The view from the heights of Gamrie on a summer evening is exceedingly fine. The sea ripples beneath you. Far away it is as smooth as glass. During the herring season, the fishing-boats shoot out from the rocky clefts in which the harbours are formed. Underneath are the fishing-boats of Gardenstown; to the right those of Crovie. Eastward, you observe the immense fleet of Fraserburgh vessels, about a thousand in number, creeping out to sea. Westward, are the fishing-boats of Macduff, of Banff, Whitehills, Portsoy, Cullen, Sandend, Findochtie, and the Buckies, all making their appearance by degrees. The whole horizon becomes covered with fleets of fishing-boats. Across the Moray Firth, in the far distance, the Caithness mountains are relieved against the evening sky. The hills of Morven and the Maiden’s Pap are distinctly visible. The sun, as it descends, throws a gleam of molten gold across the bosom of the firth. A few minutes more and the sun goes down, leaving the toilers of the sea to pursue their labours amidst the darkness of the night.
Gamrie Head is locally called Mohr Head.[28] The bay of Gamrie is a picturesque indentation of the coast, effected by the long operation of water upon rocks of unequal solidity. The hills, which descend to the coast, are composed of hard grauwacke, in which is deeply inlaid a detached strip of mouldering old red sandstone. The waves of the German Ocean, by perpetual lashing against the coast, have washed out the sandstone, and left the little bay of Gamrie—the solid grauwacke standing out in bold promontories—Mohr Head on the one side, and Crovie Head on the other.
The fishing village of Gardenstown lies at the foot of the Gamrie cliffs. It is reached by a steep winding path down the face of the brae. The road descends from terrace to terrace. The houses look like eyries, built on ledges in the recesses of the cliff. As you proceed towards the shore, you seem to look down the chimneys of the houses beneath. The lower and older part of the village is close to the sea. The harbour seems as if made in a cleft of the rocks. The fishers of this village are a fine race of men, with a grand appearance. They are thorough Northmen; and but for their ancestors having settled at Gamrie, they might have settled in Normandy and “come in with the Conqueror” at the other end of the island.
A little eastward of Gardenstown is the little fishing village of Crovie, containing another colony of Northmen. Farther out to sea is the majestic headland of Troup. It is the home of multitudes of sea-birds. Its precipices are penetrated with caves and passages, of which the most remarkable are Hell’s Lum and the Needle’s Eye. Hell’s Lum[29] consists of a ghastly opening on the slope of the hill near Troup Head. From this opening to the sea there is a subterranean passage about a hundred yards long, up which, on the occasion of a storm, the waves are forced with great fury, until they find their escape by the “Lum” in the shape of dense spray. The other opening, the Needle’s Eye, runs quite through the peninsular rocky height. It is about a hundred and fifty yards long, and is so narrow that only one person at a time can with difficulty make his way through it.
Eastward of Troup Head the scenery continues of the same character. The fishing village of Pennan, like Gardenstown, lies at the foot of a ledge of precipitous rocks, and is enclosed by a little creek or bay. From the summit of the Red Head of Pennan the indentations of the coast are seen to Kinnaird’s Head in the east, and to the Bin Hill of Cullen in the west.
The scenery of this neighbourhood, besides its ruggedness and wildness, is rendered beautiful by the Glens or Dens which break through the ridges of rock, and form deep ravines,—each having its little streamlet at the bottom, winding its way to the sea. The water is overhung by trees or brushwood, sometimes by boulders or grey rocks like buttresses, which seem to support the walls of the Den. These winding hollows are rich to luxuriance with plants and flowers,—a very garden of delight to the botanist. Heaths, furze, primroses, wild rasps, wild strawberries, whortleberries, as well as many rare plants, are to be found there; whilst the songsters of the grove—thrushes, blackbirds, and linnets—haunt the brushwood in varying numbers.
