At Sea, June 26th, 1873.

Mr. R. H. McConaughy:

Dear Bro. I thought you would like to have a letter sent you with the above caption, as there is something romantic in the mere sight of a letter that has been written upon the ocean.

We are just entering upon our 21st day at sea. I had plenty of time before to write, but the letters would simply have been carried along with us, and would have grown stale on our hands. We have not met a single steamer, and have seen only three sails, and they were but faintly discerned on the horizon. Now we are 4,400 miles from San Francisco (we came all the way by water), and within 300 miles of Japan. We expect to put in at Yokohama day after to-morrow, where I will have an opportunity of starting this letter on the homeward track. I trust the mail will safely bring it to hand.

We have had a pleasant and prosperous voyage. Plenty to eat, good sleeping accommodations, and nothing to do but talk, read, or loll around. My impressions of the ocean may be briefly summed up in the language of a modern poet. I think it is a "prodigious piece of wetness." Sometimes there is only breeze enough to stir its glassy surface into smooth and gentle undulations; and then, in the warm sunshine, it is like "a sea of glass, mingled with fire." I have no words to describe its beauty at such a time. Standing on the quarter-deck and gazing out over the blue expanse, glistening in the beams of a cloudless sun, the scene is perfectly charming; and one longs to plunge into the purple flood and join the frolicsome porpoises in their sports. But usually there is a stiff breeze and a heavy swell, and the rough billows stretching away as far as the eye can reach resemble our Western prairies. In such a case the rocking and tilting of the vessel are very disagreeable to a raw landlubber, and in a few minutes bring on a fit of seasickness. Then he feels his stomach sinking within him, and an irresistible inclination to throw up every loose article of furniture inside, down to the toes of his boots. After 36 hours or more of this experience (during which all food is abomination and all drink ditto), he begins to recover himself, and finally to enjoy that very tilting which brought on these awful sensations, very much as the child enjoys the rocking of a cradle. We have not caught sight of a whale yet, nor has any shark or sword-fish been so foolhardy as to attempt to interfere with our progress. But I did catch a glimpse of the sea-serpent one day, as I was leaning against the railing of the deck, and gazing down into the black and solemn depths below me. It was near the surface, and just in the act of wriggling its tail preparatory to a descent into the bosom of the deep. Its length, as near as I could guess, was about 14 inches, and it looked precisely like a common water-snake. You are at liberty to publish this account of the great sea monster, if you wish, and although the story may not be as sensational as the majority of those given to the world, it has at least the merit of credibility.

Tonight the sea is very rough, and it requires some care to write intelligibly. There are prospects of a stormy time. Sabbath evening was somewhat similar to this, and about 10 P. M. I went up on deck. It was very dark, and the black and sullen waters beat in fury against the ship's sides, while we were heading almost directly against a

tremendous breeze. As I paced back and forth on the deck, our old S. S. hymn came into my mind, and I softly sung it over, the words being so beautiful and appropriate:

"Dark is the night, and cold the wind is blowing, etc."

If you let your imagination fully picture out the scene, and then sing that hymn over in your S. School -- how I would like to be there myself! -- I think you will have a much more favorable idea than you used to have, of both words and music.

Well, I must close. I have received no letter from you since I left home. Please write at once a good long one, and address it to "Care Rev. V. C. Hart, Kiukiang, China, via Shanghai." I am so anxious to hear from you. My regards to Bros. Lewis, Elswick, Mackintosh, and all the young converts at Pine Grove. I often remember them at a throne of grace.