The mock-litany scoundrel had a big crowd in one street, and an infant phenomenon—a boy who played all the popular airs down the spout of a coffee-pot—was largely patronised; but the biggest audience of the evening surrounded a gentleman who, mounted on a cart, was at once carrying on the business of an ointment vendor and the profession of an improvisatore. His ointment was only a penny a box, but its intrinsic merits were priceless. It was warranted to draw glass or iron or steel from any part of the human body with one application; also to cure weak eyes, bad legs, and sores of all descriptions.
The gentleman indulged in anecdotes full of ancient and modern history, all proving the value of his ointment, and every now and then he dropped into rhyme:=
```'If you have a bad leg, and physicians have given you up,
```Or you have been to the doctors, who've half poisoned you with nasty `````stuff,
```Perhaps you fancy that it's no good—that your leg can't be cured;
```But Moore's ointment will do, of that rest assured.
```Try it; if it don't succeed, you're only a penny the worse.
```If you don't try it, you may think of it too late, when you're in your `````funeral hearse.
```It's cured hundreds, and thousands will testify
```It is good for even the tenderest baby's eye.