There was once a philanthropist who dressed with shameful shabbiness and carried pearls in his pocket. There sat Jack, evidently in the last stage of intoxication, with his collar opened, his dress disarranged, a pipe in his mouth, a bowl of punch and a halfemptied rummer before him,—there he sat, receiving and returning, or rather attempting to return,—for he was almost past consciousness,—the blandishments of a couple of females, one of whom had passed her arm round his neck, while the other leaned over the back of his chair and appeared from her gestures to be whispering soft nonsense into his ear. ” He would say every time she wore it. They are used to me, they only cry because they have become so used to being here. The destroying angel hurried by, shrouded in his gloomiest apparel. Kneebone! you would greatly oblige me by surrendering yourself.
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