I was born in the little village of Bonnytown, so cosily situated in one of the pleasantest holms of the sylvan Esk. Many a day, both of cloud and sunshine, has passed over me since I bade it farewell; but the trees and hedges are still evergreens in my remembrance; and I never look at “the pictures in the big Ha’ Bible,” where the saints are seen crowned with glory, but I think of the sanctified old church, surrounded, in the solemnity of the churchyard, with its halo of tomb-stones.

My father was a poor man, but honest and industrious. With hard labour, constancy, and the fear of God, he followed the trade of a nail-maker. In his religious principles, he was a Presbyterian of the old leaven; and, since I have had an opportunity of seeing men, and of observing their walk and conversations in the world, I have not met with a more conscientious Christian. He was lowly and meek in his dispositions, and regarded with a sorrowful gentleness the frailties of human nature.

His constitutional piety made him see all things with the eyes of benevolence, and he cherished a sedate persuasion, that whatsoever came to pass, though at the time it might be an affliction, was yet the forerunner of good. Supported by this comforting opinion, he endured misfortunes with singular patience, even whilst it was evident, that to him evils were no lighter than to those who were more audible in their sufferings. He enjoyed, likewise, a large gift of common sense, which enabled him to discern the latent folly of many a plausible speculation; and by this sober mother wit, he obtained greater reverence amongst his neighbours than belonged to his humble station, or even to the sanctity of his office, as an elder of the parish.