of the evening. Vinegar, hartshorn, and cold water, were now as
much in request as negus, rout-cakes, and _bon-bons_ had been a short
time before. Mrs. Kitterbell was immediately conveyed to her apartment,
the musicians were silenced, flirting ceased, and the company slowly
departed. Dumps left the house at the commencement of the bustle, and
walked home with a light step, and (for him) a cheerful heart. His
landlady, who slept in the next room, has offered to make oath that she
heard him laugh, in his peculiar manner, after he had locked his door.
The assertion, however, is so improbable, and bears on the face of it
such strong evidence of untruth, that it has never obtained credence to
this hour.

The family of Mr. Kitterbell has considerably increased since the period
to which we have referred; he has now two sons and a daughter; and as he
expects, at no distant period, to have another addition to his blooming
progeny, he is anxious to secure an eligible godfather for the occasion.
He is determined, however, to impose upon him two conditions. He must
bind himself, by a solemn obligation, not to make any speech after
supper; and it is indispensable that he should be in no way connected
with 'the most miserable man in the world.'

CHAPTER XII--THE DRUNKARD'S DEATH

We will be bold to say, that there is scarcely a man in the constant
habit of walking, day after day, through any of the crowded thoroughfares
of London, who cannot recollect among the people whom he 'knows by
sight,' to use a familiar phrase, some being of abject and wretched
appearance whom he remembers to have seen in a very different condition,
whom he has observed sinking lower and lower, by almost imperceptible
degrees, and the shabbiness and utter destitution of whose appearance, at
last, strike forcibly and painfully upon him, as he passes by. Is there
any man who has mixed much with society, or whose avocations have caused
him to mingle, at one time or other, with a great number of people, who
cannot call to mind the time when some shabby, miserable wretch, in rags
and filth, who shuffles past him now in all the squalor of disease and
poverty, with a respectable tradesman, or clerk, or a man following some
thriving pursuit, with good prospects, and decent means?--or cannot any
of our readers call to mind from among the list of their _quondam_
acquaintance, some fallen and degraded man, who lingers about the
pavement in hungry misery--