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 ca.n.a.l 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 d.o.g.g.i.ng 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 Sat.u.r.day 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 ha.r.s.e 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' sh.e.l.l,"

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."

CHAPTER XXVI

OLD MUSICIANS

I now purpose briefly to refer to a few old singers whose friendship or acquaintance I enjoyed. Mr Edwin Ogden was well known in the neighbourhood as being about one of the best local singers of his day.

Many townsfolk will remember Edwin, together with William Haggas, another old musician, teaching a singing-cla.s.s. Ogden was a shoemaker by trade but he dabbled more in music than in wax and leather. For many years he held the position of leading chorister at St. Anne's Roman Catholic Church. He also "gave of his talents" on frequent occasions at local concerts, and was in great favour with the public. He made as many young singers, I suppose, as Joe Turner made musicians in the instrumental sense of the word. Turner was for many years the conductor of Marriner's Bra.s.s Band. Not a few of our present-day musicians will be able to date the commencement of their musical career from the time they took up instruction with either Ogden or Turner. The former has been removed by death, but the latter is still with us. James Greenwood was also one of the school to which Ogden and Turner belonged; and the three took great interest in the musical training of the late Mademoiselle Matilda Florella Illingworth previous to her visiting the conservatoires of music on the Continent. Mr James Wright, my father, also interested himself in Miss Illingworth, in whom at an early period of her life he detected material for the making of an accomplished vocalist. She was a frequent visitor at our house, and often have I heard her sing "Robin Adair"-my father's favourite song. After she had been on the Continent, I heard Miss Illingworth tell how often while there she was swindled by the proprietors and managers of theatres and music-halls. In some instances she was subjected to the most cruel impositions. More than once she was robbed of all her stage properties, and in Florence she was duped out of every half-penny of the proceeds of a concert which she promoted. Other musicians of the time, I may mention, were John Dunderdale, Daniel Ackroyd, and Joe Constantine. It was in memory of these old musicians that I wrote the following verses:-

"COME, GIE US A WAG O' THI PAW."

Come, gie us a wag o' thi paw, Jim Wreet, Come, gie us a wag o' thi paw; Ah knew thee when thi heead wor black, But nah it's as white as snow; Yet a merry Christmas to thee, Jim, An' all thi kith an' kin: An' hopin' tha'll hev monny more For t' sake o' owd long sin, Jim Wreet, For t' sake o' owd long sin.

It's soa monny year ta-day, Jim Wreet, Sin owd Joe Constantine An' Daniel Ackroyd, thee and me, An' other friends o' thine Went up ta sing at t' Squire's house Net hawf-a-mile fra' here; An' t' Squire made us welcome To his brown October beer, Jim Wreet, To his brown October beer.

An' owd Joe Booth tha knew, Jim Wreet, 'At kept the Old King's Arms.

Wheear all t' church singers used ta meet, When they hed sung their Psalms; An' thee an' me amang 'em, Jim, Sometimes hev chang'd the string, An' wi' a merry chorus join'd, We've made yon' tavern ring, Jim Wreet, We've made yon' tavern ring.

But nearly three score year, Jim Wreet, Hev pa.s.sed away sin then; When Keighley in Apollo's art Could boast her music men.

But music, nah, means money, Jim, An' that tha's sense ta knaw; But just for owd acquaintance sake, Come gie us a wag o' thi paw, Jim Wreet; Jim Wreet, Come gie us a wag o' thi paw.

A DISAPPOINTED MAN

I think an apology will be scarcely needed for introducing a few remarks regarding Mr James Wallbank, a well-known and eccentric character in the town. I have heard that James is dead. Whether this is so or not I cannot say; certainly I have not seen the old gentleman about for some time.

James was for many years billiard-marker at the Devonshire Hotel. He cherished the idea that he was related to royalty. He often told me that he was a relative of one of the old kings of France, and insisted that his name instead of being Wallbank should be Wal de Brooke, or something like that. When Burridge, the celebrated American painter, was in Keighley, he stayed at the Devonshire Hotel and painted Mr Walbank's portrait, and the picture is now in the possession of Mr Martin Reynolds.

