Mary W—-—- had for many years received a dole of ten shillings every Christmas for coals, but having obtained regular work at the Hall, the vicar rightly decided that five shillings in future would meet her circumstances, the more so as there were many other deserving cases. At the time appointed he left five shillings with Mary’s daughter, the mother being out at the time. On her return she was told of the vicar’s call, and of the five shillings which he had left. ‘And what did you do, Mary?’ asked a lady, some short time afterwards. ‘Deea! deea! Whya, Ah ’ed t’ fahve shillin’ seal’d an’ posted back agaan tiv him, afore he left t’ village. Ah’m nut that poor ’at Ah want for fahve shillin’; an’ if Ah can’t be treated like a lady wi’ ten shillin’, Ah weean’t be maad a pauper on; neea, nut if t’ archbishop war ti cum wiv it hissel.’
Chatting one day with a very old friend of mine, the Vicar of —-, he gave me the following:—‘In my younger days,’ said he, ‘I was brought up amongst the South-country peasantry, and for some time after I came into the North Riding I was greatly surprised at the small amount of deference paid to me as their pastor. So marked was this, that I determined if possible to discover the reason; so one day I entered into conversation with a blunt but honest old stone-breaker I found hard at work by the roadside. “Now, Willie,” said I, “you are hard at it.” “Aye,” said he, “Ah’ve gitten ti arn my bit; ya’ve nivver ’ed ti deea a stroak foor yours.” Not heeding his remark—which, by the way, a South-country man of like position would never dared have uttered—I asked: “How is it, Willie, that none of the villagers ever touch their caps or the women curtsy when they meet me?” I know it was a bit snobbish to ask such a question, but I had good reason for so doing: I wished to find out if I was in any way remiss. “Touch wer caps an’ co’tsey!” said he, still continuing to break his stones. “Wa’ve neea call ti deea owther t’ ane or tither; wa knaw varra larl aboot ya ez yit.” “But I am your pastor,” I urged, feeling at that time that was all-sufficient. “That coonts fer larl,” said the old fellow. “Ther’s good uns an’ bad uns ov all soarts. Ah tell ya ’at wa knaw varra larl aboot ya ez yit. Wa s’all finnd oot efter a bit what soart o’ stuff yer maad on, bud ya’ll ’a’e ti treead yer teeas cannily, or wa s’aan’t tak ti ya at all.” All this,’ said my old friend, ’at that time was a complete revelation to me. Up to then I had been used, anyway before my face, to something approaching servility, and here was a stone-breaker plainly telling me I should have to be very careful, and doing so without so much as ceasing his work.’ Let me add, the stone-breaker has been laid to rest now many a year, and the flock has fully recognized the vicar as their shepherd, and as one worthy both of their love and respect; and in their way they give the one and show the other in a marked degree. It takes a little time to get at the bottom of our people, but the trying to do so always brings a plenteous reward.
Mr. Pawson by nature was bumptious. He was distinctly of the genus novus homo. He came to the village as a stranger, and built himself a house, and from the day he came to reside therein, figuratively speaking, he began to push the villagers about. ‘He’ll stritch t’ lastic’ (elastic) ’whahl it flees back an’ smacks him i’ t’ feeace,’ said one. And he did. It happened this way. One day, turning to a small pig-jobber, he said, ‘Jackson, tell one of your lads to take my dog back to the house; and, Jackson, he had better call at the saddler’s and take some repairs along at the same time.’ Now, as has been already remarked, this addressing the country folk by their surname is deeply resented; and in the case of Mr. P. there was almost open rebellion. Jackson, however, was in no way dependent on the self-elected squire; so, winking to the bystanders, he said, ‘All reet; bud Ah saay, Mr. Pawson, Ah think ’at ya owt ti saay Mister when ya speeak ti ma. Ya knaw fau’k’s saying ’at maist leyklings wa s’all seean be related, ez mah au’dest lad’s gitten his e’e on that eldest lass o’ yours.’ The roar of laughter which followed was—well, I pity Mr. Pawson.
