WIT AND CHARACTER—_continued_
There are many other side-lights to our character, only a few of which
it will be possible to notice. But every story is pictured in such
varying light and shade as to afford those who can fully appreciate
them many varied traits of our character. And one word, if you please,
with reference to these stories. Nearly all have the merit of being in
essence true. They have been gathered from various sources, but in the
main first hand. Many of the characters were known personally to the
writer; and although in a few instances the origin and authenticity are
doubtful, they are included because they so fully illustrate that which
was to be demonstrated, and because they are so true to life, and just
what would really have happened under like circumstances.
There is one special gift which the Yorkshireman possesses in a high
degree, i.e. the humorous. It is a humorousness, too, which often
(given that you understand and appreciate the dialect) sparkles with
genuine wit. I plead guilty to the fact that much of the wit of our
country-people is, as it were, given with the back of the hand. Still,
it is none the less witty, for all that. And if the same sounds rough
and unmusical to you, kindly bear in mind that the Chinese consider
our best music little else than a tumult of discordant sound. It is
generally the last few words uttered which contain the bud, blossom,
and fruit all in one. I remember once being completely shut up by a
Yorkshire lad, and he only uttered two words; but the tone and the look
were the very cream of sarcastic jeering. This was how it came about.
The lad was driving home some ducks from the pond. ‘You have a lot of
fine ducks, my boy,’ said I. And then, thinking to buy a couple, I
asked, ‘How often do you kill them?’ ‘Nobbut yance,’ was the laconic
reply.
‘T’ law’s nowt bud a tak in all t’ waay thruff,’ said one. ‘When me
an’ Tom went afoor wer betters aboot that hedge, Ah’d Jackson ti talk
foor me, an’ he ’ed Smith ti talk foor him. An’ ti lissen ti them tweea
blackguarding yan anuther when t’ case war on, yan mud ‘ thowt ’at tha
war i’ arnist, an’ ‘at tha nivver wad ’a’e spokken civil t’ ane tither
agaan; bud bless mah leyfe, when t’ case war adjourned ti t’ next court
daay, an’ when me an’ Tom, scooling at yan anuther leyke all that, went
inti t’ Black Lion ti ’ev a glass o’ yal, if wa didn’t finnd them tweea
takking wine an’ ‘ranging ti gan fishing tigither t’ next daay. “Tom,”
sez Ah, “if this is t’ waay tha mak t’ feeal o’ yan, seeaner thee an’
me haps t’ business up an’ t’ better it’ll be foor baith on uz.” An’ he
sez ti me, “Gi’e uz thi han’ on’t,” an’ Ah did. An’ then Ah shoots oot,
“Hi! Ah’ll tell ya what, you tweea ’ed best ’range to gan fishing foor
awlus; bud mahnd ya, nowther me ner Tom’s gahin ti finnd t’ bait for
owther on ya!”
Sally Ridge was a terror to all those she took a dislike to. She
usually played some prank to the detriment of those who, for the time
being, were out of favour. On one occasion, however, she went a trifle
too far; she broke the back of a duck with a stone. This got poor Sally
into fearfully hot water, and there was every likelihood of her being
summoned; however, the writer interceded on her behalf, and on Sally
faithfully promising never to stone a duck again, she was pardoned.
Within an hour afterwards, I surprised her gaily pitching stones
amongst the feathered swimmers. ‘Didn’t you promise me faithfully not
to throw stones at the ducks again, Sally?’ I asked, taking hold of
her, and adding, ‘it is wicked of you to break your word in this way.’
‘Ah ’evn’t brokken my wo’d,’ replied Sally, trying to free herself.
‘But you have; you promised not to throw stones at the ducks again,’ I
repeated. ‘An’ Ah isn’t; Ah’s thrawing at yon geese, an’ it’s nut mah
fau’t if t’ silly au’d ducks git thersens i’ t’ road. Leave lowse, Ah
nivver sed nowt ti naebody aboot geese.’
Three visitors hired a boat at Staithes for an hour’s fishing, having a
man each to attend to their lines. On returning to land, the fishermen
were paid half a crown for the sail. The visitors had not got far away,
when one of the fishermen ran after them. ‘Ah saay, mister,’ said he,
turning the half-crown over in his hand, ‘ya see ther’s three on uz,
an’ nut being schollars, wa’re bet ti knaw hoo ti share ’t oot; bud
Ah’ll tell ya what wa deea knaw,’ he added, with a merry twinkle in
his eye, ‘if ya war ti gi’e uz anuther sixpence, wa s’u’d ’ev a bob
apiece.’ And they got it.
An old keeper was told off to hand the gun for a very poor shot. After
blazing away at several coveys, he turned to the old chap, saying, ‘I
am afraid you will think me a very bad shot!’ ‘Nut Ah. Ah think ’at Ah
nivver seed naebody shut better an’ hit warse i’ mah leyfe.’ ‘And yet
I have made many a good bag before to-day,’ said the sportsman, just
a wee bit nettled. ‘Aye, bud oor bo’ds flee, tha deean’t sit ti be
shutten at,’ was the quiet rejoinder.
Lady —- said to one of her under-gardeners, ‘Thomas, the maids tell
me that you often say very nasty things about women; do you ever do
the same of the men?’ And then her ladyship looked him squarely in the
face, but Thomas was equal to the occasion. ‘Neea, my lady, that Ah
deean’t, acoz i’ that case it ’ud be trew, ya knaw.’
Tommy had been fishing on Sunday; he had been caught red-handed by the
Chapel minister. The good man read Tommy a long lesson on the enormity
of his sin, concluding by asking what Tommy had to say for himself.
‘It’s nut a real rod!’ ventured Tommy. ‘That does not matter,’ said his
judge; ‘the sin is just the same, and the Lord never prospers those who
break the sabbath.’ ‘Wha, then,’ promptly replied Tommy, ‘it mun ’a’e
been Au’d Scrat’ (i.e. Satan) ‘’at’s egg’d ’em on ti bite ti-daay, foor
Ah nivver catched sa monny afoor’—holding up a bottle fairly alive with
sticklebacks and minnows.
Whether I am succeeding or not is for others to judge, but what I
am striving to do is to paint the various points in our character
faithfully. I am neither hiding nor glossing. Our brusquerie and
doggedness, our tenacity of opinion and keenness to acquire the
all-needful, our pride and independency, as also our want of that
respect for those who may consider themselves our superiors, have been
as fully and as truthfully set forth as space would admit of.
On the other hand, our people are warm-hearted, hospitable to a degree,
and exhibit a deep sense of gratitude for favours received, such as
would never be credited by those who judge us by our rugged exterior.
But it is there, for all that. Let me give you two or three stories
quite true, which prove to some extent what I have just asserted.
A woman possessed an old, carved corner cupboard, not really worth
much, but it had been her mother’s, and she prized it greatly—in fact,
far above its market value. The village doctor had often tried to buy
it, but without success. Her husband falling seriously ill, the doctor
was called in, and though there was no hope of a long bill being paid,
he was most assiduous in his attendance day and night. When recovering,
the patient, fully aware that he had been fairly snatched from the
grave, said to his wife one night, when she was sitting by the bedside,
‘Fanny, thoo’ll ’a’e ti let t’ doctor ’ev t’ cupboard.’ He well knew
what a wrench this would be, and was no little surprised when his wife
replied, ‘Bless tha, mun, ez seean ez ivver thoo gat a to’n foor t’
better, Ah ’ed t’ cupboard rovven doon, an’ sent Bob wi’ ‘t. Doctor
didn’t want ti ’a’e ’t, an’ sent it back, bud Ah sent Bob wiv it agaan,
an’ tell’d him ti saay ’at if he sent it back onny mair Ah’d mak
firewood on ’t. Thoo’s wo’th mair ’an all t’ cupboards i’ t’ wo’lld ti
me, an’ it war t’ only road ther war o’ paying him.’
Again. An old dame having been ill for a long time, recovered, much to
the surprise of every one. During her long illness a certain lady often
visited her, and sent her many little comforts. Some months after the
old dame’s recovery, she presented her benefactress with an elaborate
clip-hearthrug. For this the lady wished to pay her, but that the old
dame almost indignantly refused. ‘Neea, mum,’ said she, with tears in
her eyes; ‘Ah’ve ’ed ommaist ivvery bit o’ t’ stuff gi’en ma ’at Ah’ve
maad t’ clips on, an’ if ivvery prod ’at Ah’ve gi’en an’ ivvery clip
’at Ah’ve cutten war a gowden guinea, it wadn’t mak up foor hauf your
kindness ti me.’ Oh no, they do not lack gratitude.
