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Forster wrote, “a host of friends when he had no single friend.” And it was while living at Chatham that he first saw “Gad’s Hill.”
Battledore and shuttlecock was played constantly in the garden at Devonshire Terrace, though I do not remember my father ever playing it elsewhere. The American game of bowls pleased him, and rounders found him more than expert. Croquet he disliked, but cricket he enjoyed intensely as a spectator, always keeping one of the scores during the matches at “Gad’s Hill.”
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.
I remember, however, one pretty pony which was our delight, and dear old “Toby,” the good sturdy horse which for many years we used at “Gad’s Hill.” My father, however, was very fond of horses, and I recall hearing him comment on the strange fact that an animal “so noble in its qualities should be the cause of so much villainy.”
He delighted to see her with the large dogs, with whom she gave herself great airs, “because,” as he said, “she looks so preposterously small.” A few years later came “Don,” a Newfoundland, and then “Bumble,” his son, named after “Oliver Twist’s” beadle, because of “a peculiarly pompous and overbearing manner he had of appearing to mount guard over the yard when he was an absolute infant.” Lastly came “Sultan,” an Irish bloodhound, who had a bitter experience with his life at “Gad’s Hill.” One evening, having broken his chain, he fell upon a little girl who was passing and bit her so severely that my father considered it necessary to have him shot, although this decision cost him a great deal of sorrow.
Seeing “Gad’s Hill” as a child.—His domestic side and home-love.—His love of children.—His neatness and punctuality.—At the table, and as host.—The original of “Little Nell.”
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.
But I never remember hearing him allude at any time, or under any circumstances, to those unhappy days in his life except in the one instance of his childish love and admiration for “Gad’s Hill,” which was destined to become so closely associated with his name and works. He had a very strong and faithful attachment for places: Chatham, I think, being his first love in this respect.
There were always “improvements”—as my father used to call his alterations—being made at “Gad’s Hill,” and each improvement was supposed to be the last.
One morning—it was the last day of the year, I remember—while we were at breakfast at “Gad’s Hill,” my father suggested that we should celebrate the evening by a charade to be acted in pantomime. The suggestion was received with acclamation, and amid shouts and laughing we were then and there, guests and members of the family, allotted our respective parts.
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