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IN 1849, John Duncan returned
once more to Auchleven, to which he seems to have taken a liking, and there
he remained three years. He boarded as before with Sandy Smith. John now
worked at a loom in Smith's house, and not, as at his last visit, in the
mill. The poor, thatched cottage was in a much more dilapidated condition
than when he had left it thirteen years before. It stood parallel to the
road not far from "the philosopher," in what is now an open space, for the
house was removed six years ago. The kitchen was at the south end, a barn
and byre in the middle, opposite the door, and the workshop at the north.
There were two looms there, the one for the master, and the other for John.
The divisions between the apartments consisted only of thin deals. John's
loom being next the byre, he could hear "crummie" chewing her grass,
ruminating her cud, rubbing herself against the wall, breathing her
long-drawn sighs and snorts through the board just behind him, and, when she
became impatient, drowning the clatter of the shuttle with her loud bellow;
while the odours of the byre pervaded the whole dwelling. It was altogether
a homely arrangement, somewhat in the primitive Highland and Irish style.
But there were then no meddlesome sanitary inspectors to go poking about and
disturbing the sweet scents and sanctities of such communistic arrangements.
John slept, as before, in the
cold "philosopher," with the near companionship of his equine and bovine
fellows and his bed and possessions were disposed as on his last occupancy
of the 'same delectable loft.
In Smith's house, there was
only one fire, which was in the kitchen at the far end from the workshop. In
the winter time, there was nothing for our weaver to do when he got cold,
but to drive all the harder at the treddles and the shuttle. When his hands
became too chilled even to do that, he would then take a run to the warm
kitchen, to toast them at the peat fire which smouldered on the low
hearthstone.
The kitchen was also the only
dwelling-place in the building, and into it were crowded the man, his wife,
and a large family.
Sandy Smith was himself a
pleasant, intelligent fellow, a good deal of a wag, and a capital workman,
but he relished other pursuits more than his loom. Though he had no great
liking for general reading or scientific subjects, he was a keen politician
and a great devourer of the newspapers. Here John and he being on common
ground, they used to hold long confabulations on the stirring times in which
they lived. Smith was kind and happy-tempered, and allowed his eccentric
tradesman full liberty to do his work as he liked. He put no check on his
wanderings, knowing that he was a workman worth having, who more than made
up for any lost time, and that, as he was employed on piece-work, any loss
fell only on himself.
John took an interest in the
family, and one of the circle that grew up round that kitchen fire, who was
named after his father, [Mr. Alex Smith, of the wool mill, Knockando.]
recalls his father's scientific assistant with pleasure and high respect. On
John's return to Auchleven, young Sandy was a lad of thirteen, and for two
years was his bedfellow in "the philosopher." He was much impressed with the
man and his unusual habits and studies, and received from him permanent
impulses for good. His mother and John were great friends, and he regrets
that she has passed away before her abundant memories of Duncan were
recovered; for she was "full" of John and his ways, and read with pleasure
the account of him given in "Good Words" in 1877. John was much interested
in her and her many children, and used to cheer her with advice and
assistance, in her praiseworthy struggles to bring them up worthily with the
lightest of purses.
Mr. Smith testifies to John's
remarkable temperance in both eating and drinking, and his simple tastes,
which were satisfied with the plainest fare, if clean and wholesome. He
never saw him dissipate even in tea; for porridge and brose were his staple
dishes, varied at supper-time with "hail," in which a big "castock," or
stalk of the cabbage, was counted by him a luxury. John's appetite in the
morning was something remarkable; and no wonder, for early though it was, he
had already done some hours' study and work. He soon appeared in the kitchen
after the house-wife was astir, exclaiming, "Is the kettle boilin' yet,
Betty?"—a consummation that was crowned by John making his own brose. His
achievements in eating this dish used to astonish the youngsters, for he
often took it without milk, when none was to be had, and, what seemed worse,
used sour, unsavoury "sowens" as a substitute, which even their keen,
healthy stomachs could not stand. But, as Mr. Smith says, "John could always
suit himself to circumstances"—one of the most invaluable capacities any man
can possess; a training for which should form a specific aim in the
upbringing of all young people, but which, alas, is less common, with our
growing luxury in all classes, than in the Spartan days of which we now
speak.
