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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.ds 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 Sat.u.r.day night, and we were playing "Uncle Tom's Cabin" as a _finale_. 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 pa.s.s, 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 pa.s.sed 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 n.i.g.g.e.r 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 n.o.ble hearts, and that still more n.o.ble art of the drama.

Thespis, O! Thespis, founder of that n.o.ble 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 n.o.ble, 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.

CHAPTER VI

MARIONETTES AT INGROW-AN AMUSING STORY

By this time my appet.i.te for "seeing the world" had got somewhat satisfied, and I stayed at home for a while. I happened to become acquainted with a man of the name of Howard, who went under the nick-name of Harlequin d.i.c.k. By trade he was a wood-carver, and a first-cla.s.s hand at his job. He was a Liverpool man, and during his stay in Keighley he did wood-carving for many firms in the district. Then he was taken into tow by old James Illingworth (now deceased), who ran the Worth Valley Chair Works, at Ingrow, opposite the Worth Valley Hotel. A new stone building now occupies the place of the old structure. Now my friend Howard's great hobby was making marionettes, and performing with them; and of these Lilliputian mummers he made a set, and then discussed ways and means for appearing with them in public. I was by him put into the trinitarian post of scenic artist, advance agent, and stage manager. It devolved upon me to draw up the advertis.e.m.e.nts. We had some capital wall posters, each figure-its capabilities, recommendations, &c.-being graphically described in rhyme; yes, it was a remarkable bill-so remarkable that parties interested in other marionette shows appropriated its contents for their own shows. When all the paraphernalia were ready, we went round to various schools in the town and neighbourhood, giving entertainments to the school children. I remember one occasion-yes; I shall never forget it-when we exhibited our show in St. John's school-room, Ingrow. The Rev Mr Mayne was then the vicar of St. John's, and he allowed us to have a night with the children. Well, we removed a part.i.tion in the school-room dividing the boys' from the girls'

department, and made a sort of shake-down stage at one end of the room, and with a scene and proscenium the place looked like a pretty little theatre. There was a crowded audience for our performance, including the vicar and Mrs Mayne, the curate of St. John's (who, by-the-way, was a coloured gentleman), Mr John b.u.t.terfield, brother of Mr H. I.

b.u.t.terfield, of Cliffe Castle, and, indeed, a good many of the _elite_ of the district. The show opened: the curtain was rung up. The first part was a representation of "The Babes in the Wood," which went very smoothly, and appeared to suit the general taste of the spectators. Then followed a "skeleton dance," and next we gave with the puppets an amusing harlequinade by clown, pantaloon, and b.u.t.terfly. Yes, and here the real fun of the evening came in. The b.u.t.terfly took a great deal of catching.

Mr Howard and his good lady and myself were leaning over a rail (behind the scenes, of course) near the front of the stage, energetically working the strings of the figures, when, without any warning, the stage front gave way, and we (still energetically working the figures) were thrown right into the auditorium. Talk about tumbling head over heels! Why, words would only belittle this part of our "performance." Suffice it to say that the wreckage just cleared the front seat, on which the Vicar and his good lady and friends were sitting.

OUR HUMPTY-DUMPTY SITUATION

was so irresistibly humorous that Mr Mayne burst into a fit of laughter, and, taking up his hat, he left the room, followed shortly after by his wife and the curate, and shortly afterwards by Mr John b.u.t.terfield, who, I may say, seemed to enjoy the accident far better than the legitimate performance. The audience roared and roared again with laughter, and, speaking for myself, I can say that I felt "jolly queer." We had only, as it were, pitched the stage together, making it by placing one form above another. Fortunately the people present took the unlooked-for incident in good part, and with a little a.s.sistance we managed to improvise another stage, and upon this we went through a little more of our "show."

AT ADDINGHAM FEAST-A JOKE THAT TOOK

Before we ventured upon a further public appearance with the "dolls" we provided the show with better equipments. These included a tent, which, along with a magic-lantern, we bought for a trifling matter from a travelling photographer who went by the name of Old Kalo. The first of our second series of entertainments took place at Addingham, where, it being the Feast, we did very brisk "biz." During one of the intervals between the performances, I remember a gentleman coming in and asking me, "Do you think you could study a few lines for me, and introduce them into your play?" "What are they about?" said I. Then my visitor told me that he "had got a little fellow, Jacky Demaine, of Catgill, in the public house opposite, and wanted me to talk about him during the acting." I agreed to carry out his wishes, and my worthy friend, Howard, and I, having been supplied with the "matter," commenced to rehea.r.s.e the scene we had prepared expressly for Jacky. There were two figures strutting about the stage. "Good morning, Mr Catgill" said one of them. "Why, you are smart this morning." "Well, you know it is Addingham Feast," was the reply of the other figure. "Are you in want of a sweetheart?" "No," said Jacky's double; "I came here to buy some cattle." Upon this the real Jacky Demaine could "stand it" no longer, and he rose from a front seat in the audience and made an "explanation." He wished to know "how the little hound knew him," saying that he never had a pint o' beer with him in his life! Then Jacky wanted to come behind the stage to talk to the "little hound." Of course he was a little fresh. The audience "fairly brought down the house" with their bursts of laughter, and people crowded into the booth and around the entrance anxious to know what was the matter. I have no doubt the little incident would be talked about for a good while in Addingham.

"NOT ONE LEFT TO TELL THE TALE"

After this, we appeared with our show in the old Mechanics' Hall (now the Yorkshire Penny Bank) at Keighley. A travelling auctioneer who was staying there a week engaged us to give our performances during the intervals at his sales. He paid us very well. But Mr Howard was in the habit of taking more drink than was good for him, and he dispensed with the "mummers" one by one, until there was scarce one of our celebrated actors left to tell the tale and carry on the show.

THE WAR PIG AT HAWORTH-A LAUGHABLE STORY

The marionettes having come to their end, and your humble servant being now practically out of a situation, he began to bestir his imagination for some other line which he might enter into in the show business. It was one morning while I was walking along Back-lane, at the top end of the town, that I "fell in luck." Old John Malloy kept a grocer's shop there-the Ship Inn now marks the spot-and I heard from him that he had a small litter of pigs. I saw them, and found among them a black pig-a puny, rickety, and most dejected-looking creature. I asked John what he would take for the best and the worst, and although he did not wish to part with the best pig, he was not very particular in that respect with regard to the worst-"the leetle blackie." For this he said he would take a shilling, and after bargaining with John I got the pig for ten-pence. I took the pig away with me in an empty herring-box, and consulted my friend, John Spencer. I said, "John; we'll take this pig to Haworth, and show it as the War Pig from South America." John laughed at the idea, but heartily agreed with it. In the next place I got "on tick" a piece of calico several yards long, and with some lampblack I painted in bold type on the calico the words, "Come and see the War Pig from South America, 2d. each." Then Spencer and I engaged the large garret at the Fleece Inn, Haworth. It was a large room, holding, I should think, a couple of hundreds of people, and was entered by a staircase in the back-yard, separate from the public house proper. Mrs Stangcliffe was the landlady, and she readily allowed us to have the room, I having taken it of her once before. Well, to get to business.

THE EXHIBITION