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Robert Dick died early. Yet he had lived more
than most men. He had worked hard to obtain knowledge. He had worked hard
for the love of science. He did not work for his honour and glory. He gave
freely to others, without any thought of, reward. In this respect he was
entirely self-sacrificing.
We have said that his youth was unhappy. His mother died when he was a boy,
yet he remembered her to the day of his death. After that he suffered
injustice which threw a shadow over his future life. There was no gentleness
about his bringing-up. Eor relief he went to the fields and the mountains,
and fell in love with the beauties of nature. The taste never loft him.
The tears of childhood soon dry up, and then begin the sighs of manhood. But
Dick, though brought up to a life of hard work, was never daunted. He tried
to make the best of his life, such as it was. When he settled at Thurso, he
again threw himself into nature. Though baffled in his affections, he forgot
his sorrow in his strivings after knowledge. His natural disposition, though
thwarted, was never soured.
The sea was his delight. He wandered along the shores, and found things rich
and beautiful and full of wonder. Though he wandered about solitary, he had
no time for melancholy dreams. Every flower melted him, every star touched
him, even every beetle engraved itself upon his mind. He was a reverent man.
Unbelief is blindness, but his mind was all eyes, and his imagination was
full of light, and life, and being.
The earth became to him, in a measure, transparent. It drew him out of the
narrow sphere of self-interest. Everywhere he saw significances, laws,
chains of cause and effect, endlessly interlinked. He could not theorise
about what he saw. He wanted the true foundation— facts. “Let us have
facts,” he said, “real, certain, unmistakable facts; there can be no science
without them.”
Geology was at first a great mystery to him. It seemed to him, as it really
was, a revelation of the physical conditions of the by-past world. The rocks
near Thurso spoke to him of a time when the Coccosteus, large and small,
covered with berry bones—the Osteolepis, with enamelled bony scales—the
wrinkled ganoid Holoptychius, the gigantic Asterolepis, covered with star
scales—had ranged at will over the length and breadth of Caithness.
All these had, at some remote period, been destroyed by violent
death,—either by a sudden retirement of the sea, or by a sudden uplifting of
the land. Platforms of death rose one above another, story above story, the
floor of each bearing its record of disaster and sudden confusion. Wide
areas of seas were depopulated, but the dead fish remained. They were left
in the mud. The mud and fish became Caithness flag—now the support of a
large population. “Thus Thurso itself,” said Dick, “is built of dead fish.”
But that time passed away, and the sea went rolling over Caithness.
Ponderous glaciers went grating along the mountain sides of the Scaraben
range, grinding its rocks down into clay, and strewing the deep-sea bottom
with gigantic boulders. Amongst the boulders and boulder clay, which forms a
large part of the county of Caithness, Dick found the numerous marine shells
which have been described in the previous pages.
All this was very mysterious to Dick. The preoccupancy of the seas by the
fishy tribes, and the present joint tenancy of the land by man and the lower
creation, were two striking facts which strongly impressed his imagination.
Might not this be the first cycle of the geological manifestation of the
globe; or rather the first of a series of cycles, at whose close the
existing races of living beings, and the gorgeous fabrics of national
vanity, shall yield their haughty relics to the sport and desolation of the
elements,—when new heavens and a new earth shall replace the ruins of a
world?
Although Dick devoted a great part of his spare time to botany, it was to
geology that he devoted so large a share of his attention. It was MantelTs
Wonders oj Geology that first attracted him to the subject; then Buckland’s
Bridgewater Treatise, and after that Hugh Miller’s Old Red Sandstone. He had
already found the fossil bones of the Holoptychius, the gigantic ganoid fish
of the Old Eed, before he became acquainted with Hugh Miller. He sent the
specimen to Edinburgh, and received Hugh’s warm acknowledgments. The
correspondence between them at length ripened into a warm intimacy, and Dick
continued to send to Miller, as long as he lived, the best of his findings
among the fossil fish of Caithness. “Indeed,” says Mr. Peach, “Dick was
Hugh’s greatest benefactor, and gave him more solid assistance than any
other person.”
