“Be pleased to watch over the members of our families, and all the beloved friends whom we have left behind. Relieve our minds from all anxiety on their account by the blessed persuasion that thou carest for them. Above all, grant that our souls may be defended from whatsoever evils or perils may encompass them; and that, abiding steadfast in the faith, we may be enabled so to pass through the waves and storms of this uncertain world, that finally we may come to the land of everlasting rest, through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”
The service-book also contains the Psalms of David in prose, and a collection of 107 hymns, including four of the Scotch paraphrases. The hymn most frequently sung at sea is the one beginning with “Eternal Father, strong to save,” and next to it, “O God, our help in ages past.” Evangelistic services of a less stately kind than in the saloon are often held in the afternoon in the second cabin or steerage, and are usually much appreciated; while in the evening the deck hands will join with groups of emigrants in singing Moody and Sankey hymns, such as “Revive us Again,” “Rescue the Perishing,” “Whiter than Snow,” etc. It is often remarkable to notice how familiar people of diverse creeds and nationalities are with these hymns, and how heartily they unite in singing them.
A favourite text with preachers on shipboard is Rev. xxi. 1: “And there was no more sea.” The theme, associated, as it is, with so many fathoms of profundity, has yielded to many forms of treatment. I remember that a young minister, my room-mate, by the way, on his first voyage out from Quebec, chose this for his text, and that he launched out, as well he might, on the charms of the sea in poetical flights of fancy. But the while we were sailing in smooth water. When outside the Straits he laid his head on the pillow and underwent a change of environment, recovering from which, after many days, he vowed that should he ever preach from that text again, he would have something more to say about it. I remember, too, that an elderly gentleman—a Presbyterian of the Presbyterians—was asked by the captain to preach one Sunday morning. He readily complied, taking it for granted that he was to conduct the whole service. Imagine his chagrin when an Anglican brother unexpectedly appeared on the scene and went through the whole of the long service of the Church of England. With the utmost composure, Πρεσβύτερος simply ignored the beautiful liturgical service, commenced de novo, and went through the whole service afresh, in orthodox Presbyterian fashion, to the surprise of the congregation and the discomfiture of the waiters, whose time for setting the lunch-table was long past.
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.
Icebergs and bewildering fogs, as has been already said, are a large element of danger in the St. Lawrence route. The passengers who sailed with me on the Lake Superior, from Montreal on July 1st, 1896, will not soon forget the magnificent display of icebergs which they witnessed on the Sunday following. From early morning until midnight, for a distance of more than 250 miles, the ship’s course lay through an uninterrupted succession of icebergs—a procession, it might be called, on a grand scale of masses of ice in all manner of fantastic shapes and of dazzling whiteness—travelling to their watery graves in the great Gulf Stream of the south. Mountains of ice, some of them might be called. On one of them a grisly bear was alleged to have been seen sulkily moving to and fro, as if meditating how, when and where his romantic voyage was to come to an end. The day was calm and cloudless—a perfect day for such a marvellous exhibition. It might have been otherwise, and how different may be imagined from reading what appeared in the English papers a few weeks later—the account of a ship’s narrow escape from destruction in this identical locality: