HOMEWARD BOUND.
Back to the world we faithless turn'd,
And far along the wild,
With labour lost and sorrow earn'd,
Our steps have been beguiled.--KEBLE.
The Sundays on board the _Arctic_ were spent as the doctor had led
Hubert to expect; and happy, holy days they were--no one enjoyed them
more than Hubert, and on more than one occasion he spoke of them to his
friend. His remarks, however, were never responded to heartily, and
Hubert felt annoyed that he had formed a friendship with a man who
seemed to have no interest in the chief of all his enjoyments. "It may
be," said Hubert one day, as he sat alone in his cabin--"it may be
because he has never been struck down as I have been; or it may be--Ah!
what may it be?" Then he fell into a deep reverie, and wondered many
things as to the cause of his friend's indifference to sacred things;
and he prayed for a beam of light into the heart which appeared to him
to be darkened. Hubert felt a growing anxiety about his friend--he knew
they could not be companions very long; the journey, long as it yet was,
was daily growing shorter, and he did not feel certain that he would not
be in some way responsible if he allowed the present opportunity to
pass.
Some timid Christians are frightened into silence by the mere worldly
boldness of those amongst whom they dwell, but it was not so with
Hubert. His companion was a quiet, unobtrusive man, as amiable and kind
as it was possible to be; and yet Hubert had not boldness sufficient to
tell him that the Bible was the theme he loved best, and heaven the
chief place of his interest. And why was it? In that stranger there was
education, refined taste and eloquence, united to the pursuits of a
lifetime; and whatever resolution Hubert made when alone, he always
failed to accomplish it when he came and sat down by his side. Sometimes
the subject was upon Hubert's lips, and many times his hand was in his
coat-pocket, in which the torn Bible lay; but then he feared to produce
it, lest his friend, who seemed to know the human heart so well, should
reproach him for having taken up religion in his infirmity, when he had
devoted his health and strength to dissipation and pleasure. It grieved
him very much, for it made him ill at ease with himself: his Bible was
his chief companion, it is true, and there was nothing that he loved so
well. Sometimes he wondered at himself for taking such delight in it,
and, acting upon the advice of his old friend the doctor, "to try and
examine all the thoughts and intentions of the heart," he imposed upon
himself many a search to find out, if possible, why it was that the
pages of that torn book gave him such delight--why at times his tears
would fall as he read it--and why sometimes his bosom would swell, and
his heart beat, at the story it told him; but he could not find out how
it was, he only knew that he loved it, and wanted others to love it too.
The ship made a rather quick run to the Cape, where she stayed a
fortnight; and Hubert so much improved in strength, that he laid aside
his crutch, and walked easily with two walking-sticks. With his
returning strength his spirit and face grew more cheerful, and he began
to feel a hankering for his home in England; it became a favourite
thought, and after that a frequent topic of conversation.
"I have only one desire," he would sometimes say, "and that is, that
those I left behind so many years ago may be alive to welcome me home."
"You can hardly expect it," said his friend on one occasion, as they sat
together on deck. "A great many changes occur in the space of a quarter
of a century, and it is generally those we love best who are taken the
first away from us."
"Perhaps to draw our thoughts to heaven," said Hubert.
"Perhaps so," replied his friend; "but suppose it does not do it, and
instead of our becoming very resigned and heavenly-minded we become
reckless and desperate, and think of any place but heaven,--what then?"
"I don't know," said Hubert, "except that the man who could feel what
you say must be one who has forgotten to worship God, and so when
trouble comes upon him he hasn't God to help him to bear it."
The stranger looked earnestly into Hubert's face; there might have been
a home-thrust in that remark, for, heaving a deep sigh, he said, "I hope
you have never known what it is to lose a friend very, very dear to you,
and I hope you never will--yours is a beautiful delusion. I had it once,
but I haven't it now, and I hope circumstances may never rob you of it."
"I hope not. But, my friend," said Hubert, laying his hand upon his arm,
"I _have_ lost one very, _very_ dear to me, all I ever loved, and it is
the beautiful delusion you name that has helped me to bear it; nay, it
is not a delusion, it is a high hope--a hope that when this life is
ended, and all who are dear to us have been taken away, we shall meet
once again in heaven, to live together for ever."
Hubert's face had become animated while he spoke, and in his warmth he
put his hand into his pocket, intending to bring out his Bible; but his
friend checked him by saying, "What a strange, powerful influence the
things we learn in our youth have over our lives! A holy precept
instilled into us when we are lads, is a diamond set in an imperishable
casket; and though the dust of careless, sceptical manhood may
oftentimes cover over the gem, still it is there as bright as ever,
ready to shine with its former lustre when the heart, trusting and
believing, instead of doubting, fans off the black shadow of unbelief;
surely it is then that God's Spirit breathes once again into man the
breath of life."
