Edward had left Banff on the 31st of July, 1846, full of hope; after six weeks, he returned to it full of despair. He had gone to Aberdeen with his collection, accompanied by his wife and family; he returned from it alone and on foot, without a single specimen of his collection, and without a penny in his pocket that he could call his own. He felt ruined, disappointed, beggared—his aims and hopes in life blasted. He was under the necessity of leaving his wife and children at Aberdeen; for they could not travel fifty miles to Banff on foot.

Edward felt terribly crushed on re-entering his desolate home. A strange-like heaviness of mind came over him. The place was drear and lonesome. It was so different from what it had once been. It was no longer enlivened by the prattle of his children, or the pleasant looks of his wife. There was neither fire, nor food, nor money. The walls, which only a few weeks before had been covered with his treasures—the results of the hard labor of years were bare and destitute. The house was desolation itself.

After remaining there for a short time, a neighbor came in and asked Edward to come to his house and get some food. He most gladly assented to the proposal. He afterward went to see his master, and arranged with him as to the re-commencement of his work. This was easily accomplished, as Edward was considered a Don at his trade.

After this had been settled, he went to pay a short visit to a friend at Gardenstown, until his wife and family had returned from Aberdeen. Edward could not bear to remain in his house until they had come back: nor could he yet pay for their journey. But the carrier, who had taken the collection and the family to Aberdeen, cheerfully consented to bring the latter back free.

It was during this interval that Edward lived for a few days with his friend, Mr. Gordon, of Gardenstown. The place had long been one of Edward’s favorite haunts. He was able, in a sort of way, to enjoy the coast scenery, to see the busy fishermen going out to sea in the evenings, and to listen to the noisy clamor of the sea-fowl at Gamrie Mohr.

When Edward knew that his wife and family had reached Banff, he returned home, and was joyfully met by his wife and bairns. Home had already begun to look more homely. There was a fire to sit down beside, and a family circle to converse with. Care, despondency, and despair had already, to a certain extent, been cast aside. There would yet be peace and plenty about the fireside. Edward threw off the showman’s garb, and donned that of the hard-working sutor. Next morning he was busy at his trade, sewing, hammering, and “skelping away at the leather.”

During the ensuing autumn and winter he passed his time at his ordinary daily work. He refrained from going out at night. He had parted with all his objects in natural history, and he did nothing, as yet, to replace them. But his mind had been at work all the while. As spring advanced, he found it impossible to check his ruling passion. His day’s work done, he again started with his gun on his shoulder, his insect-boxes and appendages slung round his back, his plant-case by his side, and a host of pillboxes, small bottles, and such-like, packed in his pockets. Away he went, with heart as light as a feather, to search, as long as light remained, for tenants of the woods, the fields, and the sea-shore.

When daylight faded into darkness, he would sit down, as usual, for a nap—it did not matter where—by the side of a roek, on a sand-bank, in a hole in the ground, in a dry ditch, under the cover of a bush, behind a dike, in a ruined castle, or by the side of a tree : it was all the same to him. There he lay until the first peep of morning appeared, when he started up and was at work again. He continued, until he thought he had just sufficient time left to get to his workshop by the appointed hour.

His zeal was more than renewed. It was redoubled. He proceeded with even greater perseverance than before. His few friends warned him in vain. They thought he might spend his energies to some better purpose. If their advice staggered him, it was only for an instant. “One look,” he says, “at my cobbler’s stool dispelled every consideration. My wish was, at some time or other, to wrench myself free from my trade.”

He adopted the self-same plan that he had formerly employed. As soon as his day’s work was over, he started on his nightly expedition. During five months of the year he slept out — excepting on Saturday and Sunday nights, or when the weather was stormy. To his former equipment he added a small trowel for digging up plants and grubs, and a hammer for splitting fossils or chipping off parts of any rock that he might wish to preserve.

At first he used chip-boxes, to carry the insects which he collected during his tours; but he found them such a worry that he was obliged to use something else. He once bought so many chip-boxes from a druggist, that he refused to sell him any more until his stock had been replenished. Edward carried in them slugs, caterpillars, snails, worms, spiders, shells, various sorts of insects, eggs of small birds, and every other little knickknack that he wished to preserve. Here is his description of his hunting paraphernalia.

