the woebegone beggar that snivels out thanks for a mouthful of gin was
once a brave lad--clever, handsome, generous, the delight of friends,
the joy of his parents, the most brilliantly promising of all his
circle. He began by being jolly; he was well encouraged and abetted; he
found that respectable men drank, and that Society made no demur. But he
forgot that there are drinkers and drinkers, he forgot that the
cool-headed men were not tainted by heredity, nor were their brains so
delicately poised that the least grain of foreign matter introduced in
the form of vapour could cause semi-insanity. And thus the sacrifice of
Society--and the Exchequer--goes to the tomb amid contempt, and hissing,
and scorn; while the saddest thing of all is that those who loved him
most passionately are most glad to hear the clods thump on his coffin.
I believe, if you let me keep a youngster for an hour in a room with me,
I could tell him enough stories from my own shuddery experience to
frighten him off drink for life. I should cause him to be haunted.

There is none of the rage of the convert in all this; I knew what I was
doing when I went into the base and sordid homes of ruin during years,
and I want to know how any justification _not_ fitted for the libretto
of an extravaganza can be given by certain parliamentary gentlemen in
order that we may be satisfied with their conduct. My wanderings and
freaks do not count; I was a Bohemian, with the tastes of a Romany and
the curiosity of a philosopher; I went into the most abominable company
because it amused me and I had only myself to please, and I saw what a
fearfully tense grip the monster, Drink, has taken of this nation; and
let me say that you cannot understand that one little bit, if you are
content to knock about with a policeman and squint at signboards. Well,
I want to know how these legislators can go to church and repeat certain
prayers, while they continue to make profit by retailing Death at so
much a gallon; and I want to know how some scores of other godly men go