Many islands have at different times risen above the sea, which had for long years washed over and hidden them. There are two ways in which new islands are thus born like a fresh creation from God.

The great volcanic force which sends out flames and ashes from the tops of high mountains, or makes the solid earth tremble and crack, is at work also below the bed of the sea, and from time to time islands are raised there either slowly or by some sudden convulsion, just as we have also reason to believe that other islands are even now sinking lower under the influence of the same force, until, most likely, in years to come, the waves will once more flow over them again. You must not forget that when we talk of the forces of nature we mean really the hand of God. He it is who sends these great convulsions, or who directs the slow upheaving of new land. All is quite as truly the work of God as when, at His word, the dry land first appeared. “Fire and hail, snow and vapors, stormy wind,” are all “fulfilling His word.”

Many of these islands, when first raised above the sea, must have been active volcanoes, sending out hot from their craters the flood of lava and the heated rocks which now lie cold and hard, and overgrown with moss, to tell us of their past history.

Of course, while this was going on there could be no life either of plants or animals on the mountain, which, indeed, as yet could scarcely be called an island, only a bare rock, around which the waves would beat, as if in hopeless endeavor to extinguish the fire which glowed deep in its caverned centre. But though neither waves nor storms could make this fire die out, yet there comes a time to most of these volcanic islands when the life and energy of the mountain seems gone, taken away, we know not how, by the same Great Hand that lighted it, and the lonely rock is now ready to be turned into a home for man, for this silent crater, this hard, broken crag, will, after a time, become a fair island home. God does not leave His works incomplete, and He has servants who will change this desolate rock into a fertile garden.

He sends the waves; they dash on the sides of the island, which rise generally abrupt and strong from the deep waters, and wherever they can find entrance they wear and powder the rock until it becomes fine soil, and a little beach is formed. Then rains fall and fill the clefts and hollows of the rock, and soften it at length as they wash down its face, till here and there patches of scanty soil are formed.

But something more than soil is needed; the most fertile land cannot of itself produce grass or herbs; there must be a seed before even the smallest weed can spring up, and those which float about in the air with us, are not found on a volcanic rock far away in the sea.

But messengers are prepared to bring them. Birds flying over the water sometimes stoop their wings to rest awhile on the rock, and often leave behind them seeds which they have gathered in far distant lands. At first, perhaps, only a few small weeds are seen. These, dying in their turn, improve the soil for their successors, until at length it can support shrubs and undergrowth, the seeds of which are sometimes washed on the shore by the waves, or found hidden in the clefts of some tree which has floated to the island from a distant shore.

Last of all arises, like a crown of beauty, the graceful cocoa-nut palm, spreading broad leaves around its tall, slender stem, and making the once barren rock a shady and lovely retreat.

The island on which Alexander Selkirk lived is considered volcanic; it is probably formed in some such manner as that which we have described. Madeira, too, and probably St. Helena, are volcanic islands.

Pitcairn, the history of which you are now going to read, is also possibly of volcanic origin, and its high crags and sharp peaks seem as if they must have been thrown up by some sudden force; but as it is in the midst of a sea covered with coral islands, and has been supposed by some to be itself partially formed by coral insects, it may be well that you should hear a little of the wonderful growth of coral islands, which, though formed so differently from those of which you have been reading, are yet, when once their tops have risen above the waves, clothed in the same manner with fair growth, to prepare them for the presence of man. Tahiti, which you will hear mentioned in the story of Pitcairn, is a coral island, and they abound in groups, in pairs, or in single islands, through the wide Pacific Ocean.

They are formed by myriads of tiny insects, which are connected together, and seem to share a common life. One of these insects fastens itself on some hidden rock; sometimes it may be on an extinct volcano which is not lofty enough to appear above the waves, and on this foundation they begin to build, the insect, as it shapes its cells of coral, filling them with beings like itself, so that every tiny chamber has its inmate. Soon the whole rock is covered below the water with a fine network of delicate coral, and from the tops of the open cells the insects put out their delicate tentaculae, or arms, which look like the petals of a flower. By means of the food gathered from the water by these tentaculae, all the coral insects are fed.

