‘Eddication an’ self-binnders is gahin ti to’n t’ wo’lld upsahd doon,’ said an honest Yorkshireman to me the other day. ‘Are things in general really much different now from what they were, say, fifty years ago?’ I asked. To which I received this laconic reply, ‘Nowt’s t’ saam[1].’ Nothing could have been more forcible: the words meant much, and the tone in which they were uttered meant even more.
Unfortunately this ‘tone,’ which is the very soul of the dialect, can never be rendered in print. How poor and meaningless in the mouth of a stranger sound the words, ‘Cu’ thi waays, honey,’ but from the lips of a Yorkshire mother to her bairn they carry with them the sound of tenderest love and solicitude. They ring with music, but it is music which is only tuneful to the Yorkshire ear.
But to return to our friend. Now, though he said ‘Nowt’s t’ saam’ in somewhat a depreciatory manner, he was fully aware of the value of education and the utility of the various mechanical appliances which have of late years revolutionized agricultural labour. There is a species, shall I say of conservatism? deeply ingrafted in the Yorkshireman’s character. It is a natural cautiousness which ever keeps this conservatism to the forefront in everything connected with his daily life. He does not, nor ever has, taken kindly to novelties. He views with suspicion all things which he considers innovations, i.e. which have a tendency to alter the general rut in which his father travelled before him. To him the old way is good, and he is loth to leave it. No matter whether it be temporal or spiritual, he hangs on long and hard to the old and beaten track. Errare est humanum fully applies to the Yorkshireman; he makes mistakes, but never owing to his having been too precipitate. He is naturally cautious and eminently practical. ‘Ah leyke ti ken hoo tweea an’ tweea’s gahin ti mak fowr, an’ ’at fowr penn’oth o’ stuff’s wo’th fow’pence, afoor Ah ware mah brass on owt,’ said an old Tyke one day. This caution and practical turn in our character, and which is carried into all things, naturally leads those who are strangers to form the opinion that we are dull and slow of comprehension, but to those who can read between the lines this verdict is very speedily reversed; for should it be necessary to spend only words, ‘which costs nowt, bud deean’t want wasting foor all that,’ then it will be readily conceded that the Yorkshireman’s brain can grasp a question and turn on steam so as to give an answer as quickly and as much to the point as the best of them.
It may not be couched in the politest of language; nay, most likely it will be very plain-spoken, even to bluntness; but it will be just what the speaker thinks, devoid of all the silken trimmings of conventionalism.
Many of the answers given to inquisitive questioners often seem irrelevant; they need as it were some sidelight to point the application, and generally it is necessary one should have a considerable knowledge of the dialect and idiom before its terseness can be fully appreciated.
Nevertheless, when properly approached our people are communicative, and express their opinion freely and always ad rem.
But once having weighed any matter over, the opinion so formed is, as it were, engraved on a rock of adamant. Perhaps one or two illustrations will show the different phases of character referred to in a clearer light than pages of written explanation.
The new vicar (not a Yorkshireman) of a country parish decided that his congregation should stand up when he and the choir processed from the vestry. ‘Tha’ll nut deea ’t,’ said the churchwarden when the question was mooted; ‘t’ au’d fau’k nivver did seea, an’ t’ young uns weean’t.’ The tone in which this was uttered would have been conclusive to any Yorkshireman.
‘I think I can make them,’ said the vicar. ‘Mak ’em!’ with great unction; ‘did ya saay mak ’em? Noo ya mebbe mud ’tice ’em—yan nivver knaws what’ll happen—bud Ah’s mairna sartin sewer ’at ya’ll nivver mak ’em; an’ tha’ll tak a gay bit o’ ‘ticing, if Ah knaw owt.’
‘Oh, leave it to me, I’ll manage it,’ said the vicar confidently. ‘Whya noo, gan on wi’ ya; bud deean’t forgit ’at a hoss sumtahms tumm’ls ower t’ raal ’at it’s loup’d afoor,’ was the parting advice of the worthy churchwarden.