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