Transcriber’s Notes

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations in hyphenation and accents have been standardised but all other spelling and punctuation remains unchanged.

On page 262
‘To leeak a bad leeak’ = to leeak ill. has been changed to
‘To leeak a bad leeak’ = to look ill.

Many words in the Glossary are cross-referenced to other words. In several cases these other words are not present.

The book begins with an extensive list of subscribers immediately after the table of contents. This has been moved to the end.

WIT, CHARACTER, FOLKLORE
AND CUSTOMS
OF THE
NORTH RIDING OF YORKSHIRE

Oxford
HORACE HART, PRINTER TO THE UNIVERSITY

Wit
Character, Folklore & Customs
OF THE
NORTH RIDING OF YORKSHIRE

WITH
A GLOSSARY OF OVER 4,000 WORDS AND IDIOMS
NOW IN USE

BY
RICHARD BLAKEBOROUGH
(SOCIETY HUMORIST)
LATE HON. CURATOR OF THE R.S.S.; AUTHOR OF ‘MORE THAN A DREAM,’
‘T’ HUNT O’ YATTON BRIGG,’ THE COMEDIES ‘TOMBOY,’ ‘AUNTIE,’ ETC.

London
HENRY FROWDE
OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS WAREHOUSE
AMEN CORNER, E.C.
1898

THIS WORK
IS DEDICATED TO
THE
REV. E. S. CARTER, M.A.
OF YORK
AND
J. G. WILSON, M.A.
OF DURHAM
AS A MEMENTO OF SINCERE GRATITUDE
FOR MANY ACTS OF FRIENDSHIP
SHOWN TO
THE AUTHOR

PREFACE

At one time it was thought possible for the present work to be undertaken conjointly by the Rev. M. C. F. Morris, author of Yorkshire Folk-Talk, and myself. Such collaboration, though pleasing to both, was found to be quite impracticable. Many of my patrons and friends having urged me to undertake the work single-handed, I have ventured to do so. I have aimed at no higher standard than the chatty style which I have adopted in drawing-rooms and on the platform. If friends and critics prove but half as kind and considerate in this new venture as they have hitherto done, I have little to fear. My main object has been simply to place on record, in, I hope, a readable form, some of the wit, character, customs, and folklore of the North Riding which I have thought to be sufficiently interesting and worthy of being saved from that long list of things forgotten.

The chapter on some characteristic sayings of both the North and East Ridings, kindly contributed by the Rev. M. C. F. Morris, will add greatly to the value and interest of the work. I may here mention that he is in no way answerable for any other single sentence throughout the work. I feel it to be my duty to make this quite clear, for, as a humorist, I have ventured to include certain items which the reverend gentleman most probably would have run his pen through, had either the MS. or proof-sheets passed through his hands.

The Glossary, though far from containing all the words of our North Riding folk-speech, is as complete as it has been possible for me to make it.

My thanks are due to Mr. Atkinson and to Mr. Morris, whose glossaries I have frequently consulted, and in no less a degree to my friend Dr. Johnson of Lancaster for his MS. notes, so generously lent me.

I have done my best, and if my literary repast is not set before my readers with the usual glitter of silver and cut glass, I would humbly remind them that the fare has been fairly stalked and prepared with all due care as to accuracy, and cooked and served with the best of everything my literary kitchen possesses.

Many stories illustrative of Yorkshire character and humour are given, mostly gathered from original sources covering a period of many years, and in the main are true. None of them, I believe, have hitherto been published, and very few contained in these pages have I given publicly.

The stories afford numerous examples of the idiom and dialect as spoken in the North Riding, but mainly (as to dialect) in that of Cleveland. The reason for specializing that district is given elsewhere.

To the scores of happy hours spent with both old and young by their own firesides, I owe the contents of this book. Nearly all it contains they have given me: to them I return my warmest thanks.

One other word—should a copy of this work find its way into other lands, and be read by any of my Yorkshire colonial cousins, to them I sincerely offer the grip of friendship. And should any of our Yorkshire words have gained a footing on other soil, I shall be grateful for a list of the same.

To many of my subscribers I owe a lasting debt of gratitude for that kindness and cordiality which at once made me one of their house party when staying with them as Society Humorist, and also for the kind letters of encouragement they were so good as to send me in the early stage of my work, and to one and all I now offer my most sincere thanks for their cordial replies in answer to my circular.

In conclusion, should this work bring conviction that the Riding ought to have a Folklore and Dialectical Society identified with itself, I shall not have written in vain, and it would have my hearty if humble support. No time should be lost. Bear in mind, each aged person who passes from amongst us is another valuable volume removed from the shelves of an ever-decreasing library. I shall be glad to receive the names of any of my readers willing to help me in forming a North Riding Folklore and Dialectical Society.

The Author.

24 Trent Street,
Stockton-on-Tees,
September 27, 1898.

CONTENTS

THE YORKSHIRE FOLK-SPEECH IS NOT A DIALECT, BUT A LANGUAGE.

To those unacquainted with our folk-speech, the following list will be helpful when reading. A glossary of words now in use in the North Riding will be found at the end of the volume.

CHAPTER I
YORKSHIRE STORIES OF WIT AND CHARACTER.

‘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.

The following Sunday evening the vicar told his congregation that he wished them to stand as the choir came from the vestry, but next Sunday morning found his congregation stolidly seated as heretofore.

‘Ah tell’d ya tha wadn’t deea ’t,’ chuckled the churchwarden.

‘But they will,’ replied the vicar. ‘Bud tha weean’t,’ put in the churchwarden; and then he added as a clincher, ‘Acoz tha’ve made up tha mahnds aboot it, an’ ya weean’t shift ’em when yance tha’ve deean that.’

‘You wait until evening,’ said the vicar, ‘and I shall make them stand.’ And he did. Coming to the doorway of the vestry, he gave out the hymn, the organ commenced to play, up rose the congregation, and out marched the choir and vicar.

‘Ah’ll watch him fra deeaing that onny mair,’ muttered one old dame loud enough for half the church to hear.

‘Did I not say they would rise? And I’ll do that every Sunday,’ said the vicar, as he and the warden walked home.

‘Whya, Ah deean’t knaw saa mich aboot that. It’s nut awlus seeaf ti ride wiv a curb an’ spurs. Ya’ll ’a’e ti tak care noo; wa deean’t tak kindly ti being tricked, Ah can tell ya; bud wa s’ see at eftther.’

Next Sunday morning out stepped the vicar, gave out the hymn, and then waited in the vestry until the organ and congregation were in full swing; then, and not until then, did he and the choir march out, and to his no little surprise he found the whole congregation lustily singing, but seated to a man.