The vicar’s bride had a remark made to her by one of the oldest men in
the village, which seemed to her to have a nasty application, but in
its idiomatic sense it was quite innocent of any such construction;
and the remark as addressed to the lady was certainly given in its
idiomatic form. By-and-by she learnt she had been a little hasty in
condemning the old fellow. However, to make up for any unkindness on
her part, she engaged the old man as a sort of anything-you-like about
the vicarage. It was not long ere the old chap won a very warm place in
the lady’s heart. This was after the arrival of the baby. Every night,
when his work was done, he would say, ‘Noo then what, Ah’ve deean; bud
Ah mun ’ev a leeak at t’ baa’n afoor Ah gan.’ One evening, after this
same formula had been gone through, he said, ‘Noo, Ah’ll tell ya what;
t’ baa’n’s nut sa varra weel ti-neet, an’ Ah knaw a seet mair aboot
babbies ’an what you deea. Noo you mun put ’t iv a hot bath, an’ then
hap ’t up an’ keep ’t varra warm. Noo you mun deea ez Ah’ve tell’d
ya.’ With this admonition he left the vicarage, and, though turned
seventy-eight years of age, set off at once to trudge seven miles for
a doctor, landing back again about midnight. The doctor assured the
delighted mother that, having followed the old man’s advice, and with
the remedies he had brought, a severe fit of croup had been staved off.
Oh yes, these blunt country-people have feelings. And they are grateful.
Gratitude shows itself in different ways, sometimes in a form of
self-sacrifice, as in the following, which occurred not so very long
ago. Said a vicar to one of his parishioners—who, by-the-way, was a
notorious poacher—‘I am very pleased to see you coming to church so
regularly; very pleased, indeed, William; and I trust that it may lead
you to see the error of your past life.’ ‘Well, Ah wadn’t gan sa far ez
ti saay ’at owt o’ that soart’s leykley ti happen, bud Ah s’ cum ti t’
chetch, for all that.’ ‘And may I ask the reason for this sudden change
in your life?’ inquired the parson. ‘Whya noo, it war i’ this waay. Me
an’ Luke an’ tweea or three uthers war talking ya ower yah neet i’ t’
Swan, an’ Luke sed ’at he didn’t ho’d wi’ neea parsons ’at hunted, an’
Ah sed ’at a parson war nowt neea different ti neeabody else, when he’d
ta’en t’ white goon off, an’ ‘at it maad neea odds whether ya hunted or
whether ya didn’t. Bud t’ main on ’em seeamed ti ho’d ’at ya warn’t
i’ t’ reet on ’t hunting. And seea Ah thowt ti mysen, t’ parson’s
offens deean me a good to’n, an’ if ther’s gahin to be sike a lot o’
narrer-mahnded fau’k i’ t’ village—an’ being a bit of a sportsman
mysen, ya knaw—wha, Ah sez, noo Ah’ll gan ti chetch if it’s foor nowt
else bud ti back ya up a bit, an’ sa Ah cums.’
The hospitality of the Yorkshire people is so well known, and so
generally admitted by all those who have been recipients of the same,
that I purpose just leaving it as an established fact. Still, there
is one curious offshoot from this generous branch, which needs _en
passant_ a moment’s consideration.
I once heard a South-country man say, ‘Yorkshire people give you more
than you want at their table, and then beg from you on the doorstep.’
And to those who know nothing of our ways, usages, and customs,
such would almost seem to be the case. Of course, as put by the
South-country man, the statement, if complete, would stamp Yorkshire
and its people as being rather more than contemptible. But such is not
the case, and when the reason for the remark was perfectly sifted,
the notion which had got such a firm hold of the speaker was found to
have been based on a want of knowledge of the elementary rules which
govern the unwritten law of bargaining. Why, pages could be written on
bargaining, and stories told by the score.
But when a bargain has been concluded, the money paid, the receipt
given, a substantial meal partaken of, with grog, &c., ad lib., it
becomes quite easy to understand the South-country man’s surprise,
on leaving the house, to be asked ’ti gi’e summat back foor luck.’
To him, not knowing our ways, the transaction was completed; with us
it was not, and therein lies the difference. It does strike one as
peculiar to find such marked generosity, when run on certain lines,
only to be confronted the next step with some little action which at
first sight looks very much like meanness. But all this misconception
vanishes if we bear in mind that _hospitality_ and _business_ are never
made to clash; they, as it were, occupy separate rooms.
I have a story in my mind which illustrates fully these peculiarities,
as well as others already mentioned. As it was given to me by his
lordship, so briefly let me give it to you.
One day two of a shooting party, his lordship and the Hon. G——, decided
to give their guns a rest, and visit an ancient church some six miles
distant. They were strongly advised to take a keeper with them, but
feeling quite sure they could find their way, started by themselves.
