Death of the Intemperate.
By Guide
It is a sad death,—there is no comfort on that dying pillow, no repose, no voice of friendship bidding adieu, no lighting up of joy in the departing spirit. It is a frequent death,—four every hour go through its gates in our own land. It is an early death, few drunkards live out half their days. It is an unlamented death;—“I am glad he is gone,” is the common saying, as the bell announces the solemn event; even his family look for comfort now he is no more. Let it be soberly contemplated, First, by the moderate drinker; it may be his turn. Second, by the vender; he has filled the bottle and done the deed. Third, by the magistrate; he signed the license. Fourth, by the heedless parent; it may yet be the death of his own son. Fifth, if not too late, by the drunkard himself, and let him escape as for his life. Habit hurries him onward, appetite hurries him onward, sickness hurries him onward, and the vender hurries him onward. But oh, his end! Yes, his awful end! Oh, reader, how can you remain idle and see your brother man approaching to that awful end every day! By-and-by these things will stare you in the face. If you have done your duty, and warned your fellow-man of his danger, it may be well with you; otherwise, depend upon it, you stand on slippery ground, and may have to share the same fate that awaits the drunkard. O professing Christians, how can you remain idle for one moment, and see your fellow-man dropping into a drunkard’s grave, doomed to a drunkard’s hell without raising your voice to warn him of the awful danger and the final fate of the drunkards?—Guide.