|
Flowers, ferns, and mosses,
must for a time disappear, and give place to troubles, disappointments, and
sorrows. It is a bard work-a-day world in which we live. Misfortunes follow
close upon pleasures, however innocent; and we must set ourselves to bear
them as best we may.
Dick was never a rich man. The most that he could do was to make both ends
meet and keep out of debt. He could even spare a little money to buy books.
Before 1860, we find him buying from the Thurso book- . seller the History
of British Lichens, the Coloured Ferns of Britain, Sowerbys Ferns, and the
Handbook of British Mosses.
But after that time his business fell off rapidly, and he had to be more
sparing in his book-buying. It must be said of Dick that he closely attended
to his business. Only once do we find him confessing that he had stolen a
morning from his daily work; and that was when he went on his long journey
to Freswick, to search for shells among the boulder clay for his friend Hugh
Miller.
Though he often left the town at midnight, his bread for the following
morning had been baked before he left. It was sold during the day by his
housekeeper. And he was always back to Thurso to resume his work on the same
evening. During the interval, he had been rambling over the county, and
sometimes walking from fifty to eighty miles—wandering under the red
sandstones on Dunnet Head—or travelling to Reay, the Dorery Hills, or Strath
Halladale. His journeys to Morven were usually made on the fast days, which
gave him a day extra.
He lost his business principally through
excessive competition. When he first went to Thurso, there was only another
baker besides himself. He was then comfortable enough,—though he did all his
work himself,— never employing either a journeyman or an apprentice. Two
more bakers commenced business in 1856. Each of these took a certain share
of his trade ; and, of course, his business fell off. Writing to his sister
in May 1856, he said: “ The mischief done me can never be repaired here.
I’ve lost much, and am still losing; and what is worst of all, I am losing
my health. I have not had a day’s health since February last, and goodness
knows that if I had to take to my bed all would be over. And is it not very
hard, and a poor reward for the twenty-five years of toil and privation that
I have had? Very hard indeed! I wish I could get away; but where to, or what
to labour at, I know not. To go abroad seems ridiculous in every way, as I
would either have to try to be a shepherd or a day-labourer. Sometimes I
think I might contrive to work in a malt-kiln, but perhaps I could not get
that even if I tried.
“And thus my existence is embittered. Years, many years ago, I saw the dark
clouds gathering close about me; and now it has all come true. Often was I
on the point of leaving. But infatuated procrastination always whispered,
‘Try again.’ I did 'try again,’ but it was of no use. It only led to further
loss. And losing, and losing slowly though surely, in spite of all my toil
and care, until my small means are so reduced that I hardly now dare to look
into the future. O if I had only gone away four years ago! If I had gone
then, I should have been stronger in Means, stronger in Health, and, above
all, stronger in Will and determination. Alas! I feel that by and by I shall
be as soft as a piece of boded fish!”
Though stdl engaged in finding fossd fishes for Hugh Miller, and collecting
botanical specimens from the grasses, ferns, and mosses of Caithness, the
thought was constantly in his mind of how he could get away from his losing
business. At one time he thought of getting admitted to the Coastguard
service; but he found that he was too old for the position. But could he not
yet remove from Thurso, and set up as a baker elsewhere? Muckart, a village
near Kinross, was mentioned to him; but he said, that “no man in his senses
would set his foot there.” Then Bannockburn, near Stirling, was mentioned:
would that do? “No,” said he; “I have a dread of weaving places. Weavers
often suffer great misery, and a stoppage of trade is clean ruin.” Another
place was mentioned, where a business was for sale. But he had not the means
of buying or carrying on the trade. And thus he was left at Thurso, to “try
again ”!
Matters became worse and worse. More bakers appeared in Thurso, and his
trade again diminished. Some of them sold whisky and groceries, besides
carrying on the baking business. Whisky was a great competitor; for
Caithness folks are very drouthy. The Reverend William Smith of Bower, whose
members, and even whose elders, were much addicted to the use of spirituous
liquors, once addressed his congregation as follows: —"My brethren, we are
told in the Scriptures that the elders of old were filled with the Holy
Spirit; but now-a-days, they’re filled with John Barleycorn!” One may guess
the wind-up of his sermon.
