Scenes in Switzerland

by American Tract Society

"If I can only do it," and his eyes were full of a holy light.

Annette sat by the bedside; the face of the sick man was as pale as marble, and but for the gentle breathing, we should have thought him already departed. Franz put on a fresh knot, and the red flame sent a rosy tinge over the apartment. Sitting before the fire we watched him as he slept, knowing, feeling that it could not be long. Then a chapter was read, and a prayer went up for strength and guidance.

Franz would not let me watch with him; and leading me into a small room with a clean but somewhat hard bed, left me to myself. Weary as I was, I could not sleep. The glory of the day; the sad, sweet history just related; the sick man, with the messenger waiting at the humble door, thrilled me with a feeling that would not rest. Opening my window, I enjoyed the stillness, the solitude, and the grandeur of the scene: the glittering dome of Mont Blanc, and all the surrounding and inferior domes and spires and pyramids that cluster in this wondrous region, which fancy might conceive the edifices of some great city, or the towers and dome of some vast minster. Far above the mountain-tops the moon was shining; while her retinue of stars, seen through the cool crisp air, seemed larger and more beautiful than I had ever before seen them.

It would be impossible to detail all the thoughts that passed, and the emotions that were excited in my mind. Every object around, beneath, above me seemed in silent but impressive eloquence to celebrate God's praise; from the moon that led the starry train, from the patriarch of his kindred hills and nearest to the heavenly sanctuary, down to the frozen glaciers and the roaring torrents of the lower valleys, all seemed endowed with a peculiar language—a voice to touch the heart of man, and to enter into the ear of God.

At length sleep overpowered me, and when I awoke the sun was shining. Stepping into the outer room I was met by Franz, looking as fresh as though sleep had not been denied him. Leading me to the bedside, he spoke a few words to his father, while the trembling hand met mine, weak and worn. I saw that his course was nearly run; but there was a light in his eye that spoke of peace. Words were of little use.

After breakfast, which Annette insisted that I should take, I walked down to the inn, and there learned more of Franz than he had been willing to tell me. Not only had he been the means of leading his father to the Saviour, but it was his habit to gather the people together and read to them out of his Bible, telling them of Jesus and of his pure and spotless life, then of his agony and death, picturing his love and his infinite tenderness.

I was not restricted to a set number of days, and for three days I vibrated between the inn and the small cottage on the mountain. On the fourth it was over; the messenger had done his bidding. Franz and Annette were not the only mourners, not a villager but joined them; and when they turned from the grave to the silence of their humble room, I went with them.

Not many days after that the door of the cottage was shut; and when I sailed for my western home, Franz Muller was prosecuting his studies at Basle.

"He is to be a minister," said Annette, as she followed me to the door, "and he says that wherever his work is, I may share it with him."

Her face was lit up with a smile almost as bright as I had seen on Franz's face. Surely the angels know nothing of the rapture of such a work.