CHAPTER XIII.

_James Wilson, "Daft Jamie"--Some Anecdotes concerning him--Daft Jamie and Boby Awl._

Perhaps none of the murders committed by Burke and Hare caused so much popular regret as that of James Wilson, known as "Daft Jamie." He was one of those wandering naturals known to everybody, and being a lad who, while deficient in intellect, was kind at heart, he was a universal favourite, only the very small and the very impudent boys troubling him. Here is a quotation from a small publication issued shortly after the mystery of his death was cleared up, which gives us some knowledge of his manners:--"He was a quiet, harmless being, and gave no person the smallest offence whatever; he was such a simpleton that he would not fight to defend himself, though he were ever so ill-used, even by the smallest boy. Little boys, about the age of five and six, have frequently been observed by the citizens of Edinburgh going before him holding up their fists, squaring, and saying they would fight him; Jamie would have stood up like a knotless thread, and said, with tears in his eyes, that he would not fight, for it was only bad boys who fought; the boys would then give him a blow, and Jamie would have run off, saying, 'That wiz nae sair, man, ye canna catch me.' Then about a thousan' gets (young brats of children), hardly out o' the egg-shell, would have taken flight after him, bauling out, 'Jamie, Jamie, Daft Jamie.' Sometimes he would have stopped and turned round to them, banging his brow, squinting his eyes, shooting out his lips (which was a sign of his being angry), saying, 'What way dae ye ca' me daft?' 'Ye _ir_,' the little gets would have bauled out. 'I'm no, though,' said Jamie, 'as sure's death; devil tak me, I'm no daft at a'.' 'Ye _ir_, ye _ir_', the gets would have bauled out. He then would have held up his large fist, which was like a Dorby's (mason's) mell, saying, 'If ye say I'm daft, I'll knock ye doun.' He would then have whirled round on his heel and ran off again, acting the race-horse."

Such was Daft Jamie Wilson. He was born on the 27th November, 1809, in Edinburgh. His father died when he was about twelve years of age; and his mother being a hawker, he was left, during her absence, pretty much to his own devices. He generally wandered about the streets, getting a meal here and a few pence there, eking out a livelihood by the good-will of the people, who as a rule were very kind to him. Many stories are told of him, and a few are well worth repeating.

One afternoon in the summer of 1820, Jamie set off with a number of boys in search of birds' nests. He stayed so long that his mother became alarmed, and went out to look for him. During her absence Jamie arrived at the house, ravenous with hunger, and he was so impatient that he could not wait until his mother returned, so he broke open the door. Once in, he sought every corner of the house for food. In a moveable wooden cupboard he found a loaf, and when reaching up to lay hold of it he overbalanced himself, bringing cupboard and its contents to the floor. The dishes were all broken, and a great amount of damage was done. When the mother came in and saw what Jamie had been about, she was so angry that she attacked him with a long leather strap, and gave him such a beating that he left the house, and would not reside in it afterwards. He preferred to sleep on stairs, or behind walls, except when some one offered him accommodation for the night.

Jamie, like other people, had his likes and dislikes. He was very fond of some of the students attending the University, and to them he would talk readily, even offering them a pinch out of his "sneeshing mill." This article was a curiosity, and along with it he carried a brass snuff-spoon in which were seven holes, the middle hole being Sunday, and the others round it the days of the week. He was of a statistical turn of mind, and could tell how many lamps there were in the city, how many days in the year, and such like. Many little conundrums he considered his own particular property, and he was highly offended if any one anticipated him in their answer. He liked best when they replied, "I gie it up," and left him to supply the solution himself. What a pleasure it gave Daft Jamie to be asked--"In what month of the year do the ladies talk least?" for he could say--"The month o' February, because there wiz least days in it." When he was asked--"Why is a jailer like a musician?" he replied, "Because he maun tak' care o' his key;" and the question, "What is the cleanest meat a dirty cook can make ready?" gave him the opportunity of saying, "A hen's egg is cleanest, for she canna get her fingers in't, t' tak' a slake o't."

