I went in search of lodgings about the village. In the end I came across an old lady, and, after I had had a consultation with her on the above-mentioned subject, she said she could take me in as a lodger if I cared to sleep with another lodger she had—a young butcher: if I was in by eleven o’clock, she assured me, I should be all right. I accepted her offer. Sometime before eleven o’clock, the “other lodger” came home. He was not by any means what Keighley teetotallers would term a “temperate, upright, law-abiding citizen,” for he was as drunk as a pig. When he heard that I was to be his bed-fellow, oh! there was a “shine,” and no mistake. He vehemently declared that he’d never “lig” with me; and, under the circumstances, I sustained his objection, and we parted. Tired and weary as I was I felt that I could well spare all I possessed if only I could get the use of a bed:—
Oh! bed, on thee I first beganTo be that curious creature—man,To travel thro’ this life’s short span,By fate’s decree,Till ah fulfill great Nature’s plan,An’ cease ta be.When worn wi’ labour, or wi’ pain,Hah of’en ah am glad an’ fainTo seek thi downy rest again.Yet heaves mi’ breastFor wretches in the pelting rain’At hev no rest.
However, the butcher and I parted company. I went back to the tavern I had been resting at, and explained matters to the landlady and her good master. He did not receive me very acceptably, and told me that he “could sleep on a clothes-line this weather.” I didn’t like to contradict him. His wife rather pitied me, and said there were half-a-dozen harvesters in the taproom and I might arrange to spend the night with them. Acting on the principle that half-a-loaf is better than no bread, I allowed the landlord to introduce me to the company in the taproom. The company consisted of half-a-dozen Irish harvesters “on the spree.” “Can you take this man as a lodger?” asks the landlord. “Oh, yes, if he behaves himself,” one readily exclaimed, and another chimed in, “If he doesn’t, be jabers! we’ll mak’ him.” I fully ingratiated myself into their good graces for the night by “standing a gallon round.” I took part in the general amusement, and sang for them the song, “Shan Van Vocht,” in Irish Gaelic, until they all swore I was a countryman of theirs. The night wore on with song and clatter, And ah! the ale was growing better.
Sometime late at night we retired to rest—or to try to rest. The prospective scene of our slumbers was a barn at the back of the tavern. By the light of a candle we had with us, I saw there was a depth of almost twelve inches of straw on the floor of the barn. One of our lot fixed the candle on a projecting stone in the wall, and I guess it was not long before we were all asleep. I could not have been asleep long, however, when I was awakened by great noise and unbearable heat. On “turning over,” I heard groans and shouts, and, by Jove! saw that the barn was on fire! I was dumbfounded for the instant, and scarce knew how to act. Being greatly fatigued by my previous day’s journey, I was not over wideawake; I was by no means the first to awake; in fact I believe I was the last. I had taken my coat and boot and slipper off, but there was no time to look for any of my apparel, and when I recovered my senses, I beat a hasty retreat.
It’s always a safe plan to look before you leap. I didn’t look before I leaped, with the result that jumping through a loophole in the wall at the rear of the barn, I found myself on alighting outside with the star-bespangled firmament above me, and—what do you think under me—I hardly like to say, but nevertheless it wasa manure heap! I was booked to remain in this—perhaps more healthy than agreeable—predicament for some time; for, despite my struggles to regain liberty of thought and action, I could not extricate myself.
Meanwhile, the alarm of fire had been given, and a number of people from the neighbourhood appeared, in response, on the scene. I could not see them, being at the rear of the building, but could hear their shouts. The half-dozen Irishmen, I afterwards learned, all answered the roll-call, but I was missing. On this occasion, if it had never occurred before or since, my absence caused indescribable consternation. Many thought I had been burned to death or killed, for the roof of the barn had fallen in. After some little time, however, and after much struggling on my part, I was able to allay their fears by appearing before them. It required no small amount of pluck—as I call it—to face them—bootless, coatless, vestless, hatless, penniless, and, withal, with my feet and trousers besmeared with cow dung. But there is a time in every man’s life when he shall come to evoke sympathy from his fellows. “He’s coming!” they said, “Here he is!” they shouted, and as I passed along the ranks I was the object of universal sympathy in my woe-bestricken condition.
A policeman came up to me and said they thought I was in the flames. I rashly told him that I might as well have been, considering my appearance. “Oh, you will get over that,” said the gentleman in blue cloth. “Where do you belong to?” I said I was a native of Keighley. “Who is your police superintendent?” he queried. “Mr Cheeseborough,” I replied. “That’s true,” he said. “Know you any in the force there?” “Yes,” I said, “I know Sergeant Kershaw, and another little ill-natured dog, Jack o’ Marks. Jack goes about in plainclothes, and is about as fly as a box of monkeys.” “All right,” returned Mr Policeman. “Now that you have told me the truth, were any of you smoking in the barn?” “No, we were all asleep,” said I. Then he said that would do, and as he had no orders to arrest me, I could go—till further orders. I learned from him that Mr Norton—the gentleman for whom I had been working at the mill—owned the barn, but he was away and would not be home that day.
The merciless fiend did its work, and before the arrival of anything worthy the designation “fire extinguishing apparatus,” the barn had been razed. A farmhouse joined up to the barn, and a portion of this building, along with some of the furniture, was damaged. The morn was now breaking, and there was the usual gathering of quizzing onlookers. It turned out that I was the last man out of the barn. Some of my bed-fellows, I found, were as guilty as myself in disregarding the force of the proverb “Look before you leap,” for one of them, in making his hurried exit, jumped through the first opening he came across to find himself in the stables—“in a manger for his bed.” Through the fall he sustained a broken arm. One or two of the others were a little hurt.
But to return to myself. As I said a short time ago my person carried no other covering than a pair of trousers, and these were almost worse than nothing in their present condition. If my friend Isaac had been about, his second-hand clothes shop (for no “monish”) would have come as a boon and a blessing. I didn’t ken him, however. But a cloth weaver thoughtfully came up to me and put it to the crowd, “Nah, weear can t’poor beggar goa in a staate like this?” “Aye, aye,” says my friend the policeman; “An’ if ye hev a heart in yer belly, ye’ll get him some clothes, for I’m sure he’s spokken t’truth ta me.” Upon this “fetching” speech, several persons in the crowd were observed to leave by the “back way.” In a very short time they returned, each bringing some part of a man’s wearing apparel. Together, they brought the different items I wasminus. There were waistcoats and to spare. For this display of kindness to a fellow in distress, I thanked them heartily. Having attired myself, I walked away with the policeman, who proved a true friend to me. He thoughtfully mentioned that if I stayed in the place there was a probability I should be arrested on a charge of “sleeping out.” So I took the hint so kindly offered me, and after bidding my friend “Robert” a cordial good-bye, I made my exit from Clayton West.
I was only about eight miles from Barnsley, and I decided to make for that town, cutting across the fields. I passed the house, I remember, where the father of Bosco, (best known as “Curley Joe”), the famous conjuror, was born. I walked into Barnsley about eight o’clock the same morning. After weighing the matter over in my mind, I sought out and made for the wooden theatre in connection with which I had accepted an engagement at Halifax the week previous.
I saw the old lady, but she would not believe at first that I was the actor she had engaged. I related my wanderings and troubles, but with a’ that it occupied some time to convince her that I wastheman. When she did come round a bit, she taunted me that I had sold my clothes for drink. However, we came to terms, and I was “put on.” By-and-bye, she sent me to a second-hand clothes shop, where I rigged myself out in a sort of la-di-dah style, my habiliments comprising a pair of white linen trousers, a double-breasted frock coat, with military peak cap, and a few other little accessories, so that I was a perfect (or imperfect) swell again, despite the fact that my wardrobe did not amount in value to more than 5s of lawful British money.
The theatre had been completed in my absence, and, indeed, temporarily opened. Of course, I took part in the performances. We could usually draw full “houses,” which were largely made up of colliers and their wives and children. But very soon some of the boys and girls of colliers wanted to go to the theatre oftener than their parents wished, and to this end, it was surmised, carried on a series of petty thefts to enable them to raise the admission fee. In fact, thieving in the town got to such a pitch that the police authorities interfered, and when the licensing sessions were held they opposed the renewal of the theatre license. The proprietress of the theatre, and the company, along with myself, had to appear at the sessions. I had not been in the court very long when my kind benefactor, the policeman from Clayton West, came up to me and shook me by the hand. His sudden intrusion on my confused senses somewhat upset me, for I was afraid of the sight of him;—his parting words to me, after the fire at the barn, that I might be charged with “wandering abroad without any visible means of subsistence,” crossed my scattered thoughts. But it was needless fear, for he soon showed me that he was still my friend, not my foe. After we had exhausted the usual preliminaries, I questioned him on the subject of the fire at the barn. “Oh,” said he, “You needn’t be at all afraid about the fire. When Mr Norton came home he took it all in very good part. He was especially pleased when we told him that no lives had been lost. You were mentioned as having worked half-a-day at the mill, and he said he would much rather that you had gone on with your work.” But a stop was put to our conversation, for our “case” was called on. Superintendent Burke—I mark him now—stood up and denounced the theatre in the interests of the community. He instanced several cases of petty thefts committed by juveniles for the purpose of raising money to go to our theatre. The presiding magistrate—Mr Taylor, I believe his name was—heard all the evidence which was brought against us, and then said that he was very sorry that anyone should go to the expense of putting up a theatre in Barnsley and then be unable to get a license to carry it on. He said he would allow us to continue our performances a fortnight longer, provided admission was refused to children. The decision fairly upset “Virgin Mary.” She thanked “Your Worship” as she stood in the box; but in the green room at her theatre she invoked the gods for vengeance on the court—and this in real dramatic style into the bargain. The last day of the fortnight came round. It was a Saturday night, and we were playing “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” as afinalé. This was a comparatively new production at the time, and we had a packed house. At the close of the performance our spokesman thanked the people for their patronage, and explained why we were going to depart from their midst. He promised that the proprietress would “try again” at some future time.
The old lady paid off her company that night, and each of us was not a little astonished—not to mention pleased—to find his or her emolument 4s in advance of expectations. This was explained to be an “honorarium.” Some of the company promised to return when the theatre re-opened, if that should ever come to pass, but I did not promise to do so; I was determined to retire from the stage, being now what I considered “tolerably well off.” I obtained permission to sleep in the theatre for the night. Before laying me down, I told the watchman to
“Call me early, watchman dear!”
But my parting with the theatre and stage life was not destined to be an agreeable one by any means. I made a shake-down bed on the stage, and “lay down my weary head.” It would be about midnight when I heard a rustling at the drop scene. In a few moments the scene commenced to rise, being rolled up by an unseen hand, and when it had been raised a few inches I was not a little “struck” to see a man’s head appearing underneath the curtain. Now this was a bit of real, earnest acting—none of your unnatural, unfinished style. It was so realistic that I scarce knew what to do. I, of course, first of all concluded that I was going to be robbed, or that something of much more consequence to myself was going to take place. The curtain was slowly and noislessly drawn up—it went higher and higher, until the human head which had at first appeared developed into a human body—a man. My nocturnal visitor wriggled through the opening onto my side of the stage. Fortunately I had by my side my walking-stick. Quickly and quietly I seized that weapon of defence, and before the stranger would have had time—had he even desired—to say “Jack Robinson,” I had dealt him a splendid blow on the side of the head with the stick. He groaned and rolled over, getting to the other side of the curtain. Then he resumed the perpendicular and took to his heels, without offering a word of explanation on the matter. I feel no qualm in saying that his exit was more hasty than his approach. I tried to think who my intruder could be, and my thoughts fixed upon the man who had been told off that night to commence watching the theatre.
There was no more sleep for me that night, after the fore-going. I prepared myself, and in the early morning quitted the place where I spent a very pleasant part of my theatrical life. In the street I came across a policeman on his beat—not the one from Clayton West this time. I wished him “Good morning,” and passed on. From Barnsley I walked to Wakefield, and thence to Bradford, forward to Keighley by train.
On my way to Keighley, I could not but turn over in my mind the thoughts relating to the friendships formed on the stage, or in connection therewith. I remember that one of the Barnsley company was an aged actor, Mr John Copeland. He interested himself very much in me, and gave me from time to time good advice. He told me to leave the stage, and take to some more reliable and permanent employment. He pictured himself as a result of sticking closely to the profession, saying he had had more than half-a-century of experience of its ups and downs. In his old age, though he loved the stage and warmly praised the art of acting, he held that the rewards were not commensurate to the skill employed, and that when these were forthcoming the temptations were so insidious as to be ruinous unless the moral atmosphere of the profession itself was purified. The old man’s ideal was high and he was fond of saying that with all its defects—defects which were largely caused by the professionals themselves—the drama and the art of portraying it would last as long as human nature. I was drawn to the old man, and felt for him. I often took his part, especially where he had to appear in a gross character. At his time of life, he did not like to blacken his face, and on one occasion when we were playing “Uncle Tiff,” the old man was grateful because I relieved him of that character. It was a pathetic part—a sort of nigger being left in charge of children after the parents’ death. Old Copeland was a good actor, and he told me of having travelled with Edmund Kean, the great tragedian. He was then about eighty years of age, and was brimful of anecdote and humour about men and things on the stage. He himself was an author of many MS. plays, and the most agreeable of company, being an educated man. But we had to part company as I have already stated, and I went home, pondering over his advice. Now, my pen writes these lines descriptive somewhat of the breaking apart from those noble hearts, and that still more noble art of the drama.
Thespis, O! Thespis, founder of that noble art,Thou didst convey thy actors in a cart;But here the simple Thespian has to pad,And, though it makes his heart feel sadTo leave his friends so far behind—Such friendship never more he’ll find,Yet adieu! a heart-warm fond adieu!Companions noble, poor and few!
This, I think, marks the completion of my connection with the stage world, and I cannot but feel that those who have scanned these few recollections of mine will have found them something more than an uneventful and cut-and-dried story.
