The Sea-Captain’s Call

“So the shipmaster came to him, and said unto him, What meanest thou, 0 sleeper? Arise, call upon thy God, if so be that God will think upon us, that we perish not.” — Jonah i., 6.

GOD told Jonah to go to Nineveh on an unpleasant errand. Lie would not go. He thought to get away from his duty by putting to sea. With pack under his arm, I find him on his way to Joppa, a sea-port. He goes down among the shipping, and says to the men lying around on the docks, “Which of these vessels sails to-day?” The sailors answer, “Yonder is a vessel going to Tarshish. I think, if you hurry, you may get on board her.” Jonah steps on board the rough craft, asks how much the fare is, and pays it. Anchor is weighed, sails are hoisted, and the rigging begins to rattle in the strong breeze of the Mediterranean. Joppa is an exposed harbor, and it does not take long for the vessel to get out on the broad sea. The sailors like what they call a “spank¬ ing breeze,” and the plunge of the vessel from the crest of a tall wave is exhilarating to those at home on the deep. But the strong breeze becomes a gale, the gale a hurricane. The affrighted passengers ask the captain if he ever saw any thing like this before. “Oh yes,” he says; u this is nothing.” Mariners are slow to admit danger to landsmen. But, after a while, crash goes the mast, and the vessel pitches so far “a-beams-end” there is a fear she will not be righted. The captain answers few questions, and orders the throwing out of boxes and bundles, and of so much of the cargo as they can get at. The captain at last confesses there is but little hope, and tells the passengers that they had better go to praying. It is seldom that a sea-captain is an Atheist. He knows that there is a God, for he has seen him at every point of latitude between Sandy Hook and Queenstown. Captain Moody, commanding the Cuba, of the Cunard line, at Sunday service led the music and sang like a Methodist. The captain of this Mediterranean craft, having set the passengers to praying, goes around examining the vessel at every point. He descends into the cabin to see whether, in the strong wrestling of the waves, the vessel has sprung aleak, and he finds Jonah asleep. Jonah had had a wearisome tramp, and had spent many sleepless nights about questions of duty, and he is so sound asleep that all the thunder of the storm and the screaming of the passengers does not disturb him. The captain lays hold of him, and begins to shake him out of his unconsciousness* with the cry, “Don’t you see that we are all going to the bottom? Wake up, and go to praying, if you have any God to go to. What meanest thou, O sleep¬ er? Arise, call upon thy God, if so be that God will think upon us, that we perish not.” The rest of the story I will not rehearse, for you know it well. To appease the sea, they threw Jonah overboard.

Learn that the devil takes a marts money and then sets him down in a jpoor landing-place. The Bible says he paid his fare to Tarshish. But see him get out. The sailors bring him to the side of the ship, lift him over “the guards,” and let him drop with a loud splash into the waves. He paid his fare all the way to Tarshish, but did not get the worth of his money. Neither does any one who turns his back on his duty and does that which is not right.

There is a young man who, during the past year, has spent a large part of his salary in carousal. What has he gained by it? A soiled reputation, a half-starved purse, a dissipated look, a petulant temper, a disturbed conscience. The manacles of one or two bad habits that are pressing tighter and tighter will keep on until they wear to the bone. You paid your fare to Tarshish, but you have been set down in the midst of a sea of disquietude and perplexity.

One hundred dollars for Sunday liorse-hire!

One hundred dollars for wine-suppers!

One hundred dollars for cigars!

One hundred dollars for frolics that shall be nameless!

Making four hundred dollars for his damnation!

Instead of being in Tarshish to-night, he is in the middle of the Mediterranean.

Here is a literary man, tired of the faith of his fathers, who resolves to launch out into what is called Free-think¬ ing. He buys Theodore Parker’s works for twelve dollars; Kenan’s Life of Christ for one dollar ‘and fifty cets; Andrew Jackson Davis’s wTorks for twenty dollars. Goes to hear infidels talk at the clubs, and to see spiritualism at the table-rapping. Talks glibly of David, the Psalmist, as an old libertine; of Paul as a wild enthusiast; and of Christ as a decent kind of a man — a little weak in some respects, but almost as good as him¬ self. Talks smilingly of Sunday as a good day to put a little extra blacking on one’s boots; and of Christians as, for the most part, hypocrites; and of eternity as “the

