And then those three children, having portioned out the necessary amount for their suppers and their lodging that night, and their breakfast next morning, laughed joyously as they perceived how much they had left to purchase gin!
For Gin is the deity, and Intemperance is the hand-maiden, of both sexes and nearly all ages in that district of London.
What crimes, what follies have been perpetrated for Gin! A river of alcohol rolls through the land, sweeping away health, honour, and happiness with its remorseless tide. The creaking gibbet, and the prison ward—the gloomy hulk, and the far-off penal isle—the debtors' gaol, and the silent penitentiary—the tomb-like workhouse, and the loathsome hospital—the galling chain, and the spirit-breaking tread-wheel—the frightful mad-cell, and the public dissecting-room—the death-bed of despair, and the grave of the suicide, are indebted for many, many victims to thee, most potent Gin!
O Gin! the Genius of Accidents and the Bad Angel of Offences worship thee! Thou art the Juggernaut beneath whose wheels millions throw themselves in blind adoration.
The pawnbroker points to thee and says, "Whilst thy dominion lasts, I am sure to thrive."
The medical man smiles as he marks thy progress, for he knows that thou leadest a ghastly train,—apoplexy, palsy, dropsy, delirium tremens, consumption, madness.
The undertaker chuckles when he remembers thine influence, for he says within himself, "Thou art the Angel of Death."
And Satan rejoices in his kingdom, well-knowing how thickly it can be populated by thee!
Yes—great is thy power, O Gin: thou keepest pace with the progress of civilisation, and thou art made the companion of the Bible. For when the missionary takes the Word of God to the savage in some far distant clime, he bears the fire-water with him at the same time. While his right hand points to the paths of peace and salvation, his left scatters the seeds of misery, disease, death, and damnation!
Yes—great is thy power, O Gin: a terrible instrument of evil art thou. Thou sweepest over the world with the wing of the pestilence: thy breath that of a plague:—like the poisonous garment of Dejanira on the burning limbs of the Centaur, dost thou cling around thy victims.