THE HORNINGSHAM SAILOR.
Dinner being ended, we adjourned to the back parlour, whose folding doors opened on the lawn, and exhibited a sweet scene of tranquil beauty.
"The heart that is insensible to the charms of nature," said Mr. Lewellin, "must be devoid of taste and feeling."
"True," replied Mr. Stevens, "but how many feel these charms who never hold communion with Him who has invested them with their magic power. They profess to rise up through nature, 'to nature's God;' but their conceptions of His character are essentially defective; they admire His grandeur and His greatness, but there is no recognition of His purity; they extol His benevolence, but are not awed by His justice. I recollect being in company with a gentleman, who was an impassioned admirer of nature, and after an eloquent descant on its magnificent scenery, he concluded by saying, 'The Deity, who has given existence to such physical wonders, would act a very undignified part to stoop so low as to notice the little frailties of humanity; but to suppose he would punish them, would be to offer Him an insult.' Hence they very naturally, from their assumed premises, scornfully reject the remedial scheme of salvation that is revealed to us in the Scriptures."
"Our reception or rejection of the Scripture scheme of salvation," said Mr. Lewellin, "depends on the opinion we form of the character of God; for if his purity and equity be not recognized, the law which commands obedience will be denounced; the distinction between virtue and vice, which the Scriptures mark with such precision, will be confounded; and the whole scheme of Divine mercy will be regarded as a cunningly devised fable. I remember the time when I lived without any habitual reverence for the Supreme Being. I admired the wisdom and the benevolence which I could trace in the construction of the universe; but it neither excited gratitude, nor led to any dependence on God for preservation from evil, or for happiness. It is true when the elements were disturbed, when the tempest raged, when the lightning flashed, and when the thunder roared, I trembled; but no sooner had these commotions ceased, than all was tranquil within; yet it was not peace of mind, it was a moral torpor, a judicial insensibility, the ease which precedes the moral pangs of the second death."
This reference to his former state induced me to ask him to give us an account of his conversion. He complied with my request; but as the more prominent incidents have been already narrated, I need not detail the whole of his statement.
"My mind," he observed, "was in a peculiarly serene frame when I consented to accompany my mother to chapel. I had been that morning on a visit to a friend, in whose society I had passed many hours of pleasant intercourse; and our conversation unexpectedly took a religious turn. 'I have recently,' said my friend, 'had my mind very much occupied and perplexed about the truth or falsehood of Christianity. If Christianity be a cunningly devised fable, we are safe; but if it be a true revelation from heaven, we are undone.' 'It is no fable,' I replied; 'it is too true.' 'Then how can we justify that indifference which we pay to it?' 'To justify it is impossible; but such is the native insensibility of our hearts to unseen and eternal realities, that nothing but an extraordinary dispensation of Heaven can rouse us to a state of proper feeling.' 'Pray, Sir,' said my friend, 'what was the state of your mind in the immediate prospect of death?' 'I was,' I replied, 'in great agony, and its intensity increased as the symptoms of coming death became more decisive. I drew back with horror from the scene which was before me; but yet at times I longed to plunge into the dark abyss, that I might know the utmost of my misery.' 'But could you derive no hope from the consolations which Christianity holds out to man?' 'None; mine appeared a hopeless case. An allusion to mercy had a more terrific effect than the utterance of the tremendous word, Depart!' 'I think,' he replied, 'that religious people are generally more happy than those who are irreligious; and it is certain, if the testimony of the most respectable witnesses can be received, that they are infinitely more happy in the prospect of death.' 'Yes, Sir, they are, and very naturally so. They expect by the loss of life to gain the prize of a glorious immortality. We have no such a prospect!' 'That's true. To us a hereafter is a dead blank, or torments for ever. What a difference!' As I was returning to my mother's cottage, I felt an unusual elevation of soul, for which I could assign no real cause. 'Is this,' I involuntarily exclaimed, 'the first beaming of mercy? Impossible! But why?' The train of thought which now passed through my mind necessarily partook of the singular character of my feelings; and though I could not fix my attention on religious subjects, yet I felt no inclination to dismiss them. After I reached home, as I sat musing over the recent occurrences of my life, I opened a hymn-book which was lying near me, and felt deeply impressed by a hymn to which I chanced to turn, and which was very appropriate to the state of my mind. The same afternoon my mother asked me to accompany her to chapel, which gave me more pleasure than I wished to discover. I was delighted with the fervour of the singing, and the chaste simplicity of the prayer, and a few petitions which were uttered struck me with great force."
