‘Two days after you left us, we sailed from Dublin harbour, in company with two other vessels bound for Glasgow. The wind being fair, we had ran down the coast a good way before dark; but as the night came on, the weather got hazy, and the wind veered more to westward, blowing very fresh, and continued increasing: by ten o’clock it was a perfect storm. All hands had been on deck from the time it grew dark, and as we had been rather pinched for room, the passengers turned into the vacant berths; but I had never any liking to being below in bad weather, and remained on deck. The night looked frightful—the mist was such, that we could not see the vessel’s length a-head—and the wind blowing fearfully in upon the shore. The captain had never been on the coast before, and seemed to have no confidence in his knowledge of it, and in his confusion lost sight of every precaution. I was well aware of our danger, and mentioned it to the captain. “I can’t help it,” was his answer, “I can see no light—to lie-to, I would inevitably drift—and to tack with this wind would be impossible; all I can do is to keep the vessel close to the wind—perhaps it may clear up.” I saw there was little hope, and my mind turned to the poor creatures in the cabin, who were lying sick in the berths; if there was any chance for them, it must be on deck, and going below for the purpose of getting them up, I found Eliza in dreadful agony, the pains of premature labour had seized her through excessive sickness. I endeavoured to persuade her to come up, but she could not stir. I overheard one of the sailors on deck sing out that he saw a light. “Thank God!” said I, “we may be saved yet.” “Is there danger?” said Eliza. I could not conceal it. “You had better try to get up on deck, I will assist you; if you have any chance of being saved it will be there.” “O, no!” said she; “let me remain, I do not wish to be saved; God will have mercy on me, and the waves will cover my shame!” Hearing a great bustle I ran up the ladder,—“Lord have mercy on us,” said one of the sailors, “we are all lost.” “How? how?” said I. “Don’t you see the breakers a-head.” I did see them too plainly: we were close upon them. I ran down to the cabin, and partly by force, partly by entreaty, got Eliza out of her berth; and getting her in my arms, I got to the foot of the companion ladder. I was half-way up the ladder, when a crash that would have roused the dead pealed in my ear, mingled with the despairing shriek of the crew. The shock threw me back on the cabin floor, and my head coming in contact with the iron ring of the hatch, I was rendered for a few moments insensible. The stern of the vessel had been torn asunder, and it now yawned beneath me; the water rushed in—I remember no more. I was saved, miraculously saved; but Eliza escaped from the censure of an unfeeling world.’