‘Did ye see the white cloud in the glint o’ the sun?
That’s the brow and the eye o’ my bairnie.
Did ye ken the red bloom at the bend o’ the crag?
That’s the rose in the cheek o’ my bairnie.
Did ye hear the gay lilt o’ the lark by the burn?
That’s the voice of my bairnie, my dearie.
Did ye smell the wild scent in the green o’ the wood?
That’s the breath o’ my ain, o’ my bairnie.
Sae I’ll gang awa’ hame, to the shine o’ the fire,
To the cot where I lie wi’ my bairnie.’
“These words came crooning over the grass of that little garden at Balmore which was by my mother’s home. There I was born one day in June, though I was reared in the busy streets of Glasgow, where my father was a prosperous merchant and famous for his parts and honesty.
“I see myself, a little child of no great strength, for I was, indeed, the only one of my family who lived past infancy, and my mother feared she should never bring me up. She, too, is in that picture, tall, delicate, kind yet firm of face, but with a strong brow, under which shone grave gray eyes, and a manner so distinguished that none might dispute her kinship to the renowned Montrose, who was lifted so high in dying, though his gallows was but thirty feet, that all the world has seen him there. There was one other in that picture, standing near my mother, and looking at me, who often used to speak of our great ancestor—my grandfather, John Mitchell, the Gentleman of Balmore, as he was called, out of regard for his ancestry and his rare merits.
“I have him well in mind: his black silk breeches and white stockings and gold seals, and two eyes that twinkled with great humour when, as he stooped over me, I ran my head between his calves and held him tight. I recall how my mother said, ‘I doubt that I shall ever bring him up,’ and how he replied (the words seem to come through great distances to me), ‘He’ll live to be Montrose the second, rascal laddie! Four seasons at the breast? Tut, tut! what o’ that? ‘Tis but his foolery, his scampishness! Nae, nae! his epitaph’s no for writing till you and I are tucked i’ the sod, my Jeanie. Then, like Montrose’s, it will be—
‘Tull Edinburrow they led him thair,
And on a gallows hong;
They hong him high abone the rest,
He was so trim a boy.’
“I can hear his laugh this minute, as he gave an accent to the words by stirring me with his stick, and I caught the gold head of it and carried it off, trailing it through the garden, till I heard my mother calling, and then forced her to give me chase, as I pushed open a little gate and posted away into that wide world of green, coming quickly to the river, where I paused and stood at bay. I can see my mother’s anxious face now, as she caught me to her arms; and yet I know she had a kind of pride, too, when my grandfather said, on our return, ‘The rascal’s at it early. Next time he’ll ford the stream and skirl at ye, Jeanie, from yonder bank.’
“This is the first of my life that I remember. It may seem strange to you that I thus suddenly recall not only it, but the words then spoken too. It is strange to me, also. But here it comes to me all on a sudden in this silence, as if another self of me were speaking from far places. At first all is in patches and confused, and then it folds out—if not clearly, still so I can understand—and the words I repeat come as if filtered through many brains to mine. I do not say that it is true—it may be dreams; and yet, as I say, it is firmly in my mind.
“The next that I remember was climbing upon a chair to reach for my grandfather’s musket, which hung across the chimney. I got at last upon the mantelshelf, and my hands were on the weapon, when the door opened, and my grandfather and my father entered. I was so busy I did not hear them till I was caught by the legs and swung to a shoulder, where I sat kicking. ‘You see his tastes, William,’ said my grandfather to my father; ‘he’s white o’ face and slim o’ body, but he’ll no carry on your hopes.’ And more he said to the point, though what it was I knew not. But I think it to have been suggestion (I heard him say it later) that I would bring Glasgow up to London by the sword (good doting soul!) as my father brought it by manufactures, gaining honour thereby.
“However that may be, I would not rest till my grandfather had put the musket into my arms. I could scarcely lift it, but from the first it had a charm for me, and now and then, in spite of my mother’s protests, I was let to handle it, to learn its parts, to burnish it, and by-and-bye—I could not have been more than six years old—to rest it on a rock and fire it off. It kicked my shoulder roughly in firing, but I know I did not wink as I pulled the trigger. Then I got a wild hunger to fire it at all times; so much so, indeed, that powder and shot were locked up, and the musket was put away in my grandfather’s chest. But now and again it was taken out, and I made war upon the unresisting hillside, to the dismay of our neighbours in Balmore. Feeding the fever in my veins, my grandfather taught me soldiers’ exercises and the handling of arms: to my dear mother’s sorrow, for she ever fancied me as leading a merchant’s quiet life like my father’s, hugging the hearthstone, and finding joy in small civic duties, while she and my dear father sat peacefully watching me in their decline of years.
“I have told you of that river which flowed near my father’s house. At this time most of my hours were spent by it in good weather, for at last my mother came to trust me alone there, having found her alert fears of little use. But she would very often come with me and watch me as I played there. I loved to fancy myself a miller, and my little mill-wheel, made by my own hands, did duty here and there on the stream, and many drives of logs did I, in fancy, saw into piles of lumber, and loads of flour sent away to the City of Desire. Then, again, I made bridges, and drove mimic armies across them; and if they were enemies, craftily let them partly cross, to tumble them in at the moment when part of the forces were on one side of the stream and part on the other, and at the mercy of my men.