Dick was one of the most unselfish of men. He made every one free to his
stores of knowledge. He gave freely, without any hope of reward. He had no
jealousy, no mean rivalry. Though he hammered and chiseled for fossils,
sometimes at the risk of his life, he sent everything that was valuable to
Hugh Miller— everything that was calculated to establish his views, and to
turn his gathered treasures to account in the establishment of scientific
truth. “ But for him,” says one of his friends, “and his sedulous and
faithful attachment to Hugh Miller, in the capacity of ‘lion’s provider ’
(as was sometimes jocularly remarked between themselves), the Footprints of
the Creator might never have been written; or at least, being written, the
great culminating points in the argument would have been shorn of their
force and power; and the principal facts, and the greater portion of the
descriptive geological groundwork of the volume, would have been wanting.”
By Mr. Dick’s specimens of the then unknown fish, Hugh Miller was enabled to
identify the great Russian
Chelonichthys with the Asterolepis of the Caithness beds, and to reconstruct
to a certain extent this monster of the primeval seas. Agassiz says that the
remains of the Asterolepis found by Mr. Dick at Thurso indicate a length of
from twelve feet four to thirteen feet eight inches. It was the occurrence
of this monster among the vertebrates at such an early period of the world’s
history, that gave Hugh Miller the key-note to that elaborate argument, by
which he endeavoured to controvert the development theory of Oken, Lamark,
and the author of the Vestiges of Creation.
Mr. Dick not only provided the fragments by means of which the structure of
the Asterolepis was wrought out—especially the small medium plate in the
cranial buckler, immediately over the eyes, which Professor Sedgwick
immediately recognised as “the true finish,”— but he discovered the peculiar
dental apparatus of the palate of the Dipterus,and he detected the
ichthyodorulite of the Homocanthus, which, though already found in the Old
Red, were not previously known to exist in Scotland.
Hugh Miller was always most ready to acknowledge his obligations to Robert
Dick. “He has robbed himself to do me service,” said Hugh Miller. And yet
Dick was so modest and unassuming, that he shrank with the utmost
sensitiveness from everything like publicity. He had no idea of making
himself famous. On the contrary, he “blushed to find it fame” that he had
gone out of the ordinary track and done anything worthy of being recorded in
scientific books. He was willing, like Keats, that his name should be “writ
in water.” “I am a quiet creature,” he said to Hugh Miller, “and do not like
to see myself in print at all.” When Sir Roderick Murchison made the
eulogistic speech about him at Leeds, he said, “That speech has got me into
a great deal of trouble.” And when Mr. Peach went to the British Association
at Aberdeen, Dick said to him, “Pray, do not mention me; if anybody asks
about me, say that I am well; I want to be let alone.” “His unassuming
modesty,” said Sir George Sinclair, “was as conspicuous as the wonderful
amount of his knowledge.”
It would be hard to imagine a more devoted lover of science, or a more
ardent and unselfish seeker-out of knowledge for its own sake. His success
in this respect lay in his earnestness, his enthusiasm, and his persistent
perseverance. Though a solitary man, the ardour and purity of his devotion
to science saved the health of his moral and mental nature, and enabled him
to live to the end of his days, cheerful, happy, and human-hearted. His
pursuits elevated his nature, and bore him up against the petty annoyances
of the world.
