This article from the British Bee Journal & Bee-keepers Adviser celebrates the good man, John Love, as a beekeeper. I have been getting an article about him as a famous grower of pinks when I got lured away by bee. Pinks are coming! I have added illustrations when I was curious to know about something (if I could find any). I would have liked Mr. Love as a neighbor.
OUR PROMINENT BEE-KEEPERS.
No. 30—MR. JOHN LOVE.
We have much pleasure in giving this week the portrait and a biographical sketch of the veteran bee-keeper, Mr. John Love. Born in the village of Kilbarchan, Renfrewshire, on 10th April, 1806, bred a hand-loom weaver, as were his father and grandfather, three Johns in line, he maybe said to have been a born beekeeper, as he remembers a saying of his father's -that in the old garden the hum of the bee had been heard without a break for sixty years.
Of middle height, fair complexion, with high colour, the fringe of pretty, fair, silky hair below his wide-awake behind, this 'yellow-haired laddie' of eighty-five summers is frequently taken by the stranger as wearing on to seventy.
If the sentence above made you read it twice, be it known that "The wide-awake, a broad-brimmed felt hat with a lowish crown, was a countryman's hat". (I thank the source! I remember acutely doing research in pre-computer days. I think the magic of the web will never dull for me.)
Still remarkably nimble and fleet of foot, of a very amiable disposition, his laugh is as nappy and jubilant now as I believe it to have been when, a boy of nine, he remembers listening to accounts read from the papers of the glorious victory of Waterloo. For many years an exemplary Presbyterian elder, growing deafness (his only infirmity) prevents him now from performing all the duties of the office. So healthy has he been that only once during his
long life, for a fever, has he required medical advice. He married, 12th August, 1833, Mary Climie, daughter of a weaver's agent in his own village, and has been blessed by a numerous offspring.
A few years after his marriage the subject of our sketch moved to Mount Pleasant, beautifully situated on rising ground above the village, and occupied jointly with his brother-in-law, the upper flat as their dwelling house — workshops below, a good garden behind.
The passer-by could not but be attracted by the bee-house, a neat model of a two-storied dwelling-house, complete to the sweep on the chimney. The numerous odd hives of the two dwellings were cosily placed in sheltered nooks under the many crafted fruit-trees. The floral display of roses, herbaceous plants, &c. was very fine but in their season the bed of pinks was the great attraction.
Mr. Love for many years was the acknowledged Scottish champion 'pink' grower. Upstairs his stuffed specimens of natural history reflected great credit on our friend's taste and neathandedness in another direction.
It has been recorded in these pages long ago, when the Italian bee was newly imported, how a petition was couched in respectable verse from the Kilbarchan fraternity for leave to inspect the new bee: the writer of it was Mr. Robert Climie, Mr. Love's brother-in-law.
Alas! that deputation has all passed away save Mr. Love.
Curious how the poetic vein descends, coming out in the children and grandchildren of Mr. Love. Robert Climie's end, some twenty years ago, was very affecting. He was invited over to a neighbouring village to examine the bees of a married daughter of Mr. Love. A non-smoker himself, he administered a whiff of the pipe, said to his niece he felt sick, and would never touch that vile pipe again, retiring to an inner room, where she in a little while found him kneeling by the sofa in prayer, in which posture his gentle spirit passed away. The funeral was largely attended, service in the open air, a beautiful spring day, the woods of Glentyan across the strath, and the village nestling in the hollow, bees out in force—very touching to beekeepers present to see his little favourites hover over the pall and odd ones resting on it, as if taking a long farewell of the old master ere his remains were borne away.
Time brings its changes, the kindly old Laird dies, the estate is sold, and Mr. Love after an occupancy of thirty-eight years has to move his looms into the smoky atmosphere of the town of Paisley, where he and an unmarried daughter bravely struggle on, plying their shuttles side by side. In the interim, first the partner of his joys and sorrows, then his youngest and fairest flower, droop and die. Gladly he accepts an offer to take charge of a cottage and pony, grow and dispose of a large fruit-garden crop in the island of Bute. Rarely do we find a man at seventy-six so cheerily abandon his life-work, and begin to earn his bread by his hobby.
