One hazards very little in committing himself to the winds and waves of the Atlantic when he is on a goodly vessel, wisely planned and skillfully put together; when the sea-captain is faithful and experienced, and understands the workings of the mariner’s compass and the position of the polar star. But my very soul is stirred within me when I think of the thousands and tens of thousands who are sailing on life’s dark and tempestuous ocean without a chart or compass; without a rudder to steer or a hand to direct them; without the light from the Star of Bethlehem to guide them over the trackless waters to the Haven of Rest. They came from nowhere! They see nothing ahead of them save the rock-bound coast of eternity, beset with false lights which are luring them on to the breakers of death and the whirlpool of despair. From the bottom of my heart do I thank God for the “Old Ship of Zion,” planned by Divine Wisdom, freighted with immortal souls, guided by the Star of Hope, commanded by Jesus Christ, bound for the Port of Glory!
As we leave New York, the Bartholdi Statue on Bedloe’s Island is one of the last things we behold. This statue has been justly called “the wonder of the century,” and one feels a national pride in the thought that this statue, rising three hundred feet in the air, her right hand lifting her torch on high—that this statue, the wonder of the age, is a fit emblem of the country to which it belongs—it is Liberty enlightening the world!
I can not pause here to speak of the deep, strange and strong impulses that stir one’s soul as he sees his native land fade from view. I must, instead, proceed to tell the reader something about
“A Life on the ocean wave,
A home on the rolling deep,
Where the scattered waters rave
And the winds their revels keep.”
The first few days, if the sea is calm and quiet, and so it is with us, are spent in forming new acquaintances. No one wants an introduction to any one. Everybody is supposed to know everybody else. A hearty hand-shake, a friendly look of the eye, and you are friends for the journey. And I dare say that many who here meet will be firm friends for the journey of life. The company on board the ship is a little world within itself, representing almost every phase of human life, from the lowest to the highest. Here a statesman, there a philosopher; here a musician, there an artist. We have one wonderful fellow on board, who is here, there, and everywhere. He is anything, everything and nothing. He evidently has more life in his heels than brains in his head, and more folly on his tongue than reverence in his heart—a pretended musician, who has decidedly a better voice for eating soup than for singing songs. And it comes to pass that a certain small boy follows the example of this clown, and the two together make things lively and thoroughly uncomfortable for the rest of the party.
Naturally enough, after these acquaintances are formed, birds of a feather flock together. The Rev. Dr. Malcom MacVicar, Chancellor of the MacMaster University of Toronto, and his highly cultivated lady, are among our fellow-passengers. I first met the Doctor some years ago, when in Canada. He is an author of considerable note. For twenty-five years previous to his going to Canada, he was probably the most conspicuous figure in the educational circles of New York State. The University over which he is now called to preside is a Baptist institution with a million dollars endowment. Although raised to high position and crowned with honors, Doctor MacVicar is as humble and unassuming as though he were in the lowliest walks of life. Prof. Honey, of Yale University, places his wife under my care. Mrs. Honey is a lady of lovely character and superior attainments. Those whom I have mentioned, together with two physicians from Indiana, and Rev. Mr. Smith from Canada, form a little party somewhat to ourselves, though we try not to appear clannish.