It is long ago since the last convict ship sailed away from these shores with her horrid burden of guilt and grief and passions of a hundred devilish sorts; I don’t know how long it is since the last of the convict ships passed down Channel on her way to colonies which were like to become a sort of shambles--for they were hanging half a score of men a day for murder in those times--if this horrid commerce in felons had not ended; when that ship had weighed and sailed she passed away to return no more as a prison craft. When she faded out of sight she was a vanished type, and when she climbed, moon-like, above the horizon under full breast of shining canvas, she was an honest ship again, never more to be debauched by opportunities to tender for the transport of criminals. Before I lift the curtain upon my ship, the Convict Ship in which I sailed, I must hold you in talk concerning some matters which go before the sailing of the vessel; for I have to explain how it came about that I, a woman, was on board of a convict ship full of male malefactors. I was born in the parish of Stepney in the year 1814. My father was Mr. Benjamin Johnstone, a well-known man--locally, I mean--in his day. He had been put to sea as a boy very young; had risen steadily and made his way to command, saved money with a liberal thriftiness that enabled him to enjoy life modestly and to hold the respect of his friends. He built a little ship for a venture, did well, bought or built a second, and at the age of forty-five owned a fleet of four or five coasters, all trading out of the Thames. He purchased a house at Stepney for the convenience of the district. At Stepney in my young days lived many respectable families, and I don’t doubt that many respectable families still live at Stepney; but it is true that all that part of London has sunk since I was a little girl, and the sort of people who flourished in the east in the beginning of the century have now gone west with the jerry trowel and the nine-inch wall. My father’s house in Stepney might have been a lord’s in its time. It was strong as a fortress, cosy and homely, rich within doors with the colouring of age. It still stands; I visited it last year, but it is no longer a private house. I was about twelve years old when my father died. The manner of his going was very sudden and fearful, and, old as I am, when I think of it I feel afraid, so haunting is youthful impression, the shock of it often trembling through the longest years into the last beats of one’s heart. My cousin, Will Johnstone, had been brought over from his house near the Tower to spend the afternoon with me. He was between six and seven years of age, a fine little manly boy, the only son of my father’s brother, William Johnstone, a lawyer, whose house and office were near the Tower. This little Will and I sat at the table in the parlour, playing at some game, and very noisy.