# Autobiography of William Love, P.C.

MAGNUS EST AMICUS ET PRÆVALEBIT.
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
OF
WILLIAM LOVE, P. C.,
A NATIVE OF PAISLEY.
BETTER KNOWN AS THE
ROVING SCOTCHMAN,
THE GREATEST TRAVELLER ALIVE!
HAVING ALREADY WALKED MORE THAN
=SIX TIMES ROUND THE EARTH!!
CONTAINING AN ACCOUNT OF HIS BIRTH, PARENTAGE, AND EDUCATION, TRAVELS TO REMARKABLE PLACES, LOVE ADVENTURES, OPINIONS ON THINGS IN GENERAL, WITH PHILOSOPHICAL REMARKS ON PARTICULAR SUBJECTS.
"'Tis pleasant sure to see one's name in print, A book's a book, although there's nothing in't."
PAISLEY:
PRINTED BY G. CALDWELL 2, NEW STREET,
1857.
DEDICATION.
This Work or Labour of Love is, by permission, respectfully dedicated to The Paisley Literati, as a small token of admiration for their multifarious and transcendent abilities in every branch of literature, from the productions of a newspaper “Gossiping Correspondent,” to this Autobiography.
By their sincere friend, And well-wisher, THE AUTHOR.
PREFACE.
'Love doth approach armed in arguments."
Shakespeare
My namesake, William Shakespeare, Esquire, of Avon, says that "the Lunatic, the Lover, and the Poet are, in imagination, all compact;" and I have observed, that wherever these three characteristics are found combined in one person, we have, what is termed, a Genius! Paisley has always stood high as a nursery of these species of the genus homo; and she has produced many specimens of the tria juncta in una. At the present time, she abounds with such geniuses, who pride themselves in the cognomen Literati. Besides the prolific literary productions of the past, Paisley can boast of the following works as part of her current literature: First, In "Fame's proud ​Temple" shines the "Temple Lamp," lighting up the theological regions; and, at the same time, shedding its poetic rays "on life's dull stream." Then "The History Of Paisley" unfolds the scroll of the past, and, according to a recent critic, shows that we are famous in having had the Roman Soldiers billited on us for 200 years—(rather ambiguous fame)—famous in giving Scotland a race of kings—famous in manufactures, including, of course, the brick and tile trade—and famous in literary and "desperate characters." Next comes the "Literary Wallet," the leading topics of which are Philosophy, Physiology, Criticism, History, and Poetry; and whose system of Philosophy is based on the following creed: "We believe that in our waking hours our sensations are more powerful, more vivid than our ideas; and in our sleeping moments it is the reverse—the senses are overcome and ideation resumes the mastery." Then we have "The Paisley Pbserver," containing Tales and Original Poetry; and lastly, though not least, "The Paisley Ephemera," an illustrated production, which has in no small degree sustained the artistic ​talent of the Town; and although the literature of this publication is of the burlusque order, it also contains some first-class Poetry The verses "by a Lady" in a recent number were particularly good; I like to flatter the Ladies. The above list does not, of course, include our own Newspapers, or our contributions to the Glasgow Press, and various Metropolitan and Provincial perodicals.
Paisley is truly a wonderful town; and her inhabitants, like the Jews, are a peculiar people. Whether this poetic and literary talent is owing to her proximity to the classical village of Kilbarchan, whether the River-cart, which meanders in beauty through her midst, engenders this literary amorousness, or whether it is to be accounted for in the great quantity of oatmeal which her people consume, are questions which will no doubt yet be solved by one or other of her present historians.
As no Autobiography has yet issued from the Paisley Press, I have thought it proper to publish the present work for three reasons. 1st. To fill up this Biographical Hiatus in our local literature. 2nd. To save the Historical Antiquarian a deal of trouble and research hereafter; and at ​the same time, to hand down my name and my fame to future generations; for, as Shakespeare observes, "if a man do not erect, in this age, his own tomb ere he dies, he shall live no longer in monuments; therefore it is most expedient for the wise to be the trumpet of his own virtues, as I am to myself—so much for praising myself, who I myself will bear witness, am praiseworthy." And 3d. To illustrate the great truth lately enuciated at Edinburgh by a learned Professor, who, in speaking of talent, industry, and character, said, "talent is perhaps the most shining of the three, but, without industry and character talent cannot win its way through the world—the last two are the main elements that can carry man or woman through life." I do not claim to have talent to any very shining extent, but I can proudly say, that to industry and being a character I owe my mercantile success and prosperity. Like my great predecessor in business, (who is soon to have a monument erected to his memory,)
"Sax pounds I wadna for my pack ance taen, And I could baldly brag 'twas a' my ain."
Although I have quoted these lines, and, like some of my contemporary literateurs have, in the ​course of my life made a few attempts at rhyme I am no Poet, and do not wish to be suspected of such a failing, seeing that Macaulay the Historian in his essay on Milton corroborates Shakespeare's Poetico-lunatic theory, and asserts that "no person can be a Poet, or can even enjoy Poetry without a certain unsoundness of mind."
Some moralists hold that a person has no right to do what he pleases with his own life. I think that is a mistake. My opinion is that it is not only every man's right, but his duty to make the most he can of his life; and in that opinion I am borne out by a protemporary, Mr Tristram Shandy, who says that "the sweat of a man's brows and the exudations of a man's brains are as much a man's own property as the breeches upon his backside;" and as my life has hitherto been devoted to mercantile pursuits, I am determined now to make it a mercantile commodity.
From the Critics—for this great work is sure to be criticised—I ask no favour, and I expect none. I defy them all—they may depend upon it, that a man of my literary talent and commercial experience, will not be
"Snuffed out by an article."
To those members of the Renfrew County Kilwinning Lodge, who had such a high appreciation of me, as to desire that I would dedicate this work to that body, I beg to tender my sincere thanks. I can assure them that I would have done so with much pleasure, but, as this was my first literary work, and likely to stamp Paisley as the seat of Genius, I thought my co-literateurs had the first and best claim.
