attention. His face was really his fortune. What his character was,
I cannot describe better than by saying, that it was ineffably
respectable. Not only all the ten commandments, but all the Christian
doctrines, seemed to be written on it. As a natural result, there came
very soon to be a demand for it. Those who were getting up a public
meeting said to him, "You must give us your countenance." At every
public gathering, therefore, it was seen in a prominent place, like
the full harvest moon in the sky, or rather (to be more correct) like
one of his own copper kettles on a farmer's kitchen wall. And on the
mere strength of it, and for no other reason, the Deacon was made, in
a very short time, a member of the parochial board, a town councillor,
and an elder in the parish church. In this last capacity especially,
his influence was potent. Whenever it was his turn to stand at the
plate, the collection was nearly double; for when such a sublimely
religious visage was regarding them, the members were ashamed to put
in the regulation halfpenny. At funerals, too, his presence lent
solemnity. The very way in which he partook of the wine that was handed
round, gave the company the impression, that he was paying a tribute of
respect to the deceased and showing his sympathy with the survivors.
In spite of his popularity, the Deacon, like every other great man,
was modest and conciliatory. He had a good word to say about all,
especially those in high places. "An excellent man, sir," was the
comment which he invariably passed when one of these was mentioned.
With him an influential position was like charity: it covered a
multitude of sins. He was particularly obsequious to the minister of
the parish, Mr Patullo, for he regarded him as the local representative
of Church and State, and national institutions generally.
There was one national institution (if we may be allowed to call it
so) which the Deacon assiduously kept up, namely, the practice of
closing the labours of the day with a tumbler of toddy. Every evening,
punctually at ten, as soon as family worship was over and the Bibles
were removed, the servant lassie, Eesie, put down on the table whisky,
sugar, and hot water. This operation was gone about in such a serious
way, that a stranger might have fancied that it was another religious
rite which was about to be performed. And if we may judge from the
grave manner in which he proceeded to mix the elements, the Deacon
evidently thought so too. His wife, indeed, who had not the same
reverence for her great husband as the outside world had, tried to
limit his allowance of spirits to "one glass and an _eke_." But, as
he whispered to himself, he was a sound Whig and could not abide any
but Liberal measures. Accordingly, as soon as her back was turned, he
dexterously tilted up the bottle and swelled the quantity of spirits;
and if she chanced to remark that the colour of the toddy was stronger
than usual, he would asseverate in his gravest manner, "only one and
an _eke_, my dear." He did not think it necessary to explain that
they differed in their notions of the word _eke_. To her mind it
meant merely half a glass, to his mind an addition _ad libitum_. A
wonderfully accommodating term!
In fact, the Deacon belonged to the old school of worthies commemorated
by Lord Cockburn and Dean Ramsay, who practised drinking as a virtue,
and who considered whisky as an indispensable necessary of life,--a
salve for the body, a balm for the heart, a clarifier for the mind,
a solder of friendship, a good omen at births and marriages, and a
consolation at funerals. In other words, he was about the last relic of
those thorough-going topers who found in almost every circumstance of
life a reason for drinking. As he was mixing his toddy he would say,
"It is a fine old custom, sir," and then (altering Shakespeare to suit
his meaning) he would add, 'A custom more honoured in the observance
than in the breach.' He had heard of a new-fangled set of men called
teetotallers, who condemned drinking on any occasion whatever, but he
classed them with those poor creatures--idiots and savages--who had
not yet come into the use of all the blessings of civilisation, and
did not know what was good for them. Little did he think that he was
destined to become a member of that very body which he so much despised.
The New Year festivities, or, as they were called in Scotland,
"the daft days," had come. In Fife, the great day of the feast was
Handsel Monday, that is, the Monday after old New Year's Day. It was
dedicated to complete relaxation from toil and care, and to the kindly
interchange of good wishes and hospitality. Men forgot for a time that
they were rivals struggling for existence, and remembered only that
they were Christians. They threw off the hard armour of selfishness,
and appeared in the guise of charity. Every mansion, every farm-house
was turned into a sort of banqueting hall, and was well supplied
with comforting viands: oatmeal cakes and cheese for the children,
and currant loaves, shortbread, wine and spirits for the adults. No
invitations were sent out, but everyone was made heartily welcome.
