knowing something more about the beasts and birds of which he was so
fond. He used to go in all his spare moments among the shops in the
town, to look at the pictures in the windows, especially the pictures
of animals; and though his earnings were still small, he bought a book
whenever he was able to afford one. In those days cheap papers for the
people were only just beginning to come into existence; and Tam, who
was now eighteen, bought the first number of the _Penny Magazine_, an
excellent journal of that time, which he liked so much that he
continued to take in the succeeding numbers. Some of the papers in it
were about natural history, and these, of course, particularly
delighted the young man's heart. He also bought the _Weekly Visitor_,
which he read through over and over again.
In 1831, when Tam was still eighteen, he enlisted in the Aberdeenshire
militia, and during his brief period of service an amusing circumstance
occurred which well displays the almost irresistible character of
Edward's love of nature. While he was drilling with the awkward squad
one morning, a butterfly of a kind that he had never seen before
happened to flit in front of him as he stood in the ranks. It was a
beautiful large brown butterfly, and Edward was so fascinated by its
appearance that he entirely forgot, in a moment, where he was and what
he was doing. Without a second's thought, he darted wildly out of the
ranks, and rushed after the butterfly, cap in hand. It led him a pretty
chase, over sandhills and shore, for five minutes. He was just on the
point of catching it at last, when he suddenly felt a heavy hand laid
upon his shoulder, and looking round, he saw the corporal of the
company and several soldiers come to arrest him. Such a serious offence
against military discipline might have cost him dear indeed, for
corporals have little sympathy with butterfly hunting; but luckily for
Edward, as he was crossing the parade ground under arrest, he happened
to meet an officer walking with some ladies. The officer asked the
nature of his offence, and when the ladies heard what it was they were
so much interested in such a strange creature as a butterfly-loving
militiaman, that they interceded for him, and finally begged him off
his expected punishment. The story shows us what sort of stuff Edward
was really made of. He felt so deep an interest in all the beautiful
living creatures around him for their own sake, that he could hardly
restrain his feelings even under the most untoward circumstances.
When Edward was twenty, he removed from Aberdeen to Banff, where he
worked as a journeyman for a new master. The hours were very long, but
by taking advantage of the summer evenings, he was still able to hunt
for his beloved birds, caterpillars, and butterflies. Still, the low
wages in the trade discouraged him much, and he almost made up his mind
to save money and emigrate to America. But one small accident alone
prevented him from carrying out this purpose. Like a good many other
young men, the naturalist shoemaker fell in love. Not only so, but his
falling in love took practical shape a little later in his getting
married; and at twenty-three, the lonely butterfly hunter brought back
a suitable young wife to his little home. The marriage was a very happy
one. Mrs. Edward not only loved her husband deeply, but showed him
sympathy in his favourite pursuits, and knew how to appreciate his
sterling worth. Long afterwards she said, that though many of her
neighbours could not understand her husband's strange behaviour, she
had always felt how much better it was to have one who spent his spare
time on the study of nature than one who spent it on the public-house.
As soon as Edward got a home of his own, he began to make a regular
collection of all the animals and plants in Banffshire. This was a
difficult thing for him to do, for he knew little of books, and had
access to very few, so that he couldn't even find out the names of all
the creatures he caught and preserved. But, though he didn't always
know what they were called, he did know their natures and habits and
all about them; and such first-hand knowledge in natural history is
really the rarest and the most valuable of all. He saw little of his
fellow-workmen. They were usually a drunken, careless lot; Edward was
sober and thoughtful, and had other things to think of than those that
they cared to talk about with one another. But he went out much into
the fields, with invincible determination, having made up his mind that
he would get to know all about the plants and beasties, however much
the knowledge might cost him.
