Personal Reminiscences In Book Making, And Some Short Stories Part 13

Talking too much about oneself and one's own affairs, and being too little interested in the affairs of others, is one aspect of the selfishness to which I refer. Some men, the moment they meet you, begin to talk energetically about what they have been doing, or thinking, or about what they are going to do, and if you encourage them they will go on talking in the same strain, totally forgetting that _you_ may chance to be interested in other things. Such men, if they begin young, and are not checked, soon degenerate into "bores," and no bore, however well-meaning or even religious, ever succeeded in making the best of life. The cure for this is to be found--as usual--in the Scripture: "Wherewithal shall a young man cleanse his way? by taking heed thereto according to thy word." And what says the word? "Look not (only) on your own things, but upon the things of others."

I have a friend who was the confidant of a large number of his kindred and of many other people besides. It was said of him that everybody went to him for sympathy and advice. I can well believe it, for he never spoke about himself at all that I can remember. He was not unusually wise or superlatively clever, but he had "a heart at leisure from itself to soothe and sympathise." The consequence was that, in spite of a good many faults, he was greatly beloved. And it is certain, reader, that to gain the affection of your fellow-men is one of the surest steps in the direction of success in life. To be too much concerned in conversation about yourself, your affairs and your opinions will prove to be a mighty obstruction in your way. Perhaps one of the best methods of fighting against this tendency is to resolve, when meeting with friends, _never_ to begin with self, but _always_ with them. But it is hard to crucify self! This mode of procedure, be it observed, would not be a hypocritical exhibition of interest where none was felt, but an honest attempt to snub self by deliberately putting your friends' interests before your own.

It is probable that we are not sufficiently alive to the influence of comparatively insignificant matters on success in life. Illegible handwriting, for instance, may go far to r.e.t.a.r.d or arrest a youth's success. It sometimes interferes with friendly intercourse. I once had a friend whose writing was so illegible, and the cause of so much worry in mere decipherment, that I was constrained to give up epistolary correspondence with him altogether. There can be little doubt that many a would-be author fails of success because of the illegibility of his penmanship, for it is impossible that an editor or publisher can form a fair estimate of the character or value of a ma.n.u.script which he has much difficulty in reading.

There is one thing which men are p.r.o.ne to do, and which it would be well that they should not do, and that is, "nail their colours to the mast"

in early youth. The world is a school. We are ever learning--or ought to be--and, in some cases, "never coming to a knowledge of the truth!"

Is not this partly owing to that fatal habit of nailing the colours? I do not for a moment advocate the holding of opinions loosely. On the contrary, whether a man be young or old, whenever he gets hold of what he believes to be true, he ought to grasp it tenaciously and with a firm grip, but he should never "nail" it. Being fallible, man is liable to more or less of error; and, therefore, ought to hold himself open to correction--ay, even to conversion. New or stronger light may convince him that he has been wrong--and if a man will not change when he is convinced, or "fully persuaded in his own mind," he has no chance of finding out how to make the best of life, either from a young, or middle-aged, or old man's standpoint. Why, new or stronger light--if he would let it illumine him--might even convince him that his opinion was not only true, but involved much greater and grander truths than he supposed. It is difficult to go more minutely into details, even if it were advisable to do so. I may fittingly conclude by saying that the sum of all that might be written is comprehended in the statement that obedience to G.o.d in all things is the sure and only road to success.

Of all the bright and glorious truths with which our fallen world is enlightened, there is one--a duplex truth--which lies at the foundation of everything. It is unchangeable. Without it all other facts would be valueless, and I would recommend every man, woman, and child to nail it to the mast without hesitation, namely--"G.o.d is love," and "Love is the fulfilling of the law."

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

FORGIVE AND FORGET: A LIFEBOAT STORY.

Old Captain Bolter said he would never forgive Jo Grain--never. And what Captain Bolter said he meant: for he was a strong and self-willed man.

There can be no doubt that the Captain had some ground of complaint against Grain: for he had been insulted by him grossly--at least so he thought. It happened thus:--

Joseph Grain was a young fisherman, and the handsomest, tallest, strongest, and most active among the youths of the little seaport town in which he dwelt. He was also one of the lifeboat's crew, and many a time had his strong hand been extended in the midst of surging sea and shrieking tempest to save the perishing. Moreover, he was of a frank, generous disposition; was loved by most of his comrades; envied by a few; hated by none.