And what a pleasant sight it was to see the merry, chubby-faced
tackety-shoed _jockies_ and _jennies_ going their rounds,--the boys in
their well-darned corduroys, the girls in their white _daidlies_, the
infants of a year old hoisted on the backs of their brothers, and all
carrying pokes to hold the quarter cakes and _whangs_ of cheese, which
they were sure to get at every farm-town.
Of the adults who kept up these old-fashioned festivities, there was
none more faithful than the Deacon. For several years, at Handsel
Monday time, he had been accustomed to travel ten miles into the
country, starting on Sunday at mid-day, and returning on Tuesday
forenoon. His ostensible purpose was to eat his Handsel Monday dinner
with one friend, Mr Stark of Kingswell, and his Handsel Monday supper
with another friend, Mr Piper of Hallyetts; but he also made it his
business to call by the way at many houses, both public and private.
Some irreverent wag compared him on these occasions to a Dutch lugger,
putting in at every available port for the purpose of victualling;
but he felt himself to be a sort of missionary going forth to promote
good-will and good-fellowship among men. Sociality, he held, was a
virtue which ought to be encouraged for the sake of the dispenser as
well as of the receiver. "It is twice blessed: it blesseth him that
gives, and him that takes."
On the particular occasion to which this story refers, the Deacon was
accompanied by his nephew, Sam Slater. As they set out after forenoon
service on a sombre Sunday, they presented a striking contrast. The
Deacon was stout, and full and red in the face; Sam was little, and had
a lean and hungry look. The Deacon was heavy with a sense of his own
dignity; Sam was light and airy as a bird upon the tree. The Deacon was
bent upon taking advantage of every possible refreshment by the way;
Sam was on the alert to mark the solemn excuses which would be given
for this indulgence. It was Bully Bottom led on by tricksy Puck.
They had not gone far before the refreshing process commenced. At the
outskirts of the town, when they were passing a small change-house, the
Deacon, giving a shiver, said, "I feel cold; prevention is better than
cure; let us fortify ourselves against a chill by a timely dram." And
this accordingly they did.
They had travelled four miles, and after climbing a steep hill they had
arrived at Baidlin Toll Inn, when the Deacon stopped, and, wiping his
perspiring forehead, said, "We must go in here, and cool ourselves with
a little of the national beverage."
When they were drinking it, Sam, with a twinkle in his eye, said, "It's
strange that we should take our first dram to warm us, and our second
to cool us."
"No," replied the Deacon, gravely, "not at all strange; good whisky,
sir, is a cure for almost every complaint. It's a sympathetic,
comforting friend that fits into all our wants. Yes sir! it fits into
all our wants;" and he took a large gulp, and smacked his lips.
The next place of entertainment was at the Cross Roads, three miles
farther on. As they came up to it, Sam hurried on and passed the door;
but the Deacon, telling him to stop, said, in a voice quavering with
emotion, "This house is kept, sir, by a decent woman, Mrs Dowie, who
has just lost her husband. It was a sudden call, and my heart bleeds
for her. This is not a time to forget the widow and the fatherless. Let
us go in, and give her our sympathy." The sympathy was expressed by
quaffing two glasses to her very good health.
The only other inn on the way was the well-known house at Inverarden
Bridge, near the church and manse.
"Surely," said Sam, as they came up to the inn, "we need not go in
here. This house is not kept by a widow."
"This house," said the Deacon, ignoring the gibe, "was used by my
honoured father during his journeys for twenty years, and for his son
to pass the door would imply disapproval of his conduct. In these
radical times, sir, we should not desert the old paths. Besides," he
added, rising into a higher tone, "an inn is a public institution,
sanctioned by the magistrates, and paying taxes to uphold the Church
and State. As loyal subjects of the King, we must support it."
So in they went, and, fortified by what they imbibed, were able to
reach Kingswell, an old-fashioned farm-house surrounded by ancient
trees.
That evening the Deacon, with his impressive personality, fairly
took possession of the house and its inmates. At tea his face, under
the influence of buttered toast, scones, savoury ham, and new-laid
eggs, literally shone like a lamp, self-feeding and self-adjusting.
