MR LEACH'S FUNERAL SERMONS

Perhaps the "funeral sermons" which Mr Leach preached on his two wives in the early part of 1891 were as funny as the London lectures. Mr Leach said I should have to be his chairman at the "sermons," but when the day came he said he would do without me, as he "durst bet ah'd bin hevin' whiskey." I went to the Temperance Hall, but was told by Police-superintendent Grayson, who was there with two constables, that he had special instructions not to admit me into the "precincts of that holy place" unless I was perfectly sober. There was an overflow crowd in the street, and I put it to them whether I was drunk or sober. There was a majority that said I was sober, and Mr Grayson allowed me to pass in. When Mr Leach saw me entering the hall, he called out of the police; but finally allowed me to take a seat at the foot of the stage. At the outset he declined to have me on the platform, until he "broke down," and said, "Tha'd better come up here, Bill, for ah'm ommost worn aat. Ah'll gie thee ten minutes ta say summat." I accordingly mounted the platform and recited a few pieces I had written—"Come, nivver dee i' thi shell, owd lad" (one of Mr Leach's favourites), "Biddy Blake," &c. After the lecture, I went with Mr Leach in a cab to his home. When we got there he said "They'll be tawkin' abaat this at t' Devonshire. Tak' this shillin', and go see what they've ta say abaat my lecter." I went to the Devonshire Hotel, and found several gentlemen talking and laughing over the "sermons." However, Mr Leach had done his best, "an' t' Prime Minister couldn't dew more," as he expressed it. The delivery of the funeral sermons marked the close of his public life. It was not long after that he showed signs of illness, and I went to live with, and wait upon him. I had often to recite my poems for him, and one he frequently asked for was "The pauper's box;" he assured me that he would leave me enough to keep me from being buried in a pauper's coffin:—

Thou odious box, as I look on thee, I wonder wilt thou be unlocked for me? No, no! forbear!—yet then, yet then, 'Neath thy grim lid do lie the men— Men whom fortune's blasted arrows hit, And send them to the pauper's pit.

. . . . .

But let me pause, ere I say more About thee, unoffending door; When I bethink me, now I pause, It is not thee who makes the laws, But villains, who, if all were just, In thy grim cell would lay their dust.

But yet, 'twere grand beneath yon wall To lie with friends,—relations all, If sculptured tombstones were not there, But simple grass with daisies fair— And were it not, grim box, for thee, 'Twere Paradise, O Cemetery!



CHAPTER XXI

MR LEACH AT WAKEFIELD

Continuing my recollections of the late Mr James Leach. I remember accompanying him as "valet de sham"—as the old gentleman was pleased to style me to inquiring friends—to Wakefield. The occasion was the annual visit of inspection which a deputation from the Board of Guardians was making to the asylum there. I recollect Mr Richard Hattersley telling me on the platform at the Keighley station to look well after Mr Leach. The deputation comprised, among others, Mr James Walsh, Mr Middlebrook, Mr R. A. Milner, and Mr R. C. Robinson. On arriving at the Bradford Midland Station, Mr Leach, on the plea of "takin' t' twist out on 'em," sent me for an open landau and a couple of horses and a coachman, and thus he proceeded "in state" to the Lancashire and Yorkshire Station. The train again entered, the journey was soon completed to Wakefield. The deputation in general did the distance to the asylum—about a mile—on foot, but for Mr Leach, I had again to requisition a two-horsed landau. We were driven up to the asylum entrance, and ushered into the reception room. The governor of the asylum asked me who the old gentleman was, and I told him he was "James Leach, Esquire, a Guardian, from Keighley." "He's a funny fellow," said the governor, "I couldn't tell whether he was coming in as a patient or not." By way of re-assurance I told the governor that Mr Leach had had a stroke, which rather accounted for his "acting funny." The other members of the deputation had now arrived, and the whole were shown into a private room. There the Guardians sat as a Board, with Mr Middlebrook as chairman, and the thirty-six lunatics from the Keighley Union were brought in. One or two of the patients I recognised. Several of them were ready to be discharged, having been passed by the doctor. The inspection over, Mr Leach expressed a desire to see the patients dine. He was introduced into the large dining hall, and took a great interest in "watchin' t' lunies feed," as he put it. At the close of the repast, Mr Leach commissioned me to distribute 1lb. of tobacco among the men—0.5lb. in twist, and 0.5lb. in shag. No sooner did the lunatics see the tobacco than they commenced a vigorous attack on me—I had lunatics to the right and to the left of me, and in front, behind, and on top of me. There must have been no less than half-a-dozen on my shoulders at one time, and some of the fellows obtained a good deal more than their share of the tobacco. Mr Leach had apparently witnessed the distribution with much interest, and when I came up to him he said, "been in Wombwell's menagerie, but ah've nivver bin i' sich a furacious attack as this before." He then retired, and on leaving the asylum I heard him ask the governor if he would allow himself and his "valet de sham" to stay a few weeks in the place, promising to pay all dues and demands. The governor, however, said he would not be able to do that without a certificate. So, after bidding the Asylum governor good day, Mr Leach and I took our departure. I had again to obtain an open carriage to take us to the Bull Inn, where dinner was to be served. Dinner was waiting when we got there. "Isn't it a bonny shame" said Mr Leach, "for us to be hevin' a 7s 6d dinner aht o' t' rates?" "Nay," says the landlord, "you do your work for nothing." "Hahivver," said Mr Leach, "Ah'll hev my dinner, but this 'valet de sham' o' mine weant hev owt here; Ah'll be beyont suspicion." With that he handed me 4s and I went down into Wakefield and got a good repast. On my return to the Bull Inn, I found Mr Leach sat on a basket of potatoes at the door. It transpired that he had been turned out of the hotel, and a chair having been denied him on which to sit and wait at the door, he had bought a basket of potatoes from a hawker who was passing, and utilised it as a temporary seat. Whatever had taken place, Mr Leach was greatly excited, and it was with no little difficulty that I got him to the station. We reached Keighley safely, and then, with the aid of a cab from the station, I was soon able to restore my old friend to "their Sarah." I received 10s for that day's services.



SLACK-LANE BAPTIST CHAPEL

Many people will remember the old shake-down trap which Mr Leach used to run some years ago. He often drove up to Tewitt Hall, Oakworth, and Slack-lane Chapel. For some time he seemed to set his mind on purchasing Tewitt Hall. About the Chapel, he told me some wonderful stories. He used to say that his relatives founded Slack-lane Chapel, and that his mother received in their house the first parson who came to the district.



