t otherwise concerned about it; for if I were sure
that any one now living in Scotland had written them, to divert himself
and laugh at the credulity of the world, I would undertake a journey
into the Highlands only for the pleasure of seeing him."

[Footnote 1: "Hardyknute" was an especial favourite of Sir W. Scott. In
his "Life of Mr. Lockhart" he mentions having found in one of his books
a mention that "he was taught 'Hardyknute' by heart before he could read
the ballad itself; it was the first poem he ever learnt, the last he
should ever forget" (c. 2). And in the very last year of his life, while
at Malta, in a discussion on ballads in general, "he greatly lamented
his friend Mr. Frere's heresy in not esteeming highly enough that of
'Hardyknute.' He admitted that it was not a veritable old ballad, but
'just old enough,' and a noble imitation of the best style." In fact, it
was the composition of a lady, Mrs. Hachet, of Wardlaw.]

You see, Sir, how easily you may make our greatest southern bard travel
northward to visit a brother. The young translator has nothing to do but
to own a forgery, and Mr. Gray is ready to pack up his lyre, saddle
Pegasus, and set out directly. But seriously, he, Mr. Mason, my Lord
Lyttelton, and one or two more, whose taste the world allows, are in
love with your Erse elegies: I cannot say in general they are so much
admired--but Mr. Gray alone is worth satisfying.

The "Siege of Aquileia," of which you ask, pleased less than Mr. Home's
other plays.[1] In my own opinion, "Douglas" far exceeds both the
other. Mr. Home seems to have a beautiful talent for painting genuine
nature and the manners of his country. There was so little of nature in
the manners of both Greeks and Romans, that I do not wonder at his
success being less brilliant when he tried those subjects; and, to say
the truth, one is a little weary of them. At present, nothing is talked
of, nothing admired, but what I cannot help calling a very insipid and
tedious performance: it is a kind of novel, called "The Life and
Opinions of Tristram Shandy;"[2] the great humour of which consists in
the whole narration always going backwards. I can conceive a man saying
that it would be droll to write a book in that manner, but have no
notion of his persevering in executing it. It makes one smile two or
three times at the beginning, but in recompense makes one yawn for two
hours. The characters are tolerably kept up, but the humour is for