WIT AND CHARACTER
Our country-people possess in a very marked degree the faculty of
explaining away anything which for special reasons they do not care to
admit. Very often they do this in a marvellously subtle way. Sometimes
so fine is the point upon which they turn an argument, that that which
was to be demonstrated is entirely lost sight of, whilst new issues
are introduced in such a seemingly natural way that in the end you
find yourself contending for some point in which you have no earthly
interest, and which has no connexion with the original argument, but
which, owing to this strategical shifting, has put them on sure ground,
leaving you at a hopeless disadvantage. Equally conspicuous is their
pride and independency; no matter how poor they may be they strongly
object to being patronized.
‘Ah weean’t let onnybody clap me on t’ back. Ah paay fer what Ah git,
an’ that’s good eneeaf; he’s nowt na better ’an what Ah is,’ said a man
one day, who had been spoken to, with the kindest intention, but in
that unfortunate way which some of the best-intentioned people have of
being familiar, but faintly colouring the same with just a slight whiff
of patronizing superiority. And the Yorkshireman won’t stand it. Don’t
misunderstand me: although no respecter of person he is quite willing
to pay deference to those whom he considers his superiors and who are
worthy of it; but he is the one who acts as judge in such a case.
If you are a stranger, you will have to earn this deference by good
behaviour on your part, or it is quite possible, if you act otherwise,
you will be the recipient of some very plain Yorkshire, whether you
understand it or not. And also bear in mind the Tyke is always equal to
giving an answer, and in his own peculiar way very smart at repartee.
A good example of one of the peculiarities mentioned is made evident
in the following story. Master and man were returning from a coursing
match, at which the master’s dog had been badly beaten. The man knew
it was a great disappointment, and as a faithful servant he felt
keenly the adverse result of the day’s outing. ‘I felt sure our dog
would win,’ said the master, and then waited for his man to reply.
Now, Tom would not say how much inferior their dog really was to the
winner; in fact, he would only admit that to himself. So he held his
peace. A moment later the master tackled him again, and this time with
a question direct. ‘You saw the course, Tom; how do you account for
it?’ ‘Whya, sur,’ began Tom, ‘dogs is queer things, an’ hares is queer
things; in fact, theer’s nowt na queerer ’an what hares offen is. Noo,
they’re varra flighty things is hares, an’ Ah’ve offens thowt ’at
sumtahms tha tak mair ti yah dog na what tha deea ti t’ tother. An’ ya
knaw leyke, when tha finnd oot ’at theer’s nowt else for ’t bud what
they ’a’e ti be killed, tha let t’ dog deea’t ’at they’ve ta’en t’
maist fancy tull. Ah caann’t mak ’t oot onny other road, an’ that mun
be it.’
Years ago, when guides showed tourists and others round Fountains
Abbey, giving at the same time their version of the history of the
ruins—much of which it must be said was the outcome of their own
imagination, and, though deeply interesting, was opposed to all the
canons of archaeology—several members of the Royal Archaeological
Society and a party of ladies and gentlemen were relegated to the care
of ‘Scott,’ an old guide and a well-known Yorkshire character of those
days. As they went through the ruins the old fellow gave his version,
only a moment afterwards to hear quite a different explanation given
by some member of the R.A.S. At last Scott could ‘bahd it na langer.’
‘Ah saay,’ questioned he, ‘war you here when t’ Abbey war built?’
‘No, neither were you, my friend,’ replied the gentleman. ‘Mebbe nut,
bud Ah’ve been here a seet langer ’an what you ’ev, for all that; sum
fau’k think tha knaw sa mich,’ he was heard to mutter. By-and-by the
round was completed, and then it was that old Scott fired off his last
shot. ‘Noo then,’ said he, ‘cum on all t’ lot on ya, an’ Ah’ll tak
ya ti summat ’at neean on ya can owther gainsaay or alter; noo then,
cum on,’ and he marched them under the echo. ‘Noo then, gentlemen, ya
can’t dispute owt ’at’s sed here; gan on, sum on ya, shoot summat.’
One of the party, who had already had more than one wordy battle with
the old fellow, shouted, ‘Any one seen an old fool knocking about this
morning?’ At which there was a general laugh. But before the repeat
had died away, the old fellow shouted in a voice which made the echo
ring again, ‘Neea, bud theear’s onny amount o’ young uns under t’
echo.’ And I think he scored.
