ell into other hands, and
particularly into those of a neighbour, who, a short while previously,
had played an unmanly part relating to a sheep and the march which ran
between us. He found his unworthy proceeding boldly discussed, in an
epistle which, I daresay, no other carrier would ever have conveyed to
him but the unblushing mountain blast. He complained to others, whom he
found more or less involved in his own predicament, and the thing went
disagreeably abroad. My master, through good taste and feeling, was
vexed, as I understood, that I should have done anything that gave
ground for accusation, though he did not mention the subject to myself;
but my father, some days after the mischief had commenced, came to me
upon the hill, and not in very good humour, disapproved of my imprudent
conduct. As for the consequences of this untoward event, it proved the
mean of revealing what I had hitherto concealed--procuring for me a sort
of local popularity little to be envied. I made the best improvement of
it, as I then thought, that lay in my power--by writing a satire upon
myself.

"I continued shepherd at Deloraine two years, and then went in the same
capacity to the late Mr Knox of Todrigg; and if at the former place I
had been well and happy, here I was still more so. His son William, the
poet of 'The Lonely Hearth,' paid me much friendly attention. He
commended my verses, and augured my success as one of the song-writers
of my native land. In those days, I did not write with the most remote
view to publication. My aim did not extend beyond the gratification of
hearing my mountain strains sung by lad or lass, as time and place might
favour. And when, in the dewy gloaming of a summer eve, returning home
from the hill, and 'the kye were in the loan,' I did hear this much, I
thought, no doubt, that

"'The swell and fall of these wild tones
Were worth the pomp of a thousand thrones.'

"William Crozier, author of 'The Cottage Muse,' was also my neighbour
and friend at Todrigg, during the summer part of the year; and even at
this hour I feel delight in recalling to memory the happy harmony of
thought and feeling that blended with and enhanced the genial sunshine
of those departed days. I rejoice to dwell upon those remote and
rarely-trodden pastoral solitudes, among which my lot in the early years
of life was so continually cast; few may well conceive how distinctly I
can recall them. Memory, which seems often to co