“My coat had eight pockets, four outside and four inside. The two lower inside ones were ‘meal-pocks’ for size. My waistcoat, too, had four rather big receptacles: the term ‘waistcoat-pockets’ could scarcely describe them. Besides these, I had a number of bags or wallets hung over my shoulders, or tied round my middle, or under my coat, according to their intended uses. I had also several queer-looking things which I carried in my hands, and called accessories for there is no other specific name for the articles. Nevertheless, all had their quota of chip-boxes, except my butterfly and moth case, and my plant-book. These were generally kept sacred for their respective purposes.”

On one occasion Edward went out for a three days’ ramble among the Balloch hills, between Keith and Huntly, about twenty miles south-west of Banff. The purport of his journey was to collect butterflies, moths, and various objects. He had not his gun with him, but he had many more chip-boxes than usual. A friend of his had often urged him to bring him a lot of ants for some birds, and Edward determined to satisfy him. He had been very successful in his search, and had also filled many boxes for his friend.

On the afternoon of the third day, while he was busily engaged on a wild, wide, and desolate moor, he was startled by a sudden flash of lightning. Had he been attending to the weather instead of to his own pursuits, he might have seen the brooding clouds wending their way toward him from the south. He might then have found some convenient shelter from the impending storm. But after the first flash of lightning, it broke upon him almost at once. He had scarcely got his things put in order, and the ant-boxes deposited in his coat-pocket, when down came the deluge. None but those who have been under the influence of liill-rains can have any idea of their tremendous force. It is like the downpour of a cataract. The rain falls in sheets, in waves, almost solid. Nothing but the stiffest weatherproof can keep the water out.

Edward’s first thought was shelter! But where could he find it? Not a house was to be seen; not a wall, not a tree, not a bush. He could not find even a hole in a sand-bank. There was nothing that he could see around him but a dreary, bleak, wide-spread moor. Nevertheless, he set off, running as fast as he could, in the hope of at length reaching some friendly haven. After having run a long time amidst thunder and lightning, through water, moss, and heather, he stopped for a moment to consider where he was running. There was still no sign of a house, or hut, or shealing. The place where he stood was crossed by numerous paths, but he knew just as much of the one path as he did about the other. The country round him was one wide expanse of moor-land. There was nothing before him but moor, moor, moor!« He saw no object that could serve to guide him. He merely saw the outlines of the nearest hills faintly visible through the watery haze; but he did not recognize them. He began to feel himself lost on a lonesome moor.

He was now at his wits end. Having been for some time without food, he was becoming faint. And yet he could not remain where he was. He again began to run. The sky was now almost as black as night, and the sheets of rain were falling as heavily as before. Only the vivid flashes of lightning enabled him to trace the direction in which he was going. He plunged into bog after bog, extricated himself, and then ran for life. Sometimes he came to a likely track and followed it; but it led to nothing— only to a succession of tracks which led off in various directions across the moor. At last he ran straight forward, without paying any regard to tracks. By continuing in this course he eventually came to a road—a gladsome sight, because it must lead to some dwelling or other. But which way should he go? He knew nothing of the direction of the road, for he had altogether lost his reckoning, and every landmark was invisible.

After a few moments’ consideration, he bethought him of the direction in which Huntly might possibly lie; and as that town was his intended destination, he faced about, as he thought, in that direction, and commenced running again at full speed. After having run for about a mile, he came in sight of his destined haven—a house. It stood on a slight elevation, with its back to the road, and was surrounded by a turfmand-stone wall. Collecting his remaining strength, he ran up the slope, cleared the dike at a bound, and rushed into the house without further ceremony.

He found two little maidens inside, who looked rather frightened at his sudden appearance. And no wonder! He must have looked more like a lunatic than a naturalist. Being completely exhausted, he threw himself right down on a seat without speaking a single word. When he recovered his breath, he asked pardon of the little damsels for running in so unceremoniously; “he had been overtaken by the storm.” He asked them if he might be allowed to rest there until the storm ceased?

“I dinna ken,” said one of the girls; “oor mither’s nae in. She’s oot breakin’ sticks; but,” she added, “I dare say ye may.”

