ON THE OCEAN.

The evening of the next day saw “the Golden Shoemaker” steaming out of the Mersey, on board the first-rate Atlantic liner on which his passage had been taken by Messrs. Tongs and Ball. Miss Jemima had bidden her brother a reluctant farewell. In her secret soul, she nursed a doubt, of which, indeed, she was half-ashamed, as to the prospect of his safe return; and she endeavoured to fortify her timorous heart by the utterance of sundry sharp speeches concerning the folly of his enterprise.

The voyage across the great ocean, in the splendid floating hotel in which he had embarked was a new and delightful experience to “Cobbler” Horn. But his peace of mind sustained brief disturbance on his being shown to his quarters on board the vessel. His lawyers had, as a matter of course, taken for their wealthy client a first-class passage. It had not occurred to him to give them any instructions on the point, and they had taken it for granted that they were doing what he would desire. Perhaps, if they had asked him, he might, in his ignorance of such matters, have said, “Oh yes, first-class, by all means.” But when he saw the splendid accommodation which his money had procured, he started back, and said to the attendant:

“This is much too grand for me. Can’t I make a change?”

The attendant stared in surprise.

“’Fraid not sir,” he said, “every second-class berth is taken.”

“I don’t mind about the money,” said “Cobbler” Horn hastily. “But I should be more comfortable in a plainer cabin,” and he looked around uneasily at the luxurious and splendid appointments of the quarters which had been assigned to him, as his home, for the next few days.

The attendant, regarding with a critical eye the modest attire and unassuming demeanour of “Cobbler” Horn, inwardly agreed with what this somewhat eccentric passenger had said.

“The only way, sir,” said the man, at length, “is to get some one to change with you.”

“Ah, the very thing! How can it be managed?”

The attendant mused with hand on chin.

“Well, sir,” he said, gliding into an interrogative tone, “if you really mean it——?”

“Most certainly I do.”

“Then I think I can arrange it for you, sir. There is one second-class passenger who would probably jump at such a chance. He is an invalid; and it would be a great comfort to him to get into such quarters as these. I’ve heard a good bit about him since he came on board.”

“Then he’s our man,” said “Cobbler” Horn; and then, he added hesitatingly, “there’ll be a sovereign for you, if you manage it at once. I’ll wait here till you let me know.”

The attendant sped on his errand, and, before night, the desired exchange had been duly made—“Cobbler” Horn was established in the comfortable and congenial accommodation afforded by a second-class cabin, and the invalid passenger was blessing his unknown benefactor, as he sank to rest amidst the luxury of his new surroundings.

It was late autumn, and the sea, though not stormy, was sufficiently restless to make the commencement of the passage unpleasant for all who were not good sailors. “Cobbler” Horn was not one of these; and, when, upon the second day out, he observed the deserted appearance of the decks and saloons, and, on making enquiry of an official, learnt that most of the passengers were sick, he realized with a healthy and grateful thrill of pleasure, that he was blessed with immunity from the almost universal tribulation which waylays the landsman who ventures on the treacherous deep.

It will, therefore, be readily believed that “the Golden Shoemaker” keenly enjoyed the whole of the voyage. He breathed the fresh, briny air with much relish; the wonders of the sea furnished him with many instructive and pious thoughts; and the ship itself supplied him with an inexhaustible fund of interest. In particular, he paid frequent visits to the steerage, where large numbers of emigrants were bestowed. He spent many hours amongst these poor people; and, by entering into conversation with such of them as were disposed to talk, he became acquainted with many cases of necessity, which he was not slow to relieve. Nor did the gifts of money, which he bestowed with his usual large generosity, constitute the only form of help he gave. In a thousand nameless ways he ministered to the wants and relieved the difficulties of his humble fellow-passengers, who quickly came to look upon him as the good genius of the ship. As a matter of course, the whisper soon went round, “Who is he?” And when, in some inscrutable way, the truth leaked out, the poor people regarded him with a kind of awe. Some, indeed, criticised, and said he did not look much like a millionaire; but there were many in that motley crowd in whose hearts, during those few brief days on the ocean, “Cobbler” Horn made for himself a very sacred place.

