but now yellowish plaid,--the plaids a scant quarter-inch square; and there is the large waistcoat with alternating brown and white stripes, perhaps a sixteenth of an inch wide, and running lengthwise. Next there is a large white and wide-brimmed stove-pipe fur hat, with rather a short nap. It shows hard usage, for there are a number of dents in it. Finally, there is a dark-blue frock-coat,--said to have gilt buttons, but they are folded out of sight. How pleasing it would be to pass into a reverie in this great presence! We pass into the splendid and unusual library. The ceiling has oak mouldings and deep panels, said to be copies from an ancient castle. The sides are covered with books from floor nearly to ceiling. The furniture is rich and various, much of it presented by distinguished men. In a square showcase on a table are exposed for exhibition small articles that were given to Sir Walter by kings, queens, and other persons of noble blood. Among them are snuff-boxes,--gold, silver, ivory, pearl, shell, and papier-maché. The floor is of polished oak, and without carpets. The library is not far from twenty-five feet wide, forty-five long, and fifteen feet high. We next pass into the dining-room, which is about twenty feet wide and thirty feet long, and is the one in which the great owner breathed his last. It also has an oak floor, and is without furniture, save a few chairs for the use of visitors. At one end is a large bay-window, looking out on the great lawn, extending from the house to the Tweed. It adds a peculiar interest to know that Sir Walter so loved nature that, when he saw the great consummation approaching, he desired to be removed from his chamber to this room, where he might once more gaze upon this scene and his favorite river, which was flowing away like his own life. A couch was brought, and placed against the side wall, with its foot towards the window, and there the silver cord was loosed, the golden bowl broken, the pitcher shattered at the fountain, the wheel broken at the cistern, and the poet was no more a mortal. The temptation is resistless to say a few words about Scott's previous life. He had become worn down with his attempts to earn enough to meet the claims made against him, $400,000, in consequence of the failure of his publisher, Ballantine. At first he left Abbotsford and went to London to do this work. Becoming a mere wreck of his former self, he went to the shores of the Mediterranean; but at last, when hope deferred had made the heart sick, he returned to London, went to a small hotel, the St. James, at 76 Jermyn Street, and there passed three melancholy weeks before going to his home on the Tweed. Mr. Lockhart, who was with him, gives the following graphic account: