_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.