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.
CHAPTER XIV.
Daft Jamie Trapped into Hares House—The Murder—The Body Recognised on the Dissecting Table—Popular Feeling.
The murder of so well-known a character as James Wilson, by Burke and Hare, can only be regarded, from their point of view, as an act of the most egregious folly, and, like that of Mary Paterson, it courted discovery. So long as they confined their attention to tramps and others who were strangers in the city, or to persons regarding whom there was no probability of much inquiry being made, they were comparatively safe; but now they were treading on absolutely dangerous ground. It may have been, as Burke asserted in his confession, that so far as he could remember he had never seen Daft Jamie before he met him in Hare’s house. But that is in no wise probable. During his residence of many years in Edinburgh he must frequently have come across the poor half-witted lad, who was known by sight to almost every resident of the city, especially as the Grassmarket was a favourite haunt of both of them. But though Burke might plead ignorance, some of his accomplices could not, for it was owing to their very acquaintance with Jamie that he fell into their hands. That they should have made such a supreme error is something more than remarkable.
On a day late in September, or early in October, 1828, Daft Jamie was wandering about the Grassmarket, asking all he knew if they had seen his mother. What set him upon this tack it would be difficult to say. His mother, perhaps, had been away from home, and the poor lad had taken a sudden longing to see her; or perhaps it was simply one of those strange vagaries that poor mortals like Jamie occasionally take. During his search he was met by Mrs. Hare, who asked him what he was about. “My mother,” he replied, “hae ye seen her ony gait?” Mrs. Hare was ready with her answer, for she had quickly formed a plan. Yes, she had seen his mother, and if Jamie went with her he would find her in her house in Tanner’s Close. Jamie, in all innocence—and what could he suspect?—followed the woman to Log’s lodgings, where Hare was himself sitting idle. Of course the visitor was welcomed in the most kindly fashion, asked to sit down until his mother should appear, and to keep him from wearying he was invited to partake of the contents of the whisky bottle. Jamie was chary about this, for although he was fond of an occasional dram he had a great fear of “gettin’ fou.” At last he was induced to taste, and he sat down on the edge of the bed with a cup containing some liquor in his hand. In the meantime, Mrs. Hare went down to Mr. Rymer’s shop near at hand, to purchase some provisions. She there found Burke standing at the counter talking to the shopkeeper, and, taking advantage of the opportunity, she asked her old lodger to treat her to a dram. This he did, and while she was drinking it off she pressed his foot. Burke understood the signal—as he said himself, “he knew immediately what he was wanted for, and he went after her.” When he arrived at the house, Mrs. Hare told him he had come too late, for the drink was all done, but that defect was soon remedied by another supply being brought in. Jamie was again offered more whisky, and was prevailed upon to take it. Then they managed to get him into the little room where so many tragedies had been enacted. The drink began to take Jamie’s weakly brain, and he lay down on the bed in a half-dazed state. Hare crept beside him, and the two men watched his every movement to see when it would be safe for them to attempt to carry out their diabolical design. Mrs. Hare, meanwhile, had been acting with her usual caution. She knew it was not for her to stay in the house when “business” was being transacted, so she went out, carefully locking the door behind her, and placing the key in an opening below the door. The two men were eagerly watching their victim in the back-room, but they felt that this case would not be as easy as most of the others in which they had been engaged. Jamie was young and physically strong, and he had not taken enough of their liquor to render him absolutely helpless, even in the hands of two robust, desperate men. Burke at last was tired of waiting, and he furiously threw himself on the prostrate body of the sleeping lad. Jamie was no sooner touched than the natural instinct of self-preservation made him endeavour to defend himself. He closed with his assailant, and after a furious effort threw him off. He was now standing on the floor ready for another onslaught. Burke’s blood was up, and he renewed the attack, but Jamie was likely to be more than a match for him. Hare, in the meantime, was standing aside, idly watching the contest, and it was only when Burke threatened to “put a knife in him” that he roused himself and threw his strength in the scale against the man who was fighting for his life. Jamie had nearly overcome Burke when Hare entered the lists and tripped him up. The poor lad fell heavily on the floor, and before he had time to recover himself the two men were upon him—Hare, as usual, holding his mouth and nose, and Burke lying over his body keeping down his legs and arms. Still Jamie struggled, but to no advantage. His murderers had him too securely beneath them, and gradually his strength waned, until at last the tragedy was completed. Burke and Hare, when they saw the end coming, watched him anxiously, for even yet they were afraid their prey might escape them. But they had done their work too thoroughly. They had not, however, come off unhurt. It was reported at the time of the trial that during the struggle Jamie bit Burke so severely on the leg that, if the laws of the country had not promised to hang him by the neck, he would likely have died from the cancered wounds received in the conflict. This was found not to be the case, but there is no doubt that the two murderers received several painful bruises from the dying man.