FROM one of the fishing towns on the east coast of Scotland, where the herring fishery was prosecuted, a large number of boats might have been seen going out one summer morning. The weather had been stormy, but it appeared now to be more settled, and as the men had been idle for several nights, they gladly availed themselves of the opportunity afforded by what was only a lull between storms to go out in the hope of a fishing.
Towards midnight, without much warning, a new and more terrible squall burst out, making many tremble for the boats.
The storm was little abated as the morning broke, and with the earliest daylight crowds, mostly of women, gathered to the harbor and beach to see if there were any signs of the boats, and fearful lest pieces of wreck or bodies should be washed ashore.
Not a boat or ship, however, was in sight. Eyes were strained and glasses scanned the horizon; some seemed disappointed, but the old fishermen muttered, “Thank God, for no craft could take the harbor in such a sea."
The waves were sweeping over the piers, and dashing their foam high up into the air, where the wind caught it, and blew it in white spray against the houses. It was manifest that boats could not have lived out such a storm.
The early morning train brought a number of anxious women, mothers, wives, and daughters of the fishermen, who could not rest at home, but leaving their little villages along the coast, were hastening to the town, where they might chance to hear the fate of the boats. The excited state of some of these arrested the attention of other passengers, who knew little of the feelings that the outbreak of the storm had awakened in those breasts, and who now felt deep sympathy for those sad and almost frantic women.
One elderly woman, barely clad, her disheveled grey hair covered by a shawl held tightly over her head, asked the passengers and porters at every station for news of the boats, and receiving no satisfactory replies, at last fell back in the carriage with a wail of distress, crying, "They ken, but they winna tell me."
A fellow-passenger tried to calm her, and asked why she was so anxious, and if she had any friends in the boats at sea.
She replied, “My man's at the sea, an' my sons are at the sea, an' my guidsons (sons-in-law) are at the sea." The only rejoinder was a muttered “Puir body!" from the passenger, who seemed to have her own heart there too, if one might judge from the tears which accompanied the expression of tender sympathy.
Those arriving with the train joined the company at the shore, but as there were no signs of the boats, it was suggested that they might have been seen off the other towns, or have run for refuge to better harbors, and that the telegraph should be used to gain information about them.
It was yet very early when the little post office was surrounded by the anxious and impatient women, and the postmistress compelled to rise and telegraph to towns along the coast.
For a time there was only increased anxiety, as boats were reported seen from different places. At length to some the anxiety was changed to sorrow or joy as news came of the boat they were interested in as having got into some harbor, or having been seen in distress or wrecked. Thus the hours of the day passed, the crowd at the post office thinning as some went home to weep, and others to pray; but as the day declined a good many still remained, and among them the woman I had met in the morning train, who had as yet got no news of the boats that carried those that were dearest to her on earth. I pointed her out to a friend, who said he knew her well and all her friends, and, indeed, he said, the boats are engaged to fish for me. We went to her, and begged her to go home, promising to bring the telegram as soon as it arrived.
"Oh," she said, "I'll go to them, but they'll never come back to me. I'll just gae home an' dee." We got her to go home, but she would neither eat nor drink, and at once lay on her bed.
Late in the evening a telegram arrived for her, and my friend asked me to accompany him, for he feared the consequences of the news either way, whether bad or good.
As we entered, the old woman begged him to tell her the truth at once that they were gone.
It was in vain to parley, or ask her to be composed. My friend opened her telegram, and passing his eye along caught, in a moment, the last words, and almost unconsciously uttered them, “all hands safe."
“Haud (hold), sir," cried the old woman, "Haud till I greet," and then the pent-up tears found vent, and she wept abundantly. Her treasures were safe, they had been dead and were alive again, lost and found.
Likewise, there is joy over one sinner that repenteth. “For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life." Has the message gone up that has filled heaven with joy over you?
Lost or saved—which? J. S.