have, perhaps, been equally privileged to go down into deep waters; to see the works of the Lord and his wonders in the great deep, for long succeeding days and weeks, without even a momentary sensation that could deaden the exquisite enjoyment known only to such. A privilege indeed it is, to ride among the stormy billows with spirits as light as the foam that flashes by: to pace the deck, with confident though wary tread, inclining to this side or that, as the mighty machine rolls like a cork on the tops of far mightier waves; and to feel every nerve new braced, every pulse enlivened, every thought elevated and all the faculties expanded, as it were, to take in a scene, which for the extent of its turbulent magnificence, has no peer, no rival among created things. I desire to be thankful, that, in times of sore trial, and when as yet the tempest-torn wanderer on the sea of life had found no anchor of the soul, nor opened faith's eye to behold a sheltering heaven of safety and repose, so much of this enjoyment was vouchsafed to cheer a drooping heart. Often has that heart recognized the hand which filled it with food and gladness; often experienced the reality of the assurance, "I have girded thee, though thou hast not known me."

I am not now about to expatiate on what might appear the wild chimera of a roving imagination to the many—are they not too many?—who in quest of foreign novelties have passed over from their privileged isle to a neighbouring, unblest land, making voyages equally short and miserable, in a crowded steamer, with the accompaniment of a grating, rumbling, jarring engine, the monotonous, hurrying rush of paddle-wheels through the water, and a pennon of black smoke, defiling the atmosphere above, with an occasional descent of its murky particles on their dress. How could they realize any description of the stately, noiseless, measured sweep of a tall vessel over billows which, many a league removed from intercepting land, roll in unbroken magnitude through a fathomless abyss, with leisurely rise and graceful fall, and a melody too deep for man's squeaking contrivances to interrupt. What affinity can the bare uncouth chimney, with its sooty appendage displayed at right angles, claim with the tapering

mast, the undulating sails, gradually lessening as they rise in snowy lustre to its summit, where the long streamer gracefully mingles its negligent folds to diversify them, while beyond the broad white wing of the spanker sail, out floats St. George's banner "blent with silver cross to Scotland dear;" and the heart will throb, while the eye, fearless of encountering smoke or steam, looks up and greets the flag that "has braved a thousand years, the battle and the breeze." Oh, it were an idle attempt to embody in a tame verbal description the swelling emotions peculiar to such a season.

But ocean recollections, though always interesting, are not always joyous to me; a scene there witnessed, albeit not necessarily accompanied with any very melancholy thoughts, often recurs to my mind, when under depression; exciting that mixture of feeling so beautifully expressed in the words "As sorrowful, yet, always rejoicing," taken, as they should ever be, in connection with our Lord's parting assurance, “In the world ye shall have tribulation, but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world." It was in mid-atlantic on a bright, mild morning, when the ship, her sails languidly flapping, made scarcely any way, that an object was descried, bearing so evidently the appearance of a wreck, that one or two of our boats put off to examine it more closely. The conjecture was verified; they found it to be a vessel, wrecked and totally deserted, but by bearing a freight of timber preserved in a buoyant state. The sailors called her "water-logged." She was boarded by them and several of our passengers, who, from the absence of boats, and the removal of what was most available of her spars and rigging, concluded that the crew had made a leisurely retreat, well provided for a long trip, and with a good prospect, as was judged from the fineness of the season, of subsisting until they could fall in with other vessels, or make the Bermudas port. Nothing was found of any value: the cabins had been stripped: and only the remains of some old log-books were left, much saturated, and consequently rendered almost illegible by the salt water. Our friends came back, with very little concern on their countenances, bringing the logs, which they spread in the sun

It was such a deserted thing! All belonging to her were gone. To have sunk beneath the billows and settled into one of ocean's deepest caves, would have been a more natural fate,-I almost longed to see her go down. But there she rode, in external appearance differing little from the well-manned ships that crossed her track, yet untenanted, unowned, and so emphatically alone! No chart to direct, no steersman to guide, no compass whereby to shape her course; no desired haven in view, nor any to take an interest in her fate beyond the quest of idle curiosity, or selfish avarice, such as her visiters of that day had manifested. And I thought how many bosoms had once palpitated with anxious cares for her, regarding her as the repository of their dearest hopes and fondest anticipations; how many prayers had accompanied her going out; how many wistful looks watched her expected coming in. Then, there were those at hand, the chiefest business of whose lives was to preserve her unharmed: no wind could roughen the main but it was met by some skilful manœuvre to turn it to her advantage, or, if that might not be, to shield her from its rage. Then, she was guided to shun the sunken rock, to breast the foaming wave, to catch the favouring breeze, and ever to point where all wishes were centered. Watchful eyes then woke for her, that she might pass securely over the dark waters when night was on her track and woe to the hand that should point a hostile menace against her! for she was English; and English were the hearts that owned her. But now-The wind freshened a little, and our captain gave the cheerful word, our sailors were all at the ropes, our helmsman turned the wheel, our pennon rose with undu

I did not forget her; though when the log-book had gone the round of curious and idle hands it was stowed away in our captain's locker, and no one else seemed to retain a recollection of the incident. I could not forget her even then: and how can I now! There is a feeling which will never be dissevered from the remembrance of that lonely wreck: and, perhaps, in this world of strange vicissitude, not a few might be found to furnish the counterpart of her altered and isolated fate.

