omotion of which
all our real poets are so distinguished, than to
realise much profit. Anything that thou couldst send me
about your country life, or the impression which the
scenery makes upon a poetical mind at different
seasons, on your heaths and among your hills, I should
be proud to acknowledge, and should regard as the gems
of my book. Whether or not, however, it be practicable
or agreeable to thee, I hope to have the pleasure of
presenting thee a copy of the work when it is out. Mary
requests me to present to thee her respectful regards;
and allow me to subscribe myself, with great respect,
thy friend,

"W. Howitt."

In 1829, on the expiry of his lease, Hogg relinquished the farm of Mount
Benger, and returned to his former residence at Altrive. Rumour, ever
ready to propagate tales of misfortune, had busily circulated the
report that, a completely ruined man, he had again betaken himself to
literary labours in the capital. In this belief, Mr Tennant, author of
"Anster Fair," addressed to him the following characteristic letter,
intended, by its good-humoured pleasantries, to soothe him in his
contendings with adversity:--

"Devongrove, _27th June 1829._

"My dear Friend James Hogg,--I have never seen, spoken,
whispered to, handled, or smelt you, since the King's
visit in 1822, when I met you in Edinburgh street, and
inhaled, by juxtaposition, your sweet fraternal breath.
How the Fates have since sundered us! How have you been
going on, fattening and beautifying from one degree to
another of poetical perfection, while I have, under the
chilling shade of the Ochil Hills, been dwindling down
from one degree of poetical extenuation to another,
till at length I am become the very shadow and ghost of
literary leanness! I should now wish to see you, and
compare you as you are now with what you were in your
'Queen's Wake' days. For this purpose, I would be very
fain you would condescend to pay us a visit. I see you
indeed, at times, in the _Literary Journal_; I see you
in _Blackwood_, fighting, and reaping a harvest of
beautiful black eyes from the fists of Professor John
Wilson. I see you in songs, in ballads, in calendars. I
see you in the postern of time long elapsed. I see you
in the looking-glass of my own facetious and
so