Much less hopeful is the swelling grandeur of the London gin-palace—the modern substitute for the pleasant tavern.
In mediæval times, if the earle saw a stately edifice with stained-glass windows, statuary, and everything gorgeous, he would enter with reverence to stoop his head; now, he goes in with fourpence to soak it.
In mediæval times he would be seen crossing himself with the holy water as he emerged; now, as he comes out, he wipes it off on his coat tail.
In mediæval times, for their sins and sorrows and the glory of God, the nobles built cathedrals. In this more vulgar age, for the people's griefs and the lords' profit, England's nobility build glorified pot-houses.
In mediæval times, our chivalry won their knighthood and titles by spoiling the heathen at the sword's point; now, they secure peerages by spoiling English men and women with adulterated and brutalising liquors.
This is what we call the progress of civilisation—
A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
But that is neither here nor there.