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JOHN DUNCAN resided at
Netherton, in Tough, for thirteen years in all, from 1836 to 1849, varied by
visits to friends at a distance and by harvesting in different districts.
His botanical enthusiasm soon
became too deep, and his practical command of the subject too great, to
require the presence of his "father in Botany," as he gratefully called his
young teacher, vho left the Vale temporarily for some time and finally in
1842. His love for it had already risen to the strength and permanence of a
life-long passion.
He now set himself to
complete his survey of the Vale and its surrounding valleys and hills.
Guided greatly by Dickie's "Flora," he also began a systematic examination
of Aberdeenshire, commencing with the coast line, which he explored from
Belhelvie, north of Aberdeen, to Portlethen,. south of it; going up the Dee
by the Loch of Drum to Tarland, and above it; and conquering the valley of
the Don up to near its source at Corgarf Castle, from which he obtained one
of his earliest finds of sub-Alpine plants unknown on the lower grounds, the
Vaccinium oxycoccos or cranberry, which he brought home in triumph,
announcing the discovery to Charles in a wonderful transformation of the
strange-looking name, and which they then counted a treasure.
His botanical explorations in
his own neighbourhood were the astonishment of the people. Being very
shortsighted, the little man was obliged to grope along the ground in order
to see the plants, and when this was done in bogs and mosses, it was not
very pleasant work. But no place was too wet, no peat moss too dirty, no
boghole too disagreeable for the enthusiast, who was often seen crawling
along on hands and knees in such places till his neighbours really thought
him becoming demented. To secure time for these outdoor pursuits, he used to
get up in the early morning while others were asleep, even in that
early-rising community, or work at his loom late at night, to complete his
day's "stent" at the loom; for, with all his love of rambling, he never
neglected his daily business, though he never made money like some of his
contemporaries at the loom, as his friends Hunter and Cameron did at
Netherton.
One morning in June, John
rose before the lark to carry home to a customer, who lived at some
distance, a web that he had just finished. Having delivered it, and got a
kindly breakfast from the good lady of the house to speed him on his way
homewards, he left the high-road and descended into the Moss of Tillyfourie,
near the head of the pass through which the railway now runs, above
Netherton, then an extensive peat bog, now greatly reclaimed for the plough.
He wished to examine the numerous aquatic plants that grew in its black
haggs and pools. He wore his tall hat, as he always did when visiting, and
carried a small homely, portable herbarium under his arm, and a stick in his
hand, both of the last being his constant companions in his travels. In one
of the deep peat holes filled with water that abounded there,.he observed
floating on its surface a somewhat rare plant, in beautiful flower, then
found only at one or two spots in the Vale, stations that have disappeared
with the mosses in which they grew. This was the Greater bladderwort (Utricularia
vulgaris), a botanical and physiological curiosity with interesting habits.
During the greater part of
the year, it lies in a confused mass upon, but quite detached from, the
bottom of the pool in which it lives. It is held down by the utricles or
bladderets that give it its name, which are then filled with heavy mucus.
When flowering time arrives in June, this mucus becomes replaced by a kind
of light gas, which bears the plant to the surface, to enable its
golden-yellow flowers —which stand erect half a foot above the water—to feel
the sun and air, and fructify their seeds. This done, the mucus re-forms in
the bladders and sinks the plant again to the bottom, where the ripened
seeds are deposited in the soft mud, to propagate the race when the parent
has died. These little bladders are otherwise very curious, opening inwards
with an elastic valve, and catching water-beetles, which it is said to
digest and consume. Like the Vallisneria and other plants, this species is
often adduced as a striking illustration of the wonderful adaptations of
nature for specific ends. [This plant also once grew, as Mr. J. M. B. Taylor
informs me, in the old moss at Balfluig, near Alford, where also was found
the smaller species, the U. minor. But this moss is now cultivated land.]