great to be,” “the everlasting now,” or “the infinite what is it.” Some day he gets his feet very wet, and finds himself that night chilly; The next morning has a hot mouth, and is headachy. Sends word over to the store that he will not be there to-day. Bathes his feet; has mustard -plasters; calls the doctor. The medical man says aside, “This is going to be a bad case of congestion of the lungs.” V oice fails. Children must be kept down stairs, or sent to the neighbors, to keep the house quiet. You say, “Send for the minister.” But no; he does not believe in ministers. You say, “Bead the Bible to him.” Bo; he does not believe in the Bible. A lawyer comes in, and, sitting by his bedside, writes a document that be¬ gins, “Ai the name of God, Amen. I, being of sound mind, do make this my last will and testament.” It is certain where the sick man’s body will be in less than a week. It is quite certain who will get his property. But what will become of his soul? It will go into “the great to be,” or “the everlasting now,” or “the infinite what is it.” Ilis soul is in deep waters, and the wind is a blow¬ ing great guns.” Death cries, “Overboard with the un¬ believer!” A splash! He goes to the bottom. He paid five dollars for his ticket to Tarshish when he bought the infidel books. He landed in perdition!

Every farthing you spend in sin Satan will swindle you out of. He promises you shall have thirty per cent, or a great dividend. He lies. He will sink all the capital. You may pay full fare to some sinful success, but you will never get to Tarshish.

Learn how soundly men will sleep in the midst of danger. The worst sinner on shipboard, considering the light he had, was Jonah. He was a member of the Church, while they were heathen. The sailors were engaged in their lawful calling, following the sea. The merchants on board, I suppose, were going down to Tarshish to barter; but Jonah, notwithstanding his Christian profession, was flying from duty. He was sound asleep in the cabin. He has been motionless for hours — his arms and feet in the same posture as when he lay down — his breast heaving with deep respiration. Oh! how could the sinner sleep! What if the ship struck a rock! what if it sprang aleak! what if the clumsy Oriental craft should capsize! What would become of Jonah?

So men sleep soundly now amid perils infinite. In almost every place, I suppose, the Mediterranean might be sounded, but no line is long enough to fathom the pro¬ found beneath every impenitent man. Plunging a thou¬ sand fathoms down, you can not touch bottom. Eternity beneath him, before him, around him! Rocks close by, and whirlpools, and hot - breathed Levanters; yet sound asleep! We try to wake him up, but fail. The great surges of warning break over the hurricane-deck — the gong of warning sounds through the cabin — the bell in the wheel-house rings. “Awake!” cry a hundred voices; yet sound asleep in the cabin.

In the year 1775, the captain of a Greenland whaling vessel found himself at night surrounded by icebergs, and “lay to” until morning, expecting every moment to be ground to pieces. In the morning he looked about, and saw a ship near by. He hailed it. Ho answer. Get¬ ting into a boat with some of the crew, he pushed out for the mysterious craft. Getting near by, he saw through the port-hole a man at a stand, as though keep-THE SEA-CAPTAIN’S CALL.

in g a log-book.. He bailed him. No answer. He went on board the vessel, and found the man sitting at the log¬ book, frozen to death. The log-book was dated 1762, showing that the vessel had been wandering for thirteen years among the ice. The sailors were found frozen among the hammocks, and others in the cabin. For thirteen years this ship had been carrying its burden of corpses.

So from this Gospel craft to-night I descry voyagers for eternity. I cry, “Ship ahoy! ship ahoy!” No answer. They float about, tossed and ground by the icebergs of sin, hoisting no sail for heaven. I go on board. I find all asleep. It is a frozen sleep. O that my Lord Jesus would come aboard, and lay hold of the wheel, and steer the craft down into the warm Gulf Stream of his mercy! Awake, thou that sleepest! Arise from the dead, and Christ shall give thee life.

Again: Notice that men are aroused by the most un¬ expected means. If Jonah had been told one year be¬ fore that a heathen sea-captain would ever awaken him to a sense of danger, he would have scoffed at the idea; but here it is done. So now, men in strangest ways are aroused from spiritual stupor. A profane man is brought to conviction by the shocking blasphemy of a comrade. A man attending church, and hearing a sermon from the text, “The ox knoweth his owner,” etc., goes home unimpressed; but, crossing his barn-yard, an ox comes up and licks his hand, and he says, “There it is now — ‘ the ox knoweth his owner, and the ass his master’s crib,’ but I do not know God.” The careless remark of a teamster has led a man to thoughtfulness and heaven. The child’s remark, “Father, they have prayers at uncle’s house — why don’t we have them?” has brought salvation to the dwelling.

