THE "BOOZING-KEN" ONCE MORE.
We must now direct our readers' attention for a short space to the
parlour of the Boozing-Ken on Saffron Hill.
It was nine o'clock in the evening; and, as usual, a motley company was
assembled in that place.
A dozen persons, men and women, were drinking the vile compounds which
the landlord dispensed as "Fine Cordial Gin," "Treble X Ale," "Real
Jamaica Rum," "Best Cognac Brandy," and "Noted Stout."
At one of the tables sate the Buffer, smoking a long clay pipe, and from
time to time paying his respects to a pot of porter which stood before
him. He occasionally glanced towards the clock as if he were expecting
some one; and then an impatient but subdued curse rose to his lips,
proving that the individual for whom he waited was behind his time.
"Well, as I was saying," exclaimed an old shabbily-dressed and
dissipated looking man, who sate near the fire, "it's a burning shame to
make people pay so dear for such liquor as this;"—and he made a
quart-pot, which he held in his hand, describe sundry diminutive
circles, in order to shake up the liquor whereat he gazed with disgust.
"Why do you drink it, then, friend Swiggs?" demanded the Buffer, in a
surly tone. "You was once a licensed witler yourself: and I'll be bound
no one ever doctored his lush more than you did."
"Of course I did!" ejaculated the old man. "The publican can't live
without it. Look how he's taxed—look how the police preys upon him—look
at the restrictions as to hours that he's subject to. I tell you the
publican _must_ adulterate his liquor—aye, even the most honest. But I
don't like to drink it so, none the more for all that. Besides, this
beer is so preciously done up, that one does not know whether there's
most cocculus indicus or most tobacco-juice in it."
"What's cocculus indicus?" asked the Buffer.
"An Indian berry of so poisonous a nature," was the reply, "that the
natives throw it into the ponds to render the fish insensible and make
them float on the surface, when of course they are easily caught. That
will show you the strength of it—ha! ha!"
And the old man chuckled with a sort of malignant triumph, as he
recalled to mind his own practices when he was in business, and ere
dissipation ruined him.
"Oh! I have the _Vintners' Guides_ all by heart, I can assure you,"
continued Swiggs; "and now that I'm out of the business, and never
likely to be in it again, I don't mind telling you a secret or two. Let
us begin with the beer. In the first place the brewer adulterates it, to
save his malt and hops; and then the publican adulterates it, to
increase its quantity. _His_ business is to make one butt of beer into
two—aye, and sometimes three. Ha! ha! Now, how do you think he does it?
He first deluges it with water: then, of course, it's so weak and flat
that no one could possibly drink it. It wants alcohol, or spirit in it;
it wants the bitter flavour; it wants pungency; it wants age; and it
wants froth. All these are supplied by means of adulteration. Cocculus
indicus, henbane, opium, and Bohemian rosemary are used instead of
alcohol: these are all poisons; and the Bohemian rosemary is of so
deadly a nature, that a small sprig produces a raving intoxication. Ha!
ha! that's good so far! Then aloes, quassia, wormwood, and gentian
supply the place of hops, and give bitterness to the hell-broth. Ginger,
cassia-buds, and capsicum, produce pungency. Treacle, tobacco-juice, and
burnt sugar give it colour. Oil of vitriol not only makes it
transparent, but also imparts to it the taste of age; so that a butt so
doctored immediately seems to be two years old. I needn't tell you what
sort of a poison oil of vitriol is: I don't want to suggest the means of
suicide—ha! ha! But when the brew has gone so far, it wants the
heading—that froth, you know, which you all fancy to be a proof of good
beer. Alum, copperas, and salt of tartar will raise you as nice a
heading as ever you'd wish to dip your lips in."
"You don't mean to say all that's true, Swiggs?" exclaimed the Buffer;
"for though I ain't partickler, I don't think I shall ever like porter
again."
