YAN O’ T’ ELECT.
BOUT five or six years ago a gentleman entered a station on one of our local railways, and found the worthy station master (whose original occupation was that of a small Cumberland farmer,) in a state of great excitement. He inquired the cause, and received a reply of which the following is a verbatim report, committed to paper immediately afterwards. We must premise that Dr. —— was a well known amateur preacher,—a really benevolent man, who did good in his way, but had no charity for the opinions of others, and was ever intruding his views and advice on all who came in contact with him, and believed all who differed from him destined to perdition. The extreme Calvinistic doctrine of election and reprobation was a perfect mania with him. On this occasion he was accompanied by his servant, a man of sleek aspect, who distributed tracts, etc., for his master.
“What’s t’ matter wi’ mé? Wey, theear matter plenty! That Dr. —— com’ here aboot hoaf an oor sen to tak’ t’ train. I was stan’in’ at t’ time aback o’ t’ ticket wole, an’ what d’yé think he says;—he says, says he, ‘Isaac, you are a very wicked old man, and will most certainly be damned; you are worse than Cass (then under sentence of death in Carlisle gaol)—you are worse than a murderer.’ Says I, ‘Me war’ ner a murderer! What the sham’ an’ hangment d’yé mean be that?’ Says he, ‘I mean this, old man; it has been elected from the beginning that certain men shall be saved, and certain shall be lost. You are among the latter, and you will most certainly be damned.’ Says I, ‘An’ what ’ill come o’ you?’ Says he, ‘Oh, Christ elected me many years ago.’ Then, says I, ‘I think he meàd a varra feckless choice; but if it be sooa, I wad like to know what I’ve deùn ’at I’s to be damned! I’ve been weddit abeun forty year, an’ I’ve hed twelve barns, an’ I browte them o’ up weel, an’ I edicated them weel, an’ they’ve o’ turn’t oot weel; I’ve wrowte hard o’ me life, an’ I niver wrang’t a man oot of a ho’penny—what mair can a man deu?’ Says he, ‘Isaac, you might do much more, you might follow the teaching of the Bible; you might sell all you have and give it to the poor.’ Says I, ‘Sell o’ ’at I hev an’ give ’t to t’ poor! Is I to sell t’ bed fray anonder me wife ’at she’s sleept on for forty year? Is I to sell t’ chair fray anonder her ’at she’s sitten on for forty year, an’ turn her oot intil a dike gutter? What kind o’ religion is ther’ i’ that? Says he, ‘Oh, the Lord would provide for you.’ Says I, ‘The Lord provide for mé! Wad t’ Lord finnd mé wid a new bed an’ a new chair?—an’ if he dud, I wad likely hev to sell them ower ageàn! Sell o’ ’at I hev an’ gi’ ’t to t’ poor! Do you sell o’ ’at you hev an’ gi’ ’t to t’ poor? I niver hard tell o’ yé sellin’ o’ ’at you hev an’ gi’in’ ’t to t’ poor! They tell me you hev atween fowrteen an’ fifteen hundert a year,—an’ mebbee yé may, for owte I know, gi’e away—we’ll say, a hunder’t a year, an’ that’ll be t’ ootside be a gay bit.— Do you co’ that sellin’ o’ ’at you hev an’ gi’n’ to t’ poor. I tell yè, you’re a rich man, an’ I’s no’but a poor an’, wi’ a loosey ten shillin’ a week to leeve on; bit, accordin’ to what I hev, I consider mysel’ to be beàth a nowbler an’ a generouser fella ner you irr! Noo, theear a poor Irish family ’at leeves nar oor hoose, an’ ivery week end we send them o’ t’ scraps o’ meat an’ ’taties ’at we ha’e left, forby udder things;—that’s far mair, accordin’ to what I’ve gitten, ner your hunder’t a ’ear! You talk aboot me bein’ damned. Noo, I’s neea scholar, bit I’ve read t’ Bible for o’ that, an’ I’ve read ’at theear two mak’ o’ fwok ’at ’ill be damned—yan’s leears, an’ t’ tudder’s hypocrites. Noo, I’ll preùv ’at you’re beàth. You’re a leear for sayin’ ’at I was war’ ner a murderer i’ Carlisle gaol, an’ you’re a hypocrite for sayin’ seea when you knew you were leein’! I know hoo you mak’ o’ fwok argies—you reùt t’ Scriptur’ through an’ through to finnd owte ’at suits yé, an’ than ye throw o’ t’ tudder owerbword. An’ I tell you what, Mr.