"When Government heard of Sir Walter's wishes, they offered him a ship; he left Abbotsford as many thought forever, and arrived in London, where he was welcomed as never mortal was welcomed before. He visited several friends, nor did he refuse to mingle in company, and having written something almost approaching to a farewell to the world, which was published with 'Castle Dangerous,' the last of his works, he set sail for Italy, with the purpose of touching at Malta. He seemed revived, but it was only for a while: he visited Naples, but could not enjoy the high honors paid to him: he visited Rome, and sighed amid its splendid temples and glorious works of art, for gray Melrose and the pleasant banks of Tweed, and passing out of Italy, proceeded homewards down the Rhine. Word came to London, that a dreadful attack of paralysis had nearly deprived him of life, and that but for the presence of mind of a faithful servant he must have perished. This alarming news was followed by his arrival in London: a strong desire of home had come upon him; he travelled with rapidity, night and day, and was all but worn out, when carried into St. James's Hotel, Jermyn street, by his servants." As soon as he recovered a little, he resumed his journey to Scotland, reached Abbotsford, and seemed revived, smiled when he was borne into his library, and enjoyed the society of his children. When he was leaving London the people, wherever he was recognized, took off their hats, saying, "God bless you, Sir Walter!" His arrival in Scotland was hailed with equal enthusiasm and sympathy; and so much was he revived that hopes were entertained of his recovery. But he gradually declined, listening occasionally to passages from the Bible, and from the poems of Crabbe and Wordsworth. Once he tried to write, but failed in the attempt. "He never spoke of his literary labors or success." Occasionally his mind wandered, and then he was preparing for the reception of the Duke of Wellington at Abbotsford, or exercising the functions of a judge, as if presiding at the trial of members of his own family. It may be regarded as a singular fact, that in his delirium, his mind never wandered toward those works which had filled the world with his fame. But the flame of life now flickered feebly in its socket, and gave unerring indications of its speedy extinction. "About half past one, P. M.," says Mr. Lockhart, his son-in-law and biographer, "on the 21st of September, 1832, Sir Walter breathed his last, in the presence of all his children. It was a beautiful day--so warm that every window was open--and so perfectly still that the sound, of all others most delicious to his ear, the gentle ripple of the Tweed over its pebbles, was distinctly audible, as we knelt around his bed, and his eldest son kissed and closed his eyes."