In the course of a day or two, the decks and saloons began to assume a more animated appearance. Hitherto “Cobbler” Horn had not greatly attracted the attention of the passengers with whom he was more immediately associated; but now that they were in a condition to think of something other than their own concerns, their interest in him began to awake. Who had not heard of “the Golden Shoemaker”—“The Millionaire Cordwainer”—“The Lucky Son of Crispin”—as he had been variously designated in the newspapers of the day? When it became known that so great a celebrity was on board, there was a general desire to make his acquaintance. Some vainly asked the captain to give them an introduction; some boldly introduced themselves.

“Cobbler” Horn was courteous to all, in his homely way; but he showed no anxiety to become further acquainted with these obtrusive persons. The simplicity of his manners and the plainness of his dress caused much surprise; and the public interest concerning him sensibly quickened when whispers floated forth of the giving up of his berth to the invalid passenger, and of his charitable doings amongst the poor emigrants.

During the voyage, “the Golden Shoemaker” spent much time in close and prayerful study of his Bible, which had ever been, and still was, his dearest, and well nigh his only, book. He was induced to do this not only by his love of the Book itself, but also by a definite desire to absorb, and transfuse into his own experience, all those teachings of the Word of God which bore upon the new position in which he had been so strangely placed.

First of all, he turned to certain notable passages of Scripture which shot up before his memory like well-known beacon-lights along a rocky coast. There glared upon him, first of all, the lurid denunciation which opens the fifth chapter of the Epistle of James, commencing, “Go to now, ye rich men, weep and howl for your miseries that shall come upon you!” “God forbid,” he cried, “that my ‘gold and silver’ should ever become ‘cankered!’ It would be a terrible thing for their ‘rust’ to ‘witness against me,’ and eat my ‘flesh as it were fire’; and it would be yet more dreadful for the money which has such power for good to be itself given up to canker and rust!” Then he would meditate on the uncompromising declarations of Christ—“How hardly shall they that have riches enter into the Kingdom of God!” “It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the Kingdom of God.” He trembled as he read; but, pondering, he took heart again. Though hard, it was not impossible, for a man of wealth to enter into the Kingdom of God. “Camel!” “Eye of a Needle!” He did not know exactly what this strange saying meant; but he thought he had heard the minister say that it was intended to show the great difficulty involved in the salvation of a rich man. Then he read further, “How hard is it for them that trust in riches to enter into the Kingdom of God,” and that seemed to make the matter plain. “Ah,” he thought, “may I be saved from ever trusting in my riches!”

He plucked an ear of wholesome admonition from the parable of the Sower. “The deceitfulness of riches!” he murmured. “How true!” And he subjected himself to the most vigilant scrutiny, lest he should be beguiled by the unlimited possibilities of self-indulgence which his wealth supplied. He turned frequently to the emphatic declaration of Paul to Timothy. “They that will be rich,” it runs, “fall into temptation and a snare, and into many foolish and hurtful lusts, which drown men in destruction and perdition. For the love of money is the root of all evil: which while some coveted after, they have erred from the faith, and pierced themselves through with many sorrows.” “Ah!” he would exclaim, “I didn’t want to be rich. At the very most Agur’s prayer would have been mine: ‘Give me neither poverty nor riches.’ But it’s quite true that riches bring ‘temptations’ and are a ‘snare,’ whether people ‘will’ be rich or become rich against their will; and I must be on the watch. And then there’s that about ‘the love of money’ being ‘the root of all evil!’” As he spoke, he drew a handful of coins from his pocket, and eyed them askance. “Queer things to love!” he mused. And then, as he thought of his balance at the bank, his large rent-roll, and his many profitable investments, his face grew very grave. “Ah,” he sighed, letting copper, silver, and gold, slide jingling back into his pocket, “I think I have an idea how some people get to love their money. Lord save me.”

He was very fond of the book of Proverbs. Its short, sententious sentences were altogether to his mind. “There is that scattereth,” he read, “and yet increaseth; and there is that withholdeth more than is meet, but it tendeth to poverty.” “I scatter,” he said; “but I don’t want to increase. Lord, spare me the consequences of my scattering! ‘Withholdeth more than is meet’! Lord, by Thy grace, that will not I! I have no objection to poverty; but I would not have it come in that way!”

