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EARLY in 1878, I wrote an
account of my visit and a short sketch of John's life, which appeared in
"Good Words" [In April, May, and June, with a portrait of the man and a
picture of the cottage at Droughsburn, neither of which were very correct.]
of that year. It roused interest in the man, both local and general. It also
brought him not a little substantial assistance from some who appreciated
his story and rare enthusiasm, as well as several visitors desirous of
seeing himself in his striking surroundings. With all this, the old botanist
was greatly gratified, as he had the best right to be; for the public
appreciation which he had never sought and which had been so much denied him
in his long and secluded life, had to some degree come at last, though late.
The Rev. Mr. Williams,
meeting him a little after this, spoke of "Good Words," and remarked, "So
they have found you out at last!" He looked very thoughtful for a little,
and then said, "I kent it wu'd come to that, come time." What precisely he
meant it would be difficult to say. It could scarcely be that he ever
anticipated becoming in any way famous in his lifetime, for of that there
was not the least likelihood, so far as he could expect or wish, and it is
most improbable he ever did. With such a quiet, simple soul, hidden away
from the world, fame was not and could not be
"The spur that the clear
spirit doth raise
To scorn delights, and live laborious days."
That "fair guerdon " he never
followed nor hoped to find, though it found him in the end. His pursuit of
knowledge truly was, if it ever was, "all for love and nothing for reward."
He may have only meant that he expected something to come of my visit,
though I was very careful to prevent any such impression being conveyed at
the time. Or, "did he mean," as Mr. Williams suggests, "that his devotion to
the beautiful flowers of God's creation, although unseen and unknown here,
would be seen and known and used in the beautiful land whither his failing
frame told him he was soon to set out? Probably," Mr. Williams thinks; "for
his words had often a deeper meaning lurking about them."
He called on James Black some
time after, and the conversation turned on the same subject. "Oh, John,"
said James after dinner, with his usual bantering earnestness, you're now a
great man!" "Oo, ay," said he; "am I?" Then, after a pause, "But, faith,
man, it pays, an' that's better!" smiled the blithe old man, entering into
James's key; "Sal, lad, it pays. Umpha! Twa notes an' a half whiles in a
day. Oh, wed, I ance got a' that frae a man awa sooth there, and I get a
note or some shillin's ony day. Sal, Jamie, dinna tell me," continued the
old boy, getting chirrupy and humorous, as was his wont in genial society, "dinna
tell me that leernin' gets nae reward!"
James walked with him into
town, and the conversation turned on one who had some time before showed the
sensitive man some slight on account of his calling in his worn
clothes—"meanly dressed," as was said; and John's old-world dress and queer
style were certainly trying to those friends who prized city style more than
country worth. John expressed his indignant annoyance, and concluded thus,
"Alan, Jamie, I hae leddies callin' at my door i' their carriages! Real
leddies; nane o' yer wu'dbe dirt! Their maids wu'dna look ower their
shouther at sich like as they, peer things!" Who could censure the old man,
then far above eighty, for this little elation at these late-found
attentions from his fellow-men, and also from rank that had till then looked
down on him or passed him unregarded by, even while living in his own
neighbourhood?
John parted with James,
asking him to convey his love to Charles, "dear Charlie," and tell him to
write him "ae letter sune, and to write it plain, as he wu'd read it aften."
Dear, simple, true-Hearted creature, how he did love that man! And Charles
did write him, warmly congratulating him on his new-found, well-deserved
renown—the sweetest praise John received—Charles only deprecating that the
himself had been so much and so highly extolled, in connection with his dear
friend!