Should the sale of this work add to my emoluments while living, as it will establish my fame when dead; and if its perusal should be the means of arousing the dormant or lazy energies of some of my fellow-townsmen, and thereby develope and promote habits of industry, then this production will not be
"LOVE'S Labour Lost.'
Paisley, July, 1857.
CHAPTER I.
Coming events cast their shadows before.
Campbell.
"A Black Pudding?" quoth my Grandfather, "what an idea!" "Mr Love," said my Grandmother, (she always called him Mr Love, for she was a very polite and a very learned woman,) a black pudding is no idea; an idea is not a substance, now a black pudding is a palpable substance; it is a concretion of the blood and suet of an animal of the ruminant order of the class mammalia, encased in a cutaneous gut of the same animal, vulgarly called Tripe." "And what do I care about all that?" said my grandfather, who detested a scientific discussion, especially with my grandmother, because he was ignorant of scientific matters, and there she liked to shew off her superiority. After a short pause, "Mr Love," said my grandmother, "I must taste black pudding, and that's the short and the long of it, and you know, you are bound, as my husband, to satisfy all my reasonable desires." "Surely, surely," said my grandfather, "if you would confine yourself to what is reasonable—but is it reasonable to ask me to rise from a warm bed at this time in the ​morning to get black pudding, merely to gratify a woman's whim?" "A woman's whim?" said my grandmother, "it's no whim, Mr Love, it is a necessity and therefore——" "Has no law," said my grandfather, interrupting her. "Whether it has law or not," said my grandmother, "unless I get black pudding, I'll not be responsible for the Loves of future generations." "Black puddings and future generations may go——" My grandfather did not finish the sentence, at all events it was inaudible, as he began to snore, and my grandmother turned her face to the wall and sobbed.
This happened on the 14th of November, 1794, at 3 o'clock in the morning, and on the 11th of February following, at half-past 10 in the evening, my father was born.
"Is the child all right?" said my grandmother. "He's a gallant boy—I never saw a prettier," said the midwife. "Hand him to me," said my grandmother. "I was sure of it," she exclaimed, "Do you see that mark there?" pointing with her finger,
I have been the more particular on this matter as it accounts for a certain physiological pecularity in the Love family. Besides it may throw some light on a hitherto dark, or, to use a more scientific word, occult point in physiology—cause and effect. Was my Grandmother—honest woman—right in her assumption? Was the effect the result of a culpa, as she stated, and, if so was it a positive or a negative? It is admitted by all Philosophers, that a pudding is an exception to a general rule, because it has two ends—may this phenomenon not have had two causes? Could it not be explained by the laws of Photography. I merely throw out this hint, and will now leave the matter in the hands of the scientific for discussion. But, methinks I hear a knowing member of the Paisley Philosophical Society say, was there really a mark after all? Was it not mere occular hallucination? Well, perhaps it was. I know the question, like all other scientific matters, is hedged round with difficulties.
CHAPTER II.
All the world's stage, And all the men and women merely players.
Shakespeare.
From the year 1789, when an infuriated Parisian mob carried, on pikes, the heads of the murdered Delaunay, Governor of the Bastille, and De Flesselles, the Provost of Trades, till the fall of the curtain in 1815 on the Tableau of Waterloo, the European stage had been occupied, almost exclusively, by a succession of Tragedies. The Melo-drama followed, and when the great curtain rose on the 1st of January, 1819, the scene was peaceful. Most of the tragic actors having "strutted their little hour” and made their exit to return no more. A Bourbon sat, apparently secure on the French throne. George III. who had played a prominent part during the whole of that period still, nominally at least, swayed the the British sceptre. And the leading Tragedian, Napoleon, who had been compelled to retire from his favourite walk, stood on a rock in the South Atlantic Ocean, with his arms folded, looking across the wide waste of waters in the direction ​of the North-eastern horizon, thinking of his former greatness, and as if anxious to get one last glimpse of chivalrous France. In the course of the year that follows—1819—four great characters made their debut on the world's stage, who were destined to play leading parts in the great Drama, viz.: Our beloved Sovereign Queen Victoria, His Royal Highness Prince Albert, Myself, and His Royal Highness the Duke of Cambridge! Shakespeare says "that some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them." That truth is well illustrated in the four individuals above named. Her Majesty, the Queen, may be said to have been born great; Prince Albert by his marriage; and the Duke by his appointment to the Commander-in-chief-ship of the Army, may be said to have had greatness thrust upon them, while I have achieved my greatness by my own inherent talents and steadiness of purpose.
The next great point of importance after the period of birth is the place where the illustrous person made his debut. The spot where I was born was in the Tenement, No. 26 Queen Street, Paisley. Besides myself, Paisley has given birth to many whom the world delights to honour; and she has many in her midst just now who will yet be seen and acknowledged as
"Stars in the literary firmament."
​The first glimmer of consciousness—of the knowledge—I am—in the life of a great man is generally, when it can be ascertained, made a matter of much importance and of deep speculation among the learned. That no doubt arises to test the truth of the common saying,
"The child is father to the man."