Dick was thus very heavily handicapped, as he lived by baking alone. He then
thought of carrying on a tea business, and thus adding to his income. But
the idea was abandoned. One of the whisky and grocery bakers determined to
undersell all the bakers in Thurso. He did so, and afterwards became a
bankrupt. But Dick gained nothing from that. In the contest he was nearly
ruined.
“How many bakers, think you,” he writes to his sister in 1862, “are now in
Thurso? Six master bakers, and thirteen apprentices! All doing well, they
say!
Who rises earliest? Dick. Who is the oldest? Dick. And yet Dick has not made
a fortune! I wish I had left here in 1843,—that is, eighteen years ago.
There is no use in repining. Yet how manfully I have battled, no one knows.
You see, from one of the, papers you sent me, that a baker’s wife at Alva
drowned herself in Devern river, and that a baker at Cupar-in-Fife has
hanged himself. It did not surprise me.”
His sister offered to send him money and clothing. Robert refused the help.
“Things have not come so far as that yet,” he said. “If they had, I should
need a strait jacket. To those who have to struggle by their labour for a
living, the prescription of coddling and nursing is about the worst
treatment imaginable. It is neither good nor profitable in any way. When any
man or woman consents to receive such things as you spoke of, and for such a
purpose, then adieu to all self-dependence and self-respect. Then, ten to
one, the individual would become degraded and useless. You have no idea how
injurious it is, both to soul and body, to wear next your skin what one
never toiled for. Besides, your income is little enough for yourself.”
And yet Thurso was improving. Many new inhabitants were added to the town,
but very few of them came to Dick’s counter for bread. Pavement-cutting had
superseded herring-fishing. Many new flag quarries had been opened out, and
those who had fished for herrings now cut flags for pavement. Many of the
old Highland cottars, who had been driven from their homes, also resorted to
Thurso for the same purpose.
“In fact,” said Dick, “the flag-trade here is everything; I and the town
increases from day to day, chiefly by additions from the surrounding
country. The town is all new-streeted and new-roaded. No dirty water runs
along them now. There are three policemen to keep down dunghills. We have
three new churches, two new banks, and a gaswork. There is a fine statue of
Sir John Sinclair in front of the Moderate Kirk, alias the Establishment. We
have a new hotel, a new court-house, and new shops. Whole rows of new houses
have been built. We have a steamer to Orkney, a steamer to Leith, and a din
about a railway* In fact, nearly everything has been changed, except the
fields round the town. These remain very much the same, being fenced with
flagstones set on end. When I came first to the county, many of the poor
people never saw the sun until they came out and sat down at the ends of
their cots. But now, there are very few houses without windows to be seen,
though there are as many swine as ever. Poor cottars are now dressed like
ladies and gentlemen—nothing but silks and parasols. ‘Jack’s as good as his
master,’ and sometimes he thinks himself a good deal better. A dreadful
place for money-gathering, all coupled with a tremendous thirst for sermons
and prayer-meetings. Notwithstanding this, we have scraping and lying all
the week through.”
None of this prosperity affected Dick. His business was steadily falling
off. And yet “the weary siller” must be worked for. He was now getting old,
and felt himself unfitted for entering upon any new occupation. He would
have emigrated, but he had not the means. Nor could he remove to any other
place, for the same reason. He was bound like a limpet to its rock. But for
his love of nature, it must have been a lonely life that he led. He seems to
have had few friends to whom he could communicate his joys or his sorrows.
At least he never mentions them in his letters to his sister, in which he
mentioned all that he knew, and all that he was doing. The principal person
about him was his old housekeeper, Annie Mackay, whose half Highland,
half-Scotch conversations, he sometimes mentions to his sister. Here, for
instance, is a specimen:— “Och hane! I’m thinkin’ it’s yeersel that’s in the
starvation countrie, wi’ yeer eggs at saxteen pence the dizzen, and yeer
coos’ butter at twenty pence the new pund! Och a nee, the like o’ that’s a
farlie! Fat gars ye spike that waa, and consither a firlot little when she’s
muckle ? Eh-a? I dinna see yeer mistaaks, and hoo ye read yeer paper upside
doun. Fan yeer wark is deen, ye gang oot by an’ kill yeersel and no be
sorrin at the fyre. That’s fat ye sud dee, an’ if ye dinna, ye kenna fat’s
the consequence, nor hoo a’ study wearies the flesh. Forbye, ye tak cauld,
and get giddy in yeer head, loss understandin’, and coup ower, an’ mistaks,
damage things, and brak. Fat wye? Fat sense’s that?