There happened to be in the
Tillyfourie moss that day a large number of people engaged in cutting peats,
who saw John leave the road and enter the bog. Thinking, like practical
folks, that a traveller with a tall hat could have done so only to shorten
his way, and seeing him disappear from view in an old part of the moss
honeycombed with dangerous peat hags, one of the workers kindly sent a lad
to show him a better path, and, if necessary, to help him on his way. The
boy found him on the edge of a deep black pool, hat off, and stick in hand,
trying with its crooked end to draw the floating plant towards him. The
botanist was so intent that he did not notice the lad, who, coming close to
the pool, shouted at the pitch of his voice, after trying in vain to draw
his attention once or twice before, "Hey, man! I was bidden tell ye, ye wu'd
get a better road oot this way." Startled at the sudden cry, for he thought
himself alone, John raised himself to reply, and with the quick movement
sank ankle-deep in the mud. He told him that he was not seeking a road, and
then resumed his novel fishing. When the boy returned to his companions, he
was asked if he had put the man on the right way. "Na, na," said he; "he's a
queer chap yon. He doesna want to ken a gweed road; and yonder he is, up
till the knees in watter, working in a peat hole wi' his stick!" "The man
maun be daft," said his father; and so said all the rest, who dropped work
to gaze in the direction in which John had gone out of sight. Their opinion
of his sanity was only confirmed when he speedily reappeared on the bank
above the pool, with the dripping, dirty weed in the one hand, and his hat,
bundle and staff in the other. They were, however, greatly relieved when
they saw him walk quietly away in this curious guise, the workers pitying
his madness or folly, he proud beyond expression of his treasure. But so
frail are the flowers of this plant that they would scarcely survive till he
reached the edge of the moss. There he pressed them as well as he could in
the paper he carried for the purpose, and he found, when dried, that their
golden colour had been replaced by a dark purple hue.
Sometimes his search for
plants was accompanied by no little danger. In one of his longer journeys
from Netherton, he visited the Loch of Drum, near the ancient castle of
Drum, to the east of Banchory, on the Dee. He had been told by Charles Black
that it was a station for that magnificent plant, the white water-lily (Nynphæa
alba), of which he had not yet secured a specimen.
This exquisite species, as
all know who have tried to pluck its alabaster blossom, is shy and retiring,
like the modest nymphs after whom Linnous poetically named it, and keeps
well off from the shore, generally out of reach of the spoiler. Devoted also
to solitude and peace, it frequents only calm river pools and placid lakes,
its flat leaves smoothing the surface where they grow, like the ancient
halcyon, even in a stiff breeze, as if in return for their shelter. The root
stocks require a soft, deep soil, so that they are found only in places with
a very muddy bottom, which acts as a further protection to the plants and
makes them very difficult to reach from the shore.
John was once asked by
William Mortimer if he had visited the Loch of Drum, then famous for its
plants. "Ay," says he; "and, mair than that, I hae been in't!" It happened
on this wise. John found the lilies in full and tempting flower, and, like
Cowper on a similar occasion on the banks of the Ouse,
"Their beauties he intent
surveyed,
And one he wished his own.
With staff extended far, he sought
To steer it close to land,
But still the prize, though nearly caught,
Escaped his eager hand."
Having no kindly spaniel,
like Beau, to bring it to his master, John did what the gentle poet would
never have thought of doing, and would have been shocked to attempt had the
idea occurred to him; he stripped himself of his nether integuments—called
by him "his breeks"—and waded into the loch! It was a risk he should not
have run on an unknown muddy shore like that of the Loch of Drum. He soon
felt the bottom to be none of the safest, but loth to give up when he had
gone so far, he advanced, and had just clutched the prize, when he sank
irretrievably in the soft, tenacious mud, every step only increasing his
danger. He would undoubtedly have perished, had not his involuntary cries
attracted the attention of a gentleman who was fishing from a boat at some
distance. Pulling with all his might, he was just in time to save the too
venturous and ardent botanist from a watery grave, and bring him soaking,
but grateful, to the banks.
After John had related the
adventure to his friend, with great dramatic detail, William naturally
remarked, "But ye had lost yer lily aifter a'." "Na, na," at once replied
the mettlesome little man, "I brocht it alang wi' me!" speaking in tones
that revealed no end of the courage and will that formed such strong
features in his character. He had never relinquished his hold of what he
sought even in extremis, and he brought the plant, Ieaf and blossom, home
with him to Netherton!
The Loch of Drum, which still
covers eighty-five acres, is now little better than a morass, fringed with
birch and alder bushes, and is not more than four feet in depth at any
place. At John's visit, it formed a very different scene, and was a deep
lake surrounded by picturesque wood, now cut down.
