But who can look into futurity? who can tell what may be in store for him? The _crank_ vessel reached Antigua in safety; the mail boat and all on board, with the exception of one solitary female, perished in the treacherous waters, almost within sight of their own homes—within hearing of the church bell. I never pass the spot without shuddering, and fancying what must have been the feelings of that _one_ who was spared to tell the dreadful tale. A woman of lively imagination and affectionate disposition, she saw friend after friend washed away by the remorseless waves. The pride of manhood!—the shrinking delicacy of woman!—the helplessness of infancy!—all of no avail!—a splash—a bubble—and all was over, and their bodies filled the maw of some rapacious monster, or rested in some coral cave beneath the waters, there to remain until that great day, when sea and earth must give up their dead. Of the ill-fated voyagers, all who remained were, she who was destined to be the sole survivor, her husband, and the master of the vessel. Worn out by mental agony, and unavailing exertions to attract the notice of the many fishing-boats and other vessels which were constantly passing within their sight, but which either did not perceive or would not assist them, the master of the vessel gave himself up to the dominion of the “giant despair,” and losing his hold of the wreck, was quickly carried away by the waves. One more victim was required—and that was the dearest, the best beloved—her husband died in her arms, and after holding him for many a painful minute, and struggling for mastery with the billows to retain the much-loved corpse, nature became exhausted, and she sank into a state of insensibility. In this state she remained until the crew of some passing vessel raised an alarm upon their gaining shore. A party of gentlemen went in search of the supposed wreck, and finding the inanimate female, quickly conveyed her to the main land, where every care was lavished upon her, and happily not without success. No one can read the affecting details of the sufferings of this unhappy crew (an account of which Mrs. Jones, the name of the lady, afterwards published) without feeling deep sorrow at the event. At the same time, no one dares to ask “why was it so?” All we can allege is, “God moves in a mysterious way.” This melancholy catastrophe was known at St. Kitts as soon as (if not before) it was at Antigua: the dead body of a child (one of the unfortunate passengers) conveyed the first direful tidings.