TRUE FRIENDSHIP.
Then, potent with the spell of heaven,
Go, and thine erring brother gain;
Entice him home to be forgiven,
Till he, too, see his Saviour plain.--KEBLE.
Three weeks more passed away; the journey homeward was getting near its
end, for the weather had been fine, and except that, on account of a
death on board, the vessel stayed a day and a night at St. Helena, there
were no interruptions. It was a lovely morning; the wind was hushed,
there was scarcely a ripple upon the ocean, the vessel glided on without
breaking the stillness, and Hubert sat on deck with his friend, enjoying
the genial atmosphere of the temperate zone.
"Captain Goodwin," said the traveller, "I think our journey together is
nearly ended."
"Are you not going to England?" immediately inquired Hubert.
"No--at least, not at present. In a few days we shall pass Portugal, and
I may say farewell to you off Lisbon. I have a little matter on hand
that takes me to that part: when I have finished it I hope to come to
England; and I hope to meet you some day again. I trust that what we
have seen of each other has not been unprofitable; something I have told
you may remain in your memory, for I have told you many things
concerning the ways of men in nearly every country that I have been to.
Your knowledge has been confined to India, which country I have
traversed almost from one end to the other; and yet I have learnt very
much from you; and, now that we are about to part, I will tell you how.
It may be that, mixing so much amongst Indian idolatry, or, indeed, I
hardly know what has been the cause--but of late years I have grown
careless of the pure faith of my childhood, and have rather liked than
otherwise anything that tended to increase a disbelief in God and a
future life. Once let the thought that there is no future fix itself in
the mind of a man, and a thousand other thoughts, more wicked than the
first, follow, and there is little difficulty in disbelieving
altogether; for it is the belief that there _is_ a future that
constitutes the key-stone in religion. Well, I had become sceptical;
and, Goodwin, you perhaps little thought it, but it was you with your
Bible, and all its precepts so exemplified in your conduct, that struck
me, and made me look into my own heart to find how it was that you
appeared so much more happy and contented than I was. I have often
watched you; and your silent and, as you thought, unseen study of your
Bible had a powerful effect upon me, and did more for me than any noisy
demonstration would have done. When I first met with you I was in a
state of mind to have laughed at you, if you had come and talked about
conversion and grace, and prated off a host of Scripture texts. I had
too long forsaken religion to be frightened back to it; and that is the
mistake many good people make in their endeavours to bring back God's
wandering children. When I saw you so consistent and so earnest in your
religious duties, I know this, that I longed to be like you, and that
longing led me to think of what I had once been, and by degrees things
have changed with me. I have wanted to tell you this before, but have
always been afraid to trust myself; it is because our journey is so
nearly ended that I tell you now. And look here, Goodwin, when I have
done what I have to do in Portugal I will come to England, where I shall
hope to meet you; and by God's blessing, since there is no secret
between us now, we will talk this matter over again. It may be a year
before I come, perhaps longer; but remember, if I am spared, I _will_
come, for I shall never forget you."
"Neither shall I you," said Hubert, grasping his hand; but his heart was
full, and for some minutes he said no more. At length he continued, "Oh,
I am sorry to part with you; I have often wished that some of our time
could be spent in reading God's word, and talking of His mercy to us
both; the want of our doing so has made me at times sadly miss two
friends I left in India; still, I have much enjoyed your society, and
have learnt very much from you; for though our conversation has for the
most part been upon secular things, you have given me very much to think
about, and I thank God that I met with you. When I reach home," and
Hubert sighed, "I should like to write to you; and if you will tell me
where a letter will find you I will do so. I shall take up my quarters
in the north of England."
The traveller gave Hubert an address which he said would find him, at
least for the next three months, and then he added--
"The north of England! Ah! I well remember an incident that occurred
once as I passed through it on my way from Edinburgh to London. I have
never been in that part since, and, as near as I can recollect, it is
about four-and-twenty years ago. I was fifty-four years old yesterday,
and I was thinking that I passed my thirtieth birthday on the top of
that stage-coach. Well, we were some distance north of York--I have
forgotten the name of the place, but it was a charming little
village--and at the top of a shady lane, at the garden gate of a pretty
house, there were several people waiting to bid a young soldier
good-bye. Young, indeed! he was only a lad, just fifteen, a
fine-hearted, sprightly young fellow, and he was going off to India.
