Appointed Class Leader.--Desires to Visit his Native Country.--
Takes a Berth on the Royal George.--Singular Notions on Board.
--A Storm.--Interview with Tom Halyard.--His Conversion.--
Arrival in London.--Sabbath Morning.--Visits the Foundry and
hears Rev. John Wesley.--Parting with Halyard.--Sails for
Inverness.
We are unable to give anything very definite about the religious
employment of Mr. Clark while he remained in Georgia. He was prompt
and gifted in prayer-meetings, and before many months was appointed
class-leader. We never learned when he commenced regular preaching.
Without a license he gave exhortations in the prayer-meetings; but his
private conversations were probably the most effective means at that
period in bringing sinners to Christ.
Gradually, and with many misgivings, on his part, his mind became
impressed with the duty of preaching the gospel to his fellow men. He
was meek, modest, humble, and thought far less of his gifts than others
did. His sensitive conscience shrunk at undertaking a work for which he
felt so poorly qualified, and we suppose he did not appear before the
public as a preacher until after his return from his native country.
His amiable temper, courteous manners, and kind feelings, without any
effort on his part, gained him the confidence and good will of all with
whom he held intercourse.
It was not more than one or two years after he joined the Methodists
that he resolved on a visit to his native land. He had received the
avails of teaching for several terms; his dress was plain, cotton
homespun, and cost but little; and his board had been gratuitously
bestowed by Colonel Wootten. It was a beautiful morning in April that
he led for the last time, by the solicitations of his host, in the
family devotions, and after breakfast, and again singing a favorite
song, he gave the parting hand to each of the family, white and black.
“I’ll go with you, brother Clark, to the forks of the road,” said the
venerable Colonel. As they walked along the lane, Clark thought, though
kindly repulsed before, he would again tender payment for his board and
several articles of clothing he had received as gratuities, and he
mentioned the subject as they arrived at the junction where they must
part. “No, my dear brother,” said the kind-hearted old Methodist, “you
have done a heap more for my family than they can ever do for you. For
until you talk’d to that wayward boy, our George, who was wild like,
and had been after cards and whiskey, I felt orfully afeared he would
be lost and ruined te-totally. But when I know’d you’d tuk him in
hand, and I’d he’rn you pray so all-graciously for him in the tobacco
house, I sort’r pluck’d up heart, and concluded my poor prayers for him
would’nt do no harm. So I prayed too as hard as I could. An’ now he’s
so steady and cheerful, and sings so pretty sin’ he join’d Society.--O,
brother Clark, I hate to part with you; but do pray for me and mine,
when you’re on the great ocean;--and should you ever get back ag’in
to Georgia, remember my house’s your home, as long as I live. And ef
George lives and holds out as he’s begun, he’ll never let you want, for
I do believe he loves you better nor his father and mother.”
The old Colonel was full and he could say no more--his heart was
gushing out of his eyes like a shower of rain, as he gave the hand of
Mr. Clark such a parting squeeze as caused him never to forget this old
Methodist brother.
He might have paid his passage and gone in the cabin of one of the slow
sailing vessels of that period, which were usually from two to three
months in crossing the ocean to Europe. But though he never knew the
feeling of avarice;--though he never hoarded up money for its own sake,
but believed steadfastly in the same providence that clothes the lilies
of the field, and feeds the birds of the air, he went aboard like a
true-hearted sailor, before the mast. Arriving at Charleston, he found
the Royal George, a trim, snug, merchant ship, just fitting out for the
port of London, and shipped as a regular seaman.
The wind proved fair, and for some weeks the weather was
favorable;--then a terrific storm overtook them which lasted three
days. Clark manifested due courtesy with his shipmates, and showed
prompt obedience to the officers. The Captain eyed him closely, but
during the storm he found him to be a prime sailor, and that he
understood both the theory and practice of navigating a ship. The
sailors in the forecastle thought he had queer ways, but all concurred
in the opinion of the Captain and mates that he had smelt salt water
before; and yet he was singular.
When he first came aboard, they spoke of him as a “green ’un;” “a
land-lubber.” “He might do to punish _grub_, but he’d never do in a
storm.”
The storm came on, and Jack Clark, as he was called, was found to be
the best hand in the mess to work ship. He could run up the shrouds and
out on the yard arms, like a monkey; hold on with one hand and take in
a reef with the other in the quickest time. From the captain, whose
keen look was on him as he walked the quarter-deck in sullen dignity,
to the cabin boy whose laughing eye watched the new hand; all perceived
he was a regular “old salt;” and if he had commanded a ship, as some
one intimated, he had never crept in at the cabin window.