The most picturesque and interesting of these Dens are those of Troup, Auchmedden, and Aberdour. The Dens, when followed inland, are found to branch out into various lesser Dens, until they become lost in the moors and mosses of the interior. The Den of Aberdour is particularly beautiful. At its northern extremity, near where it opens upon the sea, the rift in the glen is almost overhung by the ruins of the ancient Church of Aberdour,[30] said to have been founded by St. Columbanus, who landed on this part of the coast to convert the pagan population to Christianity. The bay of Aberdour, with its bold headland, forms the sea entrance to this picturesque valley.
The coast-line of Banffshire, without regarding the indentations of the bays, extends for about thirty miles along the southern shores of the Moray Firth. This was the principal scene of Edward’s explorations. His rounds usually extended coastwise, for about seven miles in one direction, and about six in another. He also went inland for six miles. But he very often exceeded these limits, as we shall afterwards find.
Having referred to the coast-line, we may also briefly refer to the inland portion of the county. Banffshire is of an irregular shape, and extends from the southern shores of the Moray Firth in a south-westerly direction toward Cairngorm and Ben Macdhui,—the highest mountain knot of the Grampians. The middle portion of the county is moderately hilly. Glen Fiddick, Glen Isla, and Strath Deveron, follow the line of hills which descend in a north-westerly direction from the Grampians towards the sea.
The county generally is under cultivation of the highest order. The valleys are intersected with rich meadows and pasture-lands, which are stocked with cattle of the choicest breeds. There are numerous woods and plantations, both luxuriant and verdant, though there is a great want of hedges. Agriculture is gradually extending upwards towards the mountains. Moors and morasses are fast disappearing. In places where the wail of the Plover, the birr of the Moorcock, and the scream of the Merlin, were the only sounds,—the mellow voice of the Lark, the Mavis, and the Blackbird, are now to be heard in the fields and the woods throughout the country.
In the extreme south-western district lies the great mountain knot to which we have already referred. The scenery of this neighbourhood can scarcely be equalled, even in Switzerland, though it is at present almost entirely unknown. Cairngorm, Benbuinach, Benaven, and Ben Macdhui, surround Loch Avon and the forest of Glen Avon. The Banffshire side of Ben Macdhui forms a magnificent precipice of 1500 feet, which descends sheer down into the loch. This lonely and solemn lake is fed by the streams flowing from the snows that lie all the year round in the corries of the mountains above. These streams leap down from the bare and jagged cliffs in the form of broken cataracts. One of these falls has a descent of 900 feet. The parish of Kirkmichael, in which this scenery occurs, is almost unpeopled. It has only one village—Tomintoul—the highest in Scotland. The people who inhabit it and the other hamlets of the parish, are of a different race and religion, and speak a different language, from those who inhabit the middle and lower parts of the county.[31]
To return to the labours of our Naturalist. For about fifteen years Edward made the greater part of his researches at night. He made them in the late evening and in the early morning, snatching his sleep at intervals between the departing night and the returning day.
His rounds, we have said, extended coastwise along the shore of the Moray Firth, for about seven miles in one direction, and about six in another. His excursions also extended inland for about five or six miles. He had thus three distinct circuits. Although he only took one of them at a time, he usually managed to visit each district twice a week.
Having sometimes wandered too far, as he frequently did, he divested himself of his hunting paraphernalia, rolled them up together, hid them in a hole or some convenient place, and then ran home as fast as he could, in order to be at his work at the proper time. He once ran three miles in twenty minutes. He measured the time by his watch,—for he had a watch then, though, like himself, it is worn out now.
Occasionally, when kept late at work, he was prevented from enjoying his evening ramble. After going to bed, and taking a short sleep, he would set out in the dark, in order to be at the place where he had appointed; from whence he worked his way homeward in the morning towards Banff.
But though he made it a general practice during his nightly excursions to return home in time for the morning’s work, he occasionally found it necessary to deviate a little from this rule. When he was in search of some particular bird, he was never satisfied or at rest until he had obtained it. On one occasion two Geese, the first of their kind that he had ever seen, caused him to lose nearly a whole week before he could run them down.
He first saw them whilst walking out one Sunday afternoon. They were swimming about on a piece of water near the town. He went out before daylight next morning to the same place. But he saw no geese. He waited for an hour, and then they made their appearance. They alighted on the water within a short distance of the bar, where he was sitting. Had his object been to secure them at once, he could easily have shot them, for they were both within reach of his gun. But he wished to observe their habits, and he waited for some time. Having satisfied himself on this head, he next endeavoured to possess them. He shot one of them; the other flew away.