"I can tell ye a' a guess," Jamie would have said to a crowd of idlers who might have gathered round him, "I can tell ye a' a guess, that nae body kens, nor nae body can guess't." "What is't, Jamie?" would be the eager question, and highly pleased, the poor fellow would repeat, what most of his audience had often heard before:--

"Tho' I black an' dirty am, An black, as black can be; There's many a lady that will come, An' by the haun tak me."

"Now," he would continue, "no nane o' ye guess canna that." "Ah no, Jamie," some one would reply, "we canna guess that fickly ane, wha learned ye a' thae fickly guesses?" "It wiz my half step-mither," he usually answered, "for she's a canty body, for she's aye as canty as a kitten when we're a' sittin' beside her round the fire-side, she tells us heaps o' funny stories, but I dinna mind them a'." "Ah! I ken your guess, Jamie," some tantalising bystander would remark, "its a tea kettle." Jamie was fairly discomfited, and he would run away crying, "Becuz ye ken, becuz somebody telt ye."

Half-witted and all as he was, Jamie was wonderfully ready at repartee. A gentleman once said to him--"Jamie, I hear you have got siller in the bank; why do ye keep it there?" "Because I'm keepin it," replied Jamie, "till I be an aul' man; for maybe I'll hae sair legs, and no can gang about t' get ony thing frae my nineteen friends." Another person asked him, "Why do the ladies in general not carry Bibles to church?" "Because," said Jamie, "they are ashamed o' themsel's, for they canna fin' out the text." "That is very true," said an old schoolmaster, "for I observed twa governesses sitting in a front seat in a church that I was in last Sabbath, and the text was in Ecclesiastes, and neither of them could find it out." Jamie was in the habit of frequenting the house of an old lady in George Street, Edinburgh, where the flunkey and the cook were very good to him. The man often shaved him, and on one occasion, when the flunkey was about to lather his customer he remarked:--"I dinna think I'll shave ye ony mair, Jamie, unless ye gie Peggy a kiss." "But maybe mem wad be angry," said Jamie. "No, no," said the flunkey, "she'll no be angry, for hoo can she ken? She'll no see." Laughingly, Jamie turned round to Peggy, and made to kiss her, but she stopped him and said, "A twell a wat no, Jamie, ye'll no kiss me wi' that lang beard, it wid jag a' my lips." With this repulse Jamie resumed his seat, and when the shaving process was finished he looked at himself in the glass. Peggy now claimed her kiss, but Jamie clapped his hands over his mouth, and replied, "Ye're no a bonny lass, ye're no bonny eneuch for me, and since ye was proud, I'll be saucy, I'm a dandy now." "Weel, then," said Peggy, "let me see how the dandies walk," and Jamie walked through the kitchen with as proud a gait as that of a Highland pipe-major. On another occasion, when Jamie was a little touched with the whisky he had imbibed, he met a woman whose eye had been blackened in some brawl. "Oh! fy, fy, Jamie, it is a great shame to see you, or ony such as you, tak' drink," was her greeting. "A weel," answered Jamie, "what I hae in me, you, nor nane like ye, can tak' out; an' what way hae ye got that blue eye? Hae ye faun on the tub, nae, when ye was washin'?" The woman explained that she got it by coming against "the sneck of the door last night." "Ou aye," said Jamie, "ye ken ye maun tell the best story ye can, but I ken ye hae been fou when ye got it, an' by yer impudent tongue t' yer gudeman, he had ta'en ye through the heckle pins; I saw ye yesterday whare ye sid nae ha'e been." This was enough for his reprover, and she left him.