A VISIT TO CLIFFE CASTLE

Mr Leach, I know, fondly treasured in his memory a visit which he paid to Cliffe Castle, in 1886, on the occasion of the "White Ball" given by Mr Butterfield. I was not a little astonished when Mr Leach told me one morning, "Tha'll hev ta goa wi' me ta t' ball, Bill; ah've bowt thee a ten-an'-sixpenny ticket." However, I did not care to intrude my presence on such a "flash" gathering as I knew there would be, and when the time arrived for my "master" to start, I was missing. Mr Leach was, nevertheless, determined "ta visit t' Cliff," and as a last resort he summoned his old friend "Little" Barnes to accompany him. The two attended the "White Ball;" but I don't think either of them participated in the dancing. Mr Leach afterwards told me that they were nicely entertained by Mr Butterfield, who had a long chat with him, and expressed a wish to have a chat with him at some other time on public matters. One of the topics which engaged Mr Butterfield and Mr Leach was a public park for the town.



MR LEACH AND DEVONSHIRE PARK

It is an acknowledged fact that to Mr Leach was due no small measure of credit in connection with the securing of Devonshire Park for Keighley. His pet idea for a public park was originally the Showfield in Skipton-road. On one occasion Hawkcliffe Wood came into the market, and was suggested as a suitable park for the public. Mr Leach opposed this scheme tooth and nail—"ther wor too monny hoils an' caves abaat. They'd be capt if somebody gat dahn one o' t' hoils an' wor nivver seen ageean." A public meeting was held in the Drill Hall to test the public feeling as to the purchase of Hawkcliffe Wood. Mr W. A. Robinson, I believe, was the principal speaker on the affirmative side, and Mr Leach strongly opposed the scheme of purchase. Next day, however, the question was settled by the announcement that Mr Butterfield (whose estate agent, Mr James Wright, had attended the meeting) had successfully negotiated with Messrs Dixon, of Steeton, for the purchase of the Wood. Having practically scored on this point, Mr Leach next turned his attention very vigorously to the Showfield. He superintended the making-out of a petition to the Duke of Devonshire, asking his Grace to make a grant of the Showfield for a town's park. The petition was numerously signed, and was duly forwarded through the Local Board to the Duke. His Grace could not see his way to accede to the petitioners' wishes, but it was some gratification to Mr Leach to hear that the Duke would probably see his way to do something later—a promise consummated in the presentation to the town of what is known as Devonshire Park. Mr W. Laycock (the Duke's steward) assured Mr Leach that he was the first man whom the Duke of Devonshire had recognised in this way, and that he was the means of securing the first public park for Keighley.



MR LEACH'S EPITAPH

The last request which Mr Leach made to me was to write an epitaph to be engraved on the south side of the tombstone over his grave. I have penned the following lines:—

O! Passer-by, pray cast an eye Upon this ponderous dome, Where lieth one of nature's sons Inside the vaulted tomb.

For weel, I wot, it took a lot To weigh him from his birth, But nature thought she'd send him back To join his Mother Earth

So now he's quiet, both day and night, No one can hear his speech; And waiting to be reckoned up,— Alas! poor Mr. Leach.



CHAPTER XXII

EXILED FROM KEIGHLEY

With an apology for digressing for the last two weeks from my own Recollections, I now hasten to continue my story. Going back to 1872, it was in that year I passed my second term of residence in Bradford. This time I was, to some extent, an exile—driven from home. It was brought about in this way. I was keeping a grocer's shop in Westgate at the time, and one day, while I was away at my employment for Messrs Lund in Heber-street, a traveller for a Leeds firm of drysalters called at the shop, and forced upon my wife, who was in charge, several pounds' worth of goods. Of course, when I got home I kicked up a "shine," and distinctly said I should not accept the goods, which I sent back to Leeds. My returning the goods, however, did not mend my case, and I was summoned to Leeds to "show cause," &c. But I treated the court with contempt by not attending, and an execution was issued against me forthwith. I have a keen remembrance of the visit which Mr John Scott, the bailiff at the Keighley County Court, paid to my house. Mr Scott said he had got Sheriff's orders to sell me up or arrest me. I told him that I had a great fear of going to gaol, and asked him if he would go and ask his brother, Mr W. M. Scott, the high bailiff, to allow me until 9 o'clock on the following morning in which to make an effort to raise the money. The "bum" had scarcely got out of sight ere I was in consultation with John Parker, the landlord of the Bay Horse Inn. John rather pitied me. He agreed to lend me his horse, and I borrowed a van from Mr Joseph Wright, cabinet maker, determined to give my would-be captors the "leg bail." Early next morning I was, so to speak, doing a moonlight "flit"—the van, containing my furniture, in charge of two men, was on the road to Bradford. Mrs Wright I left with friends at Keighley, and myself, accomplished the journey by rail. I spent some time at the top of Manchester road, Bradford, looking for a suitable house, and had almost resolved to give up the search in that quarter when I made the acquaintance of an old lady, who said she had a nice house—which vacant house isn't a nice one?—to let at 9s 6d per week. This was a large figure, but, under the trying circumstances, I agreed to rent the house. An hour or so afterwards the van arrived, and having got my goods and chattels into the house, I dismissed the two men, enjoining them to strict secrecy as to my whereabouts. Having got the house into something like ship shape order, I set about devising a nom de plume and eventually fixed upon "James Wrightson," which seemed to fit best, seeing that I was James Wright's son.



IN BRADFORD—AS PATTERN DRESSER

Next day I managed to secure employment as pattern dresser with Messrs Ward and Bottomley, manufacturers. My stay there, however, was only short, owing to a disagreement with my foreman on a political subject. I then called upon Mr Wade, manufacturer, for whom I had worked at Morton. Mr F. S. Pearson, now of Keighley, was the manager of the warp sizing department in the fancy trade. Mr Pearson set me on, and I continued in Mr Wade's employ for about twelve months, having a very profitable situation.



AS WARP-SIZING INSPECTOR

One day I was met by a gentleman who asked me if I would act as his warp-sizing inspector, promising me a very comfortable salary. This gentleman, or his firm, carried on the business of warp-sizing, and he explained that it would be my duty to go round to different factories to assess the damage, if any, done to warps which had been sent from those factories to be sized. I was pressed very much to take this position, and ultimately I accepted it. The business, I learned, was in the hands of Mr Ward, and was formerly owned by Mr Titus Gaukroger. My new duties were accompanied with difficulties, though after a time I got along fairly well. I found out many little things, among which were not a few cases of manufacturers—bosom friends, socially—defrauding each other. I had occupied the position of warp-dressing inspector about six months, when the hand of—Fate, shall I say? was again placed upon me. An old friend of mine—Christopher Brown, a native of Haworth—popped in to see me. He had been away for some time in Canada, where he had made a good sum of money. He spoke to my master, and obtained for me two or three days' leave of absence. This proved the greatest breakdown that ever happened to me. I stayed a day or two with Mr Brown, who then suggested that I should extend my holiday. I was always easily persuaded, and this time was no exception. There was plenty of money to go at, and Mr Brown induced me to travel to Middlesbro' with him. From there we visited many places, being absent from Bradford about a fortnight. On returning to my employment, I found that my place had been filled. Mr Ward, after hearing my story, expressed himself very sorry for me. He said he kept my place vacant for eight or nine days, but was then compelled to fill it up.



