The Plymouth Democrat. (Plymouth, Ind.) 1869-1941, 1870-06-23
Charles Dickens.

THIS great novelist, whose sudden
death is announced herewith, was born at
Portsmouth, England, February Z, 1912,
making him fifty eight years old at the
time of his death. He was the son of
John Dickens, retired naval paymaster
and journalist. Charles was put to study
for an attorney, but at about twenty-One
years old he tired of the drudgery of his
calling and took to journalism, being at
tached at different times to the True Sun
and the Morning Chronicle. 1t was the
latter journal in which appeared those
sketches of low life in London which
made the nom de plume of their author
"Boz so popular. His first published
book was a collection of these "BoZ"
sketches, in 1886. This was followed by
the other famous works of Mr. Dickens,
in the following order: The Pickwick
Papers, 1887; Oliver Twist, 1888; Nicho
las Nickleby, 1899; Memoirs of Joseph
Grimaldi, 1910; Old Curiosity Shop, and
Barnaby Rudge, 1871; American Notes,
1912; Christmas Carol, 1S43; Martin
Chuzzlewit, 1916; Dombey and Son, 1913;
David COppertield, 1850; Child's History
of England, 1852; Bleak House, 1853;
Hard Times, 1854; Little Dorrit, 1857;
Our Mutual Friend, 1864
mercial Traveller" and "Great Expecta-
tions" appeared in AU tie Year Round, a
weekly miscellany which Mr.. Dickens
nearly or quite every work from his pen
has first appeared in one journal or other,
in serial form. Besides the periodicals
mentioned, Mr. Dickens edited, for a
while, the Duly Neaos, Liberal paper,
which was established with him as editor
in n-chief In fact, he has always fratern-
lied cordially with newspaper folk, and
was, in style, instincts, and atfinities, very
much a journalist.
Mr.. Dickens made, in the course of his
life, two voyages to America-the first in
1912, from which resulted the American
Notes" and the American pictures and
sketches in Martin Chuzzlewit," which
have excited so much unpleasant feeling
in certain classes of minds in this country;
but which are now generally admitted to
be "palpable hits" and by no means as
severe in the way of satire as some pic
lures which Mr.. Dickens has drawn of his
own cOuntrymen. The second visit, in
1863, will be well remembered by every
reader of this notice. 1t met the most
flattering demonstration which this coun-
try has ever made to any foreign person
age since Lafayette.
Charles Dickens was married, and has
a son of his own name, already of age,
and possessed of considerable dramatic
talent, it is said. Owing to uncOngeniali-
ty of temperament, Mr.. Dickens separated
from his wife some ten years ago, after
living with her twenty years. The terms
of the separation were satisfactory to both
parties, and the cause implies no improp
er conduct on the part of either. The de-
ceased author had amassed considerable
wealth by the success of his writings and
readings, and lived in elegance on Gad's
Hill, near London (the same made histori
cal by Shakspeare's play of "Henry IV."),
in the very same house, of which, when
passing it as boy, he had said, | will
have that house when | am rich The
cause of his death was paralysis.-C Chicago
Post.
ACCUMULATING a large fortune by his
literary labor, Mr. Dickens was ever ready
to contribute literally to those benevolent
enterprises designed for the benefit of the
literary and journalistic profession. Kind
ly in his feelings, manly in his instincts,
unostentatious in his charities, and never
forgetting the friends and associations of
his early days, Mr.. Dickens has left be-
hind him an unblemshed reputation, and
name of which his countrymen may
well be proud.
But as we stand by this open grave, and
hear in imagination, the clods falling upon
the coffin lid which hides from our view
forever the form of Charles Dickens, it is
not so much the man we think of as the
author. We did not know him face to
face, our hands had never clasped his, and
so far as ply ysical personality goes, he was
and is to us myth. Yet in that touch
of nature which makes the whole world
kim" he was and is our dear and familiar
friend, into whose heart we have looked,
whose hopes and fears we have shared,
whose tears and laughter have been given
to us, whose priceless heritage we, and
those who come after us, may enjoy
always What immortality is there, or can
there be, like this? Victoria might die to-
morrow; her son would reign in her stead,
and we should remember her only as a
good woman who had worn a crown. Ma
pOleon, Alexander. Frederick William and
Francis Joseph might be swept from the
earth by the same thunderbolt, and saving
a panic in the stock market, and revolu-
tiOn or two, their decease would have no
particular effect, nor should We waste a
sigh over the royal victims. But here is
plain, untitled English citizen, with no
illustriOus ancestry, no drop of princely
blood in his veins, no political power to
make him famous, nothing, IN TACT, OF that
pomp and circumstance which usually ac-
companies successful ambition; ard yet
wherever the electric messenger has
flashed the tidings of his death, the soul
of humanity throbs with pang OF sorrow.
In the heart of the Australian herdsman;
in the shanty of the emigrant on the slope
of the Rocky Mountains; among the jun
giles of India and upon the islands of mid
ocean; from the China sea To the racine;
from the Cape of Good Hope to the Arctic
circle, on every spot OF ground where the
English language has penetrated, there
will be mOurners, honest, unselhsh
mourners, Tor the dead. Yet how
little, how very little, of the great
novelist has really died The mystic
rious brain out of which sprung so many
phantoms of light and loveliness, the
heart which breathed into them the
breath of life, the busy fingers which
gave them local habitatiOn and name,
these indeed are SILL and pulseless, locked
| in the cold obstruction of death but what
are they compared with the throng of his
deathless children? The father, being
mortal, has only paid the debt which
mortality owes to nature; his offspring,
being immortal, can never perish while
the solid globe stands, never fade while
stars shine. He is but piece of senseless
clay now, ready to crumble back to kin
dred dust they are as fresh, as fragrant
and as young as the flowers of spring, and
no summers sun or winters frost can
touch them with decay. Little Nell"
"Paul Dombey," "Agnes and "Steer-
forth" Micawber" and "Dick Swivel
ler," and the host of bright creatures
whom we know and love SO well: these
live on until the end of time, and while
| they live the better part of Charles Dick
ems can never die-Nlss0uri Republican.
TT is related that as some friends OF