A distinctive and pleasing feature of these Sunday services at sea, especially in the larger steamships, which often carry more passengers than would fill an ordinary church, is the heartiness with which the representatives of various religious denominations unite in the services. The lines of demarcation that separate them when ashore seem to be lost sight of at sea. Casual acquaintanceship here frequently ripens into closer friendship; people begin to see eye to eye, and soon the conviction grows stronger that the doctrinal points on which all professing Christians are agreed are much more important than the things about which they differ. It would do some narrow-minded souls a world of good to spend a few Sundays at sea. The office for the burial of the dead at sea is very solemn and affecting. In the days of sailing ships, when voyages lasted so much longer, deaths from natural causes at sea were more frequent than now. But the order of service is the same. The body of the deceased person might be sewed up in a hammock—indeed, it usually was—or the carpenter may have made a rough coffin for it. In either case it was heavily loaded with iron at the foot. A stout plank with one end resting on the bulwark forms the bier on which is laid the corpse, covered with an ensign. The captain, the chief engineer, the ship’s doctor and purser, with a detachment of the crew, and a few of the passengers, make up the funeral party. Portions of the Church of England’s beautiful service for the burial of the dead are read: “I am the Resurrection and the life.” ... “I know that my Redeemer liveth.” ... “We brought nothing into this world and it is certain we can carry nothing out.” ... “Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live,” etc. The ship’s engines are then stopped for a few seconds while the service proceeds—“We therefore commit his body to the deep, looking for the resurrection of the body when the sea shall give up her dead.” The ensign is removed. The inward end of the plank is raised, and the mortal remains are plunged into the greatest of all cemeteries; sometimes with scant ceremony, perhaps, but always impressing on the mind of the spectator a deeply pathetic incident that will never be forgotten. “And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still.” ICEBERGS AND TIDAL WAVES.