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FROM what I had heard of
Duncan from Charles Black, whom I had known intimately for years, I
conceived a strong desire to visit the old man and make his personal
acquaintance.
Though too long prevented
from gratifying my wish, in September, 1877, I saw the Vale of Alford for
the first time. In company with a friend, the Rev. Thomas Bell, the minister
of Keig, a botanist and entomologist, and a guest of his, the Rev. Mr.
Johnstone, of Stranraer, I paid John the long-desired visit. Mr. Bell had
called on him before, and was greatly interested in the man. I was quite
unknown to him even by name, and my coming was altogether unexpected. On
account of his sensitive reserve, only the minister of Keig and myself
entered the workshop at first. We found him seated alone at his loom, in the
streaming sunlight, behind the gauzy screen of threads and sticks, and busy
with his shuttle as it made its merry music. The aged weaver, thus
all-unconscious of our entry, formed a picturesque sight that would have
made a pretty composition in lights and shadows. That one glance fulfilled
the hope of years and raised the liveliest anticipations. After finding his
way with some difficulty up the narrow passage between the looms and the
winding-wheels, the clergyman advanced towards John, gave him friendly
greeting, and introduced me as one who had come a long distance to see him.
He looked very old, and well he might, for he had entered his eighty-third
year, and his vigour, remarkable though it had been, had now largely abated.
His head was uncovered, and we could see that it was not yet bald, the hair,
only a little mixed with grey, falling from the crown all round and hanging
over the brow. At once he ceased his weaving, and replied to the minister
with evident pleasure, excusing himself for not returning his last visit, on
account of the recent bad weather. The presence of a stranger seemed to
create some shyness, as he turned to say that he was glad to see me ; but
the mention of his friend, Charles Black, at once stirred a pleasure that
raised a bright smile and lighted up his eye and countenance. That name had
evidently struck a deep chord and wakened distant memories, for he was
silent and absorbed for a little; but it charmed away at once and for ever
his constitutional reserve. We soon got into active conversation, as I told
him of Charles and his many tales of their past lives, and my own long wish
to see a man so great a student of plants and so dear to one I so much
esteemed.
After talking for some time,
he returned to his loom, according to his custom, to reflect in silence on
what he had heard, and to save time, for he generally talked to his friends
amidst the clatter of the shuttle. He worked slowly, but with great
regularity, earnestly watching the progress of the web and scanning the
threads to notice any defects as it grew under his hands. Old as he was, he
was "gleg o' the e'e," [Quick-sighted and keen, applied to any of the
senses, but chiefly to sight.] as he said, and seemed to miss nothing; for
all at once he caught an error in the warp, leant forward over the beam, put
his head and arms through the cords, and tied the break with smartness and
success. His hands were withered and wrinkled, the fingers bent, and the
joints thick and knotted with long tying of threads and digging of plants.
It was astonishing, for a man above eighty, how well he did that trying
work.
By-and-by the third visitor
was introduced. His entrance seemed for a little to cause a return of his
natural shyness, for John shortly turned again to his web. He felt no doubt
as if he were being interviewed, but the sunny countenance and pleasant
humour of the new-comer speedily put him at his case.
Pointing to the "pirn" wheel,
which stood opposite the loom where he was working, I asked, "Who fills your
`pirns' for you, John?"
"Ow, I dee't mysel'! " said
he, with some surprise at the question.
"Dear me!" said I, for it is
not usual for the weaver to do this work; "is there no woman to do it for
you?"
"Na, na!" replied he, "no,
for this mony a year. Besides, I dinna need their help, and I manage awa'
bravely mysel'; so that I am independent o' them. I like to be independent,"
said the little man, and his voice and look told this better than words.
"And do you wind your own
warp too?" continued I, turning to the tall warping machine t that stood
opposite his loom.
"Ay, ay! " said he briskly;
"I do the hale thing mysel' frae beginnin' to end. I get the spun threed
frae the women that employ me, that's a'; and frae that I manage a' the lave
wi' my ain hands, till it's made into claith and ta'en hame ready for use.
Ye see, sir," he went on, "when I becam' a weyver, I made up my mind to be
ane, and to maister the hale affair—and I did it; and tho' I say't mysel',
fyow cu'd beat me." There the old man revealed the stuff that had carried
him through his hard life and harder studies.