"True!" ejaculated the old man, contemptuously: "it's as true as you're
sitting there! But there's a dozen other ingredients that go into the
stuff you lap up so pleasantly, and pay for as _beer_. What do you think
of extract of poppies, coriander, nux vomica, black extract, Leghorn
juice, and bitter beans? But all these names are Greek to you. They
ain't to the publicans, though—ha! ha! Why half the poor people that go
to lunatic asylums, are sent there by the poison called beer."
"What have you got to say agin blue ruin, old feller?" demanded a
Knacker, who was regaling himself with a glass of gin-and-water.
"Blue ruin—gin!" cried the old man. "Ah! I can tell you something about
that too. Oil of vitriol is the chief ingredient: it has the pungency
and smell of gin. When you take the cork out of a bottle of _pure gin_,
it will never make your eyes water: but the oil of vitriol _will_. Ha!
ha! there's a test for you. Try it! Oil of turpentine, sulphuric æther,
and oil of almonds are used to conceal the vitriol in the made-up gin.
What is called _Fine Cordial Gin_ is the most adulterated of all: it is
concocted expressly for dram-drinkers—ha! ha!"
"Rum, I should think, is the best of all the spirits," said the Buffer.
"Because you like it best, perhaps?" exclaimed the old man. "Ha! ha! you
don't know that the _Fine Jamaica Rum_ is nothing else but the vile
low-priced Leeward Island rum, which is in itself a stomach-burning
fire-water of the deadliest quality, and which is mixed by the publican
with cherry-laurel water and _devil_."
"What's _devil_?" asked the Knacker.
"Aye, what is it, indeed? It's nothing but chili pods infused in oil of
vitriol—that's all! But now for _Best Cognac Brandy_," continued the old
man. "Do you think the brandy sold under that name ever saw France—ever
crossed the sea? Not it! Aqua ammonia, saffron, mace, extract of almond
cake, cherry-laurel water, _devil_, terra japonica, and spirits of
nitre, make up the brandy when the British spirit has been well deluged
with water. That's your brandy! Ha! ha!"
"What a precious old sinner you must be, Swiggs," said one of the
company, "if you used to make up such poisons as you're now talking
about."
"Dare say I was—dare say I was," observed the old man, composedly.
"Nearly every publican does the same, I tell you. Those who don't, go
into the _Gazette_—that's all. Ha! ha! But if the poor are cheated and
poisoned in that way, how do you think the middle classes and rich ones
are served! Shall I tell you any thing about wine—eh?"
"Yes—do," cried several voices. "Let's hear how the swell cove is served
out."
"Well, I'll tell you that too," continued the old man. "There's hundreds
of _Wine-Guides_ that contain instructions for the merchants, and
vintners, and publicans. Take a bottle of cheap Port wine, and get a
chemist to analyse it: he'll tell you it contains three ounces of
spirits of wine, fourteen ounces of cyder, one ounce and a half of
sugar, two scruples of alum, one scruple of tartaric acid, and four
ounces of strong decoction of logwood. That's the way I used to make
_my_ Port wine. Not a drop—not a single drop of the juice of the grape.
Ha! ha! Families bought it wholesale—three-and-sixpence the bottle—rank
poison! Ha! ha! Nearly all fictitious wines possess too high a
colour—particularly sherry: the way to make such wine pale is to put a
quart of warm sheep's blood in the butt, and, when it's quite fine, to
draw it off. I always did that—but I didn't tell the families so,
though! Which do you think is the greatest cheat of all the cheap
wines?—the Cape. The publicans sell it at eighteen-pence and two
shillings. Why—it's nothing more than the drippings from the casks, the
filterings of the lees, and all the spoiled white wines that happen to
be in the cellar, mixed together with rum-cowe and cyder, and fined with
sheep's blood."
"I'm glad to hear the rich is humbugged as well as the poor," observed
the Knacker: "that's a consolation, at any rate."
"So it is," said a cat's-meat man, nodding his head approvingly.