AS "BUM" BAILIFF

I was thus again a workless worker. But not for long. I fell in with an auctioneer, who set me on as a sort of "bum" bailiff. This auctioneer had Douglas Mills and Victoria Mills, Bradford, on his hands for sale, and required someone to watch them. I was in charge of Douglas Mills for three weeks, and a fine time I had. The spinning frames and other machinery had been sold to Messrs Binns and Masker, brokers, of Keighley, but there were many odds and ends left, which I was given permission to realise. These "odds and ends" included all the leather, cotton waste, and loose wood about the place, and the proceeds from the sale of these, in addition to my weekly wage, tended to a not inconsiderable sum. Perhaps it was this extraordinary "flush" of money that caused me to have sufficient courage to venture back to Keighley. (I may say that I had not during my absence from the town encountered my friend, the drysalter.)



BACK TO KEIGHLEY

It was 1876 when I returned home. It was just before the Liberal club was opened by the Marquis of Hartington. The occasion, I may say, was made a great "to do"—what with the elaborate opening ceremonial, the procession in the street, and the great banquet at Dalton Mills (which had just been built). I wrote some twenty verses descriptive of the event, and these I had printed and ready for distribution before the banquet commenced. I was introduced to the ducal party, which, in addition to the Marquis of Hartington, included his brother, Lord Frederick Cavendish, Lord Houghton, and others. Perhaps I shall not be thought unduly egotistical for mentioning that Lord Houghton, who is a poet of no mean order, commended my verses.



THE ORDER OF BUFFALOES

While in Bradford, I became acquainted with many members of the Royal Order of Ante-diluvian Buffaloes. A lodge was held at the Hope and Anchor Inn, and the meetings were attended by many professional gentlemen, including Wallett, the Queen's jester, at times. Before I left Bradford I was made a "primo" of the lodge. Back to Keighley again, I found that a Shakspeare Lodge of "Buffs" was held at the Ship Inn. The saying is, "Once a Buff., always a Buff.," and I at once allied myself with the lodge in my native town. During my office as primo I initiated upwards of 200 members, among whom I may mention Mr James Walsh, the late Mr David Hudson, Mr Joseph Town, Mr John Fortune, and Mr James Blakey. Being the only officer who could initiate a member, I "had my hands full," and I at last decided to communicate with the Bradford lodge as to the installation of a few primos in Keighley. Accordingly, several primos came down one Sunday afternoon and installed half-a-dozen primos; so that for the future I was relieved of much work in connection with the lodge. There is one very laughable incident I have to chronicle. The townspeople had got across with a certain gentleman, of whom Alfred Harris and I made an elaborate effigy, which we intended to burn. It was a beautiful looking figure and no mistake. We took the effigy to the lodge-room until such time as we required it, hanging it behind the door. One night the landlord (Mr Patrick McShee) had occasion to go into the lodge-room; he knew nothing about the effigy, and as soon as the poor landlord saw the "figure of a man hanging himself behind the door," he gave a series of the most weird and penetrating howls. It was not long before he was downstairs, and asking his wife in an excited voice, "Does ta know whoa wor at t'last lodge meetin' an' didn't cum dahnstairs?" "Noa," said his wife, "What's up?" "Ther's somebody hung thersel a back o' t' door," said the trembling landlord. "Oh! nonsense," said Mrs McShee. Nevertheless, she went up into the room; and fine fun there was, you bet, when it was discovered that the "man" was a dummy. The incident caused unlimited amusement for the customers, but the landlord was not able to appreciate the fun, and, indeed, was some weeks before he got over the shock.



CHAPTER XXIII

A TRAMP INTO LANCASHIRE

After a short stay in Keighley, my roving nature again asserted itself, and I set off on a tramping expedition, with two companions, in to Lancashire. Going over The Moss we were overtaken by a severe thunderstorm, and were soon drenched to the skin by the torrential fall of rain. We made some attempt to dry our clothes at the Monkroyd Tavern, a hostelry immortalised by the Lancashire poets, and then pushed on to Colne, where we were accommodated at the club-house until morning, when I made my way to Burnley. It was there I fell in with my old friend Dave Hey. I obtained a situation in Burnley at a sizing establishment occupied by Mr Alfred Lee, and retained it for seven weeks, by which time I had got thoroughly disgusted with Lancashire life. The people I came across seemed to me to be about forty years behind Keighley folk in many particulars, but especially in regard to dress and general mode of living. So that when I got back to Keighley I resolved in my mind that I would not stir out of the town again.



LOCAL ELECTION EPISODES

On my return I found the town "involved in the trouble and turmoil" of its first Town Council election. I interested myself in the election campaign, and attended a meeting which was held in the West-lane Primitive Methodist School, was in support of the candidature of Messrs W. Mann, I. Emmott, and J. Walsh, for the West Ward. In all there were seven competitors for the three seats in this ward, and in addition to those mentioned there were the other candidates present. I plied each candidate with questions, until one Thomas Hey made a proposition that I should be put out of the meeting if I did not cease asking questions. I insisted on my right to question the candidates, and told Mr Hey that I had only to give the word to my "supporters" behind me and he, instead of me, would find himself ignominiously carried out of the room. The meeting was in such a state of confusion that it was closed without a vote as to the fitness of the candidates being taken. On another occasion the late Mr James Leach, and Bill Spink and myself were the chief means of getting the poor rates put on the property owners. We had a vestry meeting called, and by drumming up our "party" were able to carry the vote.



BOYCOTTED!

For this action Spink and I were time after time subjected to boycotting by aggrieved property owners. Spink had to live in no less than three houses in as many months; as soon as the new landlord found out who his new tenant was—and the word was carefully passed along—poor Spink had to "flit." Finally, however, he managed to get into a house where he could stop. I, also, had to suffer similarly, though not as severely. In return, we practised a system of annoying the public authorities whenever they required a servant by sending in applications.