There was a good fire of sods and peats on the floor. Edward went toward it, with his dripping clothes, to dry himself. He now began to look at his belongings. He first took off his hat, which was the hiding-place for many of his treasures. He found that the bundles of rare moss which he had picked up on the moor, and also the flies which he had pinned into the crown of his hat, were all right. His hat was usually two-storied; we wish we could have given a section of it. The lower part contained his head, and the other, above it, separated by a thin piece of board, contained mosses, birds’ eggs, butterflies, insects, and such-like.

He next proceeded to take off some of his wallets; but, just as he had begun to remove them, he heard the girls behind him twittering and giggling. Turning round, he saw one of them pointing to his back, and trying to suppress her mirth.- He could not imagine the reason. Another and yet another stifled laugh! On his looking round again, they rushed out of the room; and then he heard them exploding with laughter. The cause of their merriment was this: the storm of rain had soaked Edward to the skin. Every pocket and wallet was full of chip-boxes and water. The glue of the boxes had melted; the ants, worms, slugs, spiders, caterpillars, and such-like, had fill escaped, and were mixed up in a confused mass. They shortly began to creep out of the innumerable pockets in which they had been contained. It was because the girls had seen the mixture of half-drowned spiders, beetles, ants, and caterpillars creeping up the strange man’s back, that they rushed from the place, and laughed their full out-of-doors.

Edward was now left to himself. The girls had doubtless gone to fetch their mother. He began ’to think of beating a retreat, as lie seemed to have been the cause, in some way, of the girls leaving the house. Hut at that moment a woman of prodigious size and attitude appeared at the threshold. She stood stock-still, and looked at the stranger furiously. lie addressed her, hut she gave no reply. He addressed her again, louder; but she was still silent. He looked at her again. In one hand she grasped a most formidable-looking axe, while in the other she held what looked like the half of a young tree. She was tall, stout, and remarkably muscular; her hair was of a carroty-red color, and thickly matted together; her dress was scanty; she was bare-legged, but wore a pair of old unlaced boots, such as are usually worn by plow-men. With her axe in one hand and her pole in the other — with her clenched teeth and fierce aspect—Edward could entertain no other idea of her than that she was mad, and that her intention was to brain him with her axe! He could not rush past her — her space filled the door-way. He could not overpower her, for she was much more powerful than he was. His suspense was dreadful.

At last she moved one step forward; then another, until Edward thought he might plunge past her and escape. But no; she opened her lips and spoke, or rather yelled, “Man, fat the sorra brocht ye in here, an’ you in siccan a mess? Gang oot o’ my hoose, I tell ye, this varra minit! Gang oot!” This appeal brought Edward to himself again. He apologized to her for entering her house, and begged her to let him remain until the rain had ceased. “Not a minit!” was the sharp rejoinder; “ye’ll pit my hoose afloat. Besides yer vermin, ye’ll pit’s a’ in a hobble if ye dinna gang oot!”

He protested that he had nothing to do with vermin; but as he spoke he lifted up his hand to wipe something ofi his cheek. It was a hairy oobit! He was in a moment alive to the woman’s expostulations. On looking to his clothes, he found that he was a moving mass of insect life. He cleared the room in a bound, regardless of the woman’s axe and cudgel. He went into an old shed, threw off his coat and waistcoat, and found them a mass of creeping things. On searching his pockets, he found that all the chip-boxes had given way, and that the whole of the collection which he had made during the last three days was lost. He might have collected the insects from his clothing, but he had nothing to put them in. He now found that he was the lunatic, and not the woman. Before he departed, he apologized to her for the trouble he had caused her, and then he departed homeward—a sadder if not a wiser man.

After this adventure he never again resorted to chip-boxes. He used little bottles for holding beetles and various insects. He had also a light, flat box, about nine inches square, for containing the more fragile portion of the insect tribe, such as butterflies and moths. Before he pinned them down, he gave them a drop of chloroform to put them to sleep, and prevent them destroying their beautiful plumage. When lie met these tender creatures reposing on a flower, he would always, if possible, drop a little chloroform upon them, and thus end their struggles. Then he boxed them. By this means he secured many splendid specimens,

His hat was also an excellent insect-box, and a convenient receptacle for many things. He had a false crown put in the upper part of it, well stored with pins. And even when he went out to walk with his wife and children, he would occupy part of his time in looking for and storing up moths and butterflies, so that not an opportunity nor a moment’s time was lost.

