MARIONETTES AT INGROW--AN AMUSING STORY
By this time my appetite for "seeing the world" had got somewhat
satisfied, and I stayed at home for a while. I happened to become
acquainted with a man of the name of Howard, who went under the nick-name
of Harlequin Dick. By trade he was a wood-carver, and a first-class hand
at his job. He was a Liverpool man, and during his stay in Keighley he
did wood-carving for many firms in the district. Then he was taken into
tow by old James Illingworth (now deceased), who ran the Worth Valley
Chair Works, at Ingrow, opposite the Worth Valley Hotel. A new stone
building now occupies the place of the old structure. Now my friend
Howard's great hobby was making marionettes, and performing with them;
and of these Lilliputian mummers he made a set, and then discussed ways
and means for appearing with them in public. I was by him put into the
trinitarian post of scenic artist, advance agent, and stage manager. It
devolved upon me to draw up the advertisements. We had some capital wall
posters, each figure--its capabilities, recommendations, &c.--being
graphically described in rhyme; yes, it was a remarkable bill--so
remarkable that parties interested in other marionette shows appropriated
its contents for their own shows. When all the paraphernalia were ready,
we went round to various schools in the town and neighbourhood, giving
entertainments to the school children. I remember one occasion--yes; I
shall never forget it--when we exhibited our show in St. John's
school-room, Ingrow. The Rev Mr Mayne was then the vicar of St. John's,
and he allowed us to have a night with the children. Well, we removed a
partition in the school-room dividing the boys' from the girls'
department, and made a sort of shake-down stage at one end of the room,
and with a scene and proscenium the place looked like a pretty little
theatre. There was a crowded audience for our performance, including the
vicar and Mrs Mayne, the curate of St. John's (who, by-the-way, was a
coloured gentleman), Mr John Butterfield, brother of Mr H. I.
Butterfield, of Cliffe Castle, and, indeed, a good many of the _elite_ of
the district. The show opened: the curtain was rung up. The first part
was a representation of "The Babes in the Wood," which went very
smoothly, and appeared to suit the general taste of the spectators. Then
followed a "skeleton dance," and next we gave with the puppets an amusing
harlequinade by clown, pantaloon, and butterfly. Yes, and here the real
fun of the evening came in. The butterfly took a great deal of catching.
Mr Howard and his good lady and myself were leaning over a rail (behind
the scenes, of course) near the front of the stage, energetically working
the strings of the figures, when, without any warning, the stage front
gave way, and we (still energetically working the figures) were thrown
right into the auditorium. Talk about tumbling head over heels! Why,
words would only belittle this part of our "performance." Suffice it to
say that the wreckage just cleared the front seat, on which the Vicar and
his good lady and friends were sitting.
OUR HUMPTY-DUMPTY SITUATION
was so irresistibly humorous that Mr Mayne burst into a fit of laughter,
and, taking up his hat, he left the room, followed shortly after by his
wife and the curate, and shortly afterwards by Mr John Butterfield, who,
I may say, seemed to enjoy the accident far better than the legitimate
performance. The audience roared and roared again with laughter, and,
speaking for myself, I can say that I felt "jolly queer." We had only, as
it were, pitched the stage together, making it by placing one form above
another. Fortunately the people present took the unlooked-for incident in
good part, and with a little assistance we managed to improvise another
stage, and upon this we went through a little more of our "show."
AT ADDINGHAM FEAST--A JOKE THAT TOOK
Before we ventured upon a further public appearance with the "dolls" we
provided the show with better equipments. These included a tent, which,
along with a magic-lantern, we bought for a trifling matter from a
travelling photographer who went by the name of Old Kalo. The first of
our second series of entertainments took place at Addingham, where, it
being the Feast, we did very brisk "biz." During one of the intervals
between the performances, I remember a gentleman coming in and asking me,
"Do you think you could study a few lines for me, and introduce them into
your play?" "What are they about?" said I. Then my visitor told me that
he "had got a little fellow, Jacky Demaine, of Catgill, in the public
house opposite, and wanted me to talk about him during the acting." I
agreed to carry out his wishes, and my worthy friend, Howard, and I,
having been supplied with the "matter," commenced to rehearse the scene
we had prepared expressly for Jacky. There were two figures strutting
about the stage. "Good morning, Mr Catgill" said one of them. "Why, you
are smart this morning." "Well, you know it is Addingham Feast," was the
reply of the other figure. "Are you in want of a sweetheart?" "No," said
Jacky's double; "I came here to buy some cattle." Upon this the real
Jacky Demaine could "stand it" no longer, and he rose from a front seat
in the audience and made an "explanation." He wished to know "how the
little hound knew him," saying that he never had a pint o' beer with him
in his life! Then Jacky wanted to come behind the stage to talk to the
"little hound." Of course he was a little fresh. The audience "fairly
brought down the house" with their bursts of laughter, and people crowded
into the booth and around the entrance anxious to know what was the
matter. I have no doubt the little incident would be talked about for a
good while in Addingham.