As an example of their plain-speaking, as well as their objection to fall in with a new order of things, perhaps the following is fairly to the point.

The wife of the Vicar of ——, having engaged a new maid, concluded various instructions by saying, ‘Should any ladies call during the afternoon, and I ring, you must bring in the small tea-tray and a kettle of boiling water.’ The first two days passed over without a hitch, but when the bell rang on the third afternoon, instead of tea-tray and kettle a head was thrust through the half-open door, and Mary said, ‘Here Ah saay, cum ootsahd; Ah want ya a minit.’ On the hostess retiring, Mary was heard to say, ‘Noo then! is this new-fengled gahin-on gahin ti happen ivvery daay? Baith them an’ yow owt ti knaw ’at it’s maist inconvenient leeaving yan’s reg’lar wark ti mak tea at this tahm o’ t’ daay. Ya’ll ’a’e ti gan back an’ saay ’at wa s’aan’t be yabble ti mannish owt for ’em this efttherneean; Ah’s up ti t’ elbows i’ muck.’

The Archdeacon of —— gave me the following story, which is too good to hide its head. The bishop had been preaching a restoration sermon in one of our villages. After the sermon his lordship and the archdeacon overtook the village blacksmith, a well-known character. ‘Well, John, and how have you enjoyed the sermon?’ inquired the archdeacon. ‘Whya, nowt bud weel. Ah s’u’d think, sir’ (turning to the bishop), ‘wiv a bit mair practis ya’ll mannish cannily. I’ t’ main what ya sed war varra good; a larl bit ti low i’ t’ voice for me, bud ya’ll mend o’ that. Noo, Ah yance did hear a young chap, an’ he war nobbut a young un an’ all. Ah think ’at he war iv a grosser’s shop, bud Ah’s nut sartin; bud that’s nowt. He yance preeached i’ t’ Methody chapel, an’ theer’s nut a wo’d of a lee aboot it, what Ah saay is trew; ya c’u’d hear him slap t’ Bahble an’ shoot hauf t’ waay doon t’ village. Aye, ya c’u’d stan’ ootsahd an’ smeeak ya’re pipe an’ get all t’ good fra what he war saaying; bud, then, he war a preeacher.’ I can well imagine the tone that last ‘bud, then, he war a preeacher’ would be uttered in.

The younger fry are just as open as the older folk. I remember a lady telling me she had called at a farm-house. Evidently she had been seen approaching. It would seem the doll and other litter of the wee daughter had been quickly bundled out of sight, and all things, as far as possible, put in order. For the moment the amusement of the little one was put an end to, and this did not escape the notice of the child. She, Yorkshire-like, formed her own opinion upon the proceeding, and only waited for a suitable moment to very plainly express the same. Resting her elbows on the lady’s knees, with her chubby little face in her hands, she said, when a lull in the conversation gave her a chance to speak, ‘Ah saay, missus, hoo pleasant it wad ’a’e been if you’d nivver ’a’e cum’d.’

The cautiousness of the Yorkshireman is so evident in all matters, it is so pronounced, that to give examples is almost to lay oneself open to the charge ‘ov telling a chap summat he knaws.’ Nevertheless I give you one, not so much because it is exactly Q.E.D., but because it is one of the best expositions of Socialism I have ever heard. It seems that some Socialist won one man over to his views, and this man met a friend of his. ‘Whya, noo then,’ began the friend; ‘what tha tell ma ’at thoo’s to’n’d ti be a Socialist, is ’t reet?’ ‘Aye, it’s reet; an’ it’s a gran’ thing an’ all. Thoo owt ti join uz.’ ‘Owt Ah? What is ’t ’at ya’re efter?’ ‘Whya, thoo knaws it’s lyke this; ther’s a lot o’ fau’k living i’ gert hooses, an’ tha’re eating an’ drinking all t’ daay lang an’ guzzling t’ neet thruff, sum on ’em, an’ it’s gahin ti be stopped. Ivverything’s gahin ti be shared up, an’ all on uz get what’s wer awn; neeabody nowt na mair ’an onnybody else, dizn’t ta see,’ ‘Whya, nut fur sartin.’ said his friend. ‘Diz ta meean ’at thoo’ll share up an’ all?’ ‘Aye, ivverybody will.’ ‘What, is’t gahin ti be a soart o’ brotherly luv’? Ivverybody wi’ nowt neea mair na onnybody else.’ ‘Aye, that’s it; brotherly luv’. Ivverybody all t’ seeam, neeabody nowt neea different neeawaays ti neeabody i’ neea road.’ ‘It soonds grand; bud diz ta meean ti saay if thoo ’ed tweea hosses an’ Ah ’edn’t a hoss ’at thoo’d gi’e ma yan?’ ‘Iv a minit Ah wad. If Ah’d tweea an’ thoo ’edn’t yan Ah s’u’d gi’e tha yan leyke all that,’ said he, slapping his friend on the back. ‘Aye, an’ if ta ’ed tweea coos, an’ Ah wanted a coo, wad ta gi’e uz a coo?’ ‘Just t’ seeam. If thoo ’edn’t a coo, an’ Ah ’ed tweea, Ah s’u’d tell tha ti tak yan awaay wi tha. Noo thoo understands what wa’re efter.’ ‘An’ if thoo’d tweea pigs, an’ Ah ’edn’t a pig, an’ Ah ass’d tha fur a pig, wad ta gi’e ma yan?’ ‘Naay noo,’ said the Socialist; ‘thoo’s cumin’ teea clooase hand noo; thoo knaws ’at Ah ’ev tweea pigs.’

Possibly not a little surprised was the angler who, when fishing in one of the small streams of the upper reaches of the Ure, said jokingly to an old chap who had been watching his vain attempts to land several fish, ‘I think I need a hanger on; what do you say?’ The old chap had been thoroughly disgusted with the way in which the fish had been played. It was no case for joking; it was a downright sin for such a man to be allowed to fish. So the answer, as may be expected, was more to the point than polite. ‘What thoo wants,’ said the old chap with a grunt of disgust, ‘is nut a hinger on, bud a flinger oot. If it’s fish ’at thoo’s efter, thoo’ll ’a’e ti lig t’ rod doon an’ set ti wark wi t’ net; thoo mebbins mud ’a’e t’ luck ti catch yan o’ them ’at thoo’s hauf killed. Thoo’s naa fisher; thoo’s nowt bud a spoil watter, that’s what thoo is.’ Thus relieving himself, Old Willie walked away.

