BEER STREET.
Hogarth, who was perhaps the most accurate and certainly the most powerful delineator of mankind’s virtues and vices that the world has ever seen, has left us in his pictures of “Beer Street” and “Gin Lane” striking illustrations of the advantages attending the use of our national beverage, and the misery and want brought about by dram drinking. In Beer Street everybody thrives, and everything has an air of prosperity. There is one exception—the pawnbroker, gainer by the poverty of others. He, poor man, with barricaded doors and {17} propped-up walls, awaits in terror the arrival of the Sheriff’s officer, fearing only that his house may collapse meanwhile. Through a hole in the door which he is afraid to open, a potboy hands him a mug of ale, at once the cause and consolation of his woes. The bracket which supports the pawnbroker’s sign is awry, and threatens every minute to fall. Apart from this unfortunate all else flourishes. The burly butcher, seated outside the inn with no fear of the Sheriff in his heart, quaffs his pewter mug of foaming ale, and casts now and again an eye on the artist who is repainting the signboard. The sturdy smith, the drayman, the porter and the fishwife—all are well clad and prosperous. Houses are being built, others are being repaired, and health and wealth are visible on every side.
Beer! happy produce of our isle, Can sinewy strength impart, And wearied with fatigue and toil, Can cheer each manly heart.
Labour and art upheld by thee, Successfully advance, We quaff thy balmy juice with glee; And water leave to France.
Genius of Health! thy grateful taste Rivals the cup of Jove, And warms each English generous breast With liberty and love.
Look now at the noisome slum where the demon Gin reigns triumphant. Squalor, poverty, hunger, wretchedness and sin are depicted on all sides. Here flourish the pawnbroker and the keeper of the gin-palace—but the picture is too speaking a one to need comment.
GIN.
Gin! cursed fiend with fury fraught, Makes human race a prey, It enters by a deadly draught, And steals our life away.
Virtue and truth, driven to despair, Its rage compels to fly, But cherishes with hellish care, Theft, murder, perjury.
Damn’d cup that on the vitals preys, That liquid fire contains, Which madness to the heart conveys, And rolls it through the veins.