[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, shifting impulses of his nature--restless
and reckless, if aimless and harmless; fickle and passionate, 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 substitutes 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
circumstances 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 relationship 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 associated with the Church.
His services were often requisitioned on the occasion of anniversaries of
places of worship, &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
scrapes. 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 passing, 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 principal 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;"
Slashin' an' cuttin' wi' a sword made o' wood,
Actin' Dick 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,
Prickin' 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 Mitchell, 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 noble 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 skirmishing--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 passing 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"
During my sojourn at Wheat-head Farm I took a fancy to trying my
"prentice hand" at writing poetry. I got a little encouragement in this
at home. My father held singing classes, and gentlemen from the
neighbourhood used to meet at our house to have their "lessons." I
remember that the present Mr. Lund, of Malsis Hall, was one of my
father's principal pupils. Some very good "talent" was turned out in the
way of glee parties particularly, and just before Christmas my father
used to be very busy training singers for carolling. I often wrote a
little doggerel-rhyme to please those who came to the classes. One of my
earliest efforts was a few verses anent my first pair of britches, which
I, in common, I suppose, with other juveniles, regarded with a great
amount of pleasure and pride. I must apologise for introducing three
verses of the piece I wrote and styled
"MY FIRST PAIR O' BRITCHES"
Aw remember the days o' mi bell-button jacket,
Wi' its little lappels hangin' dahn ower mi waist;
And mi grand bellosed cap--noan nicer, I'll back it--
Fer her et hed bowt it wor noan without taste;
Fer shoo wor mi mother, an' I wor her darlin',
And offen sho vowed it, an' stroked dahn mi' hair;
An' sho tuke me ta see her relations i' Harden,
I't' first pair o' britches 'at ivver aw ware.
Aw remember the time when Aunt Betty an' Alice
Sent fer me up ta lewk at mi clooas,
An' aw walked up as prahd as a Frenchman fra Calais,
Wi' mi tassel at side, i' mi jacket a rose,
Aw sooin saw mi uncles, both Johnny and Willy,
They both gav' me pennies an' off aw did steer;
But aw heeard 'em say this, "He's a fine lad is Billy,
I't' first pair o' britches 'at ivver he ware."
Aw remember one Sabbath, an't' sun it wor shinin',
Aw went wi mi father ta Hainworth ta sing,
An't' stage wor hung raand wi' green cotton linin',
An't' childer i' white made t'village ta ring.
We went to old Mecheck's that day to wur drinkin',
Tho' poor ther were plenty, an' summat ta spare;
Says Mecheck, "That lad, Jim, is just thee awm thinkin',
I't' first pair o' britches 'at ivver tha ware."