"NOT ONE LEFT TO TELL THE TALE"
After this, we appeared with our show in the old Mechanics' Hall (now the
Yorkshire Penny Bank) at Keighley. A travelling auctioneer who was
staying there a week engaged us to give our performances during the
intervals at his sales. He paid us very well. But Mr Howard was in the
habit of taking more drink than was good for him, and he dispensed with
the "mummers" one by one, until there was scarce one of our celebrated
actors left to tell the tale and carry on the show.
THE WAR PIG AT HAWORTH--A LAUGHABLE STORY
The marionettes having come to their end, and your humble servant being
now practically out of a situation, he began to bestir his imagination
for some other line which he might enter into in the show business. It
was one morning while I was walking along Back-lane, at the top end of
the town, that I "fell in luck." Old John Malloy kept a grocer's shop
there--the Ship Inn now marks the spot--and I heard from him that he had
a small litter of pigs. I saw them, and found among them a black pig--a
puny, rickety, and most dejected-looking creature. I asked John what he
would take for the best and the worst, and although he did not wish to
part with the best pig, he was not very particular in that respect with
regard to the worst--"the leetle blackie." For this he said he would take
a shilling, and after bargaining with John I got the pig for ten-pence. I
took the pig away with me in an empty herring-box, and consulted my
friend, John Spencer. I said, "John; we'll take this pig to Haworth, and
show it as the War Pig from South America." John laughed at the idea, but
heartily agreed with it. In the next place I got "on tick" a piece of
calico several yards long, and with some lampblack I painted in bold type
on the calico the words, "Come and see the War Pig from South America,
2d. each." Then Spencer and I engaged the large garret at the Fleece Inn,
Haworth. It was a large room, holding, I should think, a couple of
hundreds of people, and was entered by a staircase in the back-yard,
separate from the public house proper. Mrs Stangcliffe was the landlady,
and she readily allowed us to have the room, I having taken it of her
once before. Well, to get to business.
THE EXHIBITION
We displayed the calico signpost at the front of the inn, and at the
appointed hour in the evening we had a crowded audience in the room. I
must give my comrade Spencer more credit than myself for the "show;" for
he would have two strings to his bow. While he and I were entering the
place, he picked up a black cat belonging to some poor neighbour, and
quickly stowed it away in one of his capacious pockets. The cat will
appear later. As John put pussy away, he said, "If t'War Pig doesn't
satisfy 'em, I'll show 'em something else." We commenced the performance.
I brought the pig out of the box, and exhibited the animal on a small
table in the middle of the room. The audience was on the tiptoe of
expectation, and crowded towards the table to see the famous war pig,
which, after its long confinement, and also, of course, from its natural
condition, was hardly able to stand. In a few words I introduced the war
pig--"Ladies and gentlemen,--In opening the performance this evening, I
have to show you the famous war pig from South America," &c., &c.
THE COBBLER'S DISCOVERY
There was an old fellow at the back of the room wearing a leather apron
and red cap, with his blue shirt sleeves rolled up--a typical old
cobbler. He pushed up to the table, and, after "eyeing" the "exhibit"
somewhat critically through his spectacles, he held forth as
follows:--"Nah, dus ta call thet a war pig?" in the vernacular peculiar
to the natives. I said, "Did ta ivver see a war pig i' thi life?" "Noa,"
said he blankly "it's t' _warst_ pig I ivver set mi een on." And then the
audience saw where the "war" pig came in, and they laughed heartily over
the joke. It was a relief to me when they did put the best face on the
affair. Under cover of the diversion I stole from the room, and prepared
to leave the place. I met Mrs Stangcliffe at the foot of the staircase.
She said "she did not know what to think about us, but there had been a
fearful noise, and she took it that we had pleased the company." With
this I left the inn, and got away to a place where I had arranged to wait
for Spencer.
TIPPO-SAHIB--THE INDIAN CAT
Yes; you will be wondering what has become of Spencer. Well; he stayed
behind to continue the show. As he told me afterwards, he appeared before
the screen and said, "Ladies and Gentlemen,--You don't seem to be quite
satisfied with the war pig from South America. I can assure you that I
have here a cat which I brought from India; they call her Tippo-Sahib.
She can tell fortunes. Tippo has told the fortunes of all the Indian
kings and princes, and I have brought her here expressly to tell the
ladies present their fortunes. Now, Tippo (introducing the Haworth-bred
cat to the audience), walk round the room and tell the ladies their
fortunes." Puss had no sooner been liberated than she bounded out at the
open door. Spencer said hastily, "I believe the climate of England is too
cold for Tippo; but I'll fetch her back." Upon this he darted out of the
door, and down the stairs after the scared cat; and this was the way
Spencer effected his escape. Of course, the audience tumbled to it that
the whole concern was a swindle, but they "bore up" well, and even seemed
satisfied with the swindle, for they had many good laughs out of it.
Spencer joined me on the road just out of Haworth, and together we
returned to Keighley.
AT HAWORTH AGAIN--FUNNY STORIES
As I remarked in the earlier part of the above incident, I had on a
former occasion figured in the large room attached to the Fleece Inn.
This occasion turned out a kind of "slope," though not so bad a one as
that already described. There happened to be staying in Keighley Wild's
Theatre, and John Spencer and I thought we could manage a bit of
"business" at Haworth. So we borrowed two costumes. Mine was a monkey
dress--a kind of skin covering for the whole body--which I had lent to me
by "Billy Shanteney." Spencer obtained the loan of a clown's dress. At
this time there was a drummer who lived in Wellington-street. He was well
known to Keighley folk as "Old Bill Heblett." Bill used to march the
streets in company with bands of music, and caused some amount of wonder
and amazement by throwing his drum-sticks into the air and catching them
between the beats. On this occasion we induced Heblett to lend us his
famed drum; so that with a monkey's and a clown's costumes, and a drum,
we were in a fair way of business. We had intended that the show should
consist of Spencer lifting heavy weights, and I was to amuse the audience
with jokes and funny stories. We went up to Haworth, engaged the rooms
from Mrs Stangcliffe, and borrowed the landlady's bed-curtains to hang
across the room to form a screen and so make the place look something
like a show-room. For footlights we fastened candles on the floor,
placing each candle between three nails.
THE BELLMAN'S SHAKESPEARE!
Then we engaged a fiddler who went by the name of Billy Frenchman--a
well-known character in Haworth at the time. Bill had been in the army
for some years. In his old age he had been appointed town's herald or
crier of Haworth. It was in this capacity that we engaged him to "cry"
our show about Haworth, before we turned out on parade. Billy told us to
write down what we wanted him to say, and this was our programme--"This
is to give notice to the public of Haworth and the surrounding
neighbourhood that a company of dramatic performers will appear tonight
at the Fleece Inn Garret. The performance to commence with Shakespeare's
comedy, 'Katharine and Petruchio; or, The Taming of the Shrew;' to be
followed by 'Ali Pasha; or, The Mussulman's Vengeance,' and tricks by the
monkey, and comic sketches." These were the words Billy had written on
his paper, but through some misunderstanding _these_ were the words I
heard him cry out: he gave them in broad Haworth dialect:--"This is ta
gie noatis ta t'publick o' Howarth et ther's bahn ta be sum play-acters
at t'Fleece Inn Garritt, and ther bahn ta act 'Catherine fra t'Padding
Can, er Who's ta tak t'screws;' ta be follered bi 'Alpaca, er t'smashing
up o' t'engines.'" But Billy's blunder was perhaps for the best; for,
seeing that this was about the time when hand woolcombing was on the
decline, and engines were being brought out, the people had an idea that
the announcement had some startling reference to their trade. Myself, I
could not help but laugh heartily over this choice specimen of bellman's
oratory.
BILL PLAYS THE STREET MONKEY
About 5.30 in the evening Jack put on his clown's costume, and I put on
the monkey's garb, and Jack, taking the drum and leading me by a chain,
paraded up the main street of Haworth. Opposite the White Lion we
"pitched," and the customers soon came out of the public-house, and
passers-by stopped to see "whoa we wor." I distinctly heard one of the
onlookers say that "if it wor a real un, it wor t'biggest monkey ut he'd
ivver seen." Then a few of the folks standing together held a hurried
confab., and as a result one of them announced, "I'll tread on his tail,
an' if he squeaks it'll be a reight un." Suiting his words to action the
joskin advanced and trod on the end of the monkey's tail. Of course the
monkey squeaked. Jacko also turned round suddenly, and, with a horrid
grin on his features, sprang on the shoulders of his intruder. The poor
fellow screamed, and his first words on finding himself out of danger
were "Oh! he's a reight monkey." Within the next few minutes another
native came up, and inquired of Spencer "Ah say--can thy monkey chew
bacca?"--producing a tobacco-box, the size of which was awe-inspiring.
"Try it," said Spencer, "Give him the box--he's very careful." So the
big-hearted joskin handed his big tobacco-box to the monkey. I was
wearing a mask, which allowed for a large mouth, and I popped the box
into the "yawning cavity." "By gow," said the at-one-time owner of the
box, "What a stummack!--he's swallered t'box an all!" With such an
uncomfortable article as a tobacco-box in his mouth, the monkey could not
do very much in the way of performing, so the return was made to the
Fleece Inn Garret. People--particularly the disappointed owner of the
tobacco-box--followed us down, and by opening-time we had
A DENSELY-CROWDED HOUSE
The old fiddler--a host in himself--was the orchestra. He knew about
three tunes, and these he played o'er and o'er. I forgot to mention that
we had not an appointed door-keeper, or cashier, so I undertook that
superior office myself. "My word," said some of the people as they came
in, "just lewk at that monkey; it's t'moast remarkable monkey et ivver
wor knawn i' Howarth; it's soa mich sense woll it can tak t'brass at
t'door." Well, the house became so crowded that there was scarcely any
room left for us to perform. The time for commencing arrived, and we
appeared before the curtain, though we felt at a great loss to know how
we were going to manage to perform in the space there was left; for it
must be known that we did actually intend to give a performance. We had
gone through a few "feats"--Spencer lifting and performing with 56lb.
weights, and I doing a few tricks at tight-rope walking and dancing.
Spencer was behind the curtain waiting his "turn," and when I retired he
said: "It's no good; we cannot give satisfaction here."
THE VANISHING TRICK
"There isn't room for you to work, never tell of me;" adding, "You had
better go and get you right clothes on. Bring the drum and all our
belongings you can get hold on, and slip out at the back door the best
way that you can." I obeyed. The "orchestra" was discoursing diverting
music. I went down to exchange monkey for man, so to speak, and, this
done, and having collected our properties, I made my way, happily
undetected, out of the house, and cut across the fields. Weighed down as
I was with the copper taken at the door, and in my anxiety to look after
everything and get away as fast as I could, I let the drum slip from my
grasp. It rolled down a steep field, and for a short time I had a fine
chase after it. "But where was Jack Spencer?" readers will be wondering.
Yes; I had forgot all about Jack for the minute. As he afterwards told
me, he got away all right except for a little mishap which befell him
just after he had left the place. Opposite the Fleece Inn was a
cartwright's shop (I believe the shop is there now), and behind the wall
skirting the roadway was placed an old cart. Spencer knew not of either
of these things, and when he lightly mounted the wall and leaped--before
he had looked--it was to find himself in the cart, or, to be more
precise, falling through the bottom of it. He rather lamed his leg, and
had to limp up to Merrall's mill, where I was waiting for him. Together,
we made for Keighley, and on arriving there we "put up" at the Lord
Rodney Inn, in Church Green, which was then kept by Mrs Fox. Safe in the
hostelry, we counted up our spoil, and, perhaps, congratulated ourselves
that we had got off so easily. Jack told me that before leaving the
entertainment he told the fiddler to play up "special," as he was going
to do a "fine trick."
THE AUDIENCE DISCOVER THE "SLOPE."
Next day we learned from a young man whom we came across at Wild's
theatre how affairs had developed at Haworth the previous night. He said
that for half-an-hour the fiddler went on playing his favourite tune,
"Rosin the bow." By-and-bye, the audience manifested signs of active
curiosity as to the position of affairs, and one man said he would go
behind the curtain and see for himself, adding, "There must be something
wrong." He went to the front, and pulled the screen on one side to
find--nothing! The audience generally bore up with good heart, but one
determined-looking individual said, "I've paid my two-pence, an' I'm bahn
ta hev a cannel for it, if nowt else." And with that he stalked up to the
front, and possessed himself of one of the candles which had been in use
as footlights. Others then made a rush for the remaining candles, and in
the disorder the poor fiddler fared rather badly, for he got his fiddle
broken. But Spencer and I afterwards visited him, and made good the loss
he sustained. I must say that we never intended the affair to be a
swindle, and, borrowing one of my friend Squire Leach's forcible
expressions, I may say we "started with good intentions, whatever came
out of 'em." Perhaps I may be excused for introducing the following
verses of my own, entitled "Haworth Sharpness," to close this chapter:--
Says a wag to a porter i' Haworth one day,
"Yer net ower sharp--ye drones o't' railway;
For fra Keighley to Howarth I've been oft enough,
But nivver a hawpenny I've paid yer, begoff."
The porter replied, "I varry mich daht it,
But I'll gie thee a quart ta tell all abaht it;
For it looks plain ta me tha cuddn't pass t'snicket,
Without tippin' ta t' porter thi pass or thi ticket"
"Tha'll write up ta Derby, an' then tha'll deceive me."
"I willn't, this time," said t'porter, "believe me."
"Then aht wi' thi brass, an' let us be knocking.
For I've walked it a fooit-back all raand bi t'Bocking."