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.’