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My first pack was very small, and I had many difficulties to contend with, but, as patience and perseverance was my motto, I soon managed to get a portmanteau well stuffed, and then like my prototype, I
Heezed my pack for a lang hard campaign,
And as the Highland’s was the place for meat,
I ventur’d there in spite o’ wind and weet.
Since that time I have travelled much, and have seen and marked the selfishness of man, as well as his redeeming qualities. No one can see the various phases of life and character like a packman. The closet philosopher may sit in his study and imagine character, but the packman sees it at every step. Every house he enters with his “needles and preens,” presents a new feature, and could form materials for a story. One crabbed old maid will slap the door in his face. Another will ask him in and tell him all her complaints, how the neighbours ill-use her, and everybody tries to tantalise her, all, as she says, because “I'm a lone woman, and have not a manbody about the house.” On opening the next door, he hears the joyous voices of children, and on entering he sees a tiny congregation; one little boy standing on the arm chair preaching with the air of a John Knox, while a younger one sits on a stool below acting the part of precentor. The congregation are all singing while the preaching is going on, and the mother sits amidst the noise
