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SINCE leaving Aberdeen, in
1824, John Duncan was accustomed to visit it several times a year, to obtain
yarn for weaving, and attend Militia drill for some weeks at a time. Before
the Alford railway was opened in 1859, he walked the whole distance to and
from the city, except when conveyed by kindly acquaintances. In Aberdeen,
there were several good people who appreciated the man and relished his
visits. He frequently stayed overnight there, and, business done, devoted
the whole of his time to inspecting second-hand bookstalls, purchasing
books, and calling on friends, but chiefly in extending his knowledge of the
flora of the surrounding country.
At these visits, he was
greatly astonished at the rapid growth of the town and the numerous changes
effected on it since first lie knew it in 1816, and he used to entertain and
surprise his friends with remarks on these changes, and with descriptions of
the city as it stood at the beginning of the century; for his reminiscences
of such things were interesting, vivid, and permanent. When he stayed in
town over Sunday, he devoted the day to hearing good preachers, "the dons,"
"the guid han's," as he called them, especially after 1843, going often
three times to church is and he could give off long after "great screeds" of
the sermons he had heard, and describe the orators with humour and point.
From 1842 to 1848, his visits
to the city were more frequent and extended than at any other time, for
Charles. Black then lived at Raeden, and there John used to stay several
times a year; for the two friends could not remain long apart while they
lived in the same county.
By none was the weaver more
welcomed than by Charles's brother, James, who retained the most genuine
friendship for him since their wandering together on the braes of Tough, in
the thirties. James had been long settled near or in Aberdeen, where he was
successful in business, being able ultimately to retire and live in its
neighbourhood. To him, John's visits, with his old-world style and stories
and his intense enthusiasm, were always peculiarly interesting, as studies
of human nature in the man himself, and bright glimpses of the happy past.
As. he often repeated in reference to them
"They brought him back the
holms and hooves
Where sillar burnies shine,
The lea-rig where the gowans glint
We pu'd in auld lang syne.
Oh, born o' feeling's warmest depths,
0' fancy's wildest dreams,
They twined wi' monie lovely thochts,
Wi' mony Io'esome themes!"
"Many and varied were the
floweries," he says, "that did glint in John's path and mine, and fresh and
lovely the banks of the sillar burnies, pregnant even yet wi' monie lovely
thochts, and furnishing me still wi' inonie lo'esome themes."
As a letter writer, James is
picturesque, pithy, and entertaining, and he became a pleasant medium of
communication between John and Charles, to both of whom the use of the pen
was always more or less a piece of task-work, making their personal
communication by post comparatively rare, though pretty regular.
When John came to town, he of
course donned his best suit. If his attire was odd in the country, in the
town it was simply outy, especially during his latter days, drawing all eyes
even in the city crowd, and frequently causing embarrassment to his friends
when in his company. Certainly, as James says, his like was seldom or never
seen in Aberdeen in recent years, with the quaint dress already
described—his home-made, home-cut ancient coat, with high neck and brass
buttons, latterly well-nigh fifty years old; his trousers, short at best,
rolled up half-way to the knee; his great heavy tacketed boots; his very
tall dress hat, older than the rest and worn with use, set sloping on the
back of his head; his "Sarah Gamp" blue umbrella under one arm, and a large
bundle under the other, and generally with a collection of plants otherwise
disposed. The whole formed a tout ensemble of an uncommon kind. It was
certainly no small trial for any one to accompany its wearer, especially if
he were at all sensitive to the ogling glances, constant stares, and
mirthful faces encountered all along the street. As for the man himself, he
seemed quite unconscious of his own appearance, and moved along the peopled
pavement with as glorious obliviousness as if lie had been walking "ower the
moor acnang the heather."
Of the effect thus produced
by John's
"Outlandish ways and dress
On which his neighbours laid such stress,"
like the Pied Piper's, Mr.
Black gives some amusing examples. James lived in various parts of the city,
and always duly instructed his old friend in regard to any change of
residence, and directed his attention to the precise situation of his house.
