16th December.—It seems but a moment of time since I first sat here and gazed with such intense delight and excitement at that dark line of forest and jungle, those fishing-boats, the land birds, all which told me I had reached my destination. I can think of nothing expressive of the present change but the shifting scene of a panorama, leaving this moment not a vestige of the last. There is not a single circumstance of feeling which has not undergone a revolution so complete that I hardly comprehend myself to be the same creature, nor in point of fact am I. This change has come from the hand of God, nor can I attribute any part of it either to my own wisdom or my own folly; still not the less I feel that change has been, and cold indeed were my heart could I feel myself again on this well-remembered spot without being wrung by ten thousand recollections of all the love, the fond, assiduous care of my dear unfortunate Campbell. The very appearance of the ship, the arrangements of my cabin brought each a pang, telling of some little alteration he had planned for my comfort. The very conversations calculated to support my spirits and lead to pleasing anticipation seemed to echo in my ear as if the wind brought them back to me.