three things 'at justs comes to my mind like. And, bless ye! they play
'em like owt at all, and then I menshuned another or two, an' they were
never fast wi owt till it was time for 'em to lap up. Soa they says, 'we
mun goa now, but ye mun come agean another day!' 'I sall,' says I, 'ye
may depend.' And I went reg'lar every day as long as I war i' London;
and rared pleased they war wi' me an' all, and so ye mind war I wi'
them.
"That, and Sant Paul's, an' Westminster Habbey, war t' main o' what I
seed and heeard all t' time I war i' London."
JOHN BARTENDALE,
THE PIPER.
In the reign of King Charles I. a strolling musician, a poor piper,
named John Bartendale, was brought, in 1634, before the Assizes, and was
convicted of felony.
He received sentence, and on March 27th was hung on the gallows, outside
Micklegate Bar, York. There were no houses there at that time--it was
open country. After he had remained swinging for three-quarters of an
hour, and was to all appearance dead, he was cut down, and buried near
the place of execution. The officers of justice had accomplished their
work carelessly in both particulars, as it afterwards transpired, for he
had been neither properly hung nor properly buried.
Earth has a peculiarly invigorating and restorative effect, as has been
recently discovered; and patients suffering from debility are by some
medical men now-a-days placed in earth baths with the most salutary
effects. In the case of gangrened wounds a little earth has been found
efficacious in promoting healthy action of the skin. John Bartendale was
now to experience the advantages of an earth-bath.
That same day, in the afternoon, a gentleman, one of the Vavasours of
Hazlewood, was riding by, when he observed the earth moving in a certain
place. He ordered his servant to alight; he himself descended from his
horse; and together they threw off the mould, and discovered the
unfortunate piper alive. He opened his eyes, sat up, and asked where he
was, and how he came there. Mr. Vavasour and his servant helped him out
of his grave, and seated him on the side. The man was sent for water and
other restoratives, and before long the news had spread about down
Micklegate that the poor piper was come to life again. A swarm of
wondering and sympathising people poured out to congratulate John the
Piper on his resurrection, and to offer their assistance. A conveyance
was obtained, and as soon as Bartendale was in a sufficient condition to
be moved, he was placed in it, covered with Mr. Vavasour's cloak,--for
he had been stripped by the executioner before he was laid in the
earth--and was removed again to York Castle.
It was rather hard that the poor fellow, after he had obtained his
release, should have been returned to his prison; but there was no help
for it. The resurrection of the piper was no secret; otherwise Mr.
Vavasour would doubtless have removed him privately to a place of
security till he was recovered, and then have sent him into another part
of the country.
At the following Assizes, Bartendale was brought up again. It was a nice
point at law whether the man could be sentenced to execution again after
the Sheriff had signed his affidavit that the man had been hung till he
was dead. Mr. Vavasour was naturally reluctant to supply the one link in
the chain of evidence which established the identity of the prisoner
with the piper who had been hung and buried for felony; he made earnest
intercession that the poor fellow might be reprieved, popular sympathy
was on his side, the judge was disposed to mercy, and Bartendale was
accorded a full and free pardon, the judge remarking that the case was
one in which the Almighty seemed to have interfered in mercy to
frustrate the ends of human justice, and that therefore he was not
disposed to reverse the decree of Providence according to the piper a
prolongation of his days on earth.
Drunken Barnaby in his "Book of Travels" alludes to Bartendale, when he
stops at York:
"Here a piper apprehended,
Was found guilty and suspended;
Being led to t' fatal gallows,
Boys did cry, 'Where is thy bellows?
Ever must thou cease thy tuning,'
Answered he, 'For all your cunning,
You may fail in your prediction.'
Which did happen without fiction;
For cut down, and quick interred,
Earth rejected what was buried;
Half alive or dead he rises,
Got a pardon next Assizes,
And in York continued blowing--
Yet a sense of goodness showing."
After his wonderful deliverance the poor fellow turned hostler, and
lived very honestly afterwards.
When asked to describe his sensations on being hung, he said that when
he was turned off, flashes of fire seemed to dart before his eyes, and
were succeeded by darkness and a state of insensibility.
