IN KENSAL GREEN.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXVII, Issue 8162, 25 January 1890, Page 2 (Supplement)

IN KENSAL GREEN.

AT WILKIE COLLINS' GRAVE. THE LAST RESTING-PLACES OF THACKERAY, TOM HOOD, AND OTHER AUTHORS. The London correspondent of an American paper writes — A few days ago I made one of a little knot of mourners in the-chapel at Ken'aai Green, one of London's most beautiful cemeteries. We were met to perform the last rites over tho lifeless body of Wilkie Collins. The sun had been trying to shine all the morning, but at the moment when the funeral party left the chapel for tho grave a big, ominous cloud shut " old Sol" out of sight, thus lending the shadow over the sky which so well corresponded with the feelings of those present, for all had loved Wilkio Collins those who, like myself, knew him most through his powerful novels. Flowers there wore in splendid lavishness. Many of those were pathetic in the manner of the giving. A young girl stood at the open grave and dropped her little trophy of punsies, purple and yellow. She first kissed the blossoms, and then, with tear- eyes, turned away. A shabbily-dressed girl, of pale, thin, intellectual face; someone he had helped, " most liko," for he was one of the kindest, most helpful of natures, was Collins. Little Miss Mary Dickens sent a bunch of scarlet geraniums, made into a wreath, with autumn-red tinted leaves. This wreath was in memory of her father, Charlos Dickens, who was ono of Wilkie Collins' most intimate friends. The scarlet geranium was the favourite flower of Dickens. Miss Dickens also sent a bunch of red and white roses and mignonette aft her own offering, those being tho favourite blossoms of Wilkie Collins. Then the people for whom ho wrote plays and those who played in them, notably Ada Cavendish, who was so successful in "The New Magdalen," a pet play of the pead author— these each did their best to prove that pathetic sentiment, " though lost to sight, to memory dear." Leaving the grave of Wilkie Collins, I paused before that of Tom Hood, near at hand. This has become a veritable literary shrine. Americans rarely fall to pay their respects here. The monument is an elaborate one. A tine bronze bust of the poet surmounts a red granite pedestal twelve feet high. At tho oaso are a lyro and a comic mask close together. Those illustrate Hood's admirable blending of the pathetic and the comic in his thrilling work. One side has bronze medallions illustrative of "Tho Bridge of Sibil's" and "'"'-9 Dream of Eugene Aram." Tho mon ,ent was put up by public subscription. It was inaugurated in the presence of Lord Houghton (Moncktou Millies), tho recently deceased Eliza Cook, George Cruickshank, the brothers Mayhew, and several other well-known ladies and gentlemen of the pen. Under the bust is one word, " Hood." Then the simple line, "Ho sang the song of the shirt." Peculiarly appropriate is all this to-day, when tho London press is so eloquently championing the cause of tho overworked London sowingwoman. A short walk, and wo are at the tomb of Thackeray. This is a square white marble structure, raised above tho earth like a casket. It is completely oncirclod in ivy, leaving only the square place in the centre carefully kept thinned to show the name, " William Makepeace Thackoray." Here also lies his mother. One who was present at the funeral told mo that every head was bared when Thackeray was laid at rest. There was an immense crowd of people gathered together, humble and groat ones alike, and all had been enthusiastic litorory admirers of this man, who had one of the mightiest intellects in all England. Tear a little slip from the plentiful foliage in loving momoriam. My eyes till as I walk sadly on, for I think how lonely was tho deathbed of Thackeray. They found him dead in bed, you know, with his hands clasped under the back of his neck, as though to relieve the pressure of blood to his brain. Ho seemed asleep, and his valet .'•poke more than once to awaken him. Next him in Kensal Green lies his old friend .John Leech, while across tho path road sleep* Anthony Trollope. Thinking of these two, I next pause to read on a myrtle embowored slab, "John Listen, the comedian." He was the original " Paul Pry" of tho dramatic stage, tho incomparable "Tony Lumpkin," and the ludicrous " Mawworm." To watch his merry, mobile face, to hoar his magnetic voice, Covcnt Garden audiences sat attentively. Close to this old royal comedian is buried a veritable royalty, "H. K.H. the Princess Sophia of England," and a step beyond and we see the extensive catacombs of the Macreadys. Above the catacombs is a long, narrow chapel, to which visitors are permitted. Literature and the drama are well represented in these silent residents of our silent city. Here we have Julia Pardoc, authoress of " Louis XIV." and "The Court of France;" Hon Catherine Gore, who wrote numberless novols, of these " The Soldier of Lyons" and " The Ambassador's Wife." Charles Keinble, tho tragedian, is near Robert Owen, the philanthropist. Then we come to Samuel Lover, poet, novelist, musician, and painter, whose tomb is marked by a simple bronze cross. Gentlo Leigh Hunt claims a passing thought. lie died in 1559. On his pedestal is inscribed, " Write me us one who loved his follow-mon." Americans always pause here. Th«y ask for a loaf of rosemary, with which the few feet of earth are thickly covered above him. " Rosemary—that's for remembrance," said tho Aron bard.

Another favourite with royalty was the younger Charles Matthews, the comedian. His tomb is of white marble. Beside him rests the body of his first wife, Madame Vestris. The second wife still survives him. She long ago loft the stage, and her son by a former marriage, adopted by Matthews, took his name legally, Charles Matthews, jun. He is a rising English barrister. To Mrs. Matthews credit be it said, she takes a mournful pride in keeping the graves of Matthews and Madame Vestris in exquisite order, often visiting them to place fresh flowers in the little stone vases which decorate them. Charles Matthews made his first triumphs at the London Olympic, where a new theatre will ere long raise its walls as the London home of Wilson Barrett, the favourite romantic actor of England. The present Mrs. Matthews was a Mrs. Davenport, and she was certainly a great actress in her day, as also was her predecessor, Madame Vestris. Matthews almost died with "harness on his back," for he acted until within three weeks of his death, which occurred in June, 1878.