"T'OTHER LODGER!"
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 began
To 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' fain
To seek thi downy rest again.
Yet heaves mi' breast
For wretches in the pelting rain
'At hev no rest.
AMONG THE IRISH
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.
THE BARN DORMITORY--THE FIRE
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.
MY ESCAPE FROM THE FIRE
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 was _a 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.
HOW THE PEOPLE RECEIVED ME
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 CHATTY, QUIZZY, KINDLY POLICEMAN
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 RESULT OF THE FIRE
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.
CLOTHING THE NAKED
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 was
_minus_. 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.
ON THE WAY TO BARNSLEY
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.
A FRESH RIG-OUT
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 was _the_ man. 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.
FROM THEATRE TO POLICE COURT
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 a _finale_. 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.
A MIDNIGHT ADVENTURE
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.
RETURNING HOME
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.
A RECOLLECTION OF KEAN, THE ACTOR
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 sad
To 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.