James W—, British financier and reputed millionaire; who had owned a yacht and racing stud; entertained royalty, and had made as much as three million dollars in one day, died by his own hand, practically a ruined man.
Before he brought his life to a close he wrote a letter which was published in the British press, and laid bare the truth without any false coloring, of what this world really is.
He had tasted all that this life could give and now records his verdict in the truest sermon ever preached by mortal man. Hear what he says
"On the last day of my life, before my eyes, my brain unwinds the film of the past. In quick succession episode after episode unwinds, and 1 can now judge that life today is nothing but a human cauldron of greed, lust and power. Gone are the nice feelings and contentment, and in their place is a roaring, hectic existence."
He draws aside the curtain and shows us the world in its true character. "I have known," he says, "to have all you desire, and to have thousands waiting to eat out of your hand.... From this it must be agreed," he adds. "that I am entitled to an opinion on life."
And what is that opinion? The opinion of the man who owned towns and had everything that the world could give! Wealth cannot satisfy.
"Gone are the nice feelings and contentment." He knew that "money is the universal provider of everything but happiness; and a passport to everywhere but heaven." Bishop Ryle said, "Riches are uncertain comforts, but certain cares."
"What shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?" (Mark 8:36).
"To lose your health is much,
To lose your wealth is more,
To lose your soul is such a loss,
That nothing can restore."—Gospel Herald.
Privates Henry Pauch and Steve Obeda, inducted at Fort Sheridan, Ill.. came to Camp Wolters, Texas, in the same troop movement. For two months they were in the same platoon and slept in bunks not far apart. Then they swapped addresses. One lived at 2553 South Troy Street, Chicago, and the other at 2541, same street, same city. They were close neighbors, but strangers, for thirteen years—then got acquainted so far from home. But there is a stranger case of strangership than theirs—one which should provoke tears, not smiles.
We tread God's earth and breathe His air, yet multitudes are total strangers to Him. One might remain a stranger to his neighbor and not suffer any great loss, though neighborliness carries its own reward. But it is impossible to remain a stranger to our Lord and not suffer eternal loss.—Now.
A tourist in Scotland some years ago, unacquainted with the nature of the coast, wandered along a path, which is only safe at low tide. Delighted with the seascape, he watched with admiration the huge waves breaking on the shore, and gazed with awe at the precipitous rocks towering above him, and so entranced was he with his surroundings, he did not notice that the sea was gradually encroaching on his pathway.
A native, observing from the lofty cliffs this stranger, evidently unaware of danger, descended as far as he was able with safety, and drew his attention by a loud "hulloo," and said: "If you pass this spot, you lose your last chance. The tide is rising, already the beach you have traveled is covered, and the waters are nearing the foot of the cliffs before you. By this path alone can you escape."
The warning went unheeded, for the tourist thought he was able to make the turn in the road before the sea reached the cliff, but he misjudged the distance, and soon saw with alarm the danger of his position. He turned back, but alas! the sea had already cut off his way of escape. He looked at the cliffs, which were inaccessible, the waters were at his feet. He sought higher ground, but to no purpose. At last a projecting rock was seen. He reached it but the relentless waves came on. They reached him inch by inch, until they reached his neck. He uttered one despairing cry for help, but none was near. The waters covered this victim of self-confidence. He neglected the warning and perished.
"There is a time we know not when,
A point we know not where,
That marks the destiny of men
For glory or despair."—Gospel Herald.
She was a young woman. She loved her husband. He died. She was lonely and disconsolate. She hired an airplane and placed in the fuel tank enough gasoline to take her far into the air and to sea. When the gas was consumed she would plunge into the sea and that would end her sad and lonely life. No one could trace her or find her. This must not be called suicide—this she insisted. It was just her way out; it was her exit. The newspapers and columnists commented on this tragic flight into what they called the "unknown." But there is no "unknown" to God, to whom all things are known (Psa. 139:7-12) Her body is in the sea, but this does not mean extinction, for the sea will give up its dead (Rev. 20:13). This woman who flew to the sea by way of the air did not find her husband. On the other hand, the Christian will enjoy reunion, and will be "caught up ... to meet the Lord in the air" (I Thes. 4:17). What the crazed mind of humankind needs is the Word of the Lord; all else is helpless.—The Wonderful Word.
When the Squalus crew realized they had taken their last dive and that they were lying helpless at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean 240 feet below the surface, they sent up smoke flares and a buoy. Would one of the sister ships find them, and if so could they be rescued? Their help must come from above, and in agonizing silence they waited.
Within an hour after that fatal dive the submarine Sculpin set out in search. In a few hours the red smudge was found, then the buoy. But 24 hours passed before actual rescue work could be started. A giant 10-ton diving bell dipped and rose again and again, each time taking several men alive from those awful depths, until all 33 men who were alive in the submarine had been rescued.
When that huge diving bell came for the Squalus crew not one sailor refused to be rescued, but all gladly accepted the way to safety. Will you not today accept God's way of salvation for you?—Good News Tract.