There are two methods of reaching Abbotsford--by rail to Galashiels, thence to Abbotsford Ferry Station on the Selkirk line, alighting at which and crossing the Tweed, a delightful tree-shaded walk of about a mile brings us to the house. But the more popular method is to make the journey from Melrose, three miles distant. The way lies between delicious green fields and bits of woodland--a pleasant country road, exposed somewhat, despite smiling hedgerows on either side. Seldom in summer is it without being dust-blown. For in a more than local sense, this is one of the world's highways, with a constant stream of pilgrims from every land passing to and fro. No better proof, surely, of Scott's abiding popularity. The road teems with reminiscences of the Romancist. Out from the grey town, with its orchards and picturesque gardens, the Waverley Hydropathic is passed on the right. In the grounds a handsome seated statue of Scott may be noticed. Further on, to the left, tree-ensconced, lie Chiefswood and Huntlyburn on the Abbotsford estate. Then comes Darnick, with its fine peel, now open to the public, and well worth a visit. At the fork of the roads (that to the right leading by Melrose Bridge to Gattonside and Galashiels) we turn leftwards, and are soon at the visitors' entrance (a modest wicket-gate) to the great Scottish Mecca. But nothing is to be seen yet. Mr. Hope Scott's plantations and 'ingenious tourist arrangement' screen the pile with wonderful completeness. And it is only when within a few paces of the building, at a turn in the lane leading from the highway, that all at once one emerges upon it. The public waiting-room is in the basement, whence parties of ten or twelve are conducted through the house. In point of picturesqueness, Abbotsford is, of course, best seen from the Tweed--the north bank--or the hillside, whereon the Galashiels manufacturers have reared their own princely residences--unknown to Scott's day. But we are then looking, let us remember, at the _back_ of the edifice. Nearly all the photographs present this view, however, for the sake of the river. The situation is low--poor, indeed, except for the Tweed. At first not unfrequently is there a sense of disappointment, especially if one's ideas have been founded on Turner's somewhat fanciful sketches. These, it need scarcely be said, though beautiful, and art at its highest, are yet far removed (like his Sandyknowe and Chiefswood) from the real Abbotsford.