leasure 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."]

MY BIRTHPLACE, HOME AND PARENTAGE

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 s