Yorkshire Almanac The foundation stone of Bradford Town Hall is laid today, but not by ex-mayor Edward West, godfather of the project

10 August 1870: The foundation stone of Bradford Town Hall is laid today, but not by ex-mayor Edward West, godfather of the project

Benjamin Hardacre. 1874. Laying the Foundation Stone of the Bradford Town Hall, August 10th, 1870. Miscellanies in Prose and Verse. London: Simpkin, Marshall and Co. Who was Ben Hardacre of 15 Ebor Street, Horton Lane, Bradford? Get it:

Unedited excerpt

If an excerpt is used in the book, it will be shorter, edited and, where applicable, translated.

Events, with the wheeling of time, move so fast,
It seems but as days, though long years have past,
Since Bradford, increasing, was urged on at last
To appeal to the heads of the nation;
And a chart of municipal right was then given,
For which a large party had ardently striven,
And since which the Corporate body has thriven
By feeding its Corporation.

The great civic feasts and Mayors’ rich treats,
Of soups and wines and courses of meats,
Made Aldermen grow so large in their seats
Confinement became past endurance.
When Alderman Farrar, with upraised hand,
In manner majestic, and gesture so grand,
Contended for room in which to expand,
So big had he got with assurance.

And many bright speeches and talk called small
Came from shortest of Members to Broadbent tall,
Respecting erecting a New Town Hall,
Till at last their words were plighted.
Then as to a site they differed in views,
And a sight of wrangling before they could choose
Some got into stews, and some wrote to the News,
And many good views were sighted.

At last a spot was fixed on as best
Its cost summed up and put to the test –
And forcibly urged on by one Edward West,
Who then was the Mayor, and presided.
And for his exertions ’twas thought of by all,
The honour on him would deservedly fall
Of laying the foundation-stone of the Hall, –
For which a resolve was provided.

But time wore on, and West’s term expired,
And Dawson came in, a man much admired,
Who took the oaths and seals as required,
And again what’s been said I will say it.
A mare’s nest [muddle] was made by friends unremitting,
Who said that the layer of the stone most befitting
Was the mayor of the time who, hen-like, was sitting,
And wanted to lay and should lay it.

This led to the making a modest request
By Alderman Scott for Alderman West,
That to rescind the resolve would set it at rest,
After which there were speeches long-winded.
‘Twas argued the thing was unfair and unjust,
And could not be binding on new men in trust,
And the question was somewhat diffusely discussed,
When at length the resolve was rescinded.

So now to record the event which outshone
All others, though made of contention a bone,
The laying of the first foundation stone
Of Bradford’s Town Hall, long projected.
Fixed was the day when the stone should be laid,
And great preparations for show and parade
Were extensively, aye! and expensively made,
And a great display was expected.

By post, invitations dispatched were amain,
For the Halifax Mayor to come with his chain;
And friends from afar to be brought by train,
To join and swell the procession.
And orders were given for a rich repast,
With iced champagne on a scale so vast,
That into the shade would other feasts cast –
Even Mitchell’s that made an impression.

Auspicious the morn, when lined was each street,
With sight-seeing people our great Mayor to greet,
To see all our magnates and Bradford’s élite
Was a sight for the gods to behold.
Men of renown of the gown you might see,
A bishop and canons and one M.P.,
And plumed ones of rank in the line two or three,
And mayors who chained were with gold.

And as elements sometimes are said to jar,
There were those who wound and kill in war,
And doctors who cure, and those of the Bar,
And those with a “saving knowledge.”
Men who in pulpits both teach and preach,
To show grovelling man how to upwards reach –
Mitton and Smith, and others, with Leach
In robes of his order at college.

And men were there with remarkable brains,
For ‘cuteness in modes of acquiring gains,
But none with a drop of blue blood in his veins,
Save Poole the great auctioneer.
Some who if told what they once were would frown,
For many have risen in this rising town,
But Poole has got up by knocking things down
Belonging to those in arrear.

With some the wish is innate to acquire,
And to gain with them is a burning desire,
And like an ever-consuming fire,
‘Tis a feeling they never can quench.
An inordinate thirst some have to be
In Senate, and add to their names M.P.,
And some few who get, as one sometimes may see,
To be Shallows, and sit on the bench.

‘Tis strange that men with great acquisitions
Because of their wealth get into positions,
Requiring a knowledge for legal decisions
For which they can have no pretence.
But then there are those in the uppermost class,
If not born to wealth could not wealth amass;
Wealth stands — for the veriest Dogberry ass –
In the place of learning and sense.