But with all his fine qualities young Grain had a great and serious fault--he was rather fond of strong drink. It must not, however, be supposed that he was a drunkard, in the ordinary sense at least of that term. No, he was never seen to stagger homeward, or to look idiotic: but, being gifted with a robust frame and finely-strung nerves, a very small quant.i.ty of alcohol sufficed to rouse within him the spirit of combativeness, inducing him sometimes to say and do things which afterwards could not be easily unsaid or undone, however much he might repent.

One afternoon Grain and some of his mates were sauntering towards the little lighthouse that stood at the end of their pier. It was an old-fashioned stone pier, with a dividing wall or parapet down the middle of it. As they walked along, some of the younger men began to question Jo about a rumour that had recently been spread abroad.

"Come, now, Jo," said one, named Blunt, "don't try to deceive us; you can't deny that you're after Cappen Bolter's little gal."

"Well, I _won't_ deny it," replied Jo, with sudden energy and somewhat forced gaiety, while the blood mounted to his bronzed cheeks: "moreover, I don't care who knows it, for there's not a sweeter la.s.s in all the town than Mary Bolter, an' the man that would be ashamed to own his fondness for her don't deserve to have her."

"That's true," said a young fisherman, named Guy, with a nod of approval--"though there may be two opinions as to which is the sweetest la.s.s in all the town!"

"I tell 'ee what, Jo," remarked a stern and rather cross-grained bachelor, named Grime, "you may save yourself the trouble of givin'

chase to that little craft, for although old Bolter ain't much to boast of--bein' nothin' more than the skipper of a small coastin' craft--he thinks hisself far too big a man to give his darter to a fisherman."

"Does he?" exclaimed Grain, with vehemence, and then suddenly checked himself.

"Ay, that does he," returned Grime, with something of a sneer in his tone.

It chanced that Jo Grain had been to the public-house that day, and the sneer, which at other times would have been pa.s.sed over with indifference, stung him--coupled as it was with a slur on his lowly position. He looked fiercely at Grime, and said, in a loud, angry tone: "It's a matter of moonshine to me what Bolter thinks of himself. If the girl's willin' to have me I'll wed her in spite o' the old grampus."

Now, unhappily for Jo Grain, the "old grampus" chanced at that very time to be sunning himself, and enjoying his pipe on the other side of the pier-wall, and heard distinctly what Jo said. Moreover, there was some truth in what Grime had said about the old skipper looking down on the young fisherman's position: so that, although he could not deny that Jo was a first-rate man, and knew that Mary was fond of him, he had hitherto felt a strong disinclination to allow his darling and only child to wed, as he considered it beneath her. When, therefore, the speech above quoted broke harshly on his ears, the matter became finally settled in his mind. He dropped his pipe, set his heel on it, and ground it to powder. He also ground his teeth, and, turning round with a snort, worthy of the creature to which he had been compared, sailed wildly homewards.

Next day Jo Grain chanced to meet him in the street, and held out his hand as usual; but the captain, thrusting both hands deep into his trousers pockets, looked the young man firmly in the face--

"No, Grain," he said sternly. "I've done with _you_!"

"Why so, Captain Bolter?" asked Jo, in great surprise.

"Because," hissed the Captain, as his wrath rose, "an _old grampus_ don't choose to have anything more to do with a _young puppy_!"

Instantly his reckless speech of the day before flashed into Jo's mind.

"Forgive me, Captain Bolter," he said respectfully: "forgive me, and try to forget it--I didn't mean it, believe me--I--I wasn't quite myself, sir, when--"

"No!" interrupted the Captain fiercely; "I'll never forgive you, nor forget it."

With that he turned away and left Jo Grain to meditate on the folly of indulging in a stimulant which robbed him of his self-control. But youth is very hopeful. Jo did not quite believe in the Captain's sincerity. He comforted himself with the thought that time would soften the old man's feelings, and meanwhile he would continue to court Mary when opportunity offered.

The Captain, however, soon proved that he was thoroughly in earnest: for, instead of leaving his daughter under the care of a maiden aunt, as had been his custom previously, during his frequent absences from home, he took her to sea with him, and left Jo with an extra supply of food for meditation.

Poor Jo struggled hard under this his first severe trial, but struggled in his own strength and failed. Instead of casting away the gla.s.s which had already done him so much damage, he madly took to it as a solace to his secret grief. Yet Jo took good care that his comrades should see no outward trace of that grief.

He was not, however, suffered to remain long under the baleful influence of drink. Soon after the departure of Captain Bolter, a missionary visited the little seaport to preach salvation from sin through Jesus Christ, and, being a man of prayer and faith, his mission was very successful. Among the many sins against which he warned the people, he laid particular stress on that of drunkenness.

