LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. I3C 



remained good, and his mind showed no symptoms of waning 

 power. But the adventurous traveller who had escaped pestilence, 

 fevers, earthquakes, shipwreck, precipices, serpents, and wild beasts, 

 was destined to perish by an accident which befell him in his own 

 park in the midst of apparent safety. 



I was staying at the time at Walton Hall, whither I had gone 

 upon an invitation, which was one of the last letters Waterton lived 

 to write : 



" WALTON HALL, Friday, May $th, 1865. 



" MY DEAR NORMAN, I have received your communications, 

 and I thank you for them. Two nightingales are singing here most 

 melodiously, one in Stubbed-piece, the other in our plover swamp. 

 Cannot you manage to slip over and listen to them ? Probably it 

 may be that you have never yet heard the song of the far-celebrated 

 chorister. In great haste, very truly yours, 



" CHARLES WATERTON." 



I happened just then to be reading ior an examination, and 

 Waterton asked me, whenever I was up at twelve, to go and chat 

 with him for a few minutes after he came back from his midnight 

 visit to the chapel. I went accordingly on May 24, 1865, and found 

 the dear old wanderer sitting asleep by his fire, wrapped up in a 

 large Italian cloak. His head rested upon his wooden pillow, 

 which was placed on a table, and his thick silvery hair formed a 

 beautiful contrast with the dark colour of the oak. He soon woke 

 up, and withdrew to rhe chapel, and on his return we talked together 

 for three quarters of an hour about the brown owl, the night-jar, and 

 other birds. The next morning, May 25, he was unusually cheerful, 

 and said to me, " That was a very pleasant little confab we had last 

 night : I do not suppose there was such another going on in 

 England at the same time." After breakfast we went with a car- 

 penter to finish some bridges at the far end of the park. The work 

 was completed, and we were proceeding homewards when, in cross- 

 ing a small bridge, a bramble caught the squire's foot, and he fell 

 heavily upon a log. He was greatly shaken, and said he thought he 

 was dying. He walked, notwithstanding, a little way, and was then 

 compelled to lie down. He would not permit his sufferings to dis- 



