come in during the night; and
that I oftener than once set my mother a-crying, by asking her why the
shipmasters who, when my father was alive, used to stroke my head and
slip halfpence into my pockets, never now took any notice of me, or gave
me anything? She well knew that the shipmasters--not an ungenerous class
of men--had simply failed to recognise their old comrade's child; but
the question was only too suggestive, notwithstanding, of both her own
loss and mine. I used, too, to climb, day after day, a grassy
protuberance of the old coast-line immediately behind my mother's house,
that commands a wide reach of the Moray Firth, and to look wistfully
out, long after every one else had ceased to hope, for the sloop with
the two stripes of white and the two square topsails. But months and
years passed by, and the white stripes and the square topsails I never
saw.

The antecedents of my father's life impressed me more powerfully during
my boyhood than at least aught I acquired at school; and I have
submitted them to the reader at considerable length, as not only curious
in themselves, but as forming a first chapter in the story of my
education. And the following stanzas, written at a time when, in opening
manhood, I was sowing my wild oats in verse, may serve to show that they
continued to stand out in bold relief on my memory, even after I had
grown up:--

"Round Albyn's western shores, a lonely skiff
Is coasting slow:--the adverse winds detain:
And now she rounds secure the dreaded cliff,[1]
Whose horrid ridge beats back the northern main;
And now the whirling Pentland roars in rain
Her stern beneath, for favouring breezes rise;
The green isles fade, whitens the watery plain.
O'er the vexed waves with meteor speed she flies.
Till Moray's distant hills o'er the blue waves arise.

Who guides that vessel's wanderings o'er the wave;
A patient, hardy man, of thoughtful brow;
Serene and warm of heart, and wisely brave,
And sagely skill'd, when gurly breezes blow,
To press through angry waves the adventurous prow.
Age hath not quell'd his strength, nor quench'd desire
Of generous deed, nor chill'd his bosom's glow;
Yet to a better world his hopes aspire.
Ah! this must sure be thee! All hail, my honoured Sire!

Alas! thy latest voyage draws near a close,
For Death broods voiceless in the darkening sky;