He embarked on the steamer, and after a four days' sail, on the 11th of July his eye once more brightened as he caught sight of the familiar waters of the Tweed, and when at length he recognized the towers of his own Abbotsford, he sprang up in the carriage with delight. He was carried to his chamber, where he remained till his death on the 21st of September. We have no apology to make for this digression, for Scott has given to Scotland and English literature a new glory. We now resume our walk over the house, and pass through the museum, which is some twelve feet wide and forty feet long. Various kinds of armor prevail, and many interesting things that were presented to the "Lord of the domain." Fifty-one years are gone since the great poet was here, but all else remains as it was. We sit down in his study, as if waiting for him to come; and so real is everything that, should the sound of his heavy feet be heard in the hall, should he enter in person, the gulf of years would as by magic be bridged over and forgotten. He arranged this house only for his home; but he unwittingly made it a Jerusalem for countless pilgrims. We passed meditatingly up the lane, mounted the team, and in spite of the clack of the driver, of hills and dales,--in spite of anything material,--those unmaterial memories held sway. We had been to Abbotsford, and its inspiration would evermore be _ours_. An odor or a sunset was never fully described, though some can tell the story better than others. A lamp lighted from another does not reduce the original flame, and so it is with visits to any shrine. A million may go to Abbotsford, but it loses nothing by these draughts of pleasure. Our carriage ride ended, we are at Melrose Abbey. How many times Sir Walter stood on this spot. His advice was:-- If thou would'st view fair Melrose aright, Go visit it by the pale moonlight, For the gay beams of lightsome day Gild but to flout the ruins gray.