For this object, he bought a rusty old gun for four-and-sixpence, and
invested in a few boxes and bottles for catching insects. His working
hours were from six in the morning till nine at night, and for that
long day he always worked hard to support his wife, and (when they
came) his children. He had therefore only the night hours between nine
and six to do all his collecting. Any other man, almost, would have
given up the attempt as hopeless; but Edward resolved never to waste a
single moment or a single penny, and by care and indomitable energy he
succeeded in making his wished-for collection. Sometimes he was out
tramping the whole night; sometimes he slept anyhow, under a hedge or
haystack; sometimes he took up temporary quarters in a barn, an
outhouse, or a ruined castle. But night after night he went on
collecting, whenever he was able; and he watched the habits and manners
of the fox, the badger, the otter, the weasel, the stoat, the pole-cat,
and many other regular night-roamers as no one else, in all
probability, had ever before watched them in the whole world.
Sometimes he suffered terrible disappointments, due directly or
indirectly to his great poverty. Once, he took all his cases of
insects, containing nine hundred and sixteen specimens, and
representing the work of four years, up to his garret to keep them
there till he was able to glaze them. When he came to take them down
again he found to his horror that rats had got at the boxes, eaten
almost every insect in the whole collection, and left nothing behind
but the bare pins, with a few scattered legs, wings, and bodies,
sticking amongst them. Most men would have been so disgusted with this
miserable end to so much labour, that they would have given up moth
hunting for ever. But Edward was made of different stuff. He went to
work again as zealously as ever, and in four years more, he had got
most of the beetles, flies, and chafers as carefully collected as
before.
By the year 1845, Edward had gathered together about two thousand
specimens of beasts, birds, and insects found in the neighbourhood of
his own town of Banff. He made the cases to hold them himself, and did
it so neatly that, in the case of his shells, each kind had even a
separate little compartment all of its own. And now he unfortunately
began to think of making money by exhibiting his small museum. If only
he could get a few pounds to help him in buying books, materials,
perhaps even a microscope, to help him in prosecuting his scientific
work, what a magnificent thing that would be for him! Filled with this
grand idea, he took a room in the Trades Hall at Banff, and exhibited
his collection during a local fair. A good many people came to see it,
and the Banff paper congratulated the poor shoemaker on his energy in
gathering together such a museum of curiosities "without aid, and under
discouraging circumstances which few would have successfully
encountered." He was so far lucky in this first venture that he covered
his expenses and was able even to put away a little money for future
needs. Encouraged by this small triumph, the unwearied naturalist set
to work during the next year, and added several new attractions to his
little show. At the succeeding fair he again exhibited, and made still
mere money out of his speculation. Unhappily, the petty success thus
secured led him to hope he might do even better by moving his
collection to Aberdeen.
To Aberdeen, accordingly, Edward went. He took a shop in the great gay
thoroughfare of that cold northern city--Union Street--and prepared to
receive the world at large, and to get the money for the longed-for
books and the much-desired microscope. Now, Aberdeen is a big, busy,
bustling town; it has plenty of amusements and recreations; it has two
colleges and many learned men of its own; and the people did not care
to come and see the working shoemaker's poor small collection. If he
had been a president of the British Association for the Advancement of
Science, now--some learned knight or baronet come down by special train
from London--the Aberdeen doctors and professors might have rushed to
hear his address; or if he had been a famous music-hall singer or an
imitation negro minstrel, the public at large might have flocked to be
amused and degraded by his parrot-like buffoonery; but as he was only a
working shoemaker from Banff, with a heaven-born instinct for watching
and discovering all the strange beasts and birds of Scotland, and the
ways and thoughts of them, why, of course, respectable Aberdeen, high
or low, would have nothing in particular to say to him. Day after day
went by, and hardly anybody came, till at last poor Edward's heart sank
terribly within him. Even the few who did come were loth to believe
that a working shoemaker could ever have gathered together such a large
collection by his own exertions.
"Do you mean to say," said one of the Aberdeen physicians to Edward,
"that you've maintained your wife and family by working at your trade,
all the while that you've been making this collection?"
"Yes, I do," Edward answered.