"GOOISE AN' GIBLET PIE."

Another well-known character was Harry Smith, manufacturer. Harry was a man intensely fond of fun, and one Christmas Eve, I remember, when I was coming from the station after returning from Scotland, he tapped me on the shoulder, and, after ascertaining where I had been of late, quoted a motto of the Freemasons'-"In my Father's house are many mansions, but such as I have I give unto thee. Follow me." I went with Smith to his house, and spent Christmas Eve there. The subject of my poem, "Gooise and Giblet Pie," arose out of that night's proceedings:-

A Kersmas song I'll sing mi lads, If you'll but hearken me, An incident i' Kersmas time I' eighteen sixty three: Withaht a cypher i' the world I'd scorn to tell a lie- I dined wi' a gentleman O' gooise an' giblet pie.

I've been i' lots o' feeds, mi' lads, An' hed some rare tuck-ahts; Blood-pudding days wi' killing pigs, Minch pies an' thumping tarts.

But I wired in, an' reight an' all, An' supped when I wor dry; For I wor dining wi' a gentleman O' gooise an' giblet pie.

I hardly knew what ailed me, lads, I felt so fearful prahd; Mi ears p.r.i.c.k'd up, mi collar rose, Towards a hawf-a-yard; Mi chest stood aht, mi charley in, Like horns stuck aht mi tie; For I dined wi' a gentleman O' gooise an' giblet pie.

I offen think o' t' feed, mi lads, When t' gentleman I meet; But nauther of us speyke a word Abaht that glorious neet; In fact, I hardly can mysel- I feel so fearful shy; For I ate a deal o' t' roasted gooise, An' warmed his giblet pie.

THE CONCLUDING CHAPTER

It must be a long lane that has no turning. I am afraid the _Herald_ readers who have followed my Recollections will have thought Bill o' th'

Hoylus End's memory an inexhaustible one. The truth is, when I commenced to "resurrect" my past career I had no idea that the stories and reminiscences would extend to anything like the length they have gone to; and even now I find that the source of supply is far from being exhausted. But, in the circ.u.mstances, I have decided to conclude with this week's chapter-"the last scene that ends this strange and eventful history." In the first place, I must crave an apology from my readers for not having been able to give events in my career in their chronological order. As I stated at the outset, I had no diary or data whatever to go by, and have simply reeled the stories and anecdotes off my memory. It will thus be readily seen that I cannot have given every little transaction or happening in my life. In my Recollections I have now and again introduced descriptions and narratives of various characters with whom I was brought closely in contact. I may say that in doing this I have made it my aim to omit, or, failing that, to treat with proper respect, all incidents concerning individuals who were living themselves or had relatives living; and I think that nothing I have said in regard to friends or foes gone over to the Great Majority will have given the slightest offence to their living representatives. I commenced by recapitulating some of the tricks of my boyhood-when I was said, by the old house-wives, to be the "village harum-skarum"-and have traced my career down to within a few years of the present time. Some of my stories have been favourable, others unfavourable to my character. My critics will have said that Bill o' th' Hoylus End has many faults; but I must ask them to forgive my many shortcomings, and look upon my few virtues.

Above all things, I think I can say that with all reasonableness I have held to the truth. Most of the people of Keighley and the surrounding towns and villages are familiar with the name, at least, of Bill o' th'

Hoylus End. Without appearing vain or egotistical, I think I may say that I have been recognised by high and low, rich and poor, and by people not altogether unknown to fame. Of all my friends, I entertain the greatest respect for the late Sir t.i.tus Salt, whose a.s.surance I had that if, while he was alive, I wanted a helping hand I need not go far or wait long for it. The baronet honoured me with an interview, at which he told me how highly he thought of the poem which I had written just previously on the occasion of the unveiling of the monument of Sir t.i.tus in Bradford.

Perhaps a couple of verses of my "Ode to Sir t.i.tus Salt" will not be misplaced here:-