"Well, sir, you see, nothing was carried in waggons then, but on packhorses, that is to say, no perishable goods. My grandfather was a packman. Those were rare times." And he showed me the old packmen's traces, across the woods where now trees grow of fifty years' standing. Indeed, alongside of many modernized roads the old packmen's courses may still be traced. There was great skill required in packing; the packhorse had crooks on its back, and the goods were hung to these crooks. The crooks were formed of two poles, about ten feet long, bent when green into the required curve, and when dried in that shape were connected by horizontal bars. A pair of crooks, thus completed, was slung over the pack-saddle, one swinging on each side, to make the balance true. The short crooks, called _crubs_, were slung in a similar manner. These were of stouter fabric, and formed an angle; these were used for carrying heavy materials. I shall doubtless be excused if I quote some old verses written fifty years ago, comparing marriage to a Devonshire lane, but which will equally apply to any old road-- "In a Devonshire lane, as I trotted along T'other day, much in want of a subject for song, Thinks I to myself, I have hit on a strain, Sure Marriage is much like a Devonshire lane. In the first place 'tis long, and when once you are in it, It holds you as fast as a cage does a linnet; For howe'er rough and dirty the road may be found, Drive forward you must, there is no turning round. But though 'tis so long, it is not very wide, For two are the most that together can ride; And e'en then, 'tis a chance, but they get in a pother, And jostle and cross and run foul of each other. Oft Poverty greets them with mendicant looks, And Care pushes by them, o'er-laden with crooks; And Strife's grazing wheels try between them to pass, And Stubbornness blocks up the way on her ass. Then the banks are so high, to the left hand and right, That they shut out the beauties around them from sight; And hence you'll allow, 'tis an inference plain, That Marriage is just like a Devonshire lane! But thinks I too, these banks, within which we are pent, With bud, blossom, and berry are richly besprent; And the conjugal fence, which forbids us to roam, Looks lovely when decked with the comforts of home. In the rock's gloomy crevice the bright holly grows; The ivy waves fresh o'er the withering rose, And the evergreen love of a virtuous wife Soothes the roughness of care,--cheers the winter of life. Then long be the journey, and narrow the way, I'll rejoice that I've seldom a turnpike to pay; And whate'er others say, be the last to complain, Though Marriage be just like a Devonshire lane." [Illustration: By the Road-side.]