"How I wish I could talk as you do!" said Hubert; "then I would tell you
what I feel. But when I want to speak, I seem to feel so much that I
have no words to express myself, and so I say but little. How is it,
though, that you speak so of God? I thought you were unbelieving."
"And what have I said to make you think that I believe now?"
"You must," said Hubert, "else you would not speak so of the Spirit of
God. When I spoke of God, you called it a delusion, and I said nothing
like what you have said. You surely are not a sceptic? you must
believe."
"I may believe some things, but not all that you do; for it has been an
easy matter to forget all about the one true God in a country where so
many gods are worshipped."
"Did you forget, with all your learning and eloquence? Did _you_
forget?"
"Yes; didn't you?"
"Oh yes, I did; I dare not tell you what I did, neither can I tell you
what I have suffered, nor how good and gracious God has been to me. For
more than twenty years I chose to live regardless of a future
life--indeed, regardless of anything but sin. I always tremble when I
think how I have lived, and yet see how gracious God has been to me; and
though you, too, forget to serve Him, He has not forgotten to be
gracious and merciful to you."
The stranger sat still, in a careless attitude, with his broad-brimmed
straw hat shading his face, and his hands thrust into the pockets of his
loose coat. He spoke nothing in answer to Hubert's remarks, and Hubert,
after maintaining the silence for some time, rose from his seat and went
to his cabin. Ben, the sailor, had opened the cabin window, against
which the rippling of the calm sea occasionally threw a tiny crystal,
and as Hubert entered, and saw Ben standing before the window, he
said--
"Are you afraid the water will be in, Ben?"
"Oh no, your honour," said the sailor, touching the little bit of hair
upon his forehead, "we're more than four feet above water at this
window; but I was a-thinking, your honour, of the storm on the Sea of
Galilee, and how our Saviour caused a great calm: it was a wonderful
thing, and I dare say it made a good many believe on Him as didn't
believe before. St. Mark says there was also some little ships besides
the one Christ was in, and I dare say there was a good many in those
ships as didn't believe Him at all; but it just wanted that great
tempest to frighten 'em and make 'em believe."
"It might, indeed," replied Hubert, into whose heart a new light had
suddenly shone, "for God, who knows all hearts, knew what was in
theirs."
"True, your honour, and it's the same now; many men won't believe the
Gospel until they are like, as it were, in the tempest, obliged to be
struck down with illness, or such-like, I mean."
With the concluding words the sailor left the cabin, and Hubert sat down
to read all about that storm on the Sea of Galilee; he had read it
before, but never with such an interest as now, and it reminded him of
the tempest that had once come upon him; and he saw a deep truth in the
sailor's remark, that it is the storm that drives the sinner to Christ.
Then he sat and wondered what he must do to try and convince his
stranger friend of these things, and the prayer was almost upon his lips
that some terrible tempest might overwhelm him, if it would bring him to
the footstool of Jesus.
That night, as though in answer to his heart's desire, Hubert dreamt
that his friend was "a vessel meet for the Master's use," and in a
joyous burst of feeling he awoke.
"I know it, I am sure of it," he said to himself "he is a believer; a
backslider, perhaps, but not a sceptic." And he longed for the daylight
to come, that he might again seek his friend; and as he lay awake during
the remainder of the night, he tried to throw many of the incidents of
his own life round that of the stranger. He would give anything almost
to hear something more of his history; what he had told him was not
enough, and Hubert hoped for a closer and firmer friendship. A kindred
wish seemed to have passed nearly at the same time through the mind of
the stranger, for he had retired to rest with the hope that he might get
to know something more of Hubert; and the next morning, when they met on
deck, there was a cordial greeting, and they went and sat down on the
seat they had occupied the day before. There were several passengers on
board the ship, but Hubert and the stranger were exclusive in their
friendship, so that when together they met with no interruption; and
this time, as they talked of various things, with the wide-spread ocean
around them, Hubert, after a pause, said--
"Did you ever read the story of Jesus Christ stilling the tempest on the
Sea of Galilee?"
"Yes, many times; why?"
Then Hubert repeated what Ben the sailor had said; told, too, from whose
honest heart the ideas came; and his bosom felt a thrill of pleasure at
the earnest attention the stranger gave him.