Well, he took his seat amongst the passengers, called out good-bye, and
off he went. I sat beside the coachman, and as I glanced round at him, I
felt sorry for the boy, for, though he appeared cheerful enough, I had
an idea that his cheerfulness was a little forced: the passengers began
to talk with him, and he really was a fine fellow. I never shall forget
him--the very type of a handsome English youth. Excuse me, I was
forgetting myself; it's but a simple story, after all: we can find
something better to talk about."
"Oh, no, pray finish it; I am interested in your story. What became of
the young soldier?"
"Well, it was rather curious that I was going south on purpose to bid my
brother good-bye, and I found that this young soldier was going to India
in my brother's ship."
"That was curious enough," said Hubert.
"It was; and when we alighted, after a long and tedious journey, in
London, we went off to the ship together. How very often I have thought
of that lad! He had evidently been well cared for by good religious
parents, but perhaps from his school training, or I cannot tell what, he
was certainly forgetting the instructions they had given him. Oh, how
thoughtless and reckless he was! I watched him, for he had told us a
little of his history; and as I was leaving the ship, I ventured to give
him a word of advice, and tried to persuade him never to forget his
duty to his parents: but I cannot tell you more about him. Poor lad! I
never saw him again, nor ever heard of him after he reached India. I
fear he died, for, soon after his regiment landed, many of the soldiers
died of fever, and from what I can remember, I saw amongst the deaths in
an Indian paper a soldier of his name; so, never hearing anything more
of him, I concluded the poor fellow had succumbed to the climate."
"Why were you so anxious to hear something more of that lad in
particular?" inquired Hubert.
"Ah! were I to tell you it would be a long story. I don't know, though,
that I need tell all. I think I once told you some of my early history.
Well, I married at an early age, and three years after my marriage I
buried my wife: the sorrow, however, was greatly alleviated by a little
son I had--he was two years old when his mother died, and just able to
dissipate my grief by his innocent prattle. Years passed away: wherever
I went I took my boy. I travelled through Germany and Prussia with him,
and it has often occurred to me that the many people who have been
charmed by the works that these travels helped to produce, little
thought under what circumstances they were accomplished. Many a long
journey, where conveyances could not go, have I taken, with my staff in
hand, a little satchel at my side, and that boy on my back. At other
times he has trotted by my side; and very often--most nights,
indeed--with him sleeping in my arms, or seated beside his bed, I have
penned most of my daily wanderings, for I never left him. For eight
years after his mother died I never allowed him to go from my sight; but
then he left me for ever."
"Not for ever," said Hubert; "you mean, he died? Well, you will go to
him, though he will not return to you."
"Why do you say so?"
"Because I believe it, and so do you."
"Yes, I do: but now, tell me how it is that I cannot always think so. I
believe it all as well as you do, and yet, when I sit alone and think,
my thoughts are not the same as when we sit and talk together--how is
it?"
There was an earnestness in the stranger's manner, and also in his eye,
as he put this question to Hubert, who, after sitting unmoved for a
minute or two, at last said--
"I have felt the same many, many times; indeed, there is scarcely a
truth in the Bible that I have read, which, though I believed it at one
time, I have been led to doubt it another. Many a time have I gone out
into the court-yard of my quarters in India, that I might see some fresh
object, because upon everything in my room there seemed to stand out in
large gilded letters the word 'Unbelief.' Turn where I would sometimes,
the very objects and things I wished to forget were always before my
eyes; indeed, blasphemy has been upon my tongue when my heart has
dictated prayers. Terrible hours they have been to me. And sometimes the
falling of a piece of paper, the opening of a door, or the smallest
possible sound you could conceive, has so alarmed me that I have
actually been afraid of myself. No one but myself can know what I
endured. But I don't feel anything of the sort now. _Prayer_ was the
effectual remedy for me, and it will be so for you. I believe that such
doubts and fears are extra mercies sent by God to bring us nearer to
Him; so, when you feel anything of the kind, try what prayer will do.