He now desired to possess the other bird; but it was with extreme difficulty that he could accomplish his object. Though the goose returned, it was so extremely shy that it could scarcely be approached. It was only by making use of many precautions, and resorting to some very curious stratagems, that Edward was able to capture the bird. A week elapsed before he could secure it. He shot it on Saturday; but he did not recover it until the following morning.
On another occasion a Little Stint (the least of the Sandpipers) cost him two days and a night. It was the first bird of the kind he had ever seen,—and it was the last. Though he was occasionally within a mile or two of Banff during the pursuit of the bird, and though he had not tasted food during the whole of his absence, lying during part of the night amongst the shingle on the sea-shore, yet he never once thought of leaving the chase until final success crowned his efforts. We must allow him to tell the story in his own words.
“I once had a desperate hunt after a Little Stint (Tringa minuta). Returning home one evening along the links,[32] I heard a strange cry coming, as it seemed, from the shore. I listened for some time, as I knew it was the season (September) for many of our migratory species to visit us. Never having heard the cry before, I was speedily on the beach. But it was growing dark, and I had not cat’s eyes. The sound, too, ceased so soon as I had gained the beach. After groping about for some time, I thought I espied a rather large flock of birds at some distance along the shore. I approached cautiously, and found that I was correct; the flock consisting chiefly of ringed plovers, dunlins, and sanderlings. From the latter circumstance, and from the fact that the cry was that of a sandpiper, I was pretty sure that a stranger was amongst them. Although I could see well enough that the birds were on the wet sand between me and the water, I could not make them out distinctly. Once or twice I thought I could distinguish one considerably smaller than the others, but I soon felt that I had been mistaken. I was now in a state of great excitement. Every limb shook like an aspen leaf, or a cock’s tail on a windy day. What was I to do? True, I might have fired at them, but the odds were greatly against my being successful.
“It was now fairly dark, and the birds had retired to rest on a ridge of rocks which intervenes between the sands and the links. Instead of returning home, as any one else would have done, I laid myself down in a hollow till morning, to wait their first appearance, in the hope of attaining my object. It proved a wet and windy night, but daylight brought with it a fine morning. With it also came two gunners from Banff, striding along the beach on a shooting excursion. This vexed me to the very heart. The birds were not yet astir, but I knew they would rise at the approach of the men, who would doubtless attempt to shoot them. Just as I anticipated, up went the birds; crack, crack went the shots; and down fell several birds. Rising from my stony couch, I rushed at once to the spot to see the victims, and found them all to consist of sanderlings, dunlins, and one ringed plover. The gunners were strangers to me, but I ventured to ask them to abstain from firing until I had satisfied myself about the bird I sought; but they seemed unable to understand why one bird could be of more interest than another, and they told me that, as there were plenty of them, I could fire away, and take my chance. I declined to shoot with them, but eagerly watched each time they fired, and if a bird fell I went and examined it; but I did not meet with the one I sought. The men at last got tired, and went away.
“It was now my turn; but unhappily the birds, from being so often fired at, had become extremely shy, so that to get near them for my purpose was all but impossible. By perseverance, however, I at length made out one, as I thought, a good deal smaller than the others. I succeeded in creeping a little nearer. They rose; I fired, and down fell four. I rushed breathless, hoping to pick up the bird in which I took such interest. But, alas! no. It was not there. Away went the remaining birds to the sea; then turning, they rounded a point or headland called Blackpots, and disappeared from view. From this and from their not returning, I knew that they had gone to the sands at Whitehills, about three miles distant, to which place I proceeded. But no sooner had I reached there, than back they flew in the direction from which they had come. Back I went also, and found them at the old place.
