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."