The amount of voluntary labour which Dick imposed upon himself, in pursuit
of his favourite sciences, is something incredible. Every nook and cranny of
the county was familiar to him. The bleak bluff rocks of Dunnet Head were as
familiar to him as the shores of Thurso Bay. The hills of Morven and
Scaraben were his playgrounds. In summer time, and even in winter, he
wandered far and near, always alone. He walked by night to Preswick and
Dunbeath in search of the boulder clay and its marine shells. He wandered up
Strath
Halladale in the moonlight, and came home, across th6 hills, by Braalnabin,
to Thurso. Or he would walk across the country, over bog and mire, to Morven
top, and he hack in time for his day’s baking. He hammered among the rocks
at Murkle Bay until the moon shone clear in the water. He clambered up and
down the rocks at Dunnet Head in search of ferns. In the early mornings, in
spring, he went up the banks of the Thurso river to see the flowers
unveiling themselves before the light of sunrise. The hills about Reay were
among his favourite haunts. There he transplanted the ferns which he had
brought from Dunnet Head, so that they might he cheering the wandering
botanist when he himself, as he said, was “ out of time.”
Labour was an absolute necessity for him. “I find it utterly impossible,” he
said, “to be idle. There is nothing for me but regular labour. If I cannot
find any ordinary work to do, I must invent some extraordinary work. I could
not be, and would not be, what the world calls a gentleman—that is, standing
idle—even though I were paid for it. The mind must be employed, even though
what occupies it is doomed to come to an end and pass away into nothingness,
and we ourselves with it.”
The intellectual labours of men such as Dick are often spoken of as the
pursuit of knowledge under difficulties; but they are also the pursuit of
knowledge under pleasure. We forget the delight which accompanies the
discovery of a new fact, and the enlightenment of a mind thirsting for
knowledge. This was one of the greatest pleasures of Dick’s life. We forget
also the elevating and purifying effects of searching after truth. In
pursuing knowledge, he was merely serving his higher nature.
Nor did he ever make a parade of what he knew. He was modest and retiring.
Others sought him, not he them. He thought, like Newton, that all that we
know was as but mere shells on the sea-shore, compared with what must ever
remain unknown. And yet those who were admitted to his intimacy were
surprised at the amount of knowledge he had acquired.
“It was impossible,” says Dr. Shearer, “for one coming into the merest
casual contact with him not to catch up some portion of his own vivid
enthusiasm in natural science; and no man was ever better fitted by nature
as a luminous and gifted expounder of scientific truth. His conversation was
so rich that one always came away surfeited.”
“He combined in himself rare powers of original research, and an amazing
industry in the pursuit of truth, with a sweet and winning eloquence which
was all his own. His collection of the British Flora is almost unique in its
completeness. Looking at the difficulties he encountered in collecting it,
his herbarium is an extraordinary tribute to his diligence, skill, and
long-continued perseverance.”
Dick diligently applied himself to the study of all that lay around him. He
noted with wonderful accuracy the lie of a country. He marked upon the map
that he carry about with him the faults, and dips, and dislocations of the
strata; thus correcting the statements of previous geologists. He was not
satisfied with accepting the statements and adopting the conclusions of
others. He would not take anything for granted that he could see and observe
for himself. When his views as to the nature of the fossil fish, as
explained by Hugh Miller, were disputed by scientific men, he said, “Why
can’t they leave their books, and come here and see for themselves?”
Nor was he in a hurry to connect himself with those who traced a harmony in
all respects between the cosmogony of the Hebrew Scriptures and the
indications of geological science. “We think,” he said, “that we have
deciphered the writing on the selvage of the great volume of the earth; and,
lo! we proceed to erect our fragmentary knowledge into a science, and to
show its correlation with all the other departments of truth.” Again, “Let
us watch for facts, and wait.” Knowing that Nature herself must ever
harmonise with truth, he endeavoured to trace out the workings of the
Almighty in the little spot of earth to which he was confined, with lowly
and reverent adoration, and with simple, childlike delight.
