It was now that Hogg wrote his Poetic Mirror, in which he passed off a number of poems as those of the most popular writers of the day. It must be confessed that the different compositions display uncommon ability, and if they were written as Hogg says, that is, a volume of nearly three hundred pages 8vo. in three weeks, they are wonderful. As is common with such poems, they catch the mannerisms of the authors rather than their spirit. To have risen to an equal height of sublime feeling and philosophical thought with such writers as Byron, Wordsworth, Coleridge, etc. would have been to place himself not on an equality with them, but far beyond, for he must in himself have combined the various lofty qualities of them all. Some of them, and especially those attributed to Wordsworth, are admirably grave quizzes. We may take one specimen:-- "A boy came from the mountains, tripping light, With basket on his arm,--and it appeared That there was butter there, for the white cloth That over it was spread, not unobserved, In tiny ridges gently rose and fell, Like graves of children covered o'er with snow; And by one clumsy fold the traveler spied One roll of yellow treasure, all as pure As primrose bud reflected in the lake. 'Boy,' said the stranger, 'wilt thou hold my steed, Till I walk round the corner of that mere? When I return I will repay thee well.'" This stranger who has approached leaves the horse with the boy, and never does return. All the hot day the boy stands holding the horse on the dusty road, till the steed, taking alarm at a thunder-storm, breaks away,-- "And never more Was in those regions seen."... As for the boy, he lifted up his basket, and he felt "With his left hand how it affected was By the long day and burning sun of Heaven. It was all firm and flat--no ridges rose Like graves of children--basket, butter, cloth, Were all one piece, coherent. To his home The boy returned right sad and sore aghast."