f only because it is so
thoroughly characteristic of the old village outlook. Incidentally, this
other aspect may be worth a little attention from temperance reformers.

For the truth is that the average villager's attitude towards drink and
temperance is not that of an unrepentant or rebellious sinner; rather,
it is the attitude of a man who has sound reasons for adhering to his
own point of view. If he grows restive under the admonitions of the
pharisaical, if he meets them defiantly, or if he merely laughs, as
often as not it is because he feels that his mentors do not understand
the situation so well as he does. How should they, who see it wholly
from the outside--they who never go near the public-house; they who have
no experience either of poverty or of hard work--how should they, who
speak from prejudice, be entitled to dictate to him, who has knowledge?
He resents the interference, considers it insulting, and goes his own
way, supported by a village opinion which is entirely on his side, and
certainly has its claims to respect. It is this village opinion which I
wish to examine now.

In the eyes of the older villagers or of the more old-fashioned ones
mere occasional drunkenness is a very venial fault. The people make a
distinction between the habitual drunkard and him who occasionally
drinks too much, and they are without compassion for the former. He is a
"low blackguard"; they look reproachfully if you talk of trying to help
him by giving him a job of work, or at any rate they pity your wasted
efforts. But for the occasional defaulter they have a friendly feeling,
unless, of course, he turns savage in his cups. As long as he is
cheerful he is rather a figure of fun to them than anything, or he is an
object of wondering interest. On a certain August Bank Holiday I saw one
of our villagers staggering up the hill--a middle-aged man, far gone in
drink, so that all the road was none too wide for him. Other wayfarers
accompanied and observed him with a philosophically detached air, and
between whiles a woman grabbed at his coat between the shoulders, trying
to steady him. But by and by, lurching free, he wobbled across the road
to within an inch of a perambulator with two children which another man
was pushing. The drunken man leant over it, poised like an impending
fate, and so hung for a few seconds before he staggered away, and it
might be supposed that at least the man with the perambulator would be
indignant.