Some man came in here to-night hardly knowing why he came. He has heard that Talmage is an odd man, and has come to see whether it is true. But before this service is done that man will begin to think about his soul. He has been upon his last spree. He has made his last visit to that bad house. His children will to¬ morrow morning notice the change. This moment he starts heaveirward; and for all eternity he will bless God for this visit to the Brooklyn Tabernacle.

By strangest way and in most unexpected manner men are awakened. The gardener of the Countess of Huntingdon was convicted of sin by hearing the countess on the opposite side of the wall talk about Jesus. John Hardoak was aroused by a dream, in which he saw the last day, and the Judge sitting, and heard his own name called with terrible emphasis: “John Hardoak, come to judgment!” The Lord has a thousand ways of waking up Jonah. Would that the messengers of mercy might this night find their way down into the sides of the ship, and that many who are unconsciously rocking in the awTful tempest of their sin might hear the warning, “What meanest thou, O sleeper? Arise, and call upon thy God!”

Again: Learn that a man may wake up too late. If, instead of sleeping, Jonah had been on his knees confess¬ ing his sins from the time he went on board the craft, I think that God would have saved him from being thrown overboard. But he woke up too late. The tempest is in full blast, and the sea, in convulsion, is lashing itself, and nothing will stop it now but the overthrow of Jonah.

So men sometimes wake up too late. The last hour has come. The man has no more idea of dying than I have of dropping down this moment. The rigging is all white with the foam of death. How chill the night is! “I must die,” he says, “yet not ready. I must push out upon this awful sea, but have nothing with which to pay my fare. The white caps! the darkness! the hurricane! How long have I been sleeping? Whole days, and months, and years. I am quite awake now. I see every thing, but it is too late.” Invisible hands take him up. He struggles to get loose. In vain. They bring his soul to the verge. They let it down over the side. The winds howl. The sea opens its frothing jaws to swallow. The lightnings hold their torches at the soul’s burial. The thunders toll their bells as he drops. Eternal death catches him. He has gone forever. And while the canvas cracked, and the yards rattled, and the ropes thumped, the sea took up the funeral dirge, play¬ ing, with open diapason of midnight storm, “Because I have called, and ye refused; I have stretched out my hand, and no man regarded; but ye have set at naught all my counsel, and would none of my reproof: I also will laugh at your calamity; I will mock when your fear cometh.”

But sometimes men do not wake up even in the last hour of life. Men often die in sickness with befogged brain, and while the friends stand weeping, the dying man looks around and wonders what it all means, or is too stupid to notice the weeping. How the pulse of the sick man is up to 110! It gets feebler: 90, 80, 60, 50 — pulse all gone! The gates of the body open, and the soul passes out, and, for the first time, wakes up. “What is this?” it cries — “these sounds, these terrors?” Wide awake now, bat what is it? A voice sounds through the darkness: “This is not the Mediterranean on which thou sailest, nor the Euroclydon which has come upon thee. It is the boundless ocean of Eternity, and this battle of wind and wave is an everlasting storm. Yoyagers upon this sea sail on forever, yet get to no port. The ship that staggers in these troughs of death rises not upon the crest save to plunge to deeper depths. The needle of the compass points to no star, but winders in the box after light, but finding only darkness. They who run up the ratlines to reef the sail are frozen fast in the rigging. He who commands this ship hath an iron face, and wrings his hands, and wishes they might founder and be at rest; and curses the night, and curses the wind, and curses the wave. His name is Despair. The boatswain’s whistle is a shriek; and as the white-cheeked crew lay hold of the ropes and pull altogether, their cry is, c Haul away, lads, the harvest is past! Haul away, lads, the summer is ended P Ho glimpse of light-house, or merry dance of light-ship outside of the harbor. Ho star in the black flag above the top-gallants. Taking their bearings, they find themselves at infinite distance from the shore of earth, and at infinite distance from the shore of heaven. The log-book tells of millions of miles past, but still voyaging. Ages on ages! Sailing on, sailing on! Eternally, eternally! Ho hammock in that forecastle in which to rest; no striking of eight bells to show that the watch is out. They wake up at last — too late forever!”

