He seems, before sending it, to have added at the close a sort of summary of his deeds, his merits, his honours, and his obligations. With the scrupulous care, and love of truth and justice, which always characterized him, he reckoned up, under the latter head, the various aids afforded him by his pupils and friends; and, conscious of his higher obligations, he enumerated the favours he had received from the Divine hand which he acknowledged had led and prospered him. He had permitted him to visit His secret council chambers, and to see more of the creation than any mortal before him, and given him greater knowledge of natural history than any one had hitherto acquired. Even beneath the pressure of increasing infirmities, the fondness of Linnæus for his beloved studies continued undiminished, and his desire of adding to his knowledge was keen as ever. Some of his letters at this period are full of vivacity, and strikingly express the ardour of his zeal. An idea of their spirit may be gained from a short extract taken from one, dated August 8th, 1771. “I received an hour ago,” he writes, “yours of the 16th July, nor did I ever get a more welcome letter, as it contains the happy tidings of my dear Solander’s safe return. Thanks and glory to God, who has protected him through the dangers of such a voyage. If I were not bound fast here, by sixty-four years of age and a worn-out body, I would this very day set out for London, to see this great hero in botany. Moses was not permitted to enter Palestine, but only to view it from a distance; so I conceive an idea in my mind of the acquisitions and treasures of those who have visited every part of the globe.” In the spring of 1774, while lecturing in the Botanic Garden, he suffered an attack of apoplexy, the debilitating effects of which obliged him to relinquish all active professional duties, and to close his literary occupations. In 1776 a second seizure supervened, which rendered him paralytic on the right side, and impaired his mental powers so much that he became a distressing spectacle. Yet, even then, with the natural flow of cheerfulness so peculiar to him, he thus described his own situation:—“Linnæus limps, can hardly walk, speaks unintelligibly, and is scarce able to write.” Nature remained, to the last, his sole comfort and relief. He used to be carried to his museum, where he gazed on the treasures he had collected with so much care and labour, and as long as possible he continued to manifest peculiar delight in examining the rarities and new productions which had been latterly added to them by some of his pupils.