On rising, I found the wind had greatly subsided; but a heavy sea still remained, in which our mutilated vessel rolled and tumbled like a porpoise. All danger, however, was past, and the sea was rapidly going down. Damages were partially repaired. The crew and passengers refreshed themselves, and deep and heartfelt congratulations were exchanged. Captain McGuffin, towards evening, the vessel being steadier, assembled the crew on deck, and offered up thanksgivings to Him who “stilleth the raging of the storm,” for our happy preservation. It was an impressive sight to behold the weather beaten tars, their hats reverentially doffed, ranged along the deck, their lately excited energies sunk into the calm of a thoughtful and devotional demeanour; the pale and jaded passengers, seated abaft, many an eye gratefully upturned; the wild sea and battered hull; and in the centre, bare-headed and erect, the tall and brawny, yet simple-hearted man, our commander, his prayer-book resting on the capstan, his left hand on the leaves, and his right stretched out, as, with a fervour which nothing but his religious feeling could have excited in him, he read firmly, in his broad but nervous Scotch accents, the form of thanksgiving due to Him who had succoured us in our danger, and “with whom are the issues of life and death.” To prove a particular providence is a hard and baffling task; but we can never err—or if we do it is on the right side—when we pour out our hearts in gratitude to God, for every blessing or deliverance, come to us by what concurrence of causes it may.