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NOTHING is to be had for
nothing in this world. One of the highest-priced commodities here has always
been liberty, and not less costly the liberty of differing from one's
neighbours, of dissenting, however slightly, from the established form of
the personal, social, religious or scientific creed. For severer degrees of
deflection, the penalty has been suffering and death. In lighter matters of
manner, habit and pursuit, the price must be paid as certainly and as fully
as in heavier, in misunderstanding, misrepresentation, contempt and other
forms of petty social persecution.
This our eccentric enthusiast
found to his cost all his days, of which proofs have already been given.
Having had the temerity to leave the ancient paths trodden by his ancestors
and neighbours in certain directions, he had, of course, to walk alone or
with the few that were as brave or as foolish as himself, and to bear the
gibes of the crowd who frequented the beaten track. And John Duncan had to
pay his full share of these social penalties, which he did with meekness and
dignity.
Nothing more impresses an
observer of mankind, in this connection, than the urgent need that exists of
having the things of everyday life interpreted to the mass of men.
Familiarity not only breeds contempt of even the greatest elements that
surround and support them, but shuts their eyes to their nature and
importance. It thus becomes one of the functions of science, to interpret to
the blind the true beauty and dignity of the commonest objects they hourly
use, as working under universal law; of education, to teach the real
character and relations of common things; of religion, to show that there is
nothing "common or unclean," as under the Great Father's love; and of
poetry,
"To clothe the palpable and
familiar
With golden exhalations of the dawn."
Not less is there the same
need of interpreting to the great majority of mankind, the men and women
they daily-meet in the house, on the highway, or at the market; and this is
all the more necessary if their neighbours have pursuits differing from
their own. The best of men have often been misunderstood all their days, or
viewed in a false light, or ignorantly persecuted, from this sheer inability
of their fellows to look beneath the mere outer surface of things, as well
as from the co-existing want of that blessed charity which "hopeth all
things and thinketh no evil."
Such facts in the experience
of mankind receive abundant illustration in the history of John Duncan, and
few have passed through life whose real character and pursuits were more
hidden from their contemporaries than this scientific weaver. Many things
led to this result. His eccentricities challenged criticism ; his unusual
studies were pursued at a time when science was little followed by any, and
still less by the poor; and - his seeming simplicity provoked the stings of
the witlings of the country side: while his self-contained nature, and his
satisfaction with his own quiet joys, made him independent of the opinion of
his neighbours; his silence and innate reticence prevented explanation when
such might have been serviceable; and his constitutional pride and small
love of approbation would not allow him in any way to court popular favour.
But be the reasons, internal and external, what they may, the fact remains
that the man walked through life, understood and appreciated by few, and
misinterpreted, if not despised, by most. And, poor good soul, he was
contented so to live, blessed by the charms of the higher life he led, and
of the pursuit of knowledge for its own sake. He never looked, there can be
no doubt, for any reward beyond what he daily received, the delights of his
own thoughts and pursuits; nor did he ever dream of any compensation before
he went, or after he was gone, by having his life interpreted to the world
in a book, as Cromwell looked forward to having justice done to him.
What were some of the causes
of this misunderstanding?
First, his odd appearance,
solitary studiousness, and unusual, old-fashioned habits inclined his
neighbours to think and speak of him as an "odd," "queer," and "curious
creetur." Then, his gazing at the distant stars and "pottering" about the
ditches and hedges, mosses and mountains, for what they contemned as weeds,
caused them to wonder at and despise the man that spent his time on such
things, and to count him "silly" or "no very wise"—a phrase which in
Scotland means not fully comjios mentis,—or at least as "having a crack"
about him; just as Robert Dick's wise contemporaries at Thurso looked upon
him as "the mad baker." As one of his friends who used to accompany him in
his rambles says: "When John began botany, he was looked upon as a half-wit
about Tough, and persistently attacked by hundreds who were in every way his
inferiors, except perhaps in personal appearance; and the poor man had to
endure no end of 'chaff." But John's philosophy was such that he "never once
saw him lose his temper" under the stings of these small flies, whose
attacks were most numerous when he first began to botanise. By-and-by they
became less so, as they got accustomed to the novelty and found the object
of their petty attentions imperturbable to their attacks, or too clever for
themselves. Ere long his unretaliating meekness and remarkable enthusiasm in
what seemed to them thankless studies, gained their increasing respect. On
John's removal to new districts, he had to undergo the same
misunderstandings and to conquer a place in their esteem, and in the end he
always achieved a high one. But even then and to the last, in regard to his
studies, which were a puzzle to them, he was reckoned by most of his
neighbours as at best an innocent phenomenon.