——, theear anudder thing ’at I’ve read in t’ Scriptur’s—I’ve read ’at theear to be a day o’ judgment. Noo, you chaps say ’at it’s o’ settl’t afoorhan’ what’s to cum on us, whoa’s to be seàv’t an’ whoa’s to be damned. You say you’re to be seàv’t an’ I’s to damned. Noo, what’s t’ use of a day o’ judgment if it’s o’ settl’t afoorhan! Ther’ ’ill be nowte to judge aboot! I’ll tell yé what, Mr.——, theear will be a day o’ judgment, an’ beàth you an’ me ’ill ha’e to mak’ oor appearance; an’ I doon’t know bit upon the whol’ I’ll stan’ full oot t’ better chance o’ t’ two! An’ what’s t’ use, I wad like to know, o’ you ga’n an’ preachin’ i’ that girt leàth o’ yours of a Sūnday neet till a parshal o’ taggelts, if it’s o’ fix’t what’s to come on them?’ Says he, ‘Old man, I perceive you are a child of the devil.’ Says I, ‘Wey, mebbee! Bit I’ll tell you what, Mr.——, t’ divvel hesn’t two better frin’s in o’ Cummerlan’ ner you an’ that man o’ yours—an’ which on yé ’s t’ bigger kneàv I’s sure I can’t tak upon mysel’ to say.’ Just than t’ train com’ up, an’ my gentleman slipes. Theear was a kind of a country chap stan’in’ ootside, an’ when t’ train hed gone, he com’ intil t’ stashun hoose, an’ says, says he, ‘Is that yan o’ thūr Methody chaps?’ ‘No,’ says I, ‘it’s yan o’ t’ Elect!’”
NOTE.
The above was most kindly sent to me by a gentleman well known in west Cumberland who has, from boyhood, been a keen and judicious observer of the peculiarities of thought and speech prevailing amongst his unsophisticated and unlettered neighbours; and who has also favoured me with extensive contributions to my stock of anecdotes illustrating the humorous side of rustic life in our common county. This remarkable piece possesses a higher value than any of my dialect productions, amongst which it appears, as being the veritable words used by one speaking the Cumberland vernacular and nothing else; and also as an exposition and powerful expression of the opinions on the doctrine referred to that prevails amongst his class, who are generally very matter-of-fact, and impatient of anything that transcends their power of apprehension or that goes beyond the grasp of their every-day sense. The old man’s self-laudation, when put upon his mettle, is perhaps the most characteristic point in the sketch.
KEATY CURBISON’S CAT.
AN OALD, OALD STWORY.
Keàty Cūrbison’ cat hed a whudderin’ waow,
A waow like a yowl, fit to freeten a man;
An’ t’ leet iv it’ e’e was a green glentin’ lowe—
Iv it’ e’e, we may say, for it no’but hed yan.
T’ ya lūg hed been rovven an’ hung like a cloot,
While t’ tudder stack ūp like t’ cockad’ iv a hat;
Lang whiskers like brūssles spread o’ roond it’ snoot—
It wosn’t a beauty—Keàte Cūrbison’ cat!
Keàty Cūrbison’ cat was a terror to t’ toon—
Till butt’ry an’ pantry it may’d hed a kay.
Intil ivery hoose, ayder up t’ geàt or doon,
By air-wole or chimla it wūmmelt it’ way.
For thievin’ an’ reàvin’ ’twas war’ nor a fox,
Ther’ wasn’t a hen-hoose it hedn’t been at;
Young chickens, an’ geslins, an’ pigeons, an’ ducks
Wer’ “ghem, gā ’way tul’t” to Keàte Cūrbison’ cat.
Keàty Cūrbison’ cat like a tiger wad feight;—
When it’ back was weel up an’ o’ ruddy for war
It wad lick a cur dog mair nor ten times it’ weight,
An’ mongrels an’ messans they dursn’t cū nār.