"Well done, Ben," burst suddenly from his lips, "Why, Captain Goodwin,
he's a clear-headed fellow. It's astonishing what remarkably good
notions those sailors sometimes have."
Then he returned to Hubert's subject, painted in rich imagery the silent
lake, the little vessels, and the sleeping Saviour; then the tempest,
the alarm, the cry, "Save, or we perish," and the Omnipotent, "Peace, be
still." He knew all about it; he likened the silent lake to man's heart
in boasted security; the little vessels to the many sins of his
indulgence; the sleeping Saviour, to conscience hushed by sin; the
tempest, to man awakening; the alarm, to man seeking pardon; the cry, to
man's heart broken in despair; and the "Peace, be still," the voice of a
reconciled God, the sign-manual of forgiveness.
Hubert had never heard anything that told upon his heart with stronger
power. Tears were in his eyes, and, drawing a long breath, he said--
"How could you make me think that there was anything that you did not
believe in reference to God, when you know so much, and can explain so
beautifully? Oh, if I knew only half what you do--if I had but a little
of your power to express myself, what a Christian I would be."
"You don't know," said the stranger, laying his hand upon Hubert's
raised arm. "The head may be full of knowledge, and the tongue fluent
in speech, and yet the heart may be cold. It has been said, that for a
speaker to move the hearts of his hearers, he must himself feel the
power of his subject. Now, in worldly matters it may be so, but I am
inclined to think that in religious matters it is not obliged to be.
There is in all things referring to man's soul a secret influence which
does not necessarily require the fire of man's heart to make it
effective. God's Spirit is alone sufficient to move the waters.
Eloquence, indeed! Oh, beware how you covet it. Where is there anything
finer than the testimony of Christ's divinity made by the _demon_ in the
synagogue at Capernaum--'What have we to do with thee, thou Jesus of
Nazareth? Art thou come to destroy us? I know thee who thou art, the
Holy One of God.' Be assured that, after all, there is no sublimer
strain that reaches the ears of the Most High than the contrite 'Lord,
save, or we perish.'"
There was much earnestness in the stranger's manner, and the last words
he uttered struck Hubert as a prayer coming up from the depths of that
heart which, in the stillness of the previous night, he had satisfied
himself was not sceptical, but backsliding. Hubert's curiosity was more
awakened, and just as he was about to ask his friend another question,
they were interrupted by the sailors coming to the part of the vessel
where they were seated, to attend to some portion of the rigging.
Hubert, taking his stick, walked away slowly to his cabin, but his
friend did not follow him, and he sat down in silence alone. How many
subjects, during the voyage, that stranger had given Hubert to think
about! and the time had passed so pleasantly that he had not missed,
quite so much as he had anticipated, the friends in India. Many new
lights had shone into his heart, and his mind had opened to more truths
by the companionship he had made, and he felt now as much delighted with
the friendship, as a short time before he had been disappointed; that
short prayer, so emphatically spoken, had touched a deep feeling of his
own heart, and he wondered whether the high order of intellect, the
learning and eloquence of his friend, had not proved to him a snare, in
the same way that the careless, reckless, self-will of his own nature
had been to him.
"Great God!" he said, gazing upward, "guide the thoughts of my heart
aright, lest I argue that some of thy gifts are given to man to his
injury."
How humble Hubert had become, how ready to resign his own will to that
of a higher! and many a prayer he breathed that day--for the evil
thought came continually up in his mind, that God's gifts were not
always for good. Do as he would, or think as he would, that same thought
was uppermost in his mind, and he felt that it was the evil one grasping
at the expiring hope of bringing him back to him again. Hubert's faith,
however, was growing stronger every day: he had learnt to feel that
without the guidance and protection of God he was a frail erring
creature, and it led him to be frequently a suppliant, and frequently a
receiver of heavenly strength.
"Get thee behind me, Satan; every gift of God _is_ good and perfect, and
it is thou, thou false one, that pervertest them from the end for which
they are given;" and Hubert, as he ceased speaking, took out his "torn
Bible" to read: there was comfort there, and his heart became more
cheerful, his faith stronger, as he read upon a soiled torn page of
that precious book--"Fear thou not, for I am with thee; be not dismayed,
for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I
will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness."
It mattered not to whom, nor under what circumstances, such passages of
Scripture were written--they were as effective to Hubert as though they
had been penned for him alone; and he took them all to himself, and
became more trusting and more holy. Neither Jew nor Gentile made a stone
at which his feet were to stumble; as he opened his "torn Bible" and
read, so he believed: the promise or the threatening, as it stood there,
was what his heart received, and he believed now that God was near him,
helping him to overcome the tempter.