I sing not of heroes who win the wreath,
But of those who have raised themselves up from beneath
By combing as t’were in spite of their teeth,
From a very humble beginning.
And of those who to wealth have woven their way,
And those who have saved by waste strange to say,
And those who by tops are tip-top to-day,
And those who have whirl’d up by spinning.

Right laudable ’tis for men to aspire,
With motto “Excelsior,” higher and higher;
The salt of the earth are those we admire,
Who strive for the good of humanity;
But he who aspires himself to raise
To posts of honour, to attract the gaze
Of the vulgar, in order to gain their praise,
Is only a victim to vanity.

Some who affect aristocracy’s air
Have gold-banded flunkies and horses a pair.
Whose grandfathers scarcely had shoes to wear –
But ’tis bootless this long digression.
Far be it from me to envy or blame,
Or detract from any man’s fair risen fame,
Fault-finders would doubtless, so placed, do the same,
So now I will join the procession.

‘Twas noticed that some had a look that was arch,
At keepers of peace, stiff locking as starch,
Who led the train in a kind of dead march,
With their chief in uniform dress.
And others were there who the town have well served,
Men who have rarely from what was right swerved,
And he of the Observer was there, I observed,
With others belonging the Press.

And here is the place wherein best it chimes,
To mention in these desultory rhymes,
That along with the eminent men of our Times,
Was one the greatest of any:
So tellingly graphic is he with his pen,
Our morals he Shields and exposes bad men,
And he never turns round, excepting that when
His turning will turn him a penny.

There were Farrar, J.P., the pompous and grand,
And Farrar the tall, the maker of band,
And Storey, the famed, who would largely expand
At the feast at which they were sharers.
And children came there in many a troop,
And men and women in many a group,
Outsiders who hadn’t a ticket for soup,
But merely were gapers and starers.

Then came to a stand the great parade,
Where ladies in tiers all their beauty displayed;
Where Brown a speech — not a maiden one – made,
Though said to be somewhat effeminate.
Where Alderman West, who the stone should have laid,
Held forth, and the Bishop devoutly prayed,
That counsels wise might prevail, and for aid,
That gocd might be widely disseminate.

Then the Mayor, the occasion to him so proud,
With wonted politeness most graciously bowed,
And kindly, smilingly, looked on the crowd,
Like one with compassionate bowels.
And the part of laying he did with a will,
And deposited coins as into a till,
And the trowel he handled with mason-like skill,
As though he were well used to trowels.

And the ladies so fair who were there to stare,
Admired the Mayor, who did well his share
With mallet and trowel and plummet and square,
With a true workmanlike celerity.
And papers and records belonging the town,
And who at the time wore England’s crown;
And the name Mark Dawson he handed down,
With other great names, to posterity.

When speeches had ended, he waved his hand
To ladies like flowers on a hot-house stand;
And “God save the Queen was played by the band,
Which told of being “happy and glorious.”
For many who stood in the sun I opine,
Would think of the shade and cool iced wine;
And some like old Sol, would be in for a shine,
For ’tis said that the close was uproarious.

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To facilitate reading, the spelling and punctuation of elderly excerpts have generally been modernised, and distracting excision scars concealed. My selections, translations, and editions are copyright.

Comment

The opening of the town hall in 1873. The Times has an account of the steam clock and carillon, to which I must return.

William Henry Tucker of Wiltshire is more punchy re the Yorkshire nouveaux riches:

POOLE, AUGUST 1864.
THE WOOLLEN ARISTOCRACY OF YORKSHIRE.
Grandpapa was a barber, and Mamma
At the King’s Head was chambermaid when young;
Aunt Sarah was transported, and, alas!
Poor Uncle Tom at Lancaster was hung;
Pa went to Huddersfield, and dealt in waste;
Then join’d Esq. Duncalf in the shoddy trade;
The Deildust Mills for fifteen years they work’d,
Fail’d twice, but in the end their fortunes made.
Though sister Kate and I went late to school,
We now are both accomplish’d and genteel,
And have a high position to maintain –
New spheres to seek, – old bygones to conceal;
To patronize the County Ball at Christmas,
And keep low folks and tradesmen at a distance.
(Tucker 1879)

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Comment

The opening of the town hall in 1873. The Times has an account of the steam clock and carillon, to which I must return.