The number of fossils that he collected was very great. With his usual
generosity, he made over a considerable part of them to Hugh Miller. Another
portion, containing some of his best specimens, was sold to Mr. Miller of
London, for the purpose of paying his debts after the shipwreck of his
flour. The remaining fossils were found in his museum after his death,
The fossils sent to Hugh Miller are now to be found in the Museum of Science
and Art at Edinburgh. The collection is marked, “Eossils used by the late
Hugh Miller to illustrate his works.” The whole of those marked “Thurso”
were found by Robert Dick, though his name does not appear on any of them.
But his herbarium also exhibits the best proofs
of Robert Dick’s industry, judgment, and tenacity of purpose. The collection
was made over to the Thurso Scientific Society, by Mr. Alexander, of
Dunfermline, Robert Dick’s nearest surviving relation. To tell the truth,
this extraordinary collection has been very much neglected. The herbarium
consists of about two hundred folios, full of botanical specimens. The
grasses and ferns, and in fact all the plants, are beautifully preserved.
They are carefully gummed on to their respective sheets, and in the case of
the Caithness plants, the habitat is always given. The manner in which they
are arranged shows the eye of the artist. The mosses are unfinished. We have
by us the hook which he carried in his side-pocket, still full of the mosses
which he was collecting and gumming on at the time of his death.
The herbarium seems to have been thrown into a corner, and laid on the
floor. It is full of living moths, and their grubs have already made sad
havoc with the collection of grasses in which Dick took so much pride. The
Scientific Society of Thurso ought surely to do something to put the
collection in proper order. The respect which they entertain for Robert Dick
requires this to be done. They will never again possess such another
botanist to collect and arrange the plants and grasses, and ferns and
mosses, of Caithness.
A few more words about Dick’s character. We have said that he was a solitary
man. He was for the most part alone with himself. He communed much with his
own thoughts. He always made his long journeys on foot alone. “No good
work,” he said, “could be done in company.” He had few real friends; and his
relatives were far distant.
Under such circumstances, and with such a nature, Dick was in imminent
danger of losing the health of his spirit and the just balance of his
character. Such a man is often driven to brood on himself; or sell his life
to miserable, miserly money-making; perhaps to drink or self-indulgence. But
Dick did none of these. His love of knowledge and science saved him.
Besides, he was childlike in his nature. He had the wonder of a child; he
had the feelings of a child. He was always merciful to children. He was
blameless, simple, cheerful, in all that he did.
Though he was naturally a man of retiring manners, he was by no means
unsociable. He had a great deal of human nature in him. To those who knew
him best, he was cheerful and social. He had a vein of innoi'Ont fun and
satire about him; and he often turned his thoughts into rhyme. Sir George
Sinclair said of him, “His temper was naturally cheerful, and even
facetious. His comely and animated countenance beamed ^iih intelligence and
good humour. His estimable fld faithful attendant, who resided with him for
the long period of thirty-three years, never heard a hasty word drop from
his lips, or saw his bright countenance clouded by an angry frown. The
grateful tears which she has so plenteously shed attest the kindly tenor of
his domestic life.”
Professor Shearer also adds—“He was held in honour for his scientific
attainments by a growing number of the inhabitants, and by the small number
of young men whom the little town used to send to the universities ; while,
by the working men generally, the purity of his life and the independence of
his character secured for him a respect, which, to my own knowledge, was
never once broken. His moral character was never called in question.”
Charles Peach, who knew him so well, said of him, “His character was
thoroughly without blemish. He never said an ill word of any one; and never
repeated anything to another’s discouragement. I regret,” he adds, “that so
many of his curious and original discoveries have been lost, because he made
no communication of them to others, and had a special aversion to what he
called ‘ blowing his own trumpet.”
Dick continued poor to the close of his life. He was content to be poor, so
long as he was independent, and free to indulge his profound yearnings after
more knowledge. Though he attended carefully to his business, he was not
successful. He was ruined by competition. The shipwreck of his flour reduced
him almost to beggary. But he never told his Thurso friends of his losses.