But he was a strange fellow, for when grog time came John was seldom
seen coming for his allowance. When fair weather came, and the sailors
lay about the deck sunning themselves, and spinning long yarns, John
Clark was reading in his berth. Thus days and weeks passed away, with
the usual monotony of an old fashioned sea voyage.
“What book is that Jack Clark reads so much?”--said one old salt
to another as several hands lay basking on deck one day. “It’s the
BIBLE,” was the reply from a pale looking sailor, who had just got
out from a sick-berth, “for he read a long yarn out of it the other
day to me.” “Hurrah,” shouted a wicked and witty fellow, who was
listening;--“Is--Jack--what d’ call ’em--a PARSON?” “I don’t know about
that,” said pale face, “but I think there are not many parsons about
Lun-nun that know more about the Bible than Jack Clark. And I can tell
ye more, shipmates, he can _pray_ too, and make his prayers as he goes
along without the book; for I he’rn him not long sin’.” “You he’rn
him pray!” shouted two or three voices in quick succession. “A sailor
_pray_, and that without a book? Well, that’s more than the parsons can
do.”
The sailor who had let out the secret of John’s praying, was in a
serious mood. He had taken a kind of sailor prejudice to Clark when
he first came aboard, and manifested no disposition to be on terms
of intimacy. This sailor, whom we will call Tom Halyard, (having
forgotten his real name) had been sick for several days, and was
neglected by his shipmates,--even those of his own mess, except Clark,
who nursed him, obtained from the cook a little nourishing soup, and
showed so much sympathy as to spoil all his prejudices and win his
confidence. There is nothing like sympathy and kindness to work one’s
way into the heart’s core of a true sailor. Taking advantage of a
convenient interview in private, when he was beginning to recover,
Clark had a long conversation with this man on personal religion, and
the way of salvation through Jesus Christ.
Thomas Halyard had a pious mother, who in giving him some of the formal
lessons prescribed by the English church, talked to him about his state
by nature as a sinner in such a way as no one but a mother can talk.
Tom’s mother died when he was a little boy. His father was a profane
drunkard, and cared nothing for godliness, and hated God-fearing
people. His repeated acts of outrage and abuse of the poor motherless
boy, drove all filial feelings from his heart, and made him disgusted
with his father’s brutal manners. He ran away while quite a youth,
and went on board a ship. He soon learned the habits of a sailor, and
could swear as profanely and drink as full an allowance of grog as the
best of them in the ship. Yet there were moments when the image of his
mother, and especially her dying words to him, and prayer and praise to
God, would come with power on his memory. He had once been sick when
he was a little child, and his kind mother nursed him, placed her hand
on his feverish brow, and spoke words of kindness and love in his ear,
which he could never forget. The kindness and conversation of Clark,
during his recent illness, had broken through the crust that the world
and a wicked life had encased his softer nature in, and unsealed the
fountain. Tom wept like a child as he lay in his hammock, and listened
to the simple teaching of his brother sailor, and heard him read
lessons of instruction from the Book of God.
John Clark told him some thing of the history of his own life, how he
left the man-of-war and swam ashore, and how God mercifully preserved
his life in that perilous adventure. But when he told him how the Lord
brought him to see his wretched state as a sinner, and the wonderful
deliverance and joys of pardoning mercy in the interior of South
Carolina, and the new life he since lived;--all was so strange and
wonderful,--so unlike any thing he had heard before, and with all so
touching, that the tears rolled down the weather-beaten cheeks of
this tar; he sobbed aloud, and before he was aware of the scene he
was enacting, John Clark was on his knees beside his hammock, praying
in an audible, but low, musical voice for his salvation. No wonder
the sin-struck sailor thought John could pray better than the parsons
could with a book. True, he knew very little about parsons, for he had
followed the sea more than twenty years, and during that time had seen
“divine service” performed on land not half a dozen times. Sometimes
he heard the burial service read by a captain over the mortal remains
of some shipmate, who had been sent to “Davy Jones’ Locker,” over the
ship’s side.
