ured out for him by the eldest boy, and
after drinking which, he backs and slides out of the room, in a state of
nervous agitation from which he does not perfectly recover, until he
finds himself once more in the Islington-road. Poor, harmless creatures
such men are; contented but not happy; broken-spirited and humbled, they
may feel no pain, but they never know pleasure.

Compare these men with another class of beings who, like them, have
neither friend nor companion, but whose position in society is the result
of their own choice. These are generally old fellows with white heads
and red faces, addicted to port wine and Hessian boots, who from some
cause, real or imaginary--generally the former, the excellent reason
being that they are rich, and their relations poor--grow suspicious of
everybody, and do the misanthropical in chambers, taking great delight in
thinking themselves unhappy, and making everybody they come near,
miserable. You may see such men as these, anywhere; you will know them
at coffee-houses by their discontented exclamations and the luxury of
their dinners; at theatres, by their always sitting in the same place and
looking with a jaundiced eye on all the young people near them; at
church, by the pomposity with which they enter, and the loud tone in
which they repeat the responses; at parties, by their getting cross at
whist and hating music. An old fellow of this kind will have his
chambers splendidly furnished, and collect books, plate, and pictures
about him in profusion; not so much for his own gratification, as to be
superior to those who have the desire, but not the means, to compete with
him. He belongs to two or three clubs, and is envied, and flattered, and
hated by the members of them all. Sometimes he will be appealed to by a
poor relation--a married nephew perhaps--for some little assistance: and
then he will declaim with honest indignation on the improvidence of young
married people, the worthlessness of a wife, the insolence of having a
family, the atrocity of getting into debt with a hundred and twenty-five
pounds a year, and other unpardonable crimes; winding up his exhortations
with a complacent review of his own conduct, and a delicate allusion to
parochial relief. He dies, some day after dinner, of apoplexy, having
bequeathed his property to a Public Society, and the Institution erects a
tablet to his memory, expressive of their admiration of his Christian
conduct in this worl