speech:--"There is a spirit which I feel that delights to endure all
things, in hope to enjoy its own in the end. Its hope is to outlive all
wrath and contention, and to weary out all exultation and cruelty, or
whatever is of a nature contrary to itself. It sees to the end of all
temptations. As it bears no evil in itself, so it conceives none in
thoughts to any other. If it be betrayed, it bears it; for its ground
and spring are the mercies and forgiveness of God. Its crown is
meekness; its life is everlasting love, unfeigned, and takes its kingdom
with entreaty and not with contention, and keeps it by lowliness of
mind. In God alone it can rejoice, though none else regard it or can own
its life. It is conceived in sorrow, and brought forth without any to
pity it; nor doth it murmur at grief and oppression. It never rejoiceth
but through sufferings; for with the world's joy it is murdered. I found
it alone, being forsaken; I have fellowship therein with them who lived
in dens and desolate places in the earth; who through death obtained
their resurrection, and eternal, holy life."
A more beautiful and true description of the Christian spirit was never
uttered. It is a passage meriting a place beside the famous definition
of charity by S. Paul. The man who used such words was no hypocrite when
he used them. If he had erred greatly, he had also repented; if he had
fallen, he had risen after his fall. One is glad to turn away the eye
from the blemishes of the unfortunate Quaker's career to the spot of
pure light that rests on his death-bed.
His writings were collected and published in an octavo volume in 1716.
They are very unequal. Some passages of great beauty, almost comparable
to that given above, may be found, but there is also much that is as
involved in style and confused in thought as the specimen quoted earlier
from his recantation.
FOOTNOTE:
[8] Authorities:--"The Grand Imposter Examined; or, the Life, Trial, and
Examination of James Naylor, London, 1656," reprinted in the Harleian
Misc., vi., 424. Johannis Lussenii "Hist. u. Schrifft-mässige Erörterung
der vor wenig Zeit in Engelland entstandenen secte der Quäcker," in
"Quäcker Grueuel," published by authority of the magistrates of Hamburg,
1702. "The Recantation of James Naylor," in "Somers' Tracts," vi., 22,
pub. 1659. "Naylor's Writings Collected," 8vo, 1716. Sewell's "Hist. of
the Quakers," 1714. Sewell was personally acquainted with Hannah
Stranger, one of Naylor's followers. "The Journals of the House of
Commons," vi., p. 448-59. Blome's "Fanatick History." J. Whiting's
"Account."
"OLD THREE LAPS."
At Laycock, two miles west of Keighley, at a farm called "The Worlds,"
lived a close-fisted yeoman named Sharp, at the end of last century and
the beginning of this. He carried on a small weaving business in
addition to his farm, and amassed a considerable sum of money. The story
goes that on one occasion old Sharp brought a piece of cloth to the
Keighley tailor and told him to make a coat for him out of it. The
tailor on measuring the farmer pronounced the cloth to be insufficient
to allow of tails to the coat, and asked what he was to do under the
circumstances. "Tho' mun make it three laps,"--_i.e._, _any way_. The
expression stuck to him, and till the day of his death the name of
"Three Laps" adhered to him, when it passed to his still more eccentric
son.
This son, William Sharp, for a while followed the trade of a weaver, but
was more inclined to range the moors with his gun than stick to his
loom; and the evenings generally found him in the bar of the "Devonshire
Inn" at Keighley, the landlord of which was a Mr. Morgan. Young Three
Laps was fond of chaffing his boon companions. On one occasion he
encountered a commercial traveller in the timber trade, and began his
banter by asking him the price of a pair of mahogany "laithe" (barn)
doors. The traveller, prompted by Mr. Morgan, drew him out, and booked
his order.
After some weeks the invoice of mahogany barn-doors, price upwards of
£30, was forwarded to William Sharp. Young Three Laps was beside his
wits with dismay, and had recourse to Mr. Morgan, and through his
intervention the imaginary mahogany barn-doors were not sent.
The barmaid of the "Devonshire" was a comely, respectable young woman,
the daughter of a neighbouring farmer named Smith. William Sharp fell
desperately in love with the girl, proposed, and was accepted. The day
for the wedding was fixed, and the young man went to Keighley Church at
the appointed hour to be married. But the bride was not there. At the
last moment a difficulty had arisen about the settlements. Mr. Smith
could not induce Old Three Laps to bestow on his son sufficient money to
support him in a married condition, and the two old men had quarrelled
and torn up the settlements.
