From: Eve Blantyre Simpson* – Sir James Y. Simpson (1896):
(*Daughter of James Young Simpson)
James’s grandfather, Alexander Simpson of Slackend, near Torphichen, along with his farming practised farriery, and in the district was much sought after for his skill in the care of beasts. When he failed to heal his patients, he concluded the witches were interfering with him by baffling his remedies, and had to be exorcised. A murrain fell upon the cattle about Torphichen. Alexander Simpson was unable to save them. He decided therefore that to frustrate the malignant devices of the Evil One a cow must be interred alive. James’s father told James he was for a long time afterwards haunted by the remembrance of the earth heaving after the grave was closed in.
One thing he feared was mad dogs, and to defend himself from one he heard breathing one night in his room, he drew an old sword which hung above his bed. The mad dog on this occasion, on which his wife threw the light of a candle, proved to be a calf that had strayed from the byre, and was staggering at the feet of its terrified owner.
When I was in the Isle of Man my father wrote to me: “My new assistant Dr. Aitken has come. But I have another very, very diligent assistant who is ever extremely busy at work, except when he sleeps, and that occupation he indulges in rather deeply and long at times. His last occupation at night consists in carrying up to bed some thin book or other for him and me to study. Upstairs he marches most proudly with it in his mouth, bending his back and wagging his tail at such a furious and frantic rate that I sometimes fear for him, book and all, rolling backwards. He visits all the patients, but instead of feeling their pulses and asking them to put out their tongues, he smells at them and touches and licks their hands. Then, when he and I get back into the carriage, his first occupation generally consists of bolting up and trying to take my nose into his mouth. This, I fancy, is his way of asking,’What kind of case is that which I have seen?’ or of expressing his interest in the disease.”
His love for dogs developed when he became a house-holder, though his wife never shared his taste for them. Whenever he started his carriage and his two grey steeds, he got a Dalmatian to bear it company, called ‘Glen.’ ‘Billy’ succeeded him, and in an American doctor’s journal, who visited him in 1855, he speaks of ‘a Danish spotted coach-dog, a universal pet which the Professor feeds as he eats his lunch and reads his letters.’ We children all inherited his love for animals, and he and our dogs were firm allies, though Puck, the black and tan terrier mentioned in his letter, was his chief favourite. Other animals besides the canine members of his family received his notice and reciprocated it. He never passed a dog in a patient’s house without a moment’s halt to pat it or speak to it. It was certain on future visits to greet him with effusion.
A parrot, which was given to his daughter Jessie, was a long delight to him. John Gray, it was called, but so many medical titles were afloat, it shortly called itself Dr. John Gray and Dr. Polly, and also degreed all the dogs. Jarvis taught it to hail its master by his new title, and Dr, John’s ‘Sir Chames,’ said in a gentle voice, surprised and pleased his master. Dr John lived in the dining-room window, and when ‘Sir Chames’ drove to the dorr, its flutter and whistle of delight forewarned the roomful waiting for him of his advent. A magpie belonging to a patient was fond of attracting his notice. It flew on to his head one day, and queried, in tones ludicrously like his, ‘Well?’
My father wrote some verses on ‘A Nightingale in Kinneil Woods,’ whither one of these charming minstrels of the night had strayed. In regard to the subject of this last poem, Sir James used to tell how the Linlithgowshire villagers turned out to hear this southern singer, and a Bathgate weaver, after listening to its warble, remarked, with a contemptuous voice, ‘It’s naething mair than a yellow yoit gane gyte.’ (yellow-hammer gone daft)