I APPLY FOR SITUATION AS WORKHOUSE MASTER

When advertisements were out for a master at the Workhouse, I sent in an application along with thirty-nine others. Mr J. W. Laycock was the chairman of the Board. He objected to my application being read, but Mr T. Middlebrook and other members challenged his view, and said the application must be read. It was somewhat as follows:—"Gentlemen of the Board of Guardians.—In applying for the situation of Workhouse master I can assure you that I feel competent for the situation, seeing that I have had much to do with all classes and kinds of people in my travels—both high and low, rich and poor. I know, gentlemen, that you could not do better than engage me, as I have ben so used to living on low commons that I could keep the paupers at 1s 3d per head, whereas you boast about keeping them at 2s 8d or 2s 9d per head. You sit down to a sumptuous dinner, with salmon, &c., every Board day, Mr Leach informs me, for which you pay 1s per head. Now, I think I could provide you with a sumptuous dinner at 3d per head, and I should want that allowance for a little tobacco. It is not, I can assure you, gentlemen, a question of wages, but one of sheer honour that prompts me to apply for the situation of master of the Keighley Workhouse. If this suits your notice, you can reply by return of post.—Your humble servant, Bill o' th' Hoylus End." But I was not appointed; and it is perhaps unnecessary to say that I did not intend to be appointed. My application caused much amusement and stir in the town. After this, Spink and I kept the ball rolling, and one of us applied for almost every public or semi-public office where we thought we could cause a little annoyance to the property owners, &c., on the Boards. Among other posts I applied for were those of nuisances inspector and School Boards curator.



"THE POOR MAN'S LAWYER"

It was during the long spell of spare time that I had on my hands that I became a sort of poor man's lawyer, though I had not, I must say, passed the requisite examination. Scores of people, mostly belonging to the Irish part of the town, put their confidence in me, telling me secrets which it would not be wise for me to disclose. This business included a great variety of subjects and things. But disputes as to insurance and club money were the most numerous. Many were the insurance agents and collectors I was brought in contact with, among them being the late Mr O'Connell.



I TURN INVENTOR

I next turned inventor, and met with some success. I had always had an idea for invention and novelty, wanting to wear a different kind of clothes, and dress my warps different from anybody else. It was in company with Mr William Greenwood that I invented a warp-slaying machine. This we sold to Mr R. L. Hattersley. I also invented a patent wax for use in warp-dressing and weaving. This, I intended, should supersede Stephenson's paraffin wax, and that it would have done, I feel sure, had it been properly placed in the market; but of all people in the world there is none like a druggist for squeezing profit out of his wares. He will either have 11.5d profit in every shilling's worth of goods or "perish in the attempt." I disposed of my rights in this patent to a gentleman who is now in Australia. I also turned my attention to producing many other little inventions.



CHAPTER XXIV OLD TIME FRIENDS

BILL SPINK, THE COBBLER

During the past few weeks I have received from friends acquired in the days of my boyhood and early manhood letters which have awakened within me a train of memories—both joyful and sorrowful—respecting my friends and acquaintances in the auld lang syne. That must be my apology for devoting this week's chapter of my "Recollections" to a brief notice of several of these local worthies. Of Bill Spink, the statesman-cobbler, I have previously made mention. Spink was born in the house in West-lane (now occupied as a club) wherein Mr James Lund, of Malsis Hall, first saw the light. He was a queer chap in his way was Spink. He belonged to what I may call the Peculiar political party which also claimed as members "Little" Barnes, James Leach, Theophilus Hayes, Joseph Fieldhouse, and your humble servant; and it was in his little cobbler's shop that the deliberations of our party were carried on. Spink took the Tory side in national politics, and frequently attended political meetings up and down the district. On one occasion, I well remember, Spink was sent by the Tory party to a Liberal meeting at Silsden. Sir Mathew Wilson was one of the speakers, and he was "tackled" on certain points during his speech by Spink, until the Radical garrison made a raid upon this undesirable invader of their citadel, and ejected him into the street. Spink was severely handled in the process, and it occupied him all his strength—i.e. all that remained—to walk back to Keighley. Spink was a man who must speak his mind, and could not bear to hear the views and principles which he upheld ruthlessly set at nought. He was, at bottom, a good-natured man; indeed, I think I scarcely ever came across a man with a more sympathetic disposition. In any deserving public object, or case of private distress in the town, he was the first to the rescue. Unfortunately, he suffered much from a diseased leg, which was the cause of his death. There was an unpleasant hitch at the funeral. When the party arrived at the Keighley Cemetery, it was found that the grave was too small, and it was some time before the necessary extension could be made. The circumstance of the mourners having to wait was aggravated by a heavy down fall of rain. At last, however, the remains of my old friend were duly consigned to Mother Earth. In his life time I promised Spink that I would write his epitaph, which I now produce:—

Here lie the remains of the friend of the poor, Inside of his palace without any door. By man's inhumanity he was oft made to flit, But now he's at home, where he'll bide for a bit. He had a large heart that beat in his breast; Without some sensation he never could rest; If he saw a mean action he'd cry like a calf; If he saw a kind deed he'd cry more bi't half.



A THEATRICAL CHUM

I must now revert to my old theatrical friend, John Spencer, who had returned from America. He was greatly changed in appearance, so that I scarcely knew him by sight; he put me in mind of a Spanish brigand. Spencer, while in the States, had gone through the Civil War, having served, he told me, on the sides of both North and South. He was first pressed into service while travelling with a circus. The request was put to the whole company, who 'listed as one man, and joined the Confederate Army. Spencer was put in as express rider, his duty being to act as mounted postman from one camp to another. It was while on one of these journeys that he was made a prisoner. He had a large amount of money in notes upon him, but this he managed to hand unnoticed to a civilian friend. As a prisoner he was taken to Washington. Being a first-class misdemeanant, he was allowed to patrol the streets, which, however, were closely watched, and it seemed an impossibility for him to pass the sentinels. But John had knocked about the world a good deal, and had had his wits sharpened, and by a "theatrical stratagem" he managed to evade the outposts and to make his escape. He stopped at a dye-house some distance out of Washington, and was fortunate enough there to meet with a friend from his native district—Sam Brook, a theatrical amateur, from Crossflatts, near Bingley. Sam furnished his erstwhile companion of the stage with a dyer's wearing apparel, and, thus disguised, Spencer managed to get back to the place where he had been captured, and to recover the notes which he had deposited with the person mentioned. With this money Spencer seems to have got back to England. Arrived at Keighley, he sent for me, and nothing would satisfy him but that I should break off work at once and help him, so to speak, to "mak t' brass fly." Together we travelled nearly all over Great Britain, and also paid a visit to Paris. It was in the French capital that Spencer found the money getting "beautifully less," and he concluded that it would be better for all concerned if we returned to Keighley. This we did. Soon after, Spencer took up a position as traveller for the Bradford Old Brewery Company. But the English climate did not seem to suit him—far from it; there were certain peculiarities about his constitution which said as much. It was with much pain that one morning I heard of his death, which had taken place very suddenly at the house of his father, who was landlord of the Bay Horse Inn. The Rev Mr Goodman, then the Baptist minister, officiated at the funeral of the deceased, and, I recollect, spoke of the awful suddenness of death. His remarks, I felt, were directed to myself, and I was very uncomfortable the while. Among the many persons present at the funeral was "Doctor" John Walton, who was at one time in partnership with Mr Anthony Spencer and Mr Henry Newton as herbalists, &c.



