FUNERAL OF SIR WALTER SCOTT.--BY AN EYE-WITNESS.
(_Abridged from Tait's Edinburgh Magazine._)
When we arrived at the ford, which gave its fancied name to the poet's
dwelling, we found the silver Tweed sparkling merrily along, as if all
things were as they were wont to be. The young woods before us, and the
towers, and gables, and pinnacles of the mansion, were smiling beneath
the mellowing rays of the September sun, as if unconscious that the
master-spirit which called them into being had for ever fled from them.
The sound of wheels came on the ear at intervals, rushing from different
directions, and indicating the frequent arrival of carriages; yet when
we, availing ourselves of the open doors, had taken our well-known way
through the garden, and passed beneath the Gothic screen that might have
vied with the Beautiful Gate of the Temple itself, and on into the
courtyard in front of the house, we were surprised to find it deserted
and lonely. Before any one came to interrupt us, we had leisure to gaze
around, and to wonder at the great growth of the trees and shrub's since
we had last beheld them; and as we did so, the venerable shade of him
who had last walked there with us, filled our imagination and our
eyes--shifted with them as they shifted;--and as it glided around
us, it recalled to our full hearts a thousand pleasing and touching
recollections.
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