WIT AND CHARACTER—_continued_
I purpose devoting this chapter to stories which in themselves are
good examples, embracing, as they do, many phases of Yorkshire
character. With the exception of the first two or three, they will be
given regardless of classification. But these two or three do need
just a word. Our country-people, in their own way, hold in sincere
veneration all spiritual teaching; but don’t look for too much. Bear
in mind, superstition dies hard, and in judging them on this head, it
is well to keep to the forefront the fact that in religion, as well
as in everything else, they cling to much which their grandmothers
believed before them, just as they speak of their parents as ‘t’ au’d
fau’k,’ without in the least being disrespectful. So, without the least
intention of being irreverent, the Deity is often addressed and spoken
of in a manner which would shock the ears of many. ‘Ah wadn’t ’a’e
deean that if Ah’d been Him,’ said an old dame, after hearing how the
Israelites had been punished by God’s vengeance. ‘He owt ti ’a’e letten
’em off that tahm,’ was her concluding remark. It was her opinion, and
she freely gave it. The Deity being spoken of as ‘Him’ and ‘He,’ was
as natural to the old lady as it would have been for us to say ‘the
Lord.’ Anyway, for real piety, I for one make my bow to the old dame.
Again, they have a way of materializing the most spiritual things.
To them, heaven is nothing more than a big, beautiful city, which
they have to try their best to get into, and having managed to do so,
they are safe for ever. Doubtlessly they picture it sunnier, purer,
and altogether more delightful than any place they have ever seen or
heard of. But to them it is just a city. Certainly this applies more
especially to the older people in our dales; the rising generation are
learning different, but it will be long before they altogether leave
the old and beaten track. And may it be so, for, after all, their
religion is to them a very real and tangible thing. It is something
which in these days of higher criticism many of us are letting slip
from us. When reading the following stories, it should be borne in mind
why they are given, and just what I wish to illustrate.
A clergyman having asked an old dying woman if she were quite happy,
received this reply: ‘Neea, that Ah isn’t. Ah’s boun to dee, an’ Ah
s’ gan ti heaven, an’ it’s that what’s boddering ma. Nut gahin ti
heaven—Ah deean’t meean that—bud t’ music,’ said she, emphatically.
‘Ya see, Ah’ve nivver larnt nowt o’ music; Ah knaw nowt aboot it, an’
if tha start ma off wiv owther a harp or a dulcima, Ah s’all mak nowt
bud a laughing-stock o’ mysel, for Ah can nowther tune ner scrat on
’em. Noo, if ’t c’u’d be ’ranged foor ma ti tak care o’ yan o’ t’ angel
babbies, Ah s’u’d be ez reet ez ninepins, foor Ah allus did git on wi’
childer, an’ Ah’d fetch it up a pattern, an’ Ah’d promise nivver ti
slap it; onny road, Ah s’all mak nowt ow ’t wiv a dulcima.’
The village artist was dying; he had painted three out of the four
village signs, he had executed the scrollwork for every church
decoration for years past, and there was in his house an imitation
marble mantelpiece, which he had yearned to show every one. The
clergyman was about to leave him, but before doing so, asked if he
should pray. ‘Aye, aye,’ said the dying man, ‘and ez mebbe this’ll be
t’ last tahm ’at ya will pray foor ma, Ah s’u’d be glad if ya’d mention
’at Ah’s a good hand at decorating; it’ll mebbe help yan a bit.’
Old Matthew was a well-known character. For years both he and his old
dame lived in a little cottage near Newton-under-Rosebery. When on
his death-bed, a lady, after reading to him, said, ‘And after all I
have read and told you, Matthew, heaven is more beautiful than you can
possibly imagine; you might lie and call to mind all the beautiful
things you have either seen or dreamt of, and even then you would not
have the least idea what heaven is like.’ To say the least, she was
somewhat surprised when the old man, gently patting her hand, said in
a whisper, ‘Ya mebbe deean’t knaw ’at Ah yance seed Leeds pantomine;
that gave yan a inkling.’ N.B.—The Yorkshire people always pronounce
‘pantomime’ as spelt above.