A lady of ample means, whose one desire was to do good to others, found the people very difficult to approach when she first came amongst them. As a fact, she knew nothing of the idiosyncrasy of the Yorkshire people. Said she one day to an old Yorkshire dame whom she had weeding her garden: ‘Bessy, how is it the people do not take kindly to me? I am most wishful to help them, and to make them my friends, but they won’t let me; how is it?’ ‘Whya, ya see wa’re a larl bit different mebbe ti t’ fau’k ’at you’ll ’a’e been amang, afoor ya cam inti these pairts; Ah’ve allus fun’ ya varra canny ti deea wi’ mysen, Ah will saay that.’ ‘Yes, but how is it the other cottagers do not seem pleased to see me when I call?’ ‘Whya, mebbins Ah c’u’d tell ya, bud Ah deean’t knaw ’at Ah s’u’d be deeaing mysen onny good if Ah did,’ said Bessy, cautiously. ‘But I should be greatly obliged to you if you would.’ ‘Aye, ya saay seea noo, bud ya’d leyklings git yer back up if Ah tell’d ya.’ ‘No, indeed I won’t; I am really wishful to know.’ ‘Oha, whya noo, when ya gi’e ma yer wo’d on ’t, Ah s’ ‘a’e ti gi’e ya a bit ov an inkling. Noo, it’s leyke this, mum: wa deean’t tak kindly ti fau’k ’at tak liberties wiv uz. Noo, Ah deean’t want ti saay owt ’at’ll vex ya, bud neea doot, bidoot meeaning it, ya tak a gert deal upon yersen.’ ‘In what way?’ asked the lady, being quite unaware of ever having done anything of the kind. ‘Whya noo, for yah thing, ya nivver knock at neeabody’s deear; ya just lift t’ sneck an’ cross t’ deearstan ez if t’ pleeace belang’d ti ya. An’ Ah’ll tell ya anuther thing whahl Ah’s aboot it: ya ass[2] a seet ti monny quessions for yan ’at isn’t varra weel knawn ti yan. Ya s’u’dn’t deea seea. Ya wadn’t be sae setten up noo, if yan ov uz cam an’ walked wersens inti your parlour, bidoot knocking or owt, an’ started ti ass ya quessions aboot all manner o’ macks an’ mander o’ things, noo wad ya? Noo, wa ar’n’t aboon awning wer betters; bud, mahnd ya, wer betters ’ez ti wait whahl wa deea’t, an’ they ’ev ti let uz deea’t i’ wer awn waay an’ all, an’ ther’s nowt aboot that,’ concluded Bessy. Let me add, the lady took the hint, and in time learnt to love the plain-spoken people she had come to live amongst; and they gave their love in return tenfold, which, if rugged and rough at the edges, only enables you to get a firmer grip of it.
Just a few illustrations proving the practical side of our character.
In the village schoolroom a lecturer very learnedly and emphatically discoursed on the human eye. Amongst other things he declared the eye could quell the most savage beast. ‘Ah saay,’ said a sturdy farmer at the close of the lecture, ‘deea ya ho’d ti be trew all ’at ya’ve been telling uz aboot wer e’es?’ On assuring him every word was quite true, the lecturer was somewhat staggered by the farmer’s desire for a practical proof. ‘Whya then,’ said he, ‘Ah’ll tell ya what, Ah deean’t believe owt ’at ya’ve tell’d uz; an’ mair ’an that, if you’ll cum up ti mah hoos ti morn at morn, Ah’ll gi’e ya a chance ti tell mah ’at Ah’s wrang. Noo, leeak here, if you’ll gan inti mah paddock, Ah’ll gie ya leave ti e’e mah bull ez mich ez ivver ya leyke, an’ if he dizn’t shift ya afoor ya can count fo’tty, Ah’ll gi’e ya leave ti tak him yam wi’ ya. Bud you’ll be shifted.’ A friend calling to see one who was seriously ill, said just before parting, ‘Whya noo, thoo maun’t gi’e waay; thoo mun keep thi pluck up, or else it’ll be owered wi’ tha.’ ‘Aye, mun!’ said the invalid, ‘bud it’s hard ti keep yan’s pluck up, when yan feels all ov a shutther. Ah’ll tell tha what, if summat dizn’t sthraangely alter, Ah’s foor off, an’ ther’s nowt can ho’d ma back.’ ‘Oha well,’ said the visitor, ‘thoo owt ti knaw t’ best; bud whativver thoo diz, thoo maun’t dee iv a horry’ (hurry). ‘It’s fowr mile ti t’ chetch, an’ thoo’s na leet weight, an Ah s’u’d be bidden, an’ ‘a’e ti len’ a han’ ti hug tha. Liggin i’ bed a bit taks yan doon a lot; thoo mun try ti hing on a week or tweea, hooivver.’