BLIND JACK OF KNARESBOROUGH.[9]
Blind Jack Metcalf is certainly one of the most remarkable characters
that Yorkshire has produced. Afflicted with loss of sight, the
indomitable energy of his true north-country character enabled him to
carry on a successful business where many a south countryman would have
failed.
He was born at Knaresborough on the 15th August, 1717, and was the son
of a labourer. At the age of six he was seized with small-pox, and on
his recovery it was found that he had become totally blind. Children
speedily accommodate themselves to circumstances. Jack in six months was
able to find his way from his father's cottage along the street of
Knaresborough and back home without a guide, and in the course of three
years could go to any part of the little town alone, could find the
shops, and execute errands for his father or mother. He began also to
associate with other boys in bird-nesting expeditions, and would climb
the trees and throw down the nests to his companions. By accompanying
the boys in their rambles he learned his way about the neighbourhood,
and was in a short time perfectly acquainted with all the lanes, woods,
and fields within a radius of two or three miles. As his father kept
horses, he learned to ride, and in time became an able horseman. He was
taught the fiddle, as it was thought that the only means open to him for
obtaining a subsistence was that of strolling musician. But Jack
Metcalf had more natural taste for the cry of a hound or a harrier than
for the squeak of his fiddle.
A gentleman at Knaresborough, of the name of Woodburn, was owner of a
pack of hounds. This gentleman encouraged young Metcalf by taking him to
hunt with him, and Blind Jack kept five hounds of his own. Mr.
Woodburn's hounds being seldom kennelled, Metcalf used to take several
of them out secretly along with his own at night when the hares were out
feeding in the fields; but one of them having destroyed a couple of
lambs, he got into trouble, and was obliged to discontinue his midnight
excursions.
When about fourteen years old, his activity of limb led him to imagine
that he could undertake anything without danger, and with certainty of
success. The following adventure, however, somewhat modified his
opinion:--
A large plum-tree in the neighbourhood of Knaresborough having attracted
the attention of Metcalf's companions, they with one consent repaired to
the place on a Sunday morning. In these cases Metcalf was always
appointed to ascend for the purpose of shaking the trees. Accordingly,
he was sent to his post; but his comrades being suddenly alarmed by the
appearance of the owner of the tree, ran away, leaving Blind Jack up the
tree. He, taking the alarm, dropped, and fell headlong into a gravel-pit
belonging to Sir Henry Slingsby, cut his face, and lay for some time
stunned in the pit.
Shortly after this, he and some other boys, one night between eleven and
twelve o'clock, assembled in the church porch at Knaresborough--that
being the usual place of meeting. They determined to rob an orchard.
Having accomplished this feat with success, they returned to the
church-porch to divide their booty. Now it happened that the door of
Knaresborough church was opened by means of a ring, which turned the
latch. One of the party took hold of it, and by way of bravado gave a
loud rap, calling out, "A tankard of ale here!" A voice from within
answered aloud, "You are at the wrong house!" The boys were so scared
that for a moment or two none spoke or moved. At length Metcalf said,
"Did not you hear something speak in the church?" Upon this, without
answering, they all ran until they got out of the churchyard. They then
held a consultation, all equally wondering at the voice, and equally
unable to account satisfactorily for it.
Like true Yorkshire boys, they were not, however, to be scared away
without knowing what had frightened them; and they stealthily returned
to the porch. But no sooner had they reached it, than the ring turned,
and the door began to open. This was too much even for their nerves, and
they fled in all directions like wind. Only on reaching the outside of
the churchyard wall did they venture to breathe freely and look back,
and then, lo! the whole of the interior of the church was alight--
". . . Glimmering thro' the groaning trees,
Kirk Alloway seem'd in a bleeze."
Uninspired, like Tam o' Shanter, with draughts of John Barleycorn, they
did not venture nearer, but dispersed to their homes. The cause of this
panic was as follows:--The remains of an old lady in the neighbourhood
had been kept from interment until the arrival of her relations, who
lived at a great distance. Immediately on their arrival the sexton was
called up to dig the grave in the church, and had lighted a great number
of candles.
About the year 1731, when Metcalf was fourteen years old, he began to
learn swimming in the river Nidd, and soon became so expert, that he
surpassed all his companions. About this time two men were drowned in
the eddies of the Nidd. Metcalf was sent to dive for the bodies, and
after four attempts succeeded in bringing up one of the corpses. The
other body could not be found.