Thus each one does its appointed work, laying unseen the foundations of a new land, for the coral growth is still spreading and rising higher and higher, till at length the waves begin to feel its resistance, and to break in white foam around its crests.

Its history, when it has once risen above the reach of the tides, is like that of the volcanic islands. The insects die, and the bare grey rock is left, that God’s servants, the waves and winds, may fulfil His will, until in His own good time the coral island becomes lovely and fertile, fit for the dwelling-place of those who should be God’s best servants—the men whom He has made for His glory, and for whose redemption His Son came down to die. It is sad to think how often man, to whom God has given the most, is the least ready to use these gifts for his Maker’s glory, so that instead of these lovely islands being always full of His praise, they are often homes of sin and of unhappiness, as indeed it was at first with Pitcairn, the history of which we now give.

Far away from any other land, in the midst of the South Pacific Ocean, there is a little island, a mere speck in the sea, for it is not six miles across at its widest point. A passing ship might leave this tiny island unnoticed, save for the lofty cliffs and precipices which guard its shores, running down to the white waves, ever curling and breaking at their feet. Yet it was not a mere rock, inaccessible and barren; for when once a boat has safely won its way through the breakers, and the sailor has climbed the rocks which, steep above steep, stand like a wall before him, he is rewarded by the sight of lovely valleys, of forests of fruit-bearing palms, and of green, fresh-springing plants: a little fairy land, a new paradise seems hidden here from the eye and the foot of man.

It is called Pitcairn’s Island, and was discovered more than a hundred years ago by a passing ship. It was uninhabited, and no one set foot on it again, till in 1789 a small ship might have been seen approaching its shores, as if she would seek an anchorage in that dangerous, rocky bay.

The ship is called the Bounty, and carries for her crew nine English seamen, and some colored men and women, natives of Tahiti, an island at which the Bounty had been recently anchored.

There is no captain on board, though the first mate, Fletcher Christian, seems to take his place and to direct the course of the ship; but his words are few, and his face is sad, as if some past trouble or sin weighed on his heart, and, when he is not obliged to be active, he sits gazing listlessly over the water, looking for he knows not what.

It would be a long and sad story to tell how that ship came to be thus cruising in the wide Pacific. Months before, Fletcher Christian and some of the sailors of the Bounty had mutinied; had put their captain, who by his harsh and unjust treatment had provoked their anger, into the ship’s launch with eighteen of the crew, leaving them thus to reach home or to die on the ocean.

The mutineers well knew that if they returned to England, their own lives would pay the penalty of their crime, and therefore they determined to spend the rest of their days on some one of the numerous islands scattered in groups throughout the South Seas.

But as they had begun their course by an act which they knew to be wrong, it was not likely that their future would be happy and prosperous; the sweet flowers of peace and content do not spring from the bitter root of sin, “neither do men gather grapes of thorns nor figs of thistles.”

Thus we need not wonder that trouble and dissension seemed to follow everywhere the ill-fated crew of the Bounty. They quarrelled and fought with the natives of the first island which they chose for an asylum; they disputed among themselves, suspecting and hating each other, as partners in sin most often do. The hearts of the leaders were full of fear also as they thought of the laws which they had broken, and of the fate which would be theirs should their captain reach England, and a ship be sent out to capture them.

At last the mutineers sailed for the Island of Tahiti, where they knew that the inhabitants were well-disposed and gentle, and would be pleased to welcome the white man to live among them. Fletcher Christian, however, could not rest; he had been the leader in the mutiny, he knew that he would be sought for, and that if found he must die, and die covered with disgrace.

Therefore he determined to seek out Pitcairn’s Island, of the discovery of which he had heard, and there pass the remainder of his miserable life. Eight of his comrades decided to go with him, the rest remaining at Tahiti, and, as we have seen, some of the Tahitian men and women agreed to make the voyage with them, and join in the new settlement.

After long seeking, after cruising backwards and forwards for many days in the sailless and shoreless ocean, the island that they sought was seen standing high above a line of white waves, and after much difficulty the Bounty was anchored, and her boat sent on shore with some of her crew.

