THE EARLY VICTIM
"I have just heard," said Nat one morning to a neighbor, "that James
Cole was frozen to death last night while intoxicated. Is it true?"
"I had not heard of it," replied the neighbor. "Some people at the head
of the street were conversing about something that had occurred as I
passed, but I did not understand what it was. Perhaps it was that. He
has conducted badly for a year past, and I suppose he is a confirmed
drunkard, although he is so young."
Just then Frank came along, and, before Nat had time to inquire,
proceeded to say, "James Cole came very near freezing to death last
night, and the physician thinks it is doubtful whether he will recover."
"How did it happen?" asked Nat.
"He spent last evening at one of the grog-shops, I don't know which, and
staid drinking until it was very late; and he was badly intoxicated
when he started for home, so that he did not get far before he fell down
in the road, and was unable to get up. It was so late that no one came
along until this morning, and there he laid senseless all the while, and
was completely chilled through when Mr. Bates found him this morning."
"Then Mr. Bates found him?" said Nat.
"Yes; and he could scarcely tell whether he was dead or alive at first.
He carried him to his father's immediately, and sent for the doctor as
quickly as possible."
"Do you know what time it was when he left the grog-shop?"
"No; but I heard it was very late."
"Well," added Nat, "a man who will sell James Cole liquor until he makes
him drunk, and then send him home alone, on such a night as last night
was, has no more feeling than a brute. If he should die, that rumseller
would be the actual cause of his death."
"Certainly," answered Frank; "it would not have been half so bad to have
robbed him of his money, and turned him away without any drink. But I
wonder if Jim thinks now of the conversation we had with him about
forming the Total Abstinence Society?"
"He has probably found out by this time," replied Nat, "that he can't
stop drinking when he pleases, after an appetite for it is acquired. He
was very sure that he should never be a drunkard; and that was but
little more than two years ago."
"I never expected he would be much, but I had no idea he would come to
this so soon," added Frank. "I scarcely ever heard of a person going to
ruin so quick."
"James was a very smart fellow, naturally," said Nat. "I once thought he
was the most talented fellow of his age in town, and it would have
turned out so if he had tried to make anything of himself."
"I think so, too," said Frank. "But he never wanted to be respectable.
He always seemed to glory in drinking. He was earning five dollars a day
in the machine-shop when they turned him away, and was considered by far
the best workman there. He lost his place on account of his intemperate
habits; but it never seemed to trouble him. It is my opinion now, that
he had a strong appetite for intoxicating drinks at the time we
organized the Total Abstinence Society, and for that reason he opposed
it."
"His case will be a good defence of the temperance cause," continued
Nat, "and I hope the rumsellers will never hear the last of it. I can
scarcely see what a person can say in favor of the use and traffic in
strong drink, with such an illustration of the evil before them."
The news of James's condition spread through the village, and many
received it in a very exaggerated form. Some heard that he was dead, and
others that he was near dying, the latter rumor not being far from the
truth. Before night, however, it was announced that he was better, and
there was hope of his recovery. All sorts of stories were put in
circulation about the place of his drinking, and the circumstances
attending it. The rumseller very justly came in for his share of
condemnation, while he and his allies were disposed to say very little,
for the simple reason that there was not much for them to say. Such an
instance of degradation in the very dawn of manhood, when the dew of his
youth was still upon the victim, was an unanswerable argument for the
cause of temperance. He who could close his senses against such an
appeal in behalf of sobriety, would take the side of error in spite of
the plainest evidence to the contrary. It was not strange, then, that
much was said at the fireside, in the streets and shops, and everywhere,
concerning the event, nor that the foes of temperance were inclined to
be unusually silent.
"Doctor! how is James Cole now?" inquired a gentleman who met him some
three or four weeks after the fatal night of drunkenness.
"His case is hopeless," answered the doctor. "He has a hard cough, and
to all appearance is in a quick consumption."
"Do you consider it the consequence of his exposure on that night?"
"Certainly, it can be nothing else. If it had been a very cold night he
would have been frozen to death in the morning. I did not know that he
had become so much of a drunkard until this happened."
"I did," replied the gentleman. "I have seen a good deal of him, and
have known something of his habits. I was satisfied, when he was but
sixteen or eighteen years of age, that he had an appetite for liquor,
and I am not surprised at the result."
"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.
So the sexton buried the sleeper, and turned away to his home. For more
than twenty years his dust has been mingling with its native earth,
without a stone to mark the spot, nor a flower to tell of hope. But his
early companions, whose wiser choice and better resolves allied them to
the cause of virtue, know where the early victim was laid, and call it
the youthful DRUNKARD'S GRAVE.