There are frequent floods in the river Nidd, and in the deep places
there are eddies, which draw to the bottom any substance, however light,
that comes within their sphere of action. Large pieces of timber were
often carried down by the floods; these on coming over the deep places
spun round, and then sank. Upon these occasions Metcalf would dive for
them, and with the greatest ease fix ropes to the wood, which was then
drawn up by persons stationed on the banks.
In the year 1732, one John Barker kept an inn at the west end of the
High Bridge, Knaresborough. This man was a manufacturer of linen cloth,
and used to bleach his own yarn. At one time, having brought two packs
of yarn to the river to wash, a sudden flood, occasioned by a heavy rain
in the neighbourhood, swept them away, and carried them through the
arches of the bridge, which stands on a rock. A little below was a sheet
of still water, supposed to be twenty-one feet in depth; as soon as the
yarn got to this it sank, except a little which caught the edge of the
rock in going down. Metcalf being intimate with Barker, and calling at
his house a few days after the accident, found him lamenting his loss.
Metcalf told him that he hoped to recover the yarn, but Barker smiled at
the supposed absurdity of the proposal; finding, however, that his
friend was resolved on trial, he consented. Metcalf then ordered some
long cart-ropes to be procured, and fixing a hook at one end, the other
being held by some persons on the High Bridge, he descended, and hooking
as much of the yarn as he could at one time, gave orders for drawing up.
In this way the whole was recovered with little damage.
At Bilton, two miles from Knaresborough, was a rookery, where boys had
made many attempts to take the young birds; but the owner wishing to
preserve them, they were prevented. Metcalf determined to make a trial,
sent one of his comrades in the day-time to reconnoitre the position of
the nests, and having received his information, they set out in the dead
of night and brought away seven dozen and a half, excepting the heads,
which they left under the trees. The owner of the rooks finding the
heads, offered a reward of two guineas for the discovery of the
offenders; but the secret was kept until long afterwards.
A person at Knaresborough having occasion to go to Borough Bridge, which
is about seven miles distant, and having left something behind, sent his
son for it. Metcalf being about the same age as this boy, chose to
accompany him. When they got to the place the boy missed the key, which
he had lost from his pocket by the way, and being afraid to return, he
consulted Metcalf how they should proceed. Metcalf was for entering the
house at all events, and not being able to procure a ladder, got a pole,
which reached to the thatch, and having borrowed a rope and a stick, he
climbed up the pole, and then ascending by the roof to the chimney, he
placed the stick across, and fastening the rope to it, attempted to
descend, but finding the flue too narrow, he threw off his clothes, and
laying them on the ridge of the house, made a second attempt, and got
down by the assistance of the rope; he then opened the door for his
companion. While they were in the house there was a heavy
thunder-shower, to which Metcalf's clothes were exposed. He attempted to
get up again to fetch them, but the pole by which he had ascended was
now so wet that he could not climb by it; he was therefore obliged to
wait till it dried, when he succeeded in recovering his clothes.
In the year 1732, Metcalf was invited to Harrogate to succeed as
fiddler an old man of the name of Morrison, who had played there for
seventy years. The old man died in the 102nd year of his age, and played
in the year he died. Metcalf was well received by the nobility and
gentry, who employed no other fiddler, except a boy, whom he hired as an
assistant.
Metcalf now bought a horse, and often ran him for small plates. He kept
game-cocks, as he was devotedly fond of cock-fighting. He often hunted,
and sometimes went coursing. In the evenings he played at the
assemblies.
About this time there was a long room built at the Green Dragon at
Harrogate. More music being then wanted, he engaged one Midgeley (one of
the Leeds waits) and his son as assistants. Midgeley, senior, being a
good performer, was taken into partnership gratis, but the son and
Metcalf's former assistant paid five pounds each as premium.
In the year 1735, Francis Barlow, Esq., of Middlethorpe, near York, who
kept a pack of hounds, was at Harrogate, and, liking Metcalf, invited
him to spend the winter at Middlethorpe, and bring his horse with him.
