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whim of the moment, at any hour, for anywhere; and resumed his writing and other labors, but not with the same lightness and vivacity as before. Though a sturdy walker, there had always been something of a limp in his gait; and this now became more marked. He had more need of his stick, and stooped perceptibly. He grew sooner wearied, both in walking and in work, and complained, at times, of a strange supineness of mind, and labored slowness with the pen. Those who had not seen him for some time were most struck on meeting him, within the last few months, with the sudden whiteness of his hair. From gray, he became all at once white, — just as Mr. Bright did not long since. I saw him a few weeks ago, just before he left town; and his sunburned face seemed set in snow, his beard and hair were bleached so perfectly. Beyond question, I think it was Edwin Drood' that killed him. He went back to work too soon. He had had the idea of the story for some time in his mind, I believe; but, after the first impulse of the start was off, he found the development of the incidents and characters slow and painful. Within the last week or so, he was planning much of this. He seemed to make so little progress, and at the cost of such an effort. Perhaps it was the hot weather, he thought, or he was out of sorts, and would get into better trim by and by. But the disorder was deeper and more fatal. Even before his illness last year, however, he had had warnings of exhaustion. He

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suffered, at times, from a terrible sleeplessness, which often drove him forth at midnight to walk- his favorite remedy for all troubles till dawn. Like Wordsworth, he belonged to the school of peripatetics. Much given myself to walking at all hours, I have come across him often in his rambles, always marching swiftly, with earnest, resolute air, as if bound to be at some given spot by the hour and minute; his quick, glancing eye scanning every thing and everybody. In the story of The Two Apprentices,' which he wrote with Wilkie Collins, he described his own restless, impetuous activity, -laborious idleness he called it. All this wear and tear of writing, public readings, and perpetual movement, told even on his elastic and vigorous constitution in the end. The American trip brought him close upon thirty thousand pounds; but, otherwise, I doubt whether it did him much good. Altogether, the strain was too severe. Then came Edwin Drood' to put the finishing-stroke to the work."

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CHAPTER XVIII.

LAST WORDS.

Last Letters of Mr. Dickens.-The Queen's Sorrow.-A Nation mourns.. -The Funeral of the Great Novelist.

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IN the day that Mr. Dickens was seized with apoplexy, he wrote the following letter:

GAD'S-HILL PLACE, HIGHAM BY ROCHESTER, KENT,
Wednesday, the 8th June, 1870.

DEAR SIR, — It would be quite inconceivable to me, but for your letter, that any reasonable reader could possibly attach a scriptural reference to a passage in a book of mine, reproducing a much abused social figure of speech, impressed into all sorts of service, on all sorts of inappropriate occasions, without the faintest connection of it with its original source. I am truly

shocked to find that any reader can make the mistake. I have always striven in my writings to express veneration for the life and lessons of our Saviour, because I feel it, and because I re-wrote that history for my children, every one of whom knew it, from having it repeated to them, long before they could read, and almost as soon as they could speak. But I have never made proclamation of this from the housetops.

Faithfully yours,

CHARLES DICKENS.

He wrote that letter because a friend had written to him, calling attention to a passage in "Edwin Drood," which, to some readers, appeared to savor of irreverence.

Charles Dickens, it is said, was never formally connected with any religious sect; but his rule was to worship with the Unitarians. While living in London, he attended one of their places of worship regularly, and had a family-pew there. He held similar views to those of Canon Kingsley, and believed most firmly in the final triumph of the Almighty Power and Goodness over all evil. He wrote his books, as he once told an American whom he met on the Ohio River, to show that there was not one beyond the reach of infinite mercy; that, to use his own expression, "God never made any thing too bad to be saved."

Dean Stanley at the funeral read the following extract from his will, dated May 12, 1869:

"I direct that my name be inscribed in plain English letters on my tomb. . . . I enjoin my friends on no account to make me the subject of any monument, memorial, or testimonial whatever. . . . I rest my claims to the remembrance of my country upon my published works, and the remembrance of my friends upon their experience of me in addition thereto. . . . I commit my soul to the mercy of God, through our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ; and I exhort my dear children to try and guide themselves by the teaching of the New Testament in its broad spirit, and to put no faith in any man's narrow construction of its letter."

"In that simple but sufficient faith," said the dean, "Charles Dickens lived and died. In that faith, he would have you all live and die also; and if you have learned from his words the eternal value of generosity, purity, kindness, and unselfishness, and to carry them out in action, those are the best monuments, memorials, and testimonials' which you, his fellow-countrymen, can raise to his memory."

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Well says a writer in "The Gospel Banner, "When Uncle Tom shall lead some soul away from Christ, or little Eva lead a troop of children to perdition, or Aunt Winnie shut the gates of heaven, which are now ajar, against some struggling spirit, it will be time enough for stupid pharisees to preach against all

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