Old Bessy, who lived in an old house near Kildale, was very near the
borderland. The clergyman found her quite happy and reconciled, and on
leaving her (he was going away for some time), said, ‘Well, goodbye,
Bessy; I may never see you on earth again, but I shall hope to meet you
in heaven.’ ‘Aye, an’ Ah s’ leeak oot for ya cuming; an’ deean’t forgit
’at neean on uz is nowt na different up yonder, so you maun’t git yer
back up if Ah just shak ya byv t’ han’, an’ saay, famil’ar leyke, ’at
Ah’s glad ti see ’at ya’ve mannished it.’
The rest of this chapter is merely a collection of Yorkshire stories,
which I think should not be lost, and which I leave to the perspicuity
of my readers, who doubtless, without any hints from me, will grasp the
many different phases of character contained therein.
The tire had come off the cart wheel, and the Tyke was in a bit of a
fix; shortly afterwards a cyclist drew up, and dismounting, remarked,
‘Punctchard. Can I lend you my pump?’ and then burst out laughing
at the man’s dilemma and his own wit. ‘Punctchard? neea, Ah isn’t
punctchard,’ retorted the Tyke, in fairly good imitation of the
would-be wit. ‘An’ thoo can stick ti thi pump; bud Ah deean’t knaw what
thoo wants it fer, fer thoo’d be all t’ better if thoo war punctchard
thisen a larl bit; it ’ud let sum o’ thi gas oot, foor thoo’s ommaist
brussen wi’ ‘t.’ And then he set to work to replace the tyre, as though
no cyclist had appeared upon the scene.
Several rustics were admiring two brand-new machines, whilst the owners
(a lady and gentleman) regaled themselves in the village pub. When
about to start on their journey again, the young fellow, taking stock
of the group, and, as he thought, seeing good material for a joke,
said, ‘Admiring our machines?’ and then, nudging his fair companion,
continued, ‘These are the very latest; they can either be used as
cycles, musical boxes, or garden mowers. I only have to turn a screw,
that’s all. Clever, aren’t they?’ ‘Aye!’ said one of the group, looking
as if he had swallowed every word just uttered. ‘It’s wunnerful what
they’ve gitten ’em ti deea noo; my weyfe’s gitten yan ’at gans wiv a
can an’ milks t’ coos all byv itsen.’ Then those two proceeded on their
journey.
There had been a terrific thunderstorm, lasting most of the night.
Talking the matter over next day, one said, ‘Did ta ivver hear owt
ti cum up tul ’t?’ ‘Naay, it gav mah a to’n yance or twice. What diz
ta mak on’t?’ ‘It’s t’ aliments’ (elements), ’thoo knaws; it’s t’
aliments.’ ‘Aye, thoo’s reet, it’ll be t’ aliments; bud, Ah saay, it
sets yan on ti think.’ ‘It diz, an’ all; just eftther that despert lood
crack cam, Ah thowt ti mysen, it’s gahin ti be all owered wiv uz; an’
foor a larl bit Ah wished ’at Ah’d ta’en Tom’s bid foor t’ colt.’
A delightful gathering had taken place at the rectory, followed by a
most sumptuous tea. The people had come to celebrate the home-coming of
the rector and his bride (a very dear South-country lady). After tea,
the bride, speaking to an old fellow, said, ‘I hope you have enjoyed
yourself?’ To which kind inquiry he promptly replied, ‘Whya noo, Ah’ve
been at monny a warse do ner this—Ah ’ev that.’ This really was the
very highest praise he could possibly have given. The bride, somewhat
annoyed at what she considered the ingratitude of the man, turned to
an old dame she saw walking down the drive. ‘Have you tired yourself?’