Possibly they might have succeeded, had not a sea fret and heavy fog
wrapped the whole moor in a shroud. They were lost, and they knew it.
Fortunately, when quite worn out, they discovered a farm-house; and on
inquiry they were told that they had wandered much out of their way,
being then quite ten miles from the shooting-box. Too tired to walk
back, they asked the farmer if he could possibly drive them. ‘Whya,
Ah c’u’d,’ said he, ‘bud it’s a langish waay, an’ mah meer’s a bit
tired; Ah’d ommaist rayther set ya ti wheer you c’u’dn’t loss yersels.’
They, however, declared they were too tired to think of walking, and
offered him half a sovereign as an inducement. Then the bargaining
propensity came to the surface. ‘Haaf a sover’ign!’ said he. ‘Neea,
what ya’ll ’a’e ti mak it fifteen bob.’ To which they assented. During
this bargaining, the good wife was spreading the table with abundance
of food. ‘Noo then,’ said the good man, ‘ya mun’ reeach teea an’ mak
yersens at heeam. Ya’re welcome ti t’ best o’ what wa’ve gitten;
deean’t be neyce aboot it, ther’s plenty mair wheer that’s cum’d fra;
Ah’ll cum roond wi’ t’ meer efter a bit.’ When they were ready for
departure, one of them inquired how much they were indebted for their
splendid repast. To which the farmer, in characteristic fashion, made
answer: ‘What wa’ve gi’en ya, wa’ve gi’en ya, an’ ya’re welcome ti
’t; drhaaving ya ti t’ shutting-box war a bargain, an’ anuther thing
altigither, an’ ther’s nowt aboot that.’ And not a penny piece could
either be prevailed upon to receive for their hospitality.
Just one other story, which illustrates the same propensity for
bargaining. A hamper containing a dead ‘pricky-back otch’n,’ with one
shilling carriage to pay, was delivered to one Pettigrew; by some means
he found out that the hamper had been the property of a friend of his,
named Tom Scott. But Scott declared on his word of honour that he was
innocent of the whole transaction. Unfortunately, Pettigrew did not
believe him, in consequence of which a coolness sprang up, which lasted
for two years. At the expiration of that time, Pettigrew met Scott one
market-day. ‘Whya, noo then,’ said he, ‘they tell ma ’at thoo’s gahin
ti wed mah cousin Martha; is ’t trew?’ ‘Aye, it’s trew hard eneeaf, Ah
is, hooivver,’ acknowledged Scott. ‘Whya, then thoo knaws thee an’ me
owtn’t ti be at loggerheeads when t’ ane’s gahin ti be related ti t’
ither; owt wa, noo?’ ‘Neea, bud thoo knaws ’at it’s neea fau’t o’ mahn;
Ah’ve nowt agaan tha, thoo knaws,’ said Scott.
‘Wha, bud Ah’d gert call ti blaam tha; thoo’ll awn ti t’ hamper,
weean’t ta?’ ‘Aye, Ah nivver, ’at Ah mahnd on, ivver tried ti disawn
’t. What mud Ah foor? Sumboddy stowl ’t; Ah c’u’dn’t help that, onny
road, c’u’d Ah?’
‘Then thoo’d nowt i’ t’ wo’lld ti deea wi’ t’ pricky-back otch’n?’
‘Ah’ve tell’d tha ower an’ up agaan i’ tahms back ’at Ah’d nivver
nowt i’ noa waay whatsoivver owt ti deea wi’ t’ otch’n,’ said Scott,
emphatically.
‘Whya, thoo knaws ’at Ah ’ed a shilling ti pay for ’t cuming; what’s
gahin ti be deean aboot that, then?’ ‘Whya, thoo dizn’t leeak ti me for
’t, diz ta?’ ‘Whya, Ah war that oot o’ pocket, an’ it war thi hamper
’at it cam in hard eneeaf.’ ‘Aye, an’ Ah’ll tell tha what, thoo’s
nivver let ma ’a’e ’t back agaan; bud nivver mahnd, thoo mun keep t’
hamper, an’ wa’ll lap t’ job up that waay,’ magnanimously offered Scott.
‘Ah see ’at Ah’s boun ti be oot o’ pocket wi’ t’ otch’n,’ persisted
Pettigrew, ‘bud Ah’ll tell tha what, thoo mun stan’ uz a glass foor
friendship’s sake.’ ‘Whya, noo then, ez Ah’s gahin ti wed thi cusin
Martha, cu’ thi waay.’ And so the matter was settled.