WITH THE LATE MR EDWIN WAUGH

On one particular evening which has left its imprint indelibly on my mind, I spent a few pleasant hours with a handful of local celebrities in the Commercial Inn. The chief of the party was the celebrated Lancashire poet, the late Mr Edwin Waugh, who had come to Keighley to give readings in the old Mechanic's Hall, and was invited to join us. Another member of our party was Mr John Hopkinson, brother to Mr Barber Hopkinson. A right merry fellow he was, full of yarns and comic ditties. With him was his nephew, Mr Benjamin Hopkinson, who about the time was causing some stir in the district with several letters which he published in the Press. This trio are now gone over to the great majority. Mr Emmott, veterinary surgeon, and Mr Lacy, another local worthy, were also in the company. Very pleasant and entertaining was the time we spent together that night. Next morning I accompanied Mr Waugh to Kildwick, whither we walked on the canal bank. On the way, the Lancashire poet proved himself an intensely interesting and instructive companion. He had a large stock of funny stories, and possessed quite a knack of imparting his sensible advice to one in an inoffensive and almost unnoticeable manner. During the journey I said little, but thought much. At Kildwick we inspected the "Lang Kirk," and other places of note in the locality, and then parted. It was soon after this visit that I wrote the following verses:—

Old Kildwick Grange and Kildwick Hall, I see them now once more; They 'mind me of my boyish days, Those happy days of yore.

The old White Lion in the corner stands, Most fitting for the poets, Where Turner from a foreign land Would give his great exploits.

'Twas in the Indian jungle The tiger first he saw, With fiery eye, and open mouth, Sharp talons on his paw.

They met, and with a desperate spring The tiger on his prey; While Turner's two companions— Both cowards ran away.

But Turner fought a desperate fight, His courage ne'er forsook, He javelled at the tiger Until his bayonet broke. One part was in the savage breast, And Turner understood If he could grovel out the steel 'Twould draw the savage blood.

'Twas done—the blood gushed out amain, The lion-hearted brave Beheld his foe go to a stream, To drink and meet his grave.

. . . . .

I see the house where Turner lived; But Turner is not here. In the Lang Kirkyard he now may rest Without a tiger's fear.



"SAMMY" MOORE, AND OTHERS

Since I began these Reminiscences I have received a letter from an old friend of mine, whom I said I thought was dead. I allude to "Sammy" Moore, and I am glad to hear that he is alive and doing well. I had not heard of him for a score of years. Many are the happy hours we have spent together on the stage. His letter says he is in California, where he is occupying a good situation as registrar of a town of about 10,000 inhabitants. He says he has left off acting and wishes to know if I have done the same; and he also inquires after many of his old Keighley friends. This sentence leads me to refer to a few more of my own friends in the days of yore. There is the Rev William Thawbrey, a Wesleyan Methodist minister at Keighley, who subsequently took up work in the mission field in South Africa. Then there are the late Mr Thomas Carrodus, the manager of the Yorkshire Penny Bank at Keighley, the Brothers Kay, Mr Joshua Robinson, and Mr James Lister,—all of whom were fellow stage amateurs of mine. The hand of death has passed heavily over my old friends—particularly those with whom I moved on the amateur theatrical stage—and I can number on my fingers those who have been left.



CHAPTER XXV

MR JONAS BOTTOMLEY

I had not a little to do with the late Mr Jonas Bottomley, of mint rock fame. I first became acquainted with him in the warp department at Messrs Lund's in West-lane. He came to ask me if I would write his "manifesto," or election address, as he intended "standing" for the Local Board and the Board of Guardians. I wrote out the address, but Mr Bottomley did not succeed in getting on either of the Boards. It was soon afterwards that the Prince of Wales was announced to visit Milner Field, Saltaire. Mr Bottomley had hit upon some idea or other, and he came to ask me who was the likeliest person to write a letter to the Prince of Wales. I referred him to the late Rev J. Room, vicar of Eastwood. Mr Bottomley accordingly waited upon Mr Room, who, however, said he had come to the wrong person; he (Mr Room), was not in the habit of addressing kings and princes, and lords and dukes, but he could refer him to a man who was. Mr Room said he knew nobody better for the work than Bill o' th' Hoylus End. So Mr Bottomley appealed to me, and, with some demur, I penned a rough epistle, which was couched somewhat as follows:—"To His Royal Highness Albert Edward Prince of Wales.—May it please your Royal Highness to accept a package of mint rock from your humble servant. And, in addition, while your Royal Highness is staying in the locality, I should very greatly appreciate an interview. If you could see your way to consent to my earnest longing you would greatly oblige your most humble and obedient servant, Jonas Bottomley." Mr Bottomley told me when I was writing the letter that if he got the Royal patronage to his mint rock he would give me 100 pounds "slap dahn," which, you may guess, made me as anxious as Mr Bottomley to bring about the desired "interview." I had also to write some verses concerning the Royal visit to Saltaire—

Welcome to Bradford Royal Albert Edward, Son of Victoria, Old England's Queen.

These are only a few of the preparations that were made by Mr Bottomley. But he did not achieve the success he so eagerly sought; it was on the day the visit took place that he received a letter in which the Prince of Wales expressed his pleasure to receive the gift of mint rock so kindly sent by Mr Jonas Bottomley, but explaining that there were so many gifts of this nature that it would be out of the question to give a privilege to one and not to another. I should offer a word of apology for making such an abrupt introduction of the next event. It was not many weeks after the above that Mr Bottomley came to an unfortunate end, his dead body being found on the canal bank at Leeds, where it was supposed he had been subjected to foul play.



"SHOOTING MONKEYS"

Readers who have followed me through my "Recollections" will remember that in one chapter I said I should have something further to say of my esteemed friend the late Mr Barber Hopkinson. As is well known, Mr Hopkinson was of a merrily genial disposition—a veritable type of the real John Bull, and where his company was, there was no dearth of quaint, good-humoured talk. As a sportsman, he was known far and near—

He was indeed a merry chap As ever made a trigger snap, And ne'er a bird its wing could flap— And get away; Whenever Barber smashed a cap, It had to stay.

It was his abilities as a "crack" shot that led him to be generally appealed to for instruction and "tips" by "pupils in the art of shooting." It was one of these "unattached pupils" who was continually dogging at Mr Hopkinson to teach him how to shoot straight. His name was Bob Brigg. It was with great joy that Bob heard Barber say he would give him a lesson if he turned up on the following Saturday afternoon. Of course, Bob, gun in hand, was up to time at Mr Hopkinson's house in Devonshire-street. Barber took him out into the street and said: "Tha sees theeas haases?" "Ay," replied Bob wonderingly. "Nah, if tha'll goa an' shooit all t' 'monkeys' off iv'ry one o' t' haases, fra t' top ta t' bottom o' t' street, tha'll be a varry fair shot when tha's finished." Bob, I believe in the goodness of his heart, set out to find the monkeys, but without success, and he returned to tell his "instructor" that he "hed been i' iv'ry harse i' t' street, but noan on 'em hed a monkey in it." Barber, notwithstanding, maintained that there was a monkey on t' top o' nearly every house; and Bob felt that he had been nicely "taken in" when the sort of monkeys alluded to was explained to him. It was common knowledge at that time that every—or nearly every—house in Devonshire-street had a "monkey" (i.e. a mortgage) on it. The incident was the subject of much fun for a long time afterwards—Bob Brigg and his monkey-shooting. But Barber did really teach "the young idea to shoot," taking Bob with him on several shooting expeditions.



"WHEN GREEN LEAVES COME AGAIN"

Perhaps the following unpublished poem, which I wrote some years ago, will not be inappropriate at this season; it will "go" to the tune of the old English ballad, "The dawning of the day":—

As I walk out one winter's morn, Along the Steeton Ing, And as I gaze me all around Romantic ideas spring. I think upon my past career, With antics all in vain;— But I will be a better lad When green leaves come again.

The little birds I cannot see, Excepting now and then; For they are far beyond the sea And left the haunts of men. The trees are bare, and every bush Speaks out to me so plain— That I should be a better lad When green leaves come again.

The fields are like a silvery lake, The mountain tops are white, And rear their heads majestically— To me a great delight; And as I gaze on Rivock End, Across the silvery plain, Methinks I hear a voice speak out— "Green leaves will come again."

Green leaves came, and green leaves went, And they are gone once more, And I have never kept my vow, Which makes my heart full sore. But I will never "dee i' t' shell," But make that vow again— That I will be a better lad When green leaves come again.

And should I tarry here a while To see the smiling scene, When nature takes her snow-white cloth And changes it for green, I shall be faithful to my vow With all my might and main; For I will be a better lad "When green leaves come again."



CHAPTER XXVI

OLD MUSICIANS

I now purpose briefly to refer to a few old singers whose friendship or acquaintance I enjoyed. Mr Edwin Ogden was well known in the neighbourhood as being about one of the best local singers of his day. Many townsfolk will remember Edwin, together with William Haggas, another old musician, teaching a singing-class. Ogden was a shoemaker by trade but he dabbled more in music than in wax and leather. For many years he held the position of leading chorister at St. Anne's Roman Catholic Church. He also "gave of his talents" on frequent occasions at local concerts, and was in great favour with the public. He made as many young singers, I suppose, as Joe Turner made musicians in the instrumental sense of the word. Turner was for many years the conductor of Marriner's Brass Band. Not a few of our present-day musicians will be able to date the commencement of their musical career from the time they took up instruction with either Ogden or Turner. The former has been removed by death, but the latter is still with us. James Greenwood was also one of the school to which Ogden and Turner belonged; and the three took great interest in the musical training of the late Mademoiselle Matilda Florella Illingworth previous to her visiting the conservatoires of music on the Continent. Mr James Wright, my father, also interested himself in Miss Illingworth, in whom at an early period of her life he detected material for the making of an accomplished vocalist. She was a frequent visitor at our house, and often have I heard her sing "Robin Adair"—my father's favourite song. After she had been on the Continent, I heard Miss Illingworth tell how often while there she was swindled by the proprietors and managers of theatres and music-halls. In some instances she was subjected to the most cruel impositions. More than once she was robbed of all her stage properties, and in Florence she was duped out of every half-penny of the proceeds of a concert which she promoted. Other musicians of the time, I may mention, were John Dunderdale, Daniel Ackroyd, and Joe Constantine. It was in memory of these old musicians that I wrote the following verses:—

"COME, GIE US A WAG O' THI PAW."

Come, gie us a wag o' thi paw, Jim Wreet, Come, gie us a wag o' thi paw; Ah knew thee when thi heead wor black, But nah it's as white as snow; Yet a merry Christmas to thee, Jim, An' all thi kith an' kin: An' hopin' tha'll hev monny more For t' sake o' owd long sin, Jim Wreet, For t' sake o' owd long sin.

It's soa monny year ta-day, Jim Wreet, Sin owd Joe Constantine An' Daniel Ackroyd, thee and me, An' other friends o' thine Went up ta sing at t' Squire's house Net hawf-a-mile fra' here; An' t' Squire made us welcome To his brown October beer, Jim Wreet, To his brown October beer. An' owd Joe Booth tha knew, Jim Wreet, 'At kept the Old King's Arms. Wheear all t' church singers used ta meet, When they hed sung their Psalms; An' thee an' me amang 'em, Jim, Sometimes hev chang'd the string, An' wi' a merry chorus join'd, We've made yon' tavern ring, Jim Wreet, We've made yon' tavern ring.

But nearly three score year, Jim Wreet, Hev passed away sin then; When Keighley in Apollo's art Could boast her music men. But music, nah, means money, Jim, An' that tha's sense ta knaw; But just for owd acquaintance sake, Come gie us a wag o' thi paw, Jim Wreet; Jim Wreet, Come gie us a wag o' thi paw.



A DISAPPOINTED MAN

I think an apology will be scarcely needed for introducing a few remarks regarding Mr James Wallbank, a well-known and eccentric character in the town. I have heard that James is dead. Whether this is so or not I cannot say; certainly I have not seen the old gentleman about for some time. James was for many years billiard-marker at the Devonshire Hotel. He cherished the idea that he was related to royalty. He often told me that he was a relative of one of the old kings of France, and insisted that his name instead of being Wallbank should be Wal de Brooke, or something like that. When Burridge, the celebrated American painter, was in Keighley, he stayed at the Devonshire Hotel and painted Mr Walbank's portrait, and the picture is now in the possession of Mr Martin Reynolds.



"GOOISE AN' GIBLET PIE."

Another well-known character was Harry Smith, manufacturer. Harry was a man intensely fond of fun, and one Christmas Eve, I remember, when I was coming from the station after returning from Scotland, he tapped me on the shoulder, and, after ascertaining where I had been of late, quoted a motto of the Freemasons'—"In my Father's house are many mansions, but such as I have I give unto thee. Follow me." I went with Smith to his house, and spent Christmas Eve there. The subject of my poem, "Gooise and Giblet Pie," arose out of that night's proceedings:—

A Kersmas song I'll sing mi lads, If you'll but hearken me, An incident i' Kersmas time I' eighteen sixty three: Withaht a cypher i' the world I'd scorn to tell a lie— I dined wi' a gentleman O' gooise an' giblet pie.

