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DUNCAN continued his
intellectual pursuits in Auchleven with a glowing ardour that nothing could
extinguish. He kept some books always beside him in the workshop, and these
were daily resorted to in the intervals necessary in such sedentary labour.
He read much also, as we have seen, in the quietude of the cosy cottages he
frequented. But "the philosopher" was the chief scene of his studies. Many a
time, when wakened between two and three in the summer mornings by the
rumble of the passing peat carts going to the moss, has his young bedfellow,
Sandy Smith, seen John already dressed and seated on the top of his chest at
the other side of the den, "mumbling and spelling" at the book he was
engaged on, by the light that entered through the glass-less opening in the
door, through which also blew the pleasant morning breeze. As he read in an
audible monotone, the listener could generally make out the subject. John
went over the same sentence or passage again and again till he had mastered
it; but, as Sandy says, "when it did get in, it never got out again!" This
was Duncan's daily practice all through the bright days of summer.
It was a strict rule of his
that no light of any kind should be used in "the philosopher," on account of
the smallness of the place and the inflammable nature of the surrounding
materials—a rule never once violated by himself, though sometimes broken by
the boy, who got properly scolded for his indiscretion. In winter,
therefore, they were obliged to ascend and descend the ladder from the road,
dress and undress, go to bed and rise again, all in pitch darkness except on
moonlight nights, and in constant danger of knocking their heads against the
rafters, for they could scarcely stand erect even in the centre of the
triangular space. On winter mornings, when it was of course impossible to
read, John rose very early and went down to the shop. He worked diligently
at his loom till breakfast, by the light of the weaver's oil lamp. After
dinner about noon, he retired to "the philosopher." He first made his bed,
and then studied for two or more hours, returning after daylight failed to
work once more by lamplight. By this exemplary diligence, he traversed a
wide field of reading and thought, in spite of his slow and laborious style
of study. This was surely the pursuit of knowledge under difficulties, if it
ever was so pursued ; but the difficulties only enhanced the student's
delights, which have rarely been surpassed in intensity.
When Duncan returned to
Auchleven, his devotion to the stars of heaven had been greatly eclipsed by
his love of "the stars of earth, the golden flowers." When William Mortimer
spoke to him of this change, saying, "O Johnnie! ye've laid by the meen, and
ta'en tip the floors!" "Yes," replied John, with great emphasis and
practical sense, "yes, I can get my hands upo' them!" Though
he could not pluck the stars from the sky, he could pluck the plants from
the ground!
That was the answer of the
practical philosopher John always was. It also contains one of the chief
pleas for the prosecution of outdoor nature studies by the young. In these,
the student can examine, handle, and dissect with his own fingers the
subjects of his study, and his work consists in real handling of the objects
he deals with—not in matters of distant sight, where the hands can never
touch the things investigated, as in astronomy, nor in matters of faith, as
in history and geography. It embodies the sound principle which commends
such subjects of practical research as important elements in early
education, that by their means the whole senses—by eye, car, nose, mouth
touch and hand—are separately and jointly exercised along with the
intellect, under skilled guidance, for scientific ends and careful
induction.
John's new pleasure was to
conquer the flora of his old haunts along the Gadie. As Charles Black
explains, this stream is not botanically remarkable, unless for its abundant
strong-smelling herbs, such as Meadow sweet and the like, whose odour still
sends his heart back to Gadie side. John soon explored all its windings. He
went up the pretty dell behind Castle Lickleyhead—then a picturesque ivied
ruin, now a modern shooting-lodge—which adorns and centralises the view
there, with Hermit Seat in the background. He climbed the northern front of
Benachie and its sister peaks, from which he brought "a tall kind of girse
with a big nodding head which they all laughed at"—of course, for "wha wu'd
bother himsel' wi' a wheen girses?" as they sagely said.
He was often absent all day,
and more than once all night, subsisting on his bag of meal and crust of
bread. When he went on any of these wanderings, his master, Sandy Smith,
would say, "I hae lost my man the day; I suppose he's awa' amang the floors
as uswal." Few saw him return, for he could steal up the ladder to his bed
above the byre, unnoticed by anybody. He always came back with a bundle of
plants, and often with wet clothes and moss-coloured boots that told of many
a scramble. A villager brought the news one day, that he had actually seen
John away in Aberdeen, looking at the ships in the harbour, "wi' a nievefu'
[Handful. The Scotch nieve or neive means the fist.] o' girses" even there;
concluding with the remark, "but Johnnie never was like onybody else."
Duncan generally went alone,
but sometimes he had a companion. The shoemaker occasionally accompanied
him, more for the sake of his general conversation than for the weeds; and
they used to talk of the stars as they came home in the dark. As William
says, John delighted to discourse to others of the subjects he studied, and
was grateful to any one that would listen to him about those things he held
so dear. But he confesses that he got few auditors—it was too often a mere
waste of good time. His speech was not very fluent, but most abundant, for
"he never had ony end" to what he had to say; there was so much in his mind
that lie could not express. He generally concluded any expositions to
friendly ears by saying, "Oh, I cu'd tell ye a great heap, a great heap!"
