here in future years,--a sight of
the Alps, a holiday on the Rhine, a ride in the Park, a colloquy
with pleasant friends of an evening. If it is death to part with
these delights (and pleasures they are, and no mistake), sure the
mind can conceive others afterward; and I know one small
philosopher who is quite ready to give up these pleasures,--quite
content (after a pang or two of separation from dear friends here)
to put his hand into that of the summoning angel, and say, 'Lead
on, O messenger of God our Father, to the next place whither the
divine goodness calls us.' We must be blindfolded before we can
pass, I know; but I have no fear about what is to come, any more
than my children need fear that the love of _their_ father should
fail them. I thought myself a dead man once, and protest the notion
gave me no disquiet about myself,--at least the philosophy is more
comfortable than that which is tinctured with brimstone."

He hated those who make a stock in trade of their religion, and, like
Dr. Johnson, would have advised them to clear their minds of cant; but
no genuine evidence of religious feeling or experience was ever treated
lightly by him, and he was greatly shocked at any real desecration of
sacred things. He had a simple, childlike faith in God and in the
Saviour, and a firm hope in the everlasting life.

In person, Thackeray was a tall, ruddy, simple-looking Englishman, with
rather a full face, florid, almost rubicund, and keen, kindly eyes, and,
after forty, abundant gray hair. He had a conspicuous, almost a
commanding figure, with a certain awkwardness in his gait. He had a
misshaped nose, caused by an accident in boyhood, and a sarcastic
twinkle oftentimes in his eyes, which changed the expression of his
whole face.

He dressed well, but unpretendingly, and his voice and manner were
always courteous and cordial. He smiled easily, and had a humorous look
when not oppressed with sadness, which was often the case in later life.
He died suddenly in middle life, leaving, like Dickens, an unfinished
novel in the press. No other literary man, save perhaps Macaulay, has
been mourned as Thackeray was mourned. There was universal sorrow for
his premature loss, and great personal grief among his friends.
Twenty-three years have passed since that time, and no successor has
arisen to repay the world for that loss. When the curtain fell upon
Beck