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 theminister 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 aneke." 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 thanusual, he would asseverate in his gravest manner, "only one and aneke, my dear." He did not think it necessary to explain that they differed in their notions of the wordeke. To her mind it meant merely half a glass, to his mind an additionad 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-shoedjockiesandjenniesgoing their rounds,—the boys in their well-darned corduroys, the girls in their whitedaidlies, the infants of a year old hoisted on the backs of their brothers, and all carrying pokes to hold the quarter cakes andwhangsof 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 theinn, "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 signifiedhis 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 wasa 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 butprayers; 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 butcauldrifebottles of soda water. Was it possible? Was he not mistaken? No, it was too true! Thewell-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 thecommunion, 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 acorpin 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 astrip 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 wouldhave 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 theroadside 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 advantageof 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.
The Deacon was able to keep his promise; for, if he ever felt tempted to stretch forth his hand towards the enchanted cup, the thought of that horrible sketch appalled him and quenchedthe desire. He now gave his countenance to every teetotal platform; and if that countenance had lost the florid complexion which at one time had been so much admired, yet it still beamed with wisdom. He seldom spoke, but his silence was far more expressive than his speech would have been. His usual luck also attended him. He was now pointed out as a fine specimen of a self-sacrificing Christian, one who had given up all the delights of convivial society, of which he was a great favourite, in order to set an example to his weaker brethren.
THE END.
Printed byM'Farlane & Erskine,Edinburgh.
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