One of my sketches, given at a Primrose League meeting, gave great offence to the coachman of a noble lord. Entertainers, by the way, do not hold any social position in the eyes of such. Some time afterwards I was asked to go as entertaining guest on his lordship’s son’s attaining his majority. A day or two before my arrival my host asked his coachman if he had not been to the entertainment which I had given.

‘Aye,’ said the old chap, ‘bud I wadn’t gan agaan. He’s up ti nowt, isn’t yon youth; he’ll nivver git on. He’s gitten impedence foor owt, he spares nowt na neeabody, he taks sarvants an’ t’ quality off all alike; Ah reckon nowt on him at all.’

‘I am sorry to hear that,’ said his master.

‘Whya, Ah’s seear ya’ve gitten neea call ti be, he’s nut wo’th it. Ya mun excuse me, my lord, bud what mud ya be sorry foor?’ ‘Well, because he is coming here.’ ‘Cumin’ here!’ said the coachman, amazed; ‘what ivver foor?’ ‘To entertain my guests.’ ‘What! deea ya meean when t’ young lord cums at age?’ he asked, his amazement increasing. ‘Yes,’ said his lordship, greatly amused. ‘Oha! an’ wheer will ya put him up? ’coz Ah can tell ya ’at t’ sarvants weean’t want ti ’ev him amangst them, tha neeawaays setten up wiv him.’ ‘But he won’t be with the servants.’ ‘Then wheer will he be?’ ‘With us, of course.’ ‘Deea ya meean ti saay ’at he’ll dine wi’ yow an’ t’ quality?’ asked the old chap, fairly amazed now. ‘Certainly.’ For a moment the old fellow hesitated; he was bewildered by such a piece of folly. And then he spoke his mind. ‘Well!’ he gasped, ‘ya mun excuse me, my lord, bud Ah think ’at yer gahin ti mak a varra common do on ’t.’ Nice for me, wasn’t it?

However boorish and brusque strangers may dub us, it is admitted on all hands that the Yorkshireman is fairly ’cute: he always has an eye to the main chance. And although others who are glibber of tongue may to a certain extent fairly ’mazzle’ him with their verbosity, yet any such may certainly claim to having done the ’hat trick’ if in the end they manage to outwit the Tyke. ‘He ommaist ’wildered ma wiv his slather, bud Ah pairted wi’ nowt,’ said an old man who had been tackled by a book agent.

‘Did ta bet owt at t’ races?’ asked one Tyke of another. ‘Neea, Ah didn’t. It war leyke this, thoo knaws. T’ chaps ’at Ah seed stanning o’ t’ top o’ steeals an’ sitting unner gert um’erellas all seeam’d ti ’ev gawd rings an’ cheeans on, an’ tha war varra weel dhriss’d an’ all, whahl monny ov ’em ’at war ’livering ther brass up war oot at t’ teeas an’ doon at t’ heels. Seea Ah sed tiv mysen, “T’ steeal an’ t’ um’erella chaps leeak ez if tha war ’evving t’ best o’ t’ bargain all t’ waay thruff,’ an’ seea neean on ’em gat onny o’ mah brass. Dizn’t ta think ’at Ah war i’ t’ reet on ’t?”

Cautiousness and ’cuteness is fairly well set forth in the following story. Old Jobson wished to gain some legal information, ‘bud he didn’t want ti pay owt for ’t.’ Meeting the legal light one day, he began, ‘Ah saay, if Ah wor ti ax ya summat aboot summat, s’u’d Ah ’a’e ti pay summat? It’s aboot yon pathwaay o’ mahn ’at Ah want ti knaw summat.’ ‘Certainly; I don’t give advice free,’ replied the lawyer. ‘Whya then, Ah weean’t ax ya nowt; things may bahd ez they are, whahl yow want a larl piece o’ knowledge fra me, an’ then wa’ll see if wa caan’t mak a swap on’t. Nowther t’ field na t’ path’ll shift,’ said Jobson as he walked away. And so matters rested for some months, in fact until the lawyer’s horse (a very valuable one) was suddenly taken ill. Jobson was at once sent for, he being an expert in all horse ailments. The old farmer, after a careful examination of his patient, declared he knew what was amiss and what was needed to effect a cure. ‘Then I will send my man for what you need at once,’ said the owner.

‘Aye, bud wait a bit; deean’t ya aim ’at tahm’s cum’d when wa s’all ’a’e ti swap wer knowledge?’ said the farmer, with a twinkle in his eye. The solicitor burst out laughing; he saw the joke and admitted the validity of the claim. The old chap saved the horse, and the pathway was satisfactorily arranged.

The Yorkshireman always sees that he gets value for his money, at least he always tries to do so.

The village orchestral society were rehearsing for a public performance which was to be given the following week. The squire and a musical friend had just dropped in towards its conclusion. The friend, speaking at the conclusion with the conductor, said, ‘You have a remarkably good band; you only lack one slight addition to make it one of the best for the size of your village I have ever listened to. Will you allow me to suggest that you get a horn? you lack only that.’ ‘Oha, an’ what’s a horn?’ inquired the conductor. Having had the matter fully explained, he asked what a horn could be bought for. But the gentleman pointed out there was hardly time to procure a horn and teach a man how to play it before the entertainment came off. ‘Whya then,’ asked the conductor, ‘deea yer knaw a chap ’at c’u’d cum an’ play t’ horn foor uz, an’ what wad he cum foor?’ ‘I know a first-class player, and I think he would come for five pounds.’ ‘Fahve pund!’ gasped the conductor. ‘Whya, Ah c’u’d git a whoale band foor that!’ ‘Never mind the money, John,’ said the squire; ‘I’ll see about that.’ ‘Oha, whya, if it’s gahin ti be leyke that, let’s ’a’e t’ chap wi’ t’ horn.’ And so the matter was settled. On the night of the performance the man with the horn put in an appearance, and all went well for about ten minutes, when the conductor stopped the band, and turning to the horn-player, he said, ‘Noo then, thee wi’ t’ horn, thoo isn’t playing.’ ‘No,’ said he; ‘I have forty-five bars rest here.’ Whereupon the conductor electrified every one by saying, ‘Mebbe thoo thinks seea, bud leeaks ta here, wa’ve paid thee fahve pund foor t’ neet an’ thoo’ll ’a’e ti puff all t’ waay thruff.’

Scores of stories could be given illustrating the aptitude our country-people exhibit in extricating themselves when placed in an awkward corner.

