The Distracted Preacher (19 page)

Although the duty of the State does not extend to the punishment of private and self-regarding vice, it is bound to prevent public temptation to vice. It cannot prevent incontinence, but it suppresses brothels; it cannot stop gambling, but it closes betting-houses. So, therefore, it seems to be the bounden duty of the State to place the sale of strong drink under stringent regulation; to the effect that the trader in drink may not be the pander of drunkenness.

Moreover, the ruling powers of the State ought to enforce the equable administration of the law, so that it shall not be overstrained in Birmingham nor relaxed in Glasgow, and drunkenness made the special curse of a locality.

But, above all, the opinion and the influence of each right-thinking and right-feeling individual member of the aggregate which forms the State ought to be and must be brought to bear against this grievous evil. And when we consider the immense change in public opinion in this respect since the days of our youth; when we see the clergy of all creeds, from the Catholic cardinal to the common ranter, for the first time in our history earnestly denouncing the drunkard as a miserable sinner; when we see gentlemen regarding the vice which was fashionable with their fathers as the extreme mark of vulgarity; when the legislature has already stamped drunkenness with the fitting sign of disgrace, by placing the policeman's hand upon the shoulder of any sot reeling along the highway; when the professed enemies of drink are enrolled in an army of three millions; and the foundations of a national education have at last been laid, we may feel assured of the steady increase of that national opinion, the only soil in which a national temperance can take firm root.

It is not drunkenness we wish to punish, but temperance we wish to promote; and to conclude, as I began, with Milton's words, “Were I the chooser, a dram of well-doing should be preferred before many times as much the forcible hindrance of evil-doing.”

Article from the March 15, 1879 issue of
The Saturday Review

The debate and division on Sir Wilfred Lawson's Resolution were not significant of any change of opinion in the House or in the nation on the liquor question. Parties, as parties, have no conviction any way which they use their strength to enforce, and no party leader has any serious proposal to make. A larger number supported the Resolution than would have supported Sir Wilfred Lawson's usual Permissive Bill, because the Resolution was so vague that no one was afraid that in voting for it he could be held to have voted for anything in particular. There was no gain to any one in such a Resolution being proposed and discussed, except to record the opinion that drunkenness is a great evil, and to make it plainer than ever how immense are the difficulties ‘of suppressing it by legislation. The general effect of the Resolution was that new legislation should be devised, having what is termed local option as its basis. So far as this means anything, it means that the residents in localities to be somehow determined are in some unknown way to be able to do something indefinite towards controlling the sale of liquor. This so charmed Mr. Forster. and Mr. Bright that they voted for the Resolution. Lord Hartington, on the other hand, having a sense of statesmanship, denounced the vanity of such a Resolution. Parliament, if it is to use the time it loves to waste, must debate about something, and there was nothing in the Resolution to debate about. A Resolution is a very useful mode of proceeding when it affirms what ought to be done, and leaves it open to the Government to say how it ought to be done. If the Resolution had been to the effect that all public-houses should be closed from a certain day, but that proper compensation should be given to existing publicans, the objection to it would have been one of substance only, and not of form. Buta Resolution that there should be “local option” of some kind and in some way had no meaning. It might mean fifty things, as to none of which those who tried to believe that they could seem to believe in local option would agree. Local option may mean that the ratepayers or the inhabitants generally of each parish should vote whether there should be no public-houses in it or twice as many as now. Or it might mean that things should go on as at present, but that the persons to grant licences should be elected; or it might mean that the magistrates should grant licences, but that they should act in conjunction with assessors chosen by a popular vote. Numberless other suggestions might be made as to its possible meaning, and each possible meaning would in turn be open to innumerable objections. Possibly there might be discovered some form of local option which would be an improvement on the present system; but no one can say that this is so until a definite proposal which happens to hit the mark is made. To the only proposals for a local option which have been hitherto made there are objections of the gravest character. Direct voting on the question of beer or no beer would carry bitterness and turmoil into every parish; and local elections held for other purposes would be spoilt and corrupted if the decision as to the quantity of beer to be sold in a parish was remitted to such humble officials as the Guardians of the poor.

