The Dying Soldier

IT was just after the battle of Williamsburg, where hundreds of our brave fellows had fallen, never to bear arms again in their country’s cause, and where hundreds more were wounded, that a soldier came to the tent of a delegate of the Christian Commission, and said, “Chaplain, one of our boys is badly wounded, and wants to see you right away.” “Hurriedly following the soldier,” says the delegate, “I was taken to the hospital, and led to a bed, upon which lay a noble young soldier. He was pale and blood-stained from a terrible wound above the temple. I saw at a glance that he had but a few hours to live upon earth. Taking his hand, I said, ‘Well my brother, what can I do for you?’The poor dying soldier looked up in my face, and placing his finger where his hair was stained with his blood, he said, ‘Chaplain, cut a big lock from here for mother — for mother, mind, chaplain!’ I hesitated to do it. He said, ‘Don’t be afraid, chaplain, to disfigure my hair. It’s for mother, and nobody will come to see me in the dead-house, tomorrow.’ I did as he requested me. ‘Now, chaplain,’ said the dying man, ‘I want you to kneel down by me and return thanks to God.’ ‘For what?’ I asked, ‘For giving me such a mother. O chaplain, she is a good mother; her teachings comfort and console me now. And, chaplain, thank God that by His grace I am a Christian. Oh, what would I do now if I wasn’t a Christian? I know that my Redeemer liveth. I feel that His finished work has saved me. And, chaplain, thank God for giving me dying grace. He has made my dying bed ‘feel soft as downy pillows are.’ Thank Him for the promised home in glory. I’ll soon be there — there where there is no war, nor sorrow, nor desolation, nor death — where I’ll see Jesus, and be forever with the Lord.’ I knelt by the dying man, and thanked God for the blessings he had bestowed upon him—the blessings of a good mother, a Christian hope, and dying grace, to bear testimony to God’s faithfulness. Shortly after the prayer, he said, Good-bye, chaplain; if you ever see mother, tell her it was all well!’” —
American Magazine.

A Remarkable Conversion
A FRIEND of mine, passing along the streets of Chicago one night, heard the sound of singing coming from a building, and he passed into what is known as the Pacific Garden Mission — one of the greatest rescue missions in the world. When he entered the building he found the audience of men singing, and occasionally testifying. Then the leader of the mission stood up and said: “If any man in this building wants to come forward and speak for Jesus, let him come now.”
Two or three seats back of my friend a man rose and started down to the front. There was a strange look in his face. He had evidently lived a dissipated life. You could not tell whether he was thirty or fifty years of age. Just as he passed the row of seats where my friend sat, the man sitting next to my friend, also a man from the streets, said to his companion in misery, “He is getting paid for this,” meaning that he was going to get the price of a night’s lodging. When this strange man reached the front, he leaned up against the platform and told this story: ―
“Men,” said he, “my home is in the vicinity of Boston. I had one of the best fathers that ever lived, but I sinned against him. A year ago my father called me into his study and said, ‘I want you to go away, first of all, because you have dishonored your father’s name. Then I want you to stay away, and, because you have dishonored my name, change yours.’ I have a sister back in the east whose name I have not spoken for months with these lips of mine, because they have been too impure. I came to this city and sank so low that they would not have me at the police station. The other night, passing this mission, I heard them singing my mother’s hymn, ‘Come, Thou Fount of every blessing.’ Men, Jesus Christ met me here. My sins have been forgiven. I have been a Christian for two weeks. I heard a man say, as I came down the aisle a moment ago, that I was getting paid for this, and I want to tell you that I am getting paid. I received this morning a letter from my father, who said that I could not come home too soon, that the doors were wide open to receive me, and that his arms are outstretched to welcome me. He tells me that my sister has never closed her eyes in sleep without mentioning my name in her prayers. Boys, I am going back to my home tonight, and I am getting paid!”
W. C.