elieving himself. In 1822, he published a new edition of his best
poems, in four volumes, for which he received the sum of L200; and in
this and the following year, he produced two works of fiction, entitled,
"The Three Perils of Man," and "The Three Perils of Women," which
together yielded him L300. In 1824, he published "The Confessions of a
Fanatic;" and, in 1826, he gave to the world his long narrative poem of
"Queen Hynde." The last proved unequal to his former poetical efforts.
In 1826, Mr J. G. Lockhart proceeded to London to edit the _Quarterly
Review_, taking along with him, as his assistant, Robert Hogg, a son of
the Shepherd's elder brother. The occasion afforded the poet an
opportunity of renewing his correspondence with his old friend, Allan
Cunningham. Allan wrote to him as follows:--

"27 Lower Belgrave Place, _16th Feb. 1826._

"My dear James,--It required neither present of book,
nor friend, nor the recalling of old scenes, to render
your letter a most welcome one. You are often present
to my heart and fancy, for your genius and your
friendliness have secured you a place in both. Your
nephew is a fine, modest, and intelligent young man,
and is welcome to my house for his own sake as well as
yours. Your 'Queen Hynde,' for which I thank you,
carries all the vivid marks of your own peculiar cast
of genius about her. One of your very happiest little
things is in the Souvenir of this season--it is pure
and graceful, warm, yet delicate; and we have nought in
the language to compare to it, save everybody's
'Kilmeny.' In other portions of verse you have been
equalled, and sometimes surpassed; but in scenes which
are neither on earth, nor wholly removed from it--where
fairies speak, and spiritual creatures act, you are
unrivalled.

"Often do I tread back to the foot of old
Queensberry,[40] and meet you coming down amid the
sunny rain, as I did some twenty years ago. The little
sodded shealing where we sought shelter rises now on my
sight--your two dogs (old Hector was one) lie at my
feet--the 'Lay of the Last Minstrel' is in my hand, for
the first time, to be twice read over after sermon, as
it really was--poetry, nothing but poetry, is our talk,
and we are supremely happy. Or, I shift the scene to
Thornhill, and there whilst the glass goes round, and