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: 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.
And where the grave-yard is heaped up with mouldering bones—and where
disease and death prevail in all their most hideous shapes—and where
misery is most keenly felt, and poverty is most pinching—and where the
wails of hapless children ascend to heaven in vain appeal against the
cruelty of inhuman parents—and where crime is most diabolical,—there are
thy triumphs—there are thy victories!
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