CHAPTER IV

WIT AND CHARACTER—_continued_

There are many other side-lights to our character, only a few of which it will be possible to notice. But every story is pictured in such varying light and shade as to afford those who can fully appreciate them many varied traits of our character. And one word, if you please, with reference to these stories. Nearly all have the merit of being in essence true. They have been gathered from various sources, but in the main first hand. Many of the characters were known personally to the writer; and although in a few instances the origin and authenticity are doubtful, they are included because they so fully illustrate that which was to be demonstrated, and because they are so true to life, and just what would really have happened under like circumstances.

There is one special gift which the Yorkshireman possesses in a high degree, i.e. the humorous. It is a humorousness, too, which often (given that you understand and appreciate the dialect) sparkles with genuine wit. I plead guilty to the fact that much of the wit of our country-people is, as it were, given with the back of the hand. Still, it is none the less witty, for all that. And if the same sounds rough and unmusical to you, kindly bear in mind that the Chinese consider our best music little else than a tumult of discordant sound. It is generally the last few words uttered which contain the bud, blossom, and fruit all in one. I remember once being completely shut up by a Yorkshire lad, and he only uttered two words; but the tone and the look were the very cream of sarcastic jeering. This was how it came about. The lad was driving home some ducks from the pond. ‘You have a lot of fine ducks, my boy,’ said I. And then, thinking to buy a couple, I asked, ‘How often do you kill them?’ ‘Nobbut yance,’ was the laconic reply.

‘T’ law’s nowt bud a tak in all t’ waay thruff,’ said one. ‘When me an’ Tom went afoor wer betters aboot that hedge, Ah’d Jackson ti talk foor me, an’ he ’ed Smith ti talk foor him. An’ ti lissen ti them tweea blackguarding yan anuther when t’ case war on, yan mud ‘ thowt ’at tha war i’ arnist, an’ ‘at tha nivver wad ’a’e spokken civil t’ ane tither agaan; bud bless mah leyfe, when t’ case war adjourned ti t’ next court daay, an’ when me an’ Tom, scooling at yan anuther leyke all that, went inti t’ Black Lion ti ’ev a glass o’ yal, if wa didn’t finnd them tweea takking wine an’ ‘ranging ti gan fishing tigither t’ next daay. “Tom,” sez Ah, “if this is t’ waay tha mak t’ feeal o’ yan, seeaner thee an’ me haps t’ business up an’ t’ better it’ll be foor baith on uz.” An’ he sez ti me, “Gi’e uz thi han’ on’t,” an’ Ah did. An’ then Ah shoots oot, “Hi! Ah’ll tell ya what, you tweea ’ed best ’range to gan fishing foor awlus; bud mahnd ya, nowther me ner Tom’s gahin ti finnd t’ bait for owther on ya!”

Sally Ridge was a terror to all those she took a dislike to. She usually played some prank to the detriment of those who, for the time being, were out of favour. On one occasion, however, she went a trifle too far; she broke the back of a duck with a stone. This got poor Sally into fearfully hot water, and there was every likelihood of her being summoned; however, the writer interceded on her behalf, and on Sally faithfully promising never to stone a duck again, she was pardoned. Within an hour afterwards, I surprised her gaily pitching stones amongst the feathered swimmers. ‘Didn’t you promise me faithfully not to throw stones at the ducks again, Sally?’ I asked, taking hold of her, and adding, ‘it is wicked of you to break your word in this way.’ ‘Ah ’evn’t brokken my wo’d,’ replied Sally, trying to free herself. ‘But you have; you promised not to throw stones at the ducks again,’ I repeated. ‘An’ Ah isn’t; Ah’s thrawing at yon geese, an’ it’s nut mah fau’t if t’ silly au’d ducks git thersens i’ t’ road. Leave lowse, Ah nivver sed nowt ti naebody aboot geese.’

