Mr. Laidlaw was waiting for
him, and he met him with a cry, "Ha! Willie Laidlaw! O, man, how often I
have thought of you!" His dogs came round his chair and began to fawn on
him and lick his hands, while Sir Walter smiled or sobbed over them. The
next morning he was wheeled about his garden, and on the following morning
was out in this way for a couple of hours; within a day or two he fancied
that he could write again, but on taking the pen into his hand, his
fingers could not clasp it, and he sank back with tears rolling down his
cheek. Later, when Laidlaw said in his hearing that Sir Walter had had a
little repose, he replied, "No, Willie; no repose for Sir Walter but in
the grave." As the tears rushed from his eyes, his old pride revived.
"Friends," he said, "don't let me expose myself--get me to bed,--that is
the only place."
After this Sir Walter never left his room. Occasionally he dropped off
into delirium, and the old painful memory,--that cry of "Burk Sir
Walter,"--might be again heard on his lips. He lingered, however, till
the 21st September,--more than two months from the day of his reaching
home, and a year from the day of Wordsworth's arrival at Abbotsford
before his departure for the Mediterranean, with only one clear
interval of consciousness, on Monday, the 17th September.
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