previously; and Colonel Campbell was directed not to inform even the firing party, who were warned that the signal to fire would be the waving of a white handkerchief by the commanding officer. When all was prepared, and the clergyman had left the prisoner on his knees, in momentary expectation of his fate, and the firing party were looking with intense attention for the signal, Colonel Campbell put his hand into his pocket for the reprieve, and pulling out the packet, the white handkerchief accompanied it, and catching the eyes of the party, they fired, and the unfortunate prisoner was shot dead. The paper dropped through Colonel Campbell's fingers, and clapping his hand to his forehead, he exclaimed, "The curse of God and of Glencoe is here; I am an unfortunate, ruined man." He desired the soldiers to be sent to the barracks, instantly quitted the parade, and soon afterwards retired. from the service.'

From this extract, the reader will see that I have

taken the poet's licence, and am guilty of a wilful

anachronism. This was necessary to my plan. The chief design of this legend is to trace the workings of remorse in a superstitious mind, and to illustrate the misery of crime. By means of a poetical tale, I would humbly add my comment to the declaration, that 'the wicked are like the troubled sea, when it cannot rest.' The above-mentioned anecdote struck me as furnishing good materials for a purpose of this character; and, by applying it to one of the principal actors in the appalling tragedy of Glencoe, I trust the moral, which it conveys, is rather deepened than otherwise. Of course, it was absolutely necessary that I should introduce into my poem one who was employed in the 'massacre ;' and I hope to be allowed the licence, yielded times without number, viz., that of narrating as happening to one what in reality happened to another, more especially as the solemn lesson of the incident in question is not in any way altered or impaired.

I have introduced a Monk, with a view to illicit more naturally the feelings of the narrator, and, also, to avoid the monotony of a lengthened monologue. For the last-mentioned reason, a few pauses occur in the course of the narrative, and the connection is maintained by a sentence or two of prose, instead of a page or two of verse, which, from the necessity of their being explanatory, could scarcely fail to be flat and commonplace.

6

Before bringing these prefatory remarks to a conclusion, the Author may, perhaps, be permitted to take notice of some remarks which were made upon a recent publication of his, The Pleasures of Home.' In that poem he was accused, by several members of the press, of imitating Pope, Goldsmith, Rogers, and Campbell-of resembling, in short, any person except himself. To resemble so many distinguished poets involves a Protean talent, to which the humble author of this volume can advance no claim. He begs leave, in all sincerity, to say, that he was

never troubled with the consciousness of imitating any one; and, if evidences of imitation had been apparent to himself, he would never have had the assurance of appearing before the public. All minds, capable of warm admiration of genius, will, unconsciously, reflect, to some extent, the peculiar colouring of their favourite authors; and to this offence the writer of this small volume may plead guilty, but to nothing more. To associate small things with great, Byron writes to a friend-'It is mortifying to be accused of imitation. The passage in Crabbe I never saw; and as for Scott, I have only adopted his lyric style, which belongs to Milton, to Gray, to Coleridge, and to any one else.' With these remarks, the Author commits his new venture to the good-nature and candour of the public.

MAY, 1857.