she kindly inquired. ‘Tired mysen? Neea, Ah’ve nut tired mysen. Ah
’edn’t need git mysen tew’d at a do leyke this. Ah’s nut tired, bud
Ah’s gahin yam. Ah wad ’a’e stopped on ti t’ end, bud ther’s that monny
flees aboot t’ pleeace, whahl yan dizn’t knaw what ti deea wi’ yan’s
sen, an’ sae Ah’s foor off.’ The only thing which had been made at all
clear to the bride was that the old lady complained of being troubled
with fleas, which she found too many for her. ‘Fleas!’ said she; ‘I
feel sure you are mistaken.’ To which the old lady made this reply:
‘Noa, Ah’s nut; but Ah deean’t meean fleas ’at’s fleas, bud flees ’at
flee’ (flies that fly), leaving the rector’s wife more bewildered than
ever.
A new-comer related to those assembled in the village bar a most
marvellous story of an accident from which his son had just
recovered. If anything, it erred on the side of being just a trifle
too marvellous. Several said, ‘How wonderful!’ but there was one man
sitting in the far corner, and spake he never a word. ‘Perhaps you
doubt my story?’ ventured the narrator. ‘Nut Ah. Ah’ve neea call ti
doot owt ’at ya’ve tell’d uz, foor yance yan o’ mah lads swaller’d a
pin, an’ ya can tak mah wo’d for ’t, bud i’ less ’an a month eftther it
cam oot o’ t’ back ov his brother’s neck. That’ll match your taal onny
daay.’
The following conversation between two old mothers was overheard by a
clergyman who happened to be travelling in the same compartment of the
train. Said one to the other, ‘Whya, noo then, wa’ve gitten him sahded
by.’ ‘Aye, wa ’ev,’ sighed the other; ‘Ah’ve knawn him ivver sin he
war a lad.’ ‘Thoo ’ez, an’ what thoo knaws ’at Ah went ti skeeal wiv
him?’ ‘Aye, thoo did,’ said her friend; ‘Ah’d forgitten that. Ah saay,
Mary, what a beautiful corpse he maad—sae still an’ sae quiet, bud they
maistly are.’ ‘Aye, aye,’ said Mary, slowly adding, ‘bud what a tea it
war; Ah’ve nivver been at sike an a-sitting doon i’ mah leyfe; ther
war nowt bud tea-cakes, an’ badly buttered at that. Noo Ah’ve sahded
fahve o’ my awn, bud thank the Lord Ah buried ’em all wi’ ham,’ which
was a sign not only of great respectability, but as having shown proper
respect to the dead.
Taking my seat in a third-class carriage at Malton, two men and a woman
joined me, and much edified by their conversation I was. They commenced
discussing the merits of an entertainment which had been given the
night previous in one of the villages in the neighbourhood. I gathered
from their remarks that Lady M—— and the Hon. Mrs. B—— had taken an
active part in organizing the same. However, for the moment, Lady M——
was very freely discussed. The woman had possession of the carriage,
and almost without drawing breath said, ‘Noo, sha’s a grand un, is t’
au’d leddy; sha’s gam foor owt. Mah songs, Ah nivver cam across t’
leykes on her onnywheear else; bud ther isn’t sike anuther onnywheear
aboot here, an’ Ah knaw summat aboot t’ maist on ’em. Sha’s nut yan o’
theease twopenny-haupenny upstarts ’at dizn’t knaw what’s matter wiv
’em hauf ther tahm. Aye, sha’s a grand un, is t’ au’d leddy.’ ‘Aye, sha
is,’ joined in one of the men, as the woman ceased for want of breath.
