GENTLE READER,–On the suggestion of a friend, and the expressed wishes of some subscribers, I now submit the following brief sketch of my eventful life as an introduction to this long expected and patiently waited for volume of my Poems and Songs.

Like every other autobiographer, I can only relate the events connected with my parentage and infancy from the communicated evidence of witnesses of those events, but upon whose veracity I have full reliance.

I beg also to remind my readers that whatever my actions may have been, whether good, bad, or indifferent, that they were the results of instincts derived from the Creator, through the medium of my parents, and the character formed for me by the unavoidable influence of the TIME and COUNTRY of my BIRTH, and also by the varied conditions of life impressing themselves on my highly susceptible and sympathetic natures–physical, intellectual, and moral.

According to the evidence referred to, my father was James Johnston, second eldest son of James Johnston, canvas-weaver, Lochee, Dundee, where he learned the trade of a stone-mason. After which he removed to Glasgow, where he became acquainted with my mother, Mary Bilsland, second daughter of James Bilsland, residing in Muslin Street, and then well known as the Bridgeton Dyer.^[1]

I do not remember hearing my father’s age, but my mother at the time of her marriage was only eighteen years old. I was the first and only child of their union, and was born in the Muir Wynd, Hamilton^[2], in 183-, my father at the time being employed as a mason extending the northern wing of the Duke of Hamilton’s Palace.^[3]

When the Duke was informed that my father was a poet, he familiarly used to call him Lord Byron,^[4] and, as I have been told, his Grace also used to take special notice of me when an infant in my mother’s arms, as she almost daily walked around his domain.

When I was about seven months old my father’s contract at Hamilton Palace was finished, and being of an active disposition, somewhat ambitious, proud, and independent, with some literary and scientific attainments, with a strong desire to become a teacher and publish a volume of his poetical works, he resolved to emigrate, engaged a passage to America for my mother and himself, and got all things ready for the voyage.

But when all the relatives and friends had assembled at the Broomielaw^[5] to give the farewell kiss and shake of the hand before going on board, my mother determined not to proceed, pressed me fondly to her bosom, exclaiming–“I cannot, will not go, my child would die on the way;” and taking an affectionate farewell with my father, he proceeded on the voyage, and my mother fled from the scene and returned to her father’s house, where she remained for some years, and supported herself by dressmaking and millinery.

Having given the evidence of others in respect to my parentage and infancy, let me now, gentle reader, state some of my own childhood’s recollections, experience, and reflections thereon.

In my childhood, Bridgeton now incorporated with the city of Glasgow, abounded with green fields and lovely gardens, which have since then been covered over with piles of buildings and tall chimneys. The ground on which the factory of Messrs Scott & Inglis^[6] stands was then a lovely garden, where I spent many, many happy hours with ‘Black Bess,’ my doll, and ‘Dainty Davie,’^[7] my dog, with whom I climbed many a knowe^[8] and forded many a stream, till one day he left my side to follow a band of music, and we never met again; but for whose loss I deeply mourned, and for three successive nights wept myself asleep, for ‘Dainty Davie’ was the pride of my heart, for I could not live without something to love, and I loved before I knew the name of the nature or feeling which swelled my bosom.

Perhaps there are few who can take a retrospective view of their past lives, and through their mind’s eye gaze on so many strange and mysterious incidents. Yes, gentle reader, I have suffered trials and wrongs that have but rarely fallen to the lot of woman. Mine were not the common trials of everyday life, but like those strange romantic ordeals attributed to the imaginary heroines of Inglewood Forest.^[9]

Like the Wandering Jew,^[10] I have mingled with the gay on the shores of France–I have feasted in the merry halls of England–I have danced on the shamrock soil of Erin’s green isle and I have sung the songs of the brave and the free in the woods and glens of dear old Scotland.

I have waited and watched the sun-set hour to meet my lover, and then with him wander by the banks of sweet winding Clutha,^[11] when my muse has often been inspired when viewing the proud waving thistle bending to the breeze, or when the calm twilight hour was casting a halo of glory around the enchanting scene; yet in all these wanderings I never enjoyed true happiness.

Like Rassellas,^[12] there was a dark history engraven on the tablet of my heart. Yes, dear reader, a dark shadow, as a pall, enshrouded my soul, shutting out life’s gay sunshine from my bosom—a shadow which has haunted me like a vampire, but at least for the present must remain the mystery of my life.

Dear reader, I have wandered far away from my childhood’s years. Yes, years that passed like a dream, unclouded and clear. Oh that I could recall them; but, alas! they are gone for ever. Still they linger in memory fresh and green as if they were yesterday. I can look back and see the opening chapters of my life—I can see the forms and faces, and hear their voices ringing in my ears—one sweet voice above the rest echoes like a seraph’s song; but I dare not linger longer at present with those joyous hours and beloved forms that were then my guardian angels.

In the course of time my mother received some information of my father’s death in America, and again married a power-loom tenter^[13] when I was about eight years of age, till which time I may truly say that the only heartfelt sorrow I experienced was the loss of ‘Dainty Davie;’ but, alas! shortly after my mother’s second marriage I was dragged, against my own will and the earnest pleadings and remonstrance of my maternal grandfather, from his then happy home to my stepfather’s abode, next land to the Cross Keys Tavern, London Road.^[14]

How I Became the Factory Girl

About two months after my mother’s marriage my stepfather having got work in a factory in Bishop Street, Anderston,^[15] they removed to North Street, where I spent the two last years of young life’s sweet liberty—as it was during that time I found my way to Kelvin Grove,^[16] and there spent many happy hours in innocent mirth and glee—but ‘time changes a’ things.’ My stepfather could not bear to see me longer basking in the sunshine of freedom, and therefore took me into the factory where he worked to learn power-loom weaving when about eleven years of age, from which time I became a factory girl; but no language can paint the suffering which I afterwards endured from my tormentor.

Before I was thirteen years of age I had read many of Sir Walter Scott’s novels,^[17] and fancied I was a heroine of the modern style. I was a self-taught scholar, gifted with a considerable amount of natural knowledge for one of my years, for I had only been nine months at school when I could read the English language and Scottish dialect with almost any classic scholar; I had also read Wilson’s Tales of the Border;^[18] so that by reading so many love adventures my brain was fired with wild imaginations, and therefore resolved to bear with my own fate, and in the end gain a great victory.

I had also heard many say that I ought to have been an actress, as I had a flow of poetic language and a powerful voice, which was enough to inspire my young soul to follow the profession. In fact, I am one of those beings formed by nature for romance and mystery, and as such had many characters to imitate in the course of a day. In the residence of my stepfather I was a weeping willow, in the factory I was pensive and thoughtful, dreaming of the far off future when I would be hailed as a great star.’ Then, when mixing with a merry company no one could be more cheerful, for I had learned to conceal my own cares and sorrows, knowing well that ‘the mirth maker hath no sympathy with the grief weeper.’