John, however, could not remember the exact number, and on coming to the
locality had always to make diligent and numerous inquiries at all the
neighbours till he succeeded in his search. To John, his friend was still
the same as he had been at Netherton, neither more nor less than plain
"Jamie Black." No matter that he had risen in the world, and was the manager
of an establishment in which many hundreds were employed, and where he was
invested with autocratic power; to the old weaver, braid Scotch was more
than all modern stuck-up courtesies, and so Mr. Black remained and was
spoken of by him to all and sundry, strangers, employees and friends, as
"Jamie."
One day, John had cone from
Alford and walked to the Loch of Belhelvie, some miles north of Aberdeen,
for some plants he wished to get there. Tired, footsore, dusty with long
travel, and bespattered with the mud of his scramblings, he returned to
Aberdeen to seek out his friend. He was clad in his usual picturesque garb,
with hat at proper slope and rolled-up trousers, carrying a bundle of
plants, and trailing behind him a thick sheaf, seven feet long, of the tall
Reed Grass (Arundo plzra,, mites), which he had found at the loch. Arrived
at the street, he duly inquired at every door for "Jamie Black." No one knew
such a person, or protested they did not, amidst gathering mirth, as
increasing numbers stood in their doorways to watch the curious inquirer. To
and fro the old man went, vainly seeking for his unknown friend, saying he
did live there the last time he called, and gradually becoming bewildered in
the search. Happily, he was noticed from Mr. Black's house, and one of the
daughters was sent out by the mother to bring home the old man, amidst the
ill-concealed smiles of the whole neighbourhood; and in John was hurried,
grass, bundles and all. Mr. Black was then from home, but on his return,
heard the whole scene fully rehearsed by the ladies, amidst their mingled
indignation and merriment. As Mr. Black, in relating the story, pertinently
asks, Who does not try, at least in public, to forget the name his mother
called him by?
On another occasion, some
years after, John had been walking a great distance as usual, and came to
James's house carrying two immense bundles. He was utterly exhausted, and
looked the very picture of age, except that he was not hoary, being brown,
shrunk, and dry as a mummy. He was clad "in the same garments as he had worn
forty years before at Netherton," as James told Charles when writing to him
on the subject. After dinner, though much refreshed, he still looked
fatigued, and his friend determined to do the kindly and heroic and to brave
all public criticism, by carrying one of his bundles. These were large, done
up in faded coloured handkerchiefs, wound about with innumerable strings.
Being as round and as unindented as eggs, they were clearly outsiders, and
had to be carried under the arm, and even then with difficulty.
Boldly enduring the
suppressed giggling of the young ladies at home, James sallied forth into
public gaze with his unconcerned companion. As they had to walk some two
miles from one of the suburbs to the head of Union Street, through a crowded
locality, James thought it better to take a back road, once the entry into
the city, but now greatly deserted. This John did not like, it appeared, but
he overcame his annoyance so far as to notice the changes that had taken
place in the road, and talked of them to himself, James catching the words
"changes" and "highway." Surmising that he referred to his taking this
by-road, as his own conscience suggested, he said, "Oh, I did not take the
high-road, John, thinking you would like the retired path better." John made
no reply. At length, at a special spot, he stopped and said, "We now stan'
on what was ance the king's highway to a' the sooth o' Scotland, and on and
on to London city." "Bless me, John!" replied his friend, "how do you know?
I thought you were never here before." "Oh, John kens that, and meikle mair
than some fowk think," tartly answered the old man. And back he would go to
the high-road, because nearer to his destination, till James was forced to
yield.
Up the main street thereafter
they marched in this picturesque style, under the gaze of all the folks, to
whom Mr. Black was well known. Being none of Pharaoh's lean kine, the
perspiration stood in beaded drops on James's face, flushed with more than
mere travel and the burden he bore. John, getting tired, wished to rest for
a while, and, regardless of his friend's protestations, sat down on the
window-ledge of a large grocery. James stood beside him like a
standard-bearer, but with less dignity, his virtue fast oozing out in spite
of his inward calls to stand to duty and prove to his fellows that he at
least was not like other men ! It was sufficiently trying to be ogled at as
they trudged along, but it became insupportable when a smiling crowd, first
of ruthless city arabs and then of older people, gathered round them at the
shop window. John himself was utterly oblivious of the sensation he was
causing, and it was with very great difficulty, and only after frequent
urgings, that he was prevailed upon to rise. His martyrised friend
accompanied him to Union Street, till, utterly beaten out with his load and
discomfited by his gathering feelings, he was obliged to leave him, after
seeing him fairly on his way. James returned home a sadder and wiser man,
determined never to sacrifice himself in the same way again for even the
dearest friend ; and realising with new vividness, as he says, how much
human beings are but the creatures of circumstances, and greatly how he, in
particular, had been cast very much in the common mould. In telling this
experience, he exclaims, with humorous truth-
"Breathes there the man with
soul so dead,"
as not to take a red face
under such circumstances? Is the reader one of these?