From the time Mr. Halyard disclosed the character of John Clark to
the crew, he was treated with particular respect. Wild and wicked,
and as little disposed to knock off drinking and swearing, and put on
religion, all respected their shipmate John Clark. The officers found
out the “cut of his jib,” and treated him accordingly. Sailors find out
the peculiar traits of human nature quite as soon as any class. Had
Clark put on a sour face and assumed the airs of a religious man; had
he been unsocial and moody, and reproved them in a harsh and unkind
tone of voice, and in presence of others for their drinking, swearing
and frolicking habits, and taken pains to appear peculiarly righteous,
he would have seen trouble. They would have regarded him a graceless
hypocrite, and treated him with contempt and persecution. He gave them
no direct reproofs, and yet his manners and intercourse, courteous,
kind and winning, impressed their consciences more than a hundred moral
lectures would have done. They feared him, respected him and even loved
him.
The voyage finally wore away, and they were in the port of London and
safely moored, on Saturday; after sailing up the river Thames from
its mouth at the Nore, about forty-five miles. At that period London
was a great city, though since that period, its population has more
than doubled; its fine houses and long, winding streets have extended,
and its blocks and squares, have gone far out into what was then open
country. Boarding-houses for sailors were then a horrible “den of
thieves,” and the abodes of intoxication and other infamous vices.
And, even in this age of philanthropy and reform, there are numerous
places in London and all other large seaports where decoys are employed
to entice the newly arrived mariner to places where he can be filched
of his money, his senses and his life. But Christian philanthropy has
hoisted the Bethel flag, as the signal where sailors can worship God in
comfort and peace, and boarding-houses have been established as places
of virtue, good order, temperance and comfort for this useful class of
humanity. John Clark had no inclination for accommodations in houses of
infamy, and Tom Halyard seemed very much inclined to follow his example.
Sabbath morning came; the sun shone dimly through the smoke and haze of
a London atmosphere, and the sailors generally were making preparations
to desecrate the Lord’s day by their customary visits to rum shops and
infamous houses. Mr. Clark had risen early and performed the service
required of him as a sailor, put off his tarpaulin dress, and appeared
on deck with a smiling countenance, in a neat and cleanly suit, having,
as the sailors said, the “cut and jib of a land-lubber.” One of his
shipmates cried out,--“halloo, Jack,--whither ahoy now?” “I’m going to
find a place to worship God, with his people.” Clark lingered on deck
for a few moments on the Sabbath morning, when Thomas Halyard appeared
in his Sunday suit, rigged out in real sailor trim.
“Where away now, Tom?” enquired one of the sailors, while he cocked his
eye at another, with the true sailor leer, and rolled his quid from
one cheek to the other. “Only going a short voyage on land with Jack
Clark”--was the response, in a serious tone.
“I’ll be harpooned if Tom Halyard is not a-going to turn parson,” said
one. “Not yet,” replied another. “Tom was on the sick list not long
since, and thought he was bound for kingdom come;--and Jack Clark
physicked the old boy out of him, and he’s now going to chapel to pay
off old scores.” “And I’ll tell you what, shipmates,” said another,
“we’ve all been bad enough to be keel-hauled, and John Clark and
Thomas Halyard are as good sailors as I ever wish to mess with. ’Spose
we follow them and hear what the parson says to-day?” “Agreed,” said
several voices, and away they went up the street, headed by Clark and
Halyard, who walked lovingly arm in arm.
It became a fixed principle in the mind of Mr. Clark, at that early
period of his religious history to follow as Providence led; or,
which was the same thing to him, after a season of prayer for divine
direction, to follow such impressions of his own mind as appeared to
spring from a truthful and right source. Neither he, nor his companion
knew any chapel in London, or where to go;--but they walked on in a
friendly manner. Mr. Halyard asked questions how they were to conduct
themselves in church, and Mr. Clark described how the meetings were
managed in Georgia.
They had passed through several streets, when Mr. Clark saw a man
walking in the same direction, and ventured to inquire if he could
direct them to some chapel where the gospel was preached. “And it’s
being afther the gospel ye would be axing? Well, it’s mesel’ that
answer ye, for I’m a going there mesel’--’Tis to the Foundry ye’d
like to go?” Clark replied they were strangers in London, just from
ship-board, and wished to find some church where they could hear the
gospel. The honest Hibernian with whom they had come in contact, was
a zealous Methodist, then on his way to the “Foundry,” in Moorfields,
where the celebrated John Wesley established his regular meetings in
1739. This venerable patriarch of Methodism was still there, and
though fourscore years old, preached on the occasion of the sailors’
visit. Mr. Clark had heard of the achievements of Mr. Wesley, from the
preachers in Georgia, and it had been among his warmest aspirations to
see and hear this distinguished divine before his return to America.
