What are all the figurative languages mentioned here The mere announcement that Charles Dickens is dead repeats the common sentence passed on all humanity. Death has once again demanded its own, and a claim which all men must sooner or later meet. We forget how many mortals breathe their last in every minute according to the calculations of statistical authorities. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, and Thursday, the 9th day of June, 1870, will be an evil day in the memories of all who can appreciate true genius and admire its matchless works. We have had greater writers both in poetry and prose, but they were not of our day and generation. For us just now this loss is our greatest. It would have been great at any time from the moment when he turned with aversion from the drudgery of a solicitor's office, amid the forebodings of his friends, and thenceforward rose in the clear light of literature, until he soared in the sunshine of success far above all his fellows. There are minds of such jealous fibre that the very merits of an author, his mightiest gifts and his most special talents, only serve as food on which to nourish their prejudices. Such are they who, while forced to admit the wit, humour, and power of Charles Dickens, always added, "but he was vulgar." Yes, in one sense he was vulgar; he delighted in sketching the characters not of dukes and duchesses, but of the poor and lowly. He had listened to their wants and sorrows, seen them in their alleys and garrets, had learnt their accents and dialect by heart, and then, with a truth and liveliness all his own, he photographed them in his immortal works. In that sense alone was Charles Dickens "vulgar." He was of the people, and lived among them. His was not the close atmosphere of a saloon or of a forcing house. In the open air of the streets, and woods, and fields, he lived and had his being, and so he came into closer union with common men, and caught with an intuitive force and fulness of feature every detail of their daily life. His creations have become naturalized, so to speak, among all classes of the community, and are familiar to every man, high or low. How many fine gentlemen and ladies, who never saw Pickwick or Sam Weller in the flesh, have laughed at their portraits by Charles Dickens. How many have been heartbroken at the sufferings of Oliver, been indignant at the brutality of Bill Sykes, wept over the fallen Nancy's cruel fate, and even sympathized with the terrible agony of Fagin in the condemned cell, who but for Charles Dickens would never have known that such sorrows and crimes, such cruel wrongs, and such intensity of feeling existed in those lower depths of London life, far above which, like the golden gods of Epicurus, they lived in careless ease till this great apostle of the people touched their hearts and taught them that those inferior beings had hearts and souls of their own, and could be objects of sympathy as well as victims of neglect. We have h.

1. What are all the figurative languages mentioned here
The mere announcement that Charles Dickens is dead repeats
the common sentence passed on all humanity. Death has once
again demanded its own, and a claim which all men must sooner
or later meet. We forget how many mortals breathe their last in
every minute according to the calculations of statistical
authorities. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, and
Thursday, the 9th day of June, 1870, will be an evil day in the
memories of all who can appreciate true genius and admire its
matchless works. We have had greater writers both in poetry
and prose, but they were not of our day and generation. For us
just now this loss is our greatest. It would have been great at
any time from the moment when he turned with aversion from
the drudgery of a solicitor's office, amid the forebodings of his
friends, and thenceforward rose in the clear light of literature,
until he soared in the sunshine of success far above all his
fellows. There are minds of such jealous fibre that the very
merits of an author, his mightiest gifts and his most special
talents, only serve as food on which to nourish their prejudices.
Such are they who, while forced to admit the wit, humour, and
power of Charles Dickens, always added, "but he was vulgar."
Yes, in one sense he was vulgar; he delighted in sketching the
characters not of dukes and duchesses, but of the poor and
lowly. He had listened to their wants and sorrows, seen them in
their alleys and garrets, had learnt their accents and dialect by
heart, and then, with a truth and liveliness all his own, he
photographed them in his immortal works. In that sense alone
was Charles Dickens "vulgar." He was of the people, and lived
among them. His was not the close atmosphere of a saloon or of
a forcing house. In the open air of the streets, and woods, and
fields, he lived and had his being, and so he came into closer
union with common men, and caught with an intuitive force and
fulness of feature every detail of their daily life. His creations
have become naturalized, so to speak, among all classes of the
community, and are familiar to every man, high or low. How