“There is that maketh himself rich,” he read again, “Yet hath nothing; there is that maketh himself poor, yet hath great riches.” “Ah,” he sighed, “to possess such riches, I would gladly make myself poor!” But there was one text in the book of Proverbs which “Cobbler” Horn could never read without a smile. “The poor,” it ran “is hated even of his own neighbour; but the rich hath many friends.” He thought of his daily shoals of letters, of the numerous visiting cards which had been left at the door of his new abode, and of the obsequious attentions he had begun to receive from the office-bearers and leading members of his church; and he called to mind the eagerness of his fellow-voyagers to make his acquaintance. “Ah” he mused shrewdly, “friends, like most good things, are chiefly to be had when you don’t need them!”

In these sacred studies, the days passed swiftly for “the Golden Shoemaker.” Very different were the methods by which the majority of his fellow-passengers endeavoured to beguile the time. Amongst the least objectionable of these were concerts, theatricals, billiards, and all kinds of games. Much time was spent by the ladies in idle chat, to which the gentlemen added the seductions of cigar and pipe. There were not a few of the passengers, moreover, who resorted to the vicious excitement of betting; and “Cobbler” Horn marked with amazement and horror the eagerness with which they staked their money on a variety of unutterably trivial questions. The disposition of really large sums of money was made to depend, on whether a certain cloud would obscure the sun or not; whether a large bird, seen as they neared the land, would sweep by on one side of the ship or the other; whether the pilot would prove to be tall or short; and upon a multitude of other matters so utterly unimportant, that “the Golden Shoemaker” began to think he was voyaging with a company of escaped lunatics.

To one gentleman, who proposed to take a bet with him as to the nationality of the next vessel they might happen to meet, he gave a characteristic reply.

“Thank you,” he said gravely, “I am not anxious on that subject; and, if I were, I should wait for the appearance of the vessel itself. Besides, I cannot think it right to risk my money in the way you propose. I dare not throw away upon a mere frivolity what God has given me to use for the good of my fellows. And then, if we were to bet, as you suggest, the one who happened to win would be receiving what he had no moral right to possess. I don’t——”

Thus far the would-be better had listened patiently. But it was a bet he wanted, and not a sermon.

“I beg your pardon,” he therefore said, at this point, “I see I have made a mistake;” and with a polite bow, he moved hastily away.

One fine evening, towards the end of the voyage, as “Cobbler” Horn was taking the air on deck, he was accosted by the attendant who had arranged the transfer of his berth from first to second-class.

“The gentleman, sir,” he said, touching his cap, “who took your cabin——he——”

“Yes,” interrupted “Cobbler” Horn; “how is he? Better, I hope.”

“Much better, sir; and he thought, perhaps you would see him.”

“Do you know what he wants?” asked “Cobbler” Horn, in a hesitating tone.

“Well, sir,” replied the man, “he didn’t exactly say; but I rather suspect it’s a little matter of thanks. And, begging your pardon, sir, it’s very natural.”

“Cobbler” Horn was not offended at the man’s freedom of address, as another in his place might have been.

“If that is all, then,” he said, “I think he must excuse me. I deserve no thanks. I consulted my own inclination, as much as his comfort. I am glad he is better. Tell him he is heartily welcome, and ask him if there is anything more I can do.”

The next morning, as “Cobbler” Horn stood talking, for a minute or so, to the captain, the obsequious attendant once more appeared. Touching his cap with double emphasis, in honour of the captain, he handed a letter to “Cobbler” Horn.

“From the gentleman in your cabin, sir. No answer, sir——I was told to say,” and, once more touching his cap, the polite functionary marched sedately away.

“I must leave you to read your letter, Mr. Horn,” said the captain; and, with the word, he withdrew to attend to his duties in another part of the ship.

“Cobbler” Horn’s letter was brief, and ran as follows:

“Cobbler” Horn read this gratifying letter over and over again, with a secret joy. But it was not till the next day that he could bring himself to comply with the invitation of its closing sentence, and pay a visit to the writer. He found the young man, who was far on his way to recovery, full of thankfulness to him and of gratitude to God. It seemed that, previous to the accumulation of troubles beneath which his faith had given away, the young fellow had been a zealous Christian. “Cobbler” Horn found him sincerely penitent; and, during this, and succeeding interviews, he had the joy of leading him back to the Saviour.