Part 16 (1/2)
”What is the matter?”
”Mr. ----, the--preacher, has just left me. He told me that my soul cannot be saved unless I perform two miracles: I must, he said, think of nothing but religion, and be baptized by immersion. I am very weak, and cannot fully control my mental action--my thoughts will wander in spite of myself. As to being put under the water, that would be immediate death; it would bring on a hemorrhage of the lungs, and kill me.”
He leaned his head on the table and panted for breath, his thin chest heaving. I answered:
”Mr.--is a good man, but narrow. He meant kindly in the foolish words he spoke to you. No man, sick or well, can so control the action of his mind as to force his thoughts wholly into one channel. I cannot do it, neither can any other man. G.o.d requires no such absurdity of you or anybody else. As to being immersed, that seems to be a physical impossibility, and he surely does not demand what is impossible. My friend, it really makes little difference what Mr.--says,or what I say, concerning this matter. What does G.o.d say? Let us see.”
I took up the Bible, and he turned a face upon me expressing the most eager interest. The blessed Book seemed to open of itself to the very words that were wanted. ”Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him.” ”He knoweth our frame, and remembereth that we are dust.” ”Ho, everyone that thirsteth, come to the waters.”
Glancing at him as I read, I was struck with the intensity of his look as he drank in every word. A traveler dying of thirst in the desert could not clutch a cup of cold water more eagerly than he grasped these tender words of the pitying Father in heaven.
I read the words of Jesus: ”Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy-laden, and I will give you rest.” ”Him that cometh unto me I will in no wise east out.”
”This is what G.o.d says to you, and these are the only conditions of acceptance. Nothing is said about any thing but the desire of your heart and the purpose of your soul. O my friend, these words are for you!”
The great truth flashed upon his mind, and flooded it with light. He bent his head and wept. We knelt and prayed together, and when we rose from our knees he said softly, as the tears stole, down his face:
”It is all right now--I see it clearly; I see it clearly!”
We quietly clasped hands, and sat in silent sympathy. There was no need for any words from me; G.o.d had spoken, and that was enough. Our hearts were singing together the song without words.
”You have found peace at the cross--let nothing disturb it,” I said, as he pressed my hand at the door as we left.
It never was disturbed. The days that had dragged so wearily and anxiously during the long, long months, were now full of brightness. A subdued joy shone in his face, and his voice was low and tender as he spoke of the blessed change that had pa.s.sed upon him. The Book whose words had been light and life to him was often in his hand, or lay open on the little table in his room. He never lost his hold upon the great truth he had grasped, nor abated in the fullness of his joy. I was with him the night he died. He knew the end was at hand, and the thought filled him with solemn joy. His eyes kindled, and his wasted features fairly blazed with rapture as he said, holding my hand with both of his:
”I am glad it will all soon, be over. My peace has been unbroken since that morning when G.o.d sent you to me. I feel a strange, solemn joy a the thought that I shall soon know all.”
Before daybreak the great mystery was disclosed to him, and as he lay in his coffin next day, the smile that lingered on his lips suggested the thought that he had caught a hint of the secret while yet in the body.
Among the casual hearers that now and then dropped in to hear a sermon in Sonora, in the early days of my ministry there, was a man who interested me particularly. He was at that time editing one of the papers of the town, which sparkled with the flashes of his versatile genius. He was a true Bohemian, who had seen many countries, and knew life in almost all its phases. He had written a book of adventure which found many readers and admirers. An avowed skeptic, he was yet respectful in his allusions to sacred things, and I am sure his editorial notices of the pulpit efforts of a certain young preacher who had much to learn were more than just. He was a brilliant talker, with a vein of enthusiasm that was very delightful. His spirit was generous and frank, and I never heard from his lips an unkind word concerning any human being. Even his partisan editorials were free from the least tinge of asperity--and this is a supreme test of a sweet and courteous nature. In our talks he studiously evaded the one subject most interesting to me. With gentle and delicate skill he parried all my attempts to introduce the subject of religion in our conversations.
”I can't agree with you on that subject, and we will let it pa.s.s” he would say, with a smile, and then he would start some other topic, and rattle on delightfully in his easy, rapid way.
He could not stay long at a place, being a confirmed wanderer. He left Sonora, and I lost sight of him. Retaining. a very kindly feeling for this gentle-spirited and pleasant adventurer, I was loth thus to lose all trace of him. Meeting a friend one day, on J Street, in the city of Sacramento, he said:
”Your old friend D--is at the Golden Eagle hotel. You ought to go and see him.”
I went at once. Ascending to the third story, I found his room, and, knocking at the door, a feeble voice bade me enter. I was shocked at the spectacle that met my gaze. Propped in an armchair in the middle of the room, wasted to a skeleton, and of a ghastly pallor, sat the unhappy man. His eyes gleamed with an unnatural brightness, and his features wore a look of intense suffering.
”You have come too late, sir,” he said, before I had time to say a word.
”You can do me no good now. I have been sitting in this chair three weeks. I could not live a minute in any other position, h.e.l.l could not be worse than the tortures I have suffered! I thank you for coming to see me, but you can do me no good--none, none!”
He paused, panting for breath; and then he continued, in a soliloquizing way:
”I played the fool, making a joke of what was no joking matter. It is too late. I can neither think nor pray, if praying would do any good. I can only suffer, suffer, suffer!”
The painful interview soon ended. To every cheerful or hopeful suggestion which I made he gave but the one reply:
”Too late!”