His uncommon style of dress,
and near-sightedness, combined with his constant habit of poking by the
highways and hedges as he passed along, caused even the children to notice
him and count him queer. One day some boys were returning from school at
Tullynessle, when one of them shouted out in alarm; "A madman! a madman!" At
once they all scampered over the dike for protection, to wait the advancing
terror. It was only John who was taking home a web under his arm, and
beguiling the time by looking for plants in the bottom of the roadside
ditch. One of the youngsters, John Taylor, who afterwards became a disciple
of his, knew John, having previously seen him at the same work, and relieved
his companions by telling them that it was only "the Droughsburn weaver."
His quiet unpretending look
made many think that his knowledge was much less than it was. Four young
gardeners from the Barn Yards of Fyvie, who knew something of plants,
determined to test the weaver on one occasion. Coming to John with a large
collection of native flowers, they tried him first with the more common,
advanced to the rarer, and ended with several new to themselves. John not
only named them with ease, but showed the way to discover those they did not
know, and gave their properties and habits. They told him of their
conspiracy, confessed themselves beaten, and complimented him on his
knowledge and practical skill.
A friend of the Rev. Mr.
Williams long refused to believe in John's "jaw-breakers," and stoutly
affirmed that he gave plants "thae lang-nibbit names oot o' his ain heed;"
and he was only a specimen of many more. John one day met him when he was
complaining of a pain in his interior regions, and told him of the efficacy
of the root of the Tormentil (Potentilla to-mentilla), which obtains its
name from its potent curative powers in certain "torments," or pains. The
man was induced to try John's prescription, and experienced satisfactory
results. When speaking on the subject shortly afterwards to Mr. Williams, he
remarked that the grand name of the plant he could not vouch for, his
scepticism even then asserting itself; but as to its effects, he could and
would stand up for them, concluding with the confession, "Man, John hens
mair ner ye wu'd think!" When Mr. Williams told John of this man's
conversion, he replied, "It's hard-won knowledge."
Even at the Milton of Cushnie,
where, in the houses of Mr. Williams' father and uncle, the old weaver was
more appreciated than in many places, he and the other children who liked
and respected him, looked upon him as "a great curiosity." Influenced by the
common talk about the man, they thought he invented new words for the plants
as he liked. On Sundays and other times when they walked with him, they used
to ask him the names of the same plants "over and over," in order to test
his consistency, like the great little critics they were, as Dr. Williams
tells. These, nevertheless, John never tired of repeating to them, "as
solemnly and willingly the twentieth time as the first." He seemed to think
them earnest students, but anything they did learn, they confessed, was "by
mistake;" and they rather made fun of the big words and "threw them about at
each other," remembering such sonorous vocables as Veronica beccabunga and
Veronica cizam edrys Iong after they had forgot the plants they designated.
In his encounters with
ignorance and prejudice, John had most trouble with his farmer and ploughman
neighbours, for he lived amongst them 'and met them yearly in the harvest
field. The notorious tendency of their class to play practical jokes and
make fun of what they do not understand, got abundant scope, as they
thought, with the odd weaver and his queer ways. From long intercourse and
not from mere prejudice, his opinion of his tormentors was not very high,
calling them generally "Johnnie Raws," a description he first heard from
Charles Black, who said it was originally used by a curious beggar that
wandered over the country in his young days. This man, who dressed like an
officer in the army, was most mannerly and unusually smart and intelligent,
rewarding his entertainers with exhibitions of his dramatic powers, when he
cleverly delineated several characters, amongst others "Mr. Polite," and
"Mr. Rompish," not sparing his bucolic friends, the "Johnnie Raws." They
often tried their dull wit on John in various ways, but seldom got the best
of it,—asking him the names of the plants when they met him on the road, or
called at his workshop as they sometimes did, and then laughing and ogling
to each other when the sequipedalian syllables fell from his lips, but
leaving him, not seldom, a flee i' their lug." [That is, with a sharp retort
that stuck to them,—a good example of the striking metaphors in common use
amongst the people.]