In 1864, John once more, and
for the last time, met his dearest friend. Charles had never seen him since
1849, when they parted on the banks of the Gadie. He had since then spent
some time in Ayrshire, near Dairy, whence he had removed, in 1858, to
Arbigland on the Solway. After years of longing, he succeeded, in 1864, in
paying a hurried visit to the north, to see the friends and scenes of youth.
He stayed with his brother at Stoneywood, on the Don, a few miles from
Aberdeen, and there James invited the weaver to meet him. John came with
alacrity, and the two par nobile fratrum, spent several dear hours together,
after fifteen years' long-drawn separation.
John arrived before his
friend. When told that Charles was just coming, the effect on him was
electrical and remarkable. He stood all eager attention, with that peculiar
alert and expectant expression seen, as James Black remarks, in dogs on the
hunt when prey is instantly looked for; while his countenance seemed to glow
like a saint's with inexpressible joy. Mr. Black had observed such a light
on the human countenance only once or twice in his life, indicating a state
best conveyed by the word beatitude. "I have seen," he says, "the eyes glow
like a dull, lambent flame, while all the face seemed to emit light. I have
seen this at farewell partings, and, to some extent, in the countenances of
lovers and mothers when much moved. But I never saw it more marked in
healthy life than I did in the face of John Duncan when momently expecting
my brother to appear." [This beatific glow is a known fact, under strong
human emotion, and has attracted the attention of psychologists, poets, and
other observers of the finer and rarer forms of human expression.]
When they met, Charles was
much affected, and even quiet, undemonstrative John could not hide the
moisture in his eye, while his voice discovered deeper unexpressed emotion.
They sat and talked long and earnestly of the dear old days, with their joys
and sorrows, their studies and wanderings; of their subsequent experiences,
the new plants they had gathered, and the new subjects they had entered on.
They parted in affectionate sadness and with small hope of meeting again,
with their gathering years; for John was now seventy, and Charles lived far
off on the borders of England. They never did meet, though the elder
survived for seventeen years; but they continued to correspond to the last,
united by deathless friendship.
Charles Black had long wished
to have a portrait of his old friend, and this desire increased greatly
after their last parting, in the fear that he might pass away before such a
memorial could be secured. He accordingly wrote to his-brother to try to get
John to sit for his photograph, hoping that his brother's friendly
adroitness would effectually overcome John's natural timidity under such
unaccustomed conditions, and his inevitable objections to the necessary
preparations and actual process. James by-and-by got him to consent to
gratify Charles, for whom, as he used to say, he "wu'd hae dune onything—for
Charlie was nae common freend." Accordingly, in September, 1866, in his
seventy-second year, an appointment was made for John to come to Aberdeen
for the purpose; but, as James told Charles, had he not had a liking for
John's portrait himself, he feared that, fond as he was of pleasing his
brother, he could not have gone through the ordeal of bringing the matter to
a successful issue. "John was an awkward fellow," he observes, "in the
street; but in a photographic studio, he was absolutely unmanageable and
absurd."
John came to town one
Saturday, bringing Mr. Black a collection of grasses, tied with hundreds of
thrums to a strong willow wand, according to his good custom with such long
specimens, still in the hope of inducing his friend to begin systematic
Botany. On parting that day, they agreed to meet on Monday morning at nine
o'clock, at Prince Albert's statue, at the end of Union Bridge, John
spending the Sunday with other friends.