William Henry Tucker of Wiltshire is more punchy re the Yorkshire nouveaux riches:

POOLE, AUGUST 1864.
THE WOOLLEN ARISTOCRACY OF YORKSHIRE.
Grandpapa was a barber, and Mamma
At the King’s Head was chambermaid when young;
Aunt Sarah was transported, and, alas!
Poor Uncle Tom at Lancaster was hung;
Pa went to Huddersfield, and dealt in waste;
Then join’d Esq. Duncalf in the shoddy trade;
The Deildust Mills for fifteen years they work’d,
Fail’d twice, but in the end their fortunes made.
Though sister Kate and I went late to school,
We now are both accomplish’d and genteel,
And have a high position to maintain –
New spheres to seek, – old bygones to conceal;
To patronize the County Ball at Christmas,
And keep low folks and tradesmen at a distance.
(Tucker 1879)

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16 August 1842: Lancastrian plug-drawing rioters invade Skipton in an attempt to halt the mills

8 June 1679: At death’s door, Brian Bentley, the Halifax Poet, refuses a cap unless it be a barley-cap

8 June 1561: A York official explains why textile manufacturing has left his city for the West Riding

8 January 1844: Members of the 70th (Surrey) Regiment of Foot stationed at Leeds riot against a graffito

14 April 1843: John Nicholson, “the Airedale Poet,” “the Bingley Baron,” dies after falling into the Aire while drunk

20 September 1853: Ballad composed for the inauguration this day of Titus Salt’s palace for the manufacture of woollen fabrics

23 April 1832: “Pilgrims” arrive at Leeds on Easter Monday on their way to York to hear Richard Oastler call for a 10-hour working day for mill children

13 September 1816: The greatness of Great Britain

7 January 1813: In a novelisation of the Luddite murder of Marsden textile manufacturer William Horsfall, a local Baptist minister, Abraham Webster, reports on his execution-eve visit to George Mellor in York Castle

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Comment

Some background to the novel:

D. F. E. Sykes, a Huddersfield solicitor married to the daughter of an Anglican clergyman, focused in Ben o’ Bills, The Luddite, which the author claimed to be based on oral testimony and ‘mostly true’, on a fictional family, the Bamforths, connected with the Particular Baptists at Powle Moor, near Slaithwaite, where the minister, Abraham Webster, was so decidedly against the new machines that old Mrs Bamforth ‘died in the belief that the curse of Scripture was upon them’. George Mellor, a cousin of the Bamforths in the novel, enters the story on Christmas Eve, 1811, intoning the first verse of ‘Christians Awake’. He goes along with the rest of the family to Christmas morning service at Slaithwaite Church, where ‘near all Slaithwaite’ had gathered ‘Methodies and Baptists and all; and even folk that went nowhere, Owenites they called them’, who ‘made a point of going to church that one morning of the year’. Mellor, who occasionally speaks in moderate tones, but elsewhere gives vent to Painite anti-clerical and republican sentiments, is portrayed presiding at a Luddite oath-taking ceremony with a Bible to hand. He refers to Benjamin Walker, the accomplice who betrayed him, whose family Sykes also links with the Baptists at Powle Moor, as a ‘Judas’, He is visited twice in his York prison cell by Abraham Webster, who prays with him on the eve of his execution. According to Sykes, this final pastoral visit inspired Mellor to offer words of forgiveness for his enemies from the scaffold, though Sykes was clearly using dramatic licence in allowing Webster to lead the singing of a Methodist hymn at Mellor’s execution, since all the contemporary accounts record this as a feature of the execution of another group of Luddites. At the end of the novel, Soldier Jack, a former militia-man-turned-Luddite, reflecting on Mellor’s fate, philosophizes: ‘”Yo’re dissenters at th’ Powle … an’ … if there’d been no dissenters there’d been no Luds, ‘an George Mellor ‘d noan ha’ danced out 0′ th’ world on nowt”‘.

Much of the background to Sykes’s novel is authentic, as are several of the key characters, including Abraham Webster, the Baptist minister at Powle Moor, the Reverend Charles Chew, the curate at Slaithwaite and the Luddites George Mellor and Benjamin Walker. A succession of popular evangelical Calvinistic Anglican curates in the Venn tradition at Slaithwaite and the reluctance of the earls of Dartmouth to release land on their estates for the building of Nonconformist places of worship had delayed the local development of both Wesleyanism and Dissent, a factor of which Sykes was clearly aware in his reconstruction of popular religion in the Colne Valley. In fact, no Wesleyan chapel was built at Slaithwaite until 1839, though a chapel had been opened in 1810 at Linthwaite, the first to be built in the Colne Valley, and cottage meetings were begun at Marsden in the same year. The Baptist secession had occurred as recently as 1787 and the Powle Moor Chapel was built· three years later on moorland waste in the neighbouring township of Scammonden, having been denied building land on the Dartmouth estates in the Colne Valley. The most recent historians of the chapel have, however, found no evidence in the chapel records to corroborate the links between Sykes’s characters and the chapel and dismissed Sykes’s account as purely fictional.
(Hargreaves 1990)

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