“The gentle reader is acquainted that these are, in all probability, the last tales which it will be the lot of the author to submit to the public.  He is now on the eve of visiting foreign parts; a ship of war is commissioned by its royal master, to carry the Author of Waverley to climates in which he may readily obtain such a restoration of health as may serve him to spin his thread to an end in his own country.  Had he continued to prosecute his usual literary labours, it seems indeed probable that, at the term of years he has already attained, the bowl, to use the pathetic language of Scripture, would have been broken at the fountain; and little can one, who has enjoyed on the whole, an uncommon share of the most inestimable of worldly blessings, be entitled to complain, that life, advancing to its period, should be attended with its usual proportion of shadows and storms.  They have affected him, at least, in no more painful manner, than is inseparable from the discharge of this part of the debt of humanity.  Of those whose relations to him in the ranks of life, might have insured their sympathy under indisposition, many are now no more; and those who may yet follow in his wake, are entitled to expect, in bearing inevitable evils, an example of firmness and patience, more especially on the part of one who has enjoyed no small good fortune during the course of his pilgrimage.

“The public have claims on his gratitude, for which the Author of Waverley has no adequate means of expression; but he may be permitted to hope that the powers of his mind, such as they are, may not have a different date from his body; and that he may again meet his patronizing friends, if not exactly in his old fashion of literature, at least in some branch which may not call forth the remark, that—­

    “Superfluous lags the veteran on the stage.”

Sir Walter resided at Malta for a short time; thence he proceeded to Naples, where he was received with almost pageant honours.  In the spring he visited Rome; but “the world’s chief ornament” had few charms for one bereft of all hope of healthful recovery.  His strength was waning fast, and he set out to return with more than prudent speed to his native country.  He travelled seventeen hours for six successive days, and, in descending the Rhine, had a second attack of paralysis which would have carried him off but for the timely presence of mind of his servant, who immediately bled him.  The illustrious Goethe had looked forward with great pleasure to the meeting with Sir Walter when he returned through Germany, but the destroyer had fell also on him.  On his arrival in London, Sir Walter was conveyed to the St. James’s Hotel, Jermyn-street, and attended by Sir Henry Halford and Dr. Holland, with Mr. and Mrs. Lockhart.  He lay some weeks in a hopeless condition, and when the flame of life was just flickering out, he entreated to be conveyed to his own home.  The journey was a hazardous one, but, as the dying wish of the poet, was tried and effected:  on July 9th, he was conveyed to Edinburgh, whence he was removed to his fondly-cherished home on the 11th.