It was a singular providence that guided him to the Foundry chapel the
first Sabbath he spent in London. The scene was almost overpowering,
and he listened with rapt attention and drank in every word the
preacher uttered.
Halyard wept profusely, though on board ship, and before his illness,
and Clark’s conversation, he had been singularly hard-hearted. No
distress could bring a tear from his eyes.
The other sailors behaved with decorum. The scene was new to all. None
before, except Mr. Clark, had ever known a “parson,” as they called all
ministers, pray without a book, or preach anything but a written or a
printed discourse. Whether any lasting impressions were made on their
companions is not known; but Halyard was an altered man, and one of the
“first fruits” of John Clark’s labors.
They spent the day at the Foundry; some of the generous-hearted,
christian brethren shared with them their lunch, and invited them to
attend class-meeting in the afternoon. The next week they obtained
their discharge from the ship, and Thomas Halyard went into the country
to find some distant relatives, and John Clark entered a coasting
vessel and sailed along the coast of England and Scotland, and up the
Moray Firth to Inverness, on his way to his native parish.
Mr. Clark had not heard from his surviving friends for several years.
He learned the news of the decease of his father when he visited his
brother in Jamaica, but his mother and two sisters were then alive
and well. No mails were then carried across the ocean, and it was a
rare thing that opportunity presented to send a letter. He had written
two or three letters while in the sea-faring business, but he knew
not whether they ever reached their destination; and they were never
received.
A mixture of the most pleasurable and painful emotions agitated his
mind as the rough hills and mountains of his native land hove in sight,
and the schooner on which he engaged to work his passage, entered the
estuary of Moray Firth. And as they passed Nairn, where he attended
the boarding school and studied the sciences, his feelings became
overpowering. The scenes and incidents of youth, and his airy visions
of a sea-faring life; the wonderful providence of God that led him in
a way that he knew not, preserved him amid a thousand dangers, and
brought him back to his native hills, were so oppressive that he could
no longer look on the hills and vales around him, until he had retired,
wept heartily and offered a prayer of thanksgiving to God for his
mercies that endureth forever.
Coming again on deck as they slowly sailed with a light breeze up
the Firth, towards the mouth of the river Ness, every feature of
the landscape appeared natural and familiar. There in the distant
perspective were the alpine mountains of Scotland, as range on range
exhibited features of the wildest grandeur. Again, as they approached
the city, his eye caught the aspect of the rich lowland country lying
along the Ness and Spey rivers. Here was a maritime landscape scarcely
equalled in Great Britain. Mr. Clark had a natural taste for the
beauties of nature. He delighted to gaze and meditate on the works of
God, as seen in the natural scenery of the earth. But now he could not
keep his mind on these displays of divine power, wisdom and goodness
around him. Other and more powerful emotions controlled his thoughts.
More than a hundred times during the last twenty-four hours had the
question arisen out of the depths of his heart, “Is my dear mother
alive?” Alas! the affectionate son, whose longings to embrace his
mother, and pour into her bosom the story of his wanderings and his
conversion; and pour out his soul to God, and mingle his prayers with
hers in thanksgiving and praise, never enjoyed such a happy meeting.
His mother had been dead two years and yet he knew it not.
The schooner was safely moored at one of the docks in the harbor of
Inverness, and Mr. Clark, having obtained his discharge, and bid the
kind officers and crew a friendly farewell, proceeded up the city
towards his native parish. A familiar name on the sign of a shop-keeper
caught his eye, and he stepped within, and instantly recognized an old
acquaintance. Mr. Clark in youth, as in old age, was of very light
complexion, blue eyes, and light-colored hair, of moderate height,
and light, slender make. The man who stood before the shop-keeper,
was sun-burnt, swarthy, robust, and dressed in sailor trim. He could
perceive some lineaments in his countenance which seemed familiar,
but could not recollect when, or where, if ever, he had seen the
person that now stood before him, while he leaned over the counter.
Soon as Clark gave his name and parentage, both hands were seized with
a friendly grasp, and a shower of welcomes was poured out in genuine
Gælic; for though Mr. Mackenzie spoke English like a native, he never
failed to resort to his Highland tongue, when moved by strong emotions.
Upon inquiry Mr. Clark for the first time realized he was an orphan.
