It is true, it was a sublime and Christian act to attempt to save the life of an enemy: but we are quite sure that Jack did not think of his religion, or reason upon the subject, before he dashed into the water; though a soul influenced by the pure gospel of love does not have to consider in an emergency which requires an act of prompt self-sacrifice. The atmosphere of love with which the Christian heart surrounds itself inspires the thoughts, words, and deeds; so that self-sacrifice, like a heavenly impulse, requires no cold and calculating reflection. It was a rash act, unquestionably, however noble and sublime it may appear. It had been performed from impulse. Our sailor-boy had done, at this time, no more than he had on three similar occasions in his previous experience, though never under circumstances of so great peril. To save a boy from a watery grave by jumping over the stern of a yacht in Pinchbrook Harbor, and leaping from the rail of a ship far out to sea in the sombre shades of a winter morning, were two entirely different affairs, as Jack was now fully assured while clinging to the life-buoy exhausted and chilled. We might transcribe some of the great thoughts which rushed through the mind of our hero, or give words to the simple prayer which his heart rather than his lips breathed to Him who holds the waters in the hollow of his hand; but, while every moment seemed a week, he saw the lights of the ship moving on the rolling ocean. The sight gave him hope; and he watched them with an intensity of feeling which no one, not clinging to a life-buoy in mid-ocean, can appreciate or comprehend. But the lights moved not towards him. Those on board had lost his bearings, or he had drifted far from the spot where he had first committed himself to the waves. He was chilled by the cold, and exhausted by the violence of his exertions; and when he saw the steamer backing by him, and too distant to be hailed, he felt a sinking sensation of despair creep into his soul, which began to drive the life from his body. When all hope seemed to have departed, a sound, welcome as the music of the flowing rill to the thirsty, dying pilgrim, attracted his attention, and gave him strength for one more struggle for life. It was the measured thump of oars in the rowlocks of a boat. He looked in the direction from which the sound came, and discovered a blue light, which had just been fired, casting a lurid glare upon the rolling billows. “Boat ahoy!” he shouted with all the strength of his lungs; but his voice sounded to him like that of a pygmy. He repeated the call several times, and his heart was gladdened by the answering hail of his friends. “Where--away!” came in hoarse tones across the long, sweeping surges of the ocean. “Boat ahoy!” repeated Jack with desperate earnestness; and he continued to shout, while the gleams of rapidly expanding hope seemed to shoot warmth and life through his chilled veins.