I dinna see ony intinuit.
“I canna see hoo ye see, I canna mak oot hoo ony Christan genlm is to gang
oot in mires, brakin stanes amang snaw, and seekin’ whistles in a moor
hill-side. ]STa, na; he’s fustlin’ eneugh in Lonon [this must refer to Sir
Eoderick Murchison], sittin in a chair toastin’ his taes, and lookin at
Africa wye two thousin lochs amang mountains. Forbye ye mistak sair a’ the
warl’s wyes, an hoo anither thing says one thing is meant. An’ foo, unless
yeer astonishmen’ is greet, yeer need to spike is *little.”
Dick seems to have been much amused by the conversation of his housekeeper.
She was a very careful woman. She never wasted a farthing’s worth of her
master’s goods. When beggar children came to the door, she was firm in her
resistance to their entreaties.
“The breed wuna hers, but the maister’s.” The bairns waited until the
maister was at home, and then they had their serving. For Dick was always
generous to hungry children. “My kin’ maister,” said Annie, “was very fond
o’ bairns that wud be clean an’ tidy. Mony a time he gaed a piece ta ony
poor bodie that cam to the door.”
Another thing that kept Dick poor was his honesty. He gave full weight—full
measure and running over, lie never scrimped any poor person of his bread.
His quarter-loaf always contained four pounds full; whereas the loaves of
many of the other bakers were short by about four ounces. Their two-pound
loaves were short by about two ounces. Thus, cheating had the advantage over
honesty, of six per cent on every loaf of bread sold. That was a profit by
itself; but few people had the means of weighing their bread, to detect the
honesty or dishonesty of their baker, and therefore the cheating went on—to
Dick’s ruin. Yet he never relaxed his principle of giving full weight.
“Honesty’s the best policy,” continued to be his maxim. He felt that it was
better to die than be dishonest.
In a letter written to his sister at this disconsolate period of his life,
he says :—
“I have not much of a hopeful kind around me, and yet, as I have a sun and
moon of my own, I am generally very cheerful. I often take some hearty
laughs when no one is near me. I am nearly indifferent to the whole world.
But that won’t do either. I keep always moving—never indulging in idleness
or lying in bed in the morning. Up at four o’clock, or half-past four at
latest; sometimes at three o’clock.
“There is a baker here that lies in his bed till seven or eight, and his two
apprentices keep knocking at his door until he rises. He goes dabbling on
till eight or nine at night. Besides parridge, wife, and bairns, he knows no
more. That’s not worth living for. People came into the world for something
better.
“I am working at my plants perseveringly; and whatever is to be the end, I
keep moving. . . . Nor am I ignorant that all my toil is vanity, in one
sense, and perhaps in every sense. I am indifferent nearly to everything.
Hope of any real happiness in this world is out of the question.”
And again:—
“I have been poring every spare minute over dried mosses. I have been so
engaged during the last month. Not long since, I had the eager curiosity to
walk out one night, when I picked up a very nice moss by the light of the
moon! You may ask, how could I do that? Thanks be praised, I’ve got my
eyesight, my feelings, and I can grape too. It was a very frosty night, and
hailstones lay thick upon the bog; but I knew the exact spot where the
mosses grew. I had taken a look at them some six weeks before, and found
them in prime condition. The world was asleep. Mosses, not Moses. I often
consult Moses’ writings. How fine that is about the scapegoat sent into the
wilderness, with the cord about his horns, bearing a burden that he did not
feel. Splendid Bible that!
“If any friend asks you about your brother Robert, you may say that he
inherits the blessing of Jacob’s son. If they inquire which son, you may say
the one who was likened to an ass stooping down between two burdens’—with
this difference, that instead of two, your brother has a score or two of
burdens. He knows by sad experience that ‘rest is good.’ But he is at times
so wearied and sore that he cannot find rest. And further, the person who
said that ‘ the harder the work the sweeter the rest/ never toiled hard in
his life. But there is nothing for the machine that has been long in use but
to keep it going, otherwise it would fall to pieces. So I always keep in
motion, though the battle is not half won yet.”