During his long, hard-working
life, though labouring at one of the most ill-remunerated trades, which was
gradually being extinguished by modern improvements, he had always been able
to earn enough to make a living, and even now, in his old age, was in debt
to no man—a highly honourable achievement that few could have made in the
same or even in better circumstances. He had not only supplied his own
wants, but had always spared not a little for his needy family and their
poor connections, which he had for many long years regularly and
ungrudgingly bestowed — giving to his errant wife, paying for his daughters'
board, and helping them after marriage up to recent years. Even in 1867,
when he was seventy-three and his earnings were becoming painfully small, he
had to bear some expenses connected with the death of his wife's son,
Durward.
His one luxury had been the
buying of books. His food had cost very little; he had never spent money on
liquor; he had been no snuffer, though that habit was very common ; and his
extensive wanderings had increased his means instead of lessening them. But
books he must have. The money spent on them might perhaps have made him
richer in pocket, but it certainly would have rendered him poorer in thought
and happiness, if not, with his hidden sorrows, a wreck. Which of us could
have the heart to grudge him this one intellectual extravagance, saved, as
it undoubtedly was, from stomach and back?
After 1870, when trade became
daily duller and strength feebler, and when he had passed his seventy-sixth
year, for the first time in his life he began to feel the pressure of actual
want—the breath of "poortith cauld." He worked all the harder and later, and
did without a fire in his workshop even in winter, to save a little; still
trying to make ends meet, with the sturdy, admirable independence that had
always characterised him since he began to earn his own bread at ten years
of age, more than sixty-six years before. He was too proud, too sensitive,
too reticent, and too kindly and tender to others, to tell his wants and
fears even to his friends, who would have hastened to help him. The daily
lessening income and all that it meant, known but to himself, only made him
drive his shuttle the faster, to maintain himself free of assistance, debt,
or the dreaded pauper's dole—a dear liberty which it was one of the
strongest desires of his heart to preserve inviolate to the end, till he
should drop into the grave beneath his beloved flowers.
His books were numerous and
valuable, and, if sold, would have brought a considerable sum, which could
have loosened the stern grip of poverty and postponed, if not prevented, the
disgrace he feared. But with these, the dear companions of his long life,
pleasant studies and scientific struggles, he could not—could not—bring
himself to think of parting, even under such cruel straits ; especially
after testing his own endurance of separating from them, by selling a few of
the less important. His plants—these were still dearer than his books, each
a drop of veriest heart's blood; and he could not, would not, barter them
for heaps of gold even in dire extremity. No, no, a thousand times no!
But it became daily more
painfully plain to the decaying workman that the shuttle could no longer
provide even the little portion that formed his daily bread. He was getting
into debt to his landlord, and every day made it deeper. To his friends,
true though few, he would not apply, to save himself the pain of asking, and
them the obligation of giving, what he could now never repay. When need grew
greater, he did stoop to tell his only relative—and was refused! When work
became still scarcer, he even sought employment at a neighbouring sawmill,
willing, anxious, to do anything—except to beg—to win an honest penny! But
the evident unfitness and weakness of the tottering old man, in his
eightieth year, of course made his application unsuccessful.
As a friend, speaking of this
incident, remarks, his willingness to do the hard work connected with a
sawmill "illustrates, in a telling manner, his grand old spirit of Scottish
independence. Would even Burns," he asks, 'had he lived to John's age with
all its infirmities, have had the resolution to tramp to the sawmill and ask
for work?"
In 1873, so low were his
circumstances, with present needs and increasing frailties, and so sad and
down-hearted did he become in the darker prospects before him, that the old
man took to bed, sick with melancholy heart-ache, for the first time in his
life losing hope amidst the gathering blackness. What a new meaning did that
childlike and trustful petition in the model prayer of our childhood possess
now to John in his age and want—"Give us this day our daily bread!" And what
a new but inexorable commentary on God's only method of answering all such
prayers, did his darkening prospects afford!
How unutterably bitter and
heart-sore must have been the hours then spent by that keen, sensitive,
silent, pious and proud old man, in that dark, cold bed on the rafters under
the thatch of the solitary workshop, with the fire extinguished on his
hearth in the cheerless November, and the flame of hope only flickering on
its dying embers in his heart—alone in the world in that desolate hut,
widowed and childless, bread even denied him, strength departing when most
needed, and God seemingly deserting him in his old age! May none of us ever
catch the most distant glimpse of such agony!