As we were pushed for time,
we expressed a wish to see his collection of plants. John rose with
alacrity, and went to the other end of the room, near the open door, which
shed there a much needed gleam; for the small dim panes, overshadowed with
trees, admitted only a diminished light, except where the sun shone directly
on the loom. When he stood up, he appeared exceedingly round-shouldered and
bent, the effects of years and the stooping required by his work and
studies. He was clad in moleskin trousers and vest with sleeves, without a
coat, and with a coloured napkin loosely tied round his neck. He wore the
usual small white apron of the weaver.
At the end of the room near
the door, stood his boxes and chests and parts of old looms, and on the top
of these lay a mass of papers and some books. These papers contained dried
plants. They were sadly covered with dust and "stoor," and had evidently not
been moved for some time. The plants were contained in rough, home-made
foolscap volumes of white and brown paper and newspapers. I opened several
of the books, while we all looked on. The specimens were laid down in the
usual manner on the front of each page, but they had been much disturbed,
and sadly showed the extensive ravages of moths. When I crushed some of
these destroyers with an expression of annoyance, he remarked, "Weel, weel,
it's a peety, but I canna keep them clean noo, as I ance did, I can tell
you. But," added he, with a quiet smile, "they were ance leevin', the puir
things"—referring to the plants —"and they're leavin' again, ye see!" thus
hiding his pain at the loss of his treasures behind a touch of humour. But
they could scarcely have been other than wasted, even in better
circumstances for preservation, for many of these plants had been gathered
by him forty years before.
I was so saddened and
disappointed at the sight of what I had looked forward to see with keen
anticipation as a rare and valuable collection, that I could not continue
the inspection, and asked if these were all; hoping that they were but
duplicates and waste specimens, and that the best were still to come. [I
found afterwards that we only saw a small part of his better herbarium
containing the specimens now in Marischall College, which he never opened
out unless there was ample time to examine it.]
Key in hand, he opened one of
the chests close by the door and revealed a more cheering sight—a large
number of books in very good condition. The under side of the lid exhibited
the coloured pictures and printed matter he had pasted there to brighten the
box and increase his pleasure when he consulted his library, herein partly
contained. After turning over several books, at which we casually glanced,
he produced two parcels carefully wrapped up in paper and tied with many
strings. One of them enclosed a good and pretty large collection of the
Grasses, in a book well bound in canvas and interleaved with blotting paper.
The plants were fastened by cross strips of paper to each page with all the
care of a practised hand, and duly inscribed with their technical names. The
whole volume was neat, clean and carefully preserved, and the plants were
classed according to order and species. The other parcel comprised the
general wild plants of the neighbourhood, scientifically arranged and
pressed with like care and neatness. These were the collections prepared for
the Alford Horticultural Show in 1871. He showed them with quiet pride, and
had kept the tickets announcing the honour then achieved. Our praise of
these collections raised the old man's spirits, somewhat depressed, as ours
also had been, at the state of the other plants, and greatly gratified him.
New animation seemed to inspire him, and his face wore a brighter and more
youthful expression that was pleasant to see. After the general
misunderstanding under which he had lived all his life, the presence of
sympathetic spirits, students of his favourite subject, and the praise of
admiring eyes, were like water in the waste to the thirsty wanderer. The
carefulness with which he handled these finer plants was very great. Though
I turned them over with all tenderness, he could not restrain himself from
nervously saying more than once, "Tak' `tent' noo; tak' 'tent.' ["Tent"
means attention and care, and is derived from the same root as attention,
tendo, to stretch.] See ye dinna hort them!" as he bent keenly over me,
while I turned the leaves.
"But that's no a'," he said,
after we had finished looking at these two volumes. He then lifted some
other books from the chest, till he came to a larger parcel, which he
,delivered into my hands, with animated countenance, saying, "Look there noo,
and see fat's there!" We had no notion of what was within, but John's proud
bearing and beaming countenance raised our expectations.
