Down at the library yesterday afternoon I spent an hour in glancing through the various volumes of Southey's _Commonplace Book_. And, among a vast assortment of musty notes that are now of interest to nobody, I came upon this: 'I have been reading of a man on the Malabar coast who had inquired of many devotees and priests as to how he might make atonement for his sins. At last he was directed to drive iron spikes, sufficiently blunted, through his sandals, and on these spikes he was to place his naked feet and then walk a distance of five hundred miles. He undertook the journey, but loss of blood and exhaustion of body compelled him to rest one day under the shade of a spreading tree. As he lay there, a missionary approached and began to preach the gospel. He announced as his theme the words: "_The blood of Jesus Christ, His Son, cleanseth us from all sin_." Whilst the evangelist still preached, the man sprang up, tore off his sandals, and cried aloud: "That is what I want! That is what I want!" And he became a living witness to the fact that the redeeming blood of Christ _does_ cleanse from human guilt.' '_That is what I want!_' cried Southey's pilgrim on the coast of Malabar. '_That is what I want!_' cried Luther in the Wartburg. '_That is what I want!_' cried Bunyan at Bedford. '_That is what I want!_' cried Donald Menzies at Drumtochty. '_That is what I want!_' exclaimed young Hedley Vicars, as his startled eyes fell upon the tremendous words that seemed to leap from the Bible on the table. '_The blood of Jesus Christ, His Son, cleanseth us from all sin._' 'That is what I want! That is what I want!' Hedley Vicars appropriated the priceless gift held out to him, and his whole life was transfigured in consequence. His life--and his death! For, on that fatal night before Sebastopol, it was with Hedley Vicars as it was with the soldier with whom the poet has familiarized us. Everybody knows the story. Two men of God moved in the darkness across the field on which, that day, a battle had been fought. And now they stand Beside a manly form, outstretched alone. His helmet from his head had fallen. His hand Still firmly grasped his keen but broken sword. His face was white and cold, and, thinking he was gone, They were just passing on, for time was precious, When a faint sigh caught their attentive ears. Life was still there, so bending down, They whispered in his ears most earnestly, Yet with that hush and gentleness with which We ever speak to a departing soul-- '_Brother! the blood of Jesus Christ, God's Son, Cleanseth from every sin._' The pale lips moved, And gently whispered 'hush!' and then they closed, And life again seemed gone. But yet once more They whispered those thrice blessed words, in hope To point the parting soul to Christ and heaven-- '_Brother! the precious blood of Jesus Christ Can cleanse from every sin._'