And see over there the sun, God's sun, rises every morning, over them and you.

Young man! You see those flaming spots of light?
They are gin-palaces.

You may thank your God for them, for they alone keep this horde of rotten humanity from sweeping westwards, breaking up your fine houses, emptying your wine into the street, tearing the silk and laces from your beautiful soft-limbed women.

Bah! But you have read.

It would be the French Revolution over again.