Another good story: in fact many hail from Great Ayton. When the Grange
was being built, artists and other workmen from town and elsewhere were
requisitioned to beautify the place. Many of these travelled gentlemen,
on their first arrival, considered the Yattoners fair game for their
sport and wit, but very often they found out, when too late to save
themselves, that they had pressed the wrong button. During their stay
a small wild-beast show opened on the green. In front of the monkeys’
cage stood a Yattoner, greatly amused with their antics. ‘Admiring your
relations?’ inquired one of the foreign masons as he passed. ‘They’re
neea relations o’ mahn; neean ov oor family’s owt akin ti yours,’ was
the instant reply. ‘Why don’t you wash your brains? there’s plenty
of water in the beck,’ said another of the foreign fraternity. ‘Ther
mebbins is what ’ud wesh mahn, bud you’d ’a’e ti wait whahl a fresh cam
doon.’ ‘Go home,’ said another of them, ‘and tell your father you are
the biggest fool he has ever seen.’ ‘He’d leather ma for telling a lee
if Ah did; ya’re forgitting ’at ya lodge wiv uz;’ and then he dodged a
lump of wood which came that way.
Old Bessy kept the village store, and in her way was quite a character;
so was her shop for the matter of that. I never was in such a shop in
my life. Anything, everything, and all on the top of something else.
In fact it was as one of the natives put it, ‘Owt ’at Bessy ’ezn’t ’s
nut wo’th assing for.’ The one big house in the place for a short time
was rented by a gentleman whose family made up for any deficiency in
pedigree by all-round rudeness to every one with whom they came in
contact. On one occasion a daughter of the said house flounced into
Bessy’s shop and asked for something which it was most unlikely would
be kept in a shop of that kind. ‘Naay,’ said Bessy, ‘Ah ’a’en’t gitten
nowt o’ that soart; Ah deean’t knaw what t’ stuff is ya’re assing for.’
‘It is just useless my trying to buy anything in a pottering little
shop like this. You keep nothing but a lot of old rubbish. You never
have anything I want,’ was the young lady’s rude reply. ‘Why noo, Ah’ll
tell ya what, t’ next tahm ’at Ah gan ti Ripon, Ah’ll see if Ah can’t
get a box o’ good behav’o’r; you mun cum in then, an’ Ah’ll gi’e ya
good weight, for ya want it mair na onnybody else. Noo deean’t forgit
ti cum in,’ were the last words the young lady heard as she hurried out.
His Honour Judge —- for some little time had a house in a Cleveland
village, and whilst there he did a bit of ’hoss swapping’ with one of
the farmers. Unfortunately his Honour’s horse did not turn out well.
Meeting the farmer one day, he said, ‘Robert, you took me in with that
horse, it has turned out very badly.’ ‘Hez ’t, noo? Whya, that’s a bad
job; bud you maun’t gan blethering aboot ’at Ah’ve ta’en ya in, or else
fau’k’ll get it i’ ther heeads ’at ya’re nobbut a varra poor judge.’
Quite likely enough, if you get into conversation with the old people,
they will give you their opinion upon most things, and that too very
often without your asking for it. There will be no beating about the
bush, no attempt to smooth away rough corners; the Yorkshireman detests
putty and varnish. What he has to say, like his hitting, comes straight
from the shoulder.
The hounds were in full cry. A lady and gentleman on approaching a
closed gate against which a farmer’s man was leaning, the gentleman
called out, ‘Hi there! open the gate, look sharp!’ but the man
stood stolidly looking at the hounds. ‘Why don’t you open the gate,
you fool?’ shouted the horseman angrily. Turning slowly round, the
yokel said very quietly, ‘Ah deean’t call ti mahnd ’at ivver Ah ’ed
a God’s-penny fra you. If ya’ll nobbut stan’ back Ah’ve na doot t’
lady’ll show ya t’ road ower. Ah can see ’at ya’re a bit caff-hearted.’
Springing to the ground the horseman found the gate was locked. ‘Why,
it’s locked,’ said he, turning to the lady. ‘Ah c’u’d ’a’e tell’d ya
that lang sin,’ said the yokel. ‘Well, I think you might have done so,’
said the lady, kindly. ‘We have lost a lot of time.’ ‘If you’d cum’d
byv yersen, miss, Ah’d ’a’e brokken t’ gate doon for ya. Bud yah feeal
losses his wits when he’s called yan byv another,’ was the compliment
and retort all in one.