The blow was more than the mind of William Sharp could bear. He returned
to "The Worlds" sulky, went to bed, and never rose from it again. For
forty-nine years he kept to his bed, and refused to speak to anyone. He
was just thirty years old when he thus isolated himself from society and
active life, and he died in his bed at the age of seventy-nine, on March
3rd, 1856.
The room he occupied measured nine feet long and was about the same
breadth. The floor was covered with stone flags, and was generally damp.
In one corner was a fire-place which could be used only when the wind
blew from one or two points of the compass; the window was permanently
fastened, and where some of the squares had been broken, was carefully
patched with wood. At the time of his death, this window had not been
opened for thirty-eight years. The sole furniture comprised an antique
clock, minus weight and pendulum, the hands and face covered with a
network of cobwebs; a small round table of dark oak, and a plain
unvarnished four-post bedstead, entirely without hangings. In this
dreary cell, whose only inlet for fresh air during thirty-eight years
was the door occasionally left open, did this strange being immure
himself. He obstinately refused to speak to anyone, and if spoken to
even by his attendants would not answer. All trace of intelligence
gradually faded away; the only faculties which remained in active
exercise were those he shared with the beasts.
His father by his will made provision for the temporal wants of his
eccentric son, and so secured him a constant attendant. He ate his meals
regularly when brought to him, and latterly in a very singular manner,
for in process of time his legs became contracted and drawn towards his
body, and when about to eat his food he used to roll himself over and
take his meals in a kneeling posture. He was generally cleanly in his
habits. During the whole period of his self-imposed confinement he never
had any serious illness, the only case of indisposition those connected
with him could remember being a slight loss of appetite, caused
apparently by indigestion, for two or three days--and this,
notwithstanding that he ate on an average as much as any farm labourer.
He certainly, physically speaking, did credit to his food, for though
arrived at the age of seventy-nine years, his flesh was firm, fair and
unwrinkled, save with fat, and he weighed about 240 lbs. He showed great
repugnance to being seen, and whenever a stranger entered his den he
immediately buried his head in the bed-clothes. About a week before his
death his appetite began to fail; his limbs became partially benumbed,
so that he could not roll himself over to take his food in his
accustomed posture.
From this attack he seemed to rally, and no apprehensions were
entertained that the attack would prove fatal, till the evening before
his death.
However, during the night he rapidly became worse, and expired at four
a.m. on Monday, March 3rd, 1856.
Shortly before he expired he was heard to exclaim--"Poor Bill! poor
Bill! poor Bill Sharp!"--the most connected sentence he had been known
to utter for forty nine years.
He was buried in Keighley Churchyard on the 7th of March, amidst crowds
who had come from all parts of the neighbourhood to witness the scene.
The coffin excited considerable attention from its extraordinary shape,
as his body could not be straightened, the muscles of the knees and
thighs being contracted. It was an oak chest, two feet four inches in
depth. The weight was so great that it required eight men with strong
ropes to lower it into the grave. It was thought to weigh with its
contents 480 lbs.
A gentleman who visited Old Three Laps before his death has given the
following account of what he saw:--
"If you chance to go a-skating 'to the Tarn,' and want a fine bracing
walk, keep on the Sutton road about a mile, and you will come to an
avenue of larch, not in a very thriving state, but sufficient to
indicate that some one had an idea of the picturesque who planted the
trees, although the house at the top of the avenue has not a very
attractive appearance. You have now reached 'World's End,' and save here
and there a solitary farm, with its cold stone buildings and treeless
fields, there are few signs of life between you and the wide and
boundless moors of Yorkshire and Lancashire. On the opposite hill, right
up in the clouds, is 'Tewett Hall,' the residence of a Bradford Town
Councillor. He alone, in this part, seems to follow Three Laps'
ancestors' plan of planting, and in a few years we may expect to see a
fine belt of timber on the verge of the horizon, a sight that will cheer
the heart of some future Dr. Syntax when in search of the picturesque.
At this place Three Laps 'took his bed,' and in a little parlour, with a
northern light, the sill of which is level with the field, the floor
cold and damp, and meanly furnished, it was my privilege to see Three
Laps some twenty-five years ago. To gain admission we had some
difficulty; but with the assistance of the farmer and a tin of tobacco
to the nurse, who was an inveterate smoker, we were shown into his
bedroom. As soon as he heard strangers, he pulled the bed-clothes over
his head, which the nurse with considerable force removed, and uncovered
his body, which was devoid of every vestige of body-linen. A more
startling and sickening sight I never saw. Nebuchadnezzar rushed into my
mind. Three Laps covered his face with his hands, his fingers being like
birds' claws, while, with his legs drawn under his body, he had the
appearance of a huge beast. He had white hair, and a very handsome head,
well set on a strong chest. His body and all about him was scrupulously
clean, and his condition healthy, as his nurse proudly pointed out,
digging her fist furiously into his ribs. He gave no signs of joy or
pain, but lay like a mass of inanimate matter. It struck me at the time
that his limbs were stiff; but a neighbour of his, who after his dinner
stole a peep into his bedroom window, told me that he found him playing
with his plate in the manner of a Chinese juggler, and with considerable
ability. On my informant tapping the window, he vanished under the
bed-clothes.
