Telford had made all his previous journeys on foot; but this one he made on horseback. It happened that Sir James Johnstone, the laird of Wester Hall, had occasion to send a horse from Eskdale to a member of his family in London, and he had some difficulty in finding a person to take charge of it. It occurred to Mr. Jackson, the laird's factor, that this was a capital opportunity for his cousin Tom, the mason; and it was accordingly arranged that he should ride the horse to town. When a boy, he had learnt rough riding sufficiently well for the purpose; and the better to fit him for the hardships of the road, Mr. Jackson lent him his buckskin breeches. Thus Tom set out from his native valley well mounted, with his little bundle of "traps" buckled behind him, and, after a prosperous journey, duly reached London, and delivered up the horse as he had been directed. Long after, Mr. Jackson used to tell the story of his cousin's first ride to London with great glee, and he always took care to wind up with--"but Tam forgot to send me back my breeks!" [Image] Lower Valley of the Meggat, the Crooks in the distance. Footnotes for Chapter II. *[1] In his 'Epistle to Mr. Walter Ruddiman,' first published in 'Ruddiman's Weekly Magazine,' in 1779, occur the following lines addressed to Burns, in which Telford incidentally sketches himself at the time, and hints at his own subsequent meritorious career; "Nor pass the tentie curious lad, Who o'er the ingle hangs his head, And begs of neighbours books to read; For hence arise Thy country's sons, who far are spread, Baith bold and wise." *[2] The 'Poetical Museum,' Hawick, p.267. ' Eskdale' was afterwards reprinted by Telford when living at Shrewsbury, when he added a few lines by way of conclusion. The poem describes very pleasantly the fine pastoral scenery of the district:-- "Deep 'mid the green sequester'd glens below, Where murmuring streams among the alders flow, Where flowery meadows down their margins spread, And the brown hamlet lifts its humble head-- There, round his little fields, the peasant strays, And sees his flock along the mountain graze; And, while the gale breathes o'er his ripening grain, And soft repeats his upland shepherd's strain, And western suns with mellow radiance play. And gild his straw-roof'd cottage with their ray, Feels Nature's love his throbbing heart employ, Nor envies towns their artificial joy."