The danger he had run made a
strong and lasting impression on Duncan, and he naturally and firmly
resented any flippant allusions to the subject, which some of his
acquaintances were mischievously inclined to make, for he felt too serious
for joking and too grateful for fun.
When Mr. John Taylor was
arranging his herbarium for presentation to the Aberdeen University, some
months before John's death, he came on a broken leaf of the water-lily, the
rest of it and the whole of the flower having been eaten by the moths, in
spite of care and protective camphor. That was all that remained of the
memorable plant, gathered forty years before, which the old man spoke
solemnly of, as a soldier would of a sword that might have killed him had he
not been rescued. The leaf was too much destroyed to be sent to the
university with the rest. But it was a pity it was not sent, however
imperfect, if only as a proof and memento of pluck that every student might
be proud to emulate.
During this same journey,
John brought home a root of the Royal fern (Osmunda regalis), which he
obtained from the banks of the stream that flowed from the Loch of Park, a
habitat from which it has since been rooted out. [It is mentioned, along
with the water-lily and other rare aquatic plants, as found there, in the
list published in 1842 in the Statistical account of the parish of Drumoak,
by the Rev. Dr. Corbet, then parish minister. Dr. Dickie mentions that in
i86o it had become extinct near the Loch of Park.]
This he gave to his friend,
the schoolmaster of Coulterneuk, in whose garden it remained for years, till
Mr. Forbes presented it to the Rev. Mr. Milne, parish minister of Tough. In
the splendid rockery at the manse—one of the best of its kind, worth going
far to see—it still flourishes in luxuriant beauty. It is a specimen
specially prized by Mr. Milne, because it once belonged to the old botanist,
whom he knew and respected but thought peculiar, and because he says that
that truly kingly fern is now exterminated from the county. So that our hero
unexpectedly did royal service for the royal plant that day.
In this rockery, there long
grew a specimen of the curious moonwort (Botryclzia lunaria), carried by
John in an old napkin with his usual care. It was found by him in the valley
of the Leochel, near Droughsburn, where the minister called on him to ask
him to get a specimen, as it could not be got about Tough. The plant died,
however, in less than a year, the species being somewhat fastidious as to
soil and situation.
John's ardour and endurance
were something quite remarkable. He was frequently out on the hills all
night, coming home in the early morning when his neighbours were getting up.
One of his friends recalls having seen him pass his house at dawn, after a
night of storm and rain, drenched to the skin, but blithe and joyous, from
having succeeded in obtaining some rarer species over the Coreen Hills,
north of the Bridge of Alford. Several plants, as found there, in the list
published in 1842 in the Statistical account of the parish of Drumoak, by
the Rev. Dr. Corbet, then parish minister. Dr. Dickie mentions that in 186o
it had become extinct near the Loch of Park, remember his being out all
night on Benachie, when he lived at Auchleven at its northern base. If he
had an unusually long journey before him, to some wild or unfrequented
region, he used to set out very early in the morning, with bread and cheese
in his pockets, his portable plant-preserving sheets under his arm, his
broad bonnet on his head, and his constant staff in his hand. He carried
also a bag of oatmeal, which he used to pour out in quantities on any flat
stone and make a kind of "crowdie" of, with pure water from the rippling
brook—the plainest and simplest of fare, but thoroughly substantial and
nourishing. He would remain in the open air all that day and the following
night, and then return home early next morning, to begin his weaving and
make up for lost time. When absent for longer periods, where he had no house
to shelter him in solitary spots whither his explorations often led him, he
has frequently "slept the furth," [That is, forth of or outside of a house.]
as one of his friends expressed it in local phrase, that is, under the
heavens, during the warmer nights of summer.
The distances walked on foot
by our brother botanists may seem to some incredible, but, at that time, a
journey that would now be quoted as memorable was thought nothing of, and
was not uncommon. When on his travels to the south, Duncan would walk some
thirty miles continuously, day after day, with no fatigue whatever. Many of
his early friends used to accomplish fifty miles without thinking it
anything to boast of. More than once, Charles Black left Whitehouse, and
walked over Corennie Forest, down into the valley of the Dee, across the
hill road by the Cairn-o-Mount, and on to Lochlee, near the source of the
North Esk, to visit his wife's relatives, some forty or fifty hard
mountainous miles, every step of them in one day; and then return the next
or following day, with little trouble. Even in those pre-railroad days, John
was famous for his speed and endurance on foot, one of his characteristics
being an unusually rapid, light and long step in walking. As he used to say,
"I was terrible fine i' the fit; aye a gran' walker"—so that in his day, he
"gaed ower a lot o' grund, a terrible heap o' miles."
