The evening telegraph. [volume] (Philadelphia [Pa.]) 1864-1918, 1870-08-18
THE SEPTEMBER MAGAZINES
"LIPPINoOTrs."

L
"Admetus, q" illustrated by e. B. Bensell by
Emma Lazarus; ''The Story of the Sapphire,
| by Lucy Hamilton Hooper; ''By Steam and
Paddle to Manitoba" by John Lesperance;
''About Dogs" by Dom Piatt; ''Sir Harry
Hotspur of Humblethwaite, Part v, by An
thony Trollope; mexican "reminiscences"
"a Pilgrimage" by Barton Hill; ''The
House of Pennypacker & Son, by j. w. Wat
son; 'Waifs from Field, Camp, and Garri-
son." by James Franklin Fits; "On the
Hypothesis of Evolution, !" III, concluded, by
Edward d. Cope; ga Glimpse of Quebec" by
John Esten Cooke; ''My Story" by j. F.
Stone; ''Errata, by George H. Calvert; sour
Monthly Gossip" Literature of the Day."
The following graceful sketch of ''pil-
grimage" to the late home and the grave
of Dickens, from the pen of Barton Hill, is
as interesting as anything in the ul4gazine.
Mr.. Hills admirers will be plsased to see that
he can write as well as he can act, although
there is nothing surprising in this, as he had
considerable experience as printer and as
journalist before he adopted his present pro-
fession:-
Wellington street, Strand Close to the
arteries of London, one of its important
veins, and keeping up healthy circulation
Teeming with life, a busy yet quiet thorough
fare. Among that hive of men too intent
upon their labor to notice it or you, and
needing them as lightly, you make your way
to plain, unobtrusive, little-noticed corner
house, claimed by Wellington and York
streets-the nursery, for many years, of
world-famed journal How often you have
observed that building, and wished to look
upon its owner How you long to look upon
him now! How willingly you would give up
part of your own existence to see him at
this moment, living man and entering
that doorway You cannot realize that
he is dead: you listen vainly for the
football that will never come, for the
sound of voice that none will ever hear
again.
AN the Year Round is published in that
building: all the year round privileged fin
gers have put into leaden type the golden
fancies of his master mind. Who shall take
his place hereafter? An idle pen, deserted
desk, vacant chair: who is worthy to assume
that throne? Willing but sad hearts are there,
working with honest purpose to fulfil his
wish, paying his memory the tribute of the
sighs they could not, if they would, conceal
Fill as they may the column, the page must be
blank: the leaf is withered, the book is closed
the building is in mourning, the temple is
ruin. The illustrations of his works alone lie
on the window shelves. The works them
selves adorn the walls within. You enter and
purchase the latest number issued in his life,
and look your last upon spot you will not
wish to see again; yet linger on the threshold
for the sad interest attaching to it. There is
a sense of desolation upon everything around
it that you cannot wonder at, and that you
fully share. 1t is no longer habitation: it is
tomb. You cast your eyes upon the oppo-
site walls, and they rest upon these Words
'Ihe Tablet" "Catholic Truth Society,""
Strange! The catholic truths have emanated
from this tomb: its tablet is the title-page,
''The Story of our Lives from Year to
Year." Turn aside, pilgrim you are intent
upon the Story of Death, for which you are
but one of many million mourners.
II.
Along the crowded Strand to the South
eastern Railway So many flowers greet you
on each side that it might seem the country
had responded to your wish and sent its roses
to invite your coming. No man so poor but
wears flower in his coat-the driver of the
omnibus, the cabman, the newsboy the
bootblack, the fusee-vender-and not
one among them but would drop that
flower as a token of respect and love
upon Charles Dickens coffin: they would
hide his grave with roses It is not strange
nifty itself recalls the man who drew its scenes
with such a wondrous and graphic power.
His writings lie on every bookstand, and the
walls yet bear the promise of that never-to-
be-unraveled "Mystery of Edwin brood" No
one seems to notice them: why should they?
He died week ago: the whole world felt
the blow upon the following morning, and
now the pain alone remains-the dull,
dead, ceaseless, aching sense of something
lost for ever. The very engine shrieks its
lamentations as it ploughs its way through
villages and fields that knew him almost as
he knew them. How lately he admired the
Embroidered gardens of yonder signal-sta-
! tion-the varied colors of the wild dragon s.
head" upon the chalky sides of the excavated
road-the red poppies in yon field of oats
that bowed to him as he passed by! They
droop their heads as if in mourning now.
Higham! Here he left the noisy train to
walk or drive mile up yonder hill, to what
was yesterday his home. You travel on to
Strood, and thence by omnibus-the ''short,
squat omnibus, with disproportionate heap
with infinitely too much Castle"-to Roches-
ter, for you are seeking the home of his
childhood. You leave the omnibus, or,
rather, it leaves you, at the ''Clock in High
street, and find yourself in Cloisterham.
Every stone in this old city was known to
him. You cannot look upon an inch of space
he has not seen and analyzed. Cloisterham!
He has so we'll described it in his latest
chapters that it seems familiar to you too
You enter that old gateway and wander round
the cathedral close, meeting an acquaintance
at every step. You recognize each face, for
you have seen it in his books. Turn
from the living to the dead, and
the first tombstone that meets your
gaze bears the name of "Dorritt" You have