NEITHER DORKING
NOR THE ABBEY
NEITHER DORKING
NOR THE ABBEY
BY J. M. BARRIE
CHICAGO
BROWNE'S BOOKSTORE
1912
NOTE
In England recently there died a great man—the greatest of his day.Immediately there arose much vain contention as to whether or no hisdust should be given resting place among that of his peers inWestminster Abbey. Finally came the decision that Westminster was not tobe so honored; and the urn containing all of him that had outlived thefire was placed in the sunny graveyard of Dorking village. Looking downtoward it from the long level summit of Box Hill—his hill,—with thesunlight glinting from its marbles and along the silver Mole that windsthreadlike beside it, the little cemetery seems almost a living cheerful[Pg 6]thing in the dark green of the surrounding landscape. Surely here, ifanywhere, was appropriate resting-place for this great lover of life andjoy.
The tribute to Meredith contained in the following pages, perhaps themost fitting and beautiful of any inspired by his death, was originallypublished in the London "Westminster Gazette" for May 26, 1909.
NEITHER DORKING
NOR THE ABBEY
All morning there had been a little gathering of people outside thegate. The funeral coach came, and a very small thing was placed in itand covered with flowers. One plant of the wallflower in the gardenwould have covered it. The coach took the road to Dorking, followed by afew others, and in a moment or two all seemed silent and deserted, thecottage, the garden, and Box Hill.
The cottage was not deserted, as they knew who now trooped into theround in front of it, their eyes on the closed door. They were themighty company, his children,—Lucy and Clara and Rhoda and Diana andRose and old Mel and Roy Richmond and Adrian and Sir Willoughby and ahundred others, and they stood in line against the box-wood, waiting forhim to come out. Each of his women carried a flower, and the hands ofall his men were ready for the salute.
In the room on the right, in an armchair which had been his home foryears—to many the throne of letters in this country—sat an old man,[Pg 9]like one forgotten in an empty house. When the last sound of thecoaches had passed away he moved in his chair. He wore grey clothes anda red tie, and his face was rarely beautiful, but the hair was white andthe limbs were feeble, and the wonderful eyes dimmed, and he was hard ofhearing. He moved in his chair, for something was happening to him, andit was this, old age was falling from him. This is what is meant bydeath to such as he, and the company waiting knew. His eyes became againthose of the eagle, and his hair was brown, and the lustiness of youth[Pg 10]was in his frame, but still he wore the red tie. He rose, and not amoment did he remain within the house, for "golden lie the m