When John called one day on
James Black long after he had left Tough, he was asked if he continued to be
annoyed by the small witlings of the country as he used to be. John replied
that he was still a little troubled, but not nearly so much as before, and
told some stories of how he had played them out. One of these is worth
relating, both for itself and as a proof that there was much more acuteness
and humour in the quiet, meek-looking man than, to the very last, many would
credit him with; and this he also told to myself with dramatic power and
circumstance.
While collecting plants one
evening on the braes above Tough, John was met by a number of farm servants,
who thought they would get some fun out of the weaver about the "weyds" he
was carrying in his hat and in his hand. He showed them amongst other things
a sprig of juniper. They said they knew this plant quite well, and that it
grew "etnach [This is the name of the juniper in various parts of the
country, and is a bit of Gaelic—etin being the Gaelic name of the plant.]
berries." But one lad " kent a buss, a great big buss, an' nae leevin ever
saw a single berry on't;" and all the others knew the same bush well. John
at once saw a chance of both amusement and rebuke, if it should turn out to
be a female plant. Ho asked if there was only one bush, and was told that
there were none for miles around but itself; at least they had never seen
any. After learning that this bush, which had thus become famous in the
neighbourhood, was not far off, he asked them to lead him to the place, as
he wished to see it. So off the whole party marched to the spot.
They soon found the juniper,
a solitary female plant, as he expected, in full bloom; and there and then
he resolved to read them a lesson and "prove his ability as a man and a
botanist, who knew something of nature and nature's laws," as James Black
remarks. John said, "Nae doobt, ye think yoursel's clever chiels, but cu'd
ony o' ye mak' that buss bear fruit?" "Na, faith, na, John," they all
exclaimed, "we canna dee that; nor cu'd ye, 'less ye hae mair airt than yer
ain, man." John asserted that he could and would; and then, stretching out
his hands over the bush, he muttered several words in the manner of a
magician, which his astrological lore had made him familiar with, and ended
by declaiming—"Thou shalt bear berries for once!" The young men were more
than amused, they were astonished at the little man's whole style in a vein
so serious and unexpected, but they drowned their surprise in laughter. John
arranged with them, however, that at a certain time at the beginning of
winter, of which he would apprise them, they should all reassemble there, to
witness the fulfilment of what he had said. There they parted as the sun
set, and though trying to think it a good joke, the young bucolic critics
felt their merriment some what restrained, as if " coming events cast their
shadows before."
Next day, having to visit
Insch beyond Auchleven in connection with his work, John went to a locality
he knew, crowded with juniper, where he selected a large branch from a male
plant on which the pollen was ripe and unusually abundant. This he carried
all the way by the winding footpath over "the back o' the hill," across the
bridge of Don, and home to Netherton, with the pollen safely preserved—no
easy task on those breezy heights, over so long a distance. Next day was
bright and sunny, and he bore his tender burden to the solitary bush on the
hill. When the sun was in all his glory, shedding, refulgent, the necessary
light, heat and electrical influences—for as John remarked, "the plants are
creatures o' licht, and all their little transactions are done in open day,
having no evil to hide"—he shook the pollen-laden branch above the open
flowers below, sprinkling them skilfully with the all-potent dust. When he
visited the spot alone some time after, he saw the complete success of his
bold experiment, in the formation of a host of baby berries.
In due course, when the fruit
had reached maturity, he summoned his tormentors, who had forgotten all
about their encounter with the botanist, to witness the result. Their
surprise may be better imagined than described. As they stood speechless and
astounded at the sight—for, as John said, " they were na up till't, and, fat
was waur, they wi'dna be instruckit."—John concluded the drama by solemnly
declaring, that the bush never would bear another berry; and sure enough it
never did. The story got wind in the district, raising John in general
estimation as a botanist, if not as a magician, with powers that were "no
canny," and doing much to silence future aggressors.
Speaking of the subject
afterwards, in the Society at Auchleven, he said that, when he saw the
successful action of the pollen, "it gave him more happiness than if he had
fallen heir to a kingdom."