The first thing which I recollect, was being sent by my Mother to a well-known Eating-house in the Wellmeadow for a pound of the best Pottedhead—the price of which was to be 4d. On entering the shop, I asked for a pound of Pottedhead The shopkeeper enquired whether I wanted it at 3½d. or 4d.? Not then knowing there was such a thing as a difference in the quality of an article, I naturally reasoned, if I can get a pound of pottedhead for 3½d. why should I give 4d. for it? so I at once said 3½d. I got the article, paid my 3½d put the other ½d., which I considered fair profit on the bargain, in my pocket and trudged home with my message. I did not say anything to my mother about the profit I had made on this, my first business transaction, but ran out as fast as I could, and was very proud in shewing my fortune to the boys about the doors. Some of the bigger ones wanted me to buy powder to make peoies others wanted me to buy blackman, but the more sensible wanted me to buy a scone. I stoutly resisted all their importunities, and put the money in my ​pocket thinking it too much to spend all at once, Being so rich, I was quite an important character among my compeers, and some of the elder boys, in the most friendly manner, took me through to the Gallowgreen (where in former times the witches were burnt) to learn me to stand on my head, like Malabar, the great wizard of that day. I made two or three ineffectual attempts to stand on my head with my feet against a coal-housedoor. While so engaged, I observed the bigger boys running off, and on getting to my feet and putting my hand in my pocket I found that my money was gone. Of course no one knew anything about it. On missing it, my grief was great, and I cried bitterly. I was led home by a troop of children, and when my mother opened the door and enquired what was wrang, upwards of a dozen voices shouted out at once "Willie's lost his bawbee." My Mother took me in and enquired where I had got the bawbee. I said that I made it aff the pottyhead-wife. Ye made it aff the pottyhead-wife? What did ye pay for the pottyhead? enquired my mother in one breath. 3½d. said I with the utmost simplicity, for I was unconscious of any wrong. Ye young rascal, said she, I was sure ye hadna brought the richt thing—but I'll let yer father ken yer conduct when he comes hame the nicht—and she kept her word. My father was a very douce, decent, honest, man—noways rash in his movements. He did not, as many no doubt ​would have done, in the same circumstances, give me a scolding or a thrashing; but what was far better, he gave me an advice; and among other things calmly said, "Now Willie, this loss o' yer bawbee should be a lesson to ye a' yer days, that honesty is the best policy, and that siller that disna come richt never gangs richt." Since that time I never see pottedhead but I recollect my first commercial transaction—my bankruptcy, caused by trying to stand on my head, and my father's lecture, and I have hitherto endeavoured, so far as a mercantile man can, to walk up to the principles laid down in that lecture,
Moral Reflection.
Many a man who considered himself rich in the world's goods, and wise in his day and generation, has fallen from his high estate by attempting, like me, to stand on his head.
CHAPTER III.
In days when gude king Robert rang, His traw they cout but half-a-crown.
Old Song.
King Stephen was a worthy peer, His breeches cost him but a crown.
Shakspeare.
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, That ance were plush o' gude blue hair.
Burns.
Breeks! what a train of ideas is suggested to the contemplative by that one word, Breeks! Common minds see nothing particular in anything—to them
And the ordinary observer sees in Breeks,
A pair of Breeks and nothing more.
The theologian beholds in Breeks the symbol of man's degeneracy. While the mere historian by their means traces the onward march from barbarism to civilization.
The Philosopher sees in Breeks the sign of man's perogative, his right to the supreme rule in his own house. He cannot, however, shut his eyes to the fact that this right is more nominal ​than real. From the time when the first Breeks were made till now, the fair sex—"the weaker vessel,"—as they are sometimes erroneously called, will "wear the Breeks." Mrs Socrates, of immortal memory, has been held up as the great representative woman—she was a heroine who wore the Breeks, and no mistake. Why do the writers for the "Waverley" not agitate for a monument to that good lady, that representative woman? What a monster Burns was to write on such a subject thus:—
"Were such the wife had fallen to my part, I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her heart, I'd charm her with the magic of a switch, I'd kiss her maids and kick the............"
Methinks I hear the sweet voices of the "Waverley" ladies exclaim, O the brute! we could "scratch his eyes out." Public opinion and fashion are two great powers—more powerful than steam, in their own way. Public opinion declared itself against the breeks usurpation, and was on the eve of crushing it, when another heroine appeared—General Bloomer—and contested the field, and the battle cry, "the rights of women," was loudly beard amidst the strife. After a severe contest, matters were compromised on the footing that the ladies should be allowed to wear feminine breeks, to be called after their leader, "Bloomers." Public opinion, however, ​after pretending to ratify the compromise, drew the sword of ridicule against the Bloomer-breeks and fairly laughed them down. The ladies again took the field, and with their strong ally, fashion, once more took up arms, and under the standard "crinoline," renewed the war cry, "the rights of woman." If the ladies succeed in the present contest, (and crinoline certainly appears in the ascendant), and if they do get into Parliament, Paisley will surely then get a member who can speak. I believe the rights of women cry is a mere dodge to prevent or obstruct any legislation on the rights of man. Lord Palmerston must direct his attention to a reform in the home policy. We are in great want of a law defining the rights of man I don't think I'll marry till we have such a law. For example, take even our municipal magnates. After smoking their calumets at their club, on returning to their respective places of abode, are they not questioned and cross-questioned in the words of the sang,
"Whar has ye been? and what were ye doin? and wha were ye wi?"
Aye, and if they would but speak out, far war than that. Talk of Tom Paine's "Rights of Man." Fiddlesticks. There's no such thing—its all theory. But I hear some one say, what has all this got to do with the story of your life, Mr. Love? Nothing, I reply, only it affords ​another proof that a philosopher cannot write on even common place subjects, without philosophising, and throwing a halo around them. It tests genius. Now for my story.
There are epochs in the life of man as well as in the history of the world. Perhaps the greatest is the first breeks. Who does not recollect his first breeks? What pride; what walking up and down and looking up to every one with an eye saying, look at me—see how grand I am. Well do I remember that great occasion in my eventful life. After the breeks were on, and buttoned, and what beautiful buttons—I had never seen anything so pretty. I strutted up and down as proud as a peacock, putting my hands in my pockets, and taking them out over and over again. Then I took from that wonderful pocket the tailor's luckspenny, looked at it, and put it back to its place, times without number. I am sure that I felt more pride and consequentiality (there's a grand word), on the first day of my first breeks, than I would do now were Her Majesty to touch me with a sword and say, "Rise up Sir William Love." Next came my visiting the neighbours and various relatives, accompanied by a train of children, shewing off my new breeks, and getting an occasional bawbee to put in my pockets. I was told that I looked stunning—that I was now a man—that I must get a wife! At that remark the little girls who were present, ​stood forward as much as saying, "will ye tak me Willie?" But the great, the all absorbing idea of the breeks, was the pockets. I recollect that my first expression, in answer to the congratulations of my friends was,
I'VE GOT POCKETS!!!