Everything of value on board was taken to the island, even the iron-work of the ship itself being removed, and when the Bounty was reduced to an empty and useless hulk, she was set on fire and burnt to the water-edge, that no passing ship might see any trace of inhabitants on the lonely island where these unhappy men sought to hide themselves.

Fletcher Christian, who had taken the command hitherto by the consent of his companions, now proceeded to divide the whole island into nine equal parts, one of which he gave to each of the English sailors who accompanied him, choosing for his own portion a piece of land at the farther end of the island, where he made for himself a retreat among the steep rocks which overlooked the sea.

But though the new colony was so small, it had in it all the seeds of dissension and of unhappiness. Even these nine men, though bound together by a common fate and by a common fear, could not agree, could not bear with nor yield to each other in any of the little differences or misunderstandings which arose between them from time to time. Still less could they live in peace with the natives who had accompanied them. They looked on these poor men and women as their slaves, and treated them so unjustly that the Tahitians, who had at first been attached and faithful, now determined on revenge. They were as much less guilty than the English as they were more ignorant; they had never been taught to be merciful, to forgive injuries, to be patient under wrongs; the blessed name of Jesus was not familiar to their ears, nor the lessons of His life and death to their hearts. They knew no law but that of violence and might, and finding themselves unjustly treated by those who had promised to be their friends, they formed a plot to put them all to death, and so to make themselves masters of the island.

Five out of the nine Englishmen were shot, and amongst them was their leader, Fletcher Christian. Ever since he had come to Pitcairn’s Island, he had appeared sunk in sorrow and remorse. All day long he had remained hidden among the rocks, away from his comrades, his eyes fastened on the wide ocean, the barrier which he knew must now divide him for ever from his home and from all he loved. In this solitude his companion was the Bible, brought on shore by him from the ship. In this he was observed to be often reading, and though we know nothing of his thoughts nor of his prayers, it may be that God spake through His word to the heart of His erring child, and bade him, not in vain, to seek His face once more.

Let us hope that this Bible charged with such a blessed mission in years to come, was sent also with a message to this desolate heart, and that ere he died, Christian had sought and found the forgiveness which is given through the cross of Christ our Saviour. Some sign of his repentance may be found in a tradition handed down by the islanders, that he had given orders that everyone on the island should repeat each noontide the prayer of the returning and repentant prodigal: “Father, I have sinned against heaven and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son.”

Four white men had been saved by the interference of the Tahitian women from the fate of their comrades, but they did not feel safe; they believed that the men were still seeking their lives, and, as they imagined, in self-defence, they determined to put these their enemies to death. Thus the evil begun by the mutiny still went on from crime to crime, seeming to grow ever deeper and wider. For the dark and terrible story is not yet ended. Two of the four remaining Englishmen soon after came to a violent end, while intoxicated by a drink which they had contrived to make from some of the plants which they found on the island, thus bringing into this lovely refuge the vice and drunkenness which beset crowded cities.

The sorrowful tale has hitherto been all dark, ever growing more gloomy and hopeless; but now for the first time a faint pencil of light, like the first streak of dawn, marks the sky, a ray which, like all true sunshine, comes from heaven and from God. The great and loving Father had not forgotten the children who had so long forgotten Him; this little island, so far from the eyes of human watchers was not unseen nor unregarded by Him. His messengers, the books which tell of Him, were still there, though forgotten and unread; but the time was now come when they were to speak again, and were to be heard and obeyed.

The two remaining mutineers were a sailor named Alexander Smith, or, as he now called himself, John Adams, and a midshipman named Edward Young. The midshipman had been well educated, and had learnt above all, in his childhood, the blessed lessons of God’s love, and of the grace of Christ. These lessons, too long unremembered, now came back to him. Perhaps he thought of the days when, a young child, he had knelt at his mother’s knee, or standing by her chair, had read one by one, as her finger slowly pointed them out, the words of the Holy Bible.

The good seed had lain long in a barren soil, now God in His mercy sent the rain and sunshine of His grace to cause it to spring up at last. No sooner had Edward Young begun to desire to return to the Saviour whom he had left, than he also wished that those around him should be taught of His love. The helpless women and children were, he felt, a sacred charge for him and his companion, to teach and guide.

