"But there is still a stronger view to be taken. Suppose a member of
the human body is diseased--a limb, for instance, in a partial state
of mortification. Here there is a reception of life from the whole
system into that limb, and a constant giving back of disease that
gradually pervades the entire body; and, unless that body possesses
extraordinary vital energy, in the end destroys it. In like manner,
if in the larger body there be one member who takes his share of
life from the whole, and gives back nothing but a poisonous
principle, whose effect is disease and death, surely he cannot be
called a good member--nor honest, nor honourable."
"And pray, Mr. Mildman," asked the tavern-keeper, with warmth,
"where will you find, in society, such an individual as you
describe?"
The minister paused at this question, and looked his companion
steadily in the face. Then raising his long, thin finger to give
force to his remark, he said with deep emphasis--
_"Thou art the man!"_
"Me, Mr. Mildman! me!" exclaimed the tavern-keeper, in surprise and
displeasure. "You surely cannot be in earnest."
"I utter but a solemn truth, Mr. Muddler: such is your position in
society! You receive food, and clothing, and comforts and luxuries
of various kinds for yourself and family from the social body, and
what do you give back for all these? A poison to steal away the
health and happiness of that social body. You are far worse than a
perfectly dead member--you exist upon the great body as a moral
gangrene. Reflect calmly upon this subject. Go home, and in the
silence of your own chamber, enter into unimpassioned and solemn
communion with your heart. Be honest with yourself. Exclude the bias
of selfish feelings and selfish interests, and honestly define to
yourself your true position.'
"But, Mr. Mildman--"
The two men had paused nearly in front of Mr. Muddler's splendid
establishment, and were standing there when the tavern-keeper
commenced a reply to the minister's last remarks. He had uttered but
the first word or two, when he was interrupted by a pale,
thinly-dressed female, who held a little girl by the hand. She came
up before him and looked him steadily in the face for a moment or
two.
"Mr. Muddler, I believe," she said.
"Yes, madam, that is my name," was his reply.
"I have come, Mr. Muddler," the woman then said, with an effort to
smile and affect a polite air, "to thank you for a present I
received last night."
"Thank me, madam! There certainly must be some mistake. I never made
you a present. Indeed, I have not the pleasure of your
acquaintance."
"You said your name was Muddler, I believe?"
"Yes, madam, as I told you before, that is my name."
"Then you are the man. You made my little girl, here a present also,
and we have both come with our thanks."
"You deal in riddles, madam, Speak out plainly."
"As I said before," the woman replied, with bitter irony in her
tones, "I have come with my little girl to thank you for the present
we received last night;--a present of wretchedness and abuse."
"I am still as far from understanding you as ever," the
tavern-keeper said--I never abused you, madam. I do not even know
you."
"But you know my husband, sir! You have enticed him to your bar, and
for his money have given him a poison that has changed him from one
of the best and kindest of men, into a demon. To you, then, I owe
all the wretchedness I have suffered, and the brutal treatment I
shared with my helpless children last night. It is for this that I
have come to thank you."
"Surely, madam, you must be beside yourself. I have nothing to do
with your husband."
"Nothing to do with him!" the woman exclaimed, in an excited tone.
"Would to heaven that it were so! Before you opened your accursed
gin palace, he was a sober man, and the best and kindest of
husbands--but, enticed by you, your advertisement and display of
fancy drinks, he was tempted within the charmed circle of your
bar-room. From that moment began his downfall; and now he is lost to
self-control--lost to feeling--lost to humanity!"
As the woman said this, she burst into tears, and then turned and
walked slowly away.
"To that painful illustration of the truth of what I have said," the
minister remarked, as the two stood once more alone, "I have nothing
to add. May the lesson sink deep into your heart. Between you and
that woman's husband existed a regular business transaction. Did it
result in a mutual benefit? Answer that question to your own
conscience."
How the tavern-keeper answered it, we know not. But if he received
no benefit from the double lesson, we trust that others may; and in
the hope that the practical truth we have endeavoured briefly to
illustrate, will fall somewhere upon good ground, we cast it forth
for the benefit of our fellow-men.