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. The New Church that was not Built.