The invitation was gladly accepted, and he went out with Mr. Barlow's
hounds twice a week. Having completed a visit of six months at
Middlethorpe, he had learnt to walk and ride very readily through most
of the streets of York, and as he was riding past the George Inn, in
Coney Street, Standish, the landlord, stopped him, calling out, "What
haste?" Metcalf told him he was for Knaresborough that night; the
landlord replied that there was a gentleman in the house who wanted a
guide to Harrogate; adding, "I know you can do that as well as
anyone."--"So I can," said he, "but you must not let him know that I am
blind, for perhaps he will be afraid to trust me."--"I shall manage
that," replied Standish. So going in, he informed the gentleman that he
had procured a safe guide. Pleased at this, the gentleman requested
Metcalf to come in and take a glass. This, for an obvious reason, the
landlord objected to, on the part of Metcalf, but recommended some wine
at the door. Metcalf started as soon as the wine was drunk, taking the
lead, naturally enough. As they were turning Ousegate corner, a voice
shouted out, "SQUIRE BARLOW'S BLIND HUNTSMAN!" But the gentleman had no
suspicion that the cry had any reference to his guide. They rode briskly
up Micklegate, through the Bar, turned the corner at Holgate, and
through Poppleton Field, on to Hessay Moor, and so proceeded forward,
going over Skip Bridge. At this time the turnpike was not made between
York and Harrogate.
On the north-west of Kirk-Hammerton Moor the road to Knaresborough
joined the main road which leads to Borough Bridge by a sudden turn to
the left; but Metcalf cleared that without any difficulty. When they
came to Allerton-Mauleverer, the stranger asked whose large house that
was on the right, and was immediately informed by Metcalf. A little
farther on, the road is crossed by the one from Wetherby to Borough
Bridge, and proceeds along by the high brick wall of Allerton Park.
There was a road leading out of the park opposite to the gate upon the
Knaresborough road, which Metcalf was afraid of missing, but the wind
being from the east, and he perceiving a blast coming through the park
gate, readily turned his horse to the opposite gate, which leads to
Knaresborough. Reaching out his hand to open it, and feeling the heel,
as it is called, he believed the gate had been changed in the hanging
part, as he had not been there for seven months; and backing his horse,
exclaimed, "Confound thee! thou always goes to the gate's heel, instead
of the head!" The gentleman observed to him that his horse seemed
awkward, and that his own mare was good at coming up to a gate;
whereupon Metcalf permitted him to perform this office. Darkness, which
had now come on, being no obstruction to him, he briskly led the way,
resolved that his companion should not again see his face till they got
to Harrogate. As they were going through Knaresborough the gentleman
proposed a glass of wine, which Metcalf refused, alleging that the
horses were hot, and that as they were near their journey's end, it was
not worth their while to stop.
Forward they went, and presently some one cried out, "That's Blind
Jack!" This, however, was contradicted by another person, who could not
clearly distinguish him; and by this means the stranger was kept in the
dark as effectually as his guide. They then proceeded over the High
Bridge and up Forest Lane, and entered the forest about a mile from
Knaresborough. They had now to pass along a narrow causeway which
reached about one-third of the way to Harrogate, the forest at that time
not being inclosed, and no turnpike being made. Metcalf still kept the
lead.
When they had gone a little way upon the forest the gentleman saw a
light. He asked what place it was. There were some rocks called Hookston
Crags, and near to these the ground was low and swampy in some places,
close by which runs the Leeds road. About this part will-o'-the-wisp
used to be commonly seen. Metcalf took it for granted that his companion
had seen one of these lights, but for good reasons declined asking him
whereabouts the light was; and to divert his attention, asked him, "Do
you not see two lights--one to the right, the other to the left?"--"No,"
replied the gentleman, "I see but one--to the right."--"Well, then,
sir," said Metcalf, "that is Harrogate." There were then many tracks,
but Metcalf made choice of that nearest the fence. By the side of this
path, which is very near Harrogate, some larches were planted, and
stepping-stones laid for the convenience of foot-passengers. Metcalf
got upon this stony path, and the gentleman's horse following, got one
of his hind feet jammed between two of the stones. When his horse was
freed, he asked, "Is there no other road?"--"Yes," replied Metcalf,
"there is another, but it's a mile about"; knowing there was a dirty
cart-way, but thinking the stony road preferable to the deep slough of
the other, he preferred this rugged path.
