Chapter I


_My Boyhood._

My father belonged to the widespread family of the Campbells, and
possessed a small landed property in the north of Argyll. But although
of long descent and high connection, he was no richer than many a farmer
of a few hundred acres. For, with the exception of a narrow belt of
arable land at its foot, a bare hill formed almost the whole of his
possessions. The sheep ate over it, and no doubt found it good; I
bounded and climbed all over it, and thought it a kingdom. From my very
childhood, I had rejoiced in being alone. The sense of room about me had
been one of my greatest delights. Hence, when my thoughts go back to
those old years, it is not the house, nor the family room, nor that in
which I slept, that first of all rises before my inward vision, but that
desolate hill, the top of which was only a wide expanse of moorland,
rugged with height and hollow, and dangerous with deep, dark pools, but
in many portions purple with large-belled heather, and crowded with
cranberry and blaeberry plants. Most of all, I loved it in the still
autumn morning, outstretched in stillness, high uplifted towards the
heaven. On every stalk hung the dew in tiny drops, which, while the
rising sun was low, sparkled and burned with the hues of all the gems.
Here and there a bird gave a cry; no other sound awoke the silence. I
never see the statue of the Roman youth, praying with outstretched arms,
and open, empty, level palms, as waiting to receive and hold the
blessing of the gods, but that outstretched barren heath rises before
me, as if it meant the same thing as the statue--or were, at least, the
fit room in the middle space of which to set the praying and expectant
youth.