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and sleepless nights, the sight of her children, not knowing if they were fatherless, or if she might herself be wife or widow, -preyed on her heart, affected her health, and would in all probability have destroyed her, had she not been called upon to a new exertion of the energies of her naturally strong character; and that by the confirmation, if confirmation it could be deemed, of the very calamity she had so long dreaded in all the intense agonies of suspense.

In her course, it was well known the Vestal was to pass Newfoundland. A vessel supposed from the distance of time elapsed since the frigate had quitted England, and other circumstances, to have been the Vestal was heard, by another ship also exposed to the storm, firing guns of distress in the midst of a tempest off Newfoundland. Gun after gun was fired; but there was no hope they could be saved: the winds and waves mocked the signal of misery. A boat was put out; human souls were in it

a wave came, and they were nothing. Another boat followed; it had the same fate: whilst the ship, like a parent who sees the children of her bosom die around her, at last sunk, having lived to witness the ruin and the fall of her sons.

Mary Colling, when a child, had, to use her

own words, "often heard tell of the loss of the ship in a storm, in which it was supposed her grandfather and his son had perished." The following poem, though written by her in after life, may, probably, owe its birth to the thoughts and feelings awakened in her young mind by the relation of the melancholy circumstance, as she would sit and listen to it on the knees of her beloved grandmother :

THE STORM.

Behold, the sky is overcast,
With a terrific gloom;

The doleful night is hastening fast,
And brings impending doom.

The atmosphere's in tumults hurl'd,
And from the frowning north,
The storm upon the watery world,
In fury marches forth.

The bosom of the mighty deep,
Is swell'd, and day departs;
As bursting from a silent sleep,
Gigantic horror starts.

Its darkening waves with fearful force, angry ocean lifts;

The

The billows overflow their course,

And

sweep the lofty clifts.

On high the shivering vessel rocks,
Upon the ambitious wave;

The seaman's art and skill it mocks,
And threats a watery grave.

The lightenings dart: with awful glare, Fast fly the vivid flakes;

The thunder rends the boundless air, And Heaven's high vault it shakes.

While toss'd upon the deep abyss,
The hapless seamen give
The mournful signal of distress,
But none can them relieve.

They can no where for shelter hide,
To shun the ruthless foe;
Danger looks big on every side,
They fear increase of woe.

All gracious Heaven, in mercy deign,
Their hapless state to view!

D

Thou can'st the raging winds restrain,
And calm the ocean too.

Danger her direful yell repeats,

Thy pity now they crave:

Oh! let them know the power that threats

Is still as strong to save.

To stormy winds thou giv'st decree,

Thy judgments to fulfil :

As heralds of thy majesty,

They all obey thy will.

To return to the narrative the conduct of the unfortunate widow of George Philp was as marked and as characteristic of high-spirited independence as had been all the former acts of her life. When the account came of the loss of the vessel off Newfoundland, and that there was every reason to suppose it was the Vestal that had thus foundered, her composure and resigned demeanour returned. She had now two fatherless children and herself to support by her own and sole exertions; since, such were the peculiar feelings of her mind, she would accept of no assistance from any one; and, though kindly advised to attempt it, refused to hold any communication with her own

family to procure relief for her children in this day of distress. The motive for such refusal she would never divulge to the hour of her death; and, though so proud in independence, she was most humble in toiling for her daily bread, laboured incessantly, and declined not the meanest employment by which she could maintain herself and her little ones. She would often (so Mary tells me) toil all day, come home in the evening to give food to her children, place them in bed, cry over them, and look upon the last little present given her by her lost son, and go out again to her work, and labour sometimes till twelve o'clock at night ere she took the least rest. Her few jewels were now sold, one by one, not according to their value, but for what she could most readily get for them to help her necessities.

She had one ring, I think it was diamond, that she had reserved for the last. Some dear remembrance was, in all probability, connected with it; for, like Isabella, she had preserved it through all her misery; and now, like her also, parted with it to "stop the cries of hunger for a time." It was sold for three guineas, being nothing in com

parison with its actual value.

Possibly this was

the last relic of her better fortunes; for after the

ring was gone, she was scarcely ever heard to