Not being very correct as to dates, I should scarcely have ventured to name the day had not a trifling circumstance served to mark it.  After dinner he proposed that instead of going to the drawing-room we should remain with him and have tea in the dining room.  In the interval the post letters were brought, and amongst others there was one from a sister of Sir Thomas Lawrence (Mrs. Bloxam), enclosing a letter of her brother’s, having heard that Sir Walter had expressed a wish to have some memorial of him, “rather of his pencil than his pen,” said he, as he handed the letter to me, who, as a collector of autographs, would probably value them more than he did; and on referring to Mrs. Bloxam’s letter I find the Edinburgh post-mark February the 18th.

I received repeated invitations to Abbotsford, and had fixed to go on the 17th of April, when, the day before, Mrs. Skene called upon me with the sad tidings of another paralytic stroke, which not only put a stop to my visit for the present, but rendered it very doubtful whether I should ever see him again.  But the worst fears of his friends were not yet to be realised.

Early in May the invitation was renewed in a note from himself, which I availed myself of, too well assured it was a privilege I should enjoy for the last time.  On reaching Abbotsford I found some morning visitors (Mr. and Mrs. James, etc.) in the drawing-room, but as soon as they were gone Sir Walter sent for me to his study.  I found him seated in his armchair, but with his habitual politeness he insisted upon rising to receive me, though he did so with such extreme difficulty I would gladly have dispensed with this mark of courtesy.  His welcome was not less cordial than usual, but he spoke in a slow and somewhat indistinct manner, and as I sat close by him I could perceive but too plainly the change which had taken place since we last met.  His figure was unwieldy, not so much from increased bulk as from diminished life and energy; his face was swollen and puffy, his complexion mottled and discoloured, his eyes heavy and dim; his head had been shaved, and he wore a small black silk cap, which was extremely unbecoming.  Altogether, the change was no less striking than painful to behold.  The impression, however, soon wore off (on finding, as I believed), that his mind was unimpaired and his warm kindly feelings unchanged.

There was no company, and the dinner party consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Lockhart, Miss Scott, and myself.  Sir Walter did not join us till the dessert, when he entered, assisted by his servant, and took his place at the foot of the table.  His grandchildren were then brought in, and his favourite, Johnnie Lockhart, was seated by his side.  I must have forgot most things before I can cease to recall that most striking and impressive spectacle, each day repeated, as it seemed, with deepening gloom.  The first transient glow of cheerfulness which had welcomed my arrival had passed away, and been succeeded by an air of languor