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| A Moment of Mortality... |
From the Journal of C. Wordsworth-Nil,
11 February:
It is rather late in the day, I reflect, to be
erecting the first—the first, mind!— large-as-life
statue of the noble Boz upon England’s
green and pleasant land. What the deuce took them so long? I’ve discussed
this point with Weatherby* to no end. And the said W informs me that Mr Dickens
himself expressly wanted no memorial whatsoever! It is stated, clear as the
summer sun in his Will—nay, read for yourself, here…if
you wish to peruse it in its entirety.
But pray allow me to offer only a few samplings of
Mr Dickens’s Will, with the additions of my own reflections:
“I
emphatically direct that I be buried in an inexpensive, unostentatious, and strictly
private manner…” [Whereupon the said Mr D was buried at
Westminster Abbey…]
“…that
no public announcement be made of the time or place of my burial…”
[…followed by a three day long procession of mourners. Doubtless only some thousands attended.]
On further reflection, I find I am quite moved at sense
in which the noble Mr Dickens’s wishes had been interpreted, and it quite
inspired me to reflect—with brooding brow—on my own mortality and what bequests
and requests should ennoble my own Last Will & Testament…
Indeed, I shall be sure to follow the humble model set by Mr
Dickens. That my own funeral shall be comparably modest—with not more than
ten-thousand mourners at the outside—and no special attire whatsoever shall be
imposed upon them in terms of mourning garb…none whatsoever. With the exception
of a cravat of perfect symmetry for
every gentleman in attendance, as a tribute to their departed Friend who ever
set the example of noble decorum in dress…
I shall state that no monument—nay, none whatsoever—shall be erected to my
genius…
Yet, perhaps an addendum wouldn’t go amiss here,
that if indeed there should be such
an one—unwanted and utterly unnecessary though it be—that the sculptor shall be
particularly anxious about my cravat. Furthermore, that the Modest Melancholiac
be, even in bronze, accompanied by his Inspiration, holding a cup of the
Blessed Brew…in short, Coffee…
But nay, I will leave the details in the most
capable hands of my dear Weatherby, who no doubt, with his cheerful
disposition, will have the capacity, as I shall not, to live a long and
prosperous life and whose noble task shall ever be carrying on the memory of
his Friend. You are my Forster, Weatherby.
*Note:
Celestyn refers here to the Reverend Mayfair Weatherby, minor canon of St.
Sniffles-in-Underbrush, something outside London. (Indeed, a great ways outside
London.)
