A very short tramp from Somerset House brings us to the last object of our pilgrimage—the grave of Charles Dickens in Westminster Abbey. Surely no admirer of his genius can omit this final mark of honour to the memory of the mighty dead. Many years have rolled by since "the good, the gentle, highly gifted, ever friendly, noble Dickens" passed away; and we stand by the grave in the calm September evening, with "jewels cast upon the pavement of the nave from stained glass by the declining sun," and look down at the dark flat stone lying at our feet, on which is inscribed "in plain English letters," the simple record:—
CHARLES DICKENS,
BORN FEBRUARY THE SEVENTH, 1812.
DIED JUNE THE NINTH, 1870.
We recall with profoundly sympathetic interest that quietly impressive ceremony as recorded by Forster in the final pages of his able biography. "Before mid-day on Tuesday, the 14th June, 1870, with knowledge of those only who took part in the burial, all was done. The solemnity had not lost by the simplicity. Nothing so grand or so touching could have accompanied it, as the stillness and the silence of the vast Cathedral." And he further describes the wonderful gathering subsequently:—"Then later in the day, and all the following day, came unbidden mourners in such crowds that the Dean had to request permission to keep open the grave until Thursday; but after it was closed they did not cease to come, and all day long." Dean Stanley wrote:—"On the 17th there was a constant pressure to the spot, and many flowers were strewn upon it by unknown hands, many tears shed from unknown eyes."
What poet, what philosopher, what monarch even, might not envy this loving tribute to the influence of the great writer, to the personal respect for the man, and to the affection for the friend who, by the sterling nature of his work for nearly thirty-five years, had the power to create and sustain such sympathy?
Forster thus admiringly concludes the memoir of his hero:
"The highest associations of both the arts he loved surround him where he lies. Next to him is Richard Cumberland. Mrs. Pritchard's monument looks down upon him, and immediately behind is David Garrick's. Nor is the actor's delightful art more worthily represented than the nobler genius of the author. Facing the grave, and on its left and right, are the monuments of Chaucer, Shakespeare, and Dryden, the three immortals who did most to create and settle the language to which Charles Dickens has given another undying name."
"Of making many books there is no end," said the wise man of old; and certainly, if we may estimate the popularity of Charles Dickens by the works of all kinds relating to him, written since his death, the number may be counted by hundreds. It may also be said that probably no other English writer save Shakespeare has been the cause of so much posthumous literature. The sayings of his characters permeate our everyday life, and they continue to be as fresh as when they were first recorded. The original editions of his writings in some cases realize high prices which are simply amazing, and—judging by statistics—his readers are as numerous as ever they were. Higher testimony to the worth "of the most popular novelist of the century, and one of the greatest humourists that England has produced," and to the continued interest which the reading public still evince in the minutest detail relating to him and to his books, can scarcely be uttered; but what is better still—"his sympathies were generally on the right side;"—he has left an example that all may follow;—he did his utmost to leave the world a little better than he found it;—as he said by one of his characters, "the best of men can do no more"—and now he peacefully rests as one
"Of those immortal dead who live again
In minds made better by their presence."
