Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 05

by Unknown

"Atlas was so exceeding strong,
He bore the skies upon his back,
Just as a pedlar does his pack."—Swift.

The whole framework of society has been so much altered within these last sixty years, that a person who has been born within that period, unless from tradition, must remain entirely ignorant of the manners and habits of his immediate predecessors. Now, highroads, carriages by land and water, with all manner of facilities of intercourse, have brought every part of the country, even the most remote corners, into contact, as it were, with every other part. Any great or engrossing fact or feeling flies immediately, on wings of paper, and in characters of ink, from land's-end to land's-end. But, formerly, this was very far from being the case. The press, as a vehicle of public news, was altogether in its infancy. Roads were not, or they were all but impassable; and the one end of the island might be sunk into the sea, without the other extremity having any immediate perception of the loss. But we must not conclude, on this account, that our forefathers were without curiosity, or without the means of gratifying that passion for news which is deeply seated in our nature. Not at all; the very inconveniences of their position produced, in a great measure, the means of reciprocal intelligence.

There were the tailor and the trogger, but, above and beyond all, the pedlar, the most respected and interesting of all walking and migrating gazettes, who, in the non-existence of woollen-drapers and haberdashers, nailed, like bad silver, to a locality, wandered from Dan to Beersheba—in other words, from Glasgow to Manchester, and vice versa—carrying all manner of fashionable clothing on their backs, and a vast assortment of fore-night gabble in their heads. As these itinerant merchants behoved to be young and strong, so they were generally unmarried, and kept up a kind of running fire with the lasses. Their opportunities of observing the characteristics of the farmer's fireside were unbounded, as they not unfrequently remained stationary for two or three days in one place. After several years of laborious travel, and enormous profits, at little or no expense in point of diet, such individuals generally purchased a stout horse, to carry the increased load of goods. The horse, again, was ultimately attached to a waggon, and the waggon, at last, stuck in the midst of some flourishing village or town, and became a regular haberdashery shop. Thus, through industry, all but dishonest parsimony, prudence, and perseverance, a comfortable independence often crowned the old age of the packman; and he was not unfrequently found with a fishing-rod by the mountain-stream, or with a book in the corner of his snug little garden, towards the close of his varied and eventful history. It was but the other day that we attended the sale of an old bachelor of this description—the last, we believe, of the race—and that, amidst a parcel of old books and papers, which we purchased en masse, we discovered a well written and somewhat extended manuscript, from which we intend to cull a few chapters for the amusement of our readers.

CHAPTER I.

It is now upwards of sixty years (says the packman) since I first took yard-wand in hand, and pack on back, addicting myself to much pedestrian travel, with the view of supplying dames with needles and shears, maidens with shawls and Bibles, and servant lads with watch-chains and waistcoat pieces. Having, at last, and after many wanderings and much converse with men, women, and children—not to mention dogs, which, in the hill-country, are numerous and noisy—having, I say, at last reached, as it were, a port or haven of rest, I sit here in my arm chair, with old Ponto on one side, and my not less faithful friend, the schoolmaster, on the other, keeping a calm look out over the ocean upon which I have been tossed, and recalling, as well as endeavouring in the best way I can to narrate, the somewhat varied incidents of my past life.

It is quite true that I was never properly bred for any profession, but was simply educated in the reading of English, and in the keeping of accounts, and may, therefore, be supposed to be very unfit for anything like grand composition, or style of language; but in case this narrative should, by any accident, as they say, see the light, I must premise that I am possessed of advantages of which the reader, till I inform him, cannot possibly be apprised. I have the benefit of my friend the schoolmaster's strictures; of which, however, I shall only avail myself, in regard to the language, and that merely when I am fairly convinced that he is right and that I am wrong. With the wording of this very last sentence, Dominie Tawse finds fault, and insists upon it, that there is, I think he calls it, a "pleonasm" in it; but of this he has failed to convince me, and I therefore suffer the sentence to stand as it was originally written. In fact, I have a great respect for my good friend, the Dominie's opinions, in most occasions, but really, in regard to composition, his taste has been perverted by certain rules and regulations, to which he gives very hard names, and to which, in my opinion, he sacrifices both ease and sense.

I pass over the history of my early days. Were I to enter upon them, I should write a volume, and still have volumes to write; for I was born in a mountain glen, beside a mountain stream—my father being a shepherd—and where I grew insensibly into an affectionate friendship for everything around me; for my dear and indulgent mother; for my douce and sagacious father; for our two dogs, Help and Watch; for the old grey cat; for all manner of wooden trenchers, spoons, and ladles; for the stream that winded past the byre-end; for every fin that shoot across the pool; for the sheep bleating upon the brae and glen; for the glen and brae themselves; for the mist, the clouds, the sky, the sun, the moon, the stars—which all seemed made for and subservient to us, and us alone. I pass over the killing of my first trout, with a crooked pin, my noviciate in fishing, and my amazing progress and success in after years; but I cannot pass over a song, which, in these my days of youthful glee, I laboured into something like the tune, I think, of "Blue Bonnets over the Border:"—

"Oh, would you wish to gang to the fishing, lad—
Ye maun get up in the morning sae early,
Wi' step like the roe-deer, and blythe heart and glad,
And tackle in order, to start to it fairly.
Away! while the sleepers around you are dreaming,
Away! while the grey eye of morning is beaming,
Ere the mist leaves the mountain,
The wild duck the fountain,
Or the pure light of day o'er the world is streaming.

"Gang down by the glen where the burnie rows gently,
When the light western breeze the stream ripples over;
By the deep eddied pools, where, silent and tently,
The trout keep his watch, 'neath the willowed bank's cover
And there, with the fly, where the water winds slowly,
Neatly and clean throw it out just below you;
Watch for him steadily,
Strike at him readily.
And run him till, faint, on the sward he lies lowly.

With the well-seasoned bait in the streams that are fleetest,
Fish the large yellow fellows, two pounders or more;
You are sure of a tune to the fisher's ear sweetest,
For the sound of the pirn is all music before.
He comes with a boil, like a deep caldron gasping,
So sudden and keenly the tempting bait grasping—
Hark to him dashing!
See to him splashing!
Now he pants on the green, and your hand cannot clasp him."