individual by whom the materials of the following narrative were contributed, is himself a sailor; and has borne a prominent part in the painful scenes which are here depicted. His life has been prolonged by divine mercy through almost every scene of sea-faring experience, and it has been preserved by scarcely less than miracle, amidst perils to which not many sailors have been exposed. The following story, in all its facts and experience, is properly his own; and, therefore, throughout he is preserved as the speaker. Only in the matter of construction and expression, another party must be held responsible, into whose hands the full materials were committed to give them form. It was the devout desire of the original party not to forget Jehovah’s benefits; having, like the Psalmist (Psalm lxvi. 12,) “gone through fire and through water,” he felt solicitous to say with the same holy minstrel, (verse 16,) “Come and hear, all ye that fear God, and I will tell you what he hath done for my soul.”

In the autumn of 1840, I accepted the command of the Australia, of Dundee, bound for Sydney, New South Wales. On the 2d October, our vessel set sail from Leith, having on board a general cargo of merchandize. Our ship’s company consisted of twenty-eight persons, being thirteen of a crew, and fifteen passengers. My heart was buoyant with hope and pleasing anticipations as I bade my family farewell, and weighed anchor for my destination. Everything gave promise of a propitious voyage. Our vessel was new and well found in every necessary, the crew were able, and well selected, and the passengers were agreeable, all being full of hope and fearless of evil. Indeed, if we could have anticipated results, my company were most unlikely and ill selected for enduring the hardships that awaited us; three of the crew being but apprentice lads, and of the passengers, five being females, besides two boys and a girl of very tender years. But who has not seen, that while the helpless are sometimes the first to be visited by the storm, they frequently are found, also, to survive its fury; when the strong, who were the most likely to brave its blast, are borne down and destroyed before it? “I returned and saw under the sun, that the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong—for man also knoweth not his time: as the fishes that are taken in an evil net, so are the sons of men snared, when it falleth suddenly upon them.”

The commencement of our voyage was sufficiently prosperous. We rounded Cape Wrath by an easy progress, and were in the latitude of Madeira in seven days from Cape Clear. Nothing remarkable occurred till after our departure from Rio de Janeiro, where we touched for a few days in the beginning of December. We were then baffled with boisterous weather and contrary winds, till the 27th of that month, when the wind became fair, and the weather improved. On the evening of the 29th, December, we had all sails set, with a strong fair wind, and a heavy sea. At this time, by recent observations, I found that we must have been in latitude 35° 51´ south, and longitude 8° 8´ east of Greenwich, or, in round numbers, about 600 miles from the nearest land, which was the Cape of Good Hope. Our passengers had as usual walked the deck after tea, until about eight o’clock, when, feeling it cold, they had gone below. In less than half an hour, I followed them to the after-cabin, having given the chief mate his orders for the night. We were all in excellent spirits, and speculating how soon, and how safely we should reach our destination with so good a wind. Alas! how little did we know the horrors that awaited us: destruction even then had begun its frightful work, and was silently, but too surely consuming our solitary and sea-girded habitation. Soon after entering the cabin, I was affected with a sense of something burning; supposing that the ladies might have set something in their bed-rooms on fire, I ran forward in the dark to their cabins, but found everything safe. The sense of burning, however, became more strong and decided. I therefore snatched a light, and found, to my dismay, that smoke was issuing from the fore bulk-head on the starboard side of the mainmast. It was but the work of an instant to clear away the goods with which that untenanted berth had been filled, if possible to reach the seat of the fire. My brother William, and four or five seamen withstood resolutely the suffocating smoke that surrounded them in this labour, while others stood arranged and ready with buckets full of water, to dash upon the first appearance of fire. But what was our horror to find, on emptying the berth, that the evil lay deeper, and was every moment on the increase; in short, that the ship’s hold was on fire! This was too soon apparent, for, on removing a plank from the bulk-head, we saw the whole interior of the vessel like the womb of a volcano, and the entire cargo of coals and combustible goods in a blaze. It was impossible, from the superincumbent and intervening goods, to pour in water in sufficient quantity to extinguish so extensive a conflagration; this I perceived at first glance, and therefore at once drove in the board to confine the flames, feeling, in the agony of despair, that the ship was irrecoverably to be consumed.

It was an awful moment to every one of us. To die on so sudden summoning, and to be summoned to such a death, were sufficient to appal the stoutest heart. What were we to do?—beneath us was a burning bier, and all beyond was a black and angry abyss. We could not abide where we were, and to go forth scarcely promised a better fate, for no little boat could live long in such a sea. I saw in the countenances of the haggard beings around me, that they were fully alive to either fate. Some, frantic with terror, sent forth cries, which found no echo from our shoreless and surrounding solitude; others clung around me, tormenting me with questions which I could not answer; while the remainder stood silent and trembling, as if the presence of death had smitten them dumb. It was easy to discern their emotions in their demeanour—but why should I dilate on others’ feelings, when I can but faintly recall my own? I have a confused recollection of a tumultuous throng of momentous interests rushing upon me with an overpowering rapidity, and of a certain effort of self-possession seeking to stem, while it received the tide. Visions of danger—of self-protection—of death, mingled with thoughts of duty—of home—of a probably widowed wife and fatherless family—all flashed wildly through my brain. I felt that I stood in immediate contact with death, and the solemnities of a judgment to come rose in array before me. It is not for me to reveal the secrecies of such a situation; but I can only say as one who has been “in deaths oft,” and with all the solemnities of that hour before me, that I know but one confidence that has proved unfailing and infallible in such a crisis, and that is, a personal interest in the Lord Jesus Christ, and an implicit reliance on his perfect work.

As I looked around upon the shivering group that had enclosed me, I became filled with one solemn conviction,—it was my official responsibility; and I was fired with one desperate effort—the effort of rescue. Without a moment’s delay, therefore, the plan of arrangements was fixed, and the orders were given. The mate was instructed to ease sail, and heave the ship to, in order to draw the fire forward, and clear the after-part