"WE have been much amused with a scene which took place in our cabin to-day. When we were yesterday looking rather grave at having finished our last piece of meat, Mrs. B cheered us by the assurance, that she had a dinner provided for us for at least one day more. We felt very grateful at the moment, and still more so to-day when we became hungry, and saw her get up and move towards a cupboard to fulfil her promise. A sudden roll of the ship, however, defeated her good intentions, and she was laid prostrate on the ground; in spite of hunger and civi

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lity, we all laughed, and she was very angry; she gathered herself up, however, reached the cupboard, and having scrambled up on the locker, opened the door-but, oh! her agitation in falling was nothing to the scream with which she exclaimed, It is stolen, and I know who has done it!' turning with a look of fury to her niece, who stood trembling before her. It was but too true; this hungry, greedy girl, had actually got up in the night and privately worried up a Bologna sausage on which we were to have dined. We got no dinner, but we got some amusement, which, though not so nourishing, was fully as unexpected; but though we are in better spirits to-day from not being so sick, we have nothing else to cheer us. The wind is now

falling, and a fog is coming on."

"Another night has passed—a long, long night. There was a swell in the sea, and oh! this sickness, what have we all suffered! To describe my trembling of heart last night, when I saw the candle sinking, and knew I must cross the cabin (and those lying on the

floor) to renew it,-no! I cannot say what that effort was. With me, sea-sickness is a faintness even unto death-it seems a sinking at every step, of limbs and life itself;—but why should I think of this now, when we are all better? What can I think of. Of the scene before us?-Oh, no! Of our dear home?-Alas! that thought is now, of all others, the most painful. To hear on all sides this constant rumour, that we are sailing in a wrong direction-probably, they say, towards America-and this impenetrable fog continuing, no observation taken for two days! But these are enervating thoughts; is not our sure confidence in Him, who can give us strength equal to our trial? What must the feelings of those be in suffering, who believe not in this Power, nor ask this strength ?-their courage in the hour of danger seems a miracle. The poor baby gets so emaciated now, we cannot bear to look at him; but he is not our greatest anxiety. Ah, no! of that I cannot write. I need say nothing of yesterday; the weather was the same as now-a dead calm and dense fog. I am unable to write more, for I

am getting very faint. I sometimes think that want of proper nourishment increases this faintness. Well, if we cannot say, that we are a day's sail nearer our dear home, we may say, at least, we have a day less to suffer, and that of itself is a blessing."

"Wednesday, April 11.

"Four days we have had of calm and fog -four tiresome days, and still more tiresome nights. It was fortunate we were too sick to be hungry, and that a little water-gruel and fruit is sufficient. Yet, sometimes towards evening, we do feel that we could eat, and once or twice Mary and I have placed ourselves near the kitchen-door that we might have a chance of being offered a spoonful of the stews which some of the gentlemen were cooking within: no one has enough to spare; but for some days past, Mr. R has generously given us a present of six potatoes each day, and though this is divided amongst nine of us, yet still it is a great treat. Dear mamma has now little nourishment indeed for the poor baby; sometimes nurse gives it a little bit of salt meat to suck, sometimes a

a few drops of brandy-and-water, and we are obliged to keep constantly a fig in its mouth. It cries very seldom now, but we fear it is too weak to cry, and we cannot help sometimes dreading that it may be the will of Heaven to take our little Maitland from us; but we may surely trust the worst is now over, for we are off Falmouth, and hope is whispering that all may yet be well."

"They tell us we shall be off Plymouth to-day by two o'clock. Is it possible? We must now prepare to quit the ship. To quit the ship--how delightful! Twelve days we have been on board-twelve such days-but all is forgotten now but gratitude to Heaven."

"Plymouth, Pope's Head, 12th of April,

Thursday night, nine o'clock.

"This has been a day of joy and thankfulness. Oh, the unspeakable delight of seeing dear, dear England again! I had not long finished writing this morning, when we were called on deck to see Mount Edgecomb. How beautiful did its hanging woods and