Boys, did you ever stop to think that it is always the first wrong step
that leads to misery and disgrace? The first petty theft leads to the
penitentiary, and the first glass to the gutter, and finally to the
drunkard’s grave.
None who had ever known Robert Morris in his brilliant young manhood,
could have dreamed of the awful fate which would finally be his. Robert
was uncommonly apt in his studies, kind and courteous in his manners,
and gentlemanly in appearance. He had the advantage of having been
raised in a home of refinement and temperance.
But in an evil hour, he formed the acquaintance of a young man of bad
principles and reckless life. For some time Robert’s high sense of
honor triumphed. But he could not endure the ridicule of his friend:--
“What a fool you are, Rob, old boy; come, sir, I didn’t think you were
such a coward! ha! ha! afraid of a glass of beer!”
“I’m not afraid, Jack Horton, and I’m no coward.” The next moment, and
for the first time in his life, a glass of beer was pressed to his lips.
But it was by no means the last. Little by little a craving was
developed for the poison--a burning thirst. His loving friends did
everything in their power to rescue him. But his eyes became bloodshot,
his hair unkempt, his body bloated, and his once fine intellect, like
his body, defaced and ruined. Finally, after a short career of vice and
folly, we followed him to an unhonored grave. His aged father groaned
in agony; while the fainting form of his gray-haired mother was borne
by kind hands away from the last resting place of her son.
My boy, remember that if you do not allow the first glass of liquor to
pass your lips, you will never become that horrible thing--that blot on
the fair creation of God--a drunkard. Do not forget that at last “it
biteth like a serpent,” and that “no drunkard shall inherit the kingdom
of God.”