Our uncles all entered his majesty’s service during the last French war, either as soldiers or sailors; but my father remained at home, and, though too conscientious ever to become rich as a small tea-dealer, by his kindliness of manner and winning ways he made the heart-strings of his children twine around him as firmly as if he had possessed, and could have bestowed upon them, every worldly advantage.  He reared his children in connection with the Kirk of Scotland—­a religious establishment which has been an incalculable blessing to that country—­but he afterward left it, and during the last twenty years of his life held the office of deacon of an independent church in Hamilton, and deserved my lasting gratitude and homage for presenting me, from my infancy, with a continuously consistent pious example, such as that ideal of which is so beautifully and truthfully portrayed in Burns’s “Cottar’s Saturday Night”.  He died in February, 1856, in peaceful hope of that mercy which we all expect through the death of our Lord and Savior.  I was at the time on my way below Zumbo, expecting no greater pleasure in this country than sitting by our cottage fire and telling him my travels.  I revere his memory.

The earliest recollection of my mother recalls a picture so often seen among the Scottish poor—­that of the anxious housewife striving to make both ends meet.  At the age of ten I was put into the factory as a “piecer”, to aid by my earnings in lessening her anxiety.  With a part of my first week’s wages I purchased Ruddiman’s “Rudiments of Latin”, and pursued the study of that language for many years afterward, with unabated ardor, at an evening school, which met between the hours of eight and ten.  The dictionary part of my labors was followed up till twelve o’clock, or later, if my mother did not interfere by jumping up and snatching the books out of my hands.  I had to be back in the factory by six in the morning, and continue my work, with intervals for breakfast and dinner, till eight o’clock at night.  I read in this way many of the classical authors, and knew Virgil and Horace better at sixteen than I do now.  Our schoolmaster—­happily still alive—­was supported in part by the company; he was attentive and kind, and so moderate in his charges that all who wished for education might have obtained it.  Many availed themselves of the privilege; and some of my schoolfellows now rank in positions far above what they appeared ever likely to come to when in the village school.  If such a system were established in England, it would prove a never-ending blessing to the poor.

In reading, every thing that I could lay my hands on was devoured except novels.  Scientific works and books of travels were my especial delight; though my father, believing, with many of his time who ought to have known better, that the former were inimical to religion, would have preferred to have seen me poring over the “Cloud of Witnesses”, or Boston’s “Fourfold State”.  Our