A Call to the Careless.
IT is a season of great interest, alike to young and old, the closing hours of an old year, and the dawn of the new. The many drown the more serious thoughts suggested by the event, in mirth, and vanity, the dance, or the carouse; while those are not lacking who love to spend the time in prayer, experiencing the blessedness of waiting upon the Lord. High, in a large tenement of a northern city, above its din and bustle, sat a poor, lone widow. That house had seen better days, but in course of time, had been subdivided amongst a number of tenants, all the rooms opening upon a common passage. The widow’s attic was dismal enough, yet not devoid of a few comforts, saved from the wreck of former years. She had few friends, and little earthly hope to cheer her. Both sight and hearing were upon the wane, but her faith and hope were in her God. She sat alone that night, during the quiet hours of the fast-closing year, reading from the Epistles of St Paul, and gathering comfort from the words which speak of the believer’s blessed place “in Christ Jesus,” and the certainty of being forever with Himself.
No sound was to be heard but that of a piano played in a room below. Young skillful fingers touched the keys, and tune after tune followed each other in rapid succession.
But who was the player? Let us look downstairs and see. The room, whence the music came, formed in many respects a contrast to the attic above, being large, airy, and well furnished. At the instrument sat a young woman, of about twenty summers, with dark hair, and pale, but pleasant features. Music was her passion, her one employment, and as she remarked to the widow, as they met in the stair a few days before, “It is all my consolation.” Poor thing! She little thought as she uttered the words so gaily, that eternity for her was so near with all its great realities of weal or woe. Still less did she ponder the solemn words, spoken long ago by Him who is Truth, “What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?” She was the only child of her parents, loved, indulged, and prized, but alas! she evinced no love for Jesus. His sweet name had no charm for her ears, and her heart and lips were never consecrated to sing His worthy praise.
That old year’s night she sat with her fingers nimbly passing over the keys of her piano, and at times singing merrily to the strain.
The sound reached the ears of the widow in her little room, and she thought―surely she is merry tonight. The city clocks pealed midnight, and from the distant street were heard the cheers of welcome to the advent of the New Year, as the passengers exchanged greetings. Then all was still again, save the piano notes. In a moment, they suddenly ceased, never to be heard again. The gay singer had ruptured a blood-vessel, and lay stretched upon the floor.
She never spoke again, only being able to give her stunned parents a parting look of recognition. All was consternation, and hurrying to and fro. The alarmed father rushed for a physician, but all too late. As the old year finished his course, and the new-born year dawned, the soul of the maiden-minstrel had passed from the bounds of time into the awful realities of a far-reaching eternity.
Let this brief, sad history, my reader, carry to you an earnest word of warning, yet of loving entreaty. You live for the world, of which God says, “the fashion of it passeth away,” and its “friendship” is “enmity against God.” You have a choice to make. Let it be for Christ. He is worthy of your choice. He suffered for sinners, “tasted death” for you. He is risen and glorified at God’s right hand in heaven, and the Scripture, which “cannot be broken,” declares that “whosoever believeth on him, shall not perish, but have everlasting life.” Will you have the Son? Do be persuaded; “He that hath the Son hath the life, but he that hath not the Son of God hath not the life.”
Satan, your enemy, uses a thousand things to hinder you from being saved―the fear of man, love of dress, a novel, a companion, music, dancing, education, pleasure, a form of godliness, and last, but not least, procrastination―if possible to keep you from deciding for Christ, and thus damn your soul for all eternity. Perhaps you say, “I am young, strong, full of hopes, the world lies smilingly before me, I have bright prospects of life for years to come; mar not my peace by your dark forebodings.” Or perhaps you seek to reassure yourself with the plea, “I intend to be a Christian before I die.” Ah, you trust the devil’s “tomorrow,” instead of God’s “today.” Be warned, I implore you, by the above sad history of one cut off in the full bloom of youth by that same “destroyer,” who may grasp you when you think not. T. R. D.