store of knowledge gave substance to
his talk, yet never interrupted his buoyancy and pleasantry, because
only introduced when called for, and not made matter of parade or
display. But the happy combination of qualities that rendered him a
favourite companion, and won him many friends, proved in the end
injurious to himself. He had done much while young in certain lines of
investigation which he had made almost his own, and there was every
promise that, in the department of biographical and literary research,
he would have produced much weightier works with advancing years. This
however was not to be. The fascinations of good fellowship encroached
more and more upon literary pursuits, until he nearly abandoned his
former favourite studies, and sacrificed all the deeper purposes of his
life to the present temptation of a festive hour. Then his health gave
way, and he became lost to friends as well as to literature. But the
impression of the bright and amiable intercourse of his better time
survived, and his old associates never ceased to think of Peter
Cunningham with regret and kindness.

Dickens went to Paris early in October, and at its close was brought
again to London by the sudden death of a friend, much deplored by
himself, and still more so by a distinguished lady who had his loyal
service at all times. An incident before his return to France is worth
brief relation. He had sallied out for one of his night walks, full of
thoughts of his story, one wintery rainy evening (the 8th of November),
and "pulled himself up," outside the door of Whitechapel Workhouse, at a
strange sight which arrested him there. Against the dreary enclosure of
the house were leaning, in the midst of the downpouring rain and storm,
what seemed to be seven heaps of rags: "dumb, wet, silent horrors" he
described them, "sphinxes set up against that dead wall, and no one
likely to be at the pains of solving them until the General Overthrow."
He sent in his card to the Master. Against him there was no ground of
complaint; he gave prompt personal attention; but the casual ward was
full, and there was no help. The rag-heaps were all girls, and Dickens
gave each a shilling. One girl, "twenty or so," had been without food a
day and night. "Look at me," she said, as she clutched the shilling, and
without thanks shuffled off. So with the rest. There was not a single
"thank you." A crowd meanwhile, only less poor than these objects of
misery, had gath