"The poor fellow will soon know the worst," added the doctor. "He can't live many weeks at the longest."
"I hope it will prove a warning to the young here," said the gentleman. "The fact is, I wonder sometimes that we do not have more of such cases when the temptations to drink are so common. But one ought to be sufficient to move the whole town on the subject."
Not quite twelve weeks have elapsed since the foregoing incident occurred. The bell tolls out its solemn death-knell, and the sable hearse is moving slowly on to the grave-yard. Sad, tearful mourners follow, to lay all that remains of James Cole—the son, and brother—in the silent "narrow house." For the demon-vice has done its worst, and loosed the silver chord, and his youthful spirit has gone before the drunkard's offended God. Alas! what painful memories throng the minds of beholders at the sight of the long, mournful procession on its way to the tomb! Never did a hearse convey more blasted hopes or wasted powers, more abused and withered ties, or dishonored members, to the house of the dead. Within that coffin is the bright promise of youth, the strength of early manhood, parental expectations and love—all blighted by the breath of the destroyer, and laid in as sad a winding-sheet as ever wrapped a tenant of the grave. Oh! how great the woes of intemperance appear, when these appalling realities dash earthly hopes, and send the wretched victim away to that world "from whose bourne no traveller returns!" So thought many as the lifeless form of James Cole was consigned to its kindred dust.
"Another drunkard's grave," said the sexton, as the stones rattled upon the coffin which he proceeded to cover, when the procession had retired; and his remark was addressed to a neighbor who stood by his side.
"Not exactly a drunkard's grave," was the reply. "James was intemperate, but he died of consumption."
"And was not that consumption the consequence of his drunkenness?" inquired the sexton.
"I suppose it was; still I thought we could hardly call this a drunkard's grave, though it is true enough."
"It is too painfully true," added the sexton. "Would that it might be called otherwise; but it cannot be. When you and I are numbered with the dead, this spot will be known by all who have seen James Cole buried to-day, as the drunkard's grave. There are many of them in this yard, but I never dug a sadder one than this."
"And I hope you never will another," said the man.