WANDERINGS IN SOUTH AMERICA 27 



two in the morning of May 27, 1865. The window 

 was open. The sky was beginning to grow grey, 

 a few rooks had cawed, the swallows were twit- 

 tering, the landrail was craking from the ox-close, 

 and a favourite cock, which he used to call his 

 morning gun, leaped out from some hollies, and 

 gave his accustomed crow. The ear of his master 

 was deaf to the call. He had obeyed a sublimer 

 summons, and had woke up to the glories of the 

 eternal world. 



He was buried on his birthday, the 3rd of June, 

 between two great oaks at the far end of the lake, 

 the oldest trees in the park. He had put up a 

 rough stone cross to mark the spot where he 

 wished to be buried. Often on summer days he 

 had sat in the shade of these oaks watching the 

 kingfishers. **Cock Robin and the magpies,'* he 

 said to me as we sat by the trees one day, ''will 

 mourn my loss, and you will sometimes remember 

 me when I lie here." At the foot of the cross is 

 a Latin inscription which he wrote himself. It 

 could hardly be simpler: "Pray for the soul of 

 Charles Waterton, whose tired bones are buried 

 near this cross." The dates of his birth and death 

 are added. 



Walton Hall is no longer the home of the Wat- 

 ertons, the oaks are too old to flourish many 

 years more, and in time the stone cross may be 

 overthrown and the exact burial place of Water- 

 ton be forgotten; but his "Wanderings in South 

 America" and his "Natural History Essays" will 

 always be read, and are for him a memorial like 

 that claimed by the poet he read oftenest — 



"quod nee Jovis ira, nee ignes, 

 Nee poterit ferrum, nee edax abolere vetustas." 



NOBMAN MOOEE. 