There is a great deal of seeming prayer that isn't prayer; but when the
heart can feel itself going out upwards,--I mean, when it utters the
words, 'Lord, I believe, help thou mine unbelief,' depend upon it, that
upon the other side of that petition, written in words of fire, is the
command to the tempter, 'Get thee behind me, Satan!'"
The stranger sighed, but then, thrusting his hands deeply into his coat
pockets, as was his usual custom when in a thoughtful mood, he sat still
looking over upon the broad blue sea. Hubert sat still beside him, and
as the sailors moved about attending to their various duties, they gave
many a glance at the two friends as they sat together. Ben had told them
all something about these friends, and, though they were not all of the
same way of thinking as Ben was, they imbibed from him an extra amount
of respect for the Captain and the stranger; and had the part of the
deck where they were accustomed to sit been a sacred part, it could not
have been more free from intrusion than it was when they were there; so
Hubert sat and thought; so did his friend, who was the first to speak.
"Yes, it is so," he said; "I know it is all true; I shall go to _them_.
And now let me finish my story. I had returned from the Continent, and
it was in Scotland that I buried my son; he lies beside his mother in
the kirk-yard at Dunkeld; it is a pretty, quiet place, at the foot of
the Grampian mountains, and there they lie--I hope to be buried there
too some day. I did not think at one time that I should have lived thus
long after them, but time has fled on, and it has worked its change in
me. I remember that it was on my first journey after my loss that that
lad rode with us to London. I shall never forget how startled I was when
I first saw him: older, of course, he was, but such an exact resemblance
did he bear to the one I had lost, that--it may have been a
delusion--some of my affection for the dead seemed to centre in him."
"What was his name?" inquired Hubert.
"I cannot tell now, I had forgotten it long ago; indeed, I had forgotten
the incident until you brought it back to my memory, it happened so long
ago."
"I wonder you forgot his name, though," said Hubert; "but time works
upon the memory, and makes it less retentive."
"True; especially one that has been tried like mine has. I am not an old
man--I am only a little over fifty, yet see how grey I am. I attribute
it to my memory being overtasked."
"And to early and deep sorrow, perhaps," replied Hubert.
"Well, the philosophy of that I neither argue nor dispute: what do you
say to it?"
Hubert smiled, and, taking from his pocket his "torn Bible," he said,
"Here we have a high authority for the fact that suffering purifies the
heart. Now, whatever effect it may have upon the outward appearance, it
most certainly leaves its impress within--leaves many a deep scar upon
the heart: and we know that it leaves furrows on the brow; yet what a
blessing suffering is!--it is often the last effort that God makes to
reclaim the reckless sinner. When all other efforts have failed, and
nothing seems effectual in bringing down man's proud heart, the Almighty
smites that He may bless. I know it, for I have experienced it all; I
have felt both the scourge and the blessing."
Hubert added this latter part because he feared lest his friend should
think him presumptuous; but the stranger added, "Captain Goodwin, I am
sure you must have felt a good deal of what you have often talked about,
and I would give much to be always as thoroughly settled in these
matters as you are. What you say, I feel to be all perfectly true.
Here," he said, placing his hand upon his heart, "it is all right But
here," and he touched his forehead, "there are other thoughts. But if
God spare me, I will come to you again when my business in Portugal is
done, and then we will talk over these matters more fully. The world has
been a wide one to me, but I have only a few friends in it, and am tired
of rambling about it, so I shall return to England and come near to
you."
"Do," said Hubert; "and may God spare you, and me too. I shall be glad
indeed to see you; the heart grows better by communion, and I think
somehow that there is many a kindred feeling between us; at any rate,
our voyage has been rendered pleasant by our having met, and it will be
a source of pleasure to me, in many a sad hour that I feel will yet
befall me, to look forward to our meeting again."
This, and much more, formed the matter for conversation between Hubert
and his friend; and when the day had closed, and night drew on, they
passed an hour together by Hubert's lamp; for the heart which had
unburdened itself seemed to have twined its tendrils more firmly round
the wounded soldier.