freely as the tippler goes to the gin-shop, or the profligate to the brothel.
Here is one born, we will suppose, and living in a miserable, barren, dreary region, where there is little to delight the eye or regale the senses. Yonder is a rich and fertile country, charming to look upon, abounding in fruits and flowers, singing birds and running brooks, splendid habitations and magnificent gardens, with everything therein that can charm or gratify the senses. But the way to that beautiful country is over a rough road—across deep ravines and miry places—and sometimes through turbulent waters and up steep and slippery acclivities. But there is no other road to that delightful region. Whoever would take up his abode there, must encounter all the difficulties of the way. He must climb the precipices, and wade the bogs, and wallow through the miry places, and ford the swiftly running streams.
And the dweller in the desert, we will suppose, knows all this. Now he may have his choice:—he may remain in the dreary region where he was born, or, if he is willing to endure the hardships of the journey, he may go to yonder region so rich and fair, and snuff its balmy breezes for the remainder of his life, and gaze upon its beautiful scenery, and inhale its sweet perfumes and taste its delicious fruits. The choice is offered him and he is free to choose. He may stay where he is, or go to the land of beauty and promise. But if he goes, he must endure all the fatigues and hardships of the journey.
