about the Arctic regions, if I remember rightly), and now began the
greatest pantomimic scene of all, namely, murder by poison, after the
manner in which the player king is disposed of in Hamlet. Thackeray had
found a small vial on the mantel-shelf, and out of that he proceeded 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