to countenance a poem, the scene of which was laid in the Highlands, were now sunk in the generous compassion which the English, more than any other nation, feel for the misfortunes of an honourable foe.  The Poems of Ossian had by their popularity sufficiently shown that, if writings on Highland subjects were qualified to interest the reader, mere national prejudices were, in the present day, very unlikely to interfere with their success.

I had also read a great deal, seen much, and heard more, of that romantic country where I was in the habit of spending some time every autumn; and the scenery of Lock Katrine was connected with the recollection of many a dear friend and merry expedition of former days.  This poem, the action of which lay among scenes so beautiful and so deeply imprinted on my recollections, was a labour of love, and it was no less so to recall the manners and incidents introduced.  The frequent custom of James iv., and particularly of James V., to walk through their kingdom in disguise, afforded me the hint of an incident which never fails to be interesting if managed with the slightest address or dexterity.

I may now confess, however, that the employment, though attended with great pleasure, was not without its doubts and anxieties.  A lady, to whom I was nearly related, and with whom I lived, during her whole life, on the most brotherly terms of affection, was residing with me at the time when the work was in progress, and used to ask me, what I could possibly do to rise so early in the morning (that happening to be the most convenient to me for composition).  At last I told her the subject of my meditations; and I can never forget the anxiety and affection expressed in her reply.  “Do not be so rash,” she said, “my dearest cousin.[FN#2] You are already popular,—­more so, perhaps, than you yourself will believe, or than even I, or other partial friends, can fairly allow to your merit.  You stand high,—­do not rashly attempt to climb higher, and incur the risk of a fall; for, depend upon it, a favourite will not be permitted even to stumble with impunity.”  I replied to this affectionate expostulation in the words of Montrose,—­

   “’He either fears his fate too much,
        Or his deserts are small,
      Who dares not put it to the touch
        To gain or lose it all.’

“If I fail,” I said, for the dialogue is strong in my recollection, “it is a sign that I ought never to have succeeded, and I will write prose for life:  you shall see no change in my temper, nor will I eat a single meal the worse.  But if I succeed,

   ’Up with the bonnie blue bonnet,
       The dirk, and the feather, and a’!’”