2. many fine gentlemen and ladies, who never saw Pickwick or
Sam Weller in the flesh, have laughed at their portraits by
Charles Dickens. How many have been heartbroken at the
sufferings of Oliver, been indignant at the brutality of Bill
Sykes, wept over the fallen Nancy's cruel fate, and even
sympathized with the terrible agony of Fagin in the condemned
cell, who but for Charles Dickens would never have known that
such sorrows and crimes, such cruel wrongs, and such intensity
of feeling existed in those lower depths of London life, far
above which, like the golden gods of Epicurus, they lived in
careless ease till this great apostle of the people touched their
hearts and taught them that those inferior beings had hearts and
souls of their own, and could be objects of sympathy as well as
victims of neglect.
We have heard it objected also by gentlemen that Charles
Dickens could never describe "a lady," and by ladies that he
could never sketch the character of "a gentleman"; but we have
always observed that when put to the proof these male and
female critics failed lamentably to establish their case. We are
not sure that Charles Dickens's gentlemen were all as well
dressed as those who resort to Poole's temple of fashion, or that
his ladies were always attired in the very last fancy of Worth.
Dress is no doubt what may be called in the catechism of
gentility the "outward and visible sign" of a gentleman, just as
the outward fashion of a lady is shown by her dress; but even
these are nothing if that "inward and spiritual grace" which is
characteristic of the true gentleman and real lady be wanting,
and in that grace, however negligent they may be in their attire,
the ladies and gentlemen in Charles Dickens's works are never
deficient. We are not denying that the true type of gentle life is
to be found in the upper classes. Far from it. We only insist,
when we are told that Charles Dickens could not describe either
a lady or a gentleman, that there are ladies and gentlemen in all
ranks and classes of life, and that the inward delicacy and
gentle feeling which we acknowledge as the only true criterion
of the class may be found under the smockfrock of the plough

3. boy as well as beneath the mantle of an earl.
When a great writer, on his deathbed, was with his last breath
instructing his children in the secret of his success, he said,—
"Be natural, my children, for the writer that is natural has
fulfilled all the rules of art." And this was pre-eminently the
case with Charles Dickens. His great characters have struck fast
root in the hearts of his countrymen, for this, above all other
reasons, that they are natural—natural both relatively to the
writer who created them and to the station in life in which they
are supposed to live. Like the giant who revived as soon as he
touched his mother earth, Charles Dickens was never so strong
as when he threw himself back on the native soil of the social
class among which he had been born and bred, whose virtues,
faults, and foibles he could portray with a truth and vigour
denied to any other man. That he was eminently successful may
be proved by his works. He is gone, indeed, but they remain
behind and will long speak for him. Every day will only add to
the universal feeling that he wrote not for this age alone, but for
all time, and that this generation, in losing sight of him, will
hardly look upon his like again.
That he was eminently truthful, trustworthy, and self-denying
can be gainsaid by none. But of the man himself, apart from the
writer, it is as yet too soon to speak. We live too close to the
man to be able to discriminate his excellence, which will live
for ever, from his faults, which will be forgotten ere the year is
out. In this the world is very charitable. It has no memory for
small errors; they wane and perish while the pearl which they
encrust and perhaps conceal grows day by day more truly orient,
and increases with value as generation after generation vanishes
away.
Nor do we know why we should repine at the manner of his
death. It was said of old that those whom the gods love die
young. If it cannot be said that Charles Dickens died young, he
has departed from among us at least at an earlier age than many
who were at least not more than his equals in fame. Happy, no
doubt, he was in that he was snatched away in a moment of

4. time. He died without a pang, and the victim to no lingering
disease. That still and solemn voice to which we must all one
day listen whispered to him "Come," and he went. His work was
done on earth; and in the fulness of his labours, though not of
his years, he obeyed the summons, and departed from among us
without a murmur. In this working country, and especially in
this working age, which incessantly proclaims the worth of
labour as its watchword, it is something to mark the career of
one who still toiled on, and not the less patiently and earnestly
for his triumphs, till, when the shout of victory was ringing in
his ears, he was cut off in an instant, like a flower of the field,
so that when people rose up and looked to see the news of the
morning, a sudden affliction fell upon them as they read that a
great master of English had passed away from them at nightfall,
and that the magic pen of Charles Dickens would write no more.