It was at Rome, on the 20th day of February, 1829, when he was finishing
his eloquent work, _The Last Days of a Philosopher_, that Sir Humphry
Davy received the final warning to prepare. By dictation, he wrote to
his brother, who was at Malta with the British troops--"I am dying from
a severe attack of palsy, which has seized the whole of the body, with
the exception of the intellectual organ. I shall leave my bones in the
Eternal City." But he was to die neither then nor there. Within three
weeks, his brother was by his bedside, and found him as much interested
in the anatomy and electricity of the torpedo as ever, though he bade
Dr. Davy "not to be grieved" by his approaching dissolution. Yet, after
a day of 150 pulse-beats, and only five breathings in a minute, and of
the most distressing particular symptoms, he again revived. Shortly
after this, Lady Davy arrived at Rome from England, with a copy of the
second edition of _Salmonia_, which Sir Humphry received with peculiar
pleasure. After some weeks of melancholy dalliance with the balmy spring
air of the Campagna, the Albula Lake, the hills of Tivoli, and the banks
of the Tiber, they travelled quietly round by Florence, Genoa, Turin,
slowly threading the flowery, sweet-scented Alpine valleys, to Geneva,
where _he suddenly expired_. It was three hours beyond midnight; his
servant called his brother; his brother was in time to close his eyes.
It was the 29th of May, in 1829.
They buried him at Geneva. In truth, Geneva buried him herself, with
serious and respectful ceremonial. A simple monument stands at the head
of the hospitable grave. There is a tablet to his memory on the walls of
Westminster Abbey. There is a monument also, at Penzance, his
birth-place.
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