"Don't you see that drinking habits are bringing misery into the homes
of the people in our parish--ay, into your own homes? You must see it.
You must see how drunkenness stores up misery for you here and
hereafter. What will become of you when you die, if you go on as you
are doing now? What will become of your families? What will--"
At this moment there was a loud shout of "Hoy! hoy!" from the lips of a
carter who was coming with a brewer's dray out of the inn-yard. The man
had just been depositing several full casks, and was now returning with
the empty ones. He did not see the rector at first; but when the group
made way for him, and his eyes fell on Mr Oliphant, he touched his hat
as he was passing, and said,--
"I beg pardon, sir; I did not know as you was there." Then suddenly
pulling up his horse, he added-- "Oh, if you please, sir, master bid me
say he's very sorry he hasn't any of the ale you've been drinking ready
just now, but he hopes you'll let me leave this barrel of stout, it's in
prime order, he says."
"Very well," replied Mr Oliphant; "you may leave it."
Then he turned again to the men: they were moving off. He would have
taken up his earnest appeal where he left it; but somehow or other he
felt a difficulty in speaking, and the deep attention was evidently gone
from his hearers. He hesitated. They were already dispersing: should
he call them back? He felt as if he could not. He turned sadly towards
home, deeply vexed and chafed in his spirit. He blamed the ill-timed
interruption of the carter; and yet he felt that there was something
else lurking in the background with which he felt dissatisfied--
something which wanted dragging out into the light.
"And yet it's so foolish!" he said to himself, as he walked slowly up
the street. "My drinking in moderation has nothing in common with their
drinking immoderately. Why should my use of intoxicating liquors fetter
me in dissuading these poor creatures from their abuse? They ought to
see the difference." Then a voice, deeper in the heart, whispered--
"They ought; but they do not, and their souls are perishing. They are
your people: you must deal with them as they are, not as they ought to
be."
That night the rector's sleep was very troubled.
It was about a week later that he was again near the "Oldfield Arms,"
when a spruce-looking man--his wine-merchant's agent--came out of the
inn door, and walked up the street. Two men were standing with their
backs to the rector just outside the yard. He was about to pass on;
when he heard one say,--
"What a sight of wine some of them parsons drink! Yon fine gent
couldn't afford all them gold chains and pins if it warn't for the
parsons."
"Ay," said the other, "it's the parsons as knows good wine from bad. I
heerd yon chap say only this morning: `Our very best customers is the
clergy.'"
"Well," rejoined the other, "I shouldn't mind if they'd only leave us
poor fellows alone, and let us get drunk when we've a mind. But it do
seem a little hard that _they_ may get drunk on their wine, but we
mustn't get drunk on our beer."
"Oh, but you know, Bill," said the other, "this here's the difference.
When they get drunk, it's genteel drunk, and there's no sin in that; but
when we poor fellows get drunk, it's wulgar drunk, and that's awful
wicked."
Bernard Oliphant was deeply pained; he shrank within himself.
"It's a cruel libel and a coarse slander," he muttered, and hastened on
his way. "Am _I_ answerable," he asked himself, "for the abuse which
others may make of what I take moderately and innocently? Absurd! And
yet it's a pity, a grievous pity, that it should be possible for such
poor ignorant creatures to speak thus of any of our holy calling, and so
to justify themselves in sin."
Yes, he felt it to be so, and it preyed upon his mind more and more. He
mentioned what he had heard to his wife.
"Dear Bernard," she replied, "I have thought a great deal lately on this
subject, especially since you told me about your speaking to those men
when you were interrupted by the drayman. I have prayed that you and I
might be directed aright; and we _shall_ be. But do not let us be
hasty. It does seem as though we were being called on to give up, for
the sake of others, what does us personally no harm. But perhaps we may
be wrong in this view. A great many excellent Christians, and ministers
too, are moderate drinkers, and never exceed; and we must not be carried
away by a mistaken enthusiasm to brand their use of fermented drinks as
sinful because such frightful evils are daily resulting from immoderate
drinking. We must think and pray, and our path will be made plain; and
we must be prepared to walk in it, cost what it may."
