what we commit to Him till that day? Was such a Saviour as this such a person as ourselves?—a man only

-a mere creature ?-or was He not "that eternal life which was with the Father, and which was manifested to us,”—that life which was the "Light of men,”—that "Word which was God, and which was made flesh,""Immanuel, God with us?"

As I thus spoke, trying by these and other methods to make him see, with the help of God's Spirit, the glory of Christ's work as inseparably connected with the glory of His person; so that, if we could not be saved without such a Saviour, neither could we have such a Saviour without such a person; and as I pressed upon him an immediate closing with Christ's offers, he looked up to me, and said, "Oh! how often my mother told me those things!" Were the prayers of a pious mother, (long dead,) which seemed during her life to have been unheard, now about to be answered? Were the advices which had been cast upon the waters, though as if there to sink for ever, now, upon the great deep, to bring forth fruit to God? The day will alone declare it. But I could not but indulge the hope that it was so, as he said to me, when parting for the night,- to him the night of death," I see how it is, that one must believe in Jesus the Son of God before he can be saved. I shall turn and pray to Him; good-night!"

In the middle of the night I rose and went to see how he did. I found the steward sitting beside him. I never saw a more tender, considerate nurse than that man was! He did everything so cheerfully and feelingly. He read the Scriptures to him, and tried to give him strength and

comfort.

"The poor gentleman sleeps soundly," he said; "but I think his last sleep is near." In an

hour after the heavy breathing ceased, and all was silent.

One of my friends and I rose early this morning to commit the body of poor L to the deep. The captain asked us to have the kindness to read the burialservice over him. We consented to do so. In the judgment of charity, I thought I could commit "the body of this brother" to the deep. My friend, who had also read and prayed with him, was of the same opinion. The morning was gusty. We were breasting a headbreeze, and the ocean was beginning to heave. The coffin, covered by a flag, was placed upon a plank close to the gangway. Gathered around were the captain and some of the crew, (dressed in their Sunday clothes,) with a few passengers. As the words were uttered, "We commit this body to the deep," the end of the plank was lifted up, the coffin slid down, plunged into the sea, and -where was it? where was it? It was the impossibility of marking, for a single moment, where it was, amidst the foaming waters, which, more perhaps than anything else, impressed me with a sense of that solemnity of a burial at sea, which all who witness it never fail to experience. In the quiet and peaceful churchyard, we can visit the grave; our human feelings, which cling even to the poor material fabric, though we know that all we best loved has passed away from it, are soothed by the knowledge, that "here lies " the body, which is inseparable in our memories from the soul which gave it life. The green grave thus blends life and death, linking the seen

with the unseen. where all wait together the gladdening beams of the Resurrection morning. But in that sea-burial there is such a sudden change from the body being with us-a thing we can still call ours to its being to us nowhere. A momentary splash, and the ship passes on, and leaves it in the boundless, unfathomable, mysterious sea! Yet in the ocean it is as safe as in the lonely churchyard. He who holds the mighty deep in the hollow of His hand, beholds and keeps all that is in it. Like Jonah, the body may be entombed beneath the waves; but, like him, it is watched and guarded until the day of deliverance comes, when "the sea shall give up its dead ;" and then the vile body shall be fashioned like His own glorious body, through that power by which He can subdue all things to Himself.

It is indeed a family resting-place,

The weather for the last day or two has become chilly. The captain says we may hourly look out for ice. At this season of the year it passes our track, on its slow voyage to the warm south, where it melts away in the high temperature of the Gulf Stream. Navigation amidst ice is at all times more or less dangerous; whether the ice occurs in the form of icebergs, or in large flat masses, which are difficult to discover, even during the day, amidst the waves.

This afternoon we were all attracted to the starboard quarter of the ship by the announcement of "Icebergs." The day was beautiful,—the sky serene,—the sea ruffled only by a pleasant breeze, before which we were running at the rate of about twelve knots an hour with all sail set, and the steam blowing off at the funnel-head. On