It hed leet of a trap, an’ ya feùt was teàn off,
An’ it’ tail bed been dock’t—but it dūdn’t mind that,
It wad flee at owte whick ’at wad give it a lofe—
A hero, i’ hair, was Keàte Cūrbison’ cat.
Keàty Cūrbison’ cat hed of lives a lang lot—
Yè ma’ toak aboot nine—it hed ninety an’ mair;
It was preùf ageàn puzzen or pooder an’ shot—
They hed buriet it yance, but it still dudn’t care.
It was tiet iv a meal-bag an’ flung into t’ beck,
But t’ bag it brong heàm for it’ mistress a brat,
Limpin’, trailin’ ’t ahint it wi’ t’ string round it’ neck—
T’ beck cūdn’t droon Keàty Cūrbison’ cat.
Keàty Cūrbison’ cat browte oald Keàty to grief—
Pooar body! she nowder was cūmly nor rich—
An’ t’ neybors aboot settlet doon to t’ belief
’At her cat was a divil an’ she was a witch.
An’ they said, “Let us swum her i’ t’ tarn,” an’ they dud;
She swom a lāl bit, an’ than droon’t like a rat,
An’ t’ cat aboot t’ spot swom as lang as it cūd;
An’ finish’t at last was Keàte Cūrbison’ cat.
NOTE.
I remember reading somewhere the story of one of the many old women so treated, in the wisdom of our ancestors, who was drowned while undergoing the common ordeal of being bound and thrown into deep water—and her cat, supposed to be her familiar spirit, swimming in circles over the place where she sank till it became exhausted and was also drowned. A story which made a lasting impression on my young imagination.
JOSEPH THOMPSON’S THUMB.
AN OLD HARRINGTON STORY.
Jwosep’ Thompson leev’t lang up at Harrin’ton toon,[17]
An’ a weel to dee, throughly oald marrow was Joe,
Wid a neive like a neàf, an’ a feàce like a moon,
An’ a shap’, standin’ ūp, like a tee-tak-up-o’.
Jwosep’ Thompson hed ola’s been hearty an’ stoot,
But trūbble o’ sūm mak’s gay sarten to cūm,
An’ when threescwore an’ two he hed jūst coontit oot,
He was terrably tyl’t wid a gedderin’ thūmb.
For it feister’t an’ wark’t wid sa beàdless a stoon,
’At rist he gat nin for’t by neet nor by day;
But he rantit aboot, or he reàv’t ūp an’ doon,
Fairly greànin’ his life an’ fwokes patience away.
Ther’ wer’ pokey oald wives aboot Harrin’ton than,
An’ a varst of advice, o’ free gratis, he gat;
But he gat nèa ’mends, dudn’t pooar oāld man,
An’ he fail’t varra sair iv his leùks an’ his fat.
He seeken’t at meat,—nay, he’d bowk at a speùn!
An’ his beùrd he let growe like a Turk or a gwoat,
An’ he squeak’t iv his toak like a fiddle oot o’ teùn,
An’ like bags full o’ nowte hung his britches an’ cwoat.
But o’ things they telt him Joe triet tūll his thūmb—
Sec as cerat’, an’ yal-grūnds, an’ turmets an’ skarn,
Screàp’t taties, an’ ’bacca, an’ pooder wid rūm,
An’ reūts ’at they raik’t oot o’ t’ boddom o’ t’ tarn.
An’ fegs, an’ bog-unnion, an’ blackberry buds,
An’ carrots, an’ pūppies, an’ teàdsteùls, an’ sneels,
An’ soave meàd wid rozzle an’ meal boil’t i’ sūds,
An’ t’ fat rwoastit oot o’ beàth hag-wūrms an’ eels.
An’ strang reisty bakin, an’ boil’t cabbish skrūnt,
An’ broon seàp an’ sugger, an’ typstic, an’ tar,
An’ he keept an’ oald pūltess of o’ mak’s upon’t,[18]
Till Joe an’ his thūmb warn’t nice to cū’ nār.
It was o’ nèa use-nūt a crūmb dūd he mend!
An’ t’ parson co’ tūll him to pray an’ to read,
An’ whisper, “I say, Jwosep’! think o’ thy end”—
But he wadn’t—he thowte of a doctor asteed.
