A Yorkshire Almanac Comprising 366 Historical Extracts, Red-letter Days and Customs, and Astronomical and Meteorological Data
William Allison. 1920. “My Kingdom for a Horse!”. New York: E.P. Dutton and Company. Get it:
.The Treaty of Paris, after the Crimean War, was signed on 30th March 1856. News did not travel quite so rapidly then as now, but whenever this news reached Yorkshire I and the late Sir Charles Smith-Dodsworth, both of about the same age, were digging in the sands at Redcar, and there was suddenly much gun-firing at Hartlepool, in celebration of the peace. We thought it was the Russians coming and fled to our respective nurses. I was a horribly nervous, delicate wretch in those times, and probably owe much to this day to old Dr Ryott, of Thirsk, who was quite a marvel for the “grand manner” and much commonsense, though troubled with no superfluity of science. “Give the boy plenty of good malt liquor,” he used to say, “and a glass of good port in the middle of the morning.” His advice was followed scrupulously, both at home and when I went to school.
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.
Abbreviations:
There are contemporary press reports of celebrations in London on 30 March, but I believe that the Leeds Mercury only reported the news on 1 April, so (Monday) 31 March in Hartlepool is a guess. Electrical telegraphy could have reached Hartlepool on Sunday (30 March) afternoon, but did it?
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The Treaty of Paris, after the Crimean War, was signed on 30th March 1856. News did not travel quite so rapidly then as now, but whenever this news reached Yorkshire I and the late Sir Charles Dodsworth [Charles Smith-Dodsworth, 5th Baronet], both of about the same age, were digging in the sands at Redcar, and there was suddenly much gun-firing at Hartlepool, in celebration of the peace. We thought it was the Russians coming and fled to our respective nurses.
I was a horribly nervous, delicate wretch in those times, and probably owe much to this day to old Dr Ryott, of Thirsk, who was quite a marvel for the “grand manner” and much commonsense, though troubled with no superfluity of science. “Give the boy plenty of good malt liquor,” he used to say, “and a glass of good port in the middle of the morning.”
His advice was followed scrupulously, both at home and when I went to school.
165 words.
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