His wanderings in
unfrequented places, often the best stations for plants, frequently
subjected him to the charge of trespassing, and brought him into unpleasant
contact with the guardians of game and forests, whose rude exercise of
authority was often quite mollified by John's kindly humour, and their
haughty anger turned into smiles. In more difficult circumstances, his
mother wit was more than a match for these mighty custodiers of the moor.
Many of John's experiences in
his botanical excursions were entertaining and humorous. On one occasion,
John went a-plant-hunting along a burn-side not far from the church of
Tough, with James Black, Charles's brother, who often accompanied him on
such rambles. After gathering a large bundle, they began to return home. As
they were passing a small farm above the stream along which they walked,
they were hailed by the farmer, who knew John well, and who thought he would
have some amusement for himself at the mild man's expense. They accepted the
invitation. "Weel, Johnnie man," cried he, "ye hae been bot'neezin', as ye
ca't. Come noo, lat's see the weyds ye hae gaithered i' yer hand there."
They were at once spread out on the ground, amidst the immoderate laughter
of the farmer, an easy-going, stout young man of the true bucolic type. This
brought out the rest of the family, including his brother, and his father,
Joseph. While they stood round, the son took up the largest specimen in the
group, one of the Knotted figwort, a handsome plant, with peculiar,
dull-coloured flowers, and no very pleasant odour. "Noo, John," says he, "i'
yer ain grand lingo, fat ca' ye that grite trailipus o' a thing?"
"Knotty-rooted figwort, Scropliularia nodosa," replied John, all in one
continuous run of knotted syllables, the Latin words being scarcely
pronounced like an ancient Roman. "Fat, fat!" cried the dumfoundered man,
with bursting laughter; "fat said ye, man? Sic gibberish I never heard !
Say't over again." The strain was repeated in its long-drawn concatenation,
and re-repeated at request, amidst the merriment of the whole assembly at
the "lang-nibbit" [Long-nebbed, or long-beaked, applied to long-sounding
words in Scotland, with picturesque expressiveness.] words, John smiling,
and James joining in the irresistible mirth with heart and soul, as he
tells.
Old Joseph, the father, till
now a mere spectator, prided himself on his intelligence, having served his
apprenticeship, as he often told, "in the heed boro' toon o' Aiberdeen." He
determined to come to John's aid; affronted, as he said, that his son, "a
grown man, was so confounded dull i' the uptak'." [Up-take, that is, power
of taking up mentally, understanding.] "Though I'm noo an auld man o' near
fowr score," remonstrated he, addressing his son, "I ken ilka wird the man's
sayin'. Can ye no tak' tent to fat's tauld ye, man ? " The son completed the
measure of his father's contempt by saying that he did not believe a word of
what John had been saying. Taking from his mouth his cutty-pipe—which he had
till then been smoking —and clearing his throat by spitting fiercely on the
ground, while he gazed with evident anger on the round, rubicund,
meaningless face of his son, the disgusted old man shouted out, "Do ye no
ken fat the man says yet? It's Scotch Zarclaiczfoseph's ear! ye stupid gowk
[Gowk is the Scotch for cuckoo, of which it is the first syllable a little
changed.] that ye are, speering at John sac of en." Thinking that he had
solved the problem once and for all, and silenced his son, he turned and
entered the house, with a look of scorn at such stupidity being exhibited by
a child of his.
The young man was speechless,
awed by the learning of his father and rebuked by his angry disdain. No
further questions were asked. The plants were speedily gathered up again,
and the two botanists passed onwards, to ruminate and talk over the odd
encounter, John laughing more than usual on the way homewards. When he
called at Whitehouse that night, according to custom, to show the plants he
had found, he told Charles the story "with great birr." [Strength and glee
combined. Another form of the word is virr, which suggests some possible
relation to the root of the Latin vis, strength, and vii', a strong man.] He
never afterwards forgot the scene.
It is but a specimen of
numberless similar encounters with his neighbours. They seldom got the best
of it, however; though the apparent simplicity of the weaver was a
never-failing provocative to bucolic wit and contemptuous ignorance. |