"Humbugged!" ejaculated Swiggs, triumphantly: "I b'lieve you! I'll tell
you how two-thirds of all the Port wine drunk in the United Kingdom is
made:—Take four gallons of cyder, two quarts of the juice of red
beet-root, two quarts of brandy, four ounces of logwood, half a pound of
bruised rhatany root, and one ounce of alum: first infuse the logwood
and rhatany root in the brandy and a gallon of the cyder for ten days;
then strain off the liquor and mix all the other ingredients with it;
put it into a cask, keep it for a month, and it will be fit to bottle.
Not a drop of grape-juice there. Ha! ha! If the colour isn't quite
right, an infusion of raspings of red sandars wood in spirits of wine
will soon give it a beautiful red complexion. But then the bees'-wing.
Ha! the bees'-wing—eh! A saturated solution of cream of tartar, coloured
with Brazil-wood or cochineal, will give the best crust and bees'-wing
you can imagine. There's for you! Port made in a month or six weeks can
be passed off for wine ten or a dozen years old. The corks can easily be
stained to indicate age—and who's to discover the cheat? Nobody but the
chemist—ha! ha!"
"Well, I've learnt someot to-night," said the Knacker.
"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.
Sometimes as a mabber I dose the swell fred;—
Or else as a vamper I mill for a ned;
And as soon as my man is tripp'd by the gams,
A pal knaps his ticker, or frisks off his flamms.
But the life that I love is in Swell-street to shine,
With a Mounseer-fak'd calp, and my strummel all fine,
Heater-cases well polish'd, and lully so white,
And an upper ben fitting me jaunty and tight.
Then with nice silk rain-napper, or gold-headed dick,
I plunge neck and heels into sweet river-tick;
And if in a box of the stone-jug I get,
Though hobbled for macing, 'twill prove but a debt.
Then lip us a chant, pals! Why thus mum your dubber?
My gropus clinks coppers, and I'll fake the rubber:
A noggin of lightning will slacken our glib;
So pass round the lush, and let none nap the bib.
"Brayvo, Jovial Jen!" shouted the inmates of the boozing-ken parlour.
"You're the prince of good fellers at a spree," said the Knacker: "and
I'll stand a quartern of blue ruin and two outs, in spite o' what old
Swiggs said of the lush."
The promised treat was called, paid for, and disposed of.
Scarcely had the applause, which greeted this song, terminated, when the
door opened, and Lafleur, Mr. Greenwood's French valet, entered the
room.
He was disguised in a large rough coat and slouched hat; but the Buffer
immediately recognised his countenance, and hurried to meet him.
"You're late," said the Buffer, in a low tone.
"Yes—I could not come before," answered the valet. "But I knew that you
would wait for me, as I told you yesterday that the business was
important."
"Well, we can't talk here," observed the Buffer. "There's a snug room
up-stairs devoted to them that's got private business: and I'll show you
the way."
The Buffer left the parlour, followed by Lafleur, whom he conducted to a
private apartment on the first floor. A bottle of wine was ordered; and
when the waiter had withdrawn, the Buffer made a sign for his companion
to explain the object of the interview.
"You know very well that I am in the service of Mr. Greenwood, the
Member of Parliament?" began Lafleur.
"Yes—me and two pals once did a little job for him on the Richmond
road," answered the Buffer.
"You mean the affair of the robbery of Count Alteroni?" said Lafleur.
"Well—I do, since you know it. Does your master tell you all his
secrets?" demanded the Buffer.
"No—no," was the reply; and the Frenchman gave a sly laugh. "But he
can't very well prevent me listening at the door of his room, when he's
engaged with people on particular business. I know enough to ruin him
for ever."
"So much the better for you. There's nothing like being deep in one's
master's secrets: it gives you a hold on him."
"Let us talk of the present business," said Lafleur. "Are you the man to
do a small robbery on the Dover road, as skilfully as you helped to do
it on the Richmond road?"