One member alone was found to support the extreme opinion that the present system is perfect, and that Parliament should never again meddle with so beautiful and admirable an arrangement. Both Lord Hartington and the chief Ministerial speakers agreed that it was possible and desirable to make new efforts to combat the standing cause of crime and the curse of the British nation. If anything new is to be done, it must be in the direction of the prohibition or regulation of the liquor trade, or in that of relieving it from existing restrictions. That the liquor trade should be prohibited is entirely impossible. It would be monstrous to prevent all alcohol being sold because some persons take too much, and the nation would never stand it for a day. No statesman would dream of looking in that direction for the legislation he desires; and Mr. Forster, in his new-born zeal for local option, took care to lay down that there must, in his opinion, be always a Parliamentary minimum of public-houses. The counter proposition that there should be free-trade, as it is called, in liquor has for years had the warm support of a number of sensible and influential persons at Liverpool, but has never made any way either in Parliament or the country. The substance of the proposal is that everyone should be allowed to sell liquor provided he is of good character, or practically that nothing very bad is known against him, and that his premises are fit for the purpose. But this is only a device for getting rid of the difficulty of deciding who are to have licences, and how many public-houses there are to be. It is not meant to be an encouragement to drinking. On the contrary, a very heavy duty is to be put on every licence. This would, it is supposed, deter adventurers from starting public-houses except where they were so much wanted that success would compensate for the payment of the duty; while the venue from the successful houses would go to the ratepayers and enable them to provide, without cost to themselves, the police who watch over drunkards and the prisons to which drunkards are sent. It is difficult to see how this can be called free trade. It seems rather a scheme for throwing the whole trade into the hands of capitalists. It therefore becomes a means of regulating the trade, not of enlarging its sphere, and is only one mode of effecting an object which may be attained in other ways.

Regulation, it must be observed, proceeds in two different directions, with two distinct objects. In the first place, it endeavours to prevent drinking from becoming a public nuisance. To this head belong all the provisions for police superintendence, the attempt to get the trade into respectable hands, and the imposition of penalties in case of disorder being permitted by the publican. In the next place, it aims at lessening the amount of liquor consumed. Provisions that public-houses shall be closed at certain hours or on certain days, as on Sundays in Scotland and Ireland, and that the number of public-houses shall be limited, fall under this head. The real question is whether Parliament can go further in this direction than -at present or not. There is little, if anything, more to be done in the way of limiting the hours during which public-houses are to be allowed to remain open. The really important and practical point is whether drinking could be diminished I by lessening the number of public-houses, while, at the same time, proper provision was made for the wants of the population. At present it is supposed that there is such a thing ascertainable as the proportion between any given population and the number of public-houses it requires, and that the secret of calculating this lies in the breast of the magistrates. The real contention of those who hope to combat drunkenness by limiting the number of public-houses is that the magistrates do not know the secret they profess to know, and that a much less number would suffice. The houses that were spared would have an ill-deserved monopoly, and those that were sacrificed would furnish grounds for heavy claims for compensation. But it may be assumed perhaps that Parliament could surmount these difficulties, or would pronounce that, in view of a great good to be obtained, certain evils must be endured. Some slight burden, too, might be cheerfully accepted by the respectable, if they could feel that they were really helping the poor and ignorant; and a man who takes his liquor in moderation would for such a purpose be content to walk further than he has been accustomed and than is quite agreeable to him. What is really doubtful is whether diminishing the number of public-houses would make any perceptible difference in the amount of liquor consumed. Many excellent people who long to reform the nation guess that the difference would be not only perceptible, but very great. But it is very difficult to prove they are right, and it is on this head that the evidence taken by the Lords' Committee may be specially valuable. If it could once be established that there was a proper proportion between the population and the number of public houses, and that this was a quite different proportion from that now accepted by the magistrates, Parliament could lay down general principles as to the number of houses and the mode of reducing the present number, and the less that was left to local option of any kind the better.

“How to Prevent Drunkenness—A Problem”

For a good deep draught of the bright pale ale

    I would give coppers three;

But yearn as I may ‘tis of no avail,

    Cos of ale there is none for me.

How well I remember the good times of old,

    And the laughs, and the jokes, and good cheer;

But alas! now in Gath do not let it be told

    They forbid us o drink any beer.

Of wine, I opine, we may all take a dose,

    But wine is uncommonly dear,

So water's the beverage now, I suppose,

    As they won't let us drink any beer.

I now in the service have been a long time,

    Like foliage in Autumn, am sear,

And ne'er thought that I was committing a crime

    When imbibing a drop of good beer.

Now, up, brave officials, assert your own right,

    Be plucky, and throw aside fear;

Impertinence now has attained its full height —

    Is man to be robbed of his beer?

Not many winters ago there lived in a large city a little boy, whom we shall call Johnny. His father was dead, and his mother, a very wicked woman, occupied a cellar in one of the lanes or alleys of the city. As she was frequently intoxicated, what little she could earn when sober was spent for liquor, instead o fbuying food and clothes for her little boy. So poor Johnny often went to bed cold and hungry. Very often, too, he might be seen going across the street to a public-house, with a dirty tin cup and a penny, which he had begged to buy rum for his mother.

About the time our story begins, Johnny's mother had found some work to do, for which she had been paid partly in money and partly in bread. But the money was spent as before, and the crust that remained had made Johnny meals for two days.

Late on Sunday afternoon Johnny's mother awoke from her drunken stupor, and knew that her liquor was all gone: so calling her little boy, she said—

“Johnny, you must go and beg a penny to buy some whisky with.”

“But,” said Johnny, “I cannot go—it is very cold; and what shall I tell them I want the penny for when they ask me?”

“Tell them you want to buy bread,” said his mother.

