I had not a little to do with the late Mr Jonas Bottomley, of mint rock fame. I first became acquainted with him in the warp department at Messrs Lund’s in West-lane. He came to ask me if I would write his “manifesto,” or election address, as he intended “standing” for the Local Board and the Board of Guardians. I wrote out the address, but Mr Bottomley did not succeed in getting on either of the Boards. It was soon afterwards that the Prince of Wales was announced to visit Milner Field, Saltaire. Mr Bottomley had hit upon some idea or other, and he came to ask me who was the likeliest person to write a letter to the Prince of Wales. I referred him to the late Rev J. Room, vicar of Eastwood. Mr Bottomley accordingly waited upon Mr Room, who, however, said he had come to the wrong person; he (Mr Room), was not in the habit of addressing kings and princes, and lords and dukes, but he could refer him to a man who was. Mr Room said he knew nobody better for the work than Bill o’ th’ Hoylus End. So Mr Bottomley appealed to me, and, with some demur, I penned a rough epistle, which was couched somewhat as follows:—“To His Royal Highness Albert Edward Prince of Wales.—May it please your Royal Highness to accept a package of mint rock from your humble servant. And, in addition, while your Royal Highness is staying in the locality, I should very greatly appreciate an interview. If you could see your way to consent to my earnest longing you would greatly oblige your most humble and obedient servant, Jonas Bottomley.” Mr Bottomley told me when I was writing the letter that if he got the Royal patronage to his mint rock he would give me £100 “slap dahn,” which, you may guess, made me as anxious as Mr Bottomley to bring about the desired “interview.” I had also to write some verses concerning the Royal visit to Saltaire—

Welcome to Bradford Royal Albert Edward,
Son of Victoria, Old England’s Queen.

These are only a few of the preparations that were made by Mr Bottomley. But he did not achieve the success he so eagerly sought; it was on the day the visit took place that he received a letter in which the Prince of Wales expressed his pleasure to receive the gift of mint rock so kindly sent by Mr Jonas Bottomley, but explaining that there were so many gifts of this nature that it would be out of the question to give a privilege to one and not to another. I should offer a word of apology for making such an abrupt introduction of the next event. It was not many weeks after the above that Mr Bottomley came to an unfortunate end, his dead body being found on the canal bank at Leeds, where it was supposed he had been subjected to foul play.

“SHOOTING MONKEYS”

Readers who have followed me through my “Recollections” will remember that in one chapter I said I should have something further to say of my esteemed friend the late Mr Barber Hopkinson. As is well known, Mr Hopkinson was of a merrily genial disposition—a veritable type of the real John Bull, and where his company was, there was no dearth of quaint, good-humoured talk. As a sportsman, he was known far and near—

He was indeed a merry chap
As ever made a trigger snap,
And ne’er a bird its wing could flap—
And get away;
Whenever Barber smashed a cap,
It had to stay.

It was his abilities as a “crack” shot that led him to be generally appealed to for instruction and “tips” by “pupils in the art of shooting.” It was one of these “unattached pupils” who was continually dogging at Mr Hopkinson to teach him how to shoot straight. His name was Bob Brigg. It was with great joy that Bob heard Barber say he would give him a lesson if he turned up on the following Saturday afternoon. Of course, Bob, gun in hand, was up to time at Mr Hopkinson’s house in Devonshire-street. Barber took him out into the street and said: “Tha sees theeas haases?” “Ay,” replied Bob wonderingly. “Nah, if tha’ll goa an’ shooit all t’ ‘monkeys’ off iv’ry one o’ t’ haases, fra t’ top ta t’ bottom o’ t’ street, tha’ll be a varry fair shot when tha’s finished.” Bob, I believe in the goodness of his heart, set out to find the monkeys, but without success, and he returned to tell his “instructor” that he “hed been i’ iv’ry harse i’ t’ street, but noan on ’em hed a monkey in it.” Barber, notwithstanding, maintained that there was a monkey on t’ top o’ nearly every house; and Bob felt that he had been nicely “taken in” when the sort of monkeys alluded to was explained to him. It was common knowledge at that time that every—or nearly every—house in Devonshire-street had a “monkey” (i.e. a mortgage) on it. The incident was the subject of much fun for a long time afterwards—Bob Brigg and his monkey-shooting. But Barber did really teach “the young idea to shoot,” taking Bob with him on several shooting expeditions.

“WHEN GREEN LEAVES COME AGAIN”

Perhaps the following unpublished poem, which I wrote some years ago, will not be inappropriate at this season; it will “go” to the tune of the old English ballad, “The dawning of the day”:—

As I walk out one winter’s morn,
Along the Steeton Ing,
And as I gaze me all around
Romantic ideas spring.
I think upon my past career,
With antics all in vain;—
But I will be a better lad
When green leaves come again.

The little birds I cannot see,
Excepting now and then;
For they are far beyond the sea
And left the haunts of men.
The trees are bare, and every bush
Speaks out to me so plain—
That I should be a better lad
When green leaves come again.

The fields are like a silvery lake,
The mountain tops are white,
And rear their heads majestically—
To me a great delight;
And as I gaze on Rivock End,
Across the silvery plain,
Methinks I hear a voice speak out—
“Green leaves will come again.”

Green leaves came, and green leaves went,
And they are gone once more,
And I have never kept my vow,
Which makes my heart full sore.
But I will never “dee i’ t’ shell,”
But make that vow again—
That I will be a better lad
When green leaves come again.

And should I tarry here a while
To see the smiling scene,
When nature takes her snow-white cloth
And changes it for green,
I shall be faithful to my vow
With all my might and main;
For I will be a better lad
“When green leaves come again.”