The artist had engaged passage for himself, wife, two sisters, and a servant.  His wife was, indeed, as she had been represented, a most lovely and most accomplished woman.  On the morning of the fourteenth of June (the day in which I first visited the ship), the lady suddenly sickened and died.  The young husband was frantic with grief—­but circumstances imperatively forbade the deferring his voyage to New York.  It was necessary to take to her mother the corpse of his adored wife, and on the other hand, the universal prejudice which would prevent his doing so openly, was well known.  Nine-tenths of the passengers would have abandoned the ship rather than take passage with the dead body.

In this dilemma, Captain Hardy arranged that the corpse, being first partially embalmed, and packed, with a large quantity of salt, in a box of suitable dimensions, should be conveyed on board as merchandise.  Nothing was to be said of the lady’s decease; and, as it was well understood that Mr. Wyatt had engaged passage for his wife, it became necessary that some person should personate her during the voyage.  This the deceased’s lady’s maid was easily prevailed on to do.  The extra state-room, originally engaged for this girl during her mistress’ life, was now merely retained.  In this state-room the pseudo-wife slept, of course, every night.  In the daytime she performed, to the best of her ability, the part of her mistress—­whose person, it had been carefully ascertained, was unknown to any of the passengers on board.

My own mistakes arose, naturally enough, through too careless, too inquisitive, and too impulsive a temperament.  But of late, it is a rare thing that I sleep soundly at night.  There is a countenance which haunts me, turn as I will.  There is an hysterical laugh which will forever ring within my ears.