IN DICKENS'S LONDON
literature, not of this island only, but of all who speak our English tongue.'"
The stone placed upon it is inscribed:
CHARLES DICKENS.
Born February the Seventh 1812.Died June the Ninth 1870.
The spell of the mighty mausoleum still upon me, I pushed aside my easel and looked silently on the tomb before me, repeating to myself the line of Lord Bacon:
"Death openeth the gate to good fame
And extinguisheth envy."
A line eminently fitting to be remembered in the presence of the illustrious dead; for if any one of the goodly company whose names and effigies were about me had, by their achievements, "won fame and extinguished envy," it could certainly be said of Charles Dickens. If, when his light first began to flame, any such jealousy existed, it was soon replaced by sincere and undying gratitude. I for one can never repay the debt I owe him—and this debt is one of a lifetime, for I am only one year younger than his first published book. And then, what very dear friends he has given me: Sam Weller, Dot Peerybingle, Bob Cratchit, Tiny Tim, Peggotty, Little Em'ly, Lizzie Hexam, Sarah Gamp, Micawber, Mark Tapley, David Copperfield—each and every one a welcome guest in my household! I can hear my father's voice now as he read aloud the "Christmas Carol,"
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