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 finalÉ. 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.