Being a philosopher, I cannot refrain from moralising on that expression, I've got pockets. How many have never got rid of it. It has stuck to them through life, it will stick to them till death. Men of one idea—the pocket—they live and move, and have their being apparently for their pocket—their small stingy soul, as the Yankees say, lies in a corner of their pocket. ​What do they care about being called dishonest—stingy—mean? Nothing. They "lay the flattering unction to their soul," and each soothes himself with the idea, I've got money in my pocket Their very attempt at honesty is a sore trial. Their maxim, make money honestly if you can but make money, is their moral pole star. They object to National Education, on principle, and say, let parents educate their brats out of their own pockets, what have we to do with them? Their system of politics is, take the taxes out of some other body's pockets, not out of ours; they are peace men and denounce war, because it touches their pocket—their religion is mammon—they worship the golden calf—most appropriate deity—they live unrespected, if not detested, yet, as this is a free country, each may have a monument erected to his memory, if he pays for it out of his own pocket.
CHAPTER IV.
—He was one Schooled in adversity.
Bard of the North.
When about four years of age, I was placed in Hutcheson's Charity School to get my education. The master, a good easy-osy sort of a person, saw that I was a genius and therefore took a special interest in my improvement in letters. Under his training I soon passed through the Gate of all learning—the Alphabet. In about six months I could read "lo a man and a gun," without spelling the words, which was accounted a great feat for a charity scholar, and for which I received "honourable mention" at the annual examination. I do not blush in the least in confessing that I was a charity scholar, seeing that I was the son of a poor but an honest and upright man. Besides, as I have attained to eminence through my own exertions, I am entitled to the greater credit and honour among my fellow-men.
Circumstances, however, rule everything. Perhaps my feelings on being a charity scholar would have been different had my father been able ​to have paid for my education. I know that if I have the means, no son of mine shall ever be in the position to have it thrown in his teeth by some low bred scamp, perhaps, that he was taught in a charity school. I dont object to charity schools—not the least—they are noble, praiseworthy institutions, but I would have charity schools for charity scholars. “The right men in the right place,” has become a national cry, why not the right boys in the right place.
I got on with my education to the surprise of every one, and before twelve months elapsed I was as far as the lesson beginning
“Tom, can you tell me the use of your nose?”
and before another year had passed I was quite at home in
“My name is Norval, on the Grampian hills,” and “John Gilpin was a Citizen.”
At this time I was progressing in knowledge and wisdom beyond the most sanguine expectations of my friends and teachers.
A Professor of Phrenology who once examined my Bumps said that I had a splendid developement—that I had the head of a Genius and was destined for greatness. My after life has proved that he was correct. While at school
“Thoughts of great deeds were mine.”
​In my fervid imagination, the Pulpit and the Bar “loomed in the distance,” as fields for the exercise and display of my abilities. Had I studied for the Pulpit I would, no doubt, have been like Queen Elizabeth, of happy memory, a “Bright Occidental Star.” Had I tried the Bar I might have been Lord Chancellor of England; or had I thrown myself into the arena of Politics I would, in all likelihood, have been Premier. The only position for which, I felt, nature had not designed me was a General. I was always inclined for peace—peace at any price—so that had I been member for Paisley in the House of Commons, at the time of the Russian War, I would instinctively have joined the Cobden-Bright party, and then Peace and Love joined together might have crumpled up our northern enemies. I believe, however, that war is necessary to establish Peace. With a rampant foe, it is absurd to reason about Peace and arbitration. A blow is the only argument—it convinces, if it does not convert—as Shakespeare says:
“In peace, there’s nothing more becomes a man, As mild behaviour and humility; But, when the blast of war blows in our ears, Let us be tigers in our fierce deportment.”
I recollect well that when at school my peace propensities began to develope. When the Hutcheson Boys—that’s a softer expression than ​Charity Boys—and the Emeralders—another School then at the bottom of the Penbrae, now styled the Pantheon—met in battle array—which was a thing of every-day occurence—and when they tested their scholastic superiority with sticks and stones and fists, I attempted to negotiate and make peace; but there I learned that in such cases it was better and safer either to retire from the melee or at once take a side and act with firmness, for
“Dangers retreat when boldly they’re confronted.”
The fact is, that on these occasions, speaking poetically,
I was treated with contempt by friends and foes, And oft retreated from the field with a bloody nose.
CHAPTER V.
Tis fate diverts our course, and fate we must obey.
Dryden's Virgil.
There’s a divinity doth shape our ends, Rough hew them how we may.
Shakespeare.
The best laid schemes o’ mice and men, Gang aft agee.
Burns.
Were you, good reader, ever at a fair? If you were, you must have heard such cries as these —“This way, this way, put your hand in the pock, all prizes, no blanks.” “Come away my lucky lads, choose your colours while the ball rolls, there’s two to one on the black.” “Sport away, sport away, above seven or below seven, seven’s my chance.” “Be down in time, gentlemen, this is the place for making your fortunes, the real original gold diggings, six to one on the feather, the anchor has it, there’s none on the anchor the stakes are mine, etc.
