"Learnt something! You know nothing about it yet," cried the old man, who was on his favourite topic. "You don't know what poison—rank poison—there is in all these cheap wines;—aye, and in the dear ones too, for that matter. Sugar of lead is a chief ingredient! I needn't tell you that sugar of lead is a deadly poison: any fool knows that. Sal enixum and slaked lime are used to clear muddy wine; and litharge gives a sweet taste to wines that are too acid. Bitter almonds imparts to port a nutty flavour; cherry-laurel water gives it a bouquet; and tincture of raisin seeds endows it with a grapy taste—which it hasn't got and can't have otherwise. But I've told you enough for to-night. And now I dare say you wonder why I drink beer or spirits at all? Because I am old and miserable; because I am poor and wretched; because I must kill care somehow or another; and therefore I take daily doses of those slow poisons." With these words the old man rose, and shuffled out of the room. His denunciation of the abominable system of doctoring wines, spirits, and malt liquors produced a gloomy effect upon the company whom he left behind. The Buffer glanced often and often towards the clock: the time was passing rapidly; and yet the person for whom he was waiting came not. "Who'll tip us a song?" said the Knacker, glancing around. "There's Jovial Jenkins up in the corner there," exclaimed the cat's-meat man. "He's the chap for a song." "Well, I don't mind, pals," cried a diminutive specimen of the male sex, dressed in a suit of clothes every way too large for him. "What shall I sing yer? Oh! I s'pose it must be the favourite—eh? Come—here goes, then." And in another minute the parlour of the boozing-ken reverberated with the intonations of the following strange song:— THE MAN OF MANY PURSUITS.[12] Come, lip us a chant, pals! Why thus mum your dubber! My gropus clinks coppers, and I'll fake the rubber: Here's a noggin of lightning to slacken your glib;— Then pass round the lush, and cease napping the bib. T'other night we'd a precious rum squeeze at the Spell, And, togg'd as a yokel, I used my forks well; From a Rum-Tom-Pat's kickseys I knapp'd a green twitch, And nearly got off the gold glims from his snitch. But a swell with hock-dockeys and silken gam-cases, Put the parish prig up to the rig of such places;— So, finding the nib-cove was chanting the play, I shov'd my trunk nimbly and got clean away. As a jolly gay-tyke-boy I sometimes appear, And chirp for the curs that are spelt in the leer; Or as a leg-glazier, with fadger and squibs, I work my way into the nibsomest cribs. But when on these dodges the blue-bottles blow, As a flue-flaker togg'd then at day-break I show: And though from the slavey I get but a flag, I can fly the blue-pigeon and thus bank the rag.