ceeded to
pour the imaginary "juice of cursed hebenon" into the imaginary porches
of somebody's ears. The whole thing was inimitably done, and I hoped
nobody saw it but myself; but years afterwards, a ponderous, fat-witted
young man put the question squarely to me: "What _was_ the matter with
Mr. Thackeray, that night the club met at Mr ----'s house?"

Overhearing me say one morning something about the vast attractions of
London to a greenhorn like myself, he broke in with, "Yes, but you have
not seen the grandest one yet! Go with me to-day to St. Paul's and hear
the charity children sing." So we went, and I saw the "head cynic of
literature," the "hater of humanity," as a critical dunce in the Times
once called him, hiding his bowed face, wet with tears, while his whole
frame shook with emotion, as the children of poverty rose to pour out
their anthems of praise. Afterwards he wrote in one of his books this
passage, which seems to me perfect in its feeling and tone:--

"And yet there is one day in the year when I think St. Paul's
presents the noblest sight in the whole world; when five thousand
charity children, with cheeks like nosegays, and sweet, fresh
voices, sing the hymn which makes every heart thrill with praise and
happiness. I have seen a hundred grand sights in the
world,--coronations, Parisian splendors, Crystal Palace openings,
Pope's chapels with their processions of long-tailed cardinals and
quavering choirs of fat soprani,--but think in all Christendom there
is no such sight as Charity Children's day. _Non Anglei, sed
angeli_. As one looks at that beautiful multitude of innocents; as
the first note strikes; indeed one may almost fancy that cherubs are
singing."

I parted with Thackeray for the last time in the street, at midnight, in
London, a few months before his death. The Cornhill Magazine, under his
editorship, having proved a very great success, grand dinners were given
every month in honor of the new venture. We had been sitting late at one
of these festivals, and, as it was getting toward morning, I thought it
wise, as far as I was concerned, to be moving homeward before the sun
rose. Seeing my intention to withdraw, he insisted on driving me in his
brougham to my lodgings. When we reached the outside door of our host,
Thackeray's servant, seeing a stranger with his master, touched his hat
and asked where he should drive us. It was then between on