The dear old lady who was my study for Mrs. Waddleton asked me to paint her a picture—‘seea ez Ah s’all ’a’e summat ti leeak at ’at ya’ve deean yersel when ya’ve geean,’ said she. I readily promised to do so, and in due course sent her a little snow scene.

A few days afterwards she saw me passing. ‘Noo then,’ she shouted, ‘cum in wi’ ya. Ah’ve gitten ’t heng’d up, an’, mah wo’d, bud it leeaks grand, dizn’t it?’ ‘I am glad you like it,’ said I, as I gazed at my work of art nestling amongst coloured grasses and peacock feathers; ‘and very nicely you have arranged everything. But perhaps it would be better if you hung it the right way up.’ Her face was a picture. The dear old soul felt that she had blundered; she was fearful lest I should feel hurt.

But her native wit saved her. ‘Wrang sahd up, is ’t? Aa, bud, Ah saay, ya mun be a clivver penter seea ez ti pent a picter ’at leeaks reet onny road up.’ Then, after a moment’s consideration, she added, ‘But mebbies Ah’d best to’n ’t t’other road roond; sum fau’k mud think ’at yan didn’t knaw t’ reet end ov a picter if yan let it bahd ez ’tis.’

Sir C—— and Mr. W——, a solicitor, once overtook Abe Braithwaite, a well-known character in Bedale, on the way to the meet. ‘Good morning,’ said Sir C——; ‘shall we have a find, Abe?’ ‘Nut i’ yon cover; bud Ah cud gi’e ya a wrinkle.’ ‘Well, let’s have it,’ said Sir C——. ‘Whya, deean’t weeast mich tahm yonder, bud gan ti t’ far cover, an’ ya’ll finnd yan theer, hard eneeaf.’ ‘All right, Abe, I’ll bear in mind what you say,’ said Sir C—— as the two rode off. ‘Ah saay,’ shouted Abe after the retreating horsemen, ‘if ya’d ass’d advice frev him ’at’s wi’ ya he’d wanted six an’ eightpence, bud Ah nivver charge nowt na mair ’an a bob mysen.’ And he got it.

A story just strikes me which illustrates several points already mentioned. A young fellow who was supposed to be learning land agency bought a horse at an adjacent fair, and was most systematically swindled. The said horse was being looked over by one of the village Tykes. Now for many reasons the fellow did not wish to offend the purchaser, but it was really impossible to say one thing in its favour. ‘Well, Tom, what is the verdict?’ asked the embryo agent. And then came the answer, which was worthy of a Grecian lawyer: ‘Whya noo, that gertly depends. Ya weean’t ’a’e bowt it owther ti show or hunt, noo ’a’e ya?’ ‘Oh no, just to knock about on.’ ‘Oha, whya then, ’t’ll deea grandly ti knock aboot on,’ said Tom. ‘All the same you think they’ve swindled me, now don’t you?’ ‘Whya it’s mebbins mair ’an Ah’d ’a’e gi’en for ’t mysen, but ’t’ll deea grandly ti knock aboot on.’ At this juncture they were joined by the village ostler, one who was never over-nice in his remarks. ‘Now, Jack, what do you think of my bargain?’ ‘What div Ah think on ’t? Whya, Ah wadn’t be seen takking it ti t’ kennels’ (i. e. taking it to feed the dogs); and then, thinking he had been a little too severe, he added, ‘Bud Ah’ll tell ya what, ’t’ll deea foor yer ti larn what a hoss s’u’d be, foor it’s getten neean o’ t’ points ’at a hoss owt ti ’ev, an’ ommaist ivvery yan ’at it s’u’dn’t; ’t’ll deea foor yer ti study ’t up.’

The Tyke has a habit of answering you in a kind of metaphor, which, as before remarked, is almost unintelligible unless something of dialect and idiom has been mastered. As a case in point, I remember after the last general election saying to an old fellow, ‘Now, John! what do you think of this complete change in the country?’ Now, John did not know which side I favoured, neither did he wish me to learn for which party he had voted, and, further, he was determined not to say anything which would either give offence to me or expose his own hand. The question for a moment was a difficult one to answer, but the answer came pat enough: ‘Whya, Parliment’s varra mich leyke t’ land—ya mun chaange t’ crops noos an’ agaan, or it’s ti neea good. Ah s’ ‘a’e ti be gahin noo; good daay ti ya.’ He had answered me, fully answered me. He had let nothing escape him. I was none the wiser as to what his own opinions were, and I might just as well have saved myself the trouble of asking.

The inspectors of our Board schools can recount many true and curious anecdotes of our country scholars; but it should be borne in mind by the department that, although the Yorkshire country-people and their bairns are bilingual, it is only their mother tongue and ordinary English which up to the present they have mastered. The southern twang, pronunciation, and slang is to them as a mystic rune. North-country men, if you please, to examine North-country boys and girls. Very often the questions, as put by South-country inspectors, might just as well be asked in Sanskrit, and very naturally they remain unanswered, whilst the class is voted as hopeless dunces, when the fault really lies at the door of the questioner. At one school in Wensleydale a South-country inspector, when examining a class on the Bible, put this question, ‘Neow tell me something abeout Mouses.’ ‘Cats kill ’em,’ was the prompt reply. Another one said to a promising standard in mental arithmetic, ‘Three packets of pins at a penny each, five hanks of tape penny each, nine reels of thread penny each, five boxes of hair-pins penny each, and six ounces of worsted at three halfpence per ounce. How much does the parcel come to? Quick!’ But the speed with which the question had been asked, the twang, and the unfamiliar sound of many of the words, left the standard almost in absolute ignorance of the question. One thing, and of only one thing, were they clear upon—that they were being asked something about thread, worsted, and hair-pins. But as the inspector uttered that ‘Quick!’ he fixed his eyes on one lad, and the effect of that glance was mesmeric. The lad immediately answered, ‘Pleease, sur, wa ar’n’t lasses.’

But it is not the South-country man alone who receives unlooked for answers from the practical bairns of our dales. After a somewhat lengthy and highflown picture-painting on faith, the teacher, wishing to see if the children had grasped her foolish poetical outburst, said to one of the boys, whose mother, by the way, was a widow and desperately poor, ‘Now, Tommy, if I were to say to you, “There will be a rich plum pudding for your dinner,” and you believed me, what would that be?’ ‘It ’ud be a gert tak in, for wa nivver ’a’e nowt na better ’an a suet dumpling at oor hoos,’ was the unexpected reply.

Again, an inspector asked one of the boys in Bilsdale, or rather commenced to ask, a question in mental arithmetic: said he, ‘If you had in your hand five apples, two oranges, and three pears, and I was to take—-— ’ But he got no further; the practical bairn stopped him by saying, ‘Pleease, sur, Ah c’u’dn’t ho’d ’em all i’ yah han’.’

