sorrow, a name in which Scotland had a great triumph, and which
England delighted to honour. One of the gifted of the earth has
passed away, as it were, yesterday; one who was devoted to his art,
and his art was nature--I mean David Wilkie. {1} He was one who
made the cottage hearth a graceful thing--of whom it might truly be
said that he found "books in the running brooks," and who has left
in all he did some breathing of the air which stirs the heather.
But however desirous to enlarge on his genius as an artist, I would
rather speak of him now as a friend who has gone from amongst us.
There is his deserted studio--the empty easel lying idly by--the
unfinished picture with its face turned to the wall, and there is
that bereaved sister, who loved him with an affection which death
cannot quench. He has left a name in fame clear as the bright sky;
he has filled our minds with memories pure as the blue waves which
roll over him. Let us hope that she who more than all others
mourns his loss, may learn to reflect that he died in the fulness
of his time, before age or sickness had dimmed his powers--and that
she may yet associate with feelings as calm and pleasant as we do
now the memory of Wilkie.



SPEECH: JANUARY, 1842.



[In presenting Captain Hewett, of the Britannia, {2} with a service
of plate on behalf of the passengers, Mr. Dickens addressed him as
follows:]