By this time my appetite for “seeing the world” had got somewhat satisfied, and I stayed at home for a while. I happened to become acquainted with a man of the name of Howard, who went under the nick-name of Harlequin Dick. By trade he was a wood-carver, and a first-class hand at his job. He was a Liverpool man, and during his stay in Keighley he did wood-carving for many firms in the district. Then he was taken into tow by old James Illingworth (now deceased), who ran the Worth Valley Chair Works, at Ingrow, opposite the Worth Valley Hotel. A new stone building now occupies the place of the old structure. Now my friend Howard’s great hobby was making marionettes, and performing with them; and of these Lilliputian mummers he made a set, and then discussed ways and means for appearing with them in public. I was by him put into the trinitarian post of scenic artist, advance agent, and stage manager. It devolved upon me to draw up the advertisements. We had some capital wall posters, each figure—its capabilities, recommendations, &c.—being graphically described in rhyme; yes, it was a remarkable bill—so remarkable that parties interested in other marionette shows appropriated its contents for their own shows. When all the paraphernalia were ready, we went round to various schools in the town and neighbourhood, giving entertainments to the school children. I remember one occasion—yes; I shall never forget it—when we exhibited our show in St. John’s school-room, Ingrow. The Rev Mr Mayne was then the vicar of St. John’s, and he allowed us to have a night with the children. Well, we removed a partition in the school-room dividing the boys’ from the girls’ department, and made a sort of shake-down stage at one end of the room, and with a scene and proscenium the place looked like a pretty little theatre. There was a crowded audience for our performance, including the vicar and Mrs Mayne, the curate of St. John’s (who, by-the-way, was a coloured gentleman), Mr John Butterfield, brother of Mr H. I. Butterfield, of Cliffe Castle, and, indeed, a good many of theeliteof the district. The show opened: the curtain was rung up. The first part was a representation of “The Babes in the Wood,” which went very smoothly, and appeared to suit the general taste of the spectators. Then followed a “skeleton dance,” and next we gave with the puppets an amusing harlequinade by clown, pantaloon, and butterfly. Yes, and here the real fun of the evening came in. The butterfly took a great deal of catching. Mr Howard and his good lady and myself were leaning over a rail (behind the scenes, of course) near the front of the stage, energetically working the strings of the figures, when, without any warning, the stage front gave way, and we (still energetically working the figures) were thrown right into the auditorium. Talk about tumbling head over heels! Why, words would only belittle this part of our “performance.” Suffice it to say that the wreckage just cleared the front seat, on which the Vicar and his good lady and friends were sitting.
was so irresistibly humorous that Mr Mayne burst into a fit of laughter, and, taking up his hat, he left the room, followed shortly after by his wife and the curate, and shortly afterwards by Mr John Butterfield, who, I may say, seemed to enjoy the accident far better than the legitimate performance. The audience roared and roared again with laughter, and, speaking for myself, I can say that I felt “jolly queer.” We had only, as it were, pitched the stage together, making it by placing one form above another. Fortunately the people present took the unlooked-for incident in good part, and with a little assistance we managed to improvise another stage, and upon this we went through a little more of our “show.”
Before we ventured upon a further public appearance with the “dolls” we provided the show with better equipments. These included a tent, which, along with a magic-lantern, we bought for a trifling matter from a travelling photographer who went by the name of Old Kalo. The first of our second series of entertainments took place at Addingham, where, it being the Feast, we did very brisk “biz.” During one of the intervals between the performances, I remember a gentleman coming in and asking me, “Do you think you could study a few lines for me, and introduce them into your play?” “What are they about?” said I. Then my visitor told me that he “had got a little fellow, Jacky Demaine, of Catgill, in the public house opposite, and wanted me to talk about him during the acting.” I agreed to carry out his wishes, and my worthy friend, Howard, and I, having been supplied with the “matter,” commenced to rehearse the scene we had prepared expressly for Jacky. There were two figures strutting about the stage. “Good morning, Mr Catgill” said one of them. “Why, you are smart this morning.” “Well, you know it is Addingham Feast,” was the reply of the other figure. “Are you in want of a sweetheart?” “No,” said Jacky’s double; “I came here to buy some cattle.” Upon this the real Jacky Demaine could “stand it” no longer, and he rose from a front seat in the audience and made an “explanation.” He wished to know “how the little hound knew him,” saying that he never had a pint o’ beer with him in his life! Then Jacky wanted to come behind the stage to talk to the “little hound.” Of course he was a little fresh. The audience “fairly brought down the house” with their bursts of laughter, and people crowded into the booth and around the entrance anxious to know what was the matter. I have no doubt the little incident would be talked about for a good while in Addingham.
After this, we appeared with our show in the old Mechanics’ Hall (now the Yorkshire Penny Bank) at Keighley. A travelling auctioneer who was staying there a week engaged us to give our performances during the intervals at his sales. He paid us very well. But Mr Howard was in the habit of taking more drink than was good for him, and he dispensed with the “mummers” one by one, until there was scarce one of our celebrated actors left to tell the tale and carry on the show.
The marionettes having come to their end, and your humble servant being now practically out of a situation, he began to bestir his imagination for some other line which he might enter into in the show business. It was one morning while I was walking along Back-lane, at the top end of the town, that I “fell in luck.” Old John Malloy kept a grocer’s shop there—the Ship Inn now marks the spot—and I heard from him that he had a small litter of pigs. I saw them, and found among them a black pig—a puny, rickety, and most dejected-looking creature. I asked John what he would take for the best and the worst, and although he did not wish to part with the best pig, he was not very particular in that respect with regard to the worst—“the leetle blackie.” For this he said he would take a shilling, and after bargaining with John I got the pig for ten-pence. I took the pig away with me in an empty herring-box, and consulted my friend, John Spencer. I said, “John; we’ll take this pig to Haworth, and show it as the War Pig from South America.” John laughed at the idea, but heartily agreed with it. In the next place I got “on tick” a piece of calico several yards long, and with some lampblack I painted in bold type on the calico the words, “Come and see the War Pig from South America, 2d. each.” Then Spencer and I engaged the large garret at the Fleece Inn, Haworth. It was a large room, holding, I should think, a couple of hundreds of people, and was entered by a staircase in the back-yard, separate from the public house proper. Mrs Stangcliffe was the landlady, and she readily allowed us to have the room, I having taken it of her once before. Well, to get to business.
We displayed the calico signpost at the front of the inn, and at the appointed hour in the evening we had a crowded audience in the room. I must give my comrade Spencer more credit than myself for the “show;” for he would have two strings to his bow. While he and I were entering the place, he picked up a black cat belonging to some poor neighbour, and quickly stowed it away in one of his capacious pockets. The cat will appear later. As John put pussy away, he said, “If t’War Pig doesn’t satisfy ’em, I’ll show ’em something else.” We commenced the performance. I brought the pig out of the box, and exhibited the animal on a small table in the middle of the room. The audience was on the tiptoe of expectation, and crowded towards the table to see the famous war pig, which, after its long confinement, and also, of course, from its natural condition, was hardly able to stand. In a few words I introduced the war pig—“Ladies and gentlemen,—In opening the performance this evening, I have to show you the famous war pig from South America,” &c., &c.