To conclude this chapter, just one more example. Said an inspector to a little girl, ‘If I knitted twelve stitches in a minute, how many stitches should I have on my needle at the end of five minutes?’ ‘Ya wadn’t a’e neean, ’coz ya deean’t knit stitches; ya’re nut gahin ti catch me i’ that waay.’ He ought to have said ’loops.’

CHAPTER II
WIT AND CHARACTER

Our country-people possess in a very marked degree the faculty of explaining away anything which for special reasons they do not care to admit. Very often they do this in a marvellously subtle way. Sometimes so fine is the point upon which they turn an argument, that that which was to be demonstrated is entirely lost sight of, whilst new issues are introduced in such a seemingly natural way that in the end you find yourself contending for some point in which you have no earthly interest, and which has no connexion with the original argument, but which, owing to this strategical shifting, has put them on sure ground, leaving you at a hopeless disadvantage. Equally conspicuous is their pride and independency; no matter how poor they may be they strongly object to being patronized.

‘Ah weean’t let onnybody clap me on t’ back. Ah paay fer what Ah git, an’ that’s good eneeaf; he’s nowt na better ’an what Ah is,’ said a man one day, who had been spoken to, with the kindest intention, but in that unfortunate way which some of the best-intentioned people have of being familiar, but faintly colouring the same with just a slight whiff of patronizing superiority. And the Yorkshireman won’t stand it. Don’t misunderstand me: although no respecter of person he is quite willing to pay deference to those whom he considers his superiors and who are worthy of it; but he is the one who acts as judge in such a case. If you are a stranger, you will have to earn this deference by good behaviour on your part, or it is quite possible, if you act otherwise, you will be the recipient of some very plain Yorkshire, whether you understand it or not. And also bear in mind the Tyke is always equal to giving an answer, and in his own peculiar way very smart at repartee.

A good example of one of the peculiarities mentioned is made evident in the following story. Master and man were returning from a coursing match, at which the master’s dog had been badly beaten. The man knew it was a great disappointment, and as a faithful servant he felt keenly the adverse result of the day’s outing. ‘I felt sure our dog would win,’ said the master, and then waited for his man to reply. Now, Tom would not say how much inferior their dog really was to the winner; in fact, he would only admit that to himself. So he held his peace. A moment later the master tackled him again, and this time with a question direct. ‘You saw the course, Tom; how do you account for it?’ ‘Whya, sur,’ began Tom, ‘dogs is queer things, an’ hares is queer things; in fact, theer’s nowt na queerer ’an what hares offen is. Noo, they’re varra flighty things is hares, an’ Ah’ve offens thowt ’at sumtahms tha tak mair ti yah dog na what tha deea ti t’ tother. An’ ya knaw leyke, when tha finnd oot ’at theer’s nowt else for ’t bud what they ’a’e ti be killed, tha let t’ dog deea’t ’at they’ve ta’en t’ maist fancy tull. Ah caann’t mak ’t oot onny other road, an’ that mun be it.’

Years ago, when guides showed tourists and others round Fountains Abbey, giving at the same time their version of the history of the ruins—much of which it must be said was the outcome of their own imagination, and, though deeply interesting, was opposed to all the canons of archaeology—several members of the Royal Archaeological Society and a party of ladies and gentlemen were relegated to the care of ‘Scott,’ an old guide and a well-known Yorkshire character of those days. As they went through the ruins the old fellow gave his version, only a moment afterwards to hear quite a different explanation given by some member of the R.A.S. At last Scott could ‘bahd it na langer.’ ‘Ah saay,’ questioned he, ‘war you here when t’ Abbey war built?’ ‘No, neither were you, my friend,’ replied the gentleman. ‘Mebbe nut, bud Ah’ve been here a seet langer ’an what you ’ev, for all that; sum fau’k think tha knaw sa mich,’ he was heard to mutter. By-and-by the round was completed, and then it was that old Scott fired off his last shot. ‘Noo then,’ said he, ‘cum on all t’ lot on ya, an’ Ah’ll tak ya ti summat ’at neean on ya can owther gainsaay or alter; noo then, cum on,’ and he marched them under the echo. ‘Noo then, gentlemen, ya can’t dispute owt ’at’s sed here; gan on, sum on ya, shoot summat.’ One of the party, who had already had more than one wordy battle with the old fellow, shouted, ‘Any one seen an old fool knocking about this morning?’ At which there was a general laugh. But before the repeat had died away, the old fellow shouted in a voice which made the echo ring again, ‘Neea, bud theear’s onny amount o’ young uns under t’ echo.’ And I think he scored.

Another good story: in fact many hail from Great Ayton. When the Grange was being built, artists and other workmen from town and elsewhere were requisitioned to beautify the place. Many of these travelled gentlemen, on their first arrival, considered the Yattoners fair game for their sport and wit, but very often they found out, when too late to save themselves, that they had pressed the wrong button. During their stay a small wild-beast show opened on the green. In front of the monkeys’ cage stood a Yattoner, greatly amused with their antics. ‘Admiring your relations?’ inquired one of the foreign masons as he passed. ‘They’re neea relations o’ mahn; neean ov oor family’s owt akin ti yours,’ was the instant reply. ‘Why don’t you wash your brains? there’s plenty of water in the beck,’ said another of the foreign fraternity. ‘Ther mebbins is what ’ud wesh mahn, bud you’d ’a’e ti wait whahl a fresh cam doon.’ ‘Go home,’ said another of them, ‘and tell your father you are the biggest fool he has ever seen.’ ‘He’d leather ma for telling a lee if Ah did; ya’re forgitting ’at ya lodge wiv uz;’ and then he dodged a lump of wood which came that way.

Old Bessy kept the village store, and in her way was quite a character; so was her shop for the matter of that. I never was in such a shop in my life. Anything, everything, and all on the top of something else. In fact it was as one of the natives put it, ‘Owt ’at Bessy ’ezn’t ’s nut wo’th assing for.’ The one big house in the place for a short time was rented by a gentleman whose family made up for any deficiency in pedigree by all-round rudeness to every one with whom they came in contact. On one occasion a daughter of the said house flounced into Bessy’s shop and asked for something which it was most unlikely would be kept in a shop of that kind. ‘Naay,’ said Bessy, ‘Ah ’a’en’t gitten nowt o’ that soart; Ah deean’t knaw what t’ stuff is ya’re assing for.’ ‘It is just useless my trying to buy anything in a pottering little shop like this. You keep nothing but a lot of old rubbish. You never have anything I want,’ was the young lady’s rude reply. ‘Why noo, Ah’ll tell ya what, t’ next tahm ’at Ah gan ti Ripon, Ah’ll see if Ah can’t get a box o’ good behav’o’r; you mun cum in then, an’ Ah’ll gi’e ya good weight, for ya want it mair na onnybody else. Noo deean’t forgit ti cum in,’ were the last words the young lady heard as she hurried out.

