of work. At this period he was not the
possessor of a single book relating to his favorite pursuit, and he had
never seen but one, an old-fashioned work of botany and astrology, of
nature and superstition, by the once famous Culpepper. It required extra
work for months, at the low wages of a hand-loom weaver, to get the
money required for the purchase of this book, about five dollars. The
work misled him in many ways, but it contained the names and properties
of many of his favorite herbs. Better books corrected these errors by
and by, and he gradually gathered a considerable library, each volume
won by pinching economy and hard labor.

The sorrow of his life was his most woeful, disastrous marriage. His
wife proved false to him, abandoned his home and their two daughters,
and became a drunken tramp. Every now and then she returned to him,
appealing to his compassion for assistance. I think Charles Dickens must
have had John Duncan's case in his mind when he wrote those powerful
scenes of the poor man cursed with a drunken wife in "Hard Times."

But the more miserable his outward life, the more diligently he resorted
for comfort to his darling plants. For many years he groped in the dark;
but at length he was put upon the right path by one of those
accomplished gardeners so common in Scotland, where the art of gardening
is carried to high perfection. He always sought the friendship of
gardeners wherever he went. Nevertheless he was forty years old before
he became a scientific botanist.

During the rest of his life of forty-four years, besides pursuing his
favorite branch, he obtained a very considerable knowledge of the
kindred sciences and of astronomy. Being obliged to sell his watch in a
time of scarcity, he made for himself a pocket sun-dial, by which he
could tell the time to within seven or eight minutes.

During this period steam was gaining every year upon hand power; his
wages grew less and less; and, as his whole heart was in science, he had
no energy left for seeking more lucrative employment. When he was past
eighty-three he would walk twelve miles or more to get a new specimen,
and hold on his way, though drenched with a sudden storm.

At length, old age and lack of work reduced him to actual suffering for
the necessaries of life. Mr. William Jolly, a contributor to
periodicals, heard his story, sought him out, and found him so poor as
to be obliged to accept out-door relief, of which the old man was