An’ tul’t’ doctor he dreàv iv his car—thumb an’ o’—
An’ t’ doctor said, “Well, my lad—off this mūn cūm!”
An’ he haggelt an’ cot at his pultess-bleach’t po’,
Till Joe was weel shot of his mūrderin’ thumb.
T’ doctor lapt ūp his hand varra fewsome an’ reet,
An’ Joe, like a man, pait him weel for his job,
An’, creùnin’, “I’s m’appen git sūm rist to-neet,”
Joggelt heàm, pleased as Punch, wid his thumb in his fob.
An’ to t’ wife says he, “Tak’ ’t to t’ churchyard oot o’ geàt,
An’ bury ’t whoar I’ll lig mysel’ when I dee.”
An’ she went wid a trooin an’ lantern, leàt,
An’ left it i’ t’ spot whoar Joe said it mud be.
Jwosep’ to’k till his meat, for his hand mendit weel—
(He hed gud healin’ flesh, an’ fine natur’, hed Joe,)[19]
He screàp’t off his beùrd—he gev ow’r wid his squeel,
An’ was gittin’ as pūbble an’ roond as a bo’.
But jūst when he thowte o’ his trūbble was geàn,
A pain com’ ageàn, wār nor iver he’d fund,
An’ theear it keept burnin’ an’ bworin’ i’ t’ beàn
O’ t’ thumb ’at was buriet an’ coald under t’ grūnd.[20]
Jwosep’ went back to t’ doctor, an’t’ oald wicket teul
H’ard his teàl, an’ says he, wid a snūrt an’ a gūrn,
“If thy thumb’s i’ t’ churchyard, thoo pooar priest-bodder’t feùl,
Thoo ma’ mak’ thysel’ suer while it bides it ’ill būrn.”
He laid him sūm plaisters o’ soav on his po’,
An’ gev him sūm stuff to lig on tūl’t at heàm;
But nowte putten on tul’t gev easement tūll Joe,
For t’ būrnin’ an’ bworin’ wer’ iverly t’ seàm.
An’ it keept on sa bad, he tūrn’t maffelt an’ maiz’t,
An’ sa wankle an’ wake ’at he to’k tull his bed,
Whoar, liggin’ hoaf deid, ey, an’ mair nor hoaf craiz’t,
He cūd think aboot nowte but what t’ doctor hed said.
He triet nūt to speak on’t—He knew ’twasn’t reet,
But it ola’s beàd by him—his uppermor’ thowte;
An’ he yammer’t at t’ wife tull she went back at neet
To dig ūp t’ oald thūmb, an’ brong’t heàm iv a cloot.
They laid it i’ t’ gardin, an’ hoo ’t com’ aboot
Nowder t’ mistress nor t’ parson cūd under-cum-stand,
But sarten it was, fray that varra time oot,
Sairy Jwosep’ was bodder’t na mair wid his hand.
But Jwosep’ was niver ageàn his oald sel’.
An’ a questi’n com’ ūp still whativer he tried,
“If a thùmb i’ t’ churchyard was sa bad, whoa cūd tell
What a corp’ pùtten in’t o’togidder mūd bide!”
This he maddel’t aboot ebben endways away—
As lang as he breath’t it was ola’s his drone;
An’ t’ wife hed na peace till he gat her to say
He sud lig by his-sel’ iv a field o’ the’r oan.
An’ Joe tiet her up till her wūrd iv his will,
For theear suer aneuf when he dee’t it was fūnd
’At he’d left o’ tull hūr, no’but if she’d fulfil
His craze ageàn liggin’ i’ consecrate grūnd.
An’ Joe hed his way, for a square roughish steàn[21]
By t’ dike, i’ t’ Sco’-lonnin’, at this varra day,
Tell’s whoar Jwosep’ Thompson ligs whyet an’ leàn—
Keep us weel fray sec doctors as Jwosep’s, I pray!
An’ keep us, I pray, fray o’ wild wicket toak,
Bringan’ bodder an’ fashment tull oald an’ tull yūng.
Jwosep’ Thompson wad ristit wid Christian fwoke,
If t’ doctor he went tull hed hodden his tūng!