Three visitors hired a boat at Staithes for an hour’s fishing, having a man each to attend to their lines. On returning to land, the fishermen were paid half a crown for the sail. The visitors had not got far away, when one of the fishermen ran after them. ‘Ah saay, mister,’ said he, turning the half-crown over in his hand, ‘ya see ther’s three on uz, an’ nut being schollars, wa’re bet ti knaw hoo ti share ’t oot; bud Ah’ll tell ya what wa deea knaw,’ he added, with a merry twinkle in his eye, ‘if ya war ti gi’e uz anuther sixpence, wa s’u’d ’ev a bob apiece.’ And they got it.

An old keeper was told off to hand the gun for a very poor shot. After blazing away at several coveys, he turned to the old chap, saying, ‘I am afraid you will think me a very bad shot!’ ‘Nut Ah. Ah think ’at Ah nivver seed naebody shut better an’ hit warse i’ mah leyfe.’ ‘And yet I have made many a good bag before to-day,’ said the sportsman, just a wee bit nettled. ‘Aye, bud oor bo’ds flee, tha deean’t sit ti be shutten at,’ was the quiet rejoinder.

Lady —- said to one of her under-gardeners, ‘Thomas, the maids tell me that you often say very nasty things about women; do you ever do the same of the men?’ And then her ladyship looked him squarely in the face, but Thomas was equal to the occasion. ‘Neea, my lady, that Ah deean’t, acoz i’ that case it ’ud be trew, ya knaw.’

Tommy had been fishing on Sunday; he had been caught red-handed by the Chapel minister. The good man read Tommy a long lesson on the enormity of his sin, concluding by asking what Tommy had to say for himself. ‘It’s nut a real rod!’ ventured Tommy. ‘That does not matter,’ said his judge; ‘the sin is just the same, and the Lord never prospers those who break the sabbath.’ ‘Wha, then,’ promptly replied Tommy, ‘it mun ’a’e been Au’d Scrat’ (i.e. Satan) ‘’at’s egg’d ’em on ti bite ti-daay, foor Ah nivver catched sa monny afoor’—holding up a bottle fairly alive with sticklebacks and minnows.

Whether I am succeeding or not is for others to judge, but what I am striving to do is to paint the various points in our character faithfully. I am neither hiding nor glossing. Our brusquerie and doggedness, our tenacity of opinion and keenness to acquire the all-needful, our pride and independency, as also our want of that respect for those who may consider themselves our superiors, have been as fully and as truthfully set forth as space would admit of.

On the other hand, our people are warm-hearted, hospitable to a degree, and exhibit a deep sense of gratitude for favours received, such as would never be credited by those who judge us by our rugged exterior. But it is there, for all that. Let me give you two or three stories quite true, which prove to some extent what I have just asserted.

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.

‘Wha, bud Ah’d gert call ti blaam tha; thoo’ll awn ti t’ hamper, weean’t ta?’ ‘Aye, Ah nivver, ’at Ah mahnd on, ivver tried ti disawn ’t. What mud Ah foor? Sumboddy stowl ’t; Ah c’u’dn’t help that, onny road, c’u’d Ah?’

‘Then thoo’d nowt i’ t’ wo’lld ti deea wi’ t’ pricky-back otch’n?’ ‘Ah’ve tell’d tha ower an’ up agaan i’ tahms back ’at Ah’d nivver nowt i’ noa waay whatsoivver owt ti deea wi’ t’ otch’n,’ said Scott, emphatically.

‘Whya, thoo knaws ’at Ah ’ed a shilling ti pay for ’t cuming; what’s gahin ti be deean aboot that, then?’ ‘Whya, thoo dizn’t leeak ti me for ’t, diz ta?’ ‘Whya, Ah war that oot o’ pocket, an’ it war thi hamper ’at it cam in hard eneeaf.’ ‘Aye, an’ Ah’ll tell tha what, thoo’s nivver let ma ’a’e ’t back agaan; bud nivver mahnd, thoo mun keep t’ hamper, an’ wa’ll lap t’ job up that waay,’ magnanimously offered Scott.

‘Ah see ’at Ah’s boun ti be oot o’ pocket wi’ t’ otch’n,’ persisted Pettigrew, ‘bud Ah’ll tell tha what, thoo mun stan’ uz a glass foor friendship’s sake.’ ‘Whya, noo then, ez Ah’s gahin ti wed thi cusin Martha, cu’ thi waay.’ And so the matter was settled.