I never yet knew one family which
had not lost a cherished member through the national curse; and thus at
all times we are like the wailing nation whereof the first-born in every
house was stricken. It is an awful sight, and as I sit here alone I can
send my mind over the sad England which I know, and see the army of the
mourners. They say that the calling of the wounded on the field of
Borodino was like the roar of the sea: on my battle-field, where drink
has been the only slayer, there are many dead; and I can imagine that I
hear the full volume of cries from those who are stricken but still
living. The vision would unsettle my reason if I had not a trifle of
Hope remaining. The philosophic individual who talks in correctly frigid
phrases about the evils of the Liquor Trade may keep his reason balanced
daintily and his nerve unhurt. But I have images for company--images of
wild fearsomeness. There is the puffy and tawdry woman who rolls along
the street goggling at the passengers with boiled eye. The little pretty
child says, "Oh! mother, what a strange woman. I didn't understand what
she said." My pretty, that was Drink, and you may be like that one of
these days, for as little as your mother thinks it, if you ever let
yourself touch the Curse carelessly.
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