Much interest was taken, I remember, in the visit to Keighley of a social and temperance reformer of the name of Captain John Ball. He had two “lieutenants” with him, named Mountain and Roberts, both good at “spouting.” Their meeting place was the old Independent chapel in Upper Green, and the services drew large congregations, many people of various denominations attending. The work went on very well for some time, and I believe that a fair amount of good was done; but, unfortunately, Captain Ball “could not stand his corn,” and—if Dame Rumour was to be believed—frequently indulged in a “wee drappie,” and occasionally overstepped the mark of moderation. Of course the people attending his services made great capital out of the ugly rumours, and one and another commenced to pull the “captain” in pieces. Now, I had all along entertained a certain respect for Captain Ball, so I took it upon myself to defend him, writing a pamphlet in which I gave prominence to the fact that it was the aim of all religion to forget and forgive. The little affair blew nicely over, and the congregation continued to hold together, until John had another fall; and the climax was reached when he committed himself for the fourth time by coming to Divine service “blind” drunk. On this occasion one of his lieutenants, who accompanied him, was not exactly sober. The incident reminds me of the old ballad:—

Robin and Johnny were going down t’ street;
They called at t’ first alehouse they chanced to meet.
While Robin drank one glass, our Johnny drank two,
An’ they both got a drunk as my granny’s old sow.

It was truly an awkward position for any man to be in. Captain Bell could not make a defence, and he was excommunicated from the “Glory Band.” Perhaps the following verses, extracted from my piece entitled “My Visit to t’ Glory Band,” will give some idea of the incident. I paid my visit in company with “Owd Jennet, t’ Ranter, fra Havercake-row”:—

So they prayed, an’ they sang, i’ ther owd fashioned way,
Until a gert chap says, “I’ve summat to say;”
An’, bi t’heart, I’st a fallen dahn sick i’ mi pew,
But I thowt at toan hawf he sed worn’t trew;
Fer he charged Parson Ball wi’ bein’ drunk i’t’street,
’At he’d been put ta bed three times i’ one neet.

“Does ta hear,” says owd Jennet, “what t’hullet is sayin’?
He’s usin’ his scandal asteead o’ bein’ prayin’;
Fer John Ball is respected by ivvery one,
Soa I salln’t believe a word abaat John;
Fer him an’ ahr Robin are two decent men,
Soa pray yah nah hearken they’ll speak fer thersen.

“Soa all wor nah silent,—they mud hear a pin fall;
Fer nobody wor hissin’ or clappin’ at all.
Scarce hed long Gomersall spun out his yarn—
Wi’ his two blazin’ een he had scarcely sat dahn,
Than John stood up on his pins in a minute;—
An’ rare an’ weel pleased wor I an’ owd Jennet.

“My brethren,” he sed, wi’ a tear in his ee,
“You sall hear for yourselns my accusers an’ me,
An’ if I be guilty—man’s liable ta fall
As well as yer pastor an’ servant, John Ball;
But let my accuser, if faults he hes noan,
Be t’ first, an’ no other, ta throw the first stoan.

“I’ve drunk wine an’ porter, I do not deny,
But then my accusers hev not tell’d you why;
So ther false accusation I feel it more keen,
’Cause I’ve hed the lumbago i’ both o’ my een;
Besides, mi back warked as if it wor broke,
An’ mi throit’s been so parched wol I thowt I sud choke.

“I’ve been soa distracted, an’ handled soa bad,
Wol I thowt monny a time I sud ommost goa mad;
An’t’ doctor hes tell’d me ther wor noa other way
Nobbut going ta Blackpool or else Morecambe Bay;
An’ charged me ta mind, if I sat dahn to dine,
Ta lig inta t’ porter, an’t’ brandy, an’t’ wine.

“Soa nah, my accusers, what hev you ta say?
You can reckon that up in yer awn simple way;
But if ther’s a falsehood in what I hev sed nah,
I wish mi new hat wod turn into a cah;
So this is my answer, an’ this mi defence.”
“Well done!” sed owd Jennet, “he’s spokken some sense.”

Soa his speech nah he ended, but it touched ’em i’t’ wick,
Fer we all could see plainly it wor nowt but a trick;
And Jennet declared—tho’ she might be too rude—
If he’d come up to t’ dinner he sud hev some home-brewed,
Fer i’ spite o’ ther scandal sho wor praad on him yet,
An’ if he drank wine an’ porter who’d owt ta do wi’ ’t.

WITH THE LATE CHARLES BRADLAUGH, M.P.

