The Donaldsonville chief. [volume] (Donaldsonville, La.) 1871-current, 1872-05-11
The Drunkard's Grave.

grass in great and little tufts -four
ished luxuriantly beside and around
it. No memorial stone with name
craven thereon, and little cherub,
with outstretched wings, as if bearing
the departed soul aloft to glory,
carved upon it, marked the spot
where the earthly remains were de-
posted. A Scotch thistle, bristling
with prickles, and angry-like, stood
sentry over it, frowning upon Bat
hurst bur that presumed to occupy
the second place of dishonor near its
foot. Modest little wild flowers grew
at some distance as if unwilling to
come near it. For it was drunk
ards grave.
No iron railing, or in the absence
of iron, no wooden palings enclosed it.
Nobody living seemed to take an in
terest in it, or have any care for it.
It stood, or rather lay, neglected and
forsaken ; marked and striking con-
trast to some of its neighbors. For it
was drunkard's grave.
No weeping willow dropped its
pendant green boughs mournfully
over it like a guardian angel with
folded wings watching the sleeping
dust till the glorious resurrection morn
when the trumpet shall sound, and
the dead shall be raised dincorruptible."
No dark cypress gracefully reared its
slender form close by it, speaking its
own silent language: !" Friends, keep
his memory green" 1t was drunk
ards grave.
No roses with their sweet, smiling
faces, looking SO happy for being per-
mitted to occupy such hallowed
ground, grew about it, or dropped one
of natures pearly tears upon it. No
violets peeped ont with their little
eyes from quiet resting places around
it, making the air redolent with their
sweet perfume, embalming in their
own quiet way the dead, as the gentle
loving woman Of whom we read in the
scripture, with the alabaster box of
ointment, very precious, did the Gr-
ing. It was drunkard's grave.
The wild, winter winds careered
unmolested over it, and rushed OH
heedlessly past it. The coming sum-
mer's hot winds seathed it and
scorched it, and burnt it. It was only
drunkard's grave.
Since the hard and hardened grave
digger carelessly and roughly
smoothed the cold yellow clay of
which it was made, no other hand
tended it. Since the last dull thud of
the spade sounded heavily upon it,
pressing earth upon earth, and clay
upon clay, and dust to the dust, as if
the body was not to rise again, but to
go down deeper and deeper, no human
foot had stood beside it, save the
passing foot of the needless stranger,
as he slowly moved regardless along,
bearing the remains of q friend or
neighbor to the narrow house and the
long home, where the wicked cease
from troubling and the weary are at
rest" No busy bee ever paid fly
ing visit it, rested at it, or returned
from it tladened with luscious honey,
gathered from opening flowers bloom
ing around it. This they did not, for
no flowers invited them. Roses had
never been planted, so they never
bloomed. 1t was q drunkard's grave.
Cold, bitterly cold, blew the wind
on that cold day. Mercilessly beat
the rain upon that rainy day. The
wind blew upon wretched driver, upon
shackly dray and uncovered coffin, it
blew upon miserable widows and still
more miserable looking orphans, as
they moved on slowly and drearily,
scantily clad, along the rough bush
road toward the drunkard's grave.
AS he would have nothing to do
with religion when living, religion
would have nothing to do with him
when dead. No solemn words declar-
ing / am the resurrection and the
life. He that believeth on ME, though
he were dead, yet shall he live,' were
spoken hopefully over the drunkard's
grave.
No word or psalm nor voice of
praise was heard. No earnest prayer
went up from holy lips pleading for
the widow and the fatherless. The
man had lived drunkard's life, and
died drunkard's death, and was
buried in, and had thus made drunk
ards grave.
No hallowed associations clustered
around it. No holy memories cling
tenaciously to it. The mans life vas
blank, his death was a blot. The
only legacy be left behind was a bad
name and drunkard's grave.
This is it, with tangled weeds
growing over it. With the rank
grass f1ourishing luxuriantly around it.
That is it with no memorial stone over
it. Yonder, where the Scotch thistle,
angry-like, frowns at its head, and
the Bathurst bur, fit emblem of the
curse of strong drink, grows at its
foot. Yes, that is the drunkard's
grave. Stranger, as You pass, look at
it in the light of this passage: "The
drunkard shall not inherit the king
dom of God and, man, as you value
your soul, avoid the drpnkard's
grave.
Mr.. Boutwell, reports the National