THIS little volume was selected and arranged by the late Sir Andrew Halliday, K.H., whose lamented death has deprived it of the advantage of being finished by his skilful hand. Perhaps the best preface that can now accompany it, is one or two extracts from Sir Andrew's letters to Mr. Pringle's sisters on the subject. His acquaintance with our brother was of very short duration, but long enough for him to form a very high idea of his character; which, after our brother's death, on the perusal of some of his writings, ripened into an enthusiastic admiration. It might be an indulgence to ourselves, and pleasing to those friends who knew our brotherbest, and for whom these remains are printed, to quote here some of the no less discerning than flattering expressions regarding him of one whose own character made those expressions peculiarly gratifying to us. But our friends, recalling as we do the sensitive delicacy of that brother's feelings on the least approach to ostentation or display, will rather approve of our merely quoting here Sir Andrew's opinion of his verses. On January 12, 1839, Sir Andrew writes:-"I have read with more interest than I can express the manuscript and poems of your dear brother. Many of the latter are so truly beautiful that they ought not to be lost. I could

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To the land of the stranger o'er blue billows borne,
From scenes I love dearest I wander forlorn;
And vain is the sigh fondly breath'd for return,
To see thee, my Scotia, to hail thee, my home.

Where India's green woodland in summer is smiling,
Where's Gunga's dun wave rolls crested with foam,
Each scene that is lovely, fond fancy beguiling,
I'll say it is Scotia, I'll think it is home.
How sweet the delusion; too soon it is over;
And far from thy lands must I long be a rover,
Ere the dim mist of time, rolling off, can discover,
Thy mountains, my Scotia, and show me my home.

For me on thy heath now no breezes are blowing,
No longer for me do thy green valleys bloom,
No more must I see Tweed's dimpled stream flowing,
Wandering from Scotia, I know not a home.

But can I forget Caledonia? oh never!

Though distant thy woods and each wild winding river,
Though parted, alas, from my country for ever,

My sigh is for Scotia, my heart is at home.

Rajmahl, 12th August, 1814.

J. A. PRINGLE.

As a specimen of his attachment to his native tongue, I insert here, from a letter to his youngest brother, David, then