‘An’ Ah’ll tell ya what, that au’dist lad ov hers isn’t a bad un, an’
Ah meean ti saay ’at his lordship can rear poultry ’at neean on ’em
can touch aboot here; noo, he can. He’s a rare han’ wi’ bo’ds, is his
lordship.’ ‘Him rear poultry!’ burst in the woman. ‘Him rear poultry!’
she repeated, with ineffable scorn; and then, slowly and emphatically
(you, who are Yorkshire people, know exactly what I mean), she added,
‘Ah meean ti saay ’at t’ au’d leddy can mak a hen lay mair eggs ’an
onny man, woman, or bairn i’ this countrysahd; an’ Ah’ll tell ya what,
if tha deean’t gi’e her yan o’ t’ best harps ti plaay on when sha dees
an’ gans ti heaven, Ah’ll ’a’e nowt ti deea wi’ ‘t.’
A vicar once asked his sexton what he thought of the previous Sunday’s
preacher. The pulpit had been occupied on that occasion by a clergyman
whose oratorical powers are pretty widely known, but whose sermon had
been quite over the heads of his congregation on that particular day.
The reply the vicar got was certainly to the point. ‘Whya, Ah wadn’t
saay bud what mebbe you mud larn summat fra what he tell’d uz, acoz
ther’s neea doot ’at he war varra far larnt; bud ez foor me, an’ t’
likes o’ me, wa’d reyther sit an’ lissen ti t’ saam au’d ditties fra
you ’at wa’ve heeard ower an’ up agaan. Aye, that wa wad; ya see, wa
knaw what’s cuming.’
A neighbour’s third wife lay dead. Said a dame to the husband, ‘Mary’s
gone! Dear me, hoo sum fau’k diz ’ev bad luck; thoo’ll ’a’e ti gan ti
t’ burying, hooivver.’ ‘Naay,’ said the husband, ‘Ah deean’t think ’at
Ah s’all gan this tahm; Ah went ti t’ tother tweea—they’ll ‘ ti mannish
bidoot ma this tahm.’ ‘Naay, what, thoo’ll ’a’e ti gan, hooivver; it’ll
nivver deea eftther seeing t’ other tweea sahded by, nut ti gan ti t’
tho’d un. Whativver maks tha think ’at thoo weean’t gan?’ ‘Whya, thoo
sees, it’s ez thoo sez, Ah’ve seen tweea on ’em sahded by, an’ Ah think
’at it leeaks a bit greedy ti gan ti t’ tho’d un. Thoo sees, up ti noo
Ah’ve nivver been yabble ti return t’ compliment, an’ Ah deean’t leyke
ti put on a chap, an’ Ah s’aan’t gan.’
A good dame found her husband lying on the chamber floor. ‘Whativver
is ta deeaing, ligging on t’ cham’er fleear foor?’ ‘Aa, lass,’ the old
chap groaned, ‘Ah thowt Ah war boun ti dee; Ah did, hooivver. If ivver
Ah’s ta’en leyke that agaan, Ah s’aan’t cum round na mair; thoo’ll
finnd ma deead wheear Ah tumm’ls.’ ‘Whya, let’s get tha inti bed, an’
Ah’ll fetch tha a basin o’ gruel up; an’ Ah’ll put t’ au’d stick byv t’
sahd o’ t’ bed, an’ thoo mun think on ’at thoo mun thump on t’ fleear
if thoo’s ta’en queer agaan; whativver thoo diz, noo, thoo maun’t dee
unbeknawn. It’s varra inconsiderate o’ fau’k ti tak thersens off i’
that waay,’ said the wife, bustling about. ‘Bud thoo knaws yan caan’t
help ’t,’ said the old chap. ‘Whya, thoo mun deea thi best, an’ bear
i’ mahnd what a tideea ther wad ’a’e been if Ah’d happened ti finnd
tha deead on t’ fleear. Crowner wad ’ev ’ed ti cum’d, an’ all t’ jury
chaps gahin in an’ oot ez if t’ pleeace warn’t yan’s awn, an’ leykly
eneeaf afoor yan ’ed gitten tidied up, an’ then Ah s’u’d ’a’e ’ed t’
bobby fussing aboot an’ assing all manner o’ quessions, an’ Ah deean’t
knaw what else. Noo, thoo mauh’t let ma in foor a gahin-on leyke that.