John succeeded in interesting
Sandy Smith's children not a little in flowers, and they used to gather
them, to show them to him in the weaving shop. At these times, however busy,
he would at once stop work, elated at seeing the plants in their hands, and
hopeful that it would lead to their study in after years. He would then tell
their names and other interesting things about them.
In order to draw general
attention to the neglected wild flowers that grew in beauty all around,
unheeded and unknown, John had an Exhibition of plants, once if not oftener.
This was, doubtless, one of the first Botanical Exhibitions ever held in the
north of Scotland, somewhere about the year 1850. It took place in the upper
loft of the Carding Mill, and all were invited to come and see. His
specimens, gathered about Tough and Auchleven—for he had spent above a week
in getting fresh plants—were spread out on tables round the room, and young
Sandy Smith was honoured, as his assistant, to hand them to the audience,
while John discoursed about them.
His opening sentence was
certainly startling enough—"Some people think that Botany is a beast. But
Botany is no beast. Botany is the science that treats of plants." This is a
curious proof of the general ignorance then existing on scientific matters;
for John wished merely to correct a misconception he found prevalent on the
subject. He described to them, amongst other things, the office of the
pollen that stuck to their noses when they smelled a rose, and recited the
story of the solitary juniper bush on the braes of Tough. In showing the
water-lily, he told of his adventure in the Loch of Drum in search of it.
With these and similar narratives, and striking properties, he tried to
enliven the subject and interest his audience. But in spite of all his
earnestness, the words did not flow so smoothly in such unwonted
circumstances as they would have done to a friend on the hill-side. His
auditors soon became tired of it, much more from sheer inability to
comprehend such unaccustomed ideas, however illustrated, than from the want
of eloquence in the lecturer. As Mr. Smith says, "every one was twice
wearied before John was half done." A few left the room, but the rest
remained to the end, " out of deference to the man, for he was a universal
favourite."
In 1851, his fame as a
botanist had so begun to spread that he received a letter of invitation from
Aberdeen, asking him to assist in forming a new Natural History Society
there, and to bring some botanical specimens with him to exhibit at the
meeting. Whether he was able to comply with the request is unknown, but it
is pleasing to learn that his merits were beginning to be recognized.
He also continued his
practice of medical botany, and prescribed for ailments of different kinds.
He is still remembered as being very successful in the treatment of cuts, by
means of the invaluable "Healing herb" (Plantago media); and, in the cure of
toothache, with Sneezewort (Aclilllea ptarmica) and with "Aligopane" (Inula
/selenium), and when toothache troubled any one, "John and his aligopane"
became a proverb and a remedy.
But John did not neglect his
old sublimer studies of the firmament, for these he never did or could
forget. They were only subordinated to nearer studies which had eclipsed the
more distant. On clear frosty nights, he still examined the heavens, and set
his dials behind the house. His want of Mathematics prevented his pursuing
the higher parts of Astronomy, but his knowledge of the descriptive portion
of the subject was great.
He gave lessons on it to a
young friend of his, John Mackay, son of the proprietor of the mill, now Dr.
Mackay, of Strathkinness, in Fife. , He showed him also how to construct a
telescope. They were able to complete it with the help of Dr. Thomas Dick's
work on the "Solar System" which was then, along with the "Christian
Philosopher" by the same author, one of the first and best of popular
scientific text-books. The two had many a peep through this home-made
instrument at the moons of Jupiter, the rings of Saturn, and the surface of
our own satellite.
John read some papers on
Astronomy before the Mutual Instruction Class that met in the village. One
of these discourses was given in the carpenter's house, on the moon and the
tides, and Mrs. Emslie remembers how he was "sadlies put till't, because he
cu'dna get them tae understan' him, in spite of all he cu'd say." When the
Class held a soiree on entering into more comfortable quarters, John was in
"grand trim," and came out quite strongly on Astronomy, as Dr. Mackay tells,
though, with such celestial themes, it was feared he soon shot beyond the
comprehension of his rustic audience. His cognomen of "Johnnie Meen" was now
less used, however, than at his first stay in Auchleven. Dr. Mackay recalls
how, on bright starry nights after the Class dismissed, led by John, they
used to stand for hours gazing into the heavens and discussing the deepest
problems in regard to man's future destiny—such as whether the planets were
inhabited, with which of them the future state was connected, and similar
abstruse but ever .interesting themes, which have exercised the hopes and
aspirations of humanity since man first opened his eyes to the starry
firmament.
Duncan also paid some
attention at that time to Entomology, which Charles and James Black
afterwards successfully pursued; and Dr. Mackay recollects an ingenious box
he used, which had one compartment for his victims and another for burning
sulphur, by the fumes of which he killed them. He also showed the young man
the proper way of transfixing them with pins.
Duncan also studied
Meteorology, and was counted a kind of weather prophet. His constantly
taking observations of the state of the weather gave rise to a peculiar
habit of his of looking upwards and round about, with his hand above his
eyes.