His Honour Judge —- for some little time had a house in a Cleveland village, and whilst there he did a bit of ’hoss swapping’ with one of the farmers. Unfortunately his Honour’s horse did not turn out well. Meeting the farmer one day, he said, ‘Robert, you took me in with that horse, it has turned out very badly.’ ‘Hez ’t, noo? Whya, that’s a bad job; bud you maun’t gan blethering aboot ’at Ah’ve ta’en ya in, or else fau’k’ll get it i’ ther heeads ’at ya’re nobbut a varra poor judge.’

Quite likely enough, if you get into conversation with the old people, they will give you their opinion upon most things, and that too very often without your asking for it. There will be no beating about the bush, no attempt to smooth away rough corners; the Yorkshireman detests putty and varnish. What he has to say, like his hitting, comes straight from the shoulder.

The hounds were in full cry. A lady and gentleman on approaching a closed gate against which a farmer’s man was leaning, the gentleman called out, ‘Hi there! open the gate, look sharp!’ but the man stood stolidly looking at the hounds. ‘Why don’t you open the gate, you fool?’ shouted the horseman angrily. Turning slowly round, the yokel said very quietly, ‘Ah deean’t call ti mahnd ’at ivver Ah ’ed a God’s-penny fra you. If ya’ll nobbut stan’ back Ah’ve na doot t’ lady’ll show ya t’ road ower. Ah can see ’at ya’re a bit caff-hearted.’ Springing to the ground the horseman found the gate was locked. ‘Why, it’s locked,’ said he, turning to the lady. ‘Ah c’u’d ’a’e tell’d ya that lang sin,’ said the yokel. ‘Well, I think you might have done so,’ said the lady, kindly. ‘We have lost a lot of time.’ ‘If you’d cum’d byv yersen, miss, Ah’d ’a’e brokken t’ gate doon for ya. Bud yah feeal losses his wits when he’s called yan byv another,’ was the compliment and retort all in one.

On another occasion, the horseman forgetting to pay the usual toll, the gate-opener greatly amused every one by saying, as he touched his cap, ‘Noo, mebbe ya ’evn’t gitten neea small chaange on ya, bud Ah’ll tell ya hoo wa can mannish ’t: Ah’ve gitten nahnpence, if you’ve a bob?’

A good story is told by a Cleveland vicar. The day on which he arrived in his new parish he had to transact some little matter with the sexton. On inquiry he was informed this worthy was to be found in the far pasture. Thither he went, finding the old man busy mowing. ‘Well, my man!’ began the vicar. ‘Noo then,’ said Old Willie, going on with his mowing. ‘I wish to have a word or two with you,’ said the vicar, not very pleased with his off-hand reception. He was not Yorkshire, and didn’t understand their ways then.

‘All reet, gan on wi’ tha.’ This without stopping the swing of his scythe.

‘I think you don’t know who I am. I am your new vicar.’ Doubtless at the time the vicar imagined the effect of this startling announcement would be such that Old Willie’s scythe would fall from his hands, and most abject apologies be poured forth. But no, Willie just remarked, ‘Oh, are ya? Whya, ya maun’t stan theer; ya’ll ’a’e ti shift yersen, or Ah s’all mow yer legs off t’ next swathe Ah tak.’ And the vicar moved.

Our country-people have a way of summing up and giving a verdict quite on lines of their own. But it must be borne in mind that what is taken in a figurative sense by those of a wider experience, is often accepted literally by those whose lives for the most part have been bounded by their own homestead and dale. When the last historical pageant was held at Ripon, trips brought the dales-people from all parts. And although I do not think any of them went so far as to imagine the various characters impersonated had been dug up and set in motion for their amusement and edification, I am sure in the main they were greatly mystified as to how they had all been gathered together. On the last day, when possibly fifteen thousand people were present, a group of ladies and gentlemen were standing near the east window of the Abbey—near by were two or three monks conversing with several knights in chain armour, and on their right stood King Charles surrounded by the ladies of his court. A gentleman standing hard by said to his lady companion, ‘It is really a splendid spectacle, and gives one a perfect picture of what it must have been in days past.’ ‘You’ll excuse me, sir,’ said a dame who had overheard his remark, ‘bud is this leyke what it used ti be?’ ‘Yes, my good woman, exactly,’ the gentleman answered. ‘Whya then, Ah can weel understan’ hoo it war ’at tha pulled t’ pleeace doon’ (meaning the Abbey), ‘for it’s a giddy gahin-on is this. Bud Ah will saay,’ pointing to the ladies of King Charles’ Court, ‘’at Ah nivver seed a finer set o’ lasses i’ all mah leyfe. An’ Ah’ve na doot ’at that accoonts for ’t.’

The last clause, I imagine, referred to the ruinous state of the Abbey.

The same peculiar trait was fully exemplified during an Art exhibition at York. Several of the pictures were offered for sale, the price being given in the catalogue. Whilst a couple were gazing in wonderment at one picture, the woman was overheard to say, ‘Ah nivver thowt ’at fraams cost seea mich brass. Sitha, mun, that yan’s ower a hunderd pund; it mun be t’ fraam, thoo knaws, fer t’ picter’s nobbut hauf deean; t’ chap ’at’s pented it ’ezn’t ’ed tahm ti finish ’t, fer neean on ’em’s gitten ther cleeas on.’

Some few years ago there was an excursion started from Whitby viâ Battersby, its destination being Wensleydale. Many who availed themselves of the trip alighted at Aysgarth. One batch in charge of the curate wended their way to the force, which owing to recent rains was seen at its best. ‘By gum,’ said one, ‘bud ther’s a seet o’ watter cuming ower yonder.’ ‘Ah’ll tell ya what,’ said another, giving a huge wink, ‘they weean’t be yabble ti keep that gam up lang; tha’ll be letting ’t all off afoor t’ tothers cum up, if they deean’t mahnd.’ The curate was shocked; his poetical soul was pained at such, as he imagined, crass ignorance, so he endeavoured to lift them from out of themselves. After quite a rhetorical outburst bearing on the grandeur of the scene, he wound up with, ‘Is it not marvellous, magnificent, overwhelming, to behold it thundering, rumbling, tumbling over?’ Poetry of that kind makes the speaker breathless, and he paused. Then, turning to one of the party, he said, ‘What do you think, John, eh?’ ‘Aye, ya’re all reet about its thunnering, tumm’ling, an’ rumm’ling, bud for t’ leyfe o’ mah Ah deean’t see owt ’at ther is ti ho’d it back,’ was the laconic reply.

