BIOGRAPHY. 81 



end of the park for the purpose of directing some carpen- 

 ters, when he caught his foot in an overhanging bramble, 

 and fell, with his side upon a log. He knew at once the 

 extent of the injury, but contrived to reach the boat. On 

 arriving at the island, he walked to the house, changed his 

 clothes as usual, and, in spite of terrible pain, walked up 

 stairs without help. He would have gone on to his own 

 room at the top of the house, but consented to stop half 

 way, and lie on the sofa of Miss Edmonstone's (his sister- 

 in-law's) sitting room, for the sake of saving trouble to 

 others. 



Here he died, and I must borrow Br. Moore's own 

 words. 



" The end was now at hand, and he died at twenty- 

 seven minutes past 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 twittering, 

 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." 



So passed away Charles Waterton, a man who was, 

 perhaps, more thoroughly missed and more widely mourned 

 than any other of his time. 



It is much to be regretted that he would never sit for his 

 portrait since' 1823. As far as the head without the dress 

 (Toes, Mr. Waterhouse Hawkins's bust gives a good idea of 

 "The Squire," but marble could not give his sweet, kindly 

 smile, or the animated expressions which flitted over his face 

 as he recurred to his former travels, or pointed out the many 

 wonders of the park and lake. A good painter might have 

 succeeded, provided that he knew Waterton thoroughly 



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