-when the tempest thickens and the rain comes down, when, seated at a blazing turf fire, I contrast my、 present security with the danger of that night I hear her agonized cry, "O save my child, save

my child!"nor was I then, I trust, so absorbed in the selfish consideration of my own danger, as to be insensible to the heroism of this artless young Cheshire woman, who had probably quitted her father's house for the first time, and experienced now so rough a sample of the storms we are all doomed more or less to meet with during the wearisome pilgrimage of life.

The contemptation of her fortitude served for a time to interest and occupy my thoughts; they soon returned, however, to the scene around me and to myself. Death by ship-wreck is the most terrible of deaths. The spectacle of a field of battle, is lofty and imposing-its glittering apparel, its martial music, its waving banners, and floating standards, its high chivalric air and character, elevate the soul, and conceal from us the dangers of our situation.

Stretched on our death-bed, enfeebled by sickness, our sensibility becomes enfeebled also, and while heavy shocks shake the body and make it to the bye-stander seem to suffer, nature throws over the soul the kindly shroud of a happy insensibility—while the closed shutter, the tip-toe tread, and whispered attendance, shut out the world we are so soon about to leave.

But in a storm at sea, the scene is not more terrible than disgusting-in a miserable cabin, on a filthy bed, in a confined and putrid air,

where it is as imposible to think as to breathe freely-the fatigue, the motion, the want of rest and food give a kind of hysteric sensibility to the frame, which makes it alive to the slightest danger; no wonder, therefore, it should be so to the greatest of all. If we look round the miserable group that surround us, no eye beams comfort, no tongue speaks consolation ; and when we throw our imagination beyond-to the death-like darkness, the howling blast, the raging and merciless element, soon to be our horrid habitation, surely, surely, it is the most terrible of deaths.

About two in the morning, when we were beginning to flatter ourselves with some hopes, the vessel struck-of the scene that followed it is as painful to think, as it would be impossible to describe. The violence of the shock threw the vessel on one side, and the waves beat over her in every part. The rudder was unshipped, and the mast went by the board. The shrieks of the men and women passengers, the cries or rather shouts of sorrow of the seamen, formed a perfect chorus of misery.

crudelis ubique

Luctus, ubique pavor, et plurima mortis imago:

After the first tumult was subsided, I observed a very general disposition to kneel down and pray; there appeared to be no hope from man;