Now, don’t start sweet reader, I am not going, to defend these scenes of petty gambling. I would simply beg to remark, that to the philosophic mind they afford subjects for philosophizing. For example, these games are all apparently games of chance, it appears to be mere luck if you win. ​Some, even orthodox people, say that life is a game of chance, and ruled by luck; and to prove it they show instances of successful spoonies, while clever fellows like me are always kept in the back ground. Notwithstanding these instances, I don’t believe in the luck theory, either at the fair, or in the game of life. The master of the gaming table can and does divert the ball to the colour he wants, and, as Virgil says, “Fate diverts our course, and fate we must obey.” I believe with Napoleon in destiny. Like the lucky pock at the fair, life is also all prizes, and no blanks; but to be successful we must venture, we must put forth our hand and draw the prize. The cat in gloves catches no mice, says Poor Richard, and the unlucky man has generally himself to blame for his bad luck. Nature is impartial in the distribution of her prizes, and where she falls short in one thing, she makes it up by another. I see some have riches without brains, and some have brains without riches. In my own case I am poor, but my poverty is more than compensated by a form faultless and beautiful as Adonis. All the ladies are in love with me, and no wonder.
I was not born with a silver spoon in my mouth. The flowery paths of life were not for me to tread on. I had and have still to travel the rough turnpike. My young school boy dream of professional greatness and celebrity, was soon dispelled by the stern actualities of life. I was early thrown into ​the stream like the young niggers to sink or swim, and I have had to struggle since for my very existence. My parents being unable to support me, I was taken from school when about eight years of age, and sent to earn my livelihood as a weaver’s drawboy. At that occupation I remained several years; and during that period my ardent genius was cramped as much as ever an Apothecary’s apprentice was over his pestle and mortar. As I could not, while pent up in a weaver’s shop, get proper scope for the expansion of my intellectual faculties in a literary way, I turned my attention to politics. There’s no place like a weaver’s shop for studying politics. In 1830, I took a deep interest in the question of Parliamentary Reform, then agitating the country. I attended the great Reform demonstrations at Renfrew, when the cry was “the Bill, the whole Bill, and nothing but the Bill.” There can be no doubt that my moral aid and influence very much assisted Lord John Russell in passing the Reform Bill, which secured our constitutional liberties. The young men of the present generation can have no idea of the difficulties which we had to contend with at that time to secure for them these liberties. I certainly expected that for such political services I would have been rewarded by my political party with a Government appointment, but I was doomed to disappointment, as many others before me have been. The day will come, however, it is already “looming ​in the distance,” as Disraeli says, when the right man will be put in the right place, when
“Sense and worth, o’er a’ the earth Shall bear the gree, and a’ that.”
Then will I get justice. Had I been Her Majesty’s representative at Hong Kong, this country would not now have been at war with China, and Messrs. Bright, Cobden, and many other good men and true, would still have been in Parliament. Wars, and rumours of wars, invariably arise from having the wrong men in place, while the right men are in no place at all, as in my own case. When will the world learn wisdom?
As I grew up my naturally active and ardent mind revolted at the common place drudgery of the loom, and I determined to free myself from its heddles and treddles. Many a time I mentally consigned these articles to the place which Rob Roy wished to see Bailie Nicol Jarvis heddles and treddles sent to. Having heard and read of Packmen I resolved, like Norval of the Grampians, to leave my father’s house, and take with me a chosen well selected pack, and with it push my fortune in the wide, wide world, as a Packman! or to use a more polite phrase, as a Commercial Traveller. The latin scholar has now the key to my abbreviated titled P.C., and which no other person has any right to assume.
​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 ​quite happy looking, with her baby in her lap. This is a place where a Packman has a good chance of effecting a sale. In one place the Packman sees proud stuck-up persons, who contemptuously turn up their noses at him as if they were somebody. Poor helpless creatures, thinks the Packman as he turns away, you could not eke out existence even at the pack. How lucky it was for you that your father was born before you, or many of you might be in the poorhouse. In another place he is met with the utmost frankness, and, if in the country, he is supposed to be able to tell them all the news. During the war the usual salutation was, come awa man an gae us your crack, what's the news about the Rushians? Whenever I enter a house and see all in confusion, the breakfast dishes standing unwashed at dinner time, and a dirty slovenly wife, I know that self created poverty is there, and I spend very little time in such a “staun.” On the contrary where I find cleanliness, I find economy, and consequently a little spare cash, and there I can, generally, effect a sale. In short the scenes and phases of character are like “Highlandmen’s gartans,” no two are exactly the same.
I think Shakspere must have travelled with the pack in his youth. I cannot imagine how he could otherwise have been such a powerful delineator of "human natur,” as Sam Slick calls it—by the bye Mr Slick was also a Packman—and then Burns, if he was not at one time a Packman, he ​must have associated with that fraternity, or he never could have produced his “Jolly Beggars”—The incidents in a Packman’s travels are innumerable, some of them rich and rare. If this work pays, I may be induced to publish another, titled,
TRAVELS AND INCIDENTS
OF A PACKMAN!
WITH RUNNING COMMENTARIES ON THINGS IN GENERAL.
CHAPTER VI.
He saw with his own eyes the Moon was round; Was also certain that the Earth was square; For he had travelled fifty miles, and found No sign of its being circular anywhere.
Byron.
I have trod merry England, and dwelt on her charms, I have wandered through Erin, the gem of the sea.
Park.
I’ve wandered east, I’ve wandered west, Through mony a weary way.
Motherwell.
Its all very well for Chamber Students to study, in their closets, Goldsmith’s History of the Earth and Animated Nature, Shakspeare’s Humanity or Humbolt’s Cosmos, and thereby acquire a second-hand view of such things, but a real genuine knowledge of subjects can only be acquired by travelling, and seeing the world as it is, and man with his everyday clothes on. A person’s knowledge ought to be estimated by what he has seen with “his own eyes,” and heard with his own ears—and what he has seen can only be measured by the extent of his travelling, and such travelling must be bona fide. Now what is a bona fide traveller? That question has puzzled lawyers, linguists and more especially ​Justices of the Peace. It appears still undefined. In place of consulting dictionaries and dead languages, had my opinion been asked, I would have settled the question at once—by saying—I am a Bona fide Traveller. Because I do really and truly travel. To be whirled along on a railway; borne down the river, up the lake, or across the ocean in a steamer or ship, or driven along the turnpike in a carriage, is not travelling—the persons are merely live cargo. They are not in the plain meaning of the term bona fide travellers.