I've been i' lots o' feeds, mi' lads, An' hed some rare tuck-ahts; Blood-pudding days wi' killing pigs, Minch pies an' thumping tarts. But I wired in, an' reight an' all, An' supped when I wor dry; For I wor dining wi' a gentleman O' gooise an' giblet pie. I hardly knew what ailed me, lads, I felt so fearful prahd; Mi ears prick'd up, mi collar rose, Towards a hawf-a-yard; Mi chest stood aht, mi charley in, Like horns stuck aht mi tie; For I dined wi' a gentleman O' gooise an' giblet pie.

I offen think o' t' feed, mi lads, When t' gentleman I meet; But nauther of us speyke a word Abaht that glorious neet; In fact, I hardly can mysel— I feel so fearful shy; For I ate a deal o' t' roasted gooise, An' warmed his giblet pie.



THE CONCLUDING CHAPTER

It must be a long lane that has no turning. I am afraid the Herald readers who have followed my Recollections will have thought Bill o' th' Hoylus End's memory an inexhaustible one. The truth is, when I commenced to "resurrect" my past career I had no idea that the stories and reminiscences would extend to anything like the length they have gone to; and even now I find that the source of supply is far from being exhausted. But, in the circumstances, I have decided to conclude with this week's chapter—"the last scene that ends this strange and eventful history." In the first place, I must crave an apology from my readers for not having been able to give events in my career in their chronological order. As I stated at the outset, I had no diary or data whatever to go by, and have simply reeled the stories and anecdotes off my memory. It will thus be readily seen that I cannot have given every little transaction or happening in my life. In my Recollections I have now and again introduced descriptions and narratives of various characters with whom I was brought closely in contact. I may say that in doing this I have made it my aim to omit, or, failing that, to treat with proper respect, all incidents concerning individuals who were living themselves or had relatives living; and I think that nothing I have said in regard to friends or foes gone over to the Great Majority will have given the slightest offence to their living representatives. I commenced by recapitulating some of the tricks of my boyhood—when I was said, by the old house-wives, to be the "village harum-skarum"—and have traced my career down to within a few years of the present time. Some of my stories have been favourable, others unfavourable to my character. My critics will have said that Bill o' th' Hoylus End has many faults; but I must ask them to forgive my many shortcomings, and look upon my few virtues. Above all things, I think I can say that with all reasonableness I have held to the truth. Most of the people of Keighley and the surrounding towns and villages are familiar with the name, at least, of Bill o' th' Hoylus End. Without appearing vain or egotistical, I think I may say that I have been recognised by high and low, rich and poor, and by people not altogether unknown to fame. Of all my friends, I entertain the greatest respect for the late Sir Titus Salt, whose assurance I had that if, while he was alive, I wanted a helping hand I need not go far or wait long for it. The baronet honoured me with an interview, at which he told me how highly he thought of the poem which I had written just previously on the occasion of the unveiling of the monument of Sir Titus in Bradford. Perhaps a couple of verses of my "Ode to Sir Titus Salt" will not be misplaced here:—

Heedless of others, some there are Who all their days employ To raise themselves, no matter how, And better men destroy. How different is the mind of him Whose deeds themselves are told, Who values worth more nobler far Than all the heaps of gold.

No empty titles ever could His principles subdue; His queen and country, too, he loved, Was loyal and was true: He craved no boon from royalty, Nor wished their pomp to share; For nobler is the soul of him, The Founder of Saltaire.

I may venture to say that I have had a valued friend in Mr Butterfield, of Bonnie Cliffe Castle and fair Marianna, Nice; also in Sir Isaac Holden, Bart, M.P., Dr Dobie, Keighley, and other gentlemen. I have had a letter, commending my rhyme, from Sir Albert K. Rollit; and other communications with respect to the outpouring of my muse from Mr Archie Laidlaw, of Edinburgh; Councillor Burgess, of Congleton, Cheshire, &c. I was privileged to claim the late Rev J. Room, M.A., as an especial friend, and may say that of all the times I shook hands with him I scarcely ever withdrew my hand without finding "something" in it. Mr Room's last request to me was that I would write seven verses—and only seven, he said—on the death of his dear, beloved wife. I promised to do so, but (partly through my dilatoriness, I must admit) the rev gentleman did not live to receive the verses. During the past few days, however, I have written the following verses on

THE LATE REV. J. ROOM, M.A.

John Room! he is dead and is buried; There is mourning the whole village through, And all the people who knew him Are loth to bid him adieu.

'Tis true he was filled with compassion; God's nature in him over-flowed; He knew all the people with burdens, And strove hard to lighten their load.

His dress it were plain and quite common, No pride in him could you trace; Yet you knew that he was a good parson Whenever you looked in his face.

The worst things his foes knew about him— He was fond of satire or joke, Writing some verses of rhythm, Which always amused the folk. Whene'er he walked into the pulpit, He bowed for a moment in prayer, Every soul in the temple grew thirsty;— The true Christian spirit was there.

His likes there are few in the nation, (I wish in my heart there were more; For it wants something else besides learning, To grapple the hearts of the poor.)

'Tis true he was high up in learning The secrets of nations long dead; But he cared more for those who were yearning Sad tears round the sufferer's bed.

Then farewell! my worthy old preacher, For thou shall have no end of praise— Good father and true-hearted shepherd, Who knew both the poor and their ways.