One of his troubles was that his eyesight was becoming defective. “You see,”
he said to his sister, “that I am on the decline—not in bodily strength, for
I can walk sixty miles without a rest—but in eyesight. I have to use
spectacles with candlelight, either in reading or writing. I am employing my
spare time in working at my plants. I have arranged fourteen hundred
specimens, but I may say that I have three thousand specimens altogether,
because of the varieties.”
His sister sent him a new pair of spectacles, bought expressly for him at
Edinburgh, but they did not suit his eyes. “It is a sad annoyance to me,” he
said in reply, “that I cannot read with them—the more especially as I can
hardly live without books, and my time for reading is principally in the
evening. As it is, I must endure the drawback. Few and scanty are my
pleasures ; indeed they are such as are usually despised by thoughtless
people. I will surely try to live an inoffensive life, though I’m no
favourite with anybody. I have a great deal of unknown grief. This world’s
people have almost left me, and I struggle hard, very hard.”
His sister at once sent him a new pair of spectacles, and they suited him
better; but he said, “It is rheumatism that has been troubling me, and
giving me that dreadful pain in the eyes. . . . Your petting is not good for
me. I’ve been so long accustomed to rough usage, that your kindness seems
quite unnatural. I have laid my own specks aside, and am trying your pair,
but there is no abatement in the rheumatism—not one hair. I pay for reading
as dear as ever. It is certainly rather hard that there should be any tax
whatever on the means of acquiring knowledge.
“I am pretty indifferent to the thought of growing old, if I could only read
as freely as I used to do. Nothing like the natural eyesight. I never
wearied then. I did not need to squeeze my eyeballs or my eyelids, to get
relief. If the pain were constant, I should be truly miserable. But as yet
the infliction merely comes and goes.”
In the autumn of 1862, Professor Wyville Thomson, then of Queen’s College,
Belfast, called upon Mr. Dick at his bakehouse, and had some conversation
with him as to the fossil fishes of the Old Bed Sandstone. The Professor was
introduced by Charles Peach, and was therefore made cordially welcome. After
some conversation about fossils, Dick turned to the subject of Botany, and
the Professor promised, so far as he could, to furnish him with the
specimens of dried plants of which he was still in want. On his return to
Belfast, he sent Dick a list of British plants, and asked him to mark those
which he required for his herbarium.
Sir Wyville Thomson has favoured us with the following recollection of his
visit:—
“My acquaintance with Robert Dick was very slight, but I was greatly struck
with all I saw of him, I had been working at the Old Eed beds in Orkney with
William Watt, another very remarkable man, somewhat of the same character;
and crossing over by Thurso, I spent two or three hours with Dick, whom I
knew about through my old friend Peach. I was specially interested at the
time in the structure of Coccosteus, and had got some fine specimens in
Orkney, with all the outer armour plates capitally preserved; but I remember
Dick showing me some curiously preserved examples from beds of a different
character near Thurso, which threw a good deal of light upon the form of the
cartilaginous part of the skeleton.
“Dick was a singular man—very shy and retiring, and not very easy of access
in his bakehouse. Peach had a very great regard for him. He was intelligent,
and fairly well read on all matters. One fancy he had was for Egyptian
antiquities, and his bakehouse was all over with Egyptian hieroglyphs. He
was a good botanist, and a very intelligent geologist. He did not, however,
believe in the succession of species, and would never have done for a
Darwinian. His firm conviction was, that all living creatures had been on
this earth at the same time."