This was long before the days of the Blue Ribbon movement: but the spirit of that movement was there, though the particular t.i.tle had not yet arisen. The missionary preached Christ the Saviour of sinners, and Temperance as one of the fruits of salvation. Many of the rough fishermen were converted--bowed their heads and wills, and ceased to resist G.o.d. Among them was Joseph Grain.

There was not, indeed, a remarkably great outward change in Jo after this: for he had always been an amiable, hearty, sweet-tempered fellow: but there was, nevertheless, a radical change; for whereas in time past he had acted to please himself, he now acted to please his Lord. To natural enthusiasm, which had previously made him the hero of the town, was now superadded the enthusiasm of a soldier of the Cross: and when lifeboat duty called him, as in days gone by, to hold out his hand to the perishing, even while in the act of saving their bodies he prayed that the result might be salvation to their souls.

You may be sure that Jo did not forget Mary: but his thoughts about her were wonderfully changed: for in this affair of the heart despair had given place to trust and submission.

Time pa.s.sed by, and one night in the dreary month of November the storm-fiend was let loose on the sh.o.r.es of England. All round the coast the crews of our lifeboats a.s.sembled at pier-heads and other points of vantage to watch the enemy and prepare for action. Among others Jo Grain and his comrades a.s.sembled at their post of duty.

It was an awful night--such as, happily, does not often visit our sh.o.r.es. Thick darkness seemed to brood over land and sea. Only the robust and hardy dared to show face to the keen, withering blast, which was laden with sleet. Sometimes a gleam of lightning would dart through the raging elements; occasionally the murky clouds rolled off the sky for a short time, allowing the moon to render darkness hideously visible. Tormented foam came in from the sea in riven ma.s.ses, and the hoa.r.s.e roaring of the breakers played a ba.s.s accompaniment to the yelling blast, which dashed gravel and sand, as well as sleet, in the faces of those who had courage enough to brave it.

"There--wasn't that a light?" cried the c.o.xswain of the lifeboat, as he cowered under the shelter of the pier-wall and gazed seaward with difficulty.

"Ay," responded Blunt, who was bowman of the boat; "there it goes again."

"And a rocket!" shouted Jo Grain, starting up.

"No mistake now," cried the c.o.xswain. "Look alive, lads!"

He ran as he spoke to the spot where the lifeboat lay ready under the shelter of the pier, but Jo was on board before him. Almost simultaneously did a dozen strong and fearless men leap into the n.o.ble craft and don their cork life-belts. A few seconds sufficed. Every man knew well his place and his duty. The short, powerful oars were shipped.

"Give way!" cried the c.o.xswain.

There was no cheer--no onlooker to encourage. Silently the strong backs were bent, and the lively boat shot away towards the entrance of the harbour like a "thing of life."

No description can adequately convey to landsmen the work to be done and the conditions under which it was performed. On pa.s.sing the shelter of the pier-head the boat and her crew were met not only by the tumultuous surging of cross seas, but by a blast which caught the somewhat high bow and almost whirled them into the air; while in its now unbroken force the cold blast seemed to wither up the powers of the men. Then, in the dark distance, an unusually huge billow was seen rushing down on them.

To meet it straight as an arrow and with all possible speed was essential. Failure here--and the boat, turning side on, would have been rolled over and swept back into the harbour, if not wrecked against the breakwater.

The c.o.xswain strained at the steering oar as a man strains for life.

The billow was fairly met. The men also strained till the stout oars were ready to snap; for they knew that the billow must be cut through if they were to reach the open sea; but it was so high that the bow of the boat was lifted up, and for one instant it seemed as if she were to be hurled backward right over the stern. The impulse given, however, was sufficient. The crest of the wave was cut, and next moment the bow fell forward, plunging deep into the trough of the sea. At the same time a cross-wave leaped right over the boat and filled it to the gunwales.

This initial danger past, it was little the men cared for their drenching. As little did the boat mind the water, which she instantly expelled through the discharging tubes in her floor. But the toil now began. In the teeth of tide and tempest they had to pull with might and main; advancing foot by foot, sometimes only inch by inch. No rest; no breathing time; nothing but continuous tearing at the oars, if progress was to be made, while the spray enveloped them perpetually, and at frequent intervals the "solid" water, plunging inboard, almost swept the heroes from their seats.

But if the raging sea through which the lifeboat struggled was dreadful, much more terrible was the turmoil on the outlying sands where the wreck was being gradually dashed to pieces. There the mad billows held high revelry. Rushing in from all sides, twisted and turned in their courses by the battered shoals, they met not far from, the wreck with the shock of opposing armies, and clouds of foam sprang upward in dire, indescribable confusion.