Later, from Washington: “I couldn’t help laughing at myself on my birthday here; it was observed as much as though I were a little boy. Flowers and garlands of the most exquisite kind, arranged in all manner of green baskets, bloomed over the room; letters, radiant with good wishes, poured in. Also, by hands unknown, the hall at night was decorated; and after ‘Boots at the Holly Tree Inn’ the audience rose, great people and all, standing and cheering until I went back to the table and made them a little speech.”
He wrote home constantly, giving frequent commissions for improvements at “Gad’s Hill,” to be made before his return. He was much impressed on his second visit, as on his first, I remember, with the beauty of the American women. “The ladies are remarkably handsome,” he wrote.
In the autumn of 1869 he began a series of farewell readings, which were another heavy tax upon his health and strength. During his tour at this time he writes to Mr. Forster after some rather alarming symptoms had developed: “I told Beard, a year after the Staplehurst accident, that I was certain that my heart had been fluttered and wanted a little helping. This the stethoscope confirmed; and considering the immense exertion I am undergoing, and the constant jarring of express trains, the case seems to me quite intelligible. Don’t say anything in the ‘Gad’s’ direction about my being a little out of sorts. I have broached the matter, of course, but very lightly.”
But even such warning as this failed to make him realize how much less was his strength, and with indomitable courage and spirit he continued his tour. The trouble in his feet increased, and his sufferings from this cause were very great. It became necessary at one time for him to have a physician in attendance upon him at every reading. But in spite of his perseverance, he became so ill that the readings had to be stopped.
Last words spoken in public.—A railroad accident in 1865.—At home after his American visit.—“Improvements” at “Gad’s Hill.”—At “Gad’s Hill” once more.—The closing days of his life.—Burial at Westminster.
My father gave his last reading in St. James’ Hall, London, on the fifteenth of March. The programme included “The Christmas Carol” and the “Trial” from “Pickwick.” The hall 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, fearing that the excitement and emotion which must attend upon his public farewell would have a bad effect upon him. But it had no immediate result, at any rate, much to our relief.