The Ethics of Drink and Other Social Questions | Page 8

steady his hand he will
be greeted with filthy public-house cordiality by the animals to whose
level he has dragged himself, but of friends he has none. Now, is it not
marvellous? Drink is so jolly; prosperous persons talk with such a droll
wink about vagaries which they or their friends committed the night
before; it is all so very, very lightsome! The brewers and distillers who
put the mirth-inspiring beverages into the market receive more

consideration, and a great deal more money, than an average European
prince;--and yet the poor dry-rotted unfortunate whose decadence we
are tracing is like a leper in the scattering effects which he produces
during his shaky promenade. He is indeed alone in the world, and
brandy or gin is his only counsellor and comforter. As to character, the
last rag of that goes when the first sign of indolence is seen; the
watchers have eyes like cats, and the self-restrained men among them
have usually seen so many fellows depart to perdition that every stage
in the process of degradation is known to them. No! there is not a
friend, and dry, clever gentlemen say, "Yes. Good chap enough once on
a day, but can't afford to be seen with him now." The soaker is amazed
to find that women are afraid of him a little, and shrink from him--in
fact, the only people who are cordial with him are the landlords, among
whom he is treated as a sort of irresponsible baby. "I may as well have
his money as anybody else. He shan't get outrageously drunk here, but
he may as well moisten his clay and keep himself from being miserable.
If he gets the jumps in the night that's his look-out." That is the soaker's
friend. The man is not unkind; he is merely hardened, and his morals,
like those of nearly all who are connected with the great Trade, have
suffered a twist. When the soaker's last penny has gone, he will receive
from the landlord many a contemptuously good-natured gift--pity it is
that the lost wastrel cannot be saved before that weariful last penny
huddles in the corner of his pocket.
While the harrowing descent goes on our suffering wretch is gradually
changing in appearance: the piggish element that is latent in most of us
comes out in him; his morality is sapped; he will beg, borrow, lie, and
steal; and, worst of all, he is a butt for thoughtless young fellows. The
last is the worst cut of all, for the battered, bloodless, sunken
ne'er-do-well can remember only too vividly his own gallant youth, and
the thought of what he was drives him crazed.
There is only one end; if the doomed one escapes delirium tremens he
is likely to have cirrhosis, and if he misses both of these, then dropsy or
Bright's disease claims him. Those who once loved him pray for his
death, and greet his last breath with an echoing sigh of thankfulness
and relief: he might have been cheered in his last hour by the graceful
sympathy of troops of friends; but the State-protected vice has such a
withering effect that it scorches up friendship as a fiery breath from a

furnace might scorch a grass blade. If one of my joyous, delightful lads
could just watch the shambling, dirty figure of such a failure as I have
described; if he could see the sneers of amused passers-by, the timid
glances of women, the contemptuous off-hand speech of the
children--"Oh! him! That's old, boozy Blank;" then the youths might
well tremble, for 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