relief.

I do not think that my father ever--and this is saying a great
deal--looked handsomer nor read with more ability than on this, his last
appearance. Mr. Forster writes: "The charm of his reading was at its
height when he shut the volume of 'Pickwick' and spoke in his own person.
He said that for fifteen years he 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 calling
which first made him known. 'In but two short weeks from this time I
hope that you may enter in your own homes on a new series of readings, at
which my assistance will be indispensable; but from these garish lights I
vanish now, for evermore, with a heartfelt, grateful, respectful,
affectionate farewell.'"

There was a dead silence as my father turned away, much moved; and then
came from the audience such a burst and tumult of cheers and applause as
were almost too much 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 the temporary improvement which the
rest and peace of his home brought him, and he settled down to his new
book, "Edwin Drood," with increased pleasure and interest.

His last public appearances were in April. On the fifth he took the
chair at the News-venders' dinner. On the thirtieth he returned thanks
for "Literature" at the Royal Academy banquet. In this speech 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 from dross, or having devoted
himself with a truer chivalry to the art-goddess whom he worshipped."
These words, with the old, true, affectionate ring in them, were the last
spoken by my father in public.

About 1865 my dear father's health began to give way, a peculiar
affection of the foot which frequently caused him the greatest agony and
suffering, appearing about this time. Its real cause--overwork--was not
suspected either by his physicians or 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