"Such was the life of the strange man who for love of a woman never left
this obscure room for nearly half a century."
The case of Old Three Laps is not unique.
In the early part of this century there lived in the neighbourhood of
Caen, in Normandy, a Juge de Paix, M. Halloin, a great lover of
tranquillity and ease; so much so, indeed, that, as bed is the article
of furniture most adapted to repose, he rarely quitted it, but made his
bed-chamber a hall of audience, in which he exercised his functions of
magistrate, pronouncing sentence with his head resting on a pillow, and
his body languidly extended on the softest of feather beds. However, his
services were dispensed with, and he devoted the remaining six years of
his life to still greater ease. Feeling his end approach, M. Halloin
determined on remaining constant to his principle, and showing to the
world to what an extent he carried his passion for bed. Consequently,
his last will contained a clause expressing his desire to be buried at
night, in his bed, comfortably tucked in, with pillows and coverlets, as
he had died.
As no opposition was raised against the execution of this clause, a huge
pit was sunk, and the defunct was lowered into his last resting-place
without any alteration having been made in the position in which death
had overtaken him. Boards were laid over the bed, that the falling earth
might not disturb this imperturbable quietist.
CHRISTOPHER PIVETT.
Christopher Pivett died at York, in 1796, at the advanced age of
ninety-three years. He was by trade a carver and gilder, but in early
life had served in the army, and been present in several
battles--Fontenoy, Dettingen, and the siege of Carlisle.
After he settled at York, his house was accidentally burnt down; and he
then formed the singular resolution never again to sleep in a bed, lest
he should be burned to death whilst asleep, or not have sufficient time
to remove his property, should an accident again occur. This resolution
he strictly adhered to for the remaining forty years of his life.
His practice was to repose upon the floor, or on two chairs, or sitting
in a chair, but always dressed.
During the whole period he dwelt alone he was his own cook, and seldom
suffered anyone to enter the house. He would not tell anyone where he
had been born or to whom he was related, and there can be little doubt
that the name of Pivett was an assumed one. Among other singularities,
he kept a human skull in his house, and strictly ordered that it should
be buried with him.
DAVID TURTON,
MUSICIAN AT HORBURY.
David Turton was born in Horbury, near Wakefield, A.D. 1768, and died
August 18th, 1846.
He was by trade a weaver of flannel, and his loom, which was in the
upper room of the cottage in which he lived, might be heard by
passers-by going diligently from early morn to dewy eve. In this way he
supplied his few earthly wants, for he was a man of a very simple and
unobtrusive character; and he did not change either his dress or his
habits with the growing luxury of the times.
In matter of diet he was frugal, and he always stuck to the old oat-cake
and oatmeal porridge he had been accustomed to from childhood. "Avver
bread and avver me-al porritch" was what he called them, for he spoke
the broadest Yorkshire. Alas! the delightful oat-cake, thin, crisp, is
now a thing of the past in Horbury. There was an old woman made it, the
last of a glorious race of avver bre-ad makers in Horbury, some years
ago. But she has gone the way of all flesh; and the base descendants of
the oat-cake crunchers, the little men of to-day, sustain their
miserable lives on bakers' wheat bread.
David did not, as is the custom with Northerners now, speak two
languages--English and Yorkshire, according to the company in which they
find themselves; but on all occasions, and for all purposes, he adhered
to that peculiarly racy and piquant tongue, both in pronunciation and
phraseology, which was so well known to those who dwelt in the West
Riding of Yorkshire half a century ago, and which still more or less
prevails in that locality. Half a century ago every village had its own
peculiarity of intonation, its own specialities in words. A Horbury man
could be distinguished from a man of Dewsbury, and a Thornhill man from
one of Batley. The railways have blended, fused these peculiar dialects
into one, and taken off the old peculiar edge of provincialism, so that
now it is only to be found in its most pronounced and perfect
development among the aged.
The figure of David Turton was spare, his legs long and lean as
clothes-line props. He wore drab breeches and white stockings, a long
waistcoat of rather coarse black cloth, with a long coat of the same
material, much the pattern of that now affected by our bishops.