_His mother was dead!_ The generous Highlander had the tact to
understand that under the pressure of such intelligence, his guest
would do best alone. Again he bade him welcome in plain English, and
insisted his house should be his home while he remained in Inverness;
at least he must not leave that night;--introduced him into a neat
parlor, and, pleading special business for absence, left him to his own
thoughts. This retirement exactly suited the feelings of Mr. Clark. He
pondered over the parting scene with his father and mother; counted
up nine years and some months since that time; recollected his mother
was more than three-score and ten years old; that she was a true child
of God, and died with a full hope of eternal life, and that the only
trouble she felt was about the uncertain fate of her youngest son
John. He learned also, from the Highlander, that his father ceased
his intemperate habits soon after their parting, and appeared to have
become a true penitent, and died in peace. A married sister who lived
near Inverness had died in child-bed shortly after his mother.
With a chastened spirit of submission he fell on his knees, and
with mingled feelings of thankfulness and grief, he found relief in
committing himself and his surviving relatives to God. Before he left
Scotland he heard of the untimely death of his brother Daniel in the
island of Jamaica.
Next morning Mr. Clark left his hospitable host, and directed his
course to his birth-place, the parish of Petty. He had learned that
his only surviving sister was there, in comfortable circumstances, and
managing the farm (held by a lease-hold) with the aid of a laboring man
and his wife as domestics. He felt a desire to find out if his sister
knew him, before he gave any intimations of relationship. He called at
the house as a stranger, asked for a cup of water and the privilege to
rest himself a short time, and entered into conversation on general
topics, but could perceive no evidence of recognition. As if an entire
stranger, he made inquiries about the country and its inhabitants, and
finally drew her into conversation about the family, and asked many
questions. The young woman appeared cheerful and communicative, and
answered his questions truthfully and with frankness; told him of her
father’s death, without exposing his frailties; then of her mother, and
a sister who had followed her mother. Then she mentioned her brother
Daniel in the West Indies, who had been rich but lost his ships by
being captured in the late war. The family history seemed closed, and
no mention was made of any other brother, until with a careless air he
made inquiry if these were all her immediate relations. His eyes being
fixed on her countenance, he perceived a change. Her chin quivered
slightly, her lips were compressed, and a tremor was in her voice as
she named another brother, the youngest of the family, who went to sea
before his father’s death. But they had never heard from him, only that
he had been pressed on board a war ship, and a vague rumor that he had
been taken prisoner by the Spaniards; and she supposed him dead, but
would give anything to know his fate.
John Clark had commanded his feelings through all the conversation, but
he could stand it no longer. Every fibre of his heart gave way, and
hardly conscious what he did, seized her hand, and exclaimed, while the
tears gushed out like a fountain,--“I AM YOUR BROTHER JOHN.”
We have heard him narrate this interview, when old and grey-headed; and
he could not refrain from sobbing and weeping. Many persons are now
living in Illinois and Missouri who have heard the same tale and seen
the outpouring of fraternal affection, forty years after the event. The
interview between the brother and sister, the only survivors of the
family, was too sacred to be exposed to profane eyes. Though it failed
not to work powerfully on his feelings, he would rehearse the tale of
the interview on the request of his religious friends.
It was some hours before either party could obtain self-command to
attend to the avocations of life. Each had a long story of trials
and deliverances to tell. Clark found his sister devoutly pious. Her
countenance bore the image of her mother at her age, and the mental and
moral features held a close resemblance. As the evening approached
they walked together towards the parish church. Around its moss-covered
walls, was the parish cemetery, where slept the congregated dead of
many generations. The sister led the way to a sacred spot she often
visited. Here were a row of grassy hillocks, under an overspreading
larch, with rough and plain monuments. There lay his father, mother,
and sister, all buried since he left his native parish. Mr. Clark gazed
mournfully on his mother’s grave; on the head stone with dim eyes
and quivering lips he read, “MARY CLARK.” Taking his sister gently
by the hand, he said, “_Let us pray here_,” and as he knelt on the
grave, holding the hand of his sister, he poured his heart out to the
prayer-hearing God in streams of thankfulness and humble devotion. He
praised the Lord for the gift of such a mother, so pious, devout and
affectionate;--and for entire submission to the will of heaven in the
loss sustained. He prayed for his sister, in language affectionate,
kind and spiritual; _thanked God_ that they had been spared to meet
again in time; and that she was a child of grace, and was walking in
the footsteps of her mother towards the heavenly Canaan.