“Just as I reached them, away they flew once more, and of course away I went likewise. In this way we continued nearly the whole day,—they flying to and fro, I following them. Towards evening, my strength beginning to fail, and feeling quite exhausted, I gave up the chase, and once more took up my abode amongst the shingle, in the hope that they might again return there for the night. Just as I wished and expected, and while it was yet light, they came and alighted about thirty yards from where I lay. Away went fatigue, hunger, and thoughts of home! In fact, the sight of this object of my day and night’s solicitude made me a new creature. Off went the messengers of death. Two of the birds fell; the rest fled once more to the sea. I followed, but had not proceeded far when I observed one falter. Leaving its companions, it bent its course towards where I stood, and suddenly dropped almost at my feet. As I picked up the little thing, I could not but feel thankful that my patience and perseverance had at last been crowned with success. It was the first Little Stint I had ever shot, and the only one I have ever seen in this neighbourhood.”
In thus pursuing his researches Edward lost much of his time, and, in proportion to his time, he also lost much of his wages. But his master used to assist him in making up his lost time. It was a common remark of his, “Give Tam the stuff for a pair of pumps at night, and if he has any of his cantrips in view, we are sure to have them in the morning ready for the customer.” Edward took the stuff home with him, and, instead of going to bed, worked at the shoes all night, until they were finished and ready for delivery. He had another advantage in making up for lost time. His part of the trade was of the lightest sort. He made light shoes and pumps. He was one of those who, among the craft, are denominated ready. He was thus able to accomplish much more than those who were engaged at heavier work. This, together with his practice of spending not a moment idly, was much in his favour.
He also contrived to preserve his specimens during his meal hours, or in his idle times “betwixt pairs,”—whilst, as shoemakers would say, they were “on the hing.” During the long winter nights, he arranged the objects preserved, and put them in their proper cases. In order the better to accomplish this work, he did not go to bed until a very late hour. As he was not able to afford both fire and light, he put out the lamp when engaged upon anything that could be done without it, and continued his labours by the light of the fire.
When forced to go to bed, he went at once, and having slept at railway speed for an hour or an hour and a half, he was up again and at work upon his specimens. He felt as much refreshed, he said, by his sound sleep, as if he had slept the whole night. And yet, during his sleep, he must have had his mind fixed upon his work, otherwise he could not have wakened up at the precise time that he had previously appointed. Besides stuffing his own birds, he also stuffed the birds which other people had sent him,—for which he was paid.
One of the objects which he had in view in making his “rounds” so frequently, was to examine the traps he had set, in order to catch the beetles, grubs, and insects, which he desired to collect. His traps were set with every imaginable organic material,—dead birds, rats, rabbits, or hedgehogs; dead fish, crabs, or seaweed. He placed them everywhere but on the public roads,—in fields and woods, both on the ground and hung on trees; in holes, in old dykes, in water, both fresh and stagnant. Some of these traps were visited daily, others once a week, whilst those set in water, marshy places, and in woods, were only visited once a month. He never passed any dead animal without first searching it carefully, and then removing it to some sheltered spot. He afterwards visited it from time to time. Fish stomachs, and the refuse of fishermen’s lines, proved a rich mine for marine objects. By these means he obtained many things which could not otherwise have been obtained; and he thus added many rare objects to his gradually growing collection.
He was, however, doomed to many disappointments. One of these may be mentioned. Among his different collections was a large variety of insects. He had these pinned down in boxes in the usual manner. He numbered them separately. When he had obtained the proper names of the insects, his intention was to prepare a catalogue. He knew that there were sheets of figures sold for that and similar purposes, but he could not afford to buy them. He accordingly got a lot of old almanacs and multiplication tables, and cut out the numbers. It was a long and tedious process, but at length he completed it.
When the insects were fixed and numbered, Edward removed the cases into his garret preparatory to glazing them. He piled them, one upon the other, with their faces downwards, in order to keep out the dust. There were twenty boxes, containing in all 916 insects. After obtaining the necessary glass, he went into the garret to fetch out the cases. On lifting up the first case, he found that it had been entirely stripped of its contents. He was perfectly horrified. He tried the others. They were all empty! They contained nothing but the pins which had held the insects, with here and there a head, a leg, or a wing. A more complete work of destruction had never been witnessed. It had probably been perpetrated by rats or mice.