Ah’ve putten tha t’ stick handy, seea mahnd thoo dizn’t drop off bidoot
gi’ing yan warning. It weean’t tew tha mich ti thump on t’ fleear, an’
then Ah’ll be up iv a crack. Noo, deean’t forgit thoo ’ezn’t ti dee
bidoot thumping.’
Old Sally was dying. On being asked by the vicar if she felt quite
happy, the old lady said, with great unction, ‘Oh yes, Ah s’all seean
be iv Jacob’s bosom.’ ‘Abraham’s bosom, Sally,’ corrected the vicar.
‘Aye, well, mebbe it is, bud if you’d been unmarried for sixty-fahve
year, leyke what Ah ’ev, ya wudn’t be particular wheeas bosom it war,
seea lang ez ya gat inti sumbody’s.’
A good story is told in Gloucestershire, which is a fair example that
Yorkshiremen are credited with being able to take care of themselves by
those of other counties. An ostler at one of the inns in that county in
a general way managed to draw a tip from all who put up, even from one
or two chaps who were well known as being very greedy. Said a gentleman
one day to the ostler, who had just led out of the yard the horse and
trap of one of these penurious old chaps, ‘Did you manage to drag a tip
out of him?’ ‘Aye,’ said the ostler, ‘he awlus gi’es ma summat, bud it
ommaist brecks his heart ivvery tahm he gans away.’ ‘Yorkshire, are you
not?’ questioned the gentleman. ‘Aye, Ah’s Yorkshire hard eneeaf,’ was
the characteristic reply. ‘Why,’ said the questioner, with a smile,
‘I am a bit surprised, seeing that you have been here so long, that
the whole place doesn’t belong to you.’ To which, with a twinkle in
his eye, the ostler replied, ‘It mebbe wad ’a’e deean afoor noo, if my
maister ’edn’t been Yorkshire an’ all.’
A story is told of two Yorkshire Tykes bargaining—of course this was a
case of ’when Greek meets Greek.’ Said one, ‘Whya, noo then, John, what
diz ta think if wa mak a unseen swap on ’t? Thoo ’ezn’t seen mah meer,
an’ Ah ’evn’t seen tha cob; bud Ah knaw ’at thoo awlus leyked t’ meer,
an’ Ah’ve awlus ’ed a bit ov a leaning ti t’ cob, an’ wa’ve knawn t’
ane t’ ither foor a lang whahl—noo, what diz ta saay?’ ‘Whya noo, ez
thoo sez wa’ve knawn t’ ane t’ ither ivver sen wa war lads, an’ ez thoo
’ezn’t seen t’ cob an’ Ah ’evn’t seen t’ meer, whya, thoo mun ho’d the
han’ oot.’ And so the bargain was struck. Then said one to the other,
‘Whya, it’s owered noo. Ther’s neea backing oot fra t’ bargain noo,
bud Ah aim ’at thoo war a larl bit ti keen. Thoo sees it’s leyke this:
t’ meer’s geean that deead laam, ’at Ah deean’t think ’at sha’ll ivver
gan agaan,’ ‘Oha, why, nivver mahnd,’ said the other; ‘t’ cob’s deead
altigither, an’ flayed.’
In the preceding five chapters, I have striven to give you some insight
into the character of our people. This, however, has not been my only
aim. I have endeavoured—and shall continue to do so—to put the dialect
in such a way as to be easily mastered by my readers, even should they
be strangers to our county.
Please bear in mind that the North and East Ridings dialectically are
the same. Certainly some few words have been retained or dropped, as
the case may be, in each Riding, but the pronunciation is identical,
or at least almost so. These remarks, however, do not hold good when
applied to the West Riding. Ripon (my native place) and Leeds are not
very far distant, only twenty-six miles. Ripon, although in the West
Riding, is to all intents dialectically in the North, but by the time
you have travelled the twenty-six miles all is changed—you have as it
were crossed the line.