Does it not sometimes occur to individuals whose dispositions are peculiarly formed for the enjoyment of social and domestic happiness to be thus left alone? Not, perhaps, strictly alone in outward circumstances, but in inward experience. Their own nearest associates, whose hopes and hearts were naturally linked with theirs, are gone, removed by death, and no others appear to occupy their vacant place. It may be that the rightful owners and appointed guides of such have forsaken them, taking away what they could, and leaving the dismantled wreck to buffet every storm alone. Many may sail athwart their uncertain track; kindness may beam on them, compassion may sigh over their destiny, curiosity may pry under the semblance of sympathy, and self-interest attach itself with vigilant observance; but among all these varieties there is nothing to do away with the abiding character of actual loneliness: there are none whose fate is interwoven with that of the deserted wreck: all have their own business, their own pleasures, their own little world of private interests and affections, in which the stranger, however pitied, or even loved, cannot really intermeddle. Friendship itself cannot, in most cases, obviate this. There may be high enjoyment in the transient interview, the longer sojourn, the look of tenderness and word of sympathy, but it is not to abide. Those companions, however beloved, can only come and pass away; and the most frequent intercourse can confer no higher privilege than that of a visit.

One thing is wanting: the almost innumerable identities combined in that little magic word-Home. A home there may be, and a cheerful one: but the faces that brighten, and the voices that gladden it, may not be its rightful, inalienable property. Passengers, not the crew: and when the crew are gone, short indeed is the sojourn of such guests; the very loneliness of the situation lessening the claim on their continuance. It is not to every observer that such a condition appears pitiable: nor do all who are thus circumstanced realize what some cannot but feel: but persons there are so constituted as to form attachments not only to their fellow-creatures but to places and inanimate objects, strong enough to render applicable what has been said, in a far higher and nobler sense:

Here will I make my place of rest,
While others go and come;
No more a stranger and a guest,
But like a child at home.

In all this I can draw such a parallel to the wreck at sea, that there are times when I can turn to no other retrospect in the whole chequered vision of by-gone days; and on that I dwell, until my very heart bears a writhing testimony to the fulfilment of the word, "In the world ye shall have tribulation."

This is the turning point: once brought to recall that word, how rich a flood of allsatisfying consolation is poured forth on the sorrowing soul by its delicious context -"Be of good cheer, I have overcome the world." Yea, Lord! we can derive good cheer from the very circumstance of the tribulation: for it is only grievous to such as, from the intenseness of their natural feelings, cleave to the dust with a tenacity wholly opposed to the call, "arise." That dust which they would never voluntarily leave or relinquish, and which they cannot enjoy in such moderation as to be hourly prepared for a surrender, is forcibly taken away: and perhaps the finger of God is yet farther manifested in so hedging in their way by his mysterious dispensations, that they cannot gather up another handful in place of what is gone. Such tribulation is an evident gift: it is not the stroke of an enemy, but the loving correction of a Father: and well may the soul, in tracing the work,

"be of good cheer." It is thus; it is by such means as these, that Christ who has overcome the world for them, overcomes it in them also. The world is an expression of extensive, meaning-it signifies here not only those things that are essentially evil, as opposed to God, but all those which perish in the using-the things that are visible and temporal; and therefore liable to attract our notice before those that are unseen and eternal. It is the "world" which God's children are sanctioned to use as not abusing it; but which some of them would certainly contrive to abuse, if they were entrusted with its unlimited use. This same tempting world would overcome them; and as they love it dearly, they have tribulation in it, because it is not their own. But Christ has overcome it, and by his power keeps it from approaching to hurt them.

Actual persecution is, perhaps easier to endure than this quiescent state. Some who have tried both have found it so. They have been driven for shelter from the pelting storm unto him whom they want energy to seek in the listless calm. But patience must "have her perfect work:" and he who has told his people that they "have need of patience," will convince them of it too, by exercising them on the very points where they are most deficient. Some characters become exceedingly impatient and depressed under the buffetings of unkindness and reproach; other spirits rise even naturally with such difficulties, and breast them boldly, or endure them with fortitude, but sink at once if stirring opposition be replaced by cool neglect. It is wonderful how exquisitely each cross is adapted to the temper and disposition of its bearer. The strong are depressed, and the feeble stimulated: the sanguine are discouraged, and the drooping ones buoyed up: the loving are left alone, and the cold and indifferent beset by many claims. Those who can sever for a year with a careless shake of the hand, may meet again and again, and travel to the grave together: while such as cannot say "Good night" without a pang and a starting tear, must part-one will be taken and the other left, or both be cast into distant and widely sundered paths.

Such trouble the Lord takes to raise the beggars from their dunghill, and persuade