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In the autumn of the year of which we are writing, there lay in the harbour basin of Southampton the good ship Miles Standish, a barque of eight hundred tons burden, laden with goods for the American market, and having, moreover, accommodation for several cabin passengers, besides a large party of emigrants bound to New England. The skipper, Ezekiel Moses Higgin-botham, of Salem, Massachusetts, was a shrewd New Englander, of pious bearings; and it was with no small satisfaction that he reflected that the emigrant party under his care were for the most part religiously disposed agricultural labourers and farm servants, destined to join a settlement of hard-working Moravians far in the heart of the colony.
It was the evening before the day fixed for the sailing of the vessel, and the sun was just setting in golden splendour, after a day of unusual brightness and magnificence. Under an awning stretched from stern rail to companion of the vessel, sat two figures--one a tall grey-headed man dressed somewhat like a clergyman, the other a girl in pensive black. They were the Wesleyan preacher, Richard Sefton, and Priscilla his daughter.