"Yes," said her husband; "I am getting more and more convinced that
there is something exceptional in this matter--that we cannot deal with
this sin of drunkenness as we deal with other sins. But we will wait a
little longer for guidance; yet not too long, for souls are perishing,
and ruin is thickening all round us."
They had not to wait long; their path was soon made clear.
It was on a bitter and cheerless November evening that Mr Oliphant was
returning to the rectory from a distant part of his parish. He was
warmly clad; but the keen wind, which drove a prickly deluge of fine
hail into his face, seemed to make its way through every covering into
his very bones. He was hurrying on, thankful that home was so near,
when he suddenly stumbled upon something in the path which he had not
noticed, being half blinded by the frozen sleet. With difficulty he
saved himself from falling over this obstacle, which looked in the
feeble moonlight like a bundle of ragged clothes. Then he stooped down
to examine it more closely, and was horrified at hearing a low moan,
which showed that it was a living creature that lay on the path. It was
plainly, in fact, some poor, half-frozen fellow-man, who lay coiled
together there, perishing of cold in that bitter night. The rector
tried to raise the poor wretch from the ground, but the body hung like a
dead weight upon him.
"Come," he said, "my poor fellow; come, try and rouse yourself and get
up. You'll die if you lie here."
The miserable bundle of humanity partly uncoiled itself, and made an
effort to rise, but sunk back again. Mr Oliphant shouted for help.
The shout seemed partly to revive the prostrate creature, and he half
raised himself.
"Come," said the rector again,-- "come, lean on my arm, and try and get
up. You'll die of cold if you stay here."
"Die!" said a thick, unearthly voice from out of that half-frozen mass
of flesh and blood. "In Adam all die."
"Who and what are you?" cried the rector, in extreme astonishment and
distress.
"What am I? Ah, what am I?" was the bewildered, scarce audible reply.
By this time help had arrived. Two men came up, and assisted Mr
Oliphant to raise the poor man, and support him to the "Oldfield Arms,"
where he was immediately put to bed; one of the men being sent off by
the rector to fetch the nearest medical man, while he himself gave
orders that everything should be done to restore the unhappy sufferer to
warmth and consciousness.
"Please, Mrs Barnes," said he to the landlady, "be so good as to send
up to the rectory, and let me know, when the doctor comes, if he says
that there is any danger. If his report is favourable, I will leave a
night's rest to do its work, and will look in again early to-morrow.
And pray let the poor man have everything that he needs, and send up to
the rectory if you are short of anything."
"Thank you, sir," said Mrs Barnes. "I will see that he is properly
looked to."
The rector then went home, and in another hour received a message from
the inn that the doctor had been, and that there was no danger of any
immediately fatal result; that he would call again on his patient the
following morning, and should be glad to meet the rector at the inn.
Accordingly, the following day at the appointed hour Bernard and the
doctor went up together into the sick man's room. As they opened the
door they were astonished to hear the patient declaiming in a loud
voice,--
"If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is
not in us."
Bernard's heart grew sick. Could it be? Could this miserable creature
be one of his own profession? Were these words the ramblings of one who
had been used to officiate as a Church minister? And, if so, what could
have brought him to such a state of utter destitution? The doctor
seemed to read his thoughts, and shook his head sadly. Then, putting
his mouth to his ear, he said,--
"It's the drink; the smell of spirits is still strong on him."
"Poor wretched creature!" said Mr Oliphant. "Can it be that the love
of drink has brought a man of position and education to such a state as
this? What can be done for him?"
"Not much at present," was the reply, "beyond keeping him quiet, and
nursing him well till the fever has run its course. And one thing is
clear--we must keep all intoxicants from him. They are downright poison
to a man of his constitution; and should he get hold of any spirits
before his health is thoroughly established again, I would not answer
for his life."
The rector called Mrs Barnes, and told her what the doctor had said,
adding,--
"You must find a trustworthy nurse for him--one who will strictly attend
to the doctor's orders."
The landlady promised she would do so; and the rector left the sick-
chamber with a sorrowful look and troubled heart.
In ten days' time the patient was well enough to sit up in bed and
converse with Mr Oliphant.
"My poor friend," said the rector, "I grieve to see you in your present
state, especially as I cannot but perceive that you have seen better
days, and moved among people of education. However, there is great
cause to thank God that he has so far spared your life."