e your most humble and obedient
servant, Jonas Bottomley." Mr Bottomley told me when I was writing the
letter that if he got the Royal patronage to his mint rock he would give
me 100 pounds "slap dahn," which, you may guess, made me as anxious as Mr
Bottomley to bring about the desired "interview." I had also to write
some verses concerning the Royal visit to Saltaire--

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 canal 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
dogging 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 Saturday afternoon. Of
course, Bob, gun in hand, was up to time at Mr Hopkinson's house in
Devonshire-street. Barber took him out into the street and said: "Tha
sees theeas haases?" "Ay," replied Bob wonderingly. "Nah