This column first appeared in the Victoria Daily Times on Sept. 24, 1938. This is the first of Nellie McClung鈥檚 articles about her trip to Europe.
Interlaken, Switzerland 鈥� There is something about the sea that loosens people鈥檚 tongues and draws them into a close fellowship. Perhaps it is its immensity that shrinks us down to atoms, its cold indifference that drives us to seek human companionship.
There is no doubt that at sea people grow sociable, friendly and communicative. It begins when the vessel leaves the dock, and the yellow, blue and red streamers that billow in the wind grow tighter, stretch and break, and the faces on shore grow smaller and smaller, and at last run together in a blur, like the memories of the past.
I never like these drawn-out partings. I think we should say goodbye and walk away without looking back. But far be it from me to deny anyone the right to dramatize their emotions if it eases the strain in a time like this.
An ocean crossing is nothing now. Five days of luxurious life on a beautiful ship with a morning paper appearing mysteriously inside your cabin door, a radio in the lounge, concerts at night, a moving picture afternoon and evening, a library for the studious and a nursery for the children.
Strange meetings take place on shipboard, and we had one of them. One of the men at our table had the prospectus of a mine in the north, which a friend of his had handed him, asking him to look it over when he was on the boat. The story of the finding of the mine was interesting, and he told us about it.
A sailor鈥檚 boat had been frozen in on an island and he had supposedly gone out with a pick to see what he could find. Evidently, he knew something of ores, for he gave samples to someone who was coming out.
The ores proved to be valuable. Part of them assayed $35 to the ton and part $55. But the man who brought them out did not know the sailor鈥檚 name 鈥� and there seemed to be no way of finding him.
A young man at the table suddenly became interested in the story and asked a few questions, which revealed an intimate knowledge of the island and the circumstances.
He was the sailor!
From him we heard the best stories of the whole journey, for his are stories that have no end.
It explains, too, a reason for his having forgotten about the ore he found. He has had other interests since then. He has been prospecting in another field.
It began in the north, and under thrilling circumstances. He and two other men were adrift on a northern lake; their boat had begun to leak and there was nothing they could do. It looked like the end, and an unpleasant one at that.
They had letters and parcels for people along the way, letters and parcels which would not be delivered. As they waited for the end, he opened one of the parcels, which contained a book. After all, to read a book was as good a way as any to spend the last hours.
The book contained a new thought that God has a plan for every life, and as he read, it seemed to him that he must not die 鈥� there was too great a reason for living. There must be some way of escape.
And there was! Strange, unbelievable escape from dangers, on the water on a 750-mile trek in winter weather 鈥� back to civilization.
Now it might be by chance that they were saved, that the ice went out half an hour after they passed over it, it might be by chance that they recovered from 鈥渢eepee fever鈥� just by lying in their sleeping bags, it might be by chance that they escaped the storms and found their way in a trackless wilderness.
But the next story he told us could not have happened by chance.
It was a story of West Ham, in London, and it has to do with the changing of a man鈥檚 heart. Changing the wind and the weather must be child鈥檚 play when compared with changing a bitter heart into a loving one. The wind does not care much which way it blows. One direction is as good as another.
This is the story:
Bill Rowell of West Ham, London, was a communist leader who hated parsons and policemen. He saw them and all those in authority as brutes and tyrants, and the police were afraid of him.
One night a young man, a peer鈥檚 son, knocked on Bill鈥檚 door and got in. Bill did not know he was a peer鈥檚 son. It did not show in his face or in his dress.
The two young men discussed the problems of life. Bill liked the other young man鈥檚 frankness and the way he admitted his own faults. As a result of that meeting, the peer鈥檚 son went to live with Bill. There was no spare bed, so he put two chairs together and slept on them. He showed Bill a new way of serving his country, and Bill, being honest, decided to give it a try.
Now Bill Rowell is a leader in a new sense. He is leading people to understand each other; to help each other. His communist friends thought at first that Bill had turned soft and deserted them, and they were ready to kill him. Now the whole district has been changed.
The unemployed say that Bill is doing more for them now than he ever did before. Instead of attacking society, now he is changing it.
The news of Bill Rowell spread to the British House of Commons, where one Conservative MP told the story and said that Bill had shown him that if he wanted a new England he would have to start to change his own party. Fourteen members of the party immediately sent out a letter asking the others to come to a weekend gathering to discuss a plan whereby God would be given control in their lives.
Good is just as contagious as evil, and this is why I said this story is the kind that has no end! We have all sung about redeeming love, and committed verses to memory about the 鈥渇aith that moves mountains.鈥� Miracles should not surprise us.
But they do.
