The late John Berry, Esq., of Wester Bogie, was married to a distant relation of Daft Willie, upon which account the poor fellow used a little more freedom with that gentleman than with any other who was in the habit of noticing him. Meeting Mr. Berry one day in Kirkaldy, he cries, “God bless you, Mr. Berry! gie’s a bawbee! gie’s a bawbee!” “There, Willie,” says Mr. Berry, giving him what he thought a halfpenny, but which he immediately saw was a shilling. “That’s no a gude bawbee, Willie,” continues he; “gie me’t back, and I’ll gie ye anither ane for’t.” “Na, na,” quoth Willie, “it sets Daft Willie Law far better to put away an ill bawbee than it wad do you, Mr. Berry.” “Ay, but Willie, if ye dinna gie me’t back, I’ll never gie ye anither ane.” “Deil ma care,” says the wag, “it’ll be lang or I get ither four-and-twenty frae ye!”
Willie was descended from an ancient Scottish family, and nearly related to John Law of Lauriston, the celebrated financier of France. On that account he was often spoken to and noticed by gentlemen of distinction; and he wished always to appear on the most intimate terms with the nobility and gentry of the neighbourhood. Posting one day through Kirkcaldy with more than ordinary speed, he was met by Mr. Oswald of Dunnikier, who asked him where he was going in such a hurry. “I’m gaun to my cousin Lord Elgin’s burial.” “Your cousin Lord Elgin’s burial, you fool! Lord Elgin’s not dead!” “Ah, deil may care,” quoth Willie; “there’s sax doctors out o’ Embro’ at him, and they’ll hae him dead afore I win forat!”
Of Matthew Cathie, an East Lothian idiot, numerous characteristic anecdotes are related. He lives by begging in the town of North Berwick, and is well treated by the people there, on account of his extreme inoffensiveness. Like Daft Jock Gray, he is fond of going into churches, where his appearance does not fail to set the people a-staring. On one occasion the minister, pointing to Matthew, said, “That person must be put out before we can proceed.” Matthew, hearing this, exclaimed, “Put him out wha likes, I’ll hae nae hand in’t!” Another time, the minister said, “Matthew must be put out!” when Matthew got up and replied, “Oh! Geordie, man, ye needna fash—Matthew can gang out himsel’!”
The Earl of Wemyss, walking one day, found his fool, Willie Howison, asleep upon the ground, and, rousing him, asked what he had been dreaming about. “Ou, my lord,” says Willie, “I dreamed that I was in hell!” “Ay, Willie, and pray what did ye observe there?” “Ou, my lord, it’s just there as it’s here—the grit folk’s ta’en farrest ben!”
Selkirkshire boasts of several highly amusing idiots, all of whom John Gray once made the subject of a song, in which each of them received some complimentary mention. Himself, Davie o’ the Inch, Caleb and Robbie Scott, and Jamie Renwick, are the chief heroes. Caleb, a very stupid natural, was once engaged by a troop of wandering showfolks to personate the character of an orang-outang at a Melrose fair; the regular orang-outang of the establishment having recently left his keepers in the lurch, by marrying a widow in Berwick, which enabled him to give up business, and retire to the shades of domestic privity. Caleb performed very well, and, being appropriately tarred and feathered, looked the part to perfection. Amateurship alone would have soon reconciled him to be an orang-outang all the rest of his life, and to have left Selkirkshire behind; for, according to his own account, he had nothing to do but hold his tongue, and sit munching apples all day long. But his stars had not destined him for so enviable a life of enjoyment. A drunken farmer coming in to see “the wild man of the woods,” out of pure mischief gave Caleb a lash across the shoulders with his whip, when the poor fellow, roaring out in his natural voice, a mortifying denouement took place; the showfolks were affronted and hissed out of the town, and Caleb was turned off at a moment’s notice, with all his blushing honours thick upon him!
Jamie Renwick has more sense and better perceptions than Caleb Scott, but he is much more intractable and mischievous. He is a tall, stout, wild-looking fellow, and might perhaps make as good a hyena as Caleb made an orang-outang. Once, being upon an excursion along with Jock Gray, they came to a farmhouse, and, in default of better accommodation, were lodged in the barn. They did not like this treatment at all, and Jock, in particular, was so irritated, that he would not rest, but got up and walked about, amusing himself with some of his wildest and most sonorous melodies. This, of course, annoyed his companion, who, being inclined to sleep, was making the best he could of a blanket and a bundle of straw. “Come to your bed, ye skirlin’ deevil!” cries Jamie; “I canna get a wink o’ sleep for ye: I daursay the folk will think us daft! Od, if ye dinna come and lie down this instant, I’ll rise and bring ye to your senses wi’ my rung!” “Faith,” says Jock, “if ye do that, it will be mair than ony ither body has ever been able to do!” It will be remembered that even the minister of Yarrow himself failed in accomplishing this consummation so devoutly to be wished.
The following anecdote, from Colonel Stewart’s work on the Highlands, displays a strange instance of mingled sagacity and fidelity in a Celtic madman; and has, we have no doubt, been made use of in the author of “Waverley’s” examples of the fidelity of Davie Gellatley, as exerted in behalf of his unfortunate patron on similar occasions.
“In the years 1746 and 1747, some of the gentlemen ‘who had been out’ in the rebellion were occasionally concealed in a deep woody den near my grandfather’s house. A poor half-witted creature, brought up about the house, was, along with many others, intrusted with the secret of their concealment, and employed in supplying them with necessaries. It was supposed that when the troops came round on their usual searches, they would not imagine that he could be intrusted with so important a secret, and, consequently, no questions would be asked. One day two ladies, friends of the gentlemen, wished to visit them in their cave, and asked Jamie Forbes to show them the way. Seeing that they came from the house, and judging from their manner that they were friends, he did not object to their request, and walked away before them. When they had proceeded a short way, one of the ladies offered him five shillings. The instant he saw the money, he put his hands behind his back, and seemed to lose all recollection. ‘He did not know what they wanted: he never saw the gentlemen, and knew nothing of them;’ and, turning away, walked in a quite contrary direction. When questioned afterwards why he ran away from the ladies, he answered, that when they had offered him such a sum (five shillings was of some value seventy years ago, and would have bought two sheep in the Highlands), he suspected they had no good intention, and that their fine clothes and fair words were meant to entrap the gentlemen.”
RORY DALL, THE HARPER.[7]
An allusion is made to this celebrated musician in the description of Flora Mac-Ivor’s performance upon the harp in the Highland glen. “Two paces back stood Cathleen, holding a small Scottish harp, the use of which had been taught her by Rory Dall, one of the last harpers of the Western Islands.” (“Wav.,” vol. i. p. 338.) Roderick Morison, called Dall on account of his blindness, lived in Queen Anne’s time, in the double capacity of harper and bard to the family of Macleod of Macleod. Many of his songs and poems are still repeated by his countrymen.