he one they had left. The prospect
from its uplands was extensive and beautiful. It commanded a view of the
Carrick Hills, and the Firth of Clyde beyond; but where there are
extensive views to be had the land is necessarily exposed. The farm
itself was bleak and bare, and twenty shillings an acre was a high rent
for fields so situated.

The younger members of the family, however, were now old enough to be of
some assistance in the house or in the fields, and for a few years life
was brighter than it had been before; not that labour was lighter to
them here, but simply because they had escaped the meshes and
machinations of a petty tyrant, and worked more cheerfully, looking to
the future with confidence. Father, mother, and children all worked as
hard as they were able, and none more ungrudgingly than the poet.

We know little about those first few years of life at Lochlea, which
should be matter for special thanksgiving. Better we should know nothing
at all than that we should learn of misfortunes coming upon them, and
see the family again in tears and forced to thole a factor's snash;
better silence than the later unsavoury episodes, which have not yet
been allowed decent burial. Probably life went evenly and beautifully in
those days. The brothers accompanied their father to the fields; Agnes
milked the cows, reciting the while to her younger sisters, Annabella
and Isabella, snatches of song or psalm; and in the evening the whole
family would again gather round the ingle to raise their voices in
_Dundee_ or _Martyrs_ or _Elgin_, and then to hear the priest-like
father read the sacred page.

The little that we do know is worth recording. 'Gilbert,' to quote from
Chambers's excellent edition of the poet's works, 'used to speak of his
brother as being at this period a more admirable being than at any
other. He recalled with delight the days when they had to go with one or
two companions to cut peats for the winter fuel, because Robert was sure
to enliven their toil with a rattling fire of witty remarks of men and
things, mingled with the expressions of a genial glowing heart, and the
whole perfectly free from the taint which he afterwards acquired from
his contact with the world. Not even in those volumes which afterwards
charmed his country from end to end, did Gilbert see his brother in so
interesting a light as in those conversations in the bog, with only two
or three noteless peasants for an audience.'

This is