His wife, on seeing the empty cases, asked him what he was to do next. “Weal,” said he, “it’s an awfu’ disappointment, but I think the best thing will be to set to work and fill them up again.” To accumulate these 916 insects had cost him four years’ labour! And they had all been destroyed in a few days, perhaps in a single night!
It will be remembered that Audubon had once a similar disappointment. On leaving Henderson in Kentucky, where he then lived, he left his drawings, representing nearly a thousand inhabitants of the air, in the custody of a friend. On returning a few months later, and opening his box, he found that a pair of Norway rats had taken possession of the whole, and gnawed up the drawings into little bits of paper. Audubon did what Edward now determined to do. He went out into the woods with his gun, his notebook, and pencils, and in the course of about three years he again filled his portfolio.
Edward duly carried out his purpose. He went moth-hunting as before; he hunted the moors and the woods, the old buildings and the graveyards, until, in about four more years, he had made another collection of insects; although there were several specimens contained in the former collection, that he could never again meet with.
Edward had now been observing and collecting for about eight years. His accumulations of natural objects had therefore become considerable. By the year 1845, he had preserved nearly 2000 specimens of living creatures found in the neighbourhood of Banff. About half the number consisted of quadrupeds, birds, reptiles, fishes, crustacea, starfish, zoophytes, corals, sponges, and other objects. He had also collected an immense number of plants. Some of the specimens were in bottles, but the greater number were in cases with glass fronts. He could not afford to have the cases made by a joiner; so he made the whole of them himself, with the aid of his shoemaker’s knife, a saw, and a hammer.
In order to make the smaller cases, he bought boxes from the merchants; and in breaking them up, he usually got as many nails as would serve to nail the new cases together. To make the larger cases, he bought wood from the carpenters. He papered the insides, painted the outsides, and glazed the whole of the cases himself. The thirty cases containing his shells were partitioned off,—each species having a compartment for itself. This was a difficult piece of work, but he got through it successfully. There were about 300 cases in all.
His house was now filled with stuffed birds, quadrupeds, insects, and such like objects. Every room was packed with the cases containing them, his shoemaking apartment included. What was he to do with them? He had, indeed, long had a project in his mind. In the first place, he wished to abandon the shoemaking trade. He was desirous of raising money for the purpose of commencing some other business. He also wished to have some funds in hand, in order to prosecute his investigations in Natural History. How could he raise the requisite money? He thought that he might raise a part of it by exhibiting his collection. Hence his large accumulation of specimens, and his large collection of cases.
There was a feeing fair held twice a year at Banff, on market days,—called Brandon Fair. Young lads and lasses came in from the country to be feed, and farmers and their wives came in to fee them. It was a great day for Banff. All the shows and wild beasts, the dwarfs and giants, the spotted ladies and pig-faced women, accompanied by drums and trumpets, converged upon Banff on that day. The town, ordinarily so quiet, became filled with people—partly to hire and be hired, and partly to see what was to be seen. The principal streets were kept in a continual row until the fair was over.
Edward gave an exhibition of his collection at the Brandon Fair in May 1845. He took a room in the Trades’ Hall, and invited the public to inspect his “Collection of preserved Animals, comprising Quadrupeds, Birds, Fishes, Insects, Shells, Eggs, and other curiosities.”
The local paper called the public attention to the rare and beautiful objects contained in Edward’s Collection—“the results of his own untiring efforts and ingenuity, without aid, and under discouraging circumstances which few would have successfully encountered. . . . Our young friends especially should visit the Collection: it will both amuse and instruct them. They will learn more from seeing them in half-an-hour, than from reading about them in half-a-year.”
Edward took the inhabitants by surprise. They had never been able to understand him. His wanderings by night had been matter of great wonderment to them. The exhibition fully explained the reason of his frequent disappearances. When his public announcement was advertised, some of the better classes called at his house in Wright’s Close, to ascertain if it was true. True, indeed! He pointed to the cases of stuffed birds and animals which nearly filled his house. Then the question came—“What made you a Naturalist?”
