"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.