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To this slight attempt at a sketch of ancient Scottish manners, the public have been more favourable than the Author durst have hoped or expected. He has heard, with a mixture of satisfaction and humility, his work ascribed to more than one respectable name. Considerations, which seem weighty in his particular situation, prevent his releasing those gentlemen from suspicion by placing his own name in the title-page; so that, for the present at least, it must remain uncertain, whether WAVERLEY be the work of a poet or a critic, a lawyer or a clergyman, or whether the writer, to use Mrs. Malaprop's phrase, be, " like Cerberus—three gentlemen at once.” The Author, as he is unconscious of any thing in the work itself (except perhaps its frivolity) which prevents its finding an acknowledged father, leaves it to the candour of the public to choose among the many circumstances peculiar to different situations in life, such as may induce him to suppress his name on the present occasion. He may be a writer new to publication, and unwilling to avow a character to which he is unaccustomed; or he may be a hackneyed author, who is ashamed of too frequent appearance, and employs this mystery, as the heroine of the old comedy used her mask, to attract the attention of those lo whom her face had become too familiar. He may be a man of a grave profession, to whom the reputation of being a novelwriter might be prejudicial; or he may be a man of fashion, to whom writing of any kind might appear pedantic. He may be too young to assume the character of an author, or so old as to make it advisable to lay it aside.

The Author of Waverley has heard it objected to this novel, that, in the character of Callum Beg, and in the account given by the Baron of Bradwardine of the petty trespasses of the Highlanders upon trifling articles of properly, he has borne hard, and unjustly so, upon their national character. Nothing could be farther from

his wish or intention. The character of Callum Beg is that of a spirit naturally turned to daring evil, and determined, by the circumstances of his situation, to a particular species of mischief. Those who have perused the curious Letters from the Highlands, published about 1726, will find instances of such atrocious characters which fell under the writer's own observation, though it would be most unjust to consider such villains as representatives of the Highlanders of that period, any more than the murderers of Marr and Williamson can be supposed to represent the English of the present day. As for the plunder supposed to have been picked up by some of the insurgents in 1745, it must be remembered, that although the way of that unfortunate little army was neither marked by devastation nor bloodshed, but, on the contrary, was orderly and quiet in a most wonderful degree, yet no army marches through a country in a hostile manner without committing some depredations; and several, to the extent, and of the nature, jocularly imputed to them by the Baron, were really laid to the charge of the Highland insurgents; for which many traditions, and particularly one respecting the Knight of the Mirror, may be quoted as good evidence.'

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"A homely metrical narrative of the events of the period, which contains some striking particulars, and is still a great favourite with the lower classes, gives a very correct statement of the behaviour of the mountaineers respecting this same military license, and as the verses are little known, and contain some good sense, we venture to inseri them.


Now, gentle readers, I have let you ken
My very thoughts, from heart and pen,
"Tis needless for to conten'

Or yet controule,
For there's not a word o't I can men'-

So ye must thole.

For, on both sides, some were not good;
I saw them murd'ring in cold blood,
Not the gentlemen, but wild and rude,

The baser sort,
Who to the wounded had no mood

But inurd'ring sport!

Ev'n both at Preston and Falkirk,
That fatal night ere it grew mirk,
Piercing the wounded with their durk,

Caused many cry!
Sach pily's shown from Savage and Turk

As peace to die.

A woe be to such bot zeal,
To smite the wounded on the fiel'!
It's just they got such groats iu kail,

Who do the same,
It only teaches crueltys real

To them again.

I've seen the men callid Highland Rogues,
With Lowland men make shangs a brogs,
Sap kail end brose, and fling the cogs

Out at the door,
Take cocks, hens, sheep, and hogs,

And pay nought for.

I saw a Highlander, 'twas right drole,
With a string of puddings hung on a pole,
Whip'd o'er his shoulder, skipped like a sole,

Caus'd Maggy bann,
Lap o'er the midden and midden-hole,

And aff he ran.

When check'd for this, they'd often tell ye-
Indeed her nainsell's a tume belly ;
You'll no gie't wanting bought, nor sell me ;

Harsell will hae't ;
Go tell King Shorge, and Shordy's Willic,

l'u hae a meat.

I saw the soldiers at Linton-brig,
Because the man was not a Whig,
Of ineat and drink leave not a skig

Within his door ;
They burnt his very hat and wig,

And thump'd him sore.

And through the Highlands they were so rude,
As leave them neither clothes nor food,
Then burnt their houses to conclude;

'Twas tit for tat.
How can her nainsell e'er be good,

To think on that ?

And after all, O, shame and grief!
To vise some worse than murd'ring thief,
Their very gentleman and chief,

Like P'opish torturcs, I believe,

Such cruelly.

Ev'n what was act on open stage
At Carlisle, in the hottest rage,
When mercy was clapt in a cage,

And pity dead,
Such cruelty approv'd by every age,

I shook my head.

So many to curse, so sew to pray,
And some aloud huzza did cry;
They cursed the Rebel Scots that day,

As they'd been nowt
Brought up for slaughter, as that way

Too many rowl.

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