“When I was first asked this question,” says he, “I was completely dumfoundered! I had no notion that a Naturalist could be made. What! make a Naturalist as you would make a tradesman! I could not believe that people became Naturalists for pecuniary motives. My answer to those who put the question invariably was, and still is, I cannot tell. I never knew of any external circumstance that had anything to do with engendering, in my mind, the never-ceasing love which I entertained for the universal works of the Almighty; so that the real cause must be looked for elsewhere.”
In preparing for the exhibition of his Collection, Edward brushed up his specimens, and cleaned his cases, before removing them to the Trades’ Hall. But in looking over his Collection, he found that he had sustained another serious loss. He regarded it at the time as a heartrending catastrophe. Some time before, he had put nearly 2000 dried and preserved plants into a box, which he had placed at the top of the stair, in order to be out of harm’s way. The plants were all dried and preserved. They were the result of eight years’ labour employed in collecting them. But when he went to overhaul the box, he found that the lid had been shoved to one side, and that numerous cats had entered it and made it their lair. The plants were completely soaked, and rendered utterly worthless. The box smelt so abominably, that he was under the necessity of making a bonfire of it in the back-yard.
All this was exceedingly disheartening. Nevertheless he removed his remaining collection to the place appointed for exhibiting it. He had no allurements,—no music,—no drums nor trumpets, as the other show-people had. His exhibition was held in an upper room, so that the sight-seers had to mount a long stair before they could see the Collection. Nevertheless, many persons went to see it; and the result was, that Edward not only paid his expenses, but had something laid by for future purposes.
He went on collecting for another exhibition, and increased his specimens. He replaced, to a certain extent, the plants which had been destroyed by the recklessness of the cats. He obtained some wonderful fishes and sea-birds. His collection of eggs was greatly increased. He now prepared for a second exhibition at the Brandon Fair, 1846. On that occasion he was able to exhibit many old coins and ancient relics.
This exhibition was more attractive and more successful than the first. It yielded a better remuneration; but, what was more satisfactory, Edward was much complimented by those who had inspected his Collection. It excited general applause. In short, it was considered by Edward himself to be so successful as to induce him to remove the Collection to Aberdeen, for exhibition in that important city.
Banff was a comparatively small and remote town; whereas Aberdeen was the centre of northern intellect and business. At Banff, comparatively few persons knew much about natural history or science; whilst Aberdeen had two universities, provided with professors, students, and all the accompaniments of learning. It also contained a large and intelligent population of educated business men, tradesmen, and artizans.
Edward was sanguine of success at Aberdeen. It was his City of Expectations. He was now doubly desirous of giving up shoemaking, and devoting himself to Natural History. For this purpose, he wanted means and a settled income. He intended to devote the proceeds of his exhibition in several ways. He had, indeed, almost settled them in his own mind. He would, in the first place, make arrangements for opening a coffee-house or provision shop for the employment and support of his family. He would next purchase some works on Natural History by the best authors. He would probably also buy a microscope and some other necessary scientific instruments. Alnaschar, in the Arabian Nights, with the basket of glass at his feet, did not dream more of what he would do with his forthcoming income, than Edward did of what he would do with the successful results of his exhibition at Aberdeen.
But Edward must now be up and doing. The cases had to be put in order; new objects had to be added to the collection; new birds had to be stuffed. Some of the groups had to be arranged in dramatic form. One of these consisted of the Death of Cock Robin. There was the Sparrow perched upon a twig, warrior-like, with his bow in one of his feet, and his arrow-case slung across his back. There was the red-breasted Robin lying on a green and mossy knoll, with the arrow shot by the sparrow sticking in his little heart; and in a burn meandering close by, there was a silvery fish with its little dish, catching Robin’s life-blood. There was also a great black beetle, with a thread and needle, ready to sew his shroud.
In another case, the Babes in the Wood were represented,—two Robin Redbreasts covering their tender bodies with leaves. There was a case of mice, entitled “Pussy from Home:” the mice, large and small, were going into and coming out of a meal-bag, which they were rifling. There was another large case, containing a number of small birds in a state of great excitement, darting and pecking at an object in the middle of the case, which proved to be a Weasel, attempting to rob a yellow Bunting’s nest, containing six eggs, one of which the weasel had rolled out. Perhaps the best case was the one containing a Pheasant, with six young birds,—all beautifully stuffed. For this Edward was offered three guineas before he left Banff.