"Do you recollect these petitions?" said Mrs. Stevens.
"I shall never forget them—'Enlighten, we beseech you, O Lord, our dark understandings!—renovate our depraved nature!—deepen the impressions which thy truth has already made on our hearts!—and admit us, through the mediation of Jesus Christ, into communion with thee, the only source of pure and substantial bliss!' Never did words, uttered by human voice, produce a more powerful effect; but it was not till the minister began to enlarge on the condescension and death of the Lord Jesus, that I felt my guilt and perceived my danger. I retired from the chapel with a class of feeling which had never been previously excited within my breast; yet I cannot say whether joy or sorrow most preponderated. I wept as my sins came to my remembrance, but my most sacred tears were shed in gratitude to the Redeemer for the thrilling manifestation of his pity and his love. I felt the change, on passing from a state of spiritual death to newness of life, as consciously as I now feel the action of life in my vital system; nor could any species of sophistry induce me to doubt it—a change which produced an entire revolution in my sentiments and principles; in my habits and in the objects of my pursuit; and though it has called down upon me the sarcasms of the sceptic, yet I am not ashamed to own that it is 'by the grace of God I am what I am.' My mother, when I told her of it, fell on my neck and kissed me; she wept tears of joy, and then knelt down and returned thanks to God for his abundant mercy towards me. Never, till that eventful evening, had I tasted of such pure, such unmingled felicity."
Every one present was deeply affected by this narration. Mr. Stevens was about to continue the conversation, when our attention was attracted by an English sailor, who approached and asked an alms. Mr. Stevens, who was fond of seeing all the varieties of human character, invited him to take a seat, and after inquiring where he had come from, and how long he had been at sea, said, "I dare say you have endured many hardships in your dangerous profession; it would be interesting to us if you would give us some account of your life."
"My life, please your honour," replied the weather-beaten tar, "has been a chequered life. I was born at Horningsham, a small village in Wiltshire. My father had three children. He was very religious, and so was my mother. They taught us to read the Bible and to pray, and took us to chapel every Sunday. But I was always a wildish lad, and so was brother George, who was a year younger than I. One night, when we were about seventeen years old, we set off, unknown to father or mother, to go to sea. We walked all night, and all the next day, till we got to Botley, between Southampton and Tichfield, where we stopped for some refreshment, and to rest ourselves. The next day we were joined by three soldiers, who said they would take us across the fields to Gosport; but when they got us into a lonely place, they robbed us of our watches and all our money. This was the beginning of our sorrows, and we began to repent of our folly; but we did not like to go back home. As we were walking up and down a street in Portsmouth, a gentleman came and asked us if we should like to go to sea. I replied I would like nothing better. He gave us five shillings each, provided a lodging for us, and the next morning we went on board ship. We often wished ourselves at home, but it was no use; so, after sending a letter to father, to let him know what was become of us, we set sail. After cruizing about the channel for some months, we fell in with the Dutch off Camperdown. This was the first battle I ever fought; and it was a desperate one. Many a stream of English blood flowed that day; and, just as we were hailing victory, a spent shot struck my poor brother George (his voice faltering as he spoke), who was standing by my side; he fell; we carried him down to the cockpit, when he took me by the hand, and said, 'Farewell, brother! I am dying. Give my love to mother, and father, and sister, and tell them that I die in the arms of victory.' He scarcely finished the words before he heaved a dismal groan, and died. The shouts of victory gave me no pleasure; for I had lost my brother. Poor fellow, he was thrown overboard the same day; and many a tear was shed, Sir, as we let him down, for he was much liked by the crew."
"What ship," said Mr. Stevens, "were you on board of?"
"The Venerable, please your honour; Admiral Duncan's ship."
"Did you know Covey, who was wounded in that engagement?"
"Yes, please your honour; I was on deck when he fell. He was as brave a fellow as ever fought; and he was as generous as he was brave."
"But was he not very wicked?"
"He was a good sailor, please your honour, and he was generous to a proverb; but he had no sense of religion, though at times, I believe, he suffered much in his conscience."
"Do you know what became of him?"
"I have heard that he was sent to Haslar hospital after he left the Venerable, and I suppose he died there; and there, I suppose, he was buried. God rest his soul!"