Punctual to the moment, James
found him at the appointed spot; but as the photographer's place was not yet
open, and James had some business engagements in the forenoon, they agreed
to meet opposite the saloon at two. When he arrived at the hour, he found
John already there. He stood with his bundle stuck on a railing above him,
his staff between his knees, some silver coins between his teeth, some
half-crowns in one hand, while he held a florin in the other close to his
eyes, evidently to see if it was a half-crown or not. When accosted, he at
once turned round, with his usual irresistible reticence, and pocketed the
whole in all haste. Then facing his friend and quietly saying, "Ay, Jamie,
ye hae come," he took down his bundle; and they moved in silence to the
place of execution, as it evidently seemed in John's eyes.
Charles had enjoined his
brother to have John taken in his usual attire and style, with umbrella and
bundle, as he used to see him in the old days at Whitehouse, so as to get as
far as possible a realistic and speaking momento of the dear old man. John
had of course put on his best, which, in default of better, was the old
familiar suit. But he did not bring the big blue "tent;" and, in the wish to
appear as genteel as possible on such an important occasion, the bundle he
had provided was not a quarter of its usual dimensions, and without its
generally super-abundant cordage. The parcel could not now be well increased
in size. It was with great difficulty, also, that he was prevailed upon to
accept James's fine umbrella, having a lurking fear,—regardless of
appearances though he outwardly seemed—of being made "a sicht o'," and only
did so on being assured that it was absolutely necessary "to please
Charlie."
They entered the studio.
There John had to be reassured as to his looking decent and in order, and
insisted on his friend tying his neckerchief in a better fashion than he
could himself, a thing James was very .both to do, as he wished to have him
taken as naturally as possible. All was at length duly prepared ; but now
came the ordeal. The poor man had no idea whatever of the nature and meaning
of photography, but would, of course, never confess his absolute ignorance.
With great difficulty, James got him properly posed by the wall, his head
fixed in an iron support. He stood erect, with umbrella in one hand, bundle
in the other, resting on the edge of a writing-table, on which was placed
his long hat; his hair hanging over his brows somewhat in its usual fashion,
though less rough than desirable. John stood, as he wrote to Charles
afterwards, "in heavy marching order;" his regret being, he said, that he
was tired, having travelled a great deal that day, and that his shoes were
brown with the dust of the street! The dear, good creature! he desired to
appear to the very best advantage before his distant friend.
When the artist began to
settle his apparatus in front of his subject, John became deadly pale from
what seemed real apprehension. He evidently took the instrument for a kind
of cannon or other deadly weapon ; for the position no doubt suggested to
the old man that of a soldier before the cannon's mouth. He winked
inordinately as he looked towards the camera, at the artist's request;
licked his lips, as if in nervous anticipation of some explosion; and
finally, when the cap was removed after the command to be steady had been
given, he turned away, and refused to stand!
In great concern, he went up
to his friend, exclaiming, "Dear me, Jamie, what dis it a' mean?" and
pointing to the instrument, "what is that?" It was at once explained. But
what was to be done? The first plate was spoiled, and the photographer was
non-plussed, if not annoyed. By dint of further explanation, assurance, and
coaxing, John was induced to stand once more. Another plate was prepared,
John took his position, less culprit-like than before, and the photograph
was obtained before he was aware. When told that it was all over, he went up
to James and asked in real earnest, "But, Jamie, when am I to be drawn?"
"Dear me, John, you are already taken!" But John would not believe it, and
continued to speak his doubts by repeating, "Na, na! na, na!"
When the artist reappeared to
say that it was quite successful, John went up to him very gravely, to give
orders about the number he wished. "I'll tak' three; ay, I'll tak' three—nae
vzair, and I'll tak' them wi' me!" evidently intending one for each of the
brothers and the other for himself. "Beg your pardon, sir?" said the
photographer. "Ay, three, and wi' me," replied John. The gentleman could not
understand, and still repeated, "Beg your pardon?" while John continued, "
Ay, ay! only three, and Wi' me;" till Mr. Black explained the matter to
both.
The likeness thus with
difficulty secured was very satisfactory, much more so than could have been
anticipated from the unpromising beginning. Of course, the fine umbrella,
`yell-crossed tie, and small square parcel were not from the life; but the
face was clearly taken, the light falling well on the countenance, which,
however, showed traces of weariness and of John's distrust of the whole
process. Otherwise, it gave a fair representation, it seems, of the man as
he then appeared in his seventy-second year.
