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.