During my service in the Volunteer corps, I had my ups and downs in connection with securing that employment which is necessary for one’s maintenance. I gave up my work at Mr Edwin Hattersley’s, warp-dresser, North Brook Mills, and took it into my head that I should like to be a policeman—a real policeman a la my friend, Mr James Leach. I learned that Colonel Cobb, the Chief Constable of the West Riding Constabulary, was on a visit to Mr Murgatroyd, a magistrate, at Bingley, and accordingly went over to the Throstle-nest of old England for the purpose of an interview with the Colonel. I was introduced into the Colonel’s presence, and stated my errand. Colonel Cobb plied me with questions as to my former career, and when I told him I had been in the Army he wanted to know if I had any references; he particularly wanted to know whether I had risen from the ranks. I told him that I had a good “character” from the colonel of my late regiment, and also that I had worked my way up from a private’s position to that of a provo-sergeant. Whereupon the old gentleman said he thought I was a very likely fellow for a policeman, and promised that if I called upon him in a few months I should in all probability be taken on. In the intervening period of waiting my mind underwent a change. I thought it would be safest to have “two strings to my bow;” so, having a hankering after a position as guard on the railway (intending, of course, to commence as a porter) I wrote to the Midland Railway Company at Derby, asking if they had a situation for me at Keighley. I got a reply inquiring for references. Then I went to my cousin, Mr James Wright, the manager for Messrs Butterfield Bros., Prospect Mill. While willing to give me a “character,” my cousin strongly advised me to accept neither situation, as he felt that it would not suit me. I should, he said, want to be more at liberty than I should be in either of the positions I intended taking up. He expressed his willingness to find me employment in the mill. I went home and “discussed the out-look.” The upshot was that I decided to let the police force and the railway do without me, and I commenced to work with my brothers, who, in a building in Heber-street, did warpdressing for Messrs Butterfield. I stuck to the work for a short time, and then, with the temptation of more wages, I went back to my old position at Messrs Lund’s, North Beck Mills. I remember when I was about to leave the Heber-street establishment I was much taunted by two of the foremen, who would have it that I was going to Lund’s mill because Mr James Lund was about to give the employees a trip to, and a treat at, his residence, Malsis Hall. On the face of it, it did appear as though their playful accusation was correct, as the great function was to come off in a week’s time.

TRIP TO MALSIS HALL

Great were the preparations that were made for the affair, which was on nearly everybody’s tongue. The spinning and weaving trade was at that time in a very brisk condition, and peace and plenty appeared to reign triumphant. At last, the great day arrived:—

The day wor fine, the sun did shine,
No signs o’ rain to fall
When t’ North Beck hands, i’ jovial bands,
Did visit Malsis Hall.

Up by the hill o’ North Beck Mill,
Both owd an’ young did meet;
To march, I trow, i’ two-by-two
I’ procession down the street.

An’ Marriner’s band, wi’ music grand,
Struck up wi’ all ther might;
Then one an’ all, both great an’ small,
Marched on wi’ great delight.

Arrived at Keighley Station, the large party took possession of a special train which was in waiting, and were safely conveyed to Crosshills.

This jovial band, when they did land,
Got off the train so hearty,
For they all went wi’ that intent—
To have a grand tea-party!

Then to the place, each smiling face,
Moved on in grand succession.
The lookers-on did say, “Well done!
It is a grand procession.”

The “grand procession” passed into the park, and up to Malsis Hall. A hymn was lustily sung, and then the people were free to ramble about the grounds to their hearts’ content. Gaily-coloured flags and bunting were displayed in profusion, and with the additional charm of the “pleasing sounds of music creeping into their ears” the quondam mill-workers could well imagine themselves permitted to spend a brief interval in a very paradise. But when the time for the “real” part of the feast was come, lo and behold! there was a great disaster—

All but one sort o’ bread ran short,
but it wor no fault o’ t’ maister.
O! Caterer; thy bread an’ bun
An’ judgement they were scanty;
O! what a shame, an’ what a name
For not providing plenty.

O! Billy Brown thou might have known
To eyt each one wor able,
The country air did mak’ some swear—
They could ommost eyt a table!

Despite this slight “hitch,” we all “made the best of it,” and succeeded in enjoying ourselves until the evening, when the closure was unceremoniously applied to the proceedings by a heavy thunderstorm:—

The atmosphere’s no longer clear,
The clouds are black an’ stormy;
Then all the comp’ny away did run
Like one deserting army.

Like some fast steed, wi’ all its speed,
All seemed as they wor flying;
To escape the rain, an’ catch the train
Both old an’ young wor trying.

The people got into the train all right, and travelled safely to Keighley:—

All satisfied wi’ their short ride’
But sorry for the rain.

THE PEOPLE’S “TRIBUNE”

The above verses are included in a piece I wrote in celebration of the trip. It was about this period I began to spend a good deal of time in writing doggerel and rhyme for publication in the local press. Many of my “efforts” took the form of satires upon defaulting gentlemen—men who, I thought, should be held up to public ridicule and censure. I placed myself at the service of the people, and was always ready to show up their wrongs under my motto, “Right against Might.” For my pains in that direction I was often boycotted, and occasionally brought before the magistrates. In the latter case, an indirect charge was invariably brought against me in order that certain individuals might take “revenge out of me.” But I flatter myself that I had as often a friend behind me to save me from “durance vile.” On one occasion I was hauled up for refusing to quit the old Crown Inn, Church Green. I had occasion to go to the place where, it seemed, there had been a row a few minutes previously; indeed, I met several men in the passage who had taken part in the row and were being turned out. I made my way forward and took a seat in the tap-room. Before I had been seated many minutes a policeman came in and charged me with refusing to quit the public-house when ordered to do so. I endeavoured to convince “Robert” that I had not taken part in the row, and that I had never been asked to quit; but I soon found what a hopeless task I had set myself in trying to “convince a policeman against his will.” On the following Friday I was hauled up before the magistrates. I defended myself as best I could, but was told by the presiding magistrate that I was nothing but an “impudent scoundrel.” However, the charge against me—preferred by a policeman, and supported by no other witness—was considered proved by the Bench, who mulcted me in a fine of 10s and costs. Greatly incensed at the verdict, but more especially at the manner in which the chairman of the Bench had “sat upon” me, I resolved to take a course of action at the expense of the gentleman mentioned. So the same afternoon, still smarting under a sense of having been unfairly dealt with, I set to work with my pen, and wrote a satire on the magistrate who took the most prominent part in dealing with my case. By the dinner hour on the following day (Saturday) I was in the market-place selling copies of the satire. People bought with avidity, and before Saturday went out I had disposed of a thousand copies at a penny each; which returns enabled me to pay the fine and then make profit out of my prosecution.

THE HENPECKED CLUB AND THE KEIGHLEY SHOW

My next effusion was partly in verse and partly in prose, and was entitled, “The Rules and Regulations of the Henpecked Club.” This club was connected with the Agricultural Society’s Show, and made its existence felt on the Show Day only. At the time of which I write, the Keighley Agricultural Show was about one of the finest shows in the country. The townspeople, then, took some pride in their show. The public thoroughfare from Church Green along Skipton-road to the Showfield was decorated in a gorgeous fashion. Flags, streamers, and bunting, with scores of appropriate mottoes and devices, were numerously in evidence, and trees were planted on each side of the road and decked with all sorts of fairy lamps. Yes; those were the good old days of the Keighley Show; thousands of people flocked from all parts of a not very limited area to attend the annual event. But the principal thoroughfares of the town were not the only places which received attention at the hands of the decorators, for the residents of such places as the Pinfold went in for their own particular local celebration of the Show Day. On one occasion I saw a stuffed donkey with a dummy rider on its back, swinging on a rope opposite the Bay Horse Inn. The donkey, which was the source of intense delight to the younger section of the populace, was the property of one Harry Barwick, a tanner by trade. Not far from here—in old Bridge-street, now known as Mill-street—was to be seen a large picture, containing the portraits, rudely executed by myself as artist to the club, of some forty members of the Henpecked Club. The spectacle was of the most laughable description. There was also displayed a gigantic cradle, large enough to hold the biggest person in the world in case of emergency. The cradle was supposed to be used on the occasion of a member of the club being found guilty of ill-treating his wife. The cradle was made by a practical wag, known as Billy Bradley, who attended to it every Show Day. When there was a clean sheet of actual offenders, Bradley contented himself with “rocking” men who volunteered just for the fun of the thing. Finish was imparted to the performance by a fiddler, named Smith Keighley, playing “Rock’d in the cradle of the deep” during the operation. Many were the visitors who came to see the stirrings in this corner of the town. I remember the late Mr John Sugden, of Eastwood House, coming up in his carriage to see the fun and frolic, which were practically the sole objects of the Henpecked Club. On one occasion there was exhibited a picture, almost as large as a stage scene, representing a trial in the Henpecked Club,—a wife charging her spouse, before the President, with neglect of family duty. The counts of the charge were supposed to be—refusing to wash-up, black-lead, clean his wife’s boots, put the clothes-line out, and last, but not least, refusing to take his wife her breakfast upstairs. I recollect one remarkable and unrehearsed incident which happened in connection with the club on one Show Day. A man of the name of Shackleton had joined the club, and his wife was so disgusted that she was almost “wild.” Before the scores of people who had assembled she protested “Ahr Jack isn’t henpecked, an’ ah weant hev him henpecked.” It was, she said, just the opposite—she who had been henpecked. Just as Mrs S. was concluding her harangue a waggonette drove up, and all the members of the club got into it in readiness for a drive round the town “for the benefit of the Order,” as one of them amusingly put it. This Shackleton was among those who entered the conveyance, but no sooner had he taken his seat than his wife went up to him and seized him firmly by the hair of the head, exclaiming, “Come aat, er Ah’ll let ’em see whether tha’s henpecked er no.” She stuck to her spouse with such a tight fondness that he was soon obliged to come out of the waggonette. Shackleton took the incident quite good humouredly, and seemed to enjoy the mirth-provoking situation with as much zest as the crowd of people who were standing by. And this was a sample of the carryings-on in the days of the old Keighley Show. But, alas! there came a day of trouble to the people. In the period preceding one year’s show an epidemic of small-pox broke out in the town and the show had to be abandoned. Unfortunately that proved the deathblow of the old Agricultural Society.