He was the last man to “send round the hat.” Like Burns, he was “owre blate
to seek, owre proud to snool.” When his customers left him, he said to one
of his friends—“Well, they might not have done it. I have wrought long for
them, and I have served them well; hut it cannot be helped now.”
Charles Peach, not knowing of his losses, once said to him, that “he would
soon be able to save enough money to retire, and give himself up wholly to
scientific pursuits.” A gloom fell over his countenance. “Oh no!” said he,
“I shall never do that.” But he added, “Notwithstanding the opposition that
has destroyed my trade, I am still here—a baker after all!” And he smiled at
the efforts which had been made to strangle him.
Sir George Sinclair, perhaps not knowing his struggles to live, said after
his death—“Mr. Dick’s honourable desire to earn his livelihood by his own
exertions, and the unremitting diligence with which he attended to matters
of business, without allowing scientific pursuits to interfere with his
daily and respectable calling, have long since attracted my cordial
admiration. He was always at hand when wanted; and, like Johnson’s estimable
friend Lovatt,
“No summons mocked by chill delay—
No petty gains disdained by pride;
The modest wants of every day
The toil of every day supplied.’ ”
It was fortunate for Dick’s memory that he left no debts unpaid. Everything
that he owed was paid in full; though little was left for his faithful
friend Annie Mackay.
When I went to Thurso, I expected to obtain a good deal of information from
her about her old master. But she could give me very little. She could not
speak for tears. “He was my good and kind maister!”—that was nearly all that
she could tell me. But she showed me Dick’s house and the bakehouse
behind,—now divided into separate tenements.
Little more need be said about Eobert Dick. The “unco guid” said hard things
of him. They drew a religious moral from the painfulness of his death. Poor
self-satisfied creatures! One of Dick’s sayings might apply to them. “Some
men,” he said, “make an image of God after their own hearts, and not after
the image of their Maker.”
Yet all who knew Dick intimately spoke of him as a thoroughly religious man.
His was one of those deeply reverent natures that are essentially religious,
though not cumbered about with forms or ceremonies or sectarian differences.
Indeed, one of the things that drove him from the church was the quarrels of
those who were ministers in it. Professor Shearer, of Bradford, says, “My
own opinion is strongly that in this man were combined singular powers of
thought and the greatest devotion to natural science; and at the bottom of
all, a truly devout and earnest spirit.”
Another says, “I had a conversation with him on this solemn subject; and I
believe ‘his right hand touched God’s ’—to others it might be in the dark;
but Eobert Dick knew it. He studied his Bible diligently, and, like all his
other studies, his whole soul went into it. He held his Sabbath worship in
his own house alone. Whether we look to his upright, frugal, temperate
character as a man, or to his wonderful labour and perseverance in his
favourite studies, it is difficult to say which most to admire. But I admire
above all his loving and reverent spirit.”
Robert Dick’s life tells its own moral. His manful perseverance in
encountering the difficulties of life ; his steadfastness, his honesty, his
purity; his highmindedness in carrying on his business affairs; his energy
and devotedness in cultivating his higher nature;—all these command our
admiration.
Thus the man of the humblest condition may at the same time do honour to his
calling and elevate the condition of his class. By the diligent use of his
snare time, lie may even add many new facts to the constantly enlarging
domain of science. In the case of Dick, how little time was misspent, how
much knowledge was gained and communicated,—and all with so much humbleness,
modesty, and unselfishness! It is by men such as he that the character of a
country is elevated to the highest standard, and raised in the scale of
nations.
“Whilst the institutions and customs of men,” says Professor Sedgwick, “set
up a barrier, and draw a great and harsh line between man and man, the hand
of the Almighty stamps His first impress upon the soul of many a person who
never rises above the ranks of comparative obscurity and poverty. Hence
arises a lesson of great importance,—that we should learn in our walks
through life, in our mingling with the busy scenes of the world, a lesson of
practical wisdom, of kindness, of humility, and of regard for our fellow
beings.” 
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