manner possible, by the back window.” But no harm ever came to “our wonderful little ‘Dick,’” who lived to a ripe old age—sixteen years—and was buried under a rose tree at “Gad’s Hill.”
On his return from his last visit to America he wrote a charming account of his welcome home by the dogs at “Gad’s Hill.” “As you ask me about the dogs, I begin with them. When I came down first I came to Gravesend, five miles off. The two Newfoundland dogs coming to meet me with the usual carriage and the usual driver, and beholding me coming in my usual dress out at the usual door, it struck me that their recollection of my having been absent for any unusual time was at once cancelled. They behaved (they are both young dogs) exactly in their usual manner, coming behind the basket phaeton as we trotted along and lifting their heads to have their ears pulled, a special attention which they received from no one else. But when I drove into the stableyard, ‘Linda’ was
greatly excited; weeping profusely, and throwing herself on her back that she might caress my foot with her great forepaws. Mamie’s little dog, too, ‘Mrs. Bouncer,’ barked in the greatest agitation on being called down and asked: ‘Who is this?’ tore round me, like the dog in the Faust outlines.”
My father brought with him, on his return from his first visit to America, a small, shaggy Havana spaniel, which had been given to him and which he had named “Timber Doodle.” He wrote of him: “Little doggy improves rapidly and now jumps over my stick at the word of command.” “Timber,” travelled with us in all our foreign wanderings, and while at Albaro the poor little fellow had a most unfortunate experience—an encounter of some duration with a plague of fleas. Father writes: “‘Timber’ has had every hair upon his body cut off because of the fleas, and he looks like the ghost of a drowned dog come out of a pond after a week or so. It is very awful to see him sidle into a room. He knows
the change upon him, and is always turning-round and round to look for himself. I think he’ll die of grief; it is to be hoped that the hair will grow again.”
For many years my father’s public readings were an important part of his life, and into their performance and preparation he threw the best energy of his heart and soul, practising and rehearsing at all times and places. The meadow near our home was a favorite place, and people passing through the lane, not knowing who he was, or what doing, must have thought him a madman from his reciting and gesticulation. The great success of these readings led to many tempting offers from the United States, which, as time went on, and we realized how much the fatigue of the readings together with his other work were sapping his strength, we earnestly opposed his even considering. However, after much discussion and deliberation he wrote to me on September 28th, 1867: “As I telegraphed after I saw you I am off to consult
with Mr. Forster and Dolby together. You shall hear either on Monday or by Monday’s post from London how I decide finally.” Three days later: “You will have had my telegram that I go to America. After a long discussion with Forster and consideration of what is to be said on both sides, I have decided to go through with it, and have telegraphed ‘yes’ to Boston.” There was, at first, some talk of my accompanying him, but when the programme of the tour was submitted to my father and he saw how much time must be devoted to business and how little, indeed almost no time could be given to sightseeing, this idea was given up.
A farewell banquet was given him in London on the second of November, and on the ninth he sailed. A large party of us went to Liverpool to see him sail, and with heavy hearts to bid him farewell. In those days a journey to America was a serious matter, and we felt in our hearts that he was about to tax
his health and strength too cruelly. And so he did.
Soon after reaching the United States, my father contracted a severe cold which never left him during his visit, and which caused him the greatest annoyance. I will give you a few quotations from his letters to show how pluckily he fought against his ailment and under what a strain he continued his work. On his arrival at New York on Christmas Day, in response to a letter of mine which awaited him there, he wrote: “I wanted your letter much, for I had a frightful cold (English colds are nothing to those of this country) and was very miserable.” He adds to this letter, a day or two later: “I managed to read last night but it was as much as I could do. To-day I am so unwell that I have sent for a doctor.” Again he writes: “It likewise happens, not seldom, that I am so dead beat when I come off the stage, that they lay me down on a sofa after I have been washed and dressed, and I lie there extremely faint for a quarter of an