I remember on one occasion, when being driven to the station by a real old Yorkshire coachman—I had been one of a house party for three days as society humorist—the old fellow giving me a huge dig with his elbows, and saying, ‘Ah saay, is yon all you deea fer a living?’ ‘That is all,’ I replied. ‘Well, by goa! bud ya git yer living easy, you deea.’ ‘I don’t know; if you had all the knocking about that I have perhaps you would not think it quite so easy,’ said I. ‘Whya, Ah deean’t knaw; what ya’ll ’ev yer expenses paid, ’evn’t ya?’ ‘Certainly,’ I answered. ‘Aye; an’ ya git fed fer nowt, deean’t ya?’ ‘Of course,’ I replied, greatly amused. ‘Whya then,’ said he, ‘Ah’ll tell ya what: ya travel fer nowt, yer sheltered fer nowt, fed fer nowt, an’ ya deea nowt; Ah leeak upon ya ez nowt i’ t’ wo’lld else bud a aristocratic pauper.’ ‘Wait a moment,’ said I; ‘don’t you think brains count for something in a matter of this kind?’ And then, with that ineffable scorn which I think only the Yorkshireman of that type can assume, he said, ‘Braans! braans!! braans!!! Ugh, Ah’ve ez monny brains ez you ’ev if they war nobbut scraped oot.’

‘Which waay did ta vote?’ asked one. ‘Whya noo, it war leyke this waay: Ah went an’ heeard all ’at t’ blew chap ’ed ti saay, an’ he made it oot ez cleear ez t’ neease on yer feeace ’at t’ yallers war up ti neea good; an’ efter that Ah went ti lissen ti t’ yaller chap, an’ he sed ’at t’ blews war warse ’an nowt at all. Seea Ah thowt ti mysen, ’at if them ’at’s my betters dizn’t knaw what’s what, it’s nut for sike o’ me ti saay; seea when t’ voting daay cam Ah stopped at yam an’ sell’d t’ pig.’

A classical curate was seized with an inordinate yearning to improve and elevate the ’thought tone’ (I quote his words) of certain Cleveland farmers. Now, as a body of men, the Cleveland farmers, as I know them, are about as shrewd, practical, and thoroughly business-like as you will find anywhere in Yorkshire, and that is saying a deal; still I am bound to admit, though I know little of ’thought tone’ myself, they know less. There is no money in it. Make it clear that an income of two hundred a year can be squeezed out of ’thought tone,’ and Yorkshire will supply the world with any amount, in tins, condensed, and hermetically sealed. At present it is not quoted on ’Change. But to my story. The curate made a dead set at one farmer in particular, giving him, on one occasion, a graphic account of the siege of Troy. ‘One general, sir,’ said he, ‘though sorely wounded, commanded his armour-bearer to strap on his armour, and this having been done he placed himself in the forefront of the battle’ (here much dramatic action and tone was indulged in by the curate, and the hearth-rug greatly disarranged)—‘in the forefront, sir, and single-handed he engaged three of the Trojans’ (seizing the poker and swinging it round his head). ‘He slew two of them, but the third pierced him to the heart, and he sank lifeless upon his vanquished foes. ‘Twas a brave deed, and a noble death, the death of a hero. What do you think, sir?’ Breathless, and with dampened brow, he waited for an outburst of tone, which he fully expected would rush forth as waters from the burst bank of a reservoir. The farmer just removed his pipe and placidly remarked, ‘Too bou’d, sir, too bou’d.’ The curate sank into a chair aghast. Was the man human, or was he beyond hope! ‘Is that all?’ he gasped; ‘has no other thought struck you whilst I recounted my story?’ ‘Whya,’ said the farmer, ‘Ah did yance ower aim ’at ya’d be fetching t’ clock doon wi’ t’ poker, bud fort’natly ya didn’t.’ The curate fled.

CHAPTER III
WIT AND CHARACTER—continued.

Our country-people, as has been incidentally remarked, are very proud and independent, but I venture to say both their pride and independency are cast in a right groove, and may certainly be classed amongst the chief elements which have made the Yorkshireman the self-reliant mortal which he certainly is. I have already said that he is eminently practical, and I now add hard to convince. Often, I admit, his mode of arguing would puzzle a Philadelphian lawyer, but after all it is argument, if you are only Yorkshire scholar enough to understand his way of handling a subject. The country-people are hard to convince, and no respecters of person.

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.

For years, old Sykes and Hobson, though neighbours, had been on unfriendly terms. Years back, Sykes had found on several occasions a certain gate thrown off its hinges. Whether he held any proof, history does not recount, but he blamed Hobson for doing it. Hobson, however, stoutly denied all knowledge of the affair. Anyway, for long they remained about as unfriendly as they well could; until one day, Hobson, at the risk of his life, rescued Sykes’ lad from drowning. On hearing of the rescue, Sykes hurried away to thank Hobson. They met in one of the latter’s fields. ‘Whya, noo then,’ began Sykes, ‘Ah’ve cum’d ti shak tha byv t’ han’; thoo’s saved my bairn, an’ Ah’s behodden ti tha foor awlus. Noo wa s’all ’a’e ti let bygones be bygones, an’ start afresh. Thoo knaws wa used ti hit it off all reet yance ower; noo, what diz ta saay?’ ‘Wha, mun, ther’s my hand on ’t, an’ Ah’s mair ’an glad ’at wa’ve hap’t t’ au’d sore up at last; an’ ez thoo sez, wa mun start afresh, just ez if nivver nowt ’ed cum’d atween uz’ So they shook hands, and talked farming for an hour or so, until it was time for Sykes to return. Shaking Hobson by the hand, he said, ‘Noo thoo knaws Ah s’all nivver be yabble ti mak it up ti tha for saving t’ lad, an’ Ah’s reet glad ’at Ah can gan yam an’ tell t’ missus ’at thee an’ me’s kind agaan, an’ Ah whoap ’at wa s’all awlus keep seea. Bud mahnd tha, Ah still ho’d ti ’t ’at it war thoo ’at flang t’ yat offen t’ creeaks,’ i.e. ‘But bear in mind, I still think it was you who flung the gate off the hinges.’

