e day
at half-past three, and spent the hour from four to five at prayer in his
chapel. He then read every morning a chapter in a Spanish Life of St.
Francis Xavier, followed by a chapter of "Don Quixote" in the original,
after which he used to stuff birds or write letters till breakfast. Most
of the day he spent in the open air, and when the weather was cold would
light a fire of sticks and warm himself by it. So active did he continue
to the end of his days, that on his eightieth birthday he climbed an oak
in my company. He was very kind to the poor, and threw open a beautiful
part of his park to excursionists all through the summer. He had a very
tender heart for beasts and birds, as well as for men. If a cat looked
hungry he would see that she had a meal, and sometimes when he had
forgotten to put a crust of bread in his pocket before starting on his
afternoon walk, he would say to his companion, "How shall we ever get
past that goose?" for there was a goose which used to wait for him in the
evening at the end of the bridge over the moat, and he could not bear to
disappoint it. If he could not find a bit of food for it, he would wait
at a distance till the bird went away, rather than give it nothing when
it raised its bill.

Towards the end of his life I enjoyed his friendship, and can never
forget his kindly welcome, his pithy conversation, the happy humour with
which he expressed the conclusions of his long experience of men, birds
and beasts, and the goodness which shone from his face. I was staying at
Walton when he died, and have thus described his last hours in the
biography which is prefixed to the latest edition of his Essays. {31} I
was reading for an examination, and used, on the Squire's invitation, to
go and chat with him just after midnight, for at that hour be always
awoke, and paid a short visit to his chapel. A little before midnight on
May 24th I visited him in his room. He was sitting asleep by his fire
wrapped up in a large Italian cloak.

His head rested upon his wooden pillow, which was placed on a table, and
his thick silvery hair formed a beautiful contrast with the dark colour
of the oak. He soon woke up, and withdrew to the chapel, and on his
return we talked together for three-quarters of an hour about the brown
owl, the nightjar, and other birds. The next morning, May 25, he was
unusually cheerful, and said to me, "That was a very pleasant little
confab we had last night: I d