But, next to Botany, Theology
was then, as at all times, his chief study. He was noted as an ardent Free
Churchman, and no one was more regular in his attendance at the plain,
barn-like temple near Waukmill. He dressed on Sunday in a blue serge suit of
his own weaving, with shining buttons, tall hat, and well-brushed boots, and
sat in front of the pulpit in reverent attention. He also went on week days
to missionary and Bible class meetings, which were held three miles distant,
at Insch. He hoped to see in time a Free Church founded also in England,
that is, he looked for a great secession from the establishment there; for,
in his view, as well as in that of many others then and since, secession was
held to be essential to religious freedom and progress.
He was also a diligent
student of Biblical Criticism, which he pursued by the help of the numerous
dictionaries and commentaries he possessed. In order that, as he said, "he
micht gae to the oreeg'nal," he continued his study of Greek and made
considerable progress. Dr. Mackay says that he was rather proud of his
knowledge of that language, and "could spell out the words and get some idea
of the meaning in Greek, in passages he wished to investigate."
He continued as anti-papal
and anti-prelatic in religious sympathies as ever, and took out the
ultra-protestant journal, called the "Bulwark." Its highly coloured
narratives of popish errors and abuses he enjoyed and read to others. He
talked earnestly on these subjects to all the young people he knew, in order
to instil into them the traditional antagonism to those elements of error
and religious slavery which he had so strongly imbibed with his mother's
milk and teaching; which had been so deeply impressed on his own youthful
heart by the braes of Dunnottar; and which, in the light of her history, he
viewed as essential to Scotland's spiritual well-being.
Though highly respected by
all, and perhaps more esteemed in Auchleven than anywhere else, he was very
imperfectly understood by the people in general. As Dr. Mackay observes,
"they were incapable of estimating his true character—at the time he lived
among them, at least—for he was quite in advance of them in knowledge and
aspirations. They thought him clever, no doubt," he continues, "but they
could not understand or enter into the man's thorough earnestness and
enthusiasm in the pursuit of knowledge."
In spite of their compelled
appreciation of the man, their ideas of him were in a kind of bewilderment,
which was increased by his great eccentricity. He was the only specimen of
the kind they had ever seen. Many looked upon him as "daft;" others viewed
him at the best as "something silly."
A farmer's son in the
neighbourhood, who was then at college and afterwards became a parish
teacher, used to accompany John in his search for plants, to his father's
great surprise. The practical farmer, judging only by outward appearances,
remonstrated with his son "for takkin' up wi' yon cretur—he's a feelI"
"Well," said the son, "if he's a fool, he knows far more than folks that
think themselves wiser." The lad afterwards made considerable progress in
such folly, and added not a little to his happiness while he pursued it.
To a favoured few, John used
to show his herbarium, his "hibernia," as one of his good friends called
it—shall we say by an Irishism? This he kept with the greatest care,
preserved and scented, in his chest in "the philosopher." As Dr. Mackay
remarks, Duncan believed and acted on the exoteric and esoteric in
philosophy. It was not every one that was deemed worthy to be initiated into
scientific mysteries. The candidate must show himself imbued with the true
spirit necessary for such sacred rites; according to the Horatian hatred of
the "profanum vulgus," and the Christian precept regarding "pearls before
swine." But when these essentials were possessed, however dimly, John was
ready to become their earnest high priest, to initiate and instruct the
aspirant.
His chief candidate for such
honours in Auchleven was Dr. John Mackay himself. He was a lad of about
thirteen years when he first made John's acquaintance, and when about
twenty, became a medical student at Aberdeen University. A sincere
attachment sprang up between the man and the boy. As Mrs. Emslie expresses
it, young John "had a great wark" with old John, "and really loved him," and
their friendship became the talk of the village. Dr. Mackay is no sorry that
" fleeting years and the serious concerns of life have effaced from his
memory much he could have wished to tell of his friend: elzeu fugaces . . .
labuntur anlzi." He confesses that he "owes to John, in great measure, the
choice of a profession," for "he helped to flame the latent desire he had to
acquire knowledge."
John of course introduced the
young student to Botany. At his first lessons, he dissected for him a simple
flower, and explained its component parts and structure. He pointed out,
explained and named the common plants in the neighbourhood, and his pupil
still recalls his early descriptions of the Germander speedwell, Woodruff,
Lady's mantle, the Common Fox-tail grass (Alopecaurus pratensis), and other
flowers, grasses and trees, both forest and garden. They were accustomed to
go to the field and hill together, John crowned with his Tarn o' Shanter
bonnet. He was then, the doctor says, muscular and sinewy, and in the prime
of life. They also spent many happy hours alone in "the philosopher," "going
over the herbarium and books." They had long talks, too, in the weaving shop
on many subjects, scientific and religious. Amongst other matters, they
"quite settled the future of church and state in Scotland!" Indeed, during
college recess, when the young doctor was at home, they were constant
companions. Dr. Mackay gratefully acknowledges that Duncan "influenced his
mind powerfully." They met for the last time in 1860, some years after John
had left the banks of the Gadie. |
