But The rich man, faring sumptuously every day, not fail to see the presence of the poor man at his gate. The suffering inmates of our workhouses-the neglected children in the dens and caves of this great city-the starved ill-used boys in remote schools, far from the observation of men-these all felt a new ray of sunshine poured into their dark prisons, and a new interest awakened in their forlorn and desolate lot, because an unknown friend had pleaded their cause with a voice that rang through the palaces of the great as well as through the cottages of the poor. In his pages, with gaunt figures and hollow voices, they were made to stand and speak before those who had before hardly dreamed of their existence. was it mere compassion which this created? same master hand which drew the sorrows of the English poor drew also the picture of the unselfishness, the kindness, the courageous patience, and the tender thoughtfulness that lie concealed under many a coarse exterior, and are to be found in many a degraded home. When the little workhouse boy wins his way, pure and undefiled, through the mass of wickedness around him-when the little orphan girl, who brings thoughts of Heaven into the hearts of all around her, is as the very gift of God to the old man who sheltered her life-these are scenes which no human being can read without being the better for it. He laboured to teach us that there is even in the worst of mankind a soul of goodness -a soul worth revealing, worth reclaiming, worth regenerating. He laboured to teach the rich and educated how this better side was to be found, even in the most neglected Lazarus, and to tell the poor no less to respect this better part of themselves—to remember that they also have a calling to be good and great, if they will but hear it. "There is one more thought that arises on this occasion. As, in the parable, we are forcibly impressed with the awful solemnity of the other world, so on this day a feeling rises in us, before which the most brilliant powers of genius and the most lively sallies of wit wax faint. When, on Tuesday last, we stood beside that open grave, in the still deep silence of the summer morning, in the midst of this vast solitary space, broken only by that small band of fourteen mourners, it was impossible not to feel that there is something more sacred than any worldly glory, however bright-or than any mausoleum, however mighty -and that is the return of the human soul into the hands of its Maker. Many, many are the feet that have trodden, and will tread, the consecrated ground around his grave. Many, many are the hearts which, both in the old world and the new, are drawn towards it as towards the resting place of a dear personal friend. Many are the flowers that have been strewn -many the tears that have been shed-by the grateful affection of the poor that have cried-of the fatherless-and of those that have none to help them. May I speak to them a few sacred words, that will Y come perhaps with a new meaning and a deeper force, because they come from the lips of their lost friend because they are the most solemn utterances of lips now closed for ever in the grave? They are extracted from the will of Charles Dickens, dated May 12, 1869, and will now be heard by many for the first time. After the most emphatic injunctions respecting the inexpensive, unostentatious, and strictly private manner of his funeral-injunctions which have been carried out to the very letter-he thus continues : "I direct that my name be inscribed in plain English letters on my tomb. I conjure my friends on no account to make me the subject of any monument, memorial, or testimonial whatever. I rest my claim to the remembrance of my country on my published works, and to the remembrance of my friends in their experience of me in addition thereto. I commit my soul to the mercy of God, through our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ; and I exhort my dear children humbly to try to guide themselves by the teaching of the New Testament, in its broad spirit, and to put no faith in any man's narrow construction of its letter here or there' "In that simple but sufficient faith he lived and died. In that simple and sufficient faith he bids you live and die. If any of you have learnt from his works the value-the eternal value-of generosity, of purity, of kindness, of unselfishness, and have learnt to show these in your own hearts and lives, then remember that these are the best monuments, memorials, and testimonials of the friend whom you have loved, and who loved with a marvellous and exceeding love his children, his country, and his fellow-men. These are monuments which he would not refuse, and which the humblest and poorest and youngest here have it in their power to raise to his memory." The beautiful anthem, "When the ear heard him," was then sung, and the remainder of the service was gone through. The dispersion of the congregation was a work of time, for, although three doors were open, nearly every person present passed out by Poet's Corner, in order to take a last look at Charles Dickens's grave. He lies, without one of his injunctions respecting his funeral having been violated, surrounded by poets and men of genius. Shakspeare's marble effigy looks upon his grave; at his feet are Dr. Johnson and David Garrick; his head is by Addison and Handel; while Oliver Goldsmith, Rowe, Southey, Campbell, Thomson, Sheridan, Macaulay, and Thackeray, or their memorials, encircle him. Thus "Poet's Corner," the most familiar spot in the whole Abbey, has received an illustrious addition to its peculiar glory. Separated from Dickens's grave, by the statues of Shakspeare, Southey, and Thomson, and close by the door to "Poet's Corner," are the memorials of Ben Jonson, Dr. Samuel Butler, Milton, Spenser, and Gray; while Chaucer, Dryden, Cowley, Masor |