He carried his caterpillars in a tin box, with several compartments; and his snails in a similar box of smaller dimensions. His eggs, after being emptied, were put into a sort of canister; and being well packed with cotton wool, they very seldom broke, although he carried them about with him for days together.

Whenever he shot a bird or animal, his first business was to fill up the mouth and nostrils with cotton wadding, and then to search for the wounds and fill them up. By this means he always got his specimens home clean. This he found to be indispensably necessary with sea-birds, if he wished to bring them home unsoiled.

Being unable to purchase presses for his plants, he used heavy flat stones, and boxes filled with gravel and dry sand. These answered very well, and were all the presses he ever had.

After his first exhibition at Banff, Edward became a general referee as to all natural and unnatural objects found in the district. People of all sorts brought “ things ” to him, to ascertain what they were. Sometimes they were rare objects, sometimes they were monstrosities. His decision did not always satisfy the inquirers; and then they sent the objects to some other person, who, they thought, knew better. They always found, however, that Edward had been right in his decisions. When he knew with certainty, he gave his opinion. When he did not know the object, he said he could not give an opinion. And this was, doubtless, the best course to adopt.

Several of his friends told him that he ought to extend his investigations into Aberdeen, and even into Elgin. They did not offer to help him, but they advised him to go. He had now eight of a family, and his wages, allowing for extra work, only amounted to about fifteen or sixteen shillings a week. To range the counties of Aberdeen, Banff, and Elgin, in search of objects in natural history, while he was maintaining his family on such slender wages, was therefore an altogether impossible task.

His wife was his best helper. She bound all his upper leathers, and also the upper leathers of several of the other workmen. The wages paid to her were distinct from the wages paid to Edward. Very often, instead of spending her earnings on clothes or bringing the money home, she would buy for her husband bottles for his insects, wood for his bird-cases, or powder and shot for his gun. None of his advising friends ever helped him in this way.

And yet Edward did extend his investigations farther into Banffshire, and even into Aberdeenshire. With that view he obtained a certificate, drawn up by the clerk of the peace, and signed by sixteen justices of the peace, enabling him to go over the country with his gun, in search of birds and other things. He always carried this certificate with him; and when he presented it to a gamekeeper, he. was allowed to go wherever he pleased. The certificate was as follows:

“These are to certify that the bearer, Thomas Edward, shoe-maker, who is in height about five feet six inches, has dark eyes raid hair, much pock-pitted, round-shouldered, and about thirty-five years of age —is, in addition to his other calling, engaged in collecting and preserving various objects of Natural History, particularly those objects which relate to Ornithology (Birds), Oalogy (Eggs), Entomology (Insects), Helminthology (Worms, etc.), and Conchology (Shells);—That, for the purpose of procuring Ornithological Specimens, he is under the necessity of using a Gun, but in doing so, We, the undersigned, have never heard of a single case of poaching being brought against him; and, as far as we know, he is not in the habit of killing Game of any sort, nor of destroying property of any description, which, were he in the practice of so doing, being so frequently out with his Gun, he could not, we think, have escaped public notice so long—having resided in this town for a period of sixteen years, during which time he has borne an unimpeachable character.

[“James Duff, J.P., etc, etc.]

“Banff, March, 1850.”

Edward was now in the prime of life, yet he was drawing very heavily upon his constitutional powers. Sleeping out-of-doors nightly, whether the weather was fair or foul, subjected him to many attacks of cold and rheumatism. Yet lie had no sooner recovered than lie was out again at his nightly work. He was still as wild a birdnester as he had ever been in his youth. lie would go to any distance or to any place to find a bird or a bird’s nest that was new to him. lie would run up a tree like a squirrel, and come Hown again with the birds or the nest.

He would also walk or climb up a precipice when a nest was to be had. Of course, lie had many falls. Hut what of that, if the object was gained? The most dangerous fall that he ever had was at Tarlair. The circumstance may be described, as a specimen of the dangers which Edward ran in his pursuit of natural history. The author went to see the place, and was afraid to look down into the chasm among the rocks into which the naturalist had fallen.

The little valley of Tarlair is about three miles east of Banff: it is not far from Macduff. The road to Tarlair is along the bare bluff coast; and when you reach the top of a lofty point, you see beneath you a green grassy valley indenting the rocks. At the inner end of the valley is a little well-house, where inland people come during summertime, to drink the mineral waters. Eastward of Tarlair the rocky cliffs ascend higher and higher—rising to their loftiest height in the almost perpendicular cliff of Gamrie Mohr.

