After prayers I gave my poor people a parting admonition, and many charges to remember me and all I had tried to teach them during my stay.  They promised with one voice to mind and do all that ‘missis tell we;’ and with many a parting benediction, and entreaties to me to return, they went their way.  I think I have done what I could for them—­I think I have done as well as I could by them; but when the time comes for ending any human relation, who can be without their misgivings? who can be bold to say, I could have done no more, I could have done no better?

In the afternoon I walked out, and passed many of the people, who are now beginning, whenever they see me, to say, ‘Good bye, missis!’ which is rather trying.  Many of them were clean and tidy, and decent in their appearance to a degree that certainly bore strong witness to the temporary efficacy of my influence in this respect.  There is, however, of course much individual difference even with reference to this, and some take much more kindly and readily to cleanliness, no doubt to godliness too, than some others.  I met Abraham, and thought that, in a quiet tete-a-tete, and with the pathetic consideration of my near departure to assist me, I could get him to confess the truth about the disappearance of the mutton; but he persisted in the legend of its departure through the locked door; and as I was only heaping sins on his soul with every lie I caused him to add to the previous ones, I desisted from my enquiries.  Dirt and lying are the natural tendencies of humanity, which are especially fostered by slavery.  Slaves may be infinitely wrong, and yet it is very hard to blame them.

I returned home, finding the heat quite oppressive.  Late in the evening, when the sun had gone down a long time, I thought I would try and breathe the fresh sea air, but the atmosphere was thick with sand-flies, which drove me in at last from standing listening to the roar of the Atlantic on Little St. Simon’s Island, the wooded belt that fends off the ocean surges from the north side of Great St. Simon’s.  It is a wild little sand-heap, covered with thick forest growth, and belongs to Mr. ——.  I have long had a great desire to visit it.  I hope yet to be able to do so before our departure.

I have just finished reading, with the utmost interest and admiration, J——­ C——­’s narrative of his escape from the wreck of the Poolaski:  what a brave, and gallant, and unselfish soul he must be!  You never read anything more thrilling, in spite of the perfect modesty of this account of his.  If I can obtain his permission, and squeeze out the time, I will surely copy it for you.  The quiet unassuming character of his usual manners and deportment adds greatly to his prestige as a hero.  What a fine thing it must be to be such a man!

* * * * *

Dear E——.  We shall leave this place next Thursday or Friday, and there will be an end to this record; meantime I am fulfilling all sorts of last duties, and especially those of taking leave of my neighbours, by whom the neglect of a farewell visit would be taken much amiss.