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.
CHAPTER III
WIT AND CHARACTER—continued.
Our country-people, as has been incidentally remarked, are very proud and independent, but I venture to say both their pride and independency are cast in a right groove, and may certainly be classed amongst the chief elements which have made the Yorkshireman the self-reliant mortal which he certainly is. I have already said that he is eminently practical, and I now add hard to convince. Often, I admit, his mode of arguing would puzzle a Philadelphian lawyer, but after all it is argument, if you are only Yorkshire scholar enough to understand his way of handling a subject. The country-people are hard to convince, and no respecters of person.