There was an old fellow at the back of the room wearing a leather apron and red cap, with his blue shirt sleeves rolled up—a typical old cobbler. He pushed up to the table, and, after “eyeing” the “exhibit” somewhat critically through his spectacles, he held forth as follows:—“Nah, dus ta call thet a war pig?” in the vernacular peculiar to the natives. I said, “Did ta ivver see a war pig i’ thi life?” “Noa,” said he blankly “it’s t’warstpig I ivver set mi een on.” And then the audience saw where the “war” pig came in, and they laughed heartily over the joke. It was a relief to me when they did put the best face on the affair. Under cover of the diversion I stole from the room, and prepared to leave the place. I met Mrs Stangcliffe at the foot of the staircase. She said “she did not know what to think about us, but there had been a fearful noise, and she took it that we had pleased the company.” With this I left the inn, and got away to a place where I had arranged to wait for Spencer.
Yes; you will be wondering what has become of Spencer. Well; he stayed behind to continue the show. As he told me afterwards, he appeared before the screen and said, “Ladies and Gentlemen,—You don’t seem to be quite satisfied with the war pig from South America. I can assure you that I have here a cat which I brought from India; they call her Tippo-Sahib. She can tell fortunes. Tippo has told the fortunes of all the Indian kings and princes, and I have brought her here expressly to tell the ladies present their fortunes. Now, Tippo (introducing the Haworth-bred cat to the audience), walk round the room and tell the ladies their fortunes.” Puss had no sooner been liberated than she bounded out at the open door. Spencer said hastily, “I believe the climate of England is too cold for Tippo; but I’ll fetch her back.” Upon this he darted out of the door, and down the stairs after the scared cat; and this was the way Spencer effected his escape. Of course, the audience tumbled to it that the whole concern was a swindle, but they “bore up” well, and even seemed satisfied with the swindle, for they had many good laughs out of it. Spencer joined me on the road just out of Haworth, and together we returned to Keighley.
As I remarked in the earlier part of the above incident, I had on a former occasion figured in the large room attached to the Fleece Inn. This occasion turned out a kind of “slope,” though not so bad a one as that already described. There happened to be staying in Keighley Wild’s Theatre, and John Spencer and I thought we could manage a bit of “business” at Haworth. So we borrowed two costumes. Mine was a monkey dress—a kind of skin covering for the whole body—which I had lent to me by “Billy Shanteney.” Spencer obtained the loan of a clown’s dress. At this time there was a drummer who lived in Wellington-street. He was well known to Keighley folk as “Old Bill Heblett.” Bill used to march the streets in company with bands of music, and caused some amount of wonder and amazement by throwing his drum-sticks into the air and catching them between the beats. On this occasion we induced Heblett to lend us his famed drum; so that with a monkey’s and a clown’s costumes, and a drum, we were in a fair way of business. We had intended that the show should consist of Spencer lifting heavy weights, and I was to amuse the audience with jokes and funny stories. We went up to Haworth, engaged the rooms from Mrs Stangcliffe, and borrowed the landlady’s bed-curtains to hang across the room to form a screen and so make the place look something like a show-room. For footlights we fastened candles on the floor, placing each candle between three nails.
Then we engaged a fiddler who went by the name of Billy Frenchman—a well-known character in Haworth at the time. Bill had been in the army for some years. In his old age he had been appointed town’s herald or crier of Haworth. It was in this capacity that we engaged him to “cry” our show about Haworth, before we turned out on parade. Billy told us to write down what we wanted him to say, and this was our programme—“This is to give notice to the public of Haworth and the surrounding neighbourhood that a company of dramatic performers will appear tonight at the Fleece Inn Garret. The performance to commence with Shakespeare’s comedy, ‘Katharine and Petruchio; or, The Taming of the Shrew;’ to be followed by ‘Ali Pasha; or, The Mussulman’s Vengeance,’ and tricks by the monkey, and comic sketches.” These were the words Billy had written on his paper, but through some misunderstandingthesewere the words I heard him cry out: he gave them in broad Haworth dialect:—“This is ta gie noatis ta t’publick o’ Howarth et ther’s bahn ta be sum play-acters at t’Fleece Inn Garritt, and ther bahn ta act ‘Catherine fra t’Padding Can, er Who’s ta tak t’screws;’ ta be follered bi ‘Alpaca, er t’smashing up o’ t’engines.’” But Billy’s blunder was perhaps for the best; for, seeing that this was about the time when hand woolcombing was on the decline, and engines were being brought out, the people had an idea that the announcement had some startling reference to their trade. Myself, I could not help but laugh heartily over this choice specimen of bellman’s oratory.
About 5.30 in the evening Jack put on his clown’s costume, and I put on the monkey’s garb, and Jack, taking the drum and leading me by a chain, paraded up the main street of Haworth. Opposite the White Lion we “pitched,” and the customers soon came out of the public-house, and passers-by stopped to see “whoa we wor.” I distinctly heard one of the onlookers say that “if it wor a real un, it wor t’biggest monkey ut he’d ivver seen.” Then a few of the folks standing together held a hurried confab., and as a result one of them announced, “I’ll tread on his tail, an’ if he squeaks it’ll be a reight un.” Suiting his words to action the joskin advanced and trod on the end of the monkey’s tail. Of course the monkey squeaked. Jacko also turned round suddenly, and, with a horrid grin on his features, sprang on the shoulders of his intruder. The poor fellow screamed, and his first words on finding himself out of danger were “Oh! he’s a reight monkey.” Within the next few minutes another native came up, and inquired of Spencer “Ah say—can thy monkey chew bacca?”—producing a tobacco-box, the size of which was awe-inspiring. “Try it,” said Spencer, “Give him the box—he’s very careful.” So the big-hearted joskin handed his big tobacco-box to the monkey. I was wearing a mask, which allowed for a large mouth, and I popped the box into the “yawning cavity.” “By gow,” said the at-one-time owner of the box, “What a stummack!—he’s swallered t’box an all!” With such an uncomfortable article as a tobacco-box in his mouth, the monkey could not do very much in the way of performing, so the return was made to the Fleece Inn Garret. People—particularly the disappointed owner of the tobacco-box—followed us down, and by opening-time we had
The old fiddler—a host in himself—was the orchestra. He knew about three tunes, and these he played o’er and o’er. I forgot to mention that we had not an appointed door-keeper, or cashier, so I undertook that superior office myself. “My word,” said some of the people as they came in, “just lewk at that monkey; it’s t’moast remarkable monkey et ivver wor knawn i’ Howarth; it’s soa mich sense woll it can tak t’brass at t’door.” Well, the house became so crowded that there was scarcely any room left for us to perform. The time for commencing arrived, and we appeared before the curtain, though we felt at a great loss to know how we were going to manage to perform in the space there was left; for it must be known that we did actually intend to give a performance. We had gone through a few “feats”—Spencer lifting and performing with 56lb. weights, and I doing a few tricks at tight-rope walking and dancing. Spencer was behind the curtain waiting his “turn,” and when I retired he said: “It’s no good; we cannot give satisfaction here.”
“There isn’t room for you to work, never tell of me;” adding, “You had better go and get you right clothes on. Bring the drum and all our belongings you can get hold on, and slip out at the back door the best way that you can.” I obeyed. The “orchestra” was discoursing diverting music. I went down to exchange monkey for man, so to speak, and, this done, and having collected our properties, I made my way, happily undetected, out of the house, and cut across the fields. Weighed down as I was with the copper taken at the door, and in my anxiety to look after everything and get away as fast as I could, I let the drum slip from my grasp. It rolled down a steep field, and for a short time I had a fine chase after it. “But where was Jack Spencer?” readers will be wondering. Yes; I had forgot all about Jack for the minute. As he afterwards told me, he got away all right except for a little mishap which befell him just after he had left the place. Opposite the Fleece Inn was a cartwright’s shop (I believe the shop is there now), and behind the wall skirting the roadway was placed an old cart. Spencer knew not of either of these things, and when he lightly mounted the wall and leaped—before he had looked—it was to find himself in the cart, or, to be more precise, falling through the bottom of it. He rather lamed his leg, and had to limp up to Merrall’s mill, where I was waiting for him. Together, we made for Keighley, and on arriving there we “put up” at the Lord Rodney Inn, in Church Green, which was then kept by Mrs Fox. Safe in the hostelry, we counted up our spoil, and, perhaps, congratulated ourselves that we had got off so easily. Jack told me that before leaving the entertainment he told the fiddler to play up “special,” as he was going to do a “fine trick.”
Next day we learned from a young man whom we came across at Wild’s theatre how affairs had developed at Haworth the previous night. He said that for half-an-hour the fiddler went on playing his favourite tune, “Rosin the bow.” By-and-bye, the audience manifested signs of active curiosity as to the position of affairs, and one man said he would go behind the curtain and see for himself, adding, “There must be something wrong.” He went to the front, and pulled the screen on one side to find—nothing! The audience generally bore up with good heart, but one determined-looking individual said, “I’ve paid my two-pence, an’ I’m bahn ta hev a cannel for it, if nowt else.” And with that he stalked up to the front, and possessed himself of one of the candles which had been in use as footlights. Others then made a rush for the remaining candles, and in the disorder the poor fiddler fared rather badly, for he got his fiddle broken. But Spencer and I afterwards visited him, and made good the loss he sustained. I must say that we never intended the affair to be a swindle, and, borrowing one of my friend Squire Leach’s forcible expressions, I may say we “started with good intentions, whatever came out of ’em.” Perhaps I may be excused for introducing the following verses of my own, entitled “Haworth Sharpness,” to close this chapter:—
Says a wag to a porter i’ Haworth one day,“Yer net ower sharp—ye drones o’t’ railway;For fra Keighley to Howarth I’ve been oft enough,But nivver a hawpenny I’ve paid yer, begoff.”
The porter replied, “I varry mich daht it,But I’ll gie thee a quart ta tell all abaht it;For it looks plain ta me tha cuddn’t pass t’snicket,Without tippin’ ta t’ porter thi pass or thi ticket”
“Tha’ll write up ta Derby, an’ then tha’ll deceive me.”“I willn’t, this time,” said t’porter, “believe me.”“Then aht wi’ thi brass, an’ let us be knocking.For I’ve walked it a fooit-back all raand bi t’Bocking.”
Perhaps it will not be out of place for me to introduce a few recollections I have of several gentlemen who were about this time of my life prominently before the public.
I have heard Oastler speak of the tyranny of factory life in Keighley. I remember hearing him speak at the “Non. Con.” Chapel in Sun-street, when Joe Firth, an old Keighleyite, rose from the gallery and began to address the meeting. Mr Oastler invited Firth to the rostrum. He went and delivered a vivid description of factory life. He was an illiterate man, and spoke in his native dialect. His speech was so telling that it was well reported, a column appearing in theLeeds Weekly Times.Firth was fond of speaking of the way his speech was reported and dressed up so that he really could not recognise his own words. Firth was afterwards called to London to give evidence, and he saved enough money out of his allowance to enable him to abandon hand wool-combing, and set up as a hawker of tea and coffee. He never looked behind him after that, and, being a great “spouter,” he got onto the Keighley Local Board. He was one of the opponents of the Baths and Washhouses Scheme, and, in fact, he liked opposition in many things. He was a staunch teetotaller. He died leaving some property.
It was about this time that the people of Keighley got the by-name of “th’ crooked legged ’uns.” It was not a mere local name, but became a general stigmatic description of Keighley folks throughout the country. The great agitator, the late Richard Oastler, was agitating for the Ten Hours Bill at this time. Many of the young people of Keighley were then “knock o’ kneed” and otherwise deformed. This fact was represented to Mr Oastler by the local poet, Abraham Wildman. The latter was interested in the working folk, and had published some poems reflecting on their hard life. Oastler took up the case of the children, twelve of whom with crooked legs he had exhibited in the House of Commons. Wildman’s poem, descriptive of these poor young folk, was submitted to the Duke of Wellington. His grace commended the poet, saying England would be in a deplorable condition if this were to be a fair sample of the soldiers that were to be sent from her factories. The term “crooked legged ’uns” stuck to these specimens through life; and, in fact, some of them still survive.
Asked as to his recollections of early factory life, Bill said he believed that parents took the children to work in the mills from the very early morning till late at night; and in some cases they even allowed them to work on Sunday. One manufacturer allowed the children to work all night, but one father, who was accustomed to travelling away from home, returned to Addingham, and found three of his children undergoing this horrible white slavery. He went to the factory, demanded his children, and assaulted the caretaker. The matter was brought to a trial at Bingley, Oastler backing the father. The poor man was fined for assault, but Captain Ferrand, who had been disgusted with factory oppression, assisted in taking the case further. The upshot was that the manufacturer was fined. Captain Ferrand’s interest in the relief of the poor was deep and abiding, and he did a great and mighty work in connection with the factory laws. It was said at the time by the Radicals that his work was dictated by political expediency rather than by pure humane feelings. However, Bill is of opinion that the Radicals were mistaken. The Captain was a stern disciplinarian, but, under a rough exterior, Bill was sure there beat a warm heart for the weal of the poor, and especially of pity for those confined so long in factories.
In volume II ofCobbett’s Magazine, there is an article on “Doctrinaire Government and the factory system,” and a quotation is made from a speech by Oastler, asserting that “the factory system has caused a great deal of the distress and immorality of the time, and a great deal of the weakness of men’s constitutions.” Oastler said he would not present fiction to them, but tell them what he himself had seen. “Take,” he said, “a little child. She shall rise from her bed at four in the morning of a cold winter’s day—before that time she awakes perhaps half-a-dozen times, and says, ‘Father, is it time—father, is it time?’ When she gets up she feels about her for her little bits of rags, her clothes, and puts them on her weary limbs and trudges on to the mill, through rain or snow, one or two miles, and there she works from thirteen to eighteen hours, with only thirty minutes’ interval. Homewards again at night she would go when she was able, but many a time she hid herself in the wool in the mill, not being able to reach home; at last she sunk under these cruelties into the grave.” Mr Oastler said he could bring hundreds of instances of this kind, with this difference, that they worked 15 instead of 18 hours.
This was delivered a few years before Bill was born, but it held good in some cases, he was sure, in his early boyhood. There were then some cotton mills in Keighley district, and the young were allowed to submit to toil which was far too exhausting to allow of nature battling for the support of the human frame. Hence, Bill’s own description of the poor little factory girl is an apt corroboration:—
They are up in the morning reight early,They are sometimes afore leet;Ah hear ther clogs they are clamping,As t’little things go dahn the street.
They are off in the morning reight early,With ther basket o’ jock on ther arm;The bell is ting-tonging, ting-tonging,As they enter the mill in a swarm.
They are skapering backward and forward,Ther ends to keep up if they can;They are doing ther utmost endeavours,For fear o’ the frown o’ man.
. . . . .
And naw from her ten hours’ labour,Back to her cottage she shogs:Ah hear by the tramping and singing,’Tis the factory girl in her clogs.
An’ at night, when she’s folded i’ slumber,She’s dreaming o’ noises an’ drawls;—Of all human toil under-rated,’Tis our poor little factory girl.
I may add that the late Rev W. Busfield, rector of Keighley, was a staunch supporter of the Ten Hours Bill, when it had not many friends among the political Liberals, and when Cobden and Bright opposed it stoutly on Political Economy pleas. The rector supported Lord Ashley, Mr Ferrand, and Mr Oastler, and he lived to see the result of the advocacy of his friends.
The late Mr Busfeild Ferrand was a typical English squire. In life he was the owner of the St. Ives’ estate at Bingley. He sprang from an aristocratic family, who had ever been loyal to monarchy and country. Trained as a lawyer, he, however, like many other English gentlemen, did not follow his profession for gain or popularity. This training served him well in public life, and augmented the many sterling qualities of his character and his utility in the unpaid public service. He was a soldier, a civil administrator, an ardent and exceedingly able politician—Tory, of course, to the back-bone. He was a leading advocate for the “Ten Hours Bill.” The champions of that great movement were Fielding, Ferrand, and Oastler. Mr Ferrand was instrumental in passing the Truck Act, which did so much service to working men, in removing the deceptions and impositions of indirect payment of wages. He was a great advocate of allotments for working men, and set the first example to the wealthy and willing to provide the people with ground for healthy open-air recreation. As an agriculturist he was an enthusiast, and all who had tenancy of land under him found all well so long as they observed strictly the conditions of their tenancy, but woe to them and to all concerned if they infringed in the slightest degree the iron rule of discipline set down by Mr Ferrand. In every capacity of life, he was a disciplinarian who could not brook any breach of rule. Poaching, and every offence that interfered with the rights of the preserves on his estate, called forth prosecution for the offence. My first recollection of Mr Ferrand dates from the general election when this part of the country was contested by Messrs Morpeth and Milton. I was about eight years old at the time. The two politicians visited every part of the district, and on one occasion the Tory party came through Hoylus End. I, and my “mates” were wearing party favours; but they were all “yellow,” while I was “blue.” Mr Ferrand was with the electioneers, and he must have noticed that I was the most conspicuous Tory youngster; for he drew from his pocket a big handful of coppers and threw them down to me. From that day, I can say, I have been a Tory. During the campaign the local rhymesters and writers were very busy concocting electioneering “squibs;” and, young as I was, I tried my ’prentice hand along with the rest. It was with astonishment and amazement that my parents and my companions received the following doggerel:—
Morpeth and Milton went a baking pies,Milton gave to Morpeth two black eyes.
About the year 1852—at the time of the Keighley Fair—there was some poaching in Bingley Wood. A gamekeeper had come across the poachers, who seized and tied him to a tree; suspicion fell upon some factory workers, and they were taken before the court at Keighley. Mr Ferrand was in the court, but took no part in the judicial consideration of the case, which lasted nearly the whole of the afternoon. A barrister, who resided at Settle, was for the defence. It proved a case of wrong identity, and the prosecution was dismissed. The real poachers had escaped, some from the country. A rowdy element excited the people against Mr Ferrand, and they even went so far as to create a riot, aiming their missiles in the street at Mr Ferrand. It was a case of one brave man and a mob. At last, after pursuing his way fearlessly of their missiles, he was blocked, and had to read the Riot Act at premises now used by Messrs Laycock & Sons, curriers. The police-constables were of no avail against the mob, and soldiers were procured from Bradford. The roughs found the soldiers unwelcome visitors on the scene, and the streets were soon cleared. No prisoners were made. Capt. Ferrand took part in leading the soldiers, and those who were so valiant before were now no longer to be seen defiant; they had fled. Mr John Garnett, school-master, wrote some lines on the affair, called “The Baron’s Revenge.”
Begging pardon for this digression, and returning to recollections of my own life, I may say that a longing had now come over me for a quiet term of life, and I accordingly settled down at home. Work was once more found for me at Messrs Lund’s mill; indeed, I have often since thought that the late Mr William Lund must have stipulated in his will that work was at all times to be found for me. Off and on, I must have worked at North Beck Mills some score times, and each time there was a sort of welcome reception for me. Perhaps my father’s life-long connection with the firm had something to do with it. Be that as it may, I settled down, determined to make an entire alteration in my course of life. A visit paid to William Sugden, and I was possessed, I thought, of one of the grandest suits of clothes there ever was.
Then my parents had a talk with me as to joining the Sunday school, and, after some hesitation, I connected myself with the Wesleyan Sunday school at Exley Head. Mr Edward Pickles, manufacturer, Holme Mill (now living, I believe, at Bradford), was the superintendent of the school, and other of the officers were Mr John Dinsdale, who had the distinction of being a local preacher, and the late Mr Thomas Bottomley, of Braithwaite. For some six months I attended the school with the regularity of the Prince Smith Clock, and was not absent a single Sunday. Fellow scholars of mine were, William Scott, Hannah Holmes (afterwards married to a missionary, named Kaberry, with whom she went to Africa), Midgley Hardacre, Thomas Binns, John Pearson, and James Smith, locally known as “Jim o’ Aaron’s,” who met his death by falling down a lime kiln. Sunday school work interested me greatly, and it was with much “happiness at heart” that I looked forward to Sunday. I was not long a scholar ere I was made a teacher. Possessed as I was of what I may call a “theatrical” voice, acquired during my career on the stage, the people liked to hear me read, and I was kept fully occupied in reading chapters from the Bible. Yes; the time I spent at the Sunday school was a very happy one.
But, unfortunately, a few of my companions got me to bother my head with local politics. There was a Local Board election approaching at Keighley, and some new-made acquaintances led me, as it were, to contract the prevailing political fever; and, as events turned, it was not meet that I should do so. My sinning friends were Bill Spink, better known as “Old Bung;” “Porky Bill,” Jonas Moore, and others. I struggled hard for the particular party which I favoured, writing “squibs” and all kinds of doggerel, until I became literally saturated with politics. In the meantime I had continued my attendance at the Sunday School, though my duties were entered into with less zest and enjoyment than formerly. I well remember Mr Pickles, the superintendent, saying he had no doubt I should be a great man some time. But the insinuating influences of certain companions acquired during my political career soon told upon me; the old saw says “Show me your comrades and I will tell you who you are.” I got associated with people older than myself, many of them wool-combers from Bradford and other places—men who had seen the world in all its dodgy and dark ways, and who knew how to take advantage of people who hadn’t. I had plenty of money, and I found plenty of friends to help me to spend it. I began a retrograde movement, finally severing my connection with the Sunday school, a step which gave my parents great uneasiness. I attribute my falling off entirely to the bad companionship into which I was led. They were too “old” for me, and I was rather too “soft” for them. Many were the scrapes into which they brought me, and it was in consequence of one of these that I and a female companion whose acquaintance I had made started one morning on the tramp for Middlesborough.
In the last chapter I told how I started on “the tramp” with a female companion to Middlesborough. It was early in the morning when we turned our backs upon Keighley for the North. We trudged by road to Otley, Ripley, and Ripon, Thirsk and on to Stockton-on-Tees. Here my petticoat companion was so tired and weary that I left her, having secured her lodgings with an old lady, who agreed to take care of her until my return; my intention being to get work and a home in Middlesborough, and then to fetch my partner thither.
I pushed on to Middlesborough, but was “flabbergasted” to find the girl’s uncle and several cousins—male, and all upgrown (!)—awaiting my arrival! It turned out that they had been apprised of my probable arrival by a letter from the girl’s parents at Keighley. It was “blood and thunder” for a few minutes when they saw me, and the uncle was fairly exasperated to find that his niece was not with me. “What have you done with her?” he asked, excitedly. “Have you drowned her?” I besought him to “be quiet,” and then I would tell him all about it. So he was quiet, and I told him where I had left the girl. There were three sons with the uncle, and the four received my story with distrust—they would see their cousin that night they declared. Thus, my position was getting pretty hot, and there was nothing for it but to return to Stockton. This conclusion vexed me sore, for with my tired and weary frame I was well-nigh ready to drop; but I saw there was no other way out of the situation. I had already met three friends I knew in Middlesborough, the three brothers O’Gorman—I had made their acquaintance some time previously at Keighley—and they agreed to walk back with me to Stockton-on-Tees. The girl’s uncle and her three cousins made the party into eight—a veritable cavalcade in quest of a poor, defenceless woman. We got to Stockton all right, and the uncle and his sons took the girl in charge, while I was left with my three friends, the O’Gormans, to do as I liked. What was more, I was robbed of all opportunities of communing with the “erstwhile companion of my choice”—
Who afterwards became, I trow,A partner in my weal and woe.
My newly-found friends and I went back to Middlesborough. Going on the quay one morning, I fell in with two men, whom I asked if there was any chance of a job. After scanning me o’er and o’er they asked what I was able to do—what trade I was at last. Out of my thousand and odd “qualifications” I decided that I “had done a bit o’ sailoring.” “Can you do anything in the dockyard?” asked one of them. “Yes,” I thought I could. Then was I engaged.
The salary was fixed by my employers at £5 per month, though I was told that I should have to work a month “in hand;” which was rather hard for me, seeing that I was without money. Soon after I again fell in with the O’Gormans, and was introduced to the family. The head of the household was Peter O’Gorman, who had been in America and understood dock-yard business a good bit. Well, I got on fairly well as docker—a free labourer, I think I was,—although the work was not by any means regular, depending as it did on the arrival of timber-laden vessels from Norway and Sweden. Having a good deal of time hanging on my hands I visited various parts of the town, and it was one morning, while on an errand of this sort, that one of the O’Gormans came up to me and showed me an advertisement inviting applications for the execution of certain excavating work in connection with the Middlesborough new cemetery.
The advertisement gave great prominence to the instruction, “No Irish need apply.” Now, my friend O’Gorman was an Irishman, and he was desirous of applying for the job. So he asked me if I would be good enough to don myself in his labourer’s clothes and try to secure the contract. I said I should be glad to do so. After receiving due instruction as to how to proceed in the application, I went and presented myself to the contractor. That individual, I found out, was a Scotchman of the name of Macpherson. He put different questions to me as to whether I was capable of doing the work, &c. One of his inquiries had reference to my abilities for drawing. Could I draw? “Yes,” I thought I could, and on a sheet of paper which Mr Macpherson supplied, I tried my hand at drawing. My production was satisfactory. “Can you find men?” he asked. “Yes,” said I. “What about the tools?” “Oh!” I had to reply, “I have no tools.” This notwithstanding, he said, I might start on the job next morning, and bring all my men. I completed my arrangements with the Messrs O’Gorman, and next morning my (?) workmen were “at it,” spades, picks, &c, being provided by Mr Macpherson. What may seem more surprising, I continued at my own work in the dockyard, besides acting (though really but nominally) as sub-contractor in the excavating work at the cemetery. In about a week, however, Mr Macpherson “smelt a rat,” and found out that the job was a hoax so far as I was concerned; nevertheless the work went on all right. The land was very soft and easily worked, being mostly formed of sand and pebbles; and the contract was completed within five weeks. The payment ran to 10s per day per man, all of us having agreed to go in share and share alike. So that with this and my work at the dock-yard I did very well, and “got on to my feet” again. Indeed, to make a long story short I had got to be a regular “masher.”
I made up my mind to come back to Keighley, and let my folks see how I was getting on.
Home of my boyish days, how can I call,Scenes to my memory that did befall?How can my trembling pen find power to tellThe grief I experienced in bidding farewell?Can I forget the days joyously spentThat flew on so rapidly, sweet with content?Can I then quit thee, whose memory’s so dear,Home of my boyish days, without one tear?
Can I look back on days that have gone by,Without one pleasant thought, without one sigh?Oh, no; though never these eyes may dwellOn thee, old cottage home I love so well;Home of my childhood, wherever I be,Thou art the nearest and dearest to me.
Accordingly I gave up my situation at the dockyard, and having bid adieu to Middlesborough, I took train for Bradford. In Bradford, I have to say to my sorrow, I fell in with some of my Keighley friends, and within a very short time I had been induced to part with all my money, and, in fact, some of my clothes. When I recovered my senses—for I must have lost them to act as I did—I found myself in a sad and sorry plight.
The time chanced to be about the outbreak of the Crimean War, and they were “drumming up” for the army. There were recruiting sergeants to be met with at every turn. It is said that even a worm will turn when trodden on, and it did not require much of the sergeant’s persuasive oratory to induce me to take the Queen’s shilling and enlist in the West York Rifles.
I left yon fields so fair to view,I left yon mountain pass and peaks;I left two e’en so bonny blue,A dimpled chin and rosy cheeks.For a helmet gay and suit o’ redI did exchange my corduroy;I mind the words the sergeant saidWhen I, in sooth, was but a boy.
