My Father as I Recall Him

fter his American visit.-"Improvements" at "Gad's Hill."-At "Gad's

was packed by an enormous audience, and he was greeted with all the warmth which the personal affection felt for the reader inspired. We all felt very anxious for him, fearin

had been reading his own books to audiences whose sensitive and kindly recognition of them had given him instruction and enjoyment in his art such as few men could have had; but that he nevertheless thought it well now to retire upon older associations, and in future to devote himself exclusively to the call

uch to bear, mixed as they were with personal love and affection for the man before them. He returned with us all to "Gad's Hill," very happy and hopeful, under t

he alluded to the death of his old friend, Mr. Daniel Maclise, winding up thus: "No artist, of whatsoever denomination, I make bold to say, ever went to his rest leaving a golden memory more pure fro

r himself, his vitality seeming something which could not wear out; but, although he was so active and full of energy, he was never really strong, and found soon that he must take more in the way of genuine recreation. He wrote me from France a

fterwards referred in a letter to a friend, saying, that his heart had never been in good condition afte

orner of the carriage, which then stopped. I said to them thereupon: 'You may be sure nothing worse can happen; our danger must be over. Will you remain here without stirring while I get out of the window?' They both answered quite collectedly 'Yes,' and I got out without the least notion of what had happened. Fortunately I got out with great caution, and stood upon the step. Looking down I saw the bridge gone, and nothing below me but the line of rail. Some people in the other two compartments were madly trying to plunge out at a window, and had no idea that there was an open, swampy field fifteen feet down below them, and nothing else. The two guards (one with his face cut) were running up and down on the down-track of the bridge (which was not torn up) quite wildly. I called out to them: 'Look at me! Do stop an instant and look at me, an

, and she just nodded, and I gave her some and left her for somebody else. The next time I passed her she was dead. Then a man examined at the inquest yesterday (who evidently had not the least remembrance of what really passed) came running up to me and implored me to help him find

ghtfulness he had telegraphed to his friend Mr. Wills, to summon us to town to meet him. The letter continues: "I have, I don't know what to call it, constitutional (I suppose) presence of mind, and was not the least flu

he time, ministering to the dying! How calmly and

has never gone quite correctly since, and to this day there sometimes comes over me, on a railway and in a hansom-cab, or any sort of co

railway carriage seat, while his face grew ashy pale, and great drops of perspiration stood upon his forehead, and though he tried hard to master the dread, it was so strong that he had to leave the train at the next station. The accident had left

thened and invigorated by his ocean journey home, and I think he was

ongfellow, with his daughters. My father writes describing a picnic which he gave them; "I turned out a couple of postilions in the old red jacket of the old Royal red for our ride, and it wa

wnward. He is everywhere received and courted, and finds the working men at

ock. When the cooler nights came we had music in the drawing-room, and it is my happiness now to remember on how many evenings I played and sang all his favorite songs and tunes to my father d

er-would have to come down and inspect, and as each was displayed, my father would say to her most solemnly: "Now, Katie, you behold your parent's latest and last achievement." These "last improvements" became quite a joke between them. I remember so well, on o

r-and I hope and believe that the one was as dear to him as the other-my dear sister must claim that honor. I say this ungrudgingly, for during tho

father was more delighted with this than with any previous alteration, and it was certainly a pretty addition to the quai

ion of the late Sir Thomas Watson to this undertaking, on condition that there should be no railway journeys in connection with them

hat on the last occasion he attended a very large dinner party the effort was too much for him, and before the gentlemen returned to the drawing-room, he sent me a message begging me to come to him at once, saying that he

st time on the afternoon of the sixth of June, when he walked into Rochester for the "Daily Mail." My sister, who had come to see the latest "improvement," was visiting us, and was to take me with her to London on her return, for a short visit. The conservatory-the

aze of color in the front garden. The syringa shrubs filled the evening air with sweetest fragrance as we sat in the porch and walked about the garden on this last Su

his Monday morning, the seventh, just as we were about to start for London, my sister suddenly said: "I must say good-bye to papa," and hurried over to the chalet where he was busily writing. As a rule when he was so occupied, my father would hold up

he remained seated in the dining-room, through the evening, as from that room he could see the effect of some lighted Chinese lanterns, which he had hung in the conservatory dur

er, which touched our hearts when we read it for the first time after its writer lay dead: "Brilliant morning shines on the old city. Its antiquities and ruins are surpassingly beautiful with the lusty ivy gleaming in the sun and the rich trees waving in the balmy air. Changes o

t an hour before the time fixed for an early dinner, he was tired, silent and abstracted, but as this was a mood very usual to him after a day of engrossing work, it caused no alarm nor surprise to my aunt, who happ

d my aunt. Upon her asking him if he were ill, he answered "Yes, very ill; I have been very ill for the last hour." But when

ese were the last words that he uttered. As he spoke, he fell to the floor. A couch was brought into the dining-room, on which he was laid, a messenger was dispatched for the local physician, telegrams were sent to all of us and to Mr. Beard. This was at a few minutes after six o'clock. I was dining at a house some little distance from my sister's home. Dinner was

l the long night. On the afternoon of the ninth the celebrated London physician, Dr. Russell Reynolds, (recently deceased), was summoned to a consultation by the two medical men in attendance, but he could only confirm their hopeless verdict. Later, in the evening of this day, at ten minutes past six, we saw a shudder pass over our d

r the last time was bright with the beautiful fresh flowers which were so abundant at this time of the year, and whic

e be no sadne

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rom out our bourn

d may be

ee my Pilot

ve crosse

ate to my father, to his dread of good-byes, to his great

cil drawing of my father, and Mr. Woolner took a cast of his head, from which he afterwards modelled a bust. The drawing belongs to my sister, and is one of

"I want it to express the most beautiful repose and tranquillity, and to have something of a hap

er of Rochester Cathedral that his bones might repose there. A grave was prepared and everything arranged when it was made known to us, through Dean Stanley, that there was a general and very earnest desire that he should find his last resting

at the clause in his will which read: "I emphatically direct that I be buried in an inexpensi

f our beautiful burial service even more than usually solemn and touching. Later in the day, and for many following days, hundreds of mourners flocked to the open grave, and filled the deep vault

so sacred to us, as to all who knew and loved him. And every year beautiful bright-coloured leaves are sent to us from acr

what better than m

heavy and will fall down when released; it is not that the heart and pulse are still; but that the hand was open, generous and true, the heart brave,

e

tno

llence, Georgina Hogarth. She has been to me ever since I can remember anything, and to all of us, the truest, best a