It was on Shrove-Tuesday in the year 1862 (I think this is the number of the year; unfortunately I did not keep a diary, and I have nothing but my memory to go by) that I accompanied the late Mr Charles Bradlaugh, M.P., on a Secularist lecturing excursion to Sutton and Silsden. At Sutton Mr Bradlaugh was well received by the Radicals of the village, who invited him into a room, where they entertained him to some refreshment. Mr Bradlaugh “pitched” in front of the Bay Horse Inn, speaking from a chair which I had borrowed from the landlady of the inn. The subject of Mr Bradlaugh’s lecture was “More pork and less prayer: more bacon and fewer priests;” and I must confess that he dug his javelin with some vigour into the parsons. The audience was for the most part composed of old men and old women, who seemed delighted with the lecture, especially with the thrusts at the “religious gentlemen.” One of the old women exclaimed that they could do with some more bacon if they could get it, and fewer parsons. There were, said she, quite plenty of parsons, there being two of them in that district. At the close of the lecture I went round with my cap, and collected a few shillings. Mr Bradlaugh then went down to Silsden, and in the evening lectured on the same subject in the Oddfellows’ Hall, which was crowded at a penny admission fee. Leaving Silsden, we walked to Keighley—the railway not having yet been laid up the valley. On the way I had many interesting bits of conversation with the man who later in life was to create such a stir in the world—the man who was first errand boy, then coal dealer, Sunday school teacher, free-thought lecturer, soldier, solicitor’s clerk, and, finally, Member of Parliament. The conversation ran mostly upon soldiering, Mr Bradlaugh telling me that he had served for three years in the Dragoon Guards, chiefly in Ireland. General Garibaldi also occupied a good part of our talk. Mr Bradlaugh expressed great interest in the Italian patriot, and said he intended to join the foreign legion which was being formed in London to assist Garibaldi’s army and help him in his struggles. He strongly pressed me to take a trip to sunny Italy for the same object, and recited some verses which he had composed on Garibaldi. Mr Bradlaugh dwelt very little indeed upon religious matters, only saying that if he were “religious” he should be a Roman Catholic. Thus the time on our journey from Silsden to Keighley sped very pleasantly. It was almost midnight when we got into the town. While at Keighley, Mr Bradlaugh stayed with Mr John Rhodes, who conducted a small temperance hotel in the corner of the Market-place.

THE HEROIC WATCHMAN OF CALVERSYKE HILL

A good deal was made in the town out of an incident in which the watchman at Calversyke Mills played a “heroic” part. It was this way. William Binns, who lived at Calversyke Hill, just below the Reservoir Tavern, occupied one of the top storey rooms in his house as a work-room for wooden models, &c. One night he was cleaning up, and he burned the shavings and rubbish in the fire place. There happened to be a strong wind, and the sparks were wafted out of the chimney and over towards the mills. The watchman noticed the sparks flying about, and “in the execution of his duty,” informed the authorities of the matter, and Binns was hauled before the magistrates, and fined 5s and costs. I may say that in those days few persons summoned before the magistrates escaped a fine or its equivalent. In this case the action of the watchman was generally regarded as ridiculous. Now, Binns was an old friend of mine, we having been on the stage together, and at his earnest solicitation I wrote a satire with the title, “The ‘Heroic’ Watchman of Calversyke Hill,” from which I take the following verses:—

He swore by his maker the flames rose so high,
That within a few yards, sir, it reached to the sky;
And so greatly it lighted up mountains and dales,
He could see into Ireland, Scotland and Wales!
And so easily the commons did swallow his pill,
That they fined the poor artist at Calversyke Hill.
Now, there are some foolish people who are led to suppose
It was by some shavings this fire first arose.
“But yet,” says the ‘hero,’ “I greatly suspect
This fire was caused by the grossest neglect.
But I’m glad it’s put out, let it be as it will,”
Says the “heroic” watchman of Calversyke Hill.
So, many brave thanks to this “heroic” knave,
For thousands of lives no doubt he did save;
And but for this “hero” the disaster had spread
And smothered the nation while sleeping in bed;
But to save all His people it was the Lord’s will,
Through the “heroic” watchman of Calversyke Hill!

CHAPTER XVIIITHE GREAT TICKET-OF-LEAVE STRIKE

This great dispute in the iron trade of Keighley, about the year 1871, was known as the “ticket-of-leave” strike. The “Iron Lords” of Keighley amalgamated and practised a system of boycotting upon their workpeople. If a workman left one firm and took up with another, the latter would enquire of the man’s late employers what were the reasons of his leaving, &c. The reply took the form of a “Ticket,” sent under cover, of course, and practically decided the fate of the workman. Containing as this ticket usually did particulars as to the class to which the workman in question belonged; as to the wages he was worth, &c., the scale of ironworkers’ wages in the town got to an unbearably low ebb. The masters held the full sway for a while; then the workpeople broke out in open revolt against the pernicious system of their masters, and thus commenced the great “ticket-of-leave” strike. Early in the dispute I was applied to by the strike authorities to write and expose the unfair dealings of the “Iron Lords” of Keighley, and on the first day of the strike I composed several verses to go to the tune of the National Anthem. This was sung at the first great meeting of the strikers held in the Temperance Hall. The verses were as follow:—

Men of the iron trade,
Whose hands have England made
Greater than all!
How can you quietly stand
With the chains on your hands?
Hear you not through the land
Liberty’s call?