On another occasion, the horseman forgetting to pay the usual toll, the
gate-opener greatly amused every one by saying, as he touched his cap,
‘Noo, mebbe ya ’evn’t gitten neea small chaange on ya, bud Ah’ll tell
ya hoo wa can mannish ’t: Ah’ve gitten nahnpence, if you’ve a bob?’
A good story is told by a Cleveland vicar. The day on which he arrived
in his new parish he had to transact some little matter with the
sexton. On inquiry he was informed this worthy was to be found in the
far pasture. Thither he went, finding the old man busy mowing. ‘Well,
my man!’ began the vicar. ‘Noo then,’ said Old Willie, going on with
his mowing. ‘I wish to have a word or two with you,’ said the vicar,
not very pleased with his off-hand reception. He was not Yorkshire, and
didn’t understand their ways then.
‘All reet, gan on wi’ tha.’ This without stopping the swing of his
scythe.
‘I think you don’t know who I am. I am your new vicar.’ Doubtless at
the time the vicar imagined the effect of this startling announcement
would be such that Old Willie’s scythe would fall from his hands, and
most abject apologies be poured forth. But no, Willie just remarked,
‘Oh, are ya? Whya, ya maun’t stan theer; ya’ll ’a’e ti shift yersen, or
Ah s’all mow yer legs off t’ next swathe Ah tak.’ And the vicar moved.
Our country-people have a way of summing up and giving a verdict quite
on lines of their own. But it must be borne in mind that what is taken
in a figurative sense by those of a wider experience, is often accepted
literally by those whose lives for the most part have been bounded by
their own homestead and dale. When the last historical pageant was
held at Ripon, trips brought the dales-people from all parts. And
although I do not think any of them went so far as to imagine the
various characters impersonated had been dug up and set in motion
for their amusement and edification, I am sure in the main they were
greatly mystified as to how they had all been gathered together. On
the last day, when possibly fifteen thousand people were present, a
group of ladies and gentlemen were standing near the east window of the
Abbey—near by were two or three monks conversing with several knights
in chain armour, and on their right stood King Charles surrounded by
the ladies of his court. A gentleman standing hard by said to his lady
companion, ‘It is really a splendid spectacle, and gives one a perfect
picture of what it must have been in days past.’ ‘You’ll excuse me,
sir,’ said a dame who had overheard his remark, ‘bud is this leyke what
it used ti be?’ ‘Yes, my good woman, exactly,’ the gentleman answered.
‘Whya then, Ah can weel understan’ hoo it war ’at tha pulled t’ pleeace
doon’ (meaning the Abbey), ‘for it’s a giddy gahin-on is this. Bud Ah
will saay,’ pointing to the ladies of King Charles’ Court, ‘’at Ah
nivver seed a finer set o’ lasses i’ all mah leyfe. An’ Ah’ve na doot
’at that accoonts for ’t.’
The last clause, I imagine, referred to the ruinous state of the Abbey.
The same peculiar trait was fully exemplified during an Art exhibition
at York. Several of the pictures were offered for sale, the price being
given in the catalogue. Whilst a couple were gazing in wonderment at
one picture, the woman was overheard to say, ‘Ah nivver thowt ’at
fraams cost seea mich brass. Sitha, mun, that yan’s ower a hunderd
pund; it mun be t’ fraam, thoo knaws, fer t’ picter’s nobbut hauf
deean; t’ chap ’at’s pented it ’ezn’t ’ed tahm ti finish ’t, fer neean
on ’em’s gitten ther cleeas on.’
Some few years ago there was an excursion started from Whitby _viâ_
Battersby, its destination being Wensleydale. Many who availed
themselves of the trip alighted at Aysgarth. One batch in charge of
the curate wended their way to the force, which owing to recent rains
was seen at its best. ‘By gum,’ said one, ‘bud ther’s a seet o’ watter
cuming ower yonder.’ ‘Ah’ll tell ya what,’ said another, giving a huge
wink, ‘they weean’t be yabble ti keep that gam up lang; tha’ll be
letting ’t all off afoor t’ tothers cum up, if they deean’t mahnd.’