But lying there in the dark
would not mend matters. Bread must be found, somewhere and somehow. Dire
necessity thus nerved his sick heart, and he rose to finish the web he had
in his loom, looking for more to follow. Hope increased with busy hands,
work came when this was done, strength grew with exercise, and the future
brightened. For a whole year after this taste of despair, he struggled on,
bravely facing the fiend that had grappled with him in the darkness and even
now stood grimly and cruelly in the near distance, with relentless look
towards him.
It was in vain. He could not
win enough to support dear life. But he was never again plunged into the
hopelessness from which he had then escaped. With the resolution that had
upheld him throughout life, even in the bitter waters of his home and heart,
he now nerved himself for what seemed to him the knell of life—at least, of
all happiness. In soul-crying silence, without a word spoken to any one, he
went down the Leochel side one winter morning, on the 2nd of November,
1874—to beg a pauper's portion! Ah, the pangs unutterable that act involved
to such a man! How sad his heart, how dark his prospects, how distant God,
as he trudged with reluctant feet along the familiar paths, which now looked
so different, on that forbidding errand ! Even the very flowers that might
have comforted him, as they did Wordsworth, [See his poem, composed after
the death of his only brother, the original of his portrait of "The Happy
Warrior."] in his woe, were dead and hidden from view beneath the bitter
frost and snow. Often, often as the same misery has been felt and most
powerfully sung, never was it more truly tragic and magnanimous than that
day by the Leochel, as transacted in the inner depths of that bent little
body that leaned on a tottering staff, while the soul stood bravely erect,
silent and alone, in dread darkness. But the energy of resolution prevented
any return of the despairing grief that had descended on him the winter
before. He had now steeled his heart to bear and to do—and he bore and
acted, outwardly without emotion or seeming difficulty, but inwardly with
pathetic repulsion and unutterable shame.
It is scarcely possible for
any one who has not seen and sympathised with the proudly sensitive and
nobly honourable feelings that in Scotland make such an appeal to the parish
so full of horror and dismay, adequately to understand John Duncan's
feelings in this transaction. His own nature revolted against such
dependence, and the traditional opinion and popular hatred of that condition
had burnt it deep into his heart as the last and lowest depth of disgrace.
May this feeling long, long exist in the country, a protection and an
impulse to higher endeavour after independence amongst our poor.
He arrived at the Poor
Inspector's after midday, and stated his circumstances. That officer took
note of these in his books, which bear that "his average earnings were only
about two shillings a week; he was failing in strength, and his trade was
almost gone." He then received five shillings, and at the first meeting of
the Board, on the 17th of November, 1874, he was formally admitted on the
roll of paupers, at an allowance of three shillings weekly ; and one of the
usual pauper's cards for entering the sums received, inscribed with his name
and number, lies before me. That badge was the consummation of his shame, as
it felt to him, and seemed to stamp him with the brand of Cain, which all
men might read. Yet every month for years, the old man carried it to the
parochial office, to receive his pittance, until the present inspector, Mr.
James Reid, now one of his trustees, a man full of the milk of human
kindness, used to bring it up to Droughsburn, in order to save John's
feelings. In May, 1879, through Mr. Reid's good offices, on account of his
increasing weakness and inability to work, he was boarded with Mrs. Allanach
at four and sixpence a week; and his old shop, in deference to his feelings,
was retained at the old rent, after the question asked by the chairman—alas
for local fame!—"Is Duncan a deserving pauper?" had been at once "answered
by a dozen in the affirmative." Thus did this keenly sensitive, aged man eat
a beggar's bread for six years in silence, till relieved in his last year by
the kindly gifts of admirers; never telling the painful fact to a single one
of his friends, whom he still used to visit as in his old days of
high-hearted independence. To me, he did not breathe a whisper of it.
