August 23. At Galashiels, a semi-rural demi-manufacturing town on the
banks of the "braw, braw Gala water." Not having the good fortune to get
to Abbotsford from Melrose, I started over the hill which looks down on
Galashiels, towards that destination. Abbotsford I need not render an
account of. But my approach to it was not deficient in interest.

On arriving at the summit of the hill overlooking the Tweed, it burst
upon my sight. I looked down on the grounds in which it is settled, as
on a map. The skill and industry of Sir Walter is not more remarkable in
his literary than in his rural works. The house stands in a bare, barren
corner of Selkirkshire, (I think) but by admirable management, he has
enclosed it with fine, hardy young wood, and quite altered its
appearance.

At the bottom of the hill I took the boat at the ferry, and resting in
the middle of the stream, the Tweed, and looked around me. I saw a
person on the opposite bank appearing and disappearing in the wood which
comes down to the water's edge. I drew near. He was dressed in a short,
green coat and cap, and was amusing himself with the antics of a large
dog. The place--the time--the air--the gait--every thing conspired:
"Who's that, lassie?" said I to my little boat rower; "That, sir? that's
_himsel_, that's the shirra" (sheriff.) Yes, it was the man--he
himself--the pride of Scotland--her boast--the intellectual beacon of
her hills--it was Sir Walter Scott!

Sept. 3. At Selkirk. At Mitchell's Inn, where I was introduced to the
celebrated Jamie Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd. He had come, I think, from
a fair held at the Eildons. We got over a jug of toddy. Our conversation
turned on the church service of the kirk of Scotland, and we rambled
into poetry in conversing on the psalms. I pointed out to the shepherd,