“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. God 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 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.”