Journal as a Pedlar, 1789-90
Another gentleman's mansion I was approaching when the owner appeared, whom I saluted, presenting him the Proposals. He stared at the paper some moments, as if it had been a monster; then, with a contemptuous sneer, exclaimed, “O Ch—st! I'll have nothing to do with it—some d—ned stuff or other.” I met also with a school-master, who seemed to be a son of Bacchus, Learning, and Snuff; for after several good observations on the specimen and an enormous draught of snuff, he declared he would most certainly take a copy. “But, remember,” says he, “by Jupiter, we,—we,—will offer up one half of its price at the shrine of Bacchus.”
SEPT. 21.—FISHER-ROW. This place is separated from Musselburgh only by a river, over which is a wooden bridge, three feet broad and near one hundred and fifty long; the breadth of the channel being occasioned by the flowing of the sea. The inhabitants of this place are mostly fishers, from whom the town takes its name. While I staid here, a very melancholy accident happened at a place called Roslin, some miles up the river. A newly married couple had been on a visit to a friend's house, where they staid till the night was far advanced. In coming home they had the river to cross, over which went a feeble wooden bridge, railed only at one side. The night being dark and stormy, the bridge but narrow, and the river swelled by the rains, her husband desired her to hold by his coat while he went before; which she accordingly attempted to do, but missing her step, plunged headlong into the current. The husband, imagining that he did not feel her behind him, and unable to hear for the noise which the wind made among the trees, turned quickly about, and ran to the other end of the bridge, thinking she had staid behind; but not finding her there, he called her by name, as loud and as long as he could, “Peggy! Peggy!” but, alas! Peggy was gone, never more to return. The unhappy man went home in a case not to be described, and was seized with a fever, which, in a short time, rendered him delirious. Next day the corpse of this unfortunate young woman was found near Fisher-row harbour, where the river discharges itself into the sea, stripped of everything of value. The body was opened by the surgeons, when it was found that she was six months advanced in her pregnancy. The child and its mother I saw both decently interred by her friends next day.
While I was traversing from house to house, I was told, by almost every body, of a taylor, a great Poet, who, as the women and fishers informed me, could make a poem of any thing. Curious to see this prodigy of wit, I sought out his hut, and found it. On my entrance, I perceived a little shrunk creature, perched, cross-legged, on a table, making his head and hand keep time with one another. I boldly entered, and asked what he would buy. “Nothing,” says he. “Have you any strong gray thread?” I told him I was sorry that I had none. “Any needles or thimbles?” “I am just out of them at present.” “Then,” replied he, “you have nothing for me.” “No! perhaps I may have something to suit you for all that.” “No, no,” returned he, and fell a-whistling. Here a pause ensued. At length, said I, “you are certainly acquainted with the rules of composition, friend, or you would not whistle that tune so justly." "Composition !" said he. "Do you know what composition is?” “Not I; but I have heard poets and fiddlers, when speaking of a song or tune, call it composition.” “You are not far wrong,” continued he. “Did you ever read any poetry?” “Yes, I have read the Wife of Beith, and ballads, and the Psalms, and many others.” “And do you understand them?” “Excellently,” replied I, “and I [am] delighted to read metre.” “Lay down your pack for a moment, then,” says he, nimbly sliding from the table, “I'll show you something curious. You'll perhaps not have heard of me, but I am a bit of a poet; I make verses myself sometimes.” Hereupon pulling out the drawer of an old chest, and rustling some time among a parcel of papers, he presented me with a printed piece, entitled—King Crispianus' March through Fisher-row,—which I read aloud with seeming rapture; though, at the same time, I could scarce suppress a continued succession of yawnings, while the exulting author stared steadfastly in my face the whole time; and seeing me admire the first so much, tortured me with a second, and a third, all equally sublime. I now began to interrogate him as to his knowledge of poetry, and found him entirely ignorant of every thing save rhyme. Happening to ask him if ever he had read any of Pope or Milton's pieces, he told me he never had, for he did not understand one word of Latin. I showed him my Proposals, asked him to subscribe, and said I knew the author. He read part of them with excessive laughter, declared that the author was certainly a learned fellow, and that he would chearfully subscribe, but his wife was such a devil, that if she knew of him doing any thing without her approbation, there would be no peace in the house for months to come: “And by the bye,” says he, “we are most dismally poor. I assure you there has been nothing with us this many a day, but potatoes and herring.” I told him that poverty was the characteristic of a poet, “You are right,” says he, “and for that very reason I am proud of being poor.” I left this votary of rhyme, and went through the rest of the town, meeting with no other adventure worthy of being re-membered.