Now I commence a brand new era of my life. I am one of the Queen’s great body-guard—I am ’listed—sworn, and all. Why this? Was it because I wanted to “follow to the field some warlike lord?” No; it was simply a thirst to see fresh fields and pastures new—fresh places and fresh faces. It was not long before I found that my desire was to be gratified, for I learned that the regiment to which I belonged—or soon was to belong—was already on the road from Aldershot to Edinburgh. I saw that my long-cherished desire to visit the Land o’ Cakes and Barley was to be fulfilled. I believe that I shall have to confess that the thought of getting to see bonnie Scotland was the all-powerful reason for my joining the army. When I ’listed I told the sergeant that he had better take me to the headquarters in Bradford at once, as I was so well known in the town, and did not want to figure as a recruit in the “publics,” where it was the custom to keep the recruits until a batch had been got together. Still the sergeant kept me there, until I threatened that if he did not send me off at once I would desert and leave the town. I was the only recruit he got in Bradford. He took me to Pontefract, where there were more recruits in waiting.
I stayed in Pontefract a couple of days, and then I was moved with the other recruits to the port of Hull, where we embarked one splendid autumn afternoon in a screw steamer for Leith, in Scotland. I shall never forget the incidents which happened during this short voyage. There were many passengers on board, not the least important being a couple of London sharpers. There was an escort of soldiers who were taking a deserter back to his regiment, and there was a young man-o’-war’s man belonging to the good ship “Cornwallis.” He was going to Scotland to see his mother in Edinburgh. Then there was an elderly gentleman, who, judging by his bronzed countenance, had been in a foreign clime for a long time. He was returning to his native heath. Another passenger was a dashing young gentleman, whose father, he told us, was an hotel-keeper in Rotherham, near Sheffield. This one had his fingers gaudily ornamented with rings and diamonds. Of course there isn’t much to be said of us recruits, except, perhaps, that we were regarded as so many “raw lads.” Nevertheless we passed our time during the day very agreeably in various ways—games, &c.—until darkness settled over the ship, and then we retired into the cabin.
At night, I recollect, the wind was very boisterous, and the sea very rough. All we recruits—or the majority of us—were quite ready for Morpheus to take us in his arms when retiring-time came. The men’s sleeping apartment was one common room. Stillness and silence—save and except, perhaps, the snoring—reigned with us until about one after midnight, when (I remember I was thinking of “Home, Sweet Home” at the time) I saw two men gliding stealthily about the cabin. One of the men carried a lighted taper, which he shielded with his hand, and his companion, I saw, was in the act of robbing the sleeping passengers; taking anything that came in their way—provided, of course, that it was worth taking. I overheard one of the two say, “Let’s get to the other side, them recruits’ll have nothing.” Then did they steal across to the other side of the cabin. I saw them take money from the old gentleman first. He was hard asleep. Then they took rings from the fingers of the young masher, and next turned their attention to the young sailor lad further on. His money was in a little bag tied round his neck, beneath his shirt breast. The robbers cut the bag away, and took it with them; it contained the savings of the lad and his passport. All this I saw done, and did not dare to move or speak for fear of being “done” by the rascals. Having stripped the cabin of all that appeared to be in their line, they left and went up the stairs onto the deck, feeling, I suppose, cocksure that they had had their rascality to themselves. The morn dawned, and the first to give the alarm that they had been robbed were those two London “prigs,” who swore vengeance upon the whole of us. One of them declared that he had been a rogue all his life—a sentiment to which I said “aye,” “aye” in my own mind,—but added that if he could find the man who had taken 28s from his pockets he would forgive him. The other thief said he had lost his watch, but he, too, would forgive the man who would acknowledge and return it. Then there was a general hulabaloo among the passengers, and everybody began to be alarmed. Each felt in his pockets and examined his belongings, and with very few exceptions all who had had anything to losehadlost it. The captain came across the bow, and was told that there were thieves on board and he ought to have the passengers searched. The captain said he could hardly do that on the high seas: it was against all sea-faring law; but he suggested when they arrived at the port of Leith the authorities would do their best to find out the guilty ones. He also pointed out that it behoved anyone on board, if he had the slightest suspicion, to give information to him.
I knew full well I was the one able to do this, but I did not step forward, being somewhat at a loss which way to go about it. However, as we were coasting Fifeshire, I slipped down into the steward’s room, when all the passengers were basking in the sun on the deck, and told the steward all I knew about the affair. I got him to promise to tell the captain in such a way that it should not be known until we had disembarked that I had given the information. He transferred the information to the captain, and presently the steward came and beckoned me to follow him down to his cabin, remarking that nobody would see me. I saw the captain, and told him what I knew of the matter. The robbery continued to be the sole topic of talk the rest of the journey. Clearing the coast of Fife, we soon came in sight of Edinburgh, and, sailing up the Forth, we finally landed at Leith. It was Sunday afternoon, and there were large numbers of people about to watch us land. The majority of the people ran for the first pier, but the captain ordered the vessel to land at the second pier, which disappointed the people. Two Scottish policemen were stationed at the bottom of the gangway. The escort with their prisoner were allowed to pass; also the recruits, with the exception of myself. Next the passengers filed off, and, in turn, came the two cockney “prigs.” The captain ordered them to be searched by the policeman; and searched they were, though not without some show of resistance. Everything that was missing was found upon them, with the exception of the young sailor’s passport.
The twain were handcuffed and taken to Carlton Gaol, at the top end of Edinburgh, and the next morning they were tried before the Lord Provost, and each sentenced to twelve months’ imprisonment with hard labour. I was called to give evidence in the court, and chagrined the two London sharpers must have felt to find out how they had been caught red-handed. This was my first appearance in a police court.
On the night of our arrival, the deserter was taken to Edinburgh, and put into the guard-room. The recruits and myself were drawn up in line before the Colonel, and we were asked particularly who we were and whence we came. My turn arrived. “Well, and who are you?” says the Colonel. “You seem to have had a better time than these Sheffielders.” I told him that I was from Keighley, in the West Riding of Yorkshire. “Is that somewhere near Bingley?” asked the Colonel. “Yes,” replied I, “about four miles away.” “Do you know a gentleman in the neighbourhood called William Busfeild Ferrand?” “Yes, sir,” replied I. “He lives at St. Ives; I know him very well.” “Have you (queried the Colonel with a merry twinkling in his eye) ever had any of his hares and rabbits?” “No,” replied I, “I’m not a poacher.” “Well,” remarked the Colonel, “I think you will do well; perhaps it’s the best thing you ever did. But of these Sheffielders I have no high opinion; they’re a bad sample of soldiers indeed, and if I had my way I would petition Government to have no Sheffielders at all in the Army.” Then we retired from the Colonel’s presence, the sergeant in charge being instructed to take us on the following morning before the regimental doctor for examination. Set at liberty for the time being, we recruits made for the canteen. There we found all classes of soldiers—Highlanders, Lancers, Artillerymen—all supping their ale and making merry.