Adventures and Recollections Part 1

Adventures and Recollections.

by Bill o'th' Hoylus End.

CHAPTER I.

[Bill o'th Hoylus End might be termed a local Will-o'th-Wisp. He has been everything by turns, and nothing long. Now, a lean faced lad, "a mere anatomy, a mountebank, a thread bare juggler, a needy, hollow-ey'd, sharp looking wretch;" now acting the pert, bragging youth, telling quaint stories, and up to a thousand raw tricks; now tumbling and adventuring into manhood with yet the oil and fire and force of youth too strong for reason's sober guidance; and now-well and now-finding the checks of time have begun to grapple him, he looks back upon the past and tells his curious stories o'er again. Verily, as Shakespeare declares in _All's Well_, "the web of his life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together;"

and through it all there is a kind of history, just as

"There is a history in all men's lives, Figuring the nature of the times deceased."

This son of Mischief, Art and Guile has stooped to many things but to conquer himself and be his own best friend; that is, according to the conception of the ordinary, respectable, get-on folk of the world. He has followed more or less the wild, s.h.i.+fting impulses of his nature-restless and reckless, if aimless and harmless; fickle and pa.s.sionate, if rebelliously natural; exhausting his youth and manhood in fruitless action, and devoting the moments of reflection to the playful current of the muse's fancy, forsooth, to the delectation of the more prosaic humanity in this his locality. A life of pleasure was ever his treasure, and he agrees, after experience of life's fitful dream, that

E'en Pleasure acts a treacherous part, She charms the scene, but stings the heart, And while she gulls us of our wealth, Or that superior pearl, our health,

[Yet, and these are the two lines he subst.i.tutes for the melancholy truth of an old poet],

Yet she restores for all the pains, By giving Merit her exchange.

Though the poetic flame has flickered from time to time, it has never been extinguished. There is health and buoyancy still in his muse. It is the one thing essential, the one thing permanent in his nature-ever ready to impart the mystic jingle to pictures of fun and frolic, or perchance judgement and reflection. Thus, as the local Burns, he stands unrivalled.

His poetic effusions speak for themselves, but there are other traits in his career which he wished to convey to the public, which might while away an occasional half-hour in the reading of his stories of the tricks of his boyhood, the adventures of his early manhood, and to learn how he became-well, what he is! He has been caught in divers moods and at sundry times, and his words have been taken in shorthand, the endeavour always being to keep the transcript as faithful as circ.u.mstances would allow. No pretence is here made to evolve a dramatic story, but rather to present Bill's career simply and faithfully for public perusal; for to use Dr.

Johnson's words, "If a man is to write a panegyric, he can keep the vices out of sight; but if he professes to write a life he must represent it really as it was."]

MY BIRTHPLACE, HOME AND PARENTAGE

It was on the 22nd day of March, 1836, in a village midway between Keighley and Haworth, in a cottage by the wayside, that I, William Wright, first saw light. The hamlet I have just alluded to was and now is known by the name of Hermit Hole: which name, by the way, is said to have been given to it owing to the fact that a once-upon-a-timeyfied hermit abided there. At the top end of the village stood a group of houses which, also, distinguished themselves by a little individuality, and go by the name of "Hoylus End." My parents' house was one of this group.

_All_ this is about my home. My father was James Wright, at one time a hand-loom weaver, latterly a weft manager at Messrs W. Lund & Sons, North Beck Mills, Keighley, a position which he held for somewhere about half a century. He was the son of Jonathan Wright, farmer, Damems. My mother was a daughter of Crispin Hill, farmer and cartwright, of Harden, and she enjoyed a relations.h.i.+p with Nicholson, the Airedale poet. I can trace my ancestry back for a long period. The Wrights at one time belonged to the rights of Damems. Then according to Whitaker's "Craven" and "Keighley: Past and Present", "Robert Wright, senior, and Robert Wright, junior,"

ancestors of mine, fought with Earl de Clifford, of Skipton, on Flodden Field. I believe I am correct in saying that since that event the name of Robert has been retained in our family down to the present time-a brother of mine now holding the honour. Several of my ancestors, along with my grand father, are buried in the Keighley Parish Church-yard, at the east end. But it strikes me that I'm going astray a little.

A MUSICAL FATHER

Many old townsfolk-especially those musically inclined-will remember my father, who was a vocalist of no mean repute;-at least, this was said of him in general. Possessing a rich tenor voice, he was in great demand, both publicly and privately. He occupied the position of leading singer in the Keighley Parish Church Choir, at the time when the late Mr. B. F.

Marriner and other gentlemen were prominently a.s.sociated with the Church.

