The next day, no work, no masthead, no noise; a melancholy stillness pervaded the whole ship. All on board appeared to realize the dispensation that had a second time visited us. We had lost a shipmate that was kind and obliging; an officer that was prompt in the discharge of his duties; a thorough sailor, and a kind, good man—one that was beloved by all his shipmates. At 1 P.M. all hands were called to perform a mournful duty—bury their friend and brother. Our national flag was mournfully waving at half-mast, all sail in, and the ship hove-to. The body was placed upon a plank, with weights attached to its feet. The services were commenced by the captain, who read the one hundred and seventh Psalm, delivered a few excellent remarks, followed by a prayer; and as he repeated the solemn words of the service, “we commit this body to the deep,” the plank was raised, and the body was soon fathoms beneath the “dark blue wave.” “But when the last great trump shall thrill the grave, And earth’s unnumbered myriads reappear, He, too, shall hear the summons ’neath the wave That now, in silence wraps his sunless bier. And coming forth, in trembling reverence bowed, Unfold the tongueless secrets of his shroud.” As the necessity for our making a southern port no longer existed, we turned our attention to sperm whales, one of which we captured a few days subsequent to the burial of Mr. L. On Monday, December 13th, we spoke the “Roscoe,” of New Bedford, Captain Hayden, who, being an old chum of our captain, sailed in company with us for several days. This event proved very fortunate for us, as the sequel will show; and afterward, in meditating upon our narrow escape, we could but think that a divine Providence was continually watching over and guarding us.