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of much consequence. The longest voyage must, however, end, so that at last we arrived in the Downs. But here the wind, which up to this time though light had been favourable, fell off, and when it rose again, had shifted to a quarter which compelled us to anchor. This was very vexing to the passengers, who now that they were so near to the land were almost frantic with impatience to get ashore, and a Deal boat happening to come alongside to know if we had any letters to send ashore, as many as could be accomodated in her left the ship, and among them the silent passenger, whom I have never seen since.

What with one cause of delay and another, it was three months after this before I had all the cargo on board, and worked out of the St. Katherine’s Dock on my return voyage to Sydney, which port I reached in due time.

As my partner and I were dining together at his house on the day I landed, a servant brought in a parcel from the countinghouse, and laid it on the sofa; at the same time my partner took a letter from his pocket, and handed it to me; it ran as follows:

Sandwich Islands.

Dear Sir,—The parcel sent herewith contains papers belonging to the passenger whom you took on board at this place, and are probably valued very highly by him. I do not know his address in Sydney, but you probably may. Will you have the kindness to hand them to him, and oblige

Yours faithfully,⁠J. Elton.

Capt. Walter Browne, Sydney.

Of course I was unable to comply with the request, and put the parcel away safely, intending to take it with me, and return it to Mr. Elton the next voyage I made to the islands, but this intention was frustrated by that gentleman leaving there for the United States before I arrived; there was nothing else, therefore, to be done with it, but to keep it, on the chance that the owner might write for it to be sent to England. I kept it a long, long time, but no letter came respecting it, till at last, one day, when at sea, and it happened to meet my eye, it suddenly occurred to me that I should be justified, then that it was my duty to open it, with the view of ascertaining if the contents would not give me some clue to finding the name and, perhaps, the address of the owner. Further consideration made it so evident that this was the right and proper course to adopt, that I opened it. I did not find what I looked for, but I found a roll of closely-written foolscap,—written, I presume, by the Englishman whom I have called Rawlinson, the same who was my