Eaton weekly Democrat. [volume] (Eaton, Ohio) 1866-1875, 1870-06-30

ACCUMWATNG 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 i his feelings, manly in his instincts,
unostentatioHs in his charities, and never
forgetting the friends and associations of
his early days, Mr.. Dickens has left be-
hind him an unblemished reputation, and
a 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 fa0 to
face, our hands had never clasped his, and
so far as physical personality goes, he was
and is tosus q myth. Yet in that 'touch
| of nature which makes the whole world
kin" he was and is u 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; herson would reign in her stead,
| and we should remember her only as a
| good woman who had worn a crown. Ma
1 UOlCOUs AlCAhu0Cls T w lAd dah
Francis Joseph might be swept from the
earth by the same thunderbolt, and saving
q panic in the stock market, and a revolu-
| tion or two, their decease would have no
particular effect, nor should we waste a
sigh over the royal victims. But here is
a plain, untitled English citizen, with no
| ilustrious ancestry, no drop of princely
blood in his veins, no political power to
make him famous, nothing, in fact, of that
pomp and circumstance which usually ac-
companies successful ambition and yet
wherever the electric messenger has
flashed the tidings of his death, the soul
~ofhumanity throbs with a 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 Pacific
from the Capeo of Good Hope to the Arctic
circle, on every spot of ground whit e the
English language has penetrated, there
will be mourners, honest, unselfish
mourners, for 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 loneliness, the
heart which breathed into them the
breath of life, the busy fingers which
gave them q local habitation and a name,
these indeed are still and pulseless, locked
in the cold obstruction of death but what
are they compared with the throng of his
deathless children2 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 a piece of senselesI
clay now, ready to crumble back to kin
dred dust ; they are as fresh, as fragran
and as young as the flowers of spring, anC
no summers sun or winters frost cal
paul Dombey," "Agnes" and "Steer
forth" "Micawber" and "Dick Swivel
ler," and the host of bright creature
whom we know and love so well: thes,
live on until the end of time, and Will
they live the better part of Charles Dick
ems can never die.-MIsS0uai Republican