His features were small and sharp, his eye especially bright and full of
life; and having lost nearly all his teeth at a comparatively early age,
his pointed chin and nose inclined much towards each other.
Music was his great delight, and in that he spent all his spare time and
money. He was a good singer, and could handle the violoncello
creditably. All Handel's oratorios, besides many other works of the
classical composers, he knew off by heart, and he was for a long time
the chief musical oracle in the neighbourhood in which he lived. He even
aspired to be a composer, and published a volume of chants and psalm
tunes. Some of the former, but few of the latter, have survived. His
chants have found their way into various collections of Anglican chants
along with those of Dr Turton, Bishop of Ely, also a musician and
composer of chants. But they have ceased to sound in his own parish
church, where they have been displaced by Gregorians. Not one of his
hymn tunes has found its way into the most popular collection of the
day--"Hymns Ancient and Modern"--which is the more to be regretted, as
Turton's tunes were often original, which is much more than can be said
for a good many of the new tunes inserted in that collection.
A considerable number of choristers in cathedral and parish church
choirs owed all their musical skill to the careful training of old David
Turton.
His efficiency in music, together with the simple goodness of his
character, made him a favourite among musical people in all grades of
society, and there was seldom a gathering in the neighbourhood where any
good class of music was performed in which his well-known figure was not
to be seen.
On one occasion he went to Hatfield Hall, then the residence of Francis
Maude, Esq., who was a great lover of music, and a friend and patron of
old David.
His own account of his _débût_ on that occasion is sufficiently
characteristic to be given:--
"I went t' other day," said he, "to a gre-at meusic do at ou'd Mr.
Maude's at 'Atfield 'All. Nah! when I gat theare, a smart looking chap
o' a waiter telled me I was to goa into t' parlour; soa I follows efter
him doun a long passage till we commed to a big oppen place like, and
then he oppens a doo-ar, and says to me, 'Cum in!' soa I walks in, and
theare I seed t' place were right full o' quality (gentlefolks), and Mr.
Maude comes to me and says, 'Now, David, haw are ye?' 'Middlin',' says
I, 'thenk ye!' Soa then there comes a smart chap wi' a tray full of cups
o' tea, and he says to me, 'Will ye hev sum?' 'Thenk ye,' says I, 'I'm
none particular.' 'Why, then, help yer sen,' says he. Soa I taks a cup
i' my hand; and then says he, 'Weant ye hev sum sugar and cre-am?' 'Aye,
for sure,' says I; soa I sugars and creams it, and then there comes
another chap wi' a tray full of bre-ad and butter, and cakes like, and
says he, 'Will ye hev sum?' 'I don't mind if I do,' says I. 'Well,
then,' says he, 'tak sum wi' thy fingers.' Soa I holds t' cup and t'
sawcer i' one hand, and taks a piece of spice cake i' t' other. 'Now,
then,' thinks I, 'how am I ever to sup my te-a? I can't team (pour) it
out into t' sawcer, for boath my hands is fast.' But all at once I sees
a plan o' doin' it. I thowt I could hold t' cake i' my mouth while I
teamed (poured) t' te-a into t' sawcer, and then claps th' cup on a
chair while I supped my tea. But, bless ye, t' cake war so varry short
(crumbling) that it brake off i' my mouth, and tum'led onto t' floor,
and I were in a bonny tak-ing. Howsomever, I clapt t' cup and t' sawcer
onto t' chair, and kneeled me down on t' floor, and sammed (picked) it
all up as weel as I could; and then I sups up my tea as sharp as I
could, and gave t' cup and t' sawcer to t' chap who cumed round again
wi' his tray. 'Will ye hev some more?' says he. 'Noa,' says I, 'noa
more, thenk ye.' For I thowt to mysen I had made maugrums (antics)
enough, and all t' quality 'at war theare mun ha' thowt me a hawkard owd
chap. Weel! when tea were finish'd we gat to th' music, and then, I
promise ye, I war all reet, an' a rare do we had on it."
David was returning through a pasture one day in which was a furious
bull, who seeing old David with his red bag, made at him. The musician
did not fly; that would not comport with his dignity, and his bass viol
that he carried in the bag might be injured by a precipitate retreat
over the hedge. The bull bellowed, and came on with lowered horns.
"Steady!" soliloquised the musician; "I reckon that was double B
nat'ral."
Again the bull bellowed.
"I am pretty sure it were B," said David again, "but I'll mak' sure;"
and opening his bag, he extracted the bass viol, set it down, and
drawing his bow across the vibrating string, produced a sound as full
of volume and of the same pitch as the tone of the infuriated beast.
