supposed to add, many cubits to a man's height. But he had a broken
nose. At dinner he talked much of the tender passion, and did so in a
manner which stirred up Thackeray's feeling of the ridiculous. "What has
the world come to," said Thackeray out loud to the table, "when two
broken-nosed old fogies like you and me sit talking about love to each
other!" The gentleman was astounded, and could only sit wrapping his
toga in silent dismay for the rest of the evening. Thackeray then, as at
other similar times, had no idea of giving pain, but when he saw a
foible he put his foot upon it, and tried to stamp it out.

Such is my idea of the man whom many call a cynic, but whom I regard as
one of the most soft-hearted of human beings, sweet as Charity itself,
who went about the world dropping pearls, doing good, and never wilfully
inflicting a wound.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] The report that he had lost all his money and was going to live by
painting in Paris, was still prevalent in London in 1836. Macready, on
the 27th April of that year, says in his _Diary_; "At Garrick Club,
where I dined and saw the papers. Met Thackeray, who has spent all his
fortune, and is now about to settle in Paris, I believe as an artist."
But at this time he was, in truth, turning to literature as a
profession.

[2] The article was written by Abraham Hayward, who is still with us,
and was no doubt instigated by a desire to assist Thackeray in his
struggle upwards, in which it succeeded.

[3] For a week there existed at the _Punch_ office a grudge against