Please send thirty-six words on Wherry.
Having no other use for the printed form, Old Mole filled it in thus:
He sold sugar.—Beenham.
His tribute was not printed.
There arose a mighty quarrel as to whether or no Wherry should be buried in Westminster Abbey. The Poets’ Corner was crowded. Only an indubitable immortal should have the privilege of resting his bones there. The voices of the nation stormed in argument. Were the works of Wherry literature? Men of acknowledged greatness had found (comparatively) obscure graves. Was there not a risk? . . . There was no risk, said the other side. The heart of the nation had been moved by Wherry, the life of the Empire had been made sweeter because Wherry had lived and written.
Lady Wherry was consulted. A picture of her appeared, with a black-edged handkerchief in front of her face, in the illustrated morning papers. And under it was printed her historic reply:
“Bury him by all means——”
Emotion cut short her words.
The argument was finally taken for decision to high places. Those in them had read the works of Wherry and, like the smallest servant in a suburban garret, had been moved to tears by them.
It was arranged. The Dean and Chapter bowed to the decision.