At length all was ready, and Edward, with a light heart, left Banff for Aberdeen. The collection was taken in six carriers’ carts,—the largest that could be found. Edward could not take it by railway, for there were no railways then in Banff. The whole family accompanied the collection. It consisted of Edward, his wife, and five children. They set out early in the morning of Friday, the 31st of July 1846,—a memorable day in Edward’s history. The six cartloads arrived safe at Aberdeen on the evening of the following day.
Edward had previously taken the shop No. 132, Union Street, for the purposes of his exhibition. This street is the finest in Aberdeen—perhaps the finest in Scotland. It is wide and broad, and about a mile long. The houses are of hewn granite; some of them of massive and noble architecture. Union Street is the representative street of the Grey City.
Handbills were issued, and advertisements published in the local journals, announcing the opening of the exhibition. In the handbill it was stated that “the objects comprising this collection have been collected in the counties of Banff and Aberdeen, and preserved by a single individual, and that individual a journeyman shoemaker. They have been exhibited by him in Banff, to the delight and admiration of every visitor—all being surprised at the beauty, order, and multitude of the various objects,—some going so far as to doubt the fact of the proprietor being a shoemaker, saying that it was impossible for a person of that trade being able to do anything like what they saw before them!”
“Thomas Edward takes the liberty of stating that the Collection is allowed by eminent Naturalists to be one of the greatest curiosities ever offered for public inspection in this quarter, amounting, as it does, to above two thousand objects; and being the work of one individual, who had to labour under every disadvantage, having none to tell how or where to find the different objects, none to teach him how to preserve these objects when found, no sound of promised reward ringing in his ears to urge him on his singular course, no friend to accompany him in his nightly wanderings; help from none; but solely dependent on his own humble abilities and limited resources.
“Were it possible for words to describe, in adequate terms, the unexampled assiduity and unwearied perseverance with which Thomas Edward has laboured in the formation of his Collection, it would surprise every individual capable of reflection. Such not being the case, a visit to the Exhibition can alone enable the public to form any idea of the extent of his labours. The ocean, the rocky shore, the shingly and sandy beach, the meadows, the cultivated fields, the whinny knowes, the woods; the running brooks, the stagnant pools, the muddy and unsavoury ditches, the marshy flats; old walls, ruined towers, and heath-clad hills, have all been visited and anxiously searched in order to procure the objects which compose the Collection.”
Such was Edward’s appeal to the people of Aberdeen to come and see his Collection. The terms were very moderate,—“Ladies and Gentlemen, 6d; Tradespeople, 3d.; Children, half-price.” The Aberdeen Journal thus noticed the Collection—“We have been particularly struck with the very natural attitudes in which the beasts and birds of prey are placed; some being represented as tearing their victims, others feeding their young, and some looking sideward or backward, with an expression of the eye which indicates the fear of interruption. The birds are very beautiful, and the entomological specimens will be found exceedingly interesting.”
On the Thursday following his arrival in Aberdeen, Edward opened his collection. He was in hopes that there would be a rush to see the objects which he had collected with so much difficulty during the last eight years. He believed in himself, though others did not yet believe in him. But there was no rush—no eager multitude crowding the door of No. 132. Indeed, very few persons called to see the Collection. These might, however, tell their friends of its interest, and the rush might still come. But he waited in vain. The rush never came.
The principal people who called upon him during the first ten days were stuffed-bird sellers, and persons who pestered him to buy nearly everything of a bestial kind, alive or dead. Some of the articles offered were monstrosities or delusions, such as double chickens, double mice, a kitten with a rat’s head, a double-headed dog, a rat with two tails, both curled up like a pig’s,—and such like objects. These people were all bowed to the door.