Long have you been the slaves
Of these conniving knaves
Now’s your relief.
Swear you no longer will,
Neither in shop nor mill,
Tremble for pen or quill,
Or ticket-of-leave!

Strike while the iron’s hot,
And let it not be forgot
’Tis sweet liberty.
Stand like true Britons, then,
Show you are Englishmen,
Make your shouts ring again,
“We will be free!”

This is only one of the many effusions I manufactured at the request of the Strike Committee. I wrote pamphlet after pamphlet (some sixteen pages in length) denouncing the unfair system which the masters had put into operation. The strikers went into the outside districts, as far as Bradford and on to Leeds, collecting towards the strike funds. They took with them supplies of my pamphlets and verses, which, so the men told me, won them much sympathy, and, what was infinitely more desirable—much money. But this system of collection to the strike funds was much abused, as has been the case in the present coal strike—men went out begging, ostensibly for the general strike fund, but in reality for their own private funds. Individuals managed to possess themselves of strike “literature,” and with its aid found themselves able to rake in the shekels more abundantly than they had been doing by their ordinary work; and so the strike proved a sort of harvest to them. The strikers received much support, I must say, from the publicans. In particular, one Owen Cash the landlord of the “Devonshire Tap,” provided free dinners as well as suppers. Then “Bob” Walton and a pork butcher in Upper Green each gave a whole pig; and there were many other gifts in kind for the out o’ work workers. Of course there were those among the strikers ever ready to take a mean advantage of a kind action. A good many of the shopkeepers allowed goods on credit; but many of the people to whom they extended this privilege failed to show up again after the strike was settled. When this settlement was arrived at, it was at the expense of the masters. At this juncture the Strike Committee was not altogether without funds, for they had a surplus of something like £40. There were various suggestions made as to the disposal of this money, one of them being that it should be handed to Bill o’ th’ Hoylus End for his services in the “strike literature department.” This suggestion was embodied in a motion, but the proposer got no seconder, and thus there remained wanting a bridge over the chasm existing between the money and myself; but the bridge is still wanting!

THE PARISH PINDER

Perhaps a reference in my “Recollections” to William Speak (alias “Bawk”), the parish pinder, will not be out of place. “Billy,” as the gentleman was ordinarily called, occupied the position of pinder for a score of years. He was well known in the town, not merely on account of his official duty in taking care of stray animals, but of personal peculiarities which made him a public character. Yes; he certainly had his eccentricities had Billy Speak. One peculiarity about him in the eyes of the townspeople was that he was seldom, if ever, seen abroad in the daytime; but at night he always appeared to be very busy. Of course rumour is rumour; but some people went so far as to say when his “trade” was slack, Billy would not object to opening a gate and allowing the animals in the field to come out upon the highway, thus affording a nice capture for the pinfold. It was also said that the pinder had received many sound thrashings from farmers whom he had met at night for these little acts of misdemeanour. In this connection I may mention that on one occasion a goose belonging to Jerry Wells was placed in the pinfold (which was then in Coney lane) by Billy. The walls of the pound, however, were so low that Jerry’s goose flew over them, and went away—the pinder did not know where. Now, old Jerry Wells was a man who enjoyed a good “lark”; and although his goose had come home, he sued Billy in the County Court, on the 12th January, 1853, for “clappin’ his gooise in’tat’ pinfowd.” How the case ended I forget; but I think it would teach the too ardent pinder a valuable lesson. Now, for a long time Billy had to go without a uniform, but at last Barney McVay and others said it was a shame that anyone holding an official position of this kind should not be provided with a uniform. So that a public subscription was started, and the pinder—to enable him the better to uphold the dignity of his office—was presented with a uniform; and at the same time opportunity was taken to uniform the town’s crier, Jack Moore, who kept the “Dusty Miller,” at Damside. The question of suitable headgear was a momentous and difficult one, but eventually a helmet was selected for the pinder, with a cocked hat for the town’s crier. “Bawk” did not live long to enjoy his uniform. He died in May, 1875, and was followed to the grave by his wife a few days afterwards.