In the year of my visit to
him, 1877, John's vitality, remarkable and vigorous as it had been, began
obviously to fail—and no wonder, for he had entered his eighty-fourth year
in December.
When he called on James Black
that summer, he had begun to look, as James expressed it in a letter to
Charles, "old in earnest." His skin "felt clammy with exhaustion," and his
power of walking was so much lessened that he had to stay a night on the way
to town. When James entered the house, finding John sitting by the fire with
his back to the door, he caught him by the shoulders and held him till he
laughed and guessed who it was. With his friend's good cheer and hearty
company, the old man greatly revived, and talked brightly of old days at
Whitehouse. Despite his inherent reticence, though with difficulty, he also
gave his friend details on certain points of his early life and domestic
experiences, confided to few, which Charles had asked him to get for him,
and which have been utilised in this history.
In the following year, 1878,
on the first Sunday of May—a favourite month of the old botanist's, as it
was to Chaucer, and as it has been to all lovers of nature, for then
"The floures gynnen for to
spring"
—he set out for church,
climbing the hill above the cottage that lay between him and the Howe of
Cushnie where it stood. The way was long—four miles to go—and the road steep
and trying to, the aged. But the day was smiling, the tender spring flowers
thrilled him with their opening beauties and countless memories, and he
gathered as usual some of his favourites to lay before him in church. When
he reached the top of the hill, he sat down on a stone to rest, and gazed on
the familiar prospect over hill and dale that stretched all round him, as he
had often done before. It was a sweet Sabbath morning that sent its soothing
peace into the good man's silent and receptive heart, and breathed a benison
on him and on all nature, linked to the man by subtle ties of knowledge and
sympathy, which few of the other church-goers could understand. Like
Wordsworth's Wanderer-
"Early had he learned
To reverence the volume that displays
The mystery, the life which cannot die;
But in the mountains did he feet his faith.
All things, responsive to the writing, there
Breathed immortality, revolving life
And quietness still revolving; infinite:
There littleness was not; the least of things
Seemed infinite; and there his spirit shaped
Her prospects; nor did he believe—he saw."
After resting for a space in
such "still communion," generated by "the blessed time" and his dear life
companions, that smiled to greet him all around, he rose to continue his
journey. But in doing so, a strange and new sensation swam round his heart
for an instant ; then all became blank, and he fell to the ground
insensible. There he lay for some time, unnoticed by any one, for the way he
had come was little trodden. By-and-by, with a bewildered feeling, he slowly
revived. Gazing round, he recalled his position, and with difficulty rose to
his feet. He was obliged to seat himself again, but, after some rest,
regained sufficient strength to totter towards the church, for it was the
Sacrament day—a holy time he would not lose, unless compelled by sheer
weakness. The sick man crawled along the road, till his pale appearance and
weak steps were observed by the schoolmaster, Mr. Reid. He ran to his
assistance, compelled him, in real alarm, to sit down, and brought him some
needed brandy. This friendly draught revived him much, and, in spite of
remonstrance, with his usual determination he insisted on going on to
church. Mr. Reid, seeing his weakness, kindly got his phaeton ready; and,
seated beside him, the old man was carried pale but smiling to church, where
he arrived almost restored to wonted vigour.
He sat out the long service
of the day, comforted and strengthened by the good words he heard from the
cheering text, strangely appropriate to his circumstances—"As for God, his
way is perfect: the word of the Lord is tried : he is a buckler to all those
that trust in him " (Psa. xviii. 30). His friends had crowded round him both
before and after :service, inquiring anxiously and kindly how he felt after
his "drow." [A fainting fit; a word from the Anglo-Saxon.] But he would not
complain, and, according to his wont, he tried to make light of the matter;
for to a nature like his, public sympathy at such times is pure pain. But as
old Mr. Williams said, on returning home that day, "I knew quite weel that
he was waur than he wu'd allow. Peer breet, ["Poor brute," a curious term of
endearment, used there and elsewhere in Scotland.] I doo't he'll never come
to the kirk ony mair."
