That porch was soon tenanted in our imagination by that venerable ideal image which we had been all this while courting to our side.  With it we continued to hold sacred communion—­with it we looked, as we had formerly done with the reality, on the effigy of Maida;[2] and the harsh truth that Maida’s master was now as cold as Maida itself, went rudely home to our hearts.  But footsteps came slowly and heavily treading through the small armoury:  they were those of the servants of the deceased, who, with full eyes, and yet fuller hearts, came reverently bearing the body of him whose courteous welcome had made that very porch so cheerful to us.  We were the only witnesses of this usually unheeded part of the funeral duties:  accident had given to us a privilege which was lost to the crowd within.  We instinctively uncovered our heads, and stood subdued by an indescribable feeling of awe as the corpse was carried outwards; and we felt grateful, that it had thus fallen to our lot to behold the departure of these the honoured and precious remains of Sir Walter Scott from the house of Abbotsford, where all his earthly affections had been centered.  The coffin was plain and unpretending, covered with black cloth, and having an ordinary plate on it, with this inscription, “Sir Walter Scott, of Abbotsford, Bart., aged 62.”  “Alas!” said we, as we followed the precious casket across the courtyard—­“alas! have these been the limits of so valuable a life?”

Having followed the coffin until we saw it deposited in the hearse, which stood on the outside of the great gate of the courtyard, we felt ourselves unequal to returning into the apartment where the company were assembled; and we continued to loiter about, seeking for points of recollection which might strengthen the chain of association we wished to indulge in.  Our attention was attracted, by observing the window of the study open, and we were led to look within, impelled by no idle or blameable curiosity, but rather like a pilgrim approaching the shrine where his warmest adoration has ever been paid.  But, alas I the deep tones of the venerable old Principal Baird, whose voice was heard in earnest and impressive prayer, came upon us through an opposite door, from the library beyond; and the affecting allusions which he uttered again brought us back to the afflicting truth, that Sir Walter Scott was gone from us for ever!

The prayer was no sooner ended, than the company began to issue from the house.  The carriages had been previously assembled on the haugh below, and were so arranged there, that they drove up in a continued line; and as each passed the great gateway, it took up its owners, and then proceeded.  There certainly were not less than seventy gentlemen’s carriages of all descriptions, two-wheeled as well as four-wheeled,—­besides which there were a number of horsemen.  The public road runs along the face of the hill, immediately above the house, in a direction from west to east; and the