Then, in his case, were verified the words which he himself had written of little Paul Dombey, when the fair river of his childish life had mingled with the boundless sea: "The golden ripple came again upon the wall, but nothing else stirred in the room. The old, old fashion, Death. O! thank God, all who see it, for the older fashion yet of immortality, and look upon us, angels of young children, with regards not quite estranged when the swift river bears us to the ocean".
The Grave Of Charles Dickens.
On The Upper Thames.
It is in that unrivaled shrine of English genius, Westminster novelist was, by his relatives and dearest friends, laid here to rest. But later in the day, and all the following day, the aisles were thronged with countless mourners, and on his grave flowers were strewn by many unknown hands, and tears were shed by many unknown eyes. So it is even to the present time. No need, O Dickens! to enumerate the causes of our grief beside thy grave. Some characters of thy creation are dear to us as lifelong friends. Greater than in the chapels of dead kings are here the reverence and love we feel for thee; for thou, by thine own genius, didst create an empire whose subjects are continually increasing and can never die. No, when the Abbey itself shall have fallen into ruin, when even thy tomb may be unknown, thy works will live, and thousands as they read will still be moved to laughter or to tears and bless thy memory as I, a grateful pilgrim, did with faltering lips when standing on thy grave.