Manor Park Cemetery lies in the remote East End, and gives
sleeping-places to the inhabitants of a vast district. There Jane's
parents lay, not in a grave to themselves, but buried amidst the
nameless dead, in that part of the ground reserved for those who can
purchase no more than a portion in the foss which is filled when its
occupants reach statutable distance from the surface. The regions
around were then being built upon for the first time; the familiar
streets of pale, damp brick were stretching here and there,
continuing London, much like the spreading of a disease. Epping
Forest is near at hand, and nearer the dreary expanse of Wanstead
Flats.
Not grief, but chill desolation makes this cemetery its abode. A
country churchyard touches the tenderest memories, and softens the
heart with longing for the eternal rest. The cemeteries of wealthy
London abound in dear and great associations, or at worst preach
homilies which connect themselves with human dignity and pride. Here
on the waste limits of that dread East, to wander among tombs is to
go hand in hand with the stark and eyeless emblem of mortality; the
spirit falls beneath the cold burden of ignoble destiny. Here lie
those who were born for toll; who, when toil has worn them to the
uttermost, have but to yield their useless breath and pass into
oblivion.
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