"I'm the man to do any thing for fair reglars," answered the Buffer. "Go
on."
"I will explain myself in a few words," continued Lafleur. "By dint of
listening at doors and looking over my master's papers when he was out,
I have made a grand discovery. To-morrow evening Greenwood leaves town
in a post-chaise and four for Dover. It seems that he has embarked in
some splendid speculation with a house in Paris, and the success of it
depends on influencing the rates of exchange between English and French
money. He will take with him twenty thousand pounds in gold and Bank of
England notes to effect this purpose."
"Never mind the rigmarole of the reasons," said the Buffer; "for I don't
understand them no more than the Queen does the papers she signs, they
say, by dozens and dozens at a sitting."
"It is sufficient, then, for _you_ to know that Mr. Greenwood will leave
London to-morrow evening with twenty thousand pounds, in a post-chaise,"
proceeded Lafleur. "His Italian valet and myself are to accompany him;
and we are all to be well armed."
"What sort of a feller is your Italian wally?" demanded the Buffer.
"Not one of our sort," replied Lafleur; "he will do his duty to his
master, although I don't think he has any very great love for him."
"Greenwood believes you to be stanch also, s'pose?"
"Of course he does. I shall have to see that his master's pistols are in
proper order, and place them in the chaise; but the Italian will take
care of his own. There will, consequently, only be _one pair_ loaded
with ball."
"I understand you," said the Buffer. "Still that one pair of pistols may
send two good chaps to Davy Jones."
"Risk nothing, get nothing," observed Lafleur. "The chances are that
Filippo and I shall ride together on the dickey: if so, the moment the
horses are stopped, I shall have nothing more or less to do than turn
suddenly on Filippo and prevent him from doing any mischief."
"So far, so good," said the Buffer. "But I ought to have at least three
pals with me. Remember, there's two postillions; Greenwood himself won't
part with his tin without a struggle; and Filippo, as you call him,
might master you."
"Can you get three men as resolute as yourself to accompany you?" asked
Lafleur.
"The notice is so deuced short," returned the Buffer; "but I think I can
reckon on two. Long Bob and the Lully Prig," he added, in a musing tone,
"are certain to jine in."
"Three of you will scarcely be sufficient," said Lafleur. "Only think of
the sum that's at stake: we mustn't risk the loss of it by any want of
precaution on our parts."
"Well—I must see," cried the Buffer. "It isn't that I don't know a many
chaps in my line; but the thing is to get one that we're sure on—that
won't peach either afore or arterwards. Ah! I lost my best pal in Tony
Tidkins—poor feller!"
"The Resurrection Man, you mean?" said Lafleur.
"The same. Greenwood was a good patron of his'n," observed the Buffer;
"but that wouldn't have perwented him from jining in along with me."
"I remember that Greenwood wanted Tidkins for some business or another
nearly a year ago," said the French valet; "and he sent me with a note
to him at this very place. He did not, however, come; but I called here
a few days afterwards, and heard that he had received the letter."
"That was just about the time poor Tidkins was desperately wounded by
Crankey Jem," said the Buffer, rather speaking to himself than to his
companion; "and circumstances forced him to keep deuced close
arterwards. But that's neither here nor there: let's talk on our own
business. Leave me to get a proper number of pals; and now answer me a
question or two. At what time does Greenwood intend to start?"
"At seven o'clock. He means to get to Dover so as to have a few hours'
sleep before the packet leaves for Calais."
"Then the business mustn't be done this side of Chatham," said the
Buffer: "it would be too early. There's a nice lonely part of the road,
I remember, between Newington and Sittingbourne, with a chalk pit near,
where we can divide the swag, and each toddle off in different
directions arterwards. The chaise will reach that place about ten. Now,
one more question:—where will the blunt be stowed away?"
"Under the seat inside, no doubt," answered Lafleur. "Then I may
consider the business agreed upon between us?"