Accordingly morning and evening prayers were established in the island, and a sort of school was begun for the children, John Adams being partly a teacher, partly a scholar, and so preparing to take his comrade’s work when, a little time after this change of heart and life, Edward Young died, and left his comrade alone on the island with his untaught charge. He, the only one who had the key to God’s book, the only one in whose memory were stored any lessons of His truth, in whose life lay, as it seemed, the only hope that this little colony might be saved from all the cruelty and ignorance of savage life, and added to the number of the servants of Christ.

Nearly twenty-five years had passed since John Adams was left on Pitcairn’s Island, the sole protector and teacher of the women, and of the young children who were growing up around him. He was himself but a common sailor, who had enjoyed only a few advantages of education, his only acquirements the simple lessons which had been taught him in his boyhood, and a new but straightforward and earnest desire to serve God in the way which God should teach him, and in penitence and faith to walk himself and to lead others to walk in the way that leads to everlasting life.

But God does not choose only the wise and the great and the strong for His workmen: often the weak things of the world are chosen to confound the mighty, and the poor and lowly to do the work of the High and Mighty One who inhabiteth eternity.

We have seen how evil passions indulged were like a seed of sin, growing and spreading into a mighty and poisonous tree. Then there was planted by its side, through the mercy of God, a germ of good and of life—has that too lived and spread, or has it withered and died beneath the shade of evil?

Two English vessels are approaching the island. At first the crews do not see it, but as evening draws on, the look-out man in the larger ship gives the signal that he has caught sight of land. “Land ho, land!” passes from mouth to mouth among the sailors. What land can it be? No island, no rock even, is marked on the chart, and the officers gather on deck to look over the darkening sea toward that darker point where the new land lies.

“We may have discovered a new island for King George,” says the captain. “We must lie to till the morning, and then we will sail nearer, and see this unknown shore.”

The morning comes, and almost before it is day some of the officers are on deck with their glasses, eagerly looking toward the island, which they can now see far more plainly. Even without a glass its lofty rocks and steep precipices can be distinguished. The ships are approaching nearer and nearer, till now their anchors are dropped, and one of the captains orders a boat to be prepared.

“Though I doubt how we shall get her through the surf,” he says, ponderingly; “it is a dangerous coast, and no pilot within hail. People there too, I see—savages. The men must go well armed. Peters, look to the loading of the pistols.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” answered Peters, looking, like the rest, towards the rocks, where groups of people coming and going were to be seen.

There was evidently great excitement on the island. A ship was a strange and unusual sight, no doubt.

Before the ship’s boat could be launched, two men were seen to climb the top of the steep cliff which almost overhung the narrow beach. They, however, seemed to find no difficulty in their dangerous path, though each carried on his shoulders a light canoe. The strangers wore some kind of clothing, but even through the captain’s glass it was impossible to tell of what race they were.

Dark against the clear sky, the two figures were seen for awhile to stand gazing steadfastly toward the ship, and then bounded like goats down the rugged face of the rock, and soon launched their canoes fearlessly in the angry surf.

“Haul the boat up, we’ll wait and receive these natives on board,” says the captain; and in a few minutes one of the canoes was under the bows of the ship.

“Come alongside,” shouted a sailor, trusting that his signs and gestures would explain the meaning of his English words.

“We have no boat-hook to hold on by,” cried in answer the foremost of their visitors.

No words can explain the surprise with which the captain and the whole crew listened to these words spoken in pure English by the supposed savage. They looked at him and at each other, but no one spoke till the eager voice was again heard from the boat.

“Won’t you heave us a rope now?”

A sailor seized and flung one end of a coil of rope, and in a moment their strange visitor had seized it and climbed fearlessly on deck.

He was a tall man, young, and almost English-looking, save that his complexion was tinged by the hot sun of his country; and his whole face and bearing were those of an educated and civilized man. His dress was a light vest and short trousers, while his palm-leaf hat was adorned with a bunch of brilliant feathers.

“Who are you?” asked the astonished captain, gazing at this strange and unexpected apparition.

“I am Thursday October Christian, the son of the mutineer, and there,” pointing to the other canoe, now close to the ship, “is Edward Young.”

The mystery was now explained: the ships had anchored at the island where the mutineers, long sought in vain, had taken refuge.

