interlinked, as has been already hinted, with that of the “Coquette.”  Thus did they hold towards each other that very significant relationship—­especially in the past century—­of “cousins” a relationship better heeded and more earnestly recognized and cherished than that of nearer kin at the present day.  Therefore, not only by family ties, but by similarity of positions and community of interests, was she brought into immediate acquaintance with the circumstances herein combined, and especially qualified to write the history with power and effect.  Nor is this the only work which bears the impress of her gifted pen.  There is still another extant, of which I need not at this time and place make mention, besides many valuable literary contributions to the scattered periodicals of that day.  It is to be regretted here that a short time previous to her death she destroyed the whole of her manuscripts, which might, in many respects, have been particularly valuable.

She has, however, transmitted her genius and her powers, which find expression and appreciation in two daughters still living in Montreal, Canada East, one of whom is the gifted author of “Peep at the Pilgrims,” “Sketches from the Life of Christ,” and “Confessions of an early Martyr,” all of which have been very popular; the first having been republished here within a short period, and also in England with still greater success.  The other daughter, the widow of the late Dr. Cushing who, while firm at his post as physician at the Emigrant Hospital, fell a victim to that terrible malady, ship fever, in 1846, is also author of many minor works, and co-editor of the “Snowdrop,” a monthly publication of much merit in Montreal.  Mrs. Foster died in that place, at the residence of her daughter, Mrs. Cushing, April 17, 1840, at the advanced age of eighty-one years.

It may seem, however, at a period so long subsequent to the actual transpiration of events herein recorded, that little could be said to throw light or interest upon the history, and even less upon the character, or in extenuation of the follies or the frailties of the unfortunate subject of the following pages, and upon which public opinion had long ago rendered its verdict and sealed it for a higher tribunal.  Yet I am happy in assuring any who may pause over these prefatory leaves that this is not the fact; and it harms us not to believe that over every life, however full of error it may be, there is an unwritten chapter which the angels take into account as they bear upward the tearful record, and which He, the great Scribe, “who ever sitteth at the right hand of the Father,” and from whose solemn utterance on earth dropped the forever cherished words which have so often given life and hope to the penitent fallen,—­“neither do I condemn thee,”—­interpolates on the mighty leger of eternity for the great reckoning day.