But John was depreciated by
not a few who should have known better; and about Alford, from first to
last, he was less understood than at Auchleven and elsewhere. In the Howe of
Cushnie, for instance, there flourished, for some years, another branch of
the Mutual Instruction movement. In accordance with his desire to act as
propagandist for his own studies and help in all intellectual pursuits, he
offered to read a paper, of which we have seen not unworthy specimens. But,
as one of the members informs me, "the secretary had the greatest possible
difficulty in putting him off. The services of a lecturer from a distance
were sometimes secured, and John was very, very anxious to give us a
lecture. Our trusty secretary, however, would not hear of such an outrage,
and had to coin divers excuses that would not hurt the old botanist's
feelings. It was a pity," he continues, "that he was so conservative and so
zealous for the honour of our society. We ought to have accepted John's
offer, and heard him lecture on the subject regarding which he could have
enlightened the best of us: but 'a prophet is not without honour save in his
own country,' especially if he be a carpenter there, or a weaver!"
A prevalent charge that
John's study of plants brought against him was, that he was idling his time
by doing such useless things. Now, if there was one thing more than another
true of the man, it was that he was not only industrious but hard-working at
his trade. When he indulged in botanising at any time, the hours thus spent
were fully made up by extra work at another time, either taken from his
sleep or his leisure. When his neighbours saw him outside gathering plants
during the day, that looked to them like spending time at play, when he
should have been at work "like other folks;" but they did not see him hard
at his loom early in the morning or late at night, when they were under the
blankets. Though he thus laid himself open to be misjudged as he was, he was
too proud, too self-contained, too careless of their opinion, or too
conscious of right, to stoop to explain.
The one great test to which
every pursuit such as John indulged is subjected by the worldly wise, with
their narrow foot-rule, is, "What is the use of it? "—or, as they express it
in Aberdeenshire, "Fat's the ees o't?" By this is meant, not true
utilitarianism, the broad range of use, but the narrow, hardening test of
its value in hard cash, worldly advancement, or personal advantage. John's
enthusiasm for stars and plants being judged by this criterion, he was found
wanting.
If there is a part of the
country where this narrow utilitarian rule of thumb is more constantly
applied to everything than in most places, it is the county in which John
passed the greater part of his life and pursued his thankless researches.
The real feelipg in this
meagre estimate of Duncan and all such students was that which is so
inimitably expressed by Dr. Douglas Maclagan in his clever satire of "the
Battle o' Glen Tilt;" [Written on the extraordinary attempt of the Duke of
Athol to prevent Professor Balfour and some of his students from passing
through Glen Tilt, on a botanical excursion, in August, 1847, before John
left Tough, in 1849.] which humorously describes an unsuccessful attempt by
a great lord, in 1847, some time before John left Tough, to stop a party of
botanists for trespass, in an excursion through the Grampians, over ground
John knew well. Of John, his contemporaries were ever ready to exclaim, as
of his fellow botanists;--
Some folk'll tak' a heap o'
fash
For unco little en', man;
An' meikle time and meikle cash
For nocht ava' they'll spen', man.
That chap wu'd gang a hunder' mile
For what was hardly worth his while
And a' to poo
Some girse that grew
On Ben Mac Dhu
That ne'er a coo
Would care to pit her mou' till t"
What's the use of it! That
question could be answered abundantly even in its narrower aspects, putting
aside the higher pleasure and profit of these pursuits. But John once gave a
reply which should have melted the heart of the hardest, had they known his
history, and of which we who know a little of his hidden tragedy, the secret
grief of his life, can feel to some extent the real pathos. When asked why
he went after the flowers so much as he did, and what benefit they were to
him, he replied that they might be no benefit in that sense; but they took,
it his mind, and he thought that, if it had not been for them, lie would
have gone wrong altogether. We now know something of what is implied in that
answer; and it surely, in itself, is a reply more than sufficient to silence
the everlasting query that assailed his cars—"Fat's the eese o't?"
But is it not sad that this
question, good and right and wise as it is when truly viewed, should be
asked and answered on the poor level on which it generally is? Is it not
time that our educators of all kinds, in the school, the pulpit and the
book, should try more earnestly and actively to raise the standard of
judgment, of the application of this true experimentum crucis of all work
and study? Is it not a grave censure upon our boasted educational and
ecclesiastical agencies, that this question should so long and so late have
remained on the low platform on which it still stands? |