"As good as done, almost," said the Buffer.
At this moment the conversation was interrupted by a knock at the door.
The waiter entered, and whispered something to the Buffer.
"By God, how fortunate!" ejaculated this individual, his countenance
suddenly assuming an expression of the most unfeigned joy. "Show him
up—this minute!"
The waiter disappeared.
"Who is it?" demanded Lafleur.
"The very person we are in want of! He has turned up again:—that feller
has as many lives as a cat."
"But who is it?" repeated Lafleur impatiently.
Before the Buffer could answer the question, the door was thrown open,
and the Resurrection Man entered the room.
-----
Footnote 12:
In order to avoid breaking the sense of this song by a constant
repetition of those typographical signs which point a reference to
foot-notes, we have deemed it best to give a complete glossary:—
_Lip us a chant._ Sing us a song.
_Mum your dubber._ Keep your mouth shut.
_My gropus clinks coppers._ My pocket has got money in it.
_Fake the rubber._ Stand treat this time.
_Noggin of lightning._ Quartern of gin.
_Slacken your glib._ Loosen your tongue.
_Cease napping the bib._ Leave off whining.
_Precious-rum squeeze at the Spell._ Good evening's work at the
theatre.
_Yokel._ Countryman.
_Forks._ Fingers.
_Rum-Tom-Pat._ Clergyman.
_Kickseys._ Breeches.
_Twitch._ Silk net purse.
_Glims._ Spectacles.
_Snitch._ Nose.
_Hock-dockeys._ Shoes.
_Gam-cases._ Stockings.
_Parish prig._ Parson.
_Nib-cove._ Gentleman.
_Chanting the play._ Explaining the tricks and manœuvres of thieves.
_Shov'd my trunk._ Moved off.
_Gay-tyke-boy._ Dog-fancier.
_Chirp._ Give information.
_Spelt in the leer._ Advertised in the newspaper.
_Leg-glazier._ A thief who carries the apparatus of a glazier, and
calls at houses when he knows the master and mistress are out, telling
the servant that he has been sent to clean and mend the windows. By
these means he obtains admission, and plunders the house of any thing
which he can conveniently carry off.
_Fadger._ Glazier's frame.
_Squibs._ Paint brushes.
_Nibsomest cribs._ Best houses.
_Blue-bottles._ Police.
_Flue flaker._ Chimney-sweeper.
_Slavey._ Female servant.
_Flag._ Fourpenny-piece.
_Fly the blue-pigeon._ Cut the lead off the roof.
_Bank the rag._ Make some money.
_Mabber._ Cab-driver.
_Dose the swell fred._ Inveigle the fare into a public-house and hocus
him.
_Vamper._ A fellow who frequents public-houses, where he picks a
quarrel with any person who has got a ring or a watch about him, his
object being to lead the person into a pugilistic encounter, so as to
afford the vamper's confederate, or pal, the opportunity of robbing
him.
_Mill for a ned._ Fight for a sovereign.
_Gams._ Legs.
_Ticker._ Watch.
_Flamms._ Rings.
_Swell-street._ The West End.
_Mounseer-fak'd calp._ A hat of French manufacture.
_Strummel._ Hair.
_Heater-cases._ Wellington boots.
_Lully._ Shirt.
_Upper ben._ Coat.
_Rain-napper._ Umbrella.
_Gold-headed dick._ Riding-whip.
_River-tick._ Tradesmen's books.
_Box of the stone-jug._ Cell in Newgate.
_Hobbled._ Committed for trial.
_Macing._ Swindling.
_'Twill prove but a debt._ Swindlers of this class usually arrange
their business in such a manner as to escape a conviction on the plea
that the business is a mere matter of debt. In order to induce the
jury to come to this decision, recourse is had to the assistance of
pals, who depose to conversations which they pretended to overhear
between the prosecuting tradesman and the swindling prisoner, but
which in reality never took place.