Old Hall, a well-known character in one of our dales, was the doctor for miles round, and proud was the village wherein he actually resided. He was more than doctor, he was the vet. as well; he read the lessons in church; in fact, he was the father of the village. He was consulted, and his advice acted upon in all things which are incident to a village community. And then he died, and a new doctor took his place—top hat, frock-coat, and everything. Some little time after his arrival, Wilson’s cow died, and the death of the said cow was fully discussed the day following, in the blacksmith’s shop. ‘What did ta gi’e it?’ asked one. ‘Nowt. Hoo mud Ah knaw what ti git for ’t?’ ‘Did ta gan for t’ doctor?’ asked another. ‘Aye, an’ he war neean sae setten up, at being fetched oot o’ bed i’ t’ middle o’ t’ neet.’ ‘Warn’t he! What did he saay?’ ‘He tell’d ma ’at he warn’t a coo doctor, an’ knew nowt aboot ’em.’ ‘Did he saay that?’ asked the smith slowly, resting on his hammer, as he waited for an answer. ‘Aye, an’ he tell’d ma ti gan yam an’ nivver wakken him up na mair on sike an earand,’ ‘Wha, then,’ said the smith very deliberately, ‘he’s nut a Hall! an’ he mud just ez weel teeam his stuff oot, an’ quit his bottles foor au’d glass. Foor Ah meean ti saay ’at a chap ’at dizn’t knaw nowt aboot t’ innards’ (the inside) ‘of a coo, an’ hosses, an’ pigs, an’ sike leyke, isn’t gahin ti practis on onny ov uz, ’coz if he ’ezn’t gitten them off, he caan’t knaw nowt aboot oor innards, foor wa’re a seet mair intrickiter’ (intricate) ’na onny o’ t’ dumb critters. He’s nut a Hall, an’ he’s na ewse tiv uz.’ The oracle having spoken, it was agreed on all hands that it was so. And from that moment the influence of that man as a doctor ceased.

Here is another, which brings out a trait I purpose touching upon afterwards. Incidentally, I may mention, a bargain is a bargain, and must be maintained and carried out as originally agreed upon. The story, however, I give as an illustration of how hard it is to convince our people that their preconceived notion on any subject is wrong.

It was quite four miles from a certain house to the village, and as the gardener was often required to go thither for one thing or another, his master bought him a bicycle, thinking to make the journey easier for him. A few days after the machine had been presented, John said, ‘Noo, sir, Ah wanted ti ’ev a wo’d wi’ ya. Noo, when Ah cam, Ah cam for ti be t’ gardener, an’ ti deea onny odd jobs ’at wanted deeaing. Bud, ya knaw, Ah s’all want a bit mair a week if Ah’ve ti larn ti mannish yon thing’—jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the tool-house, where the byke was kept. ‘Ya knaw, sir, ther warn’t nivver nowt at no tahm owt sed aboot a bisittle, an’ Ah s’ want a bit mair afoor Ah tattle yon thing. Noo, hoo mich is ’t ti be?’ The master pointed out that it was for his (the gardener’s) own comfort, and to lighten the journey to and from the village, he had been induced to buy the bicycle. ‘Whya, noo, Ah deean’t knaw sae mich aboot that,’ said John; ‘it soonds weel eneeaf t’ waay ’at you put it; ther’s nowt aboot that, bud Ah’ve leeaked fother inti ’t ’an what yow ’ev. Noo, leeak here, it taks me nigh on ti tweea hoors an’ a hauf ti gan an’ cum walking; noo, hoo lang is ’t gahin ti tak ma ti deea ’t o’ yon thing?’ ‘When you get used to it, you will run there and back easily in an hour.’ ‘Oha, s’all Ah! Then that’ll be leyke an hoor an’ a hauf ti t’ good.’ ‘Yes, you will save quite that.’ ‘Then when Ah git back, s’all Ah ’a’e ti sit ma doon an’ deea nowt for t’ hoor an’ t’ hauf?’ ‘Sit down and do nothing! Certainly not; you will go on with your work.’ ‘Aye, Ah thowt seea; an’ that’s what maks ma saay ’at ya’ll ’a’e ti gi’e ma a larl bit mair, ez Ah’s gahin ti put sa monny mair hoors’ wark in i’ t’ week. Ya see, you reckon yah waay, an’ Ah reckon another, an’ Ah think Ah’s i’ t’ reet on ’t.’

Those who have given the slightest attention to the various traits which are so interesting in the character of our people, will not have failed to notice one which is very pronounced. I mean the objection they have to showing, and the cleverness they display in hiding, their ignorance on any matter. If in speaking to our country people you use a word which they do not understand, they never let you know that they do not catch your meaning: they wait until you say ’summat else,’ in the hope that they may gather therefrom what you mean; and if you do not happen to say anything which throws light upon the unknown word, well, there the matter ends, and as a rule it does not trouble them for one moment. A farm labourer fell off a bicycle, and sprained his arm very severely; the doctor, a young locum, and a trifle pedantic, gave him a bottle of lotion, saying, as he did so, ‘Your arm will be all right in a few days: you have strained your biceps, you must rub it well with this lotion.’ ‘What diz ta think on him?’ asked one, who had been waiting outside. ‘Whya, he’s nowt bud a fondheead, is yon. What diz ta think? He sez ’at Ah’ve spraaned my airm, an’ he’s gi’en ma a bottle o’ stuff ti rub t’ bisittle wiv; let’s gan ti t’ bone-setter.’ A lady visiting a poor young fellow who was seriously ill, and very feverish, said to the mother, ‘Your son is very ill, I fear.’ ‘He is that, mum; he’s nut foor lang doon here. Hooivver, wa’ve deean t’ best ’at lay i’ wer power, an’ yan isn’t yabble ti deea na mair ’an that. Bud Ah’s pleeased ti saay ’at wa’ve gitten eneeaf saved up ti put him deeacently by, an’ that’s a blessing. It’ll be a beautiful funeral, mum, an’ wa’ve let him saay whau’s ti be bidden; an’ Ah deean’t think he’s forgitten yan ov his au’d frien’s—bud he awlus was thowtful.’ ‘That is very nice,’ said the lady, for she understood something of the people and their ways. ‘I will send you a couple of ice wafers,’ said she, thinking they would be nice for him to cool his lips with. ‘I think your son will like them, he seems so feverish.’ Next day, when she inquired how the patient was, the poor mother said, with tears in her eyes, ‘Thank ya, mum, Ah think he’s warse.’ ‘Did he like the