SOME LAUGHABLE STORIES

In this, the last chapter, I should like to give a few anecdotes concerning an eccentric character who was pretty well known in the Keighley district, although he was a native of Flintergill, a village near Kendal. This individual was known as "Kendal," "Flintergill Billy," "Three bease an' a Cow" &c. He was a warpdresser by trade, and for a time worked along with me at Messrs Butterfield Bros.' Prospect Mill. He often used to tell us that his father had "two bease an' a cow" on his farm at "Flintergill." Yes; "Billy" was as queer a chap as one could well imagine—such a specimen as one often reads about in comic almanacs, but seldom sees. At one period of his stay in Keighley, "Billy" lived at Paradise—a row of cottages just below the Prospect Mill. His wife was a weaver in the mill, and one baking day, I remember, she gave her husband strict orders "ta hev t' fire under t' oven when she com' fra her wark." "Kendal" was working alongside me at warp-dressing, and just before stopping time the thought chanced to strike him that he had to have the fire going. Away home he darted, and on his return he stated, in reply to my question, that he thought all was right. Soon afterwards I happened to ask if he had put the fire under the pan or the oven, and he had to acknowledge that he did not know where he had put it. He set off home again to see how things stood, and lo and behold! he had put the fire under the pan. Now, "Billy" was not blessed with a superabundance of sense, and (perhaps flurried by the thought that if the oven was not ready in time he would "get his ear-hoil weel combed" by his wife) he scaled the fire out of the range, and re-kindled it under the oven with the clothes-pegs. The idea of pushing the fire across under the oven did not seem to occur to poor "Billy's" brain. The fact remains that he had just got the clothes-pegs nicely alight when in popped his wife . . . For various reasons I draw the curtain over the closing scenes in the little farce.—"Billy" never would allow it to be said that his wife ever bossed him. Indeed it used to be a standing boast with "Kendal" in public-house company that he "could mak' their Martha dew just as he wanted her; he hed nobbut ta stamp his fooit, an' shoo did it in a minit." He was boasting, as usual, one day, when in came "Martha," and, without any words of explanation, seized her "lord and master" by the hair of the head, and dragged him out of the door. The company fully appreciated the situation, and with one voice shouted, "Stamp, Flintergill, stamp!" But there was no stamping. "Martha" pre-eminently proved her authority as "boss," whether poor, hen-pecked "Flintergill" came in as "foreman" or "deputy," or merely "apprentice" or what.—Another remarkable feature about "Flintergill" was that he never came back to his work in the afternoon except that he had had ham, veal, beef, or some other "scrumptious viand" to his dinner. But on one occasion one of his shop-mates detected some flour porridge on his waistcoat. During the afternoon this shop-mate asked "Flintergill" what he had had for dinner. "Duck and green peas," promptly replied "Kendal." "Aye," said the workman, "an' ther's a feather o' thi waistcoit."—Another side-light on "Kendal's" character will perhaps be afforded by the following. He went to a certain shoemaker's in Haworth, and got measured for a pair of boots, which it was arranged should be ready by a stated time. Then he went to another shoemaker's shop in the village, and was measured for a pair there. The anecdote runs that on the day fixed for the boots to be ready "Flintergill" sent his father-in-law's daughter to each of the shoemakers, telling her to get "t'reight un fra one, an' t'left un fra t'other." In this way, it was "Flintergill's" frequent boast, he got a pair of boots for nothing.—Another story relates his visit to Bradford. "Flintergill" intended to spend the evening in Pullan's Music Hall, but he got into the Bowling Green, where there happened to be a waxwork show. "This must be Pullan's," said "Flintergill" to his companion; and up they both went on the platform. "Billy" offered his money to the door-keeper, who, however, neither spoke nor held out his hand. "Flintergill" said he "wor a funny door-keeper" and threatened that "if he didn't tak' t' brass they wor bahn in abaht." And inside "Flintergill" and his friend bounced, to find that the door-keeper was "Tim Bobbin,"—a wax figure.—Still another anecdote says that "Flintergill" was one day seen up a tree sawing off one of the branches. A passer-by asked, "What is ta dewin up theear, Flintergill?" "Oh," was the reply, "we call this weyvin i' ahr country." No sooner were the words spoken than "Flintergill" tumbled to the ground. "Ah see," said his questioner, very aptly, "an' tha's come dahn fer some more bobbins." It appeared that "Flintergill" had been sawing off the bough on which he was standing.—I will close this series of anecdotes with a reference to the frequency of "Flintergill's" flittings. He used to say that he had no sooner got into a house than it was wanted for a beer-house or by a railway company. "Flintergill" kept a few hens, and it was said that these hens became so accustomed to the "flittings" that at the first sign of preparations for removing they would roll over on their backs with their legs together ready to be tied.



MY LAST RAMBLE

To a few verses I recently wrote I have given the title "My last ramble." The lines run as follow:—

As I stroll round by Exley Head Down by the Wheathead Farm, My thoughts fall back to days bygone— Thoughts which my soul doth charm; Each hill and clough, each hedge and stile, To me they are most dear; And as I pass them one by one They bring to me a tear.

In old Fell Lane when I was young, A ruined mansion stood, With roofless cots filled up with sticks Brought from the Holme House Wood. And now I cross the Intake Brig Where I used to sport and play, And bathe, and plunge, and water splash Full many a happy day.

I gaze upon the old farm-gate, And long to have a swing Along with all my boyish mates, As happy as a king; For the carriage of the noble man, Or the chariot of the State, Never carried nobler hearts Than did the old farm-gate.

I now pass by the Intake Farm, And I am much amazed; It has the charm for me to day As first I on it gazed. And farther as I wind my way And climb the old Blackhill, A scene appears before my sight To me more charming still.

The silvery Tarn—once my delight, For there I took my skates, On many a happy winter day, With my dear little mates. The old Tarn House I see again, The seat of Aaron King; And as I gaze from east to west Such sights of wonder spring.

As far as e'er my eye can see, Hills on each other rise, Towering their heads in majesty Far in the western skies; And as I view the landscape round, No artist here could dream The beauties of the Vale of Aire, With its crooked, wimpling stream.

This was my walk one summer morn, When all was on the wing: I heard the cuckoo tell his name, I heard the lark to sing. I left the Tower upon the hill Dedicated to the Queen, And for old Keighley back again, Charmed with all I'd seen.

I must now wind up my rough-and-ready stories. Let me say that if, by the recital of some of the incidents which happened during my nomadic career, I have caused any pleasure or amusement to my readers, I feel amply repaid. If anything which I have said has given offence or caused displeasure in any quarter, kindly permit me to say that it was done quite unwittingly.

The Christmas season will soon be here, and in preparation for that glad time let us put away envy and malice, and offer peace and good-will unto all. I think the following poem will seasonably conclude my present series of writings:—



CHRISTMAS DAY

Sweet lady, 't is no troubadour That sings so sweetly at your door, To tell you of the joys in store— So grand and gay; But one that sings "Remember t' poor, 'Tis Christmas Day."

Within some gloomy walls to-day Just cheer the looks of hoary gray, And try to smooth their rugged way With cheerful glow; And cheer the widow's heart, I pray, Crushed down with woe.

O! make the weary spent-up glad, And cheer the orphan lass and lad; Make frailty's heart, so long, long sad, Your kindness feel; And make old crazy-bones stark mad To dance a reel.

Then, peace and plenty be your lot, And may your deed ne'er be forgot That helps the widow in her cot Out of your store; Nor creed, nor seed, should matter not— The poor are poor.

[The End]



Footnotes

{1} Each chapter corresponds to a separate article in the Keighley Herald and are numbered as such in the newspaper. To help in locating the originals the following may be useful:

Chapter Issue of the Keighley Herald

I 2 June 1893

II 9 June 1893

III 16 June 1893

IV 23 June 1893

V 30 June 1893

VI 7 July 1893

VII 14 July 1893

VIII 21 July 1893

IX 28 July 1893

X 4 August 1893

XI 11 August 1893

XII 18 August 1893

XIII 1 September 1893

XIV 8 September 1893

XV 15 September 1893

XVI 22 September 1893

XVII 29 September 1893

XVIII 6 October 1893

XIX 13 October 1893

XX 20 November 1893

XXI 27 October 1893

XXII 3 November 1893

XXIII 10 November 1893

XXIV 17 November 1893

XXV 24 November 1893

XXVI 1 December 1893

Concluding 8 December 1893

THE END