ll do so.

"I have taken upon myself a responsibility which
nothing but the sincerest friendship could have induced
me to do. You may be angry; you may misjudge my
motives; yet hardly can I think it. Let the painful in
the past be forgotten, and no allusion ever made to it;
and for the future, I shall do all I can to prevent
anything happening that can be disagreeable to your
feelings.--With kind regards to Mrs Hogg and family, I
am ever most sincerely and affectionately yours,

"John Wilson."

During the summer after his return from London, Hogg received what he
accounted his greatest literary honour. He was entertained at a public
dinner, attended by many of the distinguished literary characters both
of Scotland and the sister kingdom. The dinner took place at Peebles,
the chair being occupied by Professor Wilson. In reply to the toast of
his health, he pleasantly remarked, that he had courted fame on the
hill-side and in the city; and now, when he looked around and saw so
many distinguished individuals met together on his account, he could
exclaim that surely he had found it at last!

The career of the Bard of Ettrick was drawing to a close. His firm and
well-built frame was beginning to surrender under the load of anxiety,
as well as the pressure of years. Subsequent to his return from London,
a perceptible change had occurred in his constitution, yet he seldom
complained; and, even so late as April 1835, he gave to the world
evidence of remaining bodily and mental vigour, by publishing a work in
three volumes, under the title of "Montrose Tales." This proved to be
his last publication. The symptoms of decline rapidly increased; and,
though he ventured to proceed, as was his usual habit, to the moors in
the month of August, he could hardly enjoy the pleasures of a sportsman.
He became decidedly worse in the month of October, and was at length
obliged to confine himself to bed. After a severe illness of four weeks,
he died on the 21st of November, "departing this life," writes William
Laidlaw, "as calmly, and, to appearance, with as little pain, as if he
had fallen asleep, in his gray plaid, on the side of the moorland rill."
The Shepherd had attained his sixty-fifth year.

The funeral of the Bard was numerously attended by the population of the
district. Of his literary friends--owing to the remoteness of the
locality--Professor Wilson alone attended. He sto