Part 19 (1/2)
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 Devons.h.i.+re-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 Devons.h.i.+re-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 friends.h.i.+p 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.