Time brings its changes, the kindly old Laird dies, the estate is sold, and Mr. Love after an occupancy of thirty-eight years has to move his looms into the smoky atmosphere of the town of Paisley, where he and an unmarried daughter bravely struggle on, plying their shuttles side by side. In the interim, first the partner of his joys and sorrows, then his youngest and fairest flower, droop and die. Gladly he accepts an offer to take charge of a cottage and pony, grow and dispose of a large fruit-garden crop in the island of Bute. Rarely do we find a man at seventy-six so cheerily abandon his life-work, and begin to earn his bread by his hobby.
The hill-top is at last gained; there, bareheaded as usual, busy among his strawberries, stands our hero. The joy at meeting! 'Why, John, you look like an old eagle perched on this hill-top!' The bees and honey prospects are discussed, and the tremendous crop on his gifted young Caledonian plum-trees presented by John; a branch promised and hamper followed.
By return of post the hit-off thanks :—
"Through wind and rain your basket came
In safety—it is here.
'Twas careful hands that packed it
With its richly-laden store.
I never can repay you, But I thank you o'er and o'er, For there are deeds of friendship Words may not all impart,Their sterling worth, as deep they sink Into our inmost heart.
Then, once again I thank you From here, my mountain home,And, one and all, I wish you joy In the year that is to come.'
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| The Stewarton: The Hive for the busy man |
The above lady takes an enthusiastic interest in the bee and the silkworm.
A handsome mahogany rotating observatory ornaments her drawing room, and the supers from her gigantic Stewartons overtopped everything at the Rothesay Exhibition.
She also takes a warm interest in the cause of religion and education, in maintaining the purity of worship in the National Church; is thoroughly practical, projected and supports an Initiatory School where poor boys are taught the ground-work of religion, besides the ability to sew on buttons or patches on their jackets.
At the School Board she has sat for nearly six years, the only lady, and heroically defends her position with as much determination as did her illustrious uncle the gates of Hougoumont at Waterloo.
Three verses are extracted from a letter or Mr. Love's on another occasion:—
'I will whisper my tale to the Yule-log As I muse in its ruddy glow,As here again comes Christmas, With its holly and mistletoe.*****
'Tes! that is the tale I whisper, As I muse in the firelight glow,As I sit, in the hush of the evening.
And think on long ago;
'On the happy home of my childhood, On the friends I held so dear:One by one they have left us,*****
They are no longer here.'
After a five years' residence in Bute he came back to Kilbarchan, and the bees and pinks are safely flitted to his present garden. After the labours of the week are over, it is a much
anticipated pleasure on the Saturday half-holiday, skimming over the four miles that part our dwellings. The newest ideas in bee-keeping are discussed, the last bed of pinks planted by himself seen to, and the latest-come herbaceous plant criticized; and if in autumn the fruit-crop is peculiarly interesting — those 'Bouquet trees, the waxy purity of the white 'celestial' apple flanked on either side, same tree, by branches of the scarlet or striped varieties successively.
He often ejaculates, "It bates a!"
How comes such heavy crops? Your good grafting and the fertilizing powers of our little friends, the bees?
"Nae doot, nae doot!"
One fine Saturday afternoon autumn was a twelvemonth, we were favoured by a visit from 'Our Editor,' pointing out to him how "history repeats itself", our old Japanese lion, worshipped for 3000 years, had been peopled that season by a colony of humble-bees as Samson's was, the subject of our sketch arrived and the pleasure of that introduction he will never forget.
"Nae doot, nae doot!"
One fine Saturday afternoon autumn was a twelvemonth, we were favoured by a visit from 'Our Editor,' pointing out to him how "history repeats itself", our old Japanese lion, worshipped for 3000 years, had been peopled that season by a colony of humble-bees as Samson's was, the subject of our sketch arrived and the pleasure of that introduction he will never forget.
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