Duncan's methodical, careful
habits in all things surprised the children, and gave them lessons for life.
Every Monday morning, for instance, it was a sight to see him brush and fold
up his Sunday clothes with the greatest neatness, and deposit them tenderly
in his chest, the opening of which filled the room with the odour of
protecting camphor. His conscientiousness in all he did, and his deep
religiousness even then impressed young Sandy.
The occasional flashings of
John's quiet Humour are still remembered. John used to tell his father,
amongst other curious observations, that he could decide whether a man was "weel-aff
or no," by the way he wore his night-cap!—for at that time, every elderly
man in Auchleven wore during the day a red-striped "Kilmarnock." He said
that the caps of "those who had siller stood stracht up on their heeds;
"whereas the caps of those that didna hae't, hung doon at the tap," in
appropriate dejection at the impecuniosity of their owners, no doubt—a
generalization which his young friend thought was borne out by the facts of
the case as exhibited in the village.
Mr. Smith gratefully recalls
John's kindly interest in himself, while he lived at home and after he left
it for his first situation at Cothal Mills. There John walked twenty miles
to see him. He also took him on a first visit to Aberdeen, to show him the "fairlies"
there. On the way thither on foot, he delighted the young man's heart by his
sincere and childlike sympathy with his own ecstatic raptures at his first
view of the sea from near Woodside.
The crowded and miscellaneous
kitchen in Sandy Smith's home was scarcely a place for a student to spend
his spare time in. This forced John to seek quieter and more congenial
quarters. Retiring as he was, he found in Auchleven kindly appreciators who
understood and respected him, especially amongst the intelligent women he
knew.
Just opposite the weaving
shop and face to face with it on the other side of the road, stood the
workshop and dwelling of Emslie, the village carpenter. He was himself a
quiet man, with no pretensions to mental parts, doing his daily work with
diligence, though varying it occasionally with a quiet scamper, gun in hand,
over the moors and mosses of Benachie. His wife was an active woman of great
intelligence, kind and neighbourly. She was a diligent reader and good
talker, and had an excellent memory, which now in her old age is full of
vivid recollections of the Auchleven of the time and the strange weaver. Her
intelligence is well indicated by the fact, that the Mutual Instruction
Class, of which more anon, used often to meet in her house before they got a
proper room, and that she used to enjoy the papers read and the discussions
that followed.
John and she became intimate,
and her house was one of his few resorts, for the comfort, quietness and
intellectual sympathies to be found in it. Scarcely a day passed without
seeing him there. When he wished a change from the weary monotony of the
everlasting click-clack of the shuttle, he would suddenly appear leaning
over the lower half of the shop door, which was divided into two parts, like
that of a barn. He would first gaze up to the skies, and then all round,
while his hand shaded his eyes, in order to see the state of . the weather.
Then; making a sudden leap across the highway, for he was in the hey-day of
health and spirits, he would burst into the carpenter's kitchen, as if he
had flown there. He would remain for a little, talking, reading or having a
romp with the children, and then return to his loom.
By Mrs. Emslie's quiet
fireside, he often spent his evenings, away from the bustle of the Smiths.
John's reading being laborious, he used to ask Mrs. Emslie to read to him.
This she did with fluency and intelligence, while he sat enjoying the feast,
and expressing his interest by frequent ejaculations of "Ay, ay," varied in
tone according to the feelings of assent, surprise, doubt, or criticism the
subject elicited. John's own style of reading raised her astonishment and
respect, from his indomitable patience and determination to succeed. He had
to spell all the longer words, and he read and re-read every sentence,
accompanied by a running fire of "Ay, ay!" till he conquered both vocables
and meaning. He used also to bring his books on Botany, many of them with
finely coloured plates, to show and explain them to his friends; and he was
so earnest and persistent in doing this, that he sometimes became a "baather,"
that is, a bother or bore, to the busy woman.
