I have known men who, handicapped in this way, have in after life, by strong will and great application, overcome their disabilities and become good cricketers, great at tennis, proficient at golf, strong swimmers, skilful shots; but they have been exceptional men with a strong natural inclination to athletics.
The only active physical recreations in which I have engaged with any degree of pleasure are walking, riding, bicycling and skating. Riding I took to readily enough as soon as I was able to afford it; and, if my means had ever allowed indulgence in the splendid pastime of hunting, I would have followed the hounds, not, I believe, without some spirit and boldness. My natural disposition I know inclined me to sedentary pursuits: reading, writing, drawing, painting, though, happily, the tendency was corrected to some extent by a healthy love of Nature’s fair features, and a great liking for country walks.
In drawing and painting, though I had a certain natural aptitude for both, I never attained much proficiency in either, partly for lack of instruction, partly from want of application, but more especially, I believe, because
another, more alluring, more mentally exciting occupation beguiled me. It was not music, though to music close allied. This new-found joy I long pursued in secret, afraid lest it should be discovered and despised as a folly. It was not until I lived in Scotland, where poetical taste and business talent thrive side by side, and where, as Mr. Spurgeon said, “no country in the world produced so many poets,” that I became courageous, and ventured to avow my dear delight. It was there that I sought, with some success, publication in various papers and magazines of my attempts at versification, for versification it was that so possessed my fancy. Of the spacious times of great Elizabeth it has been written, “the power of action and the gift of song did not exclude each other,” but in England, in mid-Victorian days, it was looked upon differently, or so at least I believed.
After a time I had the distinction of being included in a new edition of Recent and Living Scottish Poets, by Alexander Murdoch, published in 1883. My inclusion was explained on the ground that, “His muse first awoke to conscious effort on Scottish soil,” which, though not quite in accordance with fact, was not so wide of the mark that I felt in the least concerned to criticise the statement. I was too much enamoured of the honour to question the foundation on which it rested. Perhaps it was as well deserved as are some others of this world’s distinctions! At any rate it was neither begged nor bought, but came “Like Dian’s kiss, unasked, unsought.” In the same year (1883) I also appeared in Edwards’ Sixth Series of Modern Scottish Poets; and in 1885, more legitimately, in William Andrews’ book on Modern Yorkshire Poets. My claim for this latter distinction was not, however, any greater, if as great, as my right to inclusion in the collection of Scottish Poets. If I “lisped in numbers,” it was not in Yorkshire, for Yorkshire I left for ever before even the first babblings of babyhood began. However, “kissing goes by favour,” and I was happy in the favour I enjoyed.
I may as well say it here: with my poetical productions I was never satisfied any more than with my attempts at drawing. My verses seemed mere farthing dips compared with the resplendent poetry of our country which I read and loved, but my efforts employed and brightened many an hour in my youth that otherwise would have been tedious and dreary.
Ours was a large family, nine children in all; nothing unusual in those days. “A quiver full” was then a matter of parental pride. Woman was more satisfied with home life then than now. The pursuit of pleasure was not so keen. Our parents and our grandparents were simpler in their tastes, more easily amused, more readily impressed with the wonderful and the strange. Things that would leave us unmoved were to them matters of moment. Railways were new and railway travelling was, to most people, an event.
Our fathers talked of their last journey to London, their visit to the Tower, to Westminster Abbey, the Monument, Madame Tussauds; how they mistook the waxwork policeman for a real member of the force; how they shuddered in the Chamber of Horrors; how they travelled on the new Underground Railway; and saw the wonders of the Crystal Palace, especially on fireworks night. They told us of their visit to the Great Eastern, what a gigantic ship it was, what a marvel, and described its every feature. They talked of General Tom Thumb, of Blondin, of Pepper’s Ghost, of the Christy Minstrels. Nowadays, a father will return from London and not even mention the Tubes to his children. Why should he? They know all about them and are surprised at nothing. The picture books and the cinemas have familiarised them with every aspect of modern life.
In those days our pleasures and our amusements were fewer, but impressed us more. I remember how eagerly the coloured pictures of the Christmas numbers of the pictorial papers were looked forward to, talked of, criticised, admired, framed and hung up. I remember too, the excitements of Saint Valentine’s Day, Shrove Tuesday, April Fool’s Day, May Day and the Morris (Molly) dancers; and the Fifth of November, Guy Fawkes Day. I remember also the peripatetic knife grinder and his trundling machine, the muffin man, the pedlar and his wares, the furmity wheat vendor, who trudged along with his welcome cry of “Frummitty!” from door to door. Those were pleasant and innocent excitements. We have other things to engage us now, but I sometimes think all is not gain that the march of progress brings.
Young people then had fewer books to read, but read them thoroughly. What excitement and discussion attended the monthly instalments of