He stood it all meekly, without showing any spirit; but, on the other hand, without resentment, for he never said ill of any man behind his back.
It was put about now that he drank, because some busybody had seen a jar of spirits carried into the house from the wine merchant's cart.

A jar of spirits had been delivered at the house at intervals for years and years, far back into his father's time, and every one of those who now expressed their disgust at his supposed drinking habits had sipped their tumblers in that house without stint.

He did not drink--he did not take one-half at home what his neighbours imbibed without injury at markets and auctions every week of their lives.

But he was growing poor, and they called to mind that brief spell of extravagance years ago, and pointed out to their acquaintances how the sin of the Prodigal was coming home to him.
No man drinks the bitter cup of poverty to the dregs like the declining farmer.

The descent is so slow; there is time to drain every drop, and to linger over the flavour.