The place at which Edward met with his accident is at the projecting point of the valley above mentioned, where the rocks begin to ascend. Not far from the mouth of the valley there is, in the face of the rock, a very large, high, and wide-mouthed cave or chasm, fronting the sea. The back wall of the cave, as well as the sides, contain a number of strange-like openings, and fantastical projections, one of which is called “ the pulpit.” Edward often sat in the cave, and also slept in it; but he never preached in it, though he several times brought down sea-gulls and hoodie-crows with his gun. The bottom of the cave is thickly covered with stones and bowlders thrown in by the sea, which, in storms, dashes with great fury into its innermost recesses.

In the roof, and near the front of the cave, a few martins build their nests every season. As Edward was coming home one morning from his night’s work, and while he was walking under the cliff, intending to come out at Tarlair, he observed one of the martins flying out of the cave, and shot it. Instead of dropping at his feet, it fell on the top of the cliff. How was he to get at the bird ? He might have gone round a considerable way, and thus reached the top of the rock; but this would have involved the loss of considerable time, and he was anxious to get home to his work.

There was another way of getting at the bird, and that was by scrambling directly up the face of the cliff. He determined on adopting the latter course. Usually, when ascending rocks, he used to tie his gun to his back, as both hands were required to grip and clutch the edges of the rock above him. But on this occasion, not wishing to lose further time by buckling on his gun, he determined, dangerous though it was, to ascend the precipice gun in hand. By grasping the stones above him with his hands and nails, and putting the tips of his shoes into the crevices of the rocks, or sometimes only on to a little tuft of grass, he contrived to haul himself up. He managed very wTell until he reached about the middle of the ascent, where a bend occurs in the rocks. There he became fixed. To come down, unless headlong, 'was impossible; and to go up seemed equally impracticable. In that case he would have had to drop his gun, and smash it to bits on the rocks below. This he could not afford to do. Still, he could not stay there. With bated breath and steady eye, he clutched a little projection of rock standing out far above him. He caught it, clambered a little way up, then secured a firmer footing, and at last reached the summit in safety.

His troubles were not over. They were only beginning. He looked about for the bird. It lay only a few yards from him. It was on the edge of the cliff, and seemed apparently dead. On stooping to pick it up, it fluttered, raised one of its wings, and went over the precipice. In his eagerness to catch it, or perhaps from the excited state in which he was from mounting the cliff, Edward grasped at tlie bird, missed it, lost his footing on the smooth rock, and fell over the precipice. His gun fell out of his hand and lodged across two rocks jutting out from the beach below. Edward fell upon his gun and smashed it to pieces; but it broke the force of the blow, and probably saved his life. A fall of at least forty feet on rocks and stones would certainly have killed most' men, or at least broken many of their bones. When afterward endeavoring to recall his feelings on the occasion, Edward said, “I remember that on losing my balance my gun slipped from my hand, and I uttered the exclamation, ‘Oh God!’ Then my breath seemed to be cut by a strong wind which made me compress my lips. I shut my eyes, and felt a strange-like sensation of a rushing sound in my ears; and then of coming, suddenly and violently, with a tremendous thud, upon the stony rock.”

His breath was gone, and it was long before he could recover it. He was for a time utterly senseless. On slightly recovering consciousness, he thought he was under the influence of a nightmare. He seemed to be in bed, and saw before him hideous faces, grinning and grimacing, like so many demons. He tried to shake them off, to shut them out. But no! the monsters were still there in all their hideousness, and still he was utterly helpless.

At length two plow-men, who had been working in the adjoining field, and seen Edward fall over the cliff, came forward to its edge, and looked down upon him wedged among the rocks. “Ye’re no dead yet, are ye?” said one of the men. Edward was unable to make any answer. “Fa is’t?” said the other man. “Ou! it’s that feel chiel that’s aye gaun aboot wi’ his gun and his wallets!” The men looked down again in consternation, with eyes that seemed about to leap from their sockets. Edward at length began to feel about him. lie felt himself wedged in as in a vise, between two long and oval pieces of rock, and quite unable to set himself free. The two countrymen went round by the Tarlair pathway, in order to get Edward out of his fixture. It seemed to him an age before they arrived.