Old I—— of Masham, a well-known jobber in days past, was once asked for a loan. But I will give the story as given to me years ago by William Scorrer, than whom a finer specimen of the old school of Yorkshiremen never lived, and to whom I am indebted for many of the best stories and other information in this book. Could you but have heard the old man tell them—old! why, he never looked old, and he was nearly eighty when I knew him—but you never will hear him; he has stepped over the line. His style, raciness, and everything which goes to make a Yorkshire story worth listening to, were lost when the grave closed over his last remains. At least, that is to my way of thinking. I know scores of people who can tell a Yorkshire story, and tell it admirably, perfect as to dialect, and humorously, too; but still, there always lacks that something—I mean crispness; no, sparkle is the word—which the old chap always managed to give just at the right moment. ‘Requiescat in pace.’
Pardon me, I will to the story. Old I—— was at Northallerton Market, when another jobber rushed up to him. ‘Ah saay,’ said he, ‘c’u’d ta mannish ti len’ uz fahve pund. Ah finnd mysel that sho’t, an’ Ah s’all loss a grand bargain if Ah caan’t leet on sumbody ’at ’ll len’ uz ’t.’ ‘Whya, thoo knaws, Bill,’ said I——, ‘Ah deean’t ho’d wi’ lennin’; ta knaws it offens maks frien’s leeak shy at yan anuther; bud if so be ’at thoo’s gahin ti miss a bargain, whya, Ah mun stritch a point foor yance, bud, mahnd tha, thoo ’ezn’t ti mak a common practis on ’t. Noo, when diz ta think ’at thoo’ll be yabble ti pay ’t back? An’ what ’ez ta gitten, ’at thoo’s gahin ti ’liver up ez security?’ ‘Whya, Ah’ll let tha ’a’e my watch, an’ Ah’ll gi’e tha mah wo’d——.’
‘Nivver mahnd thi wo’d, let’s leeak at t’ watch. Ah tell tha what,’ said I——, when he had the watch in his hand, ‘thoo mebbins sets gert store byv it thisen, bud tha’d bunch tha oot ov a pawn shop if thoo war brazzen’d eneeaf ti ass a pund for ’t. When can ti let mah ’ev it back?’ ‘Ah’ll gi’e tha ’t at Bedale next Tuesday.’ ‘Whya noo, Ah’ll trust tha for yance, bud it’s mair ’an what thi awn feyther ’ud deea. Noo thoo maun’t tak ma in; Ah s’all leeak for tha ti’ pay ’t back when Ah see tha at Bedale.’ To Bill’s credit, the money was paid the week following. But a fortnight afterwards he again begged for a loan, this time for fifteen pounds. ‘Neea!’ said I——, ‘thoo teeak mah in yance; Ah’ll nut trust tha na mair.’ ‘Teeak tha in! Didn’t Ah pay tha back hard eneeaf at Bedale, when Ah tell’d tha Ah wad?’ ‘Aye, thoo paid ma back all reet, bud Ah nivver thowt ’at thoo wad; naay, thoo’s ta’en ma in yance, Ah weean’t be on agaan.’
That by nature the Tyke is tenacious of his opinion, and hard to convince, may be taken as an axiom. I have referred to this before, but this is a convenient opportunity to produce proofs of the same.