an audible but broken voice, his thanksgiving for
his singular and safe deliverance from the perils
of the sea.

The text of the sermon that day demands its
history. Some time before, a vessel, the Hero
of Liverpool, was seen in distress, in the offing
of a neighbouring harbour, during a storm. The
crew, mistaking a signal from the beach, betook
themselves to their boat. It foundered, and the
whole ship's company, twelve in number, were
drowned in sight of the shore. But the stout
ship held together, and drifted on to the land,
so unshattered by the sea, that the coast-guard,
who went immediately on board, found the fire
burning in the cabin. When the vessel came to
be examined, they found in one of the berths a
Bible, and between its leaves a sheet, of paper,
whereon some recent hand had transcribed verses
the twenty-first, twenty-second, and twenty-third
of the thirty-third chapter of Isaiah. The
same hand had also marked the passage with a
line of ink along the margin. The name of the
owner of the book was also found inscribed on
the fly-leaf. He was a youth of eighteen years
of age, the son of a widow, and a statement
under his name recorded that the Bible was "a
reward for his good conduct in a Sunday school."
This text, so identified and enforced by a hand
that soon after grew cold, appeared strangely
and strikingly adapted to the funeral of
shipwrecked men; and it was therefore chosen as
the theme for our solemn day. The very hearts
of the people seemed hushed to hear it, and
every eye was turned towards Le Daine, who
bowed his head upon his hands and wept. These
are the words: "But there the glorious Lord
will be unto us a place of broad rivers and
streams; wherein shall go no galley with oars,
neither shall gallant ship pass thereby. For the
Lord is our judge, the Lord is our lawgiver,
the Lord is our king; he will save us. Thy
tacklings are loosed; they could not well strengthen
their mast, they could not spread the sail:
then is the prey of a great spoil divided; the
lame take the prey." Shall I be forgiven for
the vaunt, if I declare that there was not literally
a single face that day unmoistened and
unmoved? Few, indeed, could have borne, without
deep emotion, to see and hear Le Daine.
He remained as my guest six weeks, and during
the whole of this time we sought diligently, and
at last found the whole crew, nine in number.
They were discovered, some under rocks,
jammed in by the force of the water, so that it took
sometimes several ebb-tides, and the strength of
many hands, to extricate the corpses. The
captain I came upon myself, lying placidly upon
his back, with his arms folded in the very
gesture which Le Daine had described as he stood
amid the crew on the maintop. The hand of
the spoiler was about to assail him, when I
suddenly appeared, so that I rescued him
untouched. Each hand grasped a small pouch or
bag. One contained his pistols; the other held
two little log reckoners of brass; so that his
last thoughts were full of duty to his owners
and his ship, and his latest efforts for rescue
and defence. He had been manifestly lifted by
a billow and hurled against a rock, and so slain;
for the victims of our cruel sea are seldom
drowned, but beaten to death by violence and
the wrath of the billows. We gathered together
one poor fellow in five parts; his limbs
had been wrenched off, and his body rent.
During our search fur his remains, a man came
up to me with something in his hand, inquiring,
"Can you tell me, sir, what this is? Is it a
part of a man? It was the mangled seaman's
heart, and we restored it reverently to its place,
where it had once beat high with life and
courage, with thrilling hope and sickening fear.
Two or three of the dead were not discovered
for four or five weeks after the wreck, and
these had become so loathsome from decay, that
it was at peril of health and life to perform the
last duties we owe to our brother-men. But
hearts and hands were found for the work, and
at last the good ship's company, captain, mate,
and crew, were laid at rest, side by side, beneath
our churchyard trees. Groups of grateful letters
from Arbroath are to this day among the most
cherished memorials of my escritoire. Some,
written by the friends of the dead, are marvellous
proofs of the good feeling and educated
abilities of the Scotch people. One from a
father breaks off in irrepressible pathos, with a
burst of "O my son! my son!" We placed at
the foot of the captain's grave the figure-head
of his vessel. It is a carved image, life-size, of
his native Caledonia, in the garb of her country,
with sword and shield.

"LEFT HIS HOME."

    HE left us all one bright June dawn,
    Taking his watch down from the nail,
    Just as he always used to do;
    Leaning his hoe against the rail
    As he turned round to kiss our George
    (Who ran to push the gate), and bent
    A curious kind of look at me
    And little Bessy, as he went.

    He picked a tuft of hollyhock,
    Then gave a sigh, and one more look,
    As 'yont the elm-tree in the lane
    The shuddering willows three times shook.
    I heeded not the warning then.
    'Twas ten years since, this very day,
    That Robert left us all alone,
    And took you path, the Hindon way.

    Sometimes, when 'mid the brooding mists
    That shroud the valley and the Like,
    Looms through the golden harvest moon,
    And glows o'er down, and hill, and brake,
    I think I see him in the dusk,
    When George is playing at the door,
    And spring to meet his welcoming arms,
    As I have done so oft before.

    Or some morn in the harvest-time,
    As when he left me, he will come,
    Meeting me down a row of shelves;
    And we shall hurry laughing home,