Part 4 (1/2)
Its sign, however, had long since disappeared; and it was now in the hands of the rector, its princ.i.p.al apartment having been transformed into a reading-room, and place for holding meetings. And how was this brought about? Simply thus. When Bernard Oliphant first came to Waterland, he found the ”Oldfield Arms” doing a most excellent business; so far as _that_ can be an excellent business which builds the prosperity of one upon the ruin of hundreds. People grumbled at the lowness of wages; wives were unable to procure money from their husbands for decent dress; children were half-starved and two-thirds naked; disease and dirt found a home almost everywhere; boys and girls grew up in ignorance, for their parents could not afford to send them to school; the men had no tidy clothes in which to appear at church. Yet, somehow or other, the ”Oldfield Arms” was never short of customers; and customers, too, who paid, and paid well, sooner or later, for what they consumed. So the rector went among the people, and told them plainly of the sin of drunkenness, and pointed out the misery it brought, as their own eyes could see. They confessed the truth--such as he could manage to get hold of--and drank on as before. He was getting heart-sick and miserable. Preach as he might--and he did preach the truth with all faithfulness and love--the notices of ale, porter, and spirits, set up in flaming colours in the windows and on the walls of the ”Oldfield Arms,” preached far more persuasively in the cause of intemperance.
One day he came upon a knot of men standing just at the entrance of the yard that led to the tap-room. They were none of them exactly drunk; and certainly none were exactly sober. There were some among them whom he never saw at church, and never found at home. He was grieved to see these men in high discussion and dispute, when they ought to have been busily engaged in some lawful calling. He stopped, and taking one of them aside whose home was specially miserable, he said,--
”James, I'm grieved to see you here, when I know how sadly your poor wife and children are in need of food and clothing.”
The man looked half angry, half ashamed, but hung down his head, and made no reply. The rest were moving off.
”Nay, my friends,” said the rector, kindly, ”don't go. I just want a word with you all. I want to say a few words of love and warning to you, as your clergyman. G.o.d has sent me here to teach and guide you; and oh, do listen to me now.”
They all stood still, and looked at him respectfully. He went on:--
”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 pa.s.sing, 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 foolis.h.!.+” 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 peris.h.i.+ng. 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 pa.s.s 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 coa.r.s.e 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 peris.h.i.+ng, and ruin is thickening all round us.”
They had not to wait long; their path was soon made clear.