After a time I had the distinction of being included in a new edition of Recent and Living Scottish Poets, by Alexander Murdoch, published in 1883.  My inclusion was explained on the ground that, “His muse first awoke to conscious effort on Scottish soil,” which, though not quite in accordance with fact, was not so wide of the mark that I felt in the least concerned to criticise the statement.  I was too much enamoured of the honour to question the foundation on which it rested.  Perhaps it was as well deserved as are some others of this world’s distinctions!  At any rate it was neither begged nor bought, but came “Like Dian’s kiss, unasked, unsought.”  In the same year (1883) I also appeared in Edwards’ Sixth Series of Modern Scottish Poets; and in 1885, more legitimately, in William Andrews’ book on Modern Yorkshire Poets.  My claim for this latter distinction was not, however, any greater, if as great, as my right to inclusion in the collection of Scottish Poets.  If I “lisped in numbers,” it was not in Yorkshire, for Yorkshire I left for ever before even the first babblings of babyhood began.  However, “kissing goes by favour,” and I was happy in the favour I enjoyed.

I may as well say it here:  with my poetical productions I was never satisfied any more than with my attempts at drawing.  My verses seemed mere farthing dips compared with the resplendent poetry of our country which I read and loved, but my efforts employed and brightened many an hour in my youth that otherwise would have been tedious and dreary.

Ours was a large family, nine children in all; nothing unusual in those days.  “A quiver full” was then a matter of parental pride.  Woman was more satisfied with home life then than now.  The pursuit of pleasure was not so keen.  Our parents and our grandparents were simpler in their tastes, more easily amused, more readily impressed with the wonderful and the strange.  Things that would leave us unmoved were to them matters of moment.  Railways were new and railway travelling was, to most people, an event.

Our fathers talked of their last journey to London, their visit to the Tower, to Westminster Abbey, the Monument, Madame Tussauds; how they mistook the waxwork policeman for a real member of the force; how they shuddered in the Chamber of Horrors; how they travelled on the new Underground Railway; and saw the wonders of the Crystal Palace, especially on fireworks night.  They told us of their visit to the Great Eastern, what a gigantic ship it was, what a marvel, and described its every feature.  They talked of General Tom Thumb, of Blondin, of Pepper’s Ghost, of the Christy Minstrels.  Nowadays, a father will return from London and not even mention the Tubes to his children.  Why should he?  They know all about them and are surprised at nothing.  The picture books and the cinemas have familiarised them with every aspect of modern life.