Without detracting from Dr. Livingston’s well earned laurels, I think I might safely boast of having travelled as much as he, if not more! and yet no demonstration has been made in my favour. I have received no public testimonial, I am neither an L.L.D., nor a K.C.B., although, I have no doubt, if the Paisley Walking Swimming and General Recreation Association, or the Royal Paisley Pedestrians got the hint, they would both elect me an honorary member. I cannot account for this neglect of my claims, except by the consoling fact that real genius is seldom honoured till he
Shuffles off the mortal coil.”
Speaking of Testimonials, this may be called the age of Testimonials and Presentations. Who is there in Paisley at least who has not a Snuff-box, or a Stick, or something which he “in a neat and appropriate ​speech," promised to hand down to his posterity, and bearing some such inscription as the following:—“Presented to (John Smith), Esquire, by a number of his friends and ardent admirers, as a token of their respect and esteem for his many excellent qualities as a man, and his usefulness as a citizen.—(1857.) Of course the inscription varies according to circumstances, as in the following instance:—“This Stick is Presented to (Timothy Jenkins), Police Officer, by a number of Spirit Dealers, in testimony of their appreciation of his activity and vigilance in the prevention of crime, as proved by the fact that on his beat no case, under Forbes Mackenzie’s Act, had been prosecuted during the last twelve months.—(1857.) I have no objections to Testimonials and Presentations in themselves, but I would like to see them limited to the right men. Don’t think I am saying this out of spite, or on the principle of the sour grapes—no such thing; I might have got a Presentation long ago, if I had merely asked a friend or two to set about it, and go round for subscriptions. I know the way to do it, but I’ll have none got by dunning—to me it must be a spontaneous free-will offering.
But to return to my travels—I have been a bona fide traveller for the last twenty-five years, and to shew the extent of ground I have gone over during that period, I had better state it in figures. Twenty miles a day (and that is within the mark), six days’ ​in the week, is 120 miles a week, or 6,240 miles a year, or 156,000 miles in the 25 years. So that taking the estimated circumference of the Earth at 24,930 miles, I have travelled since I began business, more than = Six times round the Earth. Can Dr Livingston beat that? If I am not a bona fide traveller and worthy of being an honorary M.P.W.S., & G.R.A., and a R.P.P., I would like to know who is.
In this small book it is, of course, impossible to give the particulars of my travels over such a vast field, including the Cambraes and the adjacent Islands of Great Britain and Ireland—but I will briefly, and as a specimen of what a book I could write, give a few of my leading peregrinations.
With my Pack on my shoulders, I trudged over the Gleniffer Braes, through Dunlop, and down upon Kilwinning to do a little business at the great Eglinton Tournament. I made rather a good thing of it among the smokers, in the lucifer match line; really they needed a smoke, for such weather as we had—it rained without intermission during the whole time of the Tournament. I have, in my travels, seen many daft folk, but I never saw so many collected as on that occasion. They were in thousands, and from all quarters—standing like drouket craws, but perfectly quiet and harmless. The cold water cure must have had a soothing effect on their nerves. Having had a green umbrella, I was often taken for Prince Napoleon (the ​present Emperor of the French), and sometimes for the Marquis of Waterford, in disguise. I heard many remark, after buying a box of matches,—“he must be doing it for a wager.” Although my sales were good, I could not help pitying the poor idiots, going about for days and nights drenched to the skin, to see a show—to see imitation Don Quixotes, and Sancho Panzas—to see
“in bloodless pomp array’d,
The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade.”
Another of my leading excursions was to Balmoral. I went there as a loyal subject, to pay a visit to Her Majesty, at her own house. I started from Paisley through Dumbarton, on by Lochlomand to Aberfeldy, from thence by Dunkeld to Blair Athol, where I arrived on the Saturday night, having travelled four days. I had many adventures on the way, which I have noted for my great work, “Incidents of my Travels.” I went to church on Sunday with the Duke of Athol. The Duke did not invite me to dine with him, because, as I suppose, he saw that I was not in full dress. I left Blair Athol on Monday morning, for Braemar. I met a party of Ladies and Gentlemen whom, in passing, I very politely saluted, which they as politely returned. I overhead them asking one another who I was, one said I think he’s Sir Robert Peel,” another remarked, “he walks like the Duke of Cambridge,” a third said, "he’s like ​Prince Albert.” They all however concluded that I was a very great man, and I walked on as important looking as possible. On reaching Braemar Castle, I found an immense gathering of people, and a regiment of soldiers, all waiting the arrival of Her Majesty. I sauntered about, looking at the scenery, and when the word spread that Her Majesty had arrived, there was great excitement. I got into a good position for seeing the Royal procession. The carriage in which the Queen and Prince Albert were, halted for a short time where I stood. I took off my hat and cried, “Long live Queen Victoria,” at which she looked at me and smiled. I then cried, “Long live Prince Albert.” He was a long time in acknowledging me, but after a while he gave me a very dry nod. The Queen then gave me a very gracious bow, and smiled a second time. Prince Albert appeared very angry and jealous at seeing me there, and so much taken notice of, or, I think Her Majesty would have spoken to me. The carriage then moved off amid great cheering. I heard many of the onlookers remark that I was a far handsomer man than the Prince. The next time I saw Her Majesty was on the balcony of the castle, looking at the games, and the Highlanders dancing in the park. After the games Her Majesty and suite left for Balmoral, and on the carriage with the royal party again passing me, I gave Her Majesty a very polite bow, which she very sweetly returned. ​I punished the Prince on this occasion by not taking the slightest notice of him, at which he appeared very much chagrined. When the maids of honour passed I bowed to them, which they very kindly acknowledged. I saw them looking after me quite delighted, and evidently in love with me. I followed the royal party to Balmoral, and as I always endeavour to unite business with pleasure I sold goods on the way, and turned a little money. On reaching Balmoral I got lodgings in the house of a shepherd. I got up in the morning and went to the castle, where I fell in with the maids of honour. They spoke to me and were perfectly delighted with me. I think they would have gone the length of proposing marriage, but at that moment Her Majesty appeared on horseback, and we had to separate, which was, no doubt, a great trial to them. After that I went into the Royal Boot and Shoe Shop, at Balmoral, to sell goods, and while there two gentlemen came in, who priced several of my articles, and entered into conversation with me, and seemed much surprised at my general intelligence and information, seeing, as they said, that I was not an elector. They appeared very anxious to know the state of political feeling in Paisley, regarding parliamentary reform. I told them that since assisting to pass the Reform Bill, I had taken little or no interest in politics. One of them said “Paisley is the most enlightened place in the country.” “No doubt of it (said the other), it gives ​the tone of politics to Europe.” They did not, however, buy any thing from me, although they took up a deal of my time talking to them and giving them information, and I left them in the shop I have been told since that one of them was Lord John Russell. On leaving Balmoral I visited several parts of the Highlands, and returned home via Perth and Stirling.