How, lest any of you should make this mistake, I address you in the words of the Mediterranean sea-captain:

THE SEA- CAPTAIN’S CALL,

“What meanest thou, 0 sleeper? Arise, call upon thy God, if so be that God will think upon us, that we perish not.” If you have a God, you had better call upon him. Do you say “I have no God Then you had better call upon your father’s God. When your father was’ in trouble, who did he fly to? You heard him, in his old days, tell about some terrible exposure in a snow-storm, or at sea, or in battle, or among midnight garroters, and how he escaped. Perhaps twenty years before you were born, your father made sweet acquaintance with God. There is something in the worn pages of the Bible he used to read which makes you think your father had a God. In the old religious books lying around the house, there are passages marked with a lead-pencil — passages that make you think your father was not a godless man, but that, on that dark day when he lay in the back room dying, he was ready — all ready. But perhaps your father was a bad man — prayerless, and a blasphemer, and you never think of him now without a shudder. He worshiped the world or his own appetites. Do not then, I beg of you, call upon your father’s God, but call on your mother’s God. I think she was good. You remember when your father came home drunk late on a cold night, how patient your mother was. You often heard her pray. She used to sit by the hour meditating, as though she wTere thinking of some good, warm place, where it never gets cold, and where the bread does not fail, and staggering steps never come. You remember her now, as she sat, in cap and spectacles, reading her Bible Sun¬ day afternoons. What good advice she used to give you! How black and terrible the hole in the ground looked to you when, with two ropes, they let her down to rest in the grave-yard! Ah! I think from your looks that I am on the right track. Awake, O sleeper, and call upon thy mother’s God.

But perhaps both your father and mother were depraved. Perhaps your cradle was rocked by sin and shame, and it is a wonder that from such a starting you have come to respectability. Then don’t call upon the God of either of your parents, I beg of you.

But you have children. You know God kindled those bright eyes, and rounded those healthy limbs, and set beating within their breast an immortality. Perhaps in the belief that somehow it would be for the best, you have taught them to say an evening prayer, and when they kneel beside you, and fold their little hands, and look up, their face all innocence and love, you know that there is a God somewhere about in the room.

I think I am on the right track at last. Awake, O sleeper, and call upon the God of thy children. May he set these little ones to pulling at thy heart until they charm thee to the same God to whom to-night they have said their little prayer!

But, alas! alas! some of these men and women are unmoved by the fact that their father had a God, that their mother had a God, and their children have a God, but they have no God. All pious example to them for nothing. All the divine goodness for nothing. All warning for nothing. They are sound asleep in the side of the ship, though the sea and the sky are in mad wrestle. O my God, wake them up! Drop a thunder¬ bolt upon their coffin-lid and wake them up!

Some years ago, a man, leaving his family in Massachusetts, sailed from Boston to China, to trade there.

THE SEA-CAPTAIN’S CALL,.

0n the coast of China, in the midst of a night of storm, he made shipwreck. The adventurer was washed up on the beach senseless — all his money gone. He had to beg in the streets of Canton to keep from starving. For two years there was no communication between himself and family. They supposed him dead. He knew not but that his family were dead. He had gone out as a captain. He was too proud to come back as a private sail¬ or. But after a while he choked down his pride and sailed for Boston. Arriving there, he took an evening train for the centre of the .state where he had left his family. Taking the stage from the depot, and riding a score of miles, he got home. He says that, going up in front of the cottage in the bright moonlight, the place looked to him like heaven. He rapped on the window, and the affrighted servant let him in. He went to the room where his wife and child were sleeping. He did not dare to wake them for fear of the shock. Bending over to kiss his child’s cheek, a tear fell upon the wife’s face, and she wakened, and he said, “Mary /” and she knew his voice, and there was an indescribable scene of welcome, and joy, and thanksgiving to God.

To-night I know that many of you are sea-tossed, and driven by sin in a worse storm than that which came down on the coast of China, and yet I pray God that you may, like the sailor, live to get home. In the house of many mansions your friends are waiting to meet you. They are wondering why you do not come. Escaped from the shipwrecks of earth, may you at last go in! It will be a bright night — a very bright night as you put your thumb on the latch of that door. Once in, you will find the old family faces sweeter than when you last saw them, and there it will be found that He who was your father’s God, and your mother’s God, and your children’s God, is your own most blessed Redeemer, to whom be glory in the Church throughout all ages, world without end. Amen.