l lay yourself down into the
arms of the Christian's tomb, and on the slab that marks the place
will be chiselled: "Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see
God."

But here is a young man who takes the other route. The voices of
uncleanness charm him away. He reads bad books. Lives in vicious
circles. Loses the glow from his cheek, the sparkle from his eye, and
the purity from his soul. The good shun him. Down he goes, little by
little. They who knew him when he came to town, while yet lingering
on his head was a pure mother's blessing, and on his lip the dew of a
pure sister's kiss, now pass him, and nay, "What an awful wreck!"
His eye bleared with frequent carousals. His cheek bruised in the
grog-shop fight. His lip swollen with evil indulgences. Look out what
you say to him. For a trifle he will take your life. Lower down and
lower down, until, outcast of God and man, he lies in the alms-house,
a blotch of loathsomeness and pain. Sometimes he calls out for God;
and then for more drink. Now he prays; now curses. Now laughs as
fiends laugh. Then bites his nails to the quick. Then runs both hands
through the shock of hair that hangs about his head--like the mane
of a wild beast. Then shivers--until the cot shakes--with unutterable
terror. Then, with uplifted fist, fights back the devils, or clutches
the serpents that seem winding him in their coil. Then asks for water,
which is instantly consumed by his cracked lips. Going his round some
morning, the surgeon finds him dead.

Straighten the limbs. You need not try to comb out or shove back the
matted locks. Wrap him in a sheet. Put him in a box. Two men will
carry it down to the wagon at the door. With chalk, write on the top
of the box the name of the exhausted libertine.

Do you know who it is?

That is _you_, O man, if, yielding to the temptations to an impure
life, you go out, and perish.

There is a way that seemeth bright, and fair, and beautiful; but the
end thereof is BLACKNESS OF DARKNESS FOREVER.

THE GUN THAT KICKS OVER THE MAN WHO SHOOTS IT OFF.

Blasphemy is a crime that aims at God, but does its chief harm to the
one that fires it off.

So I compare it to a piece of imperfect firearms to which the marksman
puts his eye, and, pulling the trigger, by the rebound finds himself
in the dust.

I tell you a story, Oriental and marvellous. History speaks of the
richest man in all the East. He had camels, oxen, asses, sheep, and
what wo