The curate was shocked; his poetical soul was pained at such, as he
imagined, crass ignorance, so he endeavoured to lift them from out of
themselves. After quite a rhetorical outburst bearing on the grandeur
of the scene, he wound up with, ‘Is it not marvellous, magnificent,
overwhelming, to behold it thundering, rumbling, tumbling over?’ Poetry
of that kind makes the speaker breathless, and he paused. Then, turning
to one of the party, he said, ‘What do you think, John, eh?’ ‘Aye,
ya’re all reet about its thunnering, tumm’ling, an’ rumm’ling, bud for
t’ leyfe o’ mah Ah deean’t see owt ’at ther is ti ho’d it back,’ was
the laconic reply.
I remember on one occasion, when being driven to the station by a
real old Yorkshire coachman—I had been one of a house party for three
days as society humorist—the old fellow giving me a huge dig with
his elbows, and saying, ‘Ah saay, is yon all you deea fer a living?’
‘That is all,’ I replied. ‘Well, by goa! bud ya git yer living easy,
you deea.’ ‘I don’t know; if you had all the knocking about that I
have perhaps you would not think it quite so easy,’ said I. ‘Whya,
Ah deean’t knaw; what ya’ll ’ev yer expenses paid, ’evn’t ya?’
‘Certainly,’ I answered. ‘Aye; an’ ya git fed fer nowt, deean’t ya?’
‘Of course,’ I replied, greatly amused. ‘Whya then,’ said he, ‘Ah’ll
tell ya what: ya travel fer nowt, yer sheltered fer nowt, fed fer nowt,
an’ ya deea nowt; Ah leeak upon ya ez nowt i’ t’ wo’lld else bud a
aristocratic pauper.’ ‘Wait a moment,’ said I; ‘don’t you think brains
count for something in a matter of this kind?’ And then, with that
ineffable scorn which I think only the Yorkshireman of that type can
assume, he said, ‘Braans! braans!! braans!!! Ugh, Ah’ve ez monny brains
ez you ’ev if they war nobbut scraped oot.’
‘Which waay did ta vote?’ asked one. ‘Whya noo, it war leyke this waay:
Ah went an’ heeard all ’at t’ blew chap ’ed ti saay, an’ he made it
oot ez cleear ez t’ neease on yer feeace ’at t’ yallers war up ti neea
good; an’ efter that Ah went ti lissen ti t’ yaller chap, an’ he sed
’at t’ blews war warse ’an nowt at all. Seea Ah thowt ti mysen, ’at if
them ’at’s my betters dizn’t knaw what’s what, it’s nut for sike o’ me
ti saay; seea when t’ voting daay cam Ah stopped at yam an’ sell’d t’
pig.’
A classical curate was seized with an inordinate yearning to improve
and elevate the ’thought tone’ (I quote his words) of certain Cleveland
farmers. Now, as a body of men, the Cleveland farmers, as I know them,
are about as shrewd, practical, and thoroughly business-like as you
will find anywhere in Yorkshire, and that is saying a deal; still I
am bound to admit, though I know little of ’thought tone’ myself,
they know less. There is no money in it. Make it clear that an income
of two hundred a year can be squeezed out of ’thought tone,’ and
Yorkshire will supply the world with any amount, in tins, condensed,
and hermetically sealed. At present it is not quoted on ’Change. But
to my story. The curate made a dead set at one farmer in particular,
giving him, on one occasion, a graphic account of the siege of Troy.
‘One general, sir,’ said he, ‘though sorely wounded, commanded his
armour-bearer to strap on his armour, and this having been done he
placed himself in the forefront of the battle’ (here much dramatic
action and tone was indulged in by the curate, and the hearth-rug
greatly disarranged)—‘in the forefront, sir, and single-handed he
engaged three of the Trojans’ (seizing the poker and swinging it round
his head). ‘He slew two of them, but the third pierced him to the
heart, and he sank lifeless upon his vanquished foes. ‘Twas a brave
deed, and a noble death, the death of a hero. What do you think, sir?’
Breathless, and with dampened brow, he waited for an outburst of tone,
which he fully expected would rush forth as waters from the burst bank
of a reservoir. The farmer just removed his pipe and placidly remarked,
‘Too bou’d, sir, too bou’d.’ The curate sank into a chair aghast. Was
the man human, or was he beyond hope! ‘Is that all?’ he gasped; ‘has no
other thought struck you whilst I recounted my story?’ ‘Whya,’ said the
farmer, ‘Ah did yance ower aim ’at ya’d be fetching t’ clock doon wi’
t’ poker, bud fort’natly ya didn’t.’ The curate fled.