It is ever thus at sea. The seaman’s life, day by day, hour by hour, is exposed to peril, now in one form, now in another: from the heavy sea sweeping the ship, the unruly canvas, the defective spar. The wheel may throw and maim him, a stranded rope precipitate him to the deck; or, in laying out of a tempestuous night upon the jib or flying-jib boom he may miss his footing: he falls into the sea, the ship passes over him!--Jack has furled his last sail, and dies far from home and friends, without a tombstone to mark his resting-place: his body at the mercy of the wave, whilst his spirit, we hope, ascends to a better and happier state of existence, where he anchors in a bright haven of peace, in vivid contrast with his life on earth, or rather on the sea. God help the sailor! is the prayer of all who wish him well. And God does help him, or else his would indeed be a comfortless existence. The Creator gives him a merry heart, and a brave one too. The former enables him to meet cheerfully the many discomforts incident to his profession, whilst the latter prevents him from perceiving danger and destruction in every blast that sweeps the ocean: together, they incite him to hope almost against hope, and continue his exertions in the storm, until absolute destruction overwhelms him. Who ever heard of a seaman’s giving up in despair, even when the merest thread of hope only remained? None. No, they are manly to the last; and they always have at least the proud satisfaction of having performed their duty, even though their exertions were all in vain. The pleasant poetess, Miss Eliza Cook, has done them but justice, when she says, “The dark-blue jacket that enfolds the sailor’s manly breast Bears more of real honor than the star and ermine vest. The tithe of folly in his head may wake the landsman’s mirth But Nature proudly owns him as her child of sterling worth.”