I unloosed the string that
bound it, unwrapped the paper, and found a similar string and wrapper
inside. This I untied and uncovered, and again a third string and wrapper
appeared. Once more untying and unfolding, I only exposed a similar
protection within. "Dear me, John!" exclaimed I, "what have you here? Is it
your silver plate, or a grand presentation, or what is it?" "Oo, just gang
on," replied John, "and ye'll ken in due time!" He evidently enjoyed the
lengthened process of revealing the mystery, and chuckled to himself with a
growing humorous glee. After the fifth cord and wrapper had been removed,
there was revealed—a book! It was manifestly a favourite with John, and must
enclose something better and rarerthan we had yet seen. And it did. It was a
collection of the Cryptobamia of the district, the obscure mosses and their
allies, one of the hardest sections of the botanical field for any one to
decipher, however expert and skilful.
As our Galloway friend
remarked, the book was certainly well named Cryptogamia, for it was hidden
as in a crypt, fold within fold, and buried under many a tome deep down in
the bottom of a chest! John enjoyed the joke with evident relish, and still
more our spontaneous and unrestrained expressions of surprise when we opened
the -volume and saw what it contained. It was a victory to the dear old man
to gain such rare praise from appreciative students of the flowers, as sweet
in its way as when he first discovered the Li;rnaw. Was it vanity or
childishness Lobe so elated over so small a matter? God send us all such
vanity and simplicity!
The plants had been carefully
pressed and neatly fastened on and named, and were scented with camphor to
preserve them from the moths. We were truly surprised how an old man, his
study of the cryptogams being recent, had been able to make out such obscure
species; for they require the most minute and even microscopic examination.
They certainly formed no mean monument of his enthusiasm and of his love and
knowledge of the science. [John used to say truly that the llieracia, the
Hawkweeds, and the Salicaceo, the Willows, were "eneuch to fleg a young
botanist."" The Cryptogamnia might have "flegged" one so aged.] The precious
collection was sympathetically examined and then closed, as carefully
covered with its multitudinous wrappings, and then restored to its old
hiding-place in the bottom of the box, below its protecting companions.
Our time had now expired, and
leaving John to put away the books, we turned to say good-bye in the
doorway. But the old man would not permit us to depart so coldly, but, with
the true feeling of the worthy host and gentleman, conducted us, bare-headed
as he was, to the gate at the bottom of the garden; and, cordially shaking
hands with us all and thanking us for the visit, which he said he had
enjoyed, he bade us good night.
On the following day, I made
my way alone once more to Droughsburn. The weather was fine, the Leochel
flowed down its quiet valley in the bright sunlight amidst the ripening
corn, and the retired nook where John lived, with its willows and rowans,
seemed more removed from the outer world than before. I found him outside in
his own little plot, bare-headed and bent but hale and bright, having come
out for a rest from toil, for nothing cheered and restored him like the
flowers. The enclosing dike was crested with honeysuckle in bright blossom
and sweetest scent; and the Woody Nightshade, with its lurid flower, rose
prominent above the rest. John gave me cordial welcome and a warm shake of
the hand, and seemed in excellent but quiet spirits. After some remarks on
the plants, we entered his house, and seated ourselves opposite each other
between the two looms. He placed himself with his back to the front windows,
through which the sunbeams streamed and prettily touched his head and eager,
intelligent face. He was brighter and more communicative than on the
previous day. My relations with his bosom friend, Charles, had evidently
opened to me his solitary and silent heart, and I enjoyed the glow created
by memory and friendship.
As he sat, he told me in
considerable detail, amongst other things, the story of Linnmus, suggested
by some subject we had mentioned, characterising him as "a gran' chiel, [Or
chield, a young man, often used with endearment. Pronounced cheel or cheeld;
the same word, likely, as the English childe, as in "Childe Harold." It
occurs frequently in the old ballads.] an awfu' clever man, wha had to fecht
his way up frae naething, for they were to mak' 'im a shoemakker." Thus, in
delightful Doric, which somehow sounded strange regarding one so associated
with bristling technicalities, he told of the early struggles of the great
Swede—his going to college, assisted by "a kind and bonnie lass," to whom
"the only return he cu'd mak' was by-and-by to mar'y 'er ; " his journey to
Lapland; and his afterwards rising to dignity and renown.
"Do you not feel lonely," I
asked, "thus living by yourself, your family gone, and Charles so far away?"