Several ladies called upon Edward to consult him about their favourite pets. One had a lapdog that was sick; another a bird that was lame; others had crippled or diseased cats. He was asked to come and see a pig that had broken one of its legs. A gentleman called upon him one day about an old and favourite rabbit whose front teeth had grown so forward that it could not eat,—“Would he come and cut them off?” “No! he had not time. He must attend to his exhibition.”
Very few people came. Those who did come, knew very little about natural history. Their ignorance of the works of nature seemed to Edward surprising. Only a few knew anything, excepting about the commoner sorts of animals. As to the number, and nature, and habits of living creatures, they appeared to know next to nothing. The transformation of insects was a mystery to them. They could not see how it was possible for an ugly caterpillar to become transformed into a beautiful butterfly. Edward felt very much for the ignorance of men of his own class: it was simply deplorable.
Dr. Macgillivray, Professor of Natural History in Marischal College, Aberdeen, called upon Edward, and was much pleased with his collection of Banffshire fauna. The professor told him that the inhabitants of Aberdeen were not yet prepared for an exhibition of this kind. There was not even a public museum in the city; no collection of natural objects; no free library; nothing for the enlightenment of the higher and nobler faculties of man! To this cause Edward, in a great measure, attributed the failure of his exhibition. Some of the professors who afterwards called to see the collection, told Edward that “the people of Aberdeen were not yet prepared for such an exhibition, especially as it had been the work of a poor man. He had come several centuries too soon.”
Several of the persons who examined the exhibition, did not believe that it had been the work of Edward at all. Among his better-class visitors was a gentleman who frequently came in as he passed, and carefully examined the specimens. He sometimes gave Edward half-a-crown, and would not take any change back. The gentleman was an inveterate and persistent interrogator. His questions were usually of a personal character. But Edward had by this time prepared a bag of forgetfulness, into which he put all the disagreeable things that were said to him; and once there, he remembered them no more. Edward believed that his visitor belonged to the medical profession, and that he was connected with a neighbouring dispensary.[33]
One day the visitor arrived, and without looking at the specimens, he went directly up to Edward and asked, “Well, how are you getting on?” “Very poorly,” was the answer. “And no wonder!” said the visitor. “How?” “How!” he almost shouted, “because the people here don’t believe in such a thing. I am sure of it from what I know and have heard myself.”
“But if they would only come!”
“Come? that’s the very thing. It seems they’ll not come. And although they did, what satisfactory evidence is there that what they see is the result of your own unaided and individual labour? You are quite a stranger here. You should have had some persons of high standing in the city to take you under their patronage: say the professors of both colleges, or the provost and town-council. Oh! you needn’t shake your head and look at the floor. It would have been much better.”
“I never considered myself in a position,” said Edward, “to ask such a favour.”
“Then you’ll not succeed here unless you do something of the sort.”
“In that case, then,” said Edward, “I’ll be plain enough to tell you that I never will succeed.”
“You are too stiff—too unbending,” said the Doctor. “Then, you know very well, that you have nobody in Aberdeen to confirm your extraordinary statement. You say that the whole of this collection is entirely the work of your own hands, and that it is your own exclusive property!”
“Yes! I bought the game birds; and as regards the others, I procured the whole of them myself,—preserved them and cased them, just as you see them.”
“And had you to work for your living all that time?”
“Yes; and for the living of my family too.”
“Then you have a wife and a family?”
“Yes, I have five children.”
“The devil!”
“No, sir, I said children.”
“Ah, yes, I know; I beg your pardon. But do you mean to say that you have maintained your wife and family by working at your trade, all the while that you have been making this collection?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, nonsense! How is it possible that you could have done that?”
“By never losing a single minute, nor any part of a minute, that I could by any means improve.”
“Did you ever hear of any one else who had ever done the like before?”
“No. But thousands might have done it, and much more too.”
“Well, I don’t believe it. I have never heard of such a thing, and I have never read of such a thing!”
“But I never thought,” said Edward, “that I was doing anything, that any one else might not have done. I was quite unaware of the fact that I was doing anything in the least way meritorious. But if I have, as a journeyman shoemaker, done anything worthy of praise, then I must say that there is not a working man on the face of the earth that could not have done much more than I have done; for of all the occupations that are known, that of shoemaking is surely the very worst.”