unmistakable evidence of the gin-shop which the man's appearance
and voice betrayed. How dreadful to the sight are those watery
eyes; that red, uneven, pimpled nose; those fallen cheeks; and that
hanging, slobbered mouth! Look at the uncombed hair, the beard half
shorn, the weak, impotent gait of the man, and the tattered raiment,
all eloquent of gin! You would fain hold your nose when he comes nigh
you, he carries with him so foul an evidence of his only and his
hourly indulgence. You would do so, had you not still a respect for
his feelings, which he himself has entirely forgotten to maintain.
How terrible is that absolute loss of all personal dignity which the
drunkard is obliged to undergo! And then his voice! Every tone has
been formed by gin, and tells of the havoc which the compound has
made within his throat. I do not know whether such a man as this is
not the vilest thing which grovels on God's earth. There are women
whom we affect to scorn with the full power of our contempt; but I
doubt whether any woman sinks to a depth so low as that. She also may
be a drunkard, and as such may more nearly move our pity and affect
our hearts, but I do not think she ever becomes so nauseous a thing
as the man that has abandoned all the hopes of life for gin. You can
still touch her;--ay, and if the task be in one's way, can touch her
gently, striving to bring her back to decency. But the other! Well,
one should be willing to touch him too, to make that attempt of
bringing back upon him also. I can only say that the task is both
nauseous and unpromising. Look at him as he stands there before the
foul, reeking, sloppy bar, with the glass in his hand, which he has
just emptied. See the grimace with which he puts it down, as though
the dram had been almost too unpalatable. It is the last touch of
hypocrisy with which he attempts to cover the offence;--as though
he were to say, "I do it for my stomach's sake; but you know how
I abhor it." Then he skulks sullenly away, speaking a word to no
one,--shuffling with his feet, shaking himself in his foul rags,
pressing himself into a heap--as though striving to drive the warmth
of the spirit into his extremities! And there he stands lounging at
the corner of the street, till his short patience is exhausted, and
he returns with his last penny for the other glass. When that has
been swallowed the policeman is his guardian.

Reader, such as you and I have come to that, when abandoned by t