Little does the landsman know the sweet comforts the dying sailor is deprived of. Separated from the home of his heart by thousands of miles, tossed to and fro on a sick couch, with no kind father to watch over and soothe the anguish of his pain; no loving mother comforting and praying for the salvation of the dear son; no dear brothers or sisters to sympathize and cheer the lonely hours with their presence—none of these to smooth the dying sailor’s lonely pillow, alleviate his wants, assuage his grief, and comfort his mind by divine teachings; none of their cheerful countenances to light the dark valley of the shadow of death. Yet every thing was done that was possible to do for Mr. S. to alleviate his sufferings and comfort his mind. But all was of no avail. There is little doubt but he was poisoned at Strong’s Island. But his bodily sufferings are o’er, and instead of departing upon the soft, downy bed, with his dear ones hovering over him, he yielded his spirit to the God who gave it from his rolling couch, and the last sounds that reached his ears were the moanings of the wind, and the hoarse murmur of the waves, impatient, as it were, to receive their victim. At four P.M. we shortened sail, hauled aback the head yards, hoisted the ensign half-mast, and called all hands to “bury the dead.” The gangway board was removed, the body sewed up in a sheet, and weights attached to the feet, and then laid upon a plank. The services commenced by the captain reading a portion of the Holy Scriptures, then making some excellent and touching remarks, followed by a prayer. He then read the burial service, and when he said “we now commit this body to the deep,” the end of the plank was raised, and the body of poor Smith was consigned to its watery grave, there to rest till the morn of the resurrection, when the last trump shall sound, and the sea shall give up its dead. The body rapidly disappeared beneath the blue wave, and, on glancing around, the tear was seen in the eyes of all those hardy men—those men who had faced death without a blanched cheek or a fainting heart—as they took their last look at the body of their late shipmate. On the land, in the city or town, a death is hardly noticed, and is not felt; but on board a ship, with but a small circle, as in our case, of about thirty, living together as one family, and shut out from the world, as it were, one snatched from our small company is seriously missed, and death serves to bind the remaining still closer together, as the loss just experienced shows us all the uncertainty of human life, and no one knows who will next be called upon to pay the last sad debt of nature. May we all be prepared, that, should ALMIGHTY GOD see fit at any time to remove us from this world of sin and sorrow, we can go with willing hearts—that we may “render up our account with joy, and not with grief.” CHAPTER XVI.