On reaching their journey's end, they stopped at the house called the
Marquis of Granby, but found that the hostler was gone to bed. Metcalf
being very well acquainted with the place, led both the horses into the
stable and the hostler soon after appearing, he delivered them into his
care, and went into the house to inquire after his fellow-traveller,
whom he found comfortably seated over a tankard of negus, in which he
pledged his guide. Metcalf took the tankard the first time very nicely,
but when attempting to take it the second time, he reached out his hand
wide of the mark; however, he soon found it, and drank, and going out
again, left the landlord with his companion. "I think, landlord," said
the gentleman, "my guide must have drunk a great deal of spirits since
we came here."--"Why, my good sir, what makes you think so?"--"Well, I
judge so from the appearance of his eyes."--"Eyes! bless you, sir,"
rejoined the landlord, "do you not know that he is blind?"--"What do you
mean?"--"I mean, sir, that he cannot see!"--"Blind! Are you in
earnest?"--"Yes, sir; as blind as a stone!"--"Come, come, landlord,"
said the gentleman, "this is too much. Call him in." Metcalf entered.
"My friend, are you really blind?"--"Yes, sir; I lost my sight when six
years old."--"Had I known that, I would not have ventured with you for a
hundred pounds."--"And I, sir," said Metcalf, "would not have lost my
way for a thousand." Metcalf was rewarded by a present of two guineas,
besides a plentiful entertainment the next day at the cost of this
gentleman.
In 1736, when the Harrogate season commenced, Metcalf resumed his
musical occupation, and was well received at all the inns, where he was
always given free quarters for himself and horse.
The Green Dragon at that place was kept by a Mr. Body, who had two
nephews with him; and when the hunting season drew near its close,
these, with some other young men, expressed a desire for a day's sport;
and knowing that Mr. Woodburn, the master of the Knaresborough pack of
hounds, had often lent them to Metcalf, they asked Blind Jack to procure
for them the pleasure of a run. Metcalf had no doubt but that Mr.
Woodburn would grant him this favour, and went, flushed with hope, to
Mr. Woodburn, requesting him to lend the pack the next day. This,
however, was a favour out of his power to grant, as Mr. Woodburn
politely informed him, as he had engaged to meet Mr. Trappes with the
hounds next morning upon Scotton Moor, for the purpose of entering some
young foxhounds. Chagrined at this, Metcalf debated with himself whether
the disappointment should fall to the lot of Mr. Woodburn's friends or
his own, and resolved that it should not be to the latter. He arose the
next morning before daybreak, and crossed the High Bridge. He took with
him an excellent hound of his own, and nipping him by the ears, made him
give mouth loudly, himself hallooing at the same time. This device had
so good an effect that in a few minutes he had nine couples about him,
as the hounds were kept by various people about the shambles, &c, and
were suffered to lie unkennelled. Mounting his horse, away he rode with
the dogs to Harrogate, where he met his friends ready mounted and in
high spirits. Some of them proposed going to Bilton wood, near
Knaresborough, but this was opposed by Metcalf, who preferred the moor;
in fact, he was apprehensive of being followed by Mr. Woodburn, and
wished accordingly to be at some distance from Knaresborough.
Following his advice, they drew the moor at the distance of five miles,
where they started a hare, killed her after a fine chase, and
immediately put up another. Just at this moment up came Mr. Woodburn,
foaming with anger, swearing terribly, and threatening to send Metcalf
to the House of Correction.
He swung his whip round his head, intending to horse-whip the rogue, but
Metcalf heard the whistle of the lash in the air, and escaped the stroke
by making his horse start aside.
Mr. Woodburn then endeavoured to call off his hounds, but Metcalf,
knowing the fleetness of his own horse, ventured within speaking, but
not within whipping distance of him, and begged that he would permit the
dogs to finish the chase, alleging that it would spoil them to take them
off, and that he was sure they would (as they actually did) kill in a
very short time. Metcalf soon found that Mr. Woodburn's anger had begun
to abate; and going nearer to him, he pleaded in excuse, a
misunderstanding. The apology was accepted, for Mr. Woodburn, though hot
of temper, was very good-natured; and so the affair ended.