An old man of seventy-five years lay dying. For a lifetime he had
turned a deaf ear to religion, and steeped his soul in every current
crime. He had robbed the orphan and plundered the widow; he had wrested
from the hard hands of honest toil the rewards of labour; had lost at
the gaming-table the wealth with which he should have endowed churches
and Sunday schools; had wasted in riotous living the substance of his
patrimony, and left his wife and children without bread. The
intoxicating bowl had been his god—his belly had absorbed his entire
attention. In carnal pleasures passed his days and nights, and to the
maddening desires of his heart he had ministered without shame and
without remorse. He was a bad, bad egg! And now this hardened iniquitor
was to meet his Maker! Feebly and hesitatingly his breath fluttered
upon his pallid lips. Weakly trembled the pulse in his flattened veins!
Wife, children, mother-in-law, friends, who should have hovered
lovingly about his couch, cheering his last moments and giving him
medicine, he had killed with grief, or driven widely away; and he was
now dying alone by the inadequate light of a tallow candle, deserted by
heaven and by earth. No, not by heaven. Suddenly the door was pushed
softly open, and there entered the good minister, whose pious counsel
the suffering wretch had in health so often derided. Solemnly the man
of God advanced, Bible in hand. Long and silently he stood uncovered in
the presence of death. Then with cold and impressive dignity he
remarked, “Miserable old sinner!”
Old Jonas Lashworthy looked up. He sat up. The voice of that holy man
put strength into his aged limbs, and he stood up. He was reserved for
a better fate than to die like a neglected dog: Mr. Lashworthy was
hanged for braining a minister of the Gospel with a boot-jack. This
touching tale has a moral.
MORAL OF THIS TOUCHING TALE.—In snatching a brand from the eternal
burning, make sure of its condition, and be careful how you lay hold of
it.