AT page 85 of GOOD NEWS, some incidents connected with the wreck of the emigrant ship, the London, were given, and painful incidents they were, showing the sad, sad consequences of being but one moment too late. What the eternal condition of those there referred to may be, is known to the Lord only. The solemn secret has gone with them down into the fathomless ocean, where the sea shall keep it, either till the Lord shall come, or until that awful hour when “the sea shall give up the dead that are in it,” after the end of the thousand years. But of some we know more. When the condition of the storm-beaten ship had become hopeless, and death was inevitable to her crew and passengers, there was one sitting calmly down, engaged in writing a letter, as a last message, to surviving friends in England. It is thought an act of courage to storm the breach — to rush fearlessly up to the very cannon’s mouth — to dash headlong upon the serried ranks of an enemy — to walk calmly to a martyr’s death on the scaffold; but to sit down, and write amid the roar of winds and waves, the rocking of the ship, the rush of many footsteps overhead, the mingled cries of crew and passengers, some in prayer, some crying aloud in an agony of fear — to hold a pen with a ‘steady hand, and write a deliberate farewell in the very face of instant and violent death, this was a courage altogether above and beyond the powers of mere nature. Not all the courage of the soldier, nor the boasted stoicism of a “vain philosophy” has ever equaled this. Yet this was done on board the London, at the moment when all hope was gone, and while preparations were being made to save a few in the only boat that lived to reach the shore. The writer knew he should not go off in the boat — he knew he must die; but his heart yearned towards those he had left behind in England; he would fain say goodbye to them if it were possible; and, more than this, he longed to leave a testimony behind him to the blessedness, even in such extremity, of faith in Christ as the Saviour of the sinner. This he has done; and the letter, cast into the boat as it left the ship and all who were in it to certain death, into which they were in the very act of sinking, as the writer, with the last effort of love, threw it from him, comes as a VOICE FROM THE SEA to all. The hand that penned it has gone down into the fathomless abyss; the poor body, so sorely tried in that terrible storm, there waits the “little while,” till the trumpet shall sound; the soul, that is so sweetly rested on the Rock, whence not all the rage of the tempest could tear it, is “with Christ;” but the VOICE is here before you, reader, calling to you, as it were, from the depths of the ocean, to believe in the Saviour of sinners, inviting you to consider the blessedness of those who can say as the writer says, “Blessed be God, I am resting on the Rock. I know in whom I have believed. Christ is precious to me.” Consider the circumstances under which these words were penned. Could the strictest attention to that vague category called “moral and religious duties” —could the greatest integrity, the most blameless life before men — could anything short of faith in the finished work of the Son of God, assured forgiveness through the blood of Christ, have given the writer such peace in such a solemn, trying hour? No; impossible! You feel this instinctively. But you think, perhaps, he may have been a better Christian — as some express it —than others. Not so. He deplores opportunities lost, and mourns over his past indifference to the spiritual welfare of others. No. Within, without, in the past or present, there is not a shred for hope to cling to. Nothing but Christ. Yet he is so all-sufficient, that he can bless God as he sinks into the fathomless sea, amid the roar of the tempest, the shrieks of the dying, the pitiless rush of the overwhelming waves! The Gospel of Christ is indeed “the power of God unto salvation to everyone that believeth;” and it would be hard to find a more striking testimony to its sufficiency than this letter, written in such a scene, and in the very face of such a death. May it be owned of God to many, that he who was “precious” to the writer may be glorified, and the desire of the writer’s heart fulfilled — “if by any means I might save some.”
Steamship “London.”
My dear Brother, —Before your eyes will look on this, your brother Frederick and I will be engulfed in the depths of the sea. We left Plymouth on the 6th. The weather was then stormy, but not such as to render any fear of danger. However, as we proceeded, the gale increased, and while I am penning these few lines, the awful rocking of the vessel is such, that it is with the utmost difficulty I can hold my pen. I cannot describe to you the state of agitation which is written on every countenance; some waiting, with the utmost composure, their fate, others so alarmed at the prospect of death, that their shrieks are truly heartrending. But amidst at I am resigned to my fate. BLESSED BE GOD, I AM RESTING ON THE ROCK. I KNOW IN WHOM I HAVE BELIEVED. CHRIST IS PRECIOUS TO ME. I do not know whether by any means you will receive this. Oh that I could see all those with whom I have been acquainted! I mourn now over my indifference towards their spiritual welfare; and now, with death staring me in the face, I feel that I could do anything if by any means I might save some. Tell Sarah not to neglect the salvation of her soul. Tell Joseph to give his heart to the Saviour at once. I want to meet all in heaven. And now, my dear brother, farewell. Many have been the happy meetings we have had together on earth; our next meeting will be, I trust, where not a wave of trouble shall roll over us. I cannot say any more. God bless you, and keep you.
Your affectionate brother, GEORGE THOMPSON.