Mr. Stevens rose and left the room, but soon returned with the tract which gives such an interesting account of Covey. He read some passages from it, and while he was reading, I watched the countenance of the sailor, which betrayed alternately symptoms of astonishment, of joy, and of the deepest solemnity.
"I am right glad," said the honest tar, "to hear that my old shipmate is got safe into such a port. He had a roughish voyage; but the storm is over; and from that account,[2] he is now safe landed."
"There is no refuge from the storm but in Jesus Christ," said Mr. Stevens.
"Ah, there is no getting into the port of heaven but through Christ; this I have known for many years; but it han't done me much good; but I hope it will."
"Have you now left the navy?"
"Yes, and please your honour. I was wounded at the battle of Trafalgar, when our Nelson died; and I was sent home, along with many others, to the hospital. After I left the hospital, I went back to sea, but I got my discharge a little more than two months ago. Here it is, and please your honour."
"Where have you been since you got your discharge?"
"I went home to Horningsham as fast as I could travel, to see my father, and mother, and sister; for I had not seen them for many years. I got there about five o'clock in the evening, and when I opened the door, I saw a stranger sitting in the chimney-corner, who turned out to be my brother-in-law; but poor sister Susan was dead. I was afraid to ask about father, for I began to think that death had been on board, and capsized all of them. I saw his stick hanging over the mantle-piece; and after a while (tears falling as he spoke), I asked if he were alive. 'No, William,' said my brother-in-law, 'your father has been dead five years.' 'Is mother alive?' 'She is alive, but I fear she won't live till the morning.' 'Then I'll put on shore, and see her before she goes down.' So I went up stairs, and as soon as mother saw me, she knew me, and she wept for joy to see me back; and as soon as she had given me a salute, she asked if brother George were living; and when I told her of his death, she wept again, but they were not tears of joy. She died in about three hours after I got home; and I staid there a few weeks after she was buried, but the place being deserted by those I loved, I made up my mind to slip my cable and sheer off. I couldn't lay at anchor in such a deserted port."
"Was you with your mother when she died?"
"Yes, and please your honour; I hove to as soon as I saw her, and I did not leave her until she went down."
"How did she die?"
"Just in the same way as I hope to die, when it pleases God to call me. She said, 'William, I am now going to heaven, and I hope you will follow me.'"
"Well," said Mr. Stevens, "I hope you will; but what do you intend to do for a livelihood?"
"Why, please your honour, I don't know what to do."
"Can you work in a garden?"
"I think I can, and I'm willing to try. I used, when a lad, to work in the Marquis of Bath's garden, along with my father, and I have not quite forgot what he learned me."
Mr. Stevens, being in want of an under-gardener, took the sailor into his service, and he long remained with him, a very faithful and industrious servant; an Israelite indeed, in whom was no guile.
After the sailor left the parlour, Mr. Lewellin remarked, that the adaptation of the gospel to man, of every order of intellect, of every shade and complexion of character, of every age and of every country, was to him a most decisive evidence of its Divine origin. Had it been a human invention it would have been incumbered with some local or national customs, and hence it would have discovered some radical defect; but instead of this, the closer it is examined the more its adaptation to the moral condition of humanity is perceived; its rites are such as all may practise; its precepts are as suited to an Asiatic or an African as to an European; and its leading fact, "that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners," is "worthy of all acceptation."
"As you have so recently left the ranks of infidelity," said Mr. Stevens, "let me ask you—Are infidels in general sincere in the opposition which they make to Christianity?"
"They are as sincere as a criminal would be in his efforts to prevent the judge entering the court; but, in general, they have a strong impression that their opposition will be useless."
"I see that I have not given my question precisely that form of meaning which I intended. Do you think that they really disbelieve the truth of Christianity?"
"We have many in this country, as there are many in all other countries, who are as ignorant of the nature and design of the Christian faith as they are of the science of astronomy or of medicine, and they disbelieve it, if it be proper to say a thing can be disbelieved which is not known; but I do not think that any really disbelieve it who have received a proper religious training. They will, when together, cheer up each others' spirits, and affect contempt for the religion of the Bible; but I have seen a whole company disconcerted by a clap of thunder, and retire, not to enjoy the pleasures of reflection, but, if I may judge from what I have felt, to writhe beneath the agonies of anticipation."
"Do you know if your conversion to the Christian faith produced any good effect on any of your former associates?"
