Deprived of the use of his right arm and side, weak and depressed, Sir Walter reached London on the evening of the 13th of June 1832. Five days later, Cadell writes: ‘Our poor friend is still alive, but very ill. He took leave of his children to-day, very clearly and distinctly. In the morning, he mistook Lockhart for me; and it was some time before he could be put right. The doctors doubt his getting over to-night.’ He rallied, however, and next month was conveyed to Abbotsford. Laidlaw’s account of Sir Walter’s arrival (written the day after) differs in some particulars from the narrative of Lockhart—one of the most affecting narratives in the language.

‘I was at the door when he’ [Sir Walter], ‘Mr and Mrs Lockhart, and Miss Scott arrived. They said he would not know me. He was in a sort of long carriage that opened at the back. He had an uncommon stupid look, staring straight before him; and assuredly he did not know where he was. It was very dismal. I began to feel myself agitated in spite of all my resolution. Lockhart ordered away the ladies; and two servants, in perfect silence, lifted him out, and carried him into the dining-room. I followed, of course. They had placed him in a low arm-chair, where he reclined. Mrs Lockhart made a sign for me to step forward to see if he would recognise me. She said: “Mr Laidlaw, papa.” He raised his eyes a little, and when he caught mine, he started, and exclaimed: “Good God, Mr Laidlaw! I have thought of you a thousand times!” and he held out his hand. They were all very much surprised; and it being quite unexpected, I was much affected. He was put to bed. I had gone into one of the empty rooms, and some little time after Nicholson came to tell me that Sir Walter wished to see me. He spoke a little confusedly, but inquired if the people were suffering any hardship, if they were satisfied, &c. I had written to him that I had paid off nine or ten of the men after he had gone away last year. I did not remain long.

‘I understand Sir Walter’s mind has been wandering from one dream to another; but now and then breaking through the cloud that hangs over it, and surprising his attendants with glimpses of his original intellect. Alas, alas! However, he has rested better than for some time past, and was wheeled into the library’ [July 12], ‘and seemed gratified. When I called about eleven o’clock, he was sound asleep.’

A fortnight later, Laidlaw writes:

‘Sir Walter is generally collected in the morning, and very restless and troublesome to his daughters during the afternoon and night; often raving, but always quiet, and generally shewing command of himself when Lockhart comes in. Sometimes he seemed gratified at being at home, and even once or twice made pertinent quotations, and spoke of books, &c. Until yesterday, he always knew me, and I clearly saw he had then a distressing desire to speak to me. I perceived that although he might appear to feel little pain, he was really suffering a great deal, partly from a sense of his situation and inaction, but chiefly from the overpowering cloud and weight upon his great intellect. Yesterday, he was apparently unconscious; he could not speak, but was wheeled into the library for awhile. I never witnessed a more moving or more melancholy sight. Once, when Lockhart spoke of his restlessness, he replied: “There will be rest in the grave.”’

One delusion under which the illustrious sufferer laboured was preparing Abbotsford for the reception of the Duke of Wellington. Another was, his personation of the character of a Scottish judge trying his own daughters. In the course of the latter, there were painful bursts of violence and excitement. ‘It is strange,’ said Laidlaw, ‘that he never refers to any of his works or literary plans.’ The truth is, he had thrown them off, to use an expression of his own, with ‘an effort as spontaneous as that of a tree resigning its leaves to the wind,’ and they soon passed from his memory. Besides, he had, when in health, always practised a modest reticence respecting his works, which had become habitual. The following points to the end of the struggle:

‘Poor papa still lingers, although in the most hopeless state of mind and body. For this week past, the doctor has taken leave every day, saying he could not survive the twenty-four hours; and to-day, he says the pulse is weaker and worse than ever it has been, and that his living is almost a miracle. How thankful we shall be when it pleases God he is at rest, for a more complete aberration of mind never was before; and he even now is so violent we sometimes dare not go within reach of his hand. And the miserable scenes we have witnessed before his strength was reduced as it now is! One great comfort has been, all suffering, so far as we can judge, mental or bodily, has been spared, and that for two months past he has not for an instant been aware of his situation. My brothers were sent for, and have been here for two days. When all is over, Anne and I and the children will leave this now miserable place for ever. Lockhart is obliged to go straight to London, but we mean to spend a couple of weeks with his relations in Lanarkshire, and perhaps take Rokeby in our way up. We are both much better than you would expect under such sad circumstances. Excuse this miserable scrawl; I hardly know what I write....

C. Sophia Lockhart.

‘Abbotsford, Sunday’ [September 16, 1832].[12]

On the day succeeding that on which this melancholy letter would seem to have been written, Sir Walter had a brief interval of consciousness, as described by Lockhart, although the biographer would appear to have misdated the arrival of the sons of the poet. A few more days terminated the struggle; Sir Walter died on the 21st of September. In October, Laidlaw notes that Major Scott had given him, accompanied with a most gratifying letter, the locket which Sir Walter constantly wore about his neck. This was presented to Sir Walter by Major Scott and his wife (inscribed ‘From Walter and Jane’) on the day of their marriage, and it contained some of the hair of each. Major Scott enclosed as much of Sir Walter’s hair as would supply the place of theirs, which he wished to be taken out of the locket. ‘I shall try to find room for all,’ said Mr Laidlaw; and he did find room, interlacing the various hairs, and wearing the invaluable jewel to his dying day. ‘What a change the loss of Abbotsford must be to the Fergusons and you all!’ writes Mrs Lockhart, ‘the gentle Sophia,’ as Miss Martineau describes the fair sufferer. ‘It breaks my heart when I think of the silence and desolation that now reign there. They talk of a monument! God knows papa needs no monument; he has left behind him that which won’t pass away. But if the people of Melrose do anything, I think a great cairn on one of the hills would be what he would have chosen himself.’ Let the hills themselves suffice!