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.”