"I recollect on one occasion, when several of us were spending a Sabbath evening in an hotel, after I had delivered a speech at some length in favour of Deism, and against Christianity, I was so much applauded, that they clapped me, and said, 'Well, Lewellin, if you ever turn, there must be something in it.' After I did turn, or rather after I was turned, the majority reproached me as a hypocritical fanatic; but one came and congratulated me on having escaped the destructive snare in which he was entangled; but added, 'My doom is irrevocably fixed, and it would be only an aggravation of my misery to indulge a hope of salvation.' Poor fellow! he was hurried on, even against the strong convictions of his judgment, and the reproaches of his conscience, through almost every scene of dissipation, till at length the strong arm of death stopped his progress. As soon as I heard of his illness, I went to see him. I never shall forget the interview. It brought to my recollection my own state of misery, when the terrors of the eternal world, like the vivid lightning, were playing around my distracted spirit. On entering his room, he endeavoured to avoid seeing me, by concealing his face under the bed-clothes. I approached his bedside, and spoke, but he was dumb with silence. I endeavoured to rouse him by the kindest expressions of friendship, and at length he uncovered his horror-struck countenance, and said (as nearly as I can remember), 'I don't doubt your kindness; it is indelibly impressed on my callous heart. But why come to torment me? The damned cannot be saved!' 'But,' I added, 'the chief of sinners may.' 'Not after their doom is fixed. I have passed the line which divides the saved from the lost; and I cannot retrace my steps.' 'But,——' 'But, Sir,' interrupting me, 'excuse my abruptness; I feel as though I were now riding on the elements of woe; the voice of peace I cannot hear. My soul is in a whirlwind of despair! The storm will ne'er subside! The clouds of the Divine displeasure are highly charged; they are gathering blackness! and soon—yes, I feel death now creeping up to strike my heart!—soon, very soon I shall be cast into outer darkness!' 'But,——' 'But spare me!' 'But, do listen—I may be the means of distilling consolation; for I have suffered all you now suffer, and yet have obtained mercy.' 'Yes, you have, and I am glad of it for your sake; but that feeling aggravates my agony. Distil consolation! Yes, you may; but every avenue of my soul is filled up with anguish; it cannot enter. Tell me not of a Saviour, for I have slighted him! Tell me not of his compassion, for I have made it a subject of ridicule! Tell me not of heaven, for I shall soon see it, but at an immeasurable distance! Death is come, my heartstrings are breaking! I lie down in misery, to rise——' He could add no more. I left him in the agonies of despair, and soon after he died."
"How awful!" exclaimed Mrs. Stevens; "was it not too much for your feelings?"
"Too much!" replied Lewellin, deeply affected, "I scarcely knew how to remain, or how to move; and, had it not been for the nurse, who entered the room just at this crisis, I think that I should have sunk. It has left a horrifying impression on my mind, which reflection increases; for he was the only son of a pious father, who was ignorant of his character till he came up from the country to attend his funeral. The good man waited on me before the rites of sepulture were performed; and though I suppressed the strong descriptive language of his son, yet it was not in my power to alleviate his fears. He wept aloud. He paced backwards and forwards in my room, like a man bereft of his senses. 'Had I lost my property, I had merely lost what will melt in the general burning; but I have lost my child, who will never see——. Woe is me!' I went to see the good man a few months ago, but his countenance has never since worn a smile—his food is the wormwood, and his drink the gall."
"What anguish," said Mr. Stevens, "does an irreligious child often inflict in a parent's breast! I have often grieved because I have not had a family, but I am sure that I shall never grieve again."
I now observed: God often employs the religious education of children as the means of their conversion; but when they leave their father's house, if they are not placed in a pious family, they often turn out the most depraved. Hence we derive an argument for our encouragement, to train them up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord; and also a beacon to warn us of the danger to which we expose them, when we introduce them into situations where they are under no religious control. This good man demands our pity; but, perhaps, if we knew the whole history of his conduct to his child, we should be disposed to blame him. And what a warning is this fact to the youth who has received a religious training. He may indulge himself in a course of sin, but conscience will rebuke him; he may suppose that his father is ignorant of his conduct, but he cannot conceal himself from the eye of God; and he may presume on a future day for repentance, but that day may be a day of darkness, of lamentation, and of woe.
"Rejoice, O young man, in thy youth; and let thy heart cheer thee in the days of thy youth, and walk in the ways of thine heart, and in the sight of thine eyes; but know thou, that for all these things God will bring thee into judgment."