Then, seated in the farmer's easy chair beside the fire, he directed
the conversation to famous preachers, as a subject appropriate for
the evening; and when one minister after another was mentioned, he
signified his approval of each by saying, "A workman not needing to
be ashamed," or, "A polished shaft in the temple." There was, perhaps,
a want of variety about these judgments, but they were uttered with
such an air of wisdom that they appeared perfectly conclusive. At nine
he "took the Books," and conducted family worship in a manner which
satisfied everybody. The servant, Kirstie Clash, whispered to Sam,
"He's a wonderfu' man that deacon o' yours. He has eneuch o' unction
and command o' Scripter to sair a haill Presbytery." And when he
retired for the night, after partaking of a liberal tumbler, it was
with the air of a man that had left no duty unperformed.
Next day was one of those mild and sunny gleams that sometimes fall
on the sterile landscape of winter, like the memory of some youthful
pleasure on the face of an old man. The Deacon rose in the morning like
a giant refreshed, and with a giant's appetite.
After a breakfast of ham and eggs and cold fowl, he said to his host,
Mr Stark, "By the by, you have a new neighbour at Myreside, Mr Potter.
I should like to call upon him."
"Do you know Mr Potter?" asked Mr Stark.
"Not exactly," replied the Deacon, "but he is a relative of my friend,
Councillor Tawse."
"Your friend!" exclaimed Sam Slater, in a tone of surprise; "why,
Councillor Tawse is your greatest enemy."
"Municipally, but not socially," said the Deacon. "We disagree at
the council board, but we make it up at the festive board; and even
although he were my enemy, should we not, especially at this season,
return good for evil?"
There was no gainsaying this high religious reasoning, and so the
Deacon, accompanied by his host and Sam, called at Myreside; and there
they were entertained with shortbread, currant loaf, and whisky; and
there the Deacon, like a well-oiled machine, performed the conventional
task of wishing health and prosperity to the household. But it was at
the dinner, which took place at mid-day at Kingswell, where the great
man came out in his full strength. After the turkey and plum-pudding,
his soul seemed to melt and flow forth in benevolent expression. He
proposed toast after toast, he uttered sentiment after sentiment, he
christened each toast and sentiment with a liberal libation of toddy,
and he got into such a full flow of sociality that it was a difficult
task to stop him. At last, when the gloaming was coming on, Sam started
up and said that they must set out at once. They were to return
homewards by a different road, and stay all night with a hospitable
friend, Mr Piper of Hallyetts, who lived at a village half way on their
journey.
After a most impressive farewell to Mr Stark and his family, the Deacon
took Sam's arm, and proceeded on his way. He had been wound up so
tightly by the festivities of the day that he was not yet nearly run
down; and as he went on, he descanted warmly upon the hospitalities
and virtues of the people they had left. And when Sam, in his own
mischievous mood, began to sneer at toast-drinking, and to wonder
how the swallowing of liquor could have any effect upon the health
and prosperity of other people, the Deacon grew red with righteous
indignation.
"Sam," he explained, "I am astonished at your ignorance. The Bible,
sir, says that wine maketh glad the heart of man. In other words, it
fills the heart with kindly social feeling. This feeling finds its
legitimate outlet in kind wishes towards our fellow-men; and what are
kind wishes but prayers; and are you such an unbeliever, sir, as to
hold that prayers have no effect?"
There was only one public-house by the way; and the whisky which they
got there was pronounced by the Deacon to be disgraceful. But he told
Sam to cheer up, for they would soon be at a house where they would
have every comfort. And then he went off into a eulogy on his friend
Piper. "He is a good Samaritan, sir, and his home is a perfect haven
of rest; and as for his whisky, it's the balm of Gilead, soothing the
wounds of both soul and body."
But, alas for human expectations! When they arrived at Hallyetts, and
were welcomed warmly by Mr and Mrs Piper and their family, and when
they had been ushered into the dining-room where the table was laid
for supper, the Deacon stood aghast. So stands the country gentleman
when he steps out of his mansion on a May morning expecting to see
nothing but beauty and warmth, and finds the landscape under a sheet of
chilling snow. Instead of the warm, heart-cheering decanters that were
wont to be there, the Deacon beheld nothing but _cauldrife_ bottles
of soda water. Was it possible? Was he not mistaken? No, it was too
true! The well-remembered, much-comforting Glenlivet was gone! He sank
speechless into a chair. He turned red and then white. His friends in
alarm gathered round him, asking him if he were ill. He could only
whisper, "Brandy, for heaven's sake!"