His services were often requisitioned on the occasion of anniversaries of places of wors.h.i.+p, &c. In those days, mind you, "t'anniversary Sunday"

was regarded as a big and auspicious event. Great preparations were made for it, and when the service did take place people attended from miles around; I believe the singing was relied on as the chief "fetching"

medium. But somehow or other I never did care much for singing-I really didn't. Nevertheless I ought to say we had an abundance-I was going to say over-abundance-of singing in our house; indeed, the word used is not nearly sufficiently expressive-_I_ had singing to breakfast, singing to dinner, singing to supper, singing to go to bed-Ah! My pen was going further, but I just managed to stop it. One really must, you know, represent things as they stand.

A MISCHIEVOUS BOYHOOD

But, as I have told you, I didn't take to singing. I would ten times ten rather be "away to the woods, away!" I recollect that when I was a little boy-my parents _said_ I was a little naughty boy-I got into endless sc.r.a.pes. But people will talk. Roaming in the woods had an especial charm for me; and Peace Close Wood was my favourite haunt. Some people had the bad grace to let me hear that my visits to the wood were not very much sought for. It was said that I had a habit of peeling bark off as many trees as I could conveniently-sometimes it got to be inconveniently-manage, and, in fact, doing anything that wasn't exactly up to the nines. I now feel rather sorry that I should have given my father and mother so much uneasiness, and cause my father so much expense. Of course the keeper of the wood soon got to know me and my eccentricities; it was a bad day for me when he did. It's a sad thing for you when you get suspected of aught; if all doesn't go like "square" you may look out for squalls. In my case, my father had to "turn-out" and pay for the damage I was said to have done to the trees; those upon which I left my mark had generally to come down-young trees-trees with plenty of life in them I took immensely to. But I have since thought they needn't have pestered my father as much as they did. I had many a narrow "squeak"

in my boyish days. When I was about an octave of years old, I remember very feelingly an escapade which I was engaged in, as a wind-up to one of my devastating expeditions to Peace Close Wood. The steward dogged my footsteps and waylaid me, and, by Jove! he pursued me! Fortunately for me, perhaps, there was a house near the wood, the roof of which, at the rear, sloped almost to the ground. I mounted the roof and walked along the rigging. The steward took it into his "noddle" to follow suit. He did so. It was an exciting chase. I ran to the extreme edge of my elevated platform and then actually jumped-I remember the jump yet, I do-onto the road below. The result was a visit to Baildon, to a celebrated doctor there, for an injury to my heels which I sustained by my fall. Of course the steward had more sense than to follow me. He complained, I believe, to my father; but my revered father, and mother too-how I bless them for it!-gave all attention to their little darling. I recovered. I was sent to school, which was carried on in the "Old White House," near our house.

It provided for the education of all the young blood of the village-my little self included. This school, I must say in pa.s.sing, turned out some very good scholars: there was no set teacher-the "learned 'uns" of the neighbourhood came forward and gave their services. It used to be said I was a wild dog, a harem-scarem; and I was often caned for my pranks.

Caricaturing the teacher was one of my favourite attractions and princ.i.p.al offences-at least I had to smart most for it. But I got over it, as all boys seem to have done. Perhaps the best description of my antics before I was ten years of age will be found in the following "opinion" of the old wives of the villages of Fell-lane and Exley-head; the lines came from my pen more than thirty years ago:-

O! HE'S A' ILL 'UN

Dancin', an' jumpin', an' fair going mad- What can be done with this wild, wicked lad?

Plaguin' t'poor cat till it scratches his hand, Or tolling some door wi' a stone an' a band; Rolling i't' mud as black as a coil, Cheeking his mates wi' a "Ha'penny i't' hoil;"

Slas.h.i.+n' an' cuttin' wi' a sword made o' wood, Actin' d.i.c.k Turpin or bold Robin Hood- T'warst little imp 'at there is i't' whole street: O! he's a shocker is young Billy Wreet!

Playin' a whistle or drummin' a can, Seein' how far wi' his fingers can span: Breakin' a window wi' throwin' a stone, Then ligs it on Tommy, or Charley, or Jone; Mockin' a weaver when swingin' his spooils, Chief-engineer of a train made o' stooils; Last out o' bed, an' last in at neet- O! he's a imp is that young Billy Wreet!

Ridin' a pony wi' a rope round its neck, Tryin' to cross a ford or a beck, Lettin' off rockets or swingin' a gate, Walkin' on t'riggin' on t'top of a slate; Out a birds' nestin' an' climbin' up trees, Rivin' his jacket an' burstin' his knees; An' a body can't leave ought safe out o't' neet, But what it's in danger o' daft Willie Wreet!