John was photographed again
in full homely guise in 1878, twelve years after, when he was eighty-four,
while seated in front of his own garden at Droughsburn, clad in his weaving
dress, after he had become famous.
Charles Black was delighted
to receive the likeness of his friend, and wrote to him in acknowledgment.
[The admirable etching that forms the frontispiece, is taken partly from
both portraits—the head and face from that secured in 1866, and the body
from that of 1878.]
That same year, 1866, a great
meeting took place in London, on the 22nd of May—an International Botanical
Congress, which it would have immensely gratified the old botanist to have
seen; as showing that the subject he loved was rising in dignity and
worthily taking its place beside the advancing sciences of the time, since
it began to take steps in the true direction under his early master,
Tournefort.
A friend he never failed to
visit in Aberdeen was William Beveridge, in whose father's house at the
Craigh, he used to spend the bright evenings on the braes of Tough. When Mr.
Beveridge succeeded his father in the farm and developed his genius, and had
become the broad-hearted, kindly man he is, he used to relish John's visits
exceedingly, after John had settled down at Droughsburn, and used to cross
the hill to see his old friends round Netherton. As he says, "I knew far
better then the value of the man, and always laid aside work when he came,
to get the good of him ; though, alas, I never profited equally to the many
opportunities I had after all." After William removed to Aberdeen, in 1873,
and became curator of the Free Church College there, his heart was still in
the dear Vale of Alford. He never took to city life, he sadly says, for the
green fields and wild nature were always more to him than all the art of
man. The sense of injury received at his harsh severance from the home of
his fathers still frequently disturbs him, and he feels and ever will feel,
as he expresses it, "like a tree transplanted after it is old, which still
holds on a kind of life, but never regains the freshness and vigour of its
original situation."
Hence John's visits were all
the more prized by him in Aberdeen, and "his honest face was like a blink of
sunshine in the dust and din of the city," as he gratefully expresses it.
John as fully enjoyed his pleasant society, and used to speak of his friend
with high esteem. To both, the dear and delightful memories of the past,
which they used to "con with meikle care," were singularly refreshing, and
welled up into the poetry of life, an invigorating and strengthening charm.
Then William could show his old friend many things new and interesting to
him, which he could not have done in Tough. He had still a very fine garden,
that recalled the old one at the Craigh where John used to sit with strange
immunity among the clustering bees; and there John could always walk,
admiring its floral beauties. The college museum, which contains the
splendid collection of Natural Science specimens, one of the best and most
valuable in the country, munificently gifted by the late Mr. Thomson of
Banchory, was to both the centre of wonders stranger than fiction. There
John was most fascinated and astonished at the exquisite examples of the
flora of the Coal Measures in the geological department; being "perfectly
overpowered," as his companion tells, "when he looked upon these examples of
the mighty past, in the flora that bloomed millions of years ago."
Behind the museum, was the
workshop of its curator, a melancholy reminiscence of the beautiful one he
had left behind him at the Craigh, where John had often seen him at work,
sadly recalled by both. Then the evenings were spent in the cosy parlour,
amidst the bright and happy faces of the home circle, when the music of the
past was reproduced by his friend with bow and violin of his own making, to
chase dull care away and recall the days of other years.
Latterly, John's old-world
attire and unconventional ways rather disturbed the ladies in the households
of the friends he used to visit, as violating the proprieties of city life,
to which the sex are so ardently devoted, and the want of which they find it
difficult to condone, when they are not strong and pronounced enough to
shake off the bondage in special circumstances, as in John's case. Of "the
proper," one of the first articles in the female creed—standing even before
"the right," shall we say?—the ancient weaver had not the dimmest glimpse
even in the city, and it certainly was not a little trying to feminine
nerves to receive so outre a visitor, whose appearance could not fail to
draw the public eye in a way far from soothing to feminine notions regulated
by the social demands of "the genteel." On occasions—but these were few—the
petty annoyances thus created found expression in remonstrance, which was in
the old man's eyes certainly unexpected, if not a good deal painful, and
which he was not slow to mention to his male friends with indignant surprise
and rebellion when it occurred. But these were mere passing clouds, easily
dispelled under the warm sunshine of the heart with which he was
nevertheless received, and under which he blossomed out in sweeter perfumes
and opened the drooping bower of his sensitive affections. |