She was surprised how he was
able, in his poverty, to purchase so many books, some of them costly. This
could only have been done, she knew, by the remarkable self-denial he
practised in other things, of which she was a daily witness. She speaks of
John as being then bright, blithesome, and companionable amongst those he
was at home with, and she cherishes the highest respect for his character
and disposition, as being, intellectually, intelligent and well informed,
and, religiously, "full of the grace of God;" while his enthusiasm in
science was something wonderful. She looked upon him as altogether an
uncommon, and, in many respects, a superior man, and used at that time to
notice the peculiar form of his head, as in correspondence with this fact.
She found him unusually shy
and sensitive, even after long acquaintance, and remarkably so with
strangers. He was very kind to her children. They were very fond of him, and
one of the first places they went to, when able to toddle about, was the
weaving shop. There he used to seat them on the loom beside himself till
they fell asleep, lulled by the clatter of the shuttle, when lie would carry
them home in his arms to their mother and their cradle.
Another haunt of John's,
chiefly in the evenings, was a comfortable cottage next door to the
weaver's, belonging to Mrs. Lindsay. Her daughter still survives, about
threescore, in the same pleasant, old-world home—a comely, placid-looking
woman, beautifully patient and resigned under untold pangs, arising from a
diseased limb, which the strongest anodynes can only partially relieve. It
was a delightful nest for any one to retreat to, after the chilling toils of
a winter day, with its far-projecting fireplace, great open-armed chimney
inviting to kindly warmth, and the luxurious nook beside it with its
comfortable seat ; while the crusie, pendant from a cord above, mingled its
light with the ruddy gleam of the fire and brightened the cheerful room,
which was adorned with shining plates and well-burnished pans, and was
redolent of peat reek—one of those interiors that charm the heart of a
painter.
There in the cosy corner by
the blazing hearth, John used to sit of an evening, pleasantly chatting to
the kindly inmates, or reading, in his broken but expressive style, from the
newspapers or from some of his numerous books. He was also accustomed to
bring his gatherings of plants to arrange and press them, and tell about
them and his wanderings for them to willing auditors—for there, as in Mrs.
Emslie's, the man was appreciated and his learning admired. On Sunday
nights, after returning from church, often at a very long distance during
those stirring ecclesiastical times, he would come to Leezie Lindsay's to
read his well-worn Bible, explain its contents, or give extracts from the
numerous commentaries and dictionaries which helped him to understand its
difficulties. Stretched from side to side of the projecting chimney still
hangs a cord plaited and tied by him thirty years ago to hold the crusie,
preserved, no doubt, by the protecting creosote of the peat smoke ; and
there, inside the ample chimney, still rested, at my visit, the crusie
itself which used to illumine the pages of the studious weaver.
There also he kept many of
his better books, for more ready reference and for protection from damp.
When he read aloud at any time, no speaking was allowed or indulged in, for
John liked to be listened to; and who does not in such circumstances? When
bed-time came, and he had to cross the road and climb the ladder to his
crow's nest, he used to carry in his arms, as a kindly companion, a large
single-lugged stone jar—an old "grey-beard" still preserved, originally
intended for something stronger than the hot water with which it had been
filled by his friends, to make his cold couch more comfortable in the winter
nights : so that John slept with a "pig." [Pig is common Scotch for a bit of
crockery, derived, it would seem, from the Gaelic.]
As some sort of return for
all this kindness, John never failed, when he went to Aberdeen, to bring
home something for little Leezie, a sweet wee lassie, then the sunshine of
the cottage, now a bright, good-looking woman. Chief amongst these gifts for
the palate was that irresistible attraction to all youngsters, black-sugar,
or "sugar ailie" as it is called in Scotland, varied sometimes with candy
and barley sugar. He also brought more enduring toys to play with, which
then somehow lasted longer than now. A pretty birdie and a white glass duck
were both long extant, but are now gone. A small tin basin, one of John's
gifts, is still played with by another child that runs about the same clay
floor. Leezie has still blankets woven by Duncan's hand, and the bed he
slept on in "the philosopher" was sewed by her kindly fingers. |
