Adventures and Recollections - Bill o'th' Hoylus End

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current of the muse’s fancy, forsooth, to the delectation of the more prosaic humanity in this his locality. A life of pleasure was ever his treasure, and he agrees, after experience of life’s fitful dream, that

      E’en Pleasure acts a treacherous part,

       She charms the scene, but stings the heart,

       And while she gulls us of our wealth,

       Or that superior pearl, our health,

      [Yet, and these are the two lines he substitutes for the melancholy truth of an old poet],

      Yet she restores for all the pains,

       By giving Merit her exchange.

      Though the poetic flame has flickered from time to time, it has never been extinguished. There is health and buoyancy still in his muse. It is the one thing essential, the one thing permanent in his nature—ever ready to impart the mystic jingle to pictures of fun and frolic, or perchance judgement and reflection. Thus, as the local Burns, he stands unrivalled. His poetic effusions speak for themselves, but there are other traits in his career which he wished to convey to the public, which might while away an occasional half-hour in the reading of his stories of the tricks of his boyhood, the adventures of his early manhood, and to learn how he became—well, what he is! He has been caught in divers moods and at sundry times, and his words have been taken in shorthand, the endeavour always being to keep the transcript as faithful as circumstances would allow. No pretence is here made to evolve a dramatic story, but rather to present Bill’s career simply and faithfully for public perusal; for to use Dr. Johnson’s words, “If a man is to write a panegyric, he can keep the vices out of sight; but if he professes to write a life he must represent it really as it was.”]

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      It was on the 22nd day of March, 1836, in a village midway between Keighley and Haworth, in a cottage by the wayside, that I, William Wright, first saw light. The hamlet I have just alluded to was and now is known by the name of Hermit Hole: which name, by the way, is said to have been given to it owing to the fact that a once-upon-a-timeyfied hermit abided there. At the top end of the village stood a group of houses which, also, distinguished themselves by a little individuality, and go by the name of “Hoylus End.” My parents’ house was one of this group. All this is about my home. My father was James Wright, at one time a hand-loom weaver, latterly a weft manager at Messrs W. Lund & Sons, North Beck Mills, Keighley, a position which he held for somewhere about half a century. He was the son of Jonathan Wright, farmer, Damems. My mother was a daughter of Crispin Hill, farmer and cartwright, of Harden, and she enjoyed a relationship with Nicholson, the Airedale poet. I can trace my ancestry back for a long period. The Wrights at one time belonged to the rights of Damems. Then according to Whitaker’s “Craven” and “Keighley: Past and Present”, “Robert Wright, senior, and Robert Wright, junior,” ancestors of mine, fought with Earl de Clifford, of Skipton, on Flodden Field. I believe I am correct in saying that since that event the name of Robert has been retained in our family down to the present time—a brother of mine now holding the honour. Several of my ancestors, along with my grand father, are buried in the Keighley Parish Church-yard, at the east end. But it strikes me that I’m going astray a little.

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      Many old townsfolk—especially those musically inclined—will remember my father, who was a vocalist of no mean repute;—at least, this was said of him in general. Possessing a rich tenor voice, he was in great demand, both publicly and privately. He occupied the position of leading singer in the Keighley Parish Church Choir, at the time when the late Mr. B. F. Marriner and other gentlemen were prominently associated with the Church. His services were often requisitioned on the occasion of anniversaries of places of worship, &c. In those days, mind you, “t’anniversary Sunday” was regarded as a big and auspicious event. Great preparations were made for it, and when the service did take place people attended from miles around; I believe the singing was relied on as the chief “fetching” medium. But somehow or other I never did care much for singing—I really didn’t. Nevertheless I ought to say we had an abundance—I was going to say over-abundance—of singing in our house; indeed, the word used is not nearly sufficiently expressive—I had singing to breakfast, singing to dinner, singing to supper, singing to go to bed—Ah! My pen was going further, but I just managed to stop it. One really must, you know, represent things as they stand.

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      But, as I have told you, I didn’t take to singing. I would ten times ten rather be “away to the woods, away!” I recollect that when I was a little boy—my parents said I was a little naughty boy—I got into endless scrapes. But people will talk. Roaming in the woods had an especial charm for me; and Peace Close Wood was my favourite haunt. Some people had the bad grace to let me hear that my visits to the wood were not very much sought for. It was said that I had a habit of peeling bark off as many trees as I could conveniently—sometimes it got to be inconveniently—manage, and, in fact, doing anything that wasn’t exactly up to the nines. I now feel rather sorry that I should have given my father and mother so much uneasiness, and cause my father so much expense. Of course the keeper of the wood soon got to know me and my eccentricities; it was a bad day for me when he did. It’s a sad thing for you when you get suspected of aught; if all doesn’t go like “square” you may look out for squalls. In my case, my father had to “turn-out” and pay for the damage I was said to have done to the trees; those upon which I left my mark had generally to come down—young trees—trees with plenty of life in them I took immensely to. But I have since thought they needn’t have pestered my father as much as they did. I had many a narrow “squeak” in my boyish days. When I was about an octave of years old, I remember very feelingly an escapade which I was engaged in, as a wind-up to one of my devastating expeditions to Peace Close Wood. The steward dogged my footsteps and waylaid me, and, by Jove! he pursued me! Fortunately for me, perhaps, there was a house near the wood, the roof of which, at the rear, sloped almost to the ground. I mounted the roof and walked along the rigging. The steward took it into his “noddle” to follow suit. He did so. It was an exciting chase. I ran to the extreme edge of my elevated platform and then actually jumped—I remember the jump yet, I do—onto the road below. The result was a visit to Baildon, to a celebrated doctor there, for an injury to my heels which I sustained by my fall. Of course the steward had more sense than to follow me. He complained, I believe, to my father; but my revered father, and mother too—how I bless them for it!—gave all attention to their little darling. I recovered. I was sent to school, which was carried on in the “Old White House,” near our house. It provided for the education of all the young blood of the village—my little self included. This school, I must say in passing, turned out some very good scholars: there was no set teacher—the “learned ’uns” of the neighbourhood came forward and gave their services. It used to be said I was a wild dog, a harem-scarem; and I was often caned for my pranks. Caricaturing the teacher was one of my favourite attractions and principal offences—at least I had to smart most for it. But I got over it, as all boys seem to have done. Perhaps the best description of my antics before I was ten years of age will be found in the following “opinion” of the old wives of the villages of Fell-lane and Exley-head; the lines came from my pen more than thirty years ago:—

      O! HE’S A’ ILL ’UN

      Dancin’, an’ jumpin’, an’ fair going mad—

       What can be done with this wild, wicked lad?

       Plaguin’ t’poor cat till it scratches his hand,

      

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