Nor was the brother in a distant land forgotten, _if he was alive_,
and that God would have mercy on him and turn his feet into the pathway
of righteousness. Alas! That brother had been dead many months, as the
letter that conveyed the mournful intelligence, testified, that reached
his sister a few days after their first interview.
Mr. Clark had a gift of prayer quite uncommon. His language was simple,
chaste, solemn and dignified, devoid of all cant, and peculiarly
expressive. He seemed to hold converse with the Lord of heaven, as with
a familiar friend. His prayers were singularly fervent and effectual,
and remarkably adapted to the occasion and circumstances. He used no
repetition of vain words, and despised all high sounding phrases and
incongruous imagery, which some persons of inflated minds and heated
imaginations employ in prayer.
Oppressive feelings were ever removed from the heart of Father
Clark, in seasons of prayer. He arose from his knees with a smiling
countenance, and wiped the tears that fell in streams from the eyes
of his beloved sister, and cheered her heart by repeating the blessed
promises of the gospel with which he was familiar.
Next day his sister called him to her room, and told him she had a
solemn duty to perform, enjoined on her by their sainted mother, on
her dying bed. She then presented him with a purse of gold and silver,
of more than sixty dollars value. “This our mother made me sacredly
promise to give you, should you ever return. It is your own;--the
avails of your wages and prize money, the last you sent her, when we
heard from you the last time. We managed by careful economy to do
without it, and it is her legacy.”
She then took from a drawer a set of silver spoons, and divers other
family relics, all of which had been preserved for her lost son. The
scene was most affecting, and it was more than an hour, and not until
he had retired and held communion with God, he could obtain control
over his feelings so as to reply:--
“My dear sister, the memory of our mother is exceedingly precious,
and her maternal love and kindness overpowers me. I need not those
articles to keep her in remembrance. Like my blessed Master, I
have no home in this world, and I have really no use for these
gifts. I feel that God has called me to preach the Gospel, and in
a few days I must leave you again, and return to London, and spend
some time with that great and good man, Mr. Wesley, and study with
his ministers, and then go back to America, and spend my days
instructing the ignorant and preaching the gospel of Christ to
the destitute. We must soon part, probably never to meet again
on earth, but let us so live that we may be united with our dear
mother in heaven.”
After much urging, he consented to keep one spoon, and two or three
other little articles, and told his sister to keep the rest, and to use
the money for her comfort, or to relieve the poor and distressed. He
had enough for present wants, and his trust for the future was in the
same beneficent providence that covers the earth with herbage and is
kind and bountiful to all his creatures.
Time fled away rapidly in their affectionate intercourse. Mr. Clark
visited such of his old acquaintance as were living in the vicinity,
amongst whom were several distant relatives. His habits of cheerfulness
and his earnest religious conversation filled them with surprise. They
did not quite relish so much spirituality and holy fervor. Some were
eager for disputation on doctrinal points, and tenacious of their
metaphysical speculations. They could repeat whole paragraphs from
the larger and shorter catechism, and numerous texts of Scripture;
and as Clark thought, with frequent misapplications. Not a few
could talk eloquently about the “Solemn League and Covenant,” and
“David’s psalms,” while they condemned in the strongest language the
versification of the pious Watts. But his story of his long and pungent
conviction of sin, the views he entertained of the sinfulness of
fallen, corrupt human nature, and the sensations of the new birth, and
the joyful emotions of living in communion with God daily, were matters
too abstruse and incomprehensible for their conceptions.
The most of persons with whom he conversed were very orthodox,
according to the creed of their forefathers and the catechism in which
they had been taught from childhood. All were church members and had
been from infancy. They believed in original sin, effectual calling,
divine decrees, fore-ordination, and final perseverance. They were
quite clear in the doctrine of justification, and redemption in Christ;
but Mr. Clark could not find many who could narrate what he called “an
experience of grace;” his sister and a few others excepted.
The parting hour soon came, but the scene was too sacred to be exposed
to vulgar gaze. On a pleasant morning, a modest looking man, about
thirty years of age, drest in a sailor’s garb, with a change of
clothes, tied up in a parti-colored handkerchief, was seen walking
pensively along the highway towards the city and port of Inverness.
The Caledonian shop-keeper was visited, but no persuasion could induce
the traveler to tarry. A coasting vessel lay at the wharf; and thither
John Clark wended his way. He had visited the port a few days previous,
engaged a berth as an ordinary seaman, and knew the day she was to sail
for London. In a few hours, the wind being fair, they were moving down
the channel of the Firth of Moray.