One evening, in January, 1809, returning from dinner to school, brooding over my real or imaginary evils—my mind in such a state of despondency that I could almost have taken away my life,—I determined to leave Glasgow, for, I thought, if once out of it I should be happy. In this state of mind, walking down the High Street, I met a soldier. The thought struck me instantly that I would enlist, although I rather felt a prejudice against the army. Yet, by enlisting, I would get out of Glasgow, and to me that was everything. I followed the soldier, and asked him where his officer lodged. He showed me the place, and I enlisted, with the proviso that he would send me out of the town immediately. I was sent to Paisley, and remained with the party there until the recruits were ordered to march for head-quarters. When I came into Glasgow to join them, in passing through the Bridgegate, I met my mother. I had never written to my parents, nor had they heard of me from the time I enlisted. I could scarcely define my feelings: shame—grief—a sort of sullen despair—a sense that I had cut myself off from the world—that I had done my worst, and a determination to push it to the utmost—were mingled together in my mind. My mother first broke silence. ‘Poor, infatuated boy!’ said she, the tears flowing down her cheeks, ‘what new calamity have you brought on yourself by your wild, inconstant disposition?’ I told her I had enlisted, and was going that day to join my regiment,—‘Alas!’ said she, ‘you have now finished it. Now you are lost to us and to yourself; but will you not come home, and see your father before you go?’ I hesitated. ‘Perhaps,’ said she, ‘it will be the last time you may ever see him. Come, you had better go with me.’ I consented, and we went home together. It was near four o’clock. My father generally came at that hour to dinner. My mother met him as he came in, and explained matters to him. He strove to assume an air of calmness; but his countenance showed the emotions that were working in his mind. We sat down at the table to dinner; but no one seemed inclined to eat. My father cut some meat on his plate, but instantly pushed it from him. He rose from his seat, and walked about the floor with a rapid pace. He opened his waiscoat.—He seemed suffocating. I could no longer endure to see the convulsive agony with which his whole frame was agitated. I sunk on my knees at his feet, and cried out, ‘Forgive me, O father—forgive me!’