In the year 1851, everybody went to London to see the Great Exhibition, and I went too. Having once before travelled on foot to London, I took the sea for a change, and sailed from the Bromielaw. For some time the voyage was pleasant, but afterwards it came on a violent storm. The waves ran mountains high, and dashed our vessel backwards and forwards, and then burst over it as if to bury it in the dread abyss, but the gallant ship went nobly on, steming the angry waves. The captain seemed afraid, for he was continually roaring to some one or another, and the passengers were crouching here and there below, holding on by whatever they could clutch to keep them from being tumbled from the one side to the other as the ship pitched—I remained on deck calm and serene amidst the war of elements, encouraging the captain and crew. After the storm had subsided a little, a cabin passenger who had seen and admired my coolness, came on deck and took me below, and gave me a glass of spirits. When I looked round on the pale faces of the passengers, I could ​not help thinking that our great Paisley Poet, Davie Webster, was not far wrong when, in his poetic account of the wreck at Arenthrew, he sang,
“If I think about ganging abroad, Nae sailing for me, faith I'll hurl.“
When will Paisley erect a Monument to Davie’s memory? Royal Arenthrew! famous in song and story—classic spot! where the Royal Literary & Philosophical Potatoe & Herring Incorporation holds its annual re-unions—why do you forget Davie, who sang of your Bannocks and Salmon? But to resume
We arrived all safe at Blackwall pier, London, early on the morning of the fourth day of our voyage. The captain’s lady having seen and admired my courage during the storm, ordered me two days provisions, and some of the sailors confessed that my example spurred them on to greater exertions in working the vessel, or we might all have gone to the bottom—another proof of the value of true courage and a good example.
Having landed I made for Hyde Park, the great point of attraction, which I reached about 10 o’clock in the forenoon, and entered the Exhibition. The sight which was presented, was certainly very grand and imposing, and the buzz and hum of voices, and of people of every nation continually passing up and down, had a strange effect. The first view seemed the realization of Aladdin’s ​Crystal Palace, reared by the genii of the lamp. Among the first things which attracted my attention was a splendid portrait of Her Majesty. Not far from it there was another portrait, which might have passed for mine, but I understand that it was intended for Prince Albert. I think the artist must have seen me somewhere, as the most striking points of my physiognomy were adroitly put in to give the portrait a princely appearance. I remained in the Exhibition five hours, looking at the numerous objects of interest, and then being fatigued, I went to my lodgings.
When I lay down in bed that night my mind was in a strange whirl of excitement; I had, within the last few hours, seen more than Eastern imagination could conceive. I lay for some time restless—I could not sleep. After a while, I began to doze. Suddenly I felt myself falling from the top of St. Paul’s, but somehow I was not hurt. Again, I was in the storm, standing on the deck of the vessel which heaved with the billows. Amidst the howling of the tempest, the flash of the lightning made the “darkness visible,” and “night hideous.” In a twinkling all was calm, and I found myself
“Far away, in some region old Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold; Where the burning rays of the ruby shine, And the diamond lights up the secret mine, And the pearl gleams forth from the coral stand.“
After breakfasting I took the road homewards, and travelled on foot from London to Liverpool, passing through the classical city of Oxford, and the great iron towns Birmingham and Sheffield. On reaching Liverpool, I put up for the day, and sailed next morning for Glasgow, and on my arrival there I started for Paisley, and reached home safe and sound, having seen the Great Exhibition, and met with many adventures on the journey, which very considerably increased my knowledge and wisdom.
​Few persons in speaking of the Exhibition can describe it—they all say that its description is impossible. Now that arises from ignorance—not ignorance in general, but ignorance in particular—ignorance of Packmanism. The Great Exhibition was neither more nor less than an immense pack, spread out and shown off to the best advantage. I think Prince Albert must have borrowed the idea from me when he saw me with my pack, at Braemar, so that it may be said that I was the original, or primary cause of the Great Exhibition, which has been reproduced in America, France, and other parts—and yet neither medals were given me, nor honourable mention made of me in connection with it. Another proof to the world that neglect is generally the fate of Genius. Nevertheless, justice will yet be done me
"In the good time coming.”
CHAPTER VII.
Lives of great men all remind us, We can make our lives sublime.
Longfellow.
A true delineation of the smallest man and his scenes of pilgrimage through life, is capable of interesting the greatest man.
Carlyle.