"I thowt I were reet," said David, with a grim smile.
At the sound of the bass viol the bull stood still, raised his head, and
glowered at the extraordinary object before him. David, having his viol
out, thought it a pity to bag it again without a tune, and began the
violoncello part in one of Handel's choruses. It was too much for the
bull; he was out-bellowed, and turned tail.
When David was getting a little advanced in years he was coming home on
a dark night from a musical gathering, and tumbling over a large stone
which happened to be lying on the road, he fell down with great force
and dislocated his hip.
This was a sore trial to him in many ways. In the first place, it quite
prevented his going on with his customary means of obtaining his living,
and, besides that, it deprived him of the pleasure of going about among
his musical friends.
For a long, weary time he was quite confined to his bed, and time hung
heavy on his hands, for he had no other resources except his loom and
his music. His constant companion in bed was his violoncello, and as he
could not for a long time sit up sufficiently to enable him to use the
bow, he spent a great part of the day in playing over pizzicato the
music which he loved so well.
After some time he got about a little on crutches, and ultimately was
able to go by the help of a stick. His little savings had now dwindled
away, and poverty began to look him in the face. But at this crisis his
musical friends came forward, and gave with great success for his
benefit the oratorio of the "Messiah" in the town of Wakefield, and by
this means raised for him the liberal sum of £70, of which they begged
his acceptance.
He was afraid to have so large a sum in his own charge, and he
therefore requested that it might be placed in the hands of the Vicar of
Horbury, so that he might draw from time to time just as much as he
needed. This was accordingly done, and by his careful expenditure of it,
it sufficed to make him quite comfortable during the rest of his life,
and to erect the simple memorial-stone which now stands over his grave
in Horbury churchyard.
He had a married sister living in London who had often invited him to
pay her a visit, and when he had recovered from his accident
sufficiently to go about pretty well by the aid of a stick, and having
now plenty of time at his disposal, on account of his being lame and
unable to work at his loom, he determined to embark on the railway to
London.
His sister lived in Kensington, and his own account, of his visit, and
of what he saw in the great city, was highly amusing:--
"I went up," said he, "on a Setterday, and o' t' Sunday-morn, while we
was getting our breakfast, th' sister's husband says to me across t'
table, 'I reckon ye'll goa wi' us to chapel this forenoin,' for ye see
they was chapel-folks. 'We'll see,' says I, 'efter a bit.' But I knew
varry weel mysen what I were boun' to do, though I didn't say so to
them.
"Soa I just watches my opportunity, an' when they was all gone out of
the room, I nips out, as sharp as a lark, and goas to t' end o' t'
entry. For t' sister's house war not to t' street, but up a bit on a
entry like; and away I goas till I sees a homnibus, and I calls out to
t' fellow, 'I say, are ye for Sant Paul's?' 'Aye,' says he.
"Why then,' says I, 'ye're t' chap for me!' Soa he oppens t' door, an' I
jumps in.
"'How much is it?' says I. 'Nobbut sixpence,' says he. Soa I rode all t'
way thro' (from) Kensington to Sant Paul's--and ye know it's a rare
way--all for sixpence.
"Eh! and bless ye! we just hed a sarvice! Think nobbut o' me goin to
their ou'd chapel, wi' nowt but a bit on a poor snufflin' hymn or two,
an' some squealin' bairns and women to sing 'em, and a ram'lin, rantin'
sarmon iver so long, when I had t' opportunity o' going to Sant Paul's
to hear thinks done as they sud be done. Nay, nay!--I warn't sich a
fooil as that nauther. I warn't born i' Yorkshire to know no better nor
that, I'll uphou'd ye.
"Howsomever, when I gat back hoame, they was into me weel for giving 'em
t' slip, an' turnin' my back, as they said, on t' blessed Gospel
invitin' of me. But I let 'em say what they'd a mind to. When a beer
barrel begins to fiz out o' t' bung hoil, tha' mun let it fiz a bit,
thof't mak a mucky slop, or it'll bust t' barrel. I said nowt; I just
set and thowt o' what I'd heard, and I played it ower again on my
in'ards.
"T' next day I thowt I sud like to goa and hear t' band of t' Orse
Guards. Now t' sister 'usband had a nephy 'at was one on 'em; soa I went
wi' him. And after they'd played iver so mony things--eh! an' bless ye,
they just did play 'em--he says to t' leader o' t' band--'Yon ow'd
chap'--meaning' me--'knows a bit about meusic.' Soa t' fellow says to
me, 'Is there owt partickler ye'd like?' 'Nay,' says I, owt 'at ye've
got'll be reight for me.'