about
Anaverna. He wrote an article or two for the 'Nineteenth Century,' and
he afterwards amused himself by collecting the articles of which I have
already spoken, published in three small volumes (in 1892) as 'Horae
Sabbaticae.' On the whole, however, he was gradually declining. The
intellect was becoming eclipsed, and he was less and less able to leave
his chair. Early in 1893 he became finally unable to walk up and down
stairs, and in the summer it was decided not to go to Anaverna. He was
moved to Red House Park, Ipswich, in May, where he remained to the end.
It had the advantage of a pleasant garden, which he could enjoy during
fine weather. During this period he still preserved his love of books,
and was constantly either reading or listening to readers. His friends
felt painfully that he was no longer quite with them in mind. Yet it was
touching to notice how scrupulously he tried, even when the effort had
become painful, to receive visitors with all due courtesy, and still
more to observe how his face lighted up with a tender smile whenever he
received some little attention from those dearest to him. It is needless
to say that of such loving care there was no lack. I shall only mention
one trifling incident, which concerned me personally. I had been to see
him at Ipswich. He was chiefly employed with a book, and though he said
a few words, I felt doubtful whether he fully recognised my presence. I
was just stepping into a carriage on my departure when I became aware
that he was following me to the door leaning upon his wife's arm. Once
more his face was beaming with the old hearty affection, and once more
he grasped my hand with the old characteristic vigour, and begged me to
give his love to my wife. It was our last greeting.

I can say nothing of the intercourse with those still nearer to him. He
had no serious suffering. He became weaker and died peacefully at
Ipswich, March 11, 1894. He was buried at Kensal Green in the presence
of a few friends, and laid by the side of his father and mother and the
four children who had gone before him. One other grave is close by, the
grave of one not allied to him by blood, but whom he loved with a
brotherly affection that shall never be forgotten by one survivor.

I have now told my story, and I leave reflections mainly to my readers.
One thing I shall venture to say. In writing these pages I have
occasionally felt regret--regret that so much power should have been
use