A modern writer remarks, “nothing astonishes men so much as common sense and plain dealing.” That must be on account of their rarity, like a certain kind of charity. It is as difficult to find a man of common sense, as a four-leaved clover. I have often wondered why people seemed astonished at me, but the above remark solves the problem; it’s my common sense and plain dealing, and fair dealing (a still rarer quality), that does it. In these respects I stand out in bold relief like a statue in a stereoscope, or poetically “like a lone star in a tempestuous night.” I consider myself a standard of common sense, and were I a Prince Consort, I might be called The Imperial Standard I have always dealt in a plain, unostentatious way, and nobody can say that I ever cheated even to the extent of a lucifer match, or a corset lace. That’s what few of my brother merchants can say. Many of them no doubt live in fine houses, and fare sumptuously every day, and, in their own estimation, are the great and mighty of the earth, but in this mercantile ​PHANTASMAGORIA, the scene of fine gentlemanism dissolves, and is followed by prisons and suicides; these again dissolve, and then we read in fiery characters,
HONESTY IS THE BEST POLICY.
I am almost however inclined to believe with Otway, that
"Honesty is but a notion,
Like wit, much talked of, not to be defined: He that pretends to most too, ha least share in't."
From the peer to the peasant, roguery seems the rule, honesty the exception.
Another of the wonders of the world, is consistency. Where is the consistent man? If I, like Diogenes, were to take a lanthern and go out in search of a consistent man, I would see, as I have seen, strange sights. I could give abundanee of illustrations, but had better not, as every one would think I meant him in particular, and that would be travelling on dangerous ground, as Paddy said when he walked the ice. But in order to test whether there be a consistent man (of course myself excepted). I here offer to give a copy of this book, "with the Author's compliments" marked on it to any person who, within a year from its publication, will prove that he has, even outwardly, acted in all things consistently, for only three weeks! and besides I will endeavour to get his photograph, with a full chart of his phrenological developement hung up in the Museum of the Paisley Philosophical Society, as one of its greatest curiosities.
Great men, like me, are finger posts on the ​turnpike roads of time pointing "Onwards." They have always some predominant faculty by which they are distinguished. Some have a volubility of language, as if they had swallowed Dr Johnson's Dictionary, with the Notes, or a dose of literary pills. Some, like the shepherd in "Noctes Ambrosianæ" can "dispute on any subject—sacred or profane." My great distinguishing gift is memory. I have a first class one. This Autobiography has been written entirely from memory, without the assistance of a single note. I can, at pleasure, dig up from the deep recesses of the brain, things which have lain there undisturbed for years. For instance, how long is it since any one of my 20,14 subscribers has thought of the Paisley Bailies parading to the Kirk from the Council Chamber—the Town officers, dressed with scarlet coats, knee'd breeks, and carrying glittering halberds in their hands, marching before, in all the pomp of power, and looking as if they felt themselves the connecting link between the Church and the State? You all recollect this now when I have touched the secret spring of your dull brains and what thoughts does that resuscitated idea awaken? Those were the days when a sound state of things prevailed. The "Tumble-the-wulket" heterodoxy was then unknown in the kirk. The Bailie, with his big round gaucy belly, was a terror to evil doers—and although "time changes a' things" I cannot yet believe in a bailie, like Cassius, with "a lean and hungry look." I don't know how it is, but to my mind a scranky bailie is not natural. When the Reformed Council went into office, the belly "with good capon lined," was banished ​from the judgment seat—and their successors in office were merely big with great ideas. Everything was to be reformed—and wonders performed. The tone of society was to rise like the hands of a thermometer from bad weather to fine. Cart was to be improved, and made a mighty river, on whose expansive waters ships of war were to float free of tonnage. The people looked astonished, and wondered why they had so long submitted to be misruled, but the knowing ones shook their heads and significantly said, "wait a wee." The reformed senators met, and one of their first resolution was, "that parading to the kirk be discontinued in all time coming, as being direct interference with the liberty of conscience, and the right of private judgment." One of them in supporting that resolution said, "verily friends, it is necessary in this enlightened age that these vain shews, these baubles and characteristics of barbarous tines be rooted out; besides, the appearance of the red coats and the halberds awaken, in some minds, awkward reminiscences" Down went the red coats and the halberds, and from that hour Paisley as a corporation, has stood still, notwithstanding the Proclamation painted at the cross, "It is not permitted to stand on the Pavement,"—or if it has progressed, it has been backwards.
The higher the tree, the more it has to encounter the rude winds; and the greater the man, the more is he assailed by the blasts of the splenetic, the waspish, and the malicious.
Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, Thou shalt not escape calumny."
when dipping him, which was not touched by the miraculous water, and the consequence was that he was vulnerable in that part. Can you make the application? You are a young man, and may, like the Trojan hero, have a vulnerable part. Beware then how you write in future regarding public men like me, or in fact regarding anybody, lest you get your own corns tramped on.” I am, yours very truly.” I submitted the letter to a friend of mine for his opinion. He said it was too soft, and advised me not to send it but, at once, to raise an action of damages against my traducers, as a warning, and to teach them and others publicly that I was a man not to be trifled with. The action was raised, and the world knows the result. I vindicated my position and my honour—proved that I was the “Comyn man,” and at the same time settled the question ​afterwards raised in the Court of Session, in the celebrated case against the Scotsman.
So you see gentle reader, that my life has been a chequered one, and that I have not acquired my greatness without labour, annoyance, patience, and perseverance. Still, the man,
Who noble ends by noble means obtains, Or, failing, smiles in exile or in chains; Like great Aurelius, let him reign or bleed, Like Socrates, that man is great indeed."
And now, having detained you perhaps too long with the various scenes of my pilgrimage, I must make my exit, feeling, like Pope, "how difficult it is to speak of ones self with decency," and as the curtain gently falls, imagine yourself in front of the County Buildings, Paisley, while the splendid band of the Renfrewshire Militia, plays
GOD SAVE THE QUEEN.
(This Work is Copyright, and the Author reserves to himself the right of Translating and Publishing it on the Continent of Europe, and in America.)
* ↑ Vide P. 8 of The Paisley Wallet.
* ↑ We cultivate literature on a little oatmeal.—Sydney Smith.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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