The officers crowded round their visitors, asking question after question, of their age, the number of people on the island, their habits and mode of life.

“Who is your king?” they asked.

“Why, King George, to be sure,” replied Christian, quickly.

“Have you been taught any religion?”

“Yes,” they replied, “a very good religion; that which the Bible teaches.”

The young men were led into every part of the ship; they looked with great interest at the many things they saw around them, the uses and even the names of which were unknown to them, and their questions showed much thought and intelligence.

In the course of the morning they were led to the stalls where the ship’s cows were kept.

“What immense goats!” cried Christian; “I did not know there were any of such a size.”

Just then a little dog, belonging to some one on board, attracted the attention of one of the new-comers. “I know what that is,” he said, “that is a dog, I have read of such things;” and turning to his companion, “it is a pretty thing to look at, is it not?”

When noon came, the two guests were taken into the captain’s cabin to lunch, but before touching the food which was spread before them, they both folded their hands, and without troubling themselves at all about the presence of the officers, in the most simple and natural manner asked God’s blessing on all that they should eat and drink.

Many of those who were present turned away to hide, not a smile, but a blush of shame that they, the sons of a Christian land, should need to be reminded of their duty to their God by these half-taught islanders.

Lunch over, the two captains went on shore, rowed by their guests, to whose strong and skilful hands they trusted to pilot them safely through the dangerous surf.

On the beach they were welcomed by more of the inhabitants, among the rest by a young girl, the daughter of Adams, who had evidently come to meet the English strangers in order that she might learn if her father was in any danger from them, for John Adams was the last remaining mutineer. Her confidence was restored by the looks and words of the two captains, as she led them, with light step, up the steep pathway by which alone the interior of the island could be reached.

The captains were almost exhausted long before the top was reached, but their guides seemed to climb as easily as the goats of their own island, and even the girls were so sure-footed that they were able to help the strangers up the difficult path. Arriving at the top, a new and beautiful sight delighted their eyes—a lovely valley, rich in fruit-bearing trees, and in cultivated fields, in the midst of which was built an almost English-looking village, with its church and school house, its cottages and gardens, and all that could speak of a simple, religious home life. Here they were welcomed by the remaining inhabitants, with Adams at their head, to whom all looked up as to their father. Beside him stood his blind Tahitian wife, and around him were groups of young men and girls with bright, intelligent faces, and smiles which told of the happiness and innocence of their hearts.

Whatever the daughter of Adams may have feared in her love for her father, he himself did not appear afraid to receive these English visitors to his island refuge. For he felt that as, in the sight of God, his sin had for Christ’s sake been pardoned, so in the eyes of men these long years of penitence, and of honest endeavor after a better life, would surely have won pardon for the sins of his youth. It was with feelings too deep for words that he looked once more on the faces of his countrymen and heard the English speech from other lips than those to whom he had taught it. All the memories of early days awoke in him, and he longed to return once more and see his native land before he died. But as soon as those round him understood his wish, they seized his hands, they clung around him, praying him with tears not to desert them, not to leave his children; and Adams, much moved, promised to remain. And indeed he would have been sorely missed had he gone, for he was the chief authority on the island. He it was who each Sunday led the prayers of the islanders, all assembled around him in the church which they had built, thinking, as they joined in the words of the service, of their unknown brethren in the great country beyond the seas. He it was who explained week by week the words of the Bible to his listening companions, taught the children, and married the young people.

It was to Adams that every dispute was referred; all those slight disagreements which spring up from time to time, but which with the islanders were never, as they said, more than word-of-mouth quarrels, and always ended before set of sun.

The captains, though anxious to linger awhile in this island home, were obliged to leave next day, and they departed amid the regrets and farewells of these simple-hearted, affectionate people, a people Christian in heart as well as in name,—sincere, modest, pure, and unselfish, whose life seemed to be fashioned on the words of God’s Book, “Look not every man on his own things, but every man also on the things of others.”

And all this peace and happiness has sprung, under the blessing of God, from the seeds of His truth sown long, long years before in the hearts of two English sailors, and from the power of His truth in His written word, and in the teaching of His Spirit.