ree Perils of Man_ (which
appears refashioned in the modern editions of his works as _The Siege of
Roxburgh_), _The Three Perils of Woman_, _The Shepherd's Calendar_ and
numerous other uncollected tales exhibit for the most part very much the
same characteristics. Hogg knew the Scottish peasantry well, he had
abundant stores of unpublished folklore, he could invent more when
wanted, he was not destitute of the true poetic knowledge of human
nature, and at his best he could write strikingly and picturesquely. But
he simply did not know what self-criticism was, he had no notion of the
conduct or carpentry of a story, and though he was rather fond of
choosing antique subjects, and prided himself on his knowledge of old
Scots, he was quite as likely to put the baldest modern touches in the
mouth of a heroine of the fourteenth or fifteenth century as not. If
anybody takes pleasure in seeing how a good story can be spoilt, let him
look at the sixth chapter of the _Shepherd's Calendar_, "The Souters of
Selkirk;" and if any one wants to read a novel of antiquity which is not
like Scott, let him read _The Bridal of Polmood_.

In the midst, however, of all this chaotic work, there is still to be
found, though misnamed, one of the most remarkable stories of its kind
ever written--a story which, as I have said before, is not only
extraordinarily good of itself, but insists peremptorily that the reader
shall wonder how the devil it got where it is. This is the book now
called _The Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Fanatic_, but by its
proper and original title, _The Confessions of a Justified Sinner_.
Hogg's reference to it in his _Autobiography_ is sufficiently odd. "The
next year (1824)," he says, "I published _The Confessions of a Fanatic
[Sinner]_, but, it being a story replete with horrors, after I had
written it I durst not venture to put my name to it, so it was
published anonymously, and of course did not sell very well--so at least
I believe, for I do not remember ever receiving anything for it, and I
am sure if there had been a reversion [he means return] I should have
had a moiety. However I never asked anything, so on that point there was
no misunderstanding." And he says nothing more about it, except to
inform us that his publishers, Messrs. Longman, who had given him for
his two previous books a hundred and fifty pounds each "as soon as the
volumes were put to press," and who had published the _Confessions_ on
half