Adventures and Recollections. Bill o'th' Hoylus End

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      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

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      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

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