Johnny began to cry. “Mother,” said he, “I have no coat, no stockings, and my shoes are all worn out: I shall freeze to death.”

This fanned the last spark of a mother's love in the drunken woman's heart, and she said —

“Well, Johnny, go, and get Charley to go with you.”

Charley was a boy four or five years older, and lived a little further up the alley.

So off the poor little fellow started in the cold, and, finding Charley at home, he said —

“Charley, my mother wants me to go and beg a penny to buy liquor with. Will you go with me?”

“Why, no, Johnny,” exclaimed Charley; “you will freeze to death—it is so cold!”

“But I must go,” said Johnny; “and if you will not go with me, I must go alone,” and he began to cry again as though his heart would break.

“Well, I will go with you, Johnny,” said Charley, at last.

Then they went up a street to a large church where they had been before. They went in and sat down near the wall. Here they quietly waited for the service to close, when they should have an opportunity to beg. Very soon Johnny heard the preacher say, “God loves the truthful!” and he began to think, “I am not truthful; I have told a great many lies; I am very wicked.”

Again the minister said, “God loves the truthful, but hates all lying!” Turning around, Johnny said, “Charley, I am very wicked. I've lied a great deal, and God does not love me. Nobody loves me, not even my mother!”

But Charley replied, “Yes, Johnny, somebody loves you; I love you!”

“Charley, I'll try never to tell another lie as long as I live,” said Johnny.

Presently the sermon was ended, and the people began to pass out, when little Johnny stepped up to a gentleman and said —

“Please give me a penny, sir?”

“What do you want a with a penny?” he asked.

“
I will not tell a lie!
” said Johnny to himself, and then answered, “My mother wants itto buy whiskey with.”

The gentleman passed on with a stare of surprise, and did not give the money.

Another came up, and Johnny held out his hand and asked.

“Will you give me a penny, sir?”

“And why a penny?” inquired the gentleman.

“God loves the truthful,” thought Johnny, “and
I will not be a liar!
My mother wants it to buy whiskey with,” he replied.

The gentleman stopped and looked Johnny full in the face.

“What's your name, my boy, and where to you live?” he asked. So Johnny told him, and he wrote the name of the street in his pocket-book.

“Now what made you tell me that your mother wanted to buy whisky?”

“Because she does want it, and I heard the minister say, in the church there, that God loves the truthful, so I thought I would not tell any more lies.”

The gentleman smiled pleasantly, for he was the preacher in the church, only Johnny did not know him again, because it was so dark. He put a shilling into Johnny's hand and said—

“Give it to your mother, and ask her if she will please buy you some supper with it; and before you go to sleep, kneel down and pray God to teach you how to love him, for Jesus Christ's sake.” And so he passed on.

For a moment Johnny's sad heart almost danced for joy as he exclaimed—

“What a nice supper I'll have, for I've had nothing to eat today.”

When Johnny got home he found his mother had fallen asleep, so he crept away to his filthy straw, for this was all the bed he had. The next morning he awoke with a burning fever and was very ill. During the day he sent for Charley, to whom he repeated the words the clergyman had said the evening before, and told him how badly he felt because he had been so wicked, and had told so many falsehoods. The third day he had grown much worse, and sent for Charley again. When he arrived, Johnny said —

“I am very sick. I think I am going to die, and God does not love me! Nobody loves me but you, Charley. I wish I knew where to find the man that said, ‘God loves the truthful!' Maybe he would tell me how to love God, and whether he will love me.”

While he was speaking they heard a tap at the door, and when Charley opened it, he was surprised to see the preacher himself come in. When Johnny saw his face and heard his voice, he knew that the gentleman he saw in the church was the same that met him outside and gave him the shilling.

“Oh, sire, I am so glad you have come!” he exclaimed. “You said God loved the truthful, but I have been very wicked, I have told a great many lies. And now I am going to die, and God does not love me! No one loves me but Charley. Can't you tell me how to love God, and whether he will love me or not?”

Then the good man told him of the Saviour's love, and prayed beside him; and while he prayed, little Johnny prayed too, and his face beamed with joy, and he cried out—

“Now I know that God loves me! Jesus loves me!” It seemed, sir, when you were praying, as though the Saviour came down and lifted a great load from my heart! I am going to live with Jesus! I shall not be wicked any more. I shall never feel hungry again. I shall never be cold!”

His mother, who was sober now, presently came in, and wept bitter tears over him, and he put his hand on her head and whispered to pray God to make her love him.

The minister then went away, saying that he would call again the next day. He did so, but found Johnny lying cold and white as a marble on his bed of straw. He had died early that morning, and his spirit had gone to live with the God of truth for ever.

In the church where Johnny went that Sunday, there are a great many free seats; and one of those seats, near the wall, you may see regularly, at the morning and evening service, a poor woman, decently dressed, but very pale, and weak, and careworn. She joins devoutly in the worship, and her aspect is that of a humble penitent, who receives with meekness the Word of Life. That is Johnny's mother.