"Oh, nonsense!" the doctor said. "How is it possible you could have
done that?"
"By never losing a single minute or part of a minute," was the brave
reply, "that I could by any means improve."
It is wonderful indeed that when once Edward had begun to attract
anybody's attention at all, he and his exhibition should ever have been
allowed to pass so unnoticed in a great, rich, learned city like
Aberdeen. But it only shows how very hard it is for unassuming merit to
push its way; for the Aberdeen people still went unheeding past the
shop in Union Street, till Edward at last began to fear and tremble as
to how he should ever meet the expenses of the exhibition. After the
show had been open four weeks, one black Friday came when Edward never
took a penny the whole day. As he sat there alone and despondent in the
empty room, the postman brought him a letter. It was from his master at
Banff. "Return immediately," it said, "or you will be discharged." What
on earth could he do? He couldn't remove his collection; he couldn't
pay his debt. A few more days passed, and he saw no way out of it. At
last, in blank despair, he offered the whole collection for sale. A
gentleman proposed to pay him the paltry sum of L20 10s for the entire
lot, the slow accumulations of ten long years. It was a miserable and
totally inadequate price, but Edward could get no more. In the depths
of his misery, he accepted it. The gentleman took the collection home,
gave it to his boy, and finally allowed it all, for want of care and
attention, to go to rack and ruin. And so that was the end of ten years
of poor Thomas Edward's unremitting original work in natural history. A
sadder tale of unrequited labour in the cause of science has seldom
been written.
How he ever recovered from such a downfall to all his hopes and
expectations is extraordinary. But the man had a wonderful power of
bearing up against adverse circumstances; and when, after six weeks'
absence, he returned to Banff, ruined and dispirited, he set to work
once more, as best he might, at the old, old trade of shoemaking. He
was obliged to leave his wife and children in Aberdeen, and to tramp
himself on foot to Banff, so that he might earn the necessary money to
bring them back; for the cash he had got for the collection had all
gone in paying expenses. It is almost too sad to relate; and no wonder
poor Edward felt crushed indeed when he got back once more to his
lonely shoemaker's bench and fireless fireside. He was very lonely
until his wife and children came. But when the carrier generously
brought them back free (with that kindliness which the poor so often
show to the poor), and the home was occupied once more, and the fire
lighted, he felt as if life might still be worth living, at least for
his wife and children. So he went back to his trade as heartily as he
might, and worked at it well and successfully. For it is to be noted,
that though Thomas Edward was so assiduous a naturalist and collector,
he was the best hand, too, at making first-class shoes in all Banff.
The good workman is generally the best man at whatever he undertakes.
Certainly the best man is almost always a good workman at his own trade.
But of course he made no more natural history collections? Not a bit of
it. Once a naturalist, always a naturalist. Edward set to work once
more, nothing daunted, and by next spring he was out everywhere with
his gun, exactly as before, replacing the sold collection as fast as
ever his hand was able.
By this time Edward began to make a few good friends. Several
magistrates for the county signed a paper for him, stating that they
knew him to be a naturalist, and no poacher; and on presenting this
paper to the gamekeepers, he was generally allowed to pursue his
researches wherever he liked, and shoot any birds or animals he needed
for his new museum. Soon after his return from Aberdeen, too, he made
the acquaintance of a neighbouring Scotch minister, Mr. Smith of
Monquhitter, who proved a very kind and useful friend to him. Mr. Smith
was a brother naturalist, and he had books--those precious books--which
he lent Edward, freely; and there for the first time the shoemaker
zoologist learned the scientific names of many among the birds and
animals with whose lives and habits he had been so long familiar.
Another thing the good minister did for his shoemaker friend: he
constantly begged him to write to scientific journals the results of
his observations in natural history. At first Edward was very timid; he
didn't like to appear in print; thought his grammar and style wouldn't
be good enough; fought shy of the proposal altogether. But at last
Edward made up his mind to contribute a few notes to the _Banffshire
Journal_, and from that he went on slowly to other papers, until at
last he came to be one of the most valued occasional writers for
several of the leading scientific periodicals in England.