Breakin' down hedges, an' climbin' up trees, Scalin' the rocks on his hands an' his knees, Huntin', or skatin', or flying a kite, An' seein' how much he can take at a bite; Plaguin' a donkey, an' makin' it kick, p.r.i.c.kin' its belly wi't' end of a stick; An' you who are livin', you'll yet live to see't, That something will happen that scamp Billy Wreet!

A FALSE ALARM

About this time the country was in a state of great turbulency on account of the Plug Drawing and the Chartist Riots. Soldiers were stationed at Keighley, where the late Captain Ferrand had a troop of yeoman cavalry under his charge. One day, I recollect, the Keighley soldiers had a rare outing. This is just how it came about. An old inhabitant, with the baptismal name, James Mitch.e.l.l, but the locally-accepted name, Jim o'th'

Kiers, saw what appeared to him to be the "inimy" on Lees Moor. "Nah,"

thought Jimmy, "we're in for't if we doan't mind;" and he straightway went down to Keighley and raised the alarm. It was Sunday, and the soldiers, as luck had it, happened to be on a Church parade. Captain Ferrand at once gave the command-like any dutiful general would do-"To arms!" "To arms!" The soldiers thereupon proceeded to the indicated scene of action; I saw the n.o.ble warriors gallop past our house "in arms and eager for the fray." But upon reaching the spot marked out by Jim o'th'

Kiers, the soldiers were somewhat puzzled and "sore amazed" to find no enemy-that is to say, nothing to mean aught. Jimmy couldn't understand it: he rubbed his eyes to see if he was awake, but rubbing made "not a bit of difference." The nearest thing which they could even twist or twine into "the inimy" was a poor old man with a pair of "arm-oil"

crutches. Jimmy having been severely questioned as to the sincerity of his motive in "hevin' t'sowgers aht," the poor old fellow whom they had fallen upon came in for a turn; but the only explanation he could give was that they had been holding a Ranters' camp-meeting, and that he, not being able to get away as rapidly as he could have wished had been left behind. Now they did make a fool of Jim o'th' Kiers, they did that, and the soldiers were jeered and scoffed at a good deal by the crowd. I, a little, wandering, curiosity-seeking specimen of humanity, was among the latter, and I trow I had as much fun out of the affair as was good for me.

A REMOVAL

Soon after this skirmis.h.i.+ng-you will have to excuse the absence of any dates, I didn't bethink me to keep a diary-my parents removed from Hoylus-end, and went to live at a farm called Wheat-head, in Fell-lane, now known as the Workhouse Farm.

CHARACTER SKETCHES

My stay at Wheat-head Farm, which lasted about ten years, was to me a very interesting one. I cannot refrain from making a pa.s.sing allusion to my acquaintance with a character who created quite a sensation at the time. This "character" was no other than "Old Three Laps"-an individual who at his baptism was known as William Sharp. This singularly eccentric specimen of humanity lived at Whorl's Farm, and, as it will be generally known took to his bed through being "blighted" in love. He kept to his bed for about forty years. During the period he was "bed-fast," I often used to go and peep through the window at this freak of nature-for I can scarcely call it anything else. Then, while I was a lad, we had such a thing as a hermit in Holme (House) Wood. The name of this hermit I used to be told was "Lucky Luke." For a score of years did "Luke" live in Holme Wood. I remember my mother giving the old man his breakfast when he used to call at our house. His personal appearance frightened me very much. He wore the whole of his beard, which was of iron-grey colour and reached down to his waist. His garb was composed of rags, tied to his body by the free use of rope. He once told my mother that he had more than once changed clothes with a scarecrow. Sometimes this queer person would never be seen by mortal man for months together, unless it were that I disturbed his solitude occasionally; but then, of course, I was only a boy. "Luke" had a bad name amongst us lads. I know people couldn't fairly make out where he lived; he was wonderfully "lucky," and no doubt he had a comfortable lair somewhere among the rocks and caves. Still the fact remains that farmers often found occasion to complain of pillaging being carried on by night in their gardens and turnip fields. This seems indisputable proof that "Luke" was a vegetarian-maybe, such a one as the Keighley Vegetarian Society might be glad to get hold of! Old Job Senior was not a vegetarian; he went in for a higher art-music. It used to be the boast of the Rombald's Moor hermit that he had been a splendid singer in his day-could sing in any voice. Job frequently came as far as Keighley and tried to earn "a' honest penny" by singing in the streets.

His legs were encased in straw and ropes, and although at times I own I'm rather backward incoming forward, I hasten to say that Job's "outer man and appendages" charmed more people than his singing did. But, then, "it's all in a life-time."

THE POET'S "PRENTICE HAND"