with strings, or that is always being carried to the shop for repairs, and is always good for nothing. At the full of life, while yet his mind was vigorous, he was stricken down. And he has died at the right time, at the right time for himself, and at the right time for the world. He had done his work; and, such as it was, he had done it well. I, for one, thank God for the life of Charles Dickens; and I thank God for his work. Though I do not regard it as the highest, I regard it as eminently noble and useful. "It will always be a pleasant thing for me to remember that he spoke in our church, using it as a readinghall." A beautiful tribute is that of George William Curtis in "Harper's Weekly:" "The great story-teller is the personal friend of the world; and, when he dies, a shadow falls upon every home in which his works were familiar, and his name tenderly cherished. When the news came that Dickens was dead, it was felt that the one man who was more beloved than any of his contemporaries by the Englishspeaking race of to-day was gone. While he yet lay in his own house, unburied, the thoughts of the whole civilized world turned solemnly to the silent chamber, and gratefully recalled his immense service to mankind. What an amazing fame! What a feeling to inspire! 6 When Walter Scott drew near his end, he said to his son-in-law, Lockhart, as if it were the chief lesson of his accumulated experience, Be a good man, my dear.' Nothing else seemed important then. Charity, patience, love, these he saw, in the dawn of heavenly light, to be the only true possessions, the sole real successes. And who of all men that ever lived has done more to make men good than Charles Dickens? and what praise so pure as that simple truth spoken by his open grave? . . . "Even at the very moment that the cunning hand was suddenly stilled forever, how many thousands of readers in England and America, as they finished the beautiful tenth chapter of Edwin Drood,' were declaring that Dickens was never so delightful as in his latest work! "And so our friend — the friend of all honest men and women stumbling and struggling in the great battle — sudenly ceases from among us, - how much happier for him, and for all of us, than the sad decline of the good Sir Walter, whose powers were slowly extinguished, star by star, before the eyes of all men, who therefore could not hear of the end but with a tear of relief! Now we can perceive how prophetic was the feeling of sadness with which we watched Dickens withdrawing from the platform at his last reading in Steinway Hall. All the evening, as he said, the shadow of one word had impended over us. He had not faltered for a moment; but, strangely, even Pickwick did not seem gay. The feeling of deep and inexpressible affection for the man who had so nobly made his talent ten talents, and who, evidently ill, was now passing from our sight forever, overpowered all other emotion. The vast audience stood cheering and tearful, as, gravely bowing, and refusing all assistance, as if in that final moment he wished to confront us alone, the master lingered and lingered, and slowly retired. In that moment, after the long misunderstanding of years between him and this country, and after his wholly manly and generous speech at the press dinner, our hearts clasped his, as he and Mark Lemon grasped hands over the grave of Thackeray; and henceforward, and for all the future, there was to be nothing in American hearts but boundless love and gratitude for Charles Dickens." "The Overland Monthly" contained a poetic tribute of rare beauty, entitled "DICKENS IN CAMP. "Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting; The river sang below; The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting Their minarets of snow. “The roaring camp-fire with rude humor painted The ruddy tints of health On haggard face and form, that drooped and fainted "Till one arose, and from his pack's scant treasure A hoarded volume drew; And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure To hear the tale anew. "And then, while round them shadows gathered faster, And as the firelight fell, He read aloud the book wherein the master Had writ of Little Nell. Perhaps 'twas boyish fancy, for the reader But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar A silence seemed to fall. “The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows, Listened in every spray; While the whole camp, with Nell, on English meadows Wandered, and lost their way. "And so in mountain solitudes o'ertaken, As by some spell divine, Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken From out the gusty pine. "Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire; And he who wrought that spell Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire Ye have one tale to tell. "Lost is that camp; but let its fragrant story With hop-vines' incense, all the pensive glory |