The result of the visit was, that Dick promised to resume his researches
into the fossil fish beds near Thuiso, and to send the result of his
findings to Professor Wyville Thomson at Belfast. Winter was approaching,
and the days were shortening. Thus some time elapsed before he could further
communicate with the Professor. He thus described the result of his labours
to his sister:—
“My spare time,” he said, “is very limited; and seeking fossil fish in
stones at this season (Februaiy 9, 1863) is like playing at Blind Man’s
Buff—all a-groping in the dark; and it is at the same time attended with the
severest labour. As yet, I have found nothing extraordinary. I am fairly in
for a search amongst the rocks until the first of April. While the weather
is cold, I don’t mind smashing away with a hammer on the rocks; but when the
air grows mild, the toil becomes too much—and all for amusement! ”
In the meantime, a letter arrived from Professor Thomson (February 18, 1863)
congratulating Dick upon recommencing his labours among the rocks. “I will
try to be careful,” he said, “but there is great pleasure in change. An old
fact looks so fresh when you look at it through a nice new green theory! At
all events, I am right glad that you have taken to the old fishes again. I
never saw in my life a little set from which such a lot of information could
be extracted as from yours. I think I must come north again for a longer
look at them.
“You have one specimen which could throw a deal of light upon a question I
am working at just now—a dorsal plate of Coccosteus, which has a sort of
double appearance, - as if there had been a thick plate of cartilage below
the bone. I was more taken up at the time with Asterplepis; so I just
glanced at it. But now, when I am writing about Coccosteus, it comes back to
my memory. I do not remember the size of the specimen, but it would be a
great favour if you could lend it to me for a few days. I do not know if you
ever do such a thing, but it is a common practice among us working men.”
“Can you tell me anything new about Coccosteus? All information would be
most thankfully received at present. The next set I mean to take up is
Asterolepis.”
Encouraged by this letter, Dick proceeded with his researches among the
Thurso rocks. After the lapse of a month, his sister wrote to him to inquire
what new fossils he had found; and he thus (March 10, 1863) described the
results of his labours:—
“When I promised,” he said, “to look out for specimens for Professor
Thomson, I had faint hopes of finding anything. I had overhauled almost
every accessible rock from Portskerra to John o’ Groat’s House; and that too
so very patiently, that I knew, or thought I knew, that very little
presented itself on the external surface worthy of the toil of digging. I
resolved, however, to try the sea-shore. I there noted all the changes that
had occurred since the date of my last visit.
“A furious storm had been hammering upon the rocks since then. Storms make
havoc of stronger things than ships. What power a stormy sea has! Its
incessant thunderings upon the shores often make a new section of the land.
It washes away the bitumen, and leaves new strata exposed, so that they may
be traced in layers, one above the other. I now found many large blocks of
rock, which a hundred men could not move, tossed about as a strong man would
toss a football.
“As the sea had gone thundering along over the rocky ledges, the waves had
torn up and removed many of the lesser masses, thus exposing to the curious
eye numerous fresh surfaces. I ran eagerly to examine them; for there, if
anywhere, I knew that I might have a chance of finding fossils. My luck was,
however, very ordinary. I found many scales of the size of halfpennies; bits
of bones; bits of fins; and little sea-shells. I found, also, bits of
plants, hard and black. In one spot, a large stone had been driven along,
and by its weight, as it grated on the rocks, had exposed what, to the
inexperienced eye, would seem a trifling bit of bone. I saw it, and laughed
aloud. I knew it! I knew it, though not more than the breadth of a
penny-piece lay exposed ! The rest was under the stone.
“I returned home, but not without marking many wonders. On the following day
I returned to the stone, with my hammer and chisels. After fully an hour’s
hard labour, I dug out the bone, and carried it home with me. I afterwards
cut it neatly with a saw. It now awaits Professor Thomson. No one can give
him such another bone. A truth! I have a few small fishes, fish-heads,
plants, shells, and sundry other things, for the Professor, and I expect
more; but ’tis awful hard work.”
Dick also gave the following account of Professor Thomson’s visit to a
geological friend in London : “ The Professor very kindly offered to assist
me with a few of my desiderata in dried British plants. I thought I would
try to get a fossil or two for him in return, before I drew upon his
kindness; and this notion sent me with renewed zeal to all my old haunts by
the shores. . . . Since two weeks after New Year’s day, I have been working
at intervals. My hardihood has been put to a severe enough test. Only think
of my hammering at the rocks for fossils in a snowstorm!” Unfortunately, the
fossils which Dick had intended for Professor Thomson were not sent to him.
The reason of that omission will be explained in the next chapter. |
