He then opened the lining of the waistband of my small-clothes, and stitched them in so dexterously, that no one could have thought there was coin there.
"Now," says he, "we are all ready to start for London on the morning. The way is long, and our burdens heavy; but they will get lighter as we move along. Our lodging for to-morrow night is Belford. I shall manage so that we shall reach it before dark. The direct distance is only fifteen miles; but we may travel thirty in quest of customers. You are not now, as you were a few months since, to expect that customers will come to you—the pack is a travelling counter, and must move about."
Next morning, after an early breakfast, we crossed the Tweed, and walked on, with our packs slung over our shoulders—the weather cool and pleasing. I felt a buoyancy of spirits I had not experienced for some time; I dreamed waking dreams, and built castles in the air. Wilson sung snatches of songs. I had once more entered on a new walk in life, and begun at the right end, as Wilson said in one of his sage remarks.
"Square, your last misfortune arose from this—you began business at the wrong end; you commenced too soon and too full. No man can manage money well who knows not, by earning, the value of it. Be prudent—be cunning, too, if you please; but use not your cunning to wrong any one—a shilling won by fraud is a pound of loss. I have known many since I began who have hastened to be rich in that way; but they have all failed in their attempts. Those who once dealt would never deal with them again; their means of success became every journey more circumscribed. Here is a farm-steading—we must try how we are to succeed on the south of the Tweed."
I will not weary you with our hawking adventures. We progressed on our journey with various success, but constantly with gain, our packs lightening apace; I liking the profession very ill. I loved not money sufficiently to bend my mind to the slights and insults we were often forced to endure. Upon Wilson they had no effect in ruffling his temper. He would smile, and, with a slyness of humour, turn their bitterest taunts against the taunters, or banter them into good-humour, and effect a sale. He would, indeed, be as good-humoured under insult as if he had been civilly treated; while I was on the eve of bursting into a rage, and either looking sulky or returning taunt for taunt. Indeed, before we reached Northallerton, I had made up my mind to relinquish my new calling as soon as we got to London; and told Wilson so. He shook his head.
"John Square, you are one of those who, for want of firmness, never get on in the world. When there is an object to gain, we must not be scared from it by trifles, or neglect an honest mean that leads to success. You have commenced at the hardest part of a packman's life—his journey in England. But, ho! here is Northallerton. To-morrow we will strike off the eastern road, and go to York. I expect to see some acquaintances there."
Thus we journeyed on, I more through a dogged stubbornness not to yield, than any love I had for the mode of life I had chosen, until we were a few miles from York, where we overtook a brother of the trade. As soon as he came in sight, Wilson said—
"There is Simon Hepburn, the Praying Packman, as the profane call him, or Pious Simon, his more befitting name; for he really is a good, well-meaning man. I have known him for some years, neither richer nor poorer; his pack or cash seldom exceeds twenty pounds, yet he could easily increase his store, if he had ambition; but that he wants; and his gains are always spent upon objects of charity or piety. He is never without Bibles or pious books, which he bestows, in free gift, where he thinks they may be of use; he has only particular houses where he stops, and he is always a welcome guest, superseding the goodman of the house, for the time, in the Christian office of a teacher. The most pleasing and edifying evenings I have ever spent were with him. When he is in Haddington, Widow Craig's is his home; and, although we are two of a trade, happy am I when we meet. You shall judge for yourself. His history is a most singular one, and nothing gives him more pleasure than to relate it. Let him speak for himself."
We quickened our pace, and soon overtook him. He was a man, to all appearance, above sixty years of age; his hair was white as snow, with a shade of care at times upon his regular features, that flitted off, and was succeeded by a gleam of internal satisfaction. The smoothness of his brow, and the fulness of his features, bore an unusual contrast to the whiteness of his locks, the appearance of age and youth being strangely combined, while his whole appearance was winning in the extreme. When we came up to him, Bill said—
"Simon, I am happy to have met you; how come you on?"