Unfortunately, science doesn't pay. All this work was done for love
only; and Edward's only reward was the pleasure he himself derived from
thus jotting down the facts he had observed about the beautiful
creatures he loved so well.
Soon Mr. Smith induced the indefatigable shoemaker to send a few papers
on the birds and beasts to the _Zoologist_. Readers began to perceive
that these contributions were sent by a man of the right sort--a man
who didn't merely read what other men had said about the creatures in
books, but who watched their ways on his own account, and knew all
about their habits and manners in their own homes. Other friends now
began to interest themselves in him; and Edward obtained at last, what
to a man of his tastes must have been almost as much as money or
position--the society of people who could appreciate him, and could
sympathize in all that interested him. Mr. Smith in particular always
treated him, says Dr. Smiles, "as one intelligent man treats another."
The paltry distinctions of artificial rank were all forgotten between
them, and the two naturalists talked together with endless interest
about all those lovely creatures that surround us every one on every
side, but that so very few people comparatively have ever eyes to see
or hearts to understand. It was a very great loss to Edward when Mr.
Smith died, in 1854.
In the year 1858 the untiring shoemaker had gathered his third and last
collection, the finest and best of all. By this time he had become an
expert stuffer of birds, and a good preserver of fish and flowers. But
his health was now beginning to fail. He was forty-four, and he had
used his constitution very severely, going out at nights in cold and
wet, and cheating himself of sleep during the natural hours of rest and
recuperation. Happily, during all these years, he had resisted the
advice of his Scotch labouring friends, to take out whisky with him on
his nightly excursions. He never took a drop of it, at home or abroad.
If he had done so, he himself believed, he could not have stood the
cold, the damp, and the exposure in the way he did. His food was
chiefly oatmeal-cake; his drink was water. "Sometimes, when I could
afford it," he says, "my wife boiled an egg or two, and these were my
only luxuries." He had a large family, and the task of providing for
them was quite enough for his slender means, without leaving much
margin for beer or whisky.
But the best constitution won't stand privation and exposure for ever.
By-and-by Edward fell ill, and had a fever. He was ill for a month, and
when he came round again the doctor told him that he must at once give
up his nightly wandering. This was a real and serious blow to poor
Edward; it was asking him to give up his one real pleasure and interest
in life. All the happiest moments he had ever known were those which he
had spent in the woods and fields, or among the lonely mountains with
the falcons, and the herons, and the pine-martens, and the ermines. All
this delightful life he was now told he must abandon for ever. Nor was
that all. Illness costs money. While a man is earning nothing, he is
running up a doctor's bill. Edward now saw that he must at last fall
back upon his savings bank, as he rightly called it--his loved and
cherished collection of Banffshire animals. He had to draw upon it
heavily. Forty cases of birds were sold; and Edward now knew that he
would never be able to replace the specimens he had parted with.
Still, his endless patience wasn't yet exhausted. No more of wandering
by night, to be sure, upon moor or fell, gun in hand, chasing the
merlin or the polecat to its hidden lair; no more of long watching
after the snowy owl or the long-tailed titmouse among the frozen winter
woods; but there remained one almost untried field on which Edward
could expend his remaining energy, and in which he was to do better
work for science than in all the rest--the sea.
This new field he began to cultivate in a novel and ingenious way. He
got together all the old broken pails, pots, pans, and kettles he could
find in the neighbourhood, filled them with straw or bits of rag, and
then sank them with a heavy stone into the rocky pools that abound
along that weather-beaten coast. A rope was tied to one end, by which
he could raise them again; and once a month he used to go his rounds to
visit these very primitive but effectual sea-traps. Lots of living
things had meanwhile congregated in the safe nests thus provided for
them, and Edward sorted them all over, taking home with him all the
newer or more valuable specimens. In this way he was enabled to make
several additions to our knowledge of the living things that inhabit
the sea off the north-east coast of Scotland.
