Picture a wide expanse of ocean, smooth as a polished mirror, and
shining like molten silver; a sky of intense blue, without a cloud or
speck, forming a vast arch resting on the water; no land or rock in
sight; the boundless sea on every side; the sun travelling slowly and
majestically along the arch, and casting his burning rays upon the
glittering plain below.
Let us pause and contemplate that scene. What grandeur and sublimity
there is in it! What a magnificent edifice does it seem! When compared
with it, how utterly insignificant and contemptible do all the works of
man's hands appear! Then watch the sun sink with rays of glory in the
west; the bright rich tinge glowing for a time, and gradually fading
away before the obscurity of night; the stars coming forth and shining
with a splendour unknown in northern climes; and then the moon, a mass
of liquid flame, rising out of the dark sea, and casting across it a
broad path of the silvery light. Watch the tranquil luminary glide also
through her destined course, till once more the sun rushes upward from
his ocean-bed in a sheet of fire, and claims supremacy over the world.
This is one of the many grand and wonderful objects beheld by those who
sail across the ocean, and amply does it repay for a long voyage those
who have taste to appreciate its beauties.
Now let us return to the scene as I first described it, and, by looking
closer into the picture, we shall observe a boat floating in its very
centre. There are no masts or sails, nor are there any oars moving.
The boat lies motionless like a log on the water. She is a large boat,
a ship's launch; her gunwale seems battered in as if she had undergone
some hard usage. Above it nothing is seen moving; and, at the first
glance, it would seem that there are no human beings on board. On
looking down into the boat, however, we discover several persons, but
whether dead or alive it is difficult to say, they are so quiet and so
silent. Towards the bow are the forms of two men. They are on their
backs--one is at the bottom of the boat, the other stretched along the
thwarts, in uneasy postures. Their eyes are open and glaring unmoved at
the bright sun; their lips are parted, black, and dry; the hand of death
has, alas! at all events, fallen on them; nothing living could present
such an aspect. By their dress and their complexion they seem to be
British seamen. There is a small breaker or keg in the boat, but the
hung is out--it is empty. There is also a bag, containing some hard
ship-biscuit; it is still half full, but there is no other provision.
In the after part of the boat there is a sort of awning, formed of a
shawl stretched across the gunwale, with a mat on the top of it, so as
to form a thick shade. Near it, with her back leaning against the side
of the boat, sits a dark-skinned woman. She has a turban on her head,
and massive gold ear-rings in her ears, and bracelets round her arms,
and anklets of gold round her legs, and her loose dress is of
gay-coloured striped cotton of delicate texture. She is alive, but
faint and weak; and, by her dim eye and short-coming breath, death seems
to be approaching with stealthy strides to claim her as his own. Still,
the soul is struggling to triumph over the weakness of the flesh. With
an anxious gaze she looks beneath the awning, for there is something
there which claims her constant solicitude. She turns her gaze towards
the forms of the two seamen--she does not seem to know that they are
dead. A faint cry comes from under the awning. Again she looks towards
the bow of the boat; she sees that her companions in misery are not
watching her. She now stealthily draws from beneath the folds of her
dress, where she has carefully concealed it, a bottle of water. Did
she, then, while the seamen slept, steal the water from the cask to
preserve the existence of those committed to her fostering charge, and
far more precious to her, in her sight, than her own life? There can be
no doubt she did so. She discovers that she is not observed. There is
a small tin pannikin near her, and several pieces of biscuit. She
crumbles the biscuit, as well as she can with her weak fingers, into the
pannikin, and then pours upon them a few drops of the precious fluid.
She looks at the water with longing eyes, but will not expend even one
drop to cool her parched lips. She mixes the biscuit till it is
completely softened, and then casting another furtive glance towards the
bow, unconscious that the dead only are there, she carefully lifts up
the awning. A low weak voice utters the word "Aya;" it is that of a
child, some three or four years old perhaps; at the same time there is a
plaintive cry from a younger infant. A smile irradiates the countenance
of the Indian woman, for she knows that her charges are still alive.
She leans forward, though her strength is barely sufficient to enable
her to move, and puts the food into the mouths of the two children. The
eldest, a boy, swallows it eagerly; for though somewhat pale, his
strength seems but little impaired. The infant is a girl: she takes the
mixture, so little suited to her tender years, but without appetite; and
it would appear that in a very short time her career, just begun on
earth, will be brought to a speedy close.
When the food is consumed, the nurse sinks back to her former position.
She tries to swallow a piece of the biscuit, but her parched lips and
throat refuse to receive the dry morsel, and the water she will not
touch. Again the children cry for food, and once more she goes through
the operation of preparing it for them as before; but her movements are
slower, and she now has scarcely strength to carry the food to the
mouths of the little ones.
The day passes away, the night goes by, the morning comes, and still the
calm continues. The children awake and cry out for food. The nurse
turns her languid eyes towards them, but her strength has almost gone;
she even forgets for an instant the meaning of that cry. There is a
struggle going on within her. At last her loving, faithful, and
enduring spirit overcomes for a time the weakness of her body; she
prepares the mess, and feeds the children. She gazes sorrowfully at the
bottle--the last drop of water is consumed. She leans back, her bosom
heaves faintly; the effort has been more than her failing strength would
bear. She turns her eyes towards them; they are the last objects of any
earthly thing she is destined to behold. A dimness comes stealing over
them. Her thoughts are no longer under control, her arms fall by her
side, her head droops on her chest, she has no strength to raise it. In
a few hours more the faithful nurse will have ceased to breathe, and
those young children will be left alone with the dead on the wild waste
of waters.
But, reader, do not for one moment suppose that therefore they are
doomed to perish. There is One above, the eternal, all-powerful God of
goodness and love, who is watching over those helpless infants. His arm
can stretch to the uttermost parts of the earth, and over the great
waters: even now it is put forth to shield them, though we see it not.
Even without a human hand to administer their food, in that open boat on
the wide sea, over which a storm might presently rage, while billows may
rise, threatening to overwhelm them, far away from land or living beings
but themselves, those children are as secure, if so God wills it, as
those who are sleeping on beds of down within palace walls; because,
remember, reader, that He is all-powerful, and He is everywhere. Trust
in Him; never despond; pray to Him for help at all times--in times of
peace and prosperity, in times of danger and difficulty; and oh! believe
that most assuredly He will help and protect you in the way He knows is
best for your eternal happiness.
This is the lesson I would teach; for this is the lesson I have learned
by means of all the difficulties and dangers I have undergone during the
scenes of wild and extraordinary adventure which I have encountered in
my course through life. Often and often, had I not been convinced of
this great truth, I should have yielded to despair; and the longer I
have lived, and the more dangers I have passed through, the more firmly
convinced have I become of it. Often have I felt my own utter
helplessness--the impossibility that the strength of man could avail
me--when standing, it seemed, on the very brink of destruction; and in a
way beyond all calculation, I have found myself rescued and placed in
safety. It was for this reason that I have drawn the picture which I
have exhibited to you. Ungrateful indeed should I be, and negligent of
my bounden duty, did I not do my utmost to teach the lesson I have
learned from the merciful protection so often afforded me; for know that
I was one of those helpless infants! and the picture before us shows the
first scene in my life, of which I have any record; and this is the
moral I would inculcate--"That God is everywhere."