"Na," said he, "only noos and
naps. ["Nows and thens," the English "now and then."] Ye see, I hae my
newspaper, for I aye get that, and my books; and there's aye the bonnie
floo'rs to look at. Oo na! I'm no lanely!"
"Do you ever get tired,
working so hard, now that you are getting so old?"
"Some," said he. "But then I
just rise and gang aboot a bit, and oot to the gairden to see the floo'rs
for a wee. And a body, ye ken, maun just begin again!" continued he, with
cheerful practical philosophy; "but I aye likit to wirk."
We continued our talk on many
topics mentioned by me and suggested by incidents and associations as they
occurred. He discoursed pleasantly and fluently—of God's use of poisonous
plants for the cure of diseases; of the most useful of plants, the potato,
belonging to the dangerous order of the Deadly Nightshade; of his own
medical practice by use of herbs, and of the successes he had had with them
in his own and others' experience; of the Loch of Drum, and his dangerous
adventure there; of his searching for the Bladderwort in Tillyfourie Moss;
of his methods of learning and remembering the difficult technical words in
Botany; and similar bits of science and reminiscence, described in capital
Scotch, and seasoned and .illustrated with apt saw or sentiment from his
rich "proverbial philosophy." When I told him anything that greatly
surprised him, he burst out in simple tones of wonderment, exclaiming, "Od
be here, man! Ye dinna say sae?"
As we thus sat talking, the
bright sun was shining outside and streaming pleasantly through the cords
and beams of the loom. I wished much to get John out into the field, that I
might see more of his habits and let the flowers do their office of
suggestion, and I proposed that we should take a walk. He was ready at once
to go, and was evidently willing to devote the day to me, as, certainly, I
was to him. He rose, put on his broad bonnet, and, shutting the door of his
dwelling, staff in hand, he led the way up the hill behind the house. He
walked at a smart pace, with short steps, leaning forwards on his staff,
which was put down on the ground with each foot, being apparently required
to support him. The way was rough, there being no proper path except the
field or dike side, but he would not accept any assistance even in difficult
places, as when getting over the dike, climbing fences, or pushing through
the tall broom on the steep hill slope. "Na, na, I dinna need ony help, sir,
thank you. I can manage awa fine." Yet, tottering as they seemed, his steps,
though short, were firm and smart, and he moved onwards at a good rate. He
could still take long journeys, going, for instance, some four miles over
hill to church, which he still attended very regularly; and undertaking to
visit my friend, the minister of Keig, next summer, a promise which involved
some sixteen miles of a walk! "I only need a little time noo, ye see," he
explained. "I ance didna, for I was a smart walker i' my day, and can do
something till't yet. Mony a fit I hae gane, I can tell ye."
He led me first to a quarry
of twisted Silurian slate; there largely developed; for in the valley of the
Leochel, we were west of the granite upheaval of Alford and Benachie. We
then ascended to one of the prehistoric cairns so common in the north. It
was circular and some twelve yards in diameter, once surrounded with tall
standing stones, some of which still remained, and covered with sloe bushes
and vegetation—known as " the Captain's Cairn." John told me that the cairn
was once high and large, but, with much indignation, that the stones had
been removed to build the factor's dikes--a not unusual fate for such
antiquities during the blind Vandal period of our history, scarcely yet gone
by. He gave the usual local explanation of such remains, that some great
captain or chief had died in a great battle that took place there. Rising
through wet bog and tall broom and whin, which completely hid us from view,
John led manfully upwards, though it was hard upon him. He would
nevertheless move on alone, evidently believing, to the last, in "a stoot
heart to a stey brae," [A steep brae Qr hill slope. From the Gaelic, and
occurring in many names of places in the Highlands, as the Braes of Lochaber,
of Portree, etc.] as he had always done in more things than in
hill-climbing. The Grass of Parnassus catching his eye as it grew in the vet
places of the hill, he called on me to look at "that bonnie snaw-white
floorie!" in tones of truest appreciation as well as in words of correct
description. When shown by me the backward movement of the sensitive stamens
of the Rock Rose (Heliantlaemum vulgare) after the base of the style has
been titillated, which is certainly very striking, he exclaimed, in
childlike wonder, "Ay, man, ay! so it does! The cretur has sense!" He was
exceedingly taken with the phenomenon, [This property, which he knew, as
John Taylor informs me, he had forgot for the time. We have several British
sensitives, with active and striking powers, such as this one ; the barberry
stamens ; the open stigma of the mimulies, which smartly and firmly closes
when touched, especially under sunlight; and the spurred spores of the
horse-tail, which move like long-legged insects, as seen under low
microscopic power.] and frequently repeated to himself, "Ay, man, ay! ay,
ay!" as if pondering over the sight and its suggestive relations.