The fishermen also helped him not a little, by giving him many rare
kinds of fish or refuse from their nets, which he duly examined and
classified. As a rule, the hardy men who go on the smacks have a
profound contempt for natural history, and will not be tempted, even by
offers of money, to assist those whom they consider as half-daft
gentlefolk in what seems to them a perfectly useless and almost
childish amusement. But it was different with Tam Edward, the strange
shoemaker whom they all knew so well; if _he_ wanted fish or rubbish
for his neat collection in the home-made glass cases, why, of course he
could have them, and welcome. So they brought him rare sandsuckers, and
blue-striped wrasse, and saury pike, and gigantic cuttle-fish, four
feet long, to his heart's content. Edward's daughters were now also old
enough to help him in his scientific studies. They used to watch for
the clearing of the nets, and pick out of the refuse whatever they
thought would interest or please their father. But the fish themselves
were Edward's greatest helpers and assistants. As Dr. Smiles quaintly
puts it, they were the best of all possible dredgers. His daughters
used to secure him as many stomachs as possible, and from their
contents he picked out an immense number of beautiful and valuable
specimens. The bill of fare of the cod alone comprised an incredible
variety of small crabs, shells, shrimps, sea-mice, star-fish,
jelly-fish, sea anemones, eggs, and zoophytes. All these went to swell
Edward's new collection of marine animals.
To identify and name so many small and little-known creatures was a
very difficult task for the poor shoemaker, with so few books, and no
opportunities for visiting museums and learned societies. But his
industry and ingenuity managed to surmount all obstacles. Naturalists
everywhere are very willing to aid and instruct one another; especially
are the highest authorities almost always eager to give every help and
encouragement in their power to local amateurs. Edward used to wait
till he had collected a batch of specimens of a single class or order,
and then he would send them by post to learned men in different parts
of the country, who named them for him, and sent them back with some
information as to their proper place in the classification of the group
to which they belonged. Mr. Spence Bate of Plymouth is the greatest
living authority on crustaceans, such as the lobsters, shrimps,
sea-fleas, and hermit crabs; and to him Edward sent all the queer
crawling things of that description that he found in his original
sea-traps. Mr. Couch, of Polperro in Cornwall, was equally versed in
the true backboned fishes; and to him Edward sent any doubtful midges,
or gurnards, or gobies, or whiffs. So numerous are the animals and
plants of the sea-shore, even in the north of Scotland alone, that if
one were to make a complete list of all Edward's finds it would occupy
an entire book almost as large as this volume.
Naturalists now began to help Edward in another way, the way that he
most needed, by kind presents of books, especially their own
writings--a kind of gift which cost them nothing, but was worth to him
a very great deal. Mr. Newman, the editor of the _Zoologist_ paper, was
one of his most useful correspondents, and gave him several excellent
books on natural history. Mr. Bate made him a still more coveted
present--a microscope, with which he could examine several minute
animals, too small to be looked at by the naked eye. The same good
friend also gave him a little pocket-lens (or magnifying glass) for use
on the sea-shore.
As Edward went on, his knowledge increased rapidly, and his discoveries
fully kept pace with it. The wretchedly paid Banff shoemaker was now
corresponding familiarly with half the most eminent men of science in
the kingdom, and was a valued contributor to all the most important
scientific journals. Several new animals which he had discovered were
named in his honour, and frequent references were made to him in
printed works of the first importance. It occurred to Mr. Couch and Mr.
Bate, therefore, both of whom were greatly indebted to the working-man
naturalist for specimens and information, that Edward ought to be
elected a member of some leading scientific society. There is no such
body of greater distinction in the world of science than the Linnean
Society; and of this learned institution Edward was duly elected an
associate in 1866. The honour was one which he had richly deserved, and
which no doubt he fully appreciated.