The landlord looked aghast, and the guests looked aghast, till the punchy man volunteered his opinion in the following terms,— “Gentlemen, we don’t know Jacob Gray, but there can be no doubt he’s a very bad man—(Hear, hear.) Master Britton stands spiced canary, all round, and, consequently, it’s my humble opinion it must be right.” The topers looked at each other in amazement at this splendid piece of reasoning; and one remarked that he, the punchy man, was the person to get over a knotty pointy which was universally responded to in the affirmative, and the toast was drunk with acclamation. “A song,” cried Britton—“a song.” The landlord looked imploringly round him for some one to sing, but no one seemed inclined, therefore he said,— “The worshipful Master Britton calls for a song, and there must be a song.” “Of course,” cried Britton, “and you must sing it.” The landlord hemmed thrice, and after taking a deep draught of the canary, he fixed his eyes on the fly-cage hanging from the ceiling, and chaunted the following Bacchanalian strains,— “Care mantles not in brimming cups, It cannot enter there; Within the bowl there’s nought but joy, Without, but grim despair. “Hurrah, boys! “Care shuns the wine cup, boys—for why? Because its blushing hue Forbids the fiend to enter there, Lest he be lost to view. “Hurrah, boys! “Drink—drink, and let the gushing stream Of life boil through our veins, While sober fools seek chill content, And find care for their pains. “Hurrah, boys! “They lie who say that rosy wine Can ever breed a pain, For when the joy of one day’s o’er, We drink and live again. “Hurrah, boys! “They tell us that when once the fire Of wine has gone away, Our hearts will beat in dull despair, Nor be so calm as they. “Hurrah, boys! “But we a cure for such an ill Can find in every glass; And, boys, we know that life is short, Catch pleasure ere it pass. “Hurrah, boys!” “Bravo!” cried Britton. “That’s good—mind, that’s good.” “Very good, indeed,” cried everybody. “Hurrah!” shouted the inebriated smith—“Hurrah, boys! Three—ch—ch—cheers. I—I say—I—I’m a k—k—king!” After an ineffectual attempt to stand, he dropped on the floor in a state of unconsciousness. CHAPTER XVIII. The Lone Max.—The Voice of Conscience.