A Tipsy Parson
by
IN a village not a hundred miles from Philadelphia, resided the Rev. Mr. Manlius, who had the pastoral charge of a very respectable congregation, and was highly esteemed by them; but there was one thing in which he did not give general satisfaction, and in consequence of which many excellent members of his church felt seriously scandalized. He would neither join a temperance society, nor omit his glass of wine when he felt inclined to take it. It is only fair to say, however, that such spirituous indulgences were not of frequent occurrence. It was more the principle of the thing, as he said, that he stood upon, than any thing else, that prevented his signing a temperance pledge.
Sundry were the attacks, both open and secret, to which the Reverend Mr. Manlius was subjected, and many were the discussions into which he was drawn by the advocates of total abstinence. His mode of argument was very summary.
“I would no more sign a pledge not to drink brandy than I would sign a pledge not to steal,” was the position he took. “I wish to be free to choose good or evil, and to act right because it is wrong to do otherwise. I do not find fault with others for signing a pledge, nor for abstaining from wine. If they think it right, it is right for them. But as for myself, I would cut off my right hand before I would bind myself by mere external restraint. My bonds are internal principles. I am temperate because intemperance is sin. For men who have abused their freedom, and so far lost all rational control over themselves that they cannot resist the insane spirit of intemperance, the pledge is all important. Sign it, I say, in the name of Heaven; but do not sign it because this, that, or the other temperate man has signed it, but because you feel it to be your only hope. Do it for yourself, and do it if you are the only man in the world who acts thus. To sign because another man, whom you think more respectable, has signed, will give you little or no strength. You must do it for yourself, and because it is right.”
The parson was pretty ready with the tongue, and rarely came off second best when his opponents dragged him into a controversy, although his arguments were called by them, when he was not present, “mere fustian.”
“His love for wine and brandy is at the bottom of all this hostility to the temperance cause,” was boldly said of him by individuals in and out of his church. But especially were the members of other churches severe upon him.
“He’ll turn out a drunkard,” said one.
“I shouldn’t be surprised to see him staggering in the streets before two years,” said another.
“He does more harm to the temperance cause than ten drunkards,” alleged a third.
While others said–“Isn’t it scandalous!”
“He’s a disgrace to his profession!”
“He pretend to have religion!”
“A minister indeed!”
And so the changes rang.
All this time, Mr. Manlius firmly maintained his ground, taking his glass of wine whenever it suited him. At last, after the occurrence of a dinner-party given by a family of some note in the place, and at which the minister was present, and at which wine was circulated freely, a rather scandalous report got abroad, and soon went buzzing all over the village. A young man, who made no secret of being fond of his glass, and who was at the dinner-party, met, on the day after, a very warm advocate of temperance, and a member of a different denomination from that in which Mr. Manlius was a minister, and said to him, with mock gravity–“We had a rara avis at our dinner-party yesterday, Perkins.”
“Indeed. What wonderful thing was that?”
“A tipsy parson.”
“A what?”
The man’s eyes became instantly almost as big as saucers.