They at first took him by the shoulder and tried to lift him out; but this was so painful to him that at last they desisted. They then tried to remove one of the rocks between which he lay clasped: this also proved fruitless. Edward then observed that the other rock, which they had not yet tried to remove, consisted of a loose shale. It had either dropped from the cliff, or been tossed inshore by the sea. Edward desired them to try and move it a little; but their joint efforts proved unavailing. Many attempts were made to no purpose. A stout fisherman then appeared on the scene. He put his shoulder to the rock, and the block was at last moved sufficiently far so as to enable Edward to be dragged out of the vise.

He sat down and felt himself all over. His left shoulder and left side were extremely sore. The back of his head was also very painful. But he was thankful to find that neither his arms nor his legs were broken. He was not so sure about his left ribs. He was very much bruised and cut on that side. One of the splinters of the gun-stock was found sticking through his coat. An old copper powder-flask, which he had in his left pocket, was as flat as a flounder: all its contents were dashed out.

Edward entreated the men to help him to get to the cave. He thought that, if left there for a time, he would soon recover. He got upon his feet with difficulty, and found that his spine had been hurt. With the help of two of the men, he was at last able to walk very slowly to the cave. *They urged him to allow them to carry him to the cottage near the mineral well. But he preferred to rest in the cave. They prepared a bed of sea-weed for him, on which lhe lav down. His protectors then left him, and, spite of his pain, he fell asleep. He must have slept some time, for he was awakened by the murmuring of the sea, which was fast approaching the cave.

Finding that his sickly feeling bad left him, and that be was on the whole, much better, although his left side and shoulder were still very painful, be gathered himself together and rose to his feet. He staggered about a little at first; but be was at last able to return in search of his gun. He found it in a woeful plight. The stock was broken to bits, and the barrel and lock were laid in the hollow. He gathered up the fragments of the companion of his travels for so many years; and, divesting himself of the heaviest of his wallets, lie left them in a corner of the cave. Then, keeping bold of the rocks, be contrived to reach the inner side of the Tarlair valley. From thence be bad a weary walk to Banff. He took many rests by the way, and at length reached home in the afternoon, sore, sick, and weary, and went to bed. His wounds were then looked to. It was found that none of his ribs were broken, and that be bad only sustained some severe contusions. It was, however, nearly a fortnight before be could do any work. A month elapsed before he could walk to Tarlair for the wallets and remains of his gun, wbich be bad left in the hollow of the cave.

To support his family during his illness, he was forced to sell a considerable portion of the collection which he had made during tbe last few years. Although it was not so large as that which he bad exhibited at Aberdeen, it contained many rarer birds, insects, Crustacea, zoophytes, and. plants; and it was, on the whole, much better got up. He sold about one hundred cases at this time, consisting chiefly of preserved birds, insects, and eggs. He also sold about three hundred plants, and more than two hundred zoophytes, besides about one hundred minerals or fossils. Among tbe plants were a great number unnamed. He had as yet no botanical books, and the friends to whom be applied could not supply tbe names. They considered them very rare, if not new and unnamed.

It was a great blow to him to sell a portion of his second collection. But he had no help for it. It was his only savings-bank. When other means failed him, he could only rely upon it. He had no friends in his neighborhood to help him. His specimens went to many places, far and near. A considerable portion of them went to Haslar, near Southampton, where one of the hospital surgeons was making a collection of objects in natural history.

Perhaps Edward might have got more money for his collection if he had broken it up and offered it in lots. Professor Dickie was willing to buy a number of his specimens, and to pay a good price for them; but this would have involved a considerable loss of time, and also a considerable increase of expense, he was therefore under the necessity of disposing of the whole at once.

“Whatever,” says Edward, “may have been the real cause of my ruin and want of success, I must say that, although I was not supported and encouraged, I had no real claim upon the inhabitants of Aberdeen. I certainly do owe many of them — particularly those of the upper and middle classes of society—a deep debt of gratitude for their courteous attention and their offered hospitality. Although circumstances did not allow me to avail myself of their kindness, I have never forgotten the unfeigned favors which they proffered me. I know that some of them were deeply offended at my refusing their invitations ; but had they known of my deplorable position at the time, I feel certain that their feeling of offense would have given place to the deeper and softer feeling of pity for the unfortunate.”