"Ah, yes! here is the companion of my restless nights and toilsome days; here is the friend that speaketh to me of heaven and joy and peace; here is the Book that shows me that the pardoned sinner washed in the blood of Jesus goes at once into a Father's home; here is the Book that shows me that the lost sinner goes at once into the dark caverns of everlasting woe in hell.'
“The speaker ceased for a few moments to restrain the violence of his cough. I glanced round at the upturned faces, each eagerly turned towards him. Tall, and very slight, a burning hectic spot upon the pale, thin cheek, black hair floating backward from his marble brow, the hand, anon raised high overhead with Italian vehemence, anon languidly sinking to his side, a voice sweet as music in his lower tones, then rising to a startling pitch, as he spoke of the miseries of everlasting despair—it needed not the sighs nor the half-uttered exclamations to convince me that his words were falling upon no unconcerned or listless ears.
“The three-cornered chapeau of a young, pale, care-worn Abbe met my view, as, amid the crowd, with varying emotions passing over his eager face, he stood drinking in the words of the young speaker; the gray watch-coats of some Sardinian infantry, the red caps of a few fishermen, the muleteer halting his string of mules with tinkling bells, to listen to the words so strange and yet so musically rendered —amid that throng of dark-eyed Sardinians I felt that words like these were not falling to the ground.
“’Yes! in my dark garret have I pored over this Book—yes! in the sunny sunshine—yes! by the waves of the far-sounding sea—yes! while the stormy mistral howled over my lonely mansarde—here, in this blessed Book, have I found a Saviour's love set forth so clearly, that even that little child might apprehend it. Here have I seen the Holy Spirit's gracious promises; and here,' laying his thin, wan hand upon his heart, here have I felt His life-giving power. This hard, stony heart of mine He has graciously been softening; and here stand I, a dying man, never more to see a summer's sun, to tell to dying men the story of a dying Saviour's love.'
“Oh, come now to Jesus—see your sins laid all on Jesus. Ask for His Holy Spirit to take away your hard, stony heart, and to give you a heart to love Him, work for Him—and a heart to trust in Him, and even to die for Him.'
“He ceased, laid his hand upon his breast with an expression of pain, and slowly left the crowd, side by side with the young Abbe. The pommes du pin were brightly blazing in the grate when I re-entered my lodging, as I breathed a silent prayer that men such as this might be raised up through the length and breadth of sunny Italy to preach the glad tidings of a Saviour's love to fallen sinners.
“It was a wild, stormy evening, the great waves of the tideless Mediterranean thundered upon the shingly beach; the wind howled dismally through the narrow lanes and past the strange old houses of the old quarter. My companion, gray-haired, tall, above the high stature of even tall men, pushed on regardless of the gale, and turning down a narrow ruelle or minor street, stood before an old weather-beaten edifice. Passing up the common stairway, he opened a side-door, and there, lying on a bed of straw, in a corner of the room, appeared a form well-known to me. I could not be mistaken—the dark, lustrous eye, the massive brow, the emaciated face, the musical hollow tones that uttered the salutation, Buon giou,' in the Provencal accent.
“’Dear friend, I have come to thee. How art thou this night? ‘The old man who thus spoke took the wasted hand in his, and looked down upon the flushed face of the young invalid.
“’It is well-nigh over,' he said. I am now dying. Blessed he God, I am going home at last —home to Jesus!'
“The speaker paused, utterly exhausted. My friend held a little wine to his lips; he sipped a few drops.
“'Are you not lonely, friend—lonely, since father, mother, sister, all have forsaken you since you embraced the gospel truth?’
“A flush of indescribable emotion filled that wan cheek, a glance of holy joy flashed through his sparkling eyes, as, lifting up the little Testament that lay upon his bed, he cried with rapturous accents—
“’I am not alone, for Jesus is with me!’
“The hand fell back upon the bed, the head wearily sank downwards, a few more parting, breathing sighs, a slight struggle, a change over the face, and there lay the dead Sardinian shoemaker and evangelist of the Place Dominique— a dog mournfully licking a dead master's hand! Gone! gone to a Father's home" Home to the city, where the salutation
Of blood-washed harpers rings its raptured song;
Where the Lord Christ, the God of our salvation,
Ever is present His blessed flock among.
“Home to the city, where the sun sets never,
For the Lord Jesus is its sun and shield;
Home with the loved ones, never more to sever—
All sorrow vanished, and all sickness healed.”
“He sleeps beneath the grass upon the mount at whose base the sea unceasingly chants forth its requiem; but, oh! how blessed a welcome awaited that poor, despised,. abandoned Sardinian, forsaken by an earthly father for loving Jesus and His word, but made a son of the Lord God Almighty in the home where death has never come, sin never entered, sorrow never been felt, but joy, and peace, and rest, and ecstasy forever and ever.”
J. D. C.