We climbed at length to "the
croon o' the hill," where he wished me "to see the view." It certainly
commanded a splendid prospect, looking down, on the one side, across the
fine Vale of Alford, with Benachie at its far extremity; and on the other,
away to the south, over a sea of rounded, rolling hills, like heaving waves
on a calm day in mid-ocean, the taller peaks of the Grampians rising beyond,
still adorned with gleaming patches of snow and surmounted by the fine top
of Loch-na-gar. We rested there for some time, enjoying the far-stretching
scene and the warm sunshine. He talked fluently of the various plants and
places and features of the hill and landscape, which afforded him abundant
matter for remark ; and I exceedingly enjoyed his interesting communications
and picturesque speech.
Near the top of the hill,
there is a shallow loch or marsh, where he had found some good water plants.
He pointed out the site of a wood, now cut down, on the other side of the
valley, just opposite, where he had discovered the rare Pyrola secuiada, or
Serrated Winter-green.
That short saunter with the
old man revealed him more than ever, and I enjoyed it immensely. I was
delighted to see him out in the field, under the blue sky, and amidst the
plants he had loved so long and so well. I felt how pleasant and instructive
a companion he must have been in his younger days, when mind and body were
full of his enthusiastic vigour.
We wandered slowly down the
hill again towards the burn, he leading the way, and entered the cottage. We
were welcomed by Mrs. Allanach, a striking-looking old dame, with abundant
traces in face and figure of the tall, handsome and good-looking woman of
earlier life, though now bent with rheumatism and needing a staff. The house
was kept sweetly clean, both "but and ben," [In the kitchen and the better
room, for there are but two in such cottages. The words are derived from
be-out and be-in, the better room being reckoned the inmost one or
sanctuary.] by the youngest daughter, a growing pretty girl, active and
bright-smiling, who bade fair to reproduce her mother's youth.
We sat in the cheerful
kitchen chatting for some time with the vigorous old lady, who is a splendid
talker in first-rate Scotch, while the young housekeeper prepared a meal for
us in "the best room." Mrs. Allanach told me that the last year had made a
"terrible odds " on John, and that he was now not like the same man, as if
natural decay were rapidly beginning to tell upon him. She was sorry I had
not seen and known him in his more active years. At length, John and I
retired to "the other end," where a homely but substantial meal was neatly
laid down on a snowy cloth, consisting chiefly of the home produce of the
field and the byre. We did full justice to the viands after our appetising
walk, seasoning our rustic meal with "smooth discourse and joyous thought."
After finishing, we once more
entered his own room and went over his books, which I wished much to see,
and which he was justly proud to show.
The day had passed with a
strange speed to me, and, as evening was now drawing nigh and I had a long
way to return, I was reluctantly obliged to go. Staff in hand, he
accompanied me down the burn, that sang its evensong beneath the cress and
scented mint, and along the highway some distance towards Alford. The
sunshine was bright and warm, and the valley of the Leochel was filled with
a calm sunset light, as we walked on together, pursuing the pleasant talk
that had winged the hours with such delight to me and happiness to him. I
told him how I had enjoyed the time I had spent with him; how it had
realised a happiness I had looked forward to for years; and how, seeing he
looked so well, I hoped ere long to come again to Droughsburn, before he
passed to his long home. I told him that I should write his friend, Charles,
of my visit and all I had seen and heard. This visibly affected him, and
touched a chord that trembled on his lip and gave a pearly-brightness to his
eye. He assured me that he had enjoyed the day, and would remember it, for
he now had few to visit him, and fewer to understand and sympathise with his
pursuits; and he sent his best remembrances and many messages to Charles. We
shook hands, warmly and parted. I went back to the outer world of work, and
he returned to his solitary labour and study and contentment, in that
retired hollow among the hills. |
