He looked at me for a moment: then, bursting into tears, he said, ‘God forgive you! God forgive you! my poor unfortunate boy. Alas!’ said he, ‘I had none but you. I had formed schemes for your advancement in life. I saw you had some talent, and was determined to spare no expense in making you fit to fill a respectable situation. I had figured to myself you going in and out with me, happy and contented—a credit to yourself and to your parents; but, alas! those hopes are now fled for ever: for the first news I hear of you, may be that your corpse is bleaching on the Continent—a prey to wolves and eagles.’ Then, as if correcting himself for drawing such a picture—‘But your life is in the hands of God. Yet even now, are you not lost to me? May I not say that I am childless?—I give you my forgiveness freely, and also my blessing; and if you should survive, oh! may you never have a son that will cause you such agony as I feel at this moment. Farewell! my poor boy; I am afraid I may say Farewell for ever!’ With these words he rushed into an adjoining room, and threw himself on his knees, I suppose to pray for that son who had repaid all his kindness with ingratitude and disobedience. My mother was wild with grief. It was the hour at which we were to march. I tore myself out of the house in a state of distraction, and joined the party, who were now on the road to Airdrie. My mind was in such a state of agitation, that I scarcely knew where I was going. I walked on before the party, as if some evil thing had been pursuing me, anxious, as it were, to run away from my own feelings. I am scarcely conscious of what passed between that and Dunbar; it seems like a confused dream. But the parting scene with my father often recurred to my memory; and although it is now fifteen years since it took place, it remains in it as fresh as yesterday. The step I took at that time has been to me the source of constant and unavailing regret; for it not only destroyed my fair prospects in life, and fixed me in a situation that I disliked, but I believe it was the means of breaking the heart of a parent, whose only fault was that of being too indulgent. I felt sensible of his tenderness, and I am sure I loved him. But mine was a wayward fate. Hurried on by impulse, I generally acted contrary to the dictates of my own judgment—‘My argument right, but my life in the wrong.’ He has long gone to his eternal rest; but while he lived, he was a man—take him all in all—whose equal will be rarely found; for it could truly be said of him, that ‘even his failings leaned to virtue’s side.’