"I'm very sorry," said Mr Piper, "but we have not a drop of spirits or
wine in the house. Did you not hear that we have become abstainers? I
thought that all our friends had heard it."
The Deacon could only answer with a look,--a look of pity not unmingled
with contempt.
"The fact is," continued Mr Piper, "we were so appalled when our
cousin, poor Ned Venters, while under the influence of drink, murdered
his wife, that we took the pledge at once."
"Your cousin's vile disposition," said the Deacon, in feeble tones,
"was the cause of the crime,--not the drink, unless it was bad. Good
sound whisky can't make a man a murderer. It makes him more amiable."
"As Christians," said Mr Piper, "we felt that we were bound to give up
strong drink, which causes our brother to err."
"As Christians," retorted the Deacon, still feebly, "we are commanded
to celebrate the communion, and while celebrating the communion, we
are commanded to drink wine. Your appeal to Christianity won't hold
water."
"Come, come, Deacon," said Mr Piper, "have a cup of tea. It will do
you more good than brandy, and then you'll go to bed and you'll be all
right in the morning."
"No bed for me," murmured the Deacon. "If I was to try to sleep here
in my present condition, there would be a _corp_ in your house before
morning. I'll go home. Come, Sam, we'll find the needed medicine in
some humble change-house by the wayside." So saying, the Deacon rose,
got his hat, and in a dignified, but (it must be confessed) rather a
staggery manner, went out of the house, closely followed by Sam.
Next morning the Deacon awoke with the feeling that he was in unknown
quarters. He opened his eyes, and saw that he was in a strange room.
For a moment the thought flashed through his brain, "Can this be
me?" But the sight of his well-known pantaloons lying on a chair,
and in a rather muddy plight, restored his consciousness of personal
identity. He rose and looked out at the window, but saw nothing
except a few outhouses and a strip of garden, all of which were
unfamiliar. He dressed himself hastily, and opened the door of the
room, but found himself in a passage where there was no sight or
sound of anybody. He crept quietly along, and finding a room door
open, entered it. There was no one in it. It was evidently a parlour,
bright and comfortable, with a clear fire in the grate, and with the
walls covered with numerous pictures and sketches. And what was this
paper on the table? It was a sketch of a figure. He took it up; and,
could he believe his eyes? Yes! rough and hasty though it was, it was
a representation of himself in a state of stupor--hair dishevelled,
eyes swollen and closed, features distorted, mouth open, jaw hanging
down; and underneath it was written "A Drunken Sot." Could this be the
countenance of which he was so proud, and which, his admirers said,
was the embodiment of respectability? As he looked at it, he felt that
his good name was gone, and the perspiration fell in drops from his
forehead. What enemy could have done this?
He was still wondering, when steps were heard approaching, and he had
just time to push away the picture, when there stood in the doorway the
very last man whom at that moment he would have wished to see--the
Rev. Mr Patullo. And this gentleman behaved in an extraordinary manner.
Not a smile of recognition did he give. Not a word did he utter. He
merely sat down and gazed sorrowfully on the Deacon. His feelings were
evidently too strong for words. The silence continued for about a
minute. It was an awful minute for the Deacon. He felt that he ought to
speak; but he really could not do it till he knew where he was; and it
would be a most humiliating question to ask, "Where am I?"
At last the minister broke the oppressive silence. In that slow, deep,
and funereal tone for which he was famous, he repeated again and
again just one word--"Lost! Lost! Lost!" and then stopped. This was a
favourite method of his, which he often used at the beginning of his
sermon, and which at once riveted and solemnised his congregation. And
on this occasion it sounded in the Deacon's ears like the voice of
Doom. Then after an awful pause, the minister continued:
"This is terrible, Mr Roper, terrible for me, and still more terrible
for you. I came here yesterday to dine and stay the night with my
friend, Mr Virtue, the artist. We were sitting at supper, when
intelligence arrived that a gentleman of respectable appearance had
dropped down by the roadside, and that his friend who was with him was
unable to take him any farther. He was brought in, and you may imagine
what was my horror when I found that the gentleman was my friend and
chief elder, and that he was in a plight which I can't trust myself to
describe. Now, as I must bring this matter before the Kirk Session--"
"Oh! Mr Patullo, you surely will never do that."