After service, he was
refreshed by kindliness and food, and by a sympathetic and helpful gift from
the good minister, and, declining all offered conveyance and accompanied by
friendly feet, he walked homewards down the hill to the familiar cottage.
That was John's last visit to
church, and his first decided warning of the coming end. His stout heart,
which had for more than fourscore years done its work so well, was at length
beginning to fail, and, for the first time in their long journey together,
had ceased its vital offices—still willing and able, however, to continue
them for a period; only now, like a prophetic friend, giving due warning
that ere very long they must finally part company.
One day, the Rev. Mr.
Williams met the old man on the road, now tottering somewhat more than
before. After friendly greeting, "John," said he, "you're getting the worse
of the wear, I fear." "Ow, ay," brightly returned he, "jist at the fa'in,
like an aul' tumble-doon, feal dike!" Though, after this, his strength
wonderfully revived, he was never the hale old traveller along the paths of
time he had formerly been. Yet, when the lady called on him in July of that
year, and asked him to get the Linnwa borealis for her, as a memento of
himself and his cottage, the old spirit returned, and he fearlessly and
unflinchingly undertook for it the long and trying journey to Manabattock
Hill, in Tullynessle, on the other side of the Vale. But that terrible night
to the aged botanist, alone on the mountain, in the rain and the storm, was
an experience at his advanced years from which he never fully rallied; and
no doubt, in some degree, it hastened the end. As he remarked, in speaking
of it to a friend who inquired how he had fared, "I never cowered that day."
Before the close of autumn,
nevertheless, he was able to pay his friends in Aberdeen a visit, for his
vitality at his age was extraordinary. But he took four hours to find out
James Black's house, poor old man, and when he arrived there, was so
exhausted that, overcoming his unconquerable shyness even with intimates, he
asked for something to drink. This revived him, and he talked quite brightly
of my visit and the gifts the story had brought, thinking, as he always did,
that somehow "Chairlie was at the buddom o't!" which, in a sense, he was.
Next day, he called on Mr.
Beveridge, who noted at once a marked change upon the man. "Time was," he
says, "telling sadly upon him; his limbs were stiff and shaky, and his
appetite was poor." Though he was generally tidy in person, his beard was
fearfully overgrown, and William took him to a barber, who shaved him "clean
and snod" in what seemed to John an incredibly short space, no doubt the
first time he had ever sat under tonsorial fingers. On coming out, he
laughingly remarked, "how cleverly the chiel' had done the job!" He was
greatly refreshed by the operation, and still more by the steaming cup of
tea provided by Mrs. Beveridge on their return. He then toddled home to his
brother's house at Rubislaw, near the city, where he spent the night.
The last time John called on
Mr. Beveridge was in the following summer, two years before his death. He
looked greatly improved in strength and spirits, and was remarkably merry
over "Good Words" and the kindly presents from admirers it still brought
him. He stayed the greater part of the day, revelling as usual in the happy
past; and William parted with his "good old friend, alas! never more to meet
again in time."
In January, 1881, I sent him
a volume which gratified him much—"Leaders of Men: a book of Biographies
specially written for Youth," by "H. A. Page," our good friend, Dr. Japp,
who has produced many such high-toned books for the young. There John's
story, as given in "Good Words," was reproduced, beside such goodly company
as those of the Prince Consort, Commodore Goodenough, George Moore, Lord
Lawrence, and Robert Dick of Thurso. And John had already been a "Leader" in
his sphere, humble though it was. But his influence in this respect may now
be only beginning, and it is to be hoped that he will yet become a source of
"light and leading" to an army of kindred spirits, stirred by his life to
prove his deeper delights. |
