There was a modern philanthropist, who had become so deeply sensible
of the calamities of thousands and millions of his fellow-creatures,
and of the impracticableness of any general measures for their
relief, that he had no heart to do what little good lay immediately
within his power, but contented himself with being miserable for
sympathy. Near him sat a gentleman in a predicament hitherto
unprecedented, but of which the present epoch probably affords
numerous examples. Ever since he was of capacity to read a
newspaper, this person had prided himself on his consistent
adherence to one political party, but, in the confusion of these
latter days, had got bewildered and knew not whereabouts his party
was. This wretched condition, so morally desolate and disheartening
to a man who has long accustomed himself to merge his individuality
in the mass of a great body, can only be conceived by such as have
experienced it. His next companion was a popular orator who had
lost his voice, and--as it was pretty much all that he had to lose--
had fallen into a state of hopeless melancholy. The table was
likewise graced by two of the gentler sex,--one, a half-starved,
consumptive seamstress, the representative of thousands just as
wretched; the other, a woman of unemployed energy, who found herself
in the world with nothing to achieve, nothing to enjoy, and nothing
even to suffer. She had, therefore, driven herself to the verge of
madness by dark breedings over the wrongs of her sex, and its
exclusion from a proper field of action. The roll of guests being
thus complete, a side-table had been set for three or four
disappointed office-seekers, with hearts as sick as death, whom the
stewards had admitted partly because their calamities really
entitled them to entrance here, and partly that they were in
especial need of a good dinner. There was likewise a homeless dog,