"I must. I would be quite unworthy of my place if I did not do it. If
it were not your own case, you yourself would advise that. You remember
how severe you were upon poor Willie Flett, who was up before us last
month. But before I make up my mind definitely, I shall listen to any
explanation you have to give."
The Deacon, fortunately for himself, had long cultivated the faculty of
putting the best face on every matter, and this faculty now served him
in good stead. So, shaking Mr Patullo's hand, and wiping a tear from
his eye, he said, "Thank you, sir, you are acting as my best friend,
as you have always done. I will, therefore, tell you frankly the whole
matter. Sam Slater and I were keeping our Handsel Monday at Kingswell.
I am not an abstainer, as you know, and have always used the gifts
of Providence without abusing them. At dinner I had my share of the
punch, but no more, and when we set out I was perfectly well. But,
unfortunately, at a half-way house where we stopped for refreshment,
the whisky was bad. As soon as I had taken it, I felt ill, and said
so to Sam. It was some time before it acted; but at length it made me
quite sick and helpless. Mr Patullo! it was poison and not drink that
put me into such a sad condition! I was really ill, not intoxicated."
Mr Patullo hummed and hawed, and said, "Would you object to me hearing
what Mr Sam Slater has got to say?"
"Nothing would gratify me more," said the Deacon, although he did not
look as if he were gratified. The fact is, that he was not sure on what
line the whimsical Sam might get.
When Sam came in and was asked point blank by the minister, "How do
you account for the state in which Mr Roper was last night?" it seemed
as if he were going to put his foot into it. Blushing and hesitating
he said, "Well! really I could not undertake to say." But when the
minister asked him if they got anything at the roadside public-house
which disagreed with them, he saw what cue he was to take.
"Ah! yes," he said, brightening up, "I remember now--the bad whisky.
The Deacon, after drinking it, said that it was atrocious. It had no
bad effect at first; but when we were in Mr Piper's house, I noticed
that the Deacon turned as white as a sheet, and when we came out into
the open air, he became so sick that he had to sit down by the wayside.
Yes, it must have been the adulterated drink that poisoned him."
"But how was it that you were not poisoned?" asked the minister.
"For the simple reason," answered Sam, "that I merely put the stuff to
my lips and did not take off my glass."
"Well," said the minister, after some anxious consideration, "as a
Christian pastor I must take the most charitable view; and even as
a humane man, I must, where there is a doubt, give the accused the
benefit of a doubt. I therefore will agree to make no charge against
you. But you must take means instantly to prevent yourself ever falling
into such suspicious circumstances again."
"How can I do that?" asked the Deacon.
"By taking the pledge," replied the minister: "not publicly--just now
at least, that might rouse people's suspicion, but privately to myself.
I shall draw up a paper here to-day, which you will sign, and to which
Mr Slater will append his name as a witness. I shall then explain to
the people of the house that you were ill, not intoxicated, and that to
prevent the uncharitable world putting the worst construction on the
circumstance, they must mention this lamentable occurrence to nobody."
But the Deacon demurred, and turned sick at the idea of taking the
pledge. What! he who had upheld moderate drinking as the right use of
the mercies of Providence, and had branded total abstainers as casting
a reflection on Him who turned water into wine!
Mr Patullo, however, in a resolute voice said, "Mr Roper, if you could
have seen yourself as others saw you last night--but what is this?" He
had caught sight of the sketch on the table, had taken it up and was
looking at it. "This is the work of Tom, Mr Virtue's son. He is an art
student, and sketches everybody and everything. It was too bad of him
to take advantage of you in your unfortunate plight. But its turning
up just now, at this critical moment, serves a good purpose. It gives
you the power which Burns so much desired for mankind--the power of
seeing yourself as others see you. Look at it, Mr Roper, and listen to
me. What happened yesterday may happen again in your own town. You may
take a glass too much, and that glass, like the one that has made you
ill, may be poison. And what will be the result? You will appear before
your fellow-townsmen, your fellow-Christians, your own wife, in this
disgusting condition. Your ruin will then be instant and irretrievable.
The high character which you have maintained for so many years will
fall to pieces; and from being the respected and admired of Sandyriggs
society, you will become, what you are represented here to be, 'a
drunken sot.'"
The Deacon shuddered at the prospect thus held up before him, and
seizing Mr Patullo's hands, declared that he was ready to sign a
promise, renouncing drink for ever.