An instance of Jamie's carefulness has already been given in the reply he gave to the gentleman who asked him why he put his "siller" in the bank, but two others bearing on the same point have also been preserved. He was on very friendly terms with the porters on Adam's Square stance, and one of them asked him why he did not wear an article of dress which had been given him by one of his friends. "It was owre guid for me to wear," replied Jamie, "for when I hae guid claes the fouk dinna gie me onything." Once a gentleman accosted him in George Street with the remark, "Come along with me, Jamie, and I will give you an old coat." "I thank ye, I thank ye," said Jamie, "but I've got plenty o' auld yins at hame." The gentleman passed on, but he was not far away when Jamie ran up to him and said, "Is it a guid ane?" The reply was favourable, and Jamie accompanied his friend to his house, where he was given a coat, a hat, and a pair of shoes. Jamie never wore a hat or shoes, and although the day was very cold and dirty, he could not be persuaded to don the articles given him by the gentleman, and he explained that he did not want to wear them in "sic hard times."

Like many of his poor brethren in misfortune, Jamie was a regular attender at church, and he was never known to be absent from a sermon in Mr. Aikman's chapel. He was very fond of the singing, and lilted away in his own peculiar fashion. An attempt was made to induce him to go to the Gaelic Chapel, next door to Mr. Aikman's, but he said he "wad gang to nae body's kirk but his ain." He had a preference for Sundays, as on that day he was in the habit of visiting a kind friend who gave him "meat and kail." Jamie's fondness for singing, such as it was, supplied a coachman in Hunter's Square with an opportunity of playing a practical joke on him. The man asked him to sing King David's anthem, and he would give him his coach and horses, and make him provost. Jamie said the people would hear him, but the facetious Jehu said he would shut him in the coach. Having been snugly ensconced in the vehicle, Jamie began the singing, and roared so loudly that the whole neighbourhood was alarmed. Among those attracted to the spot was Robert Kirkwood, another halfwit, a great friend of Jamie, familiarly known as Boby Awl. Boby saw his companion through the window of the coach, and cried out, "Eh! it's Daft Jamie, I ken him, I see him." Jamie came out, and shook hands with Boby, who asked, "Did ye get a ride, Jamie?" "Ay," said Jamie, "but no far." The coachman then induced the pair to dance on the street, but the crowd became so great that a policeman had to put a stop to the performance.

Jamie and Boby were fast friends, and no one could get them to fight, though frequent attempts were made to do so. They seemed to have a fellow-feeling for each other, and each of them firmly believed that his companion, and not himself, was "daft." In the Grassmarket, on one occasion, they joined together to purchase a dram. On their meeting, Jamie accosted his friend with, "It's a cauld day, Boby." "Aye is't, Jamie," was the reply; "wadna we be the better of a dram? Hae ye ony siller, man?--I hae tippence." "An' I hae fourpence," said Jamie. "That'll get a hale mutchkin," answered Boby; and the pair adjourned to a public-house, where their liquor was served over the counter. Boby, on the pretence that Jamie should go to the door to witness a dog-fight that he said was going on when they came in, got his companion out of the way, and drank up the whole of the whisky himself. When Jamie came back he said he saw no dog-fight, but when he noticed the empty measure he said to Boby, "What's cum o' the whisky?--ha'e ye drunk it a', ye daft beast, and left me nane?" "Ou aye," said the delinquent; "ye see I was dry, and couldna wait." When Jamie was afterwards asked why he did not revenge himself on Boby for this piece of treachery, he answered, "Ou, what could ye say to puir Boby? He's daft, ye ken." Once, and only once, did these two lads come to blows, and it was then through the mischievous workings of an Edinburgh cadie, or errand-boy. They were together in the slaughter-house, when Wag Fell, the cadie, gave Boby a putrified sheep's head. He then induced him to turn his attention to something else, and slipped the head to Jamie, with the remark that he was to run away home and boil it. Jamie started on his mission, but he was not far gone when Boby, who had been told by Fell that Jamie had stolen his sheep's head, made up to him, crying, "Daft Jamie, gie's my heid." They both claimed it, and in the struggle Boby struck Jamie so violently on the nose that it bled profusely. Jamie, however, did not retaliate, though he retained possession of his "heid."

It is a strange fact that these two lads both met with a violent end. Boby Awl was killed by the kick of a donkey, and his body was disposed of in Dr. Monro's dissecting-room. The circumstances of Jamie's death, as being connected more directly with the narrative of this book, had better be told in another chapter.