ADVENTURE WITH A SHARK

It was in 1872 that James Leach and David Hey and myself purchased a large shark at Hull. The shark had apparently been harpooned at sea, and washed into the Humber. It was secured by some fishermen, and they offered it for sale by public auction. A brother of George Swire, of Keighley, chanced to be in Hull at the time, and hearing of the sale, he sent word to us at Keighley about it. My friend Leach—who would be close upon sixty years old at the time—was deputed to Hull to purchase the shark, and he effected the bargain for £3 17s 6d. The shark was seventeen feet in length; it was brought to Keighley by rail, and there were many people to witness the landing of the monster. We took it to the Burlington laithe (now used as an auction room by Mr T. S. Lister). I painted a glowing scenic piece for the entrance to the exhibition—picturing the shark swallowing a whole boat-load of people! I was also put on to act as showman, and in that capacity—not in my capacity as a private citizen—I told stories of the voracious appetite of the shark when alive. Many blankets had been found in the shark, not to mention a barrel or two of beer. Leach stood at the door turning a box organ, which we had bought cheaply; and David Hey undertook to look after the naphtha lamps, &c. Well, for a week the show went on very well, and we had large numbers of visitors. Towards the end of the week, the fish began to smell, so we paid Joseph Gott, taxidermist, Market-street, £5 to cure the shark. In the meantime we purchased a tent and additional naphtha lamps, and when the curing process was completed, and we had had a box made in which to place the shark, we started on our first expedition, going to Haworth. Our visit here was attended by a slight misfortune. We had got the tent pitched, and a good audience in it, when one of the naphtha lamps exploded and set fire to the canvas top. Luckily we succeeded in extinguishing the flames before they had done more than burn a hole in the canvas top; and the aperture was covered with a shawl, which my friend Leach was wearing. As on the occasion of my visit to Haworth in the garb of a monkey, with Jack Spencer, the Haworth folk thought it a joke, and swore that the shark “wor made o’ leather.” But after they had examined it, I think they were convinced it was the real thing. We next took the show to Clayton, and here we were unable to get lodgings, and had to sleep in the tent along with the shark. Before daybreak we were leaving Clayton for Vicar’s Croft, Leeds. It was moonlight, and I shall never forget an incident which happened on the way. Certainly we must have formed a very curious spectacle. A grey galloway and cart, with Dave Hey as driver; myself on the cart balancing the long box; and James Leach sitting with the box organ on his back. Leach saw our shadow in the strong moonlight, and rather astonished us by exclaiming—“There’s Bill o’ th’ Hoylus theear—he can wag his tongue like a lamb’s tail; and Dave o’ th’ Damside—he can whistle an’ sing an’ he’s a houseful o’ little barns; by gum, I wish I wor at home wi’ ahr Sarah!” The rest of the journey he seemed to be occupied in deep thought; and when we got the tent erected in Vicar’s Croft he “broke out in open rebellion,” and refused to play the organ. “Nay,” says he, “no more organ playing for me; I’m bahn ta dissolve partnership wi’ ye, an’ tak t’ first train ta Keighley.” He suited his words to action and returned home. Of course this rather upset things, but Dave and I determined to go on with the business. Our visit to Leeds brought in a few pounds. Hey then insisted on our going up in the Lake District. I objected strongly, but had eventually to give in, and, to make a long story short, we landed at Windermere. We did very poor business, barely paying expenses; and such was the case when we moved to Keswick and other places around the Lake District. We next shifted to Morecambe, where we passed a very profitable week, and then embarked in a fishing smack which was returning to Fleetwood. We were overtaken by a fearful storm, and the fishermen were fully occupied in keeping their boat right side up. Hey was down in the hold, having left me to take care of the shark. The sea swept over the sides, and I had great difficulty in retaining the box containing our treasure. I shouted to Dave to come and help me, but the only answer I got was that if he was going to be drowned he “wod dee happy.” When we got to Fleetwood, some time elapsed before we were able to land, and when we at last did set foot on the shore, I said to myself, “No more shark showing for me.” Luck seemed to be in the way just then, for a gentleman who came in to see the shark asked me what I would sell it for. I told him I would take £20 for the whole concern—shark, tent, box organ, &c. But he said he only wanted the shark. After much bargaining I brought the price down to £14 for the lot, and he accepted this, and returned the tent, box organ, lamps, &c., and out of these Hey and I made another sovereign. The gentleman purchased the shark for a museum in Fleetwood. Dave o’ th’ Damside and Bill o’ th’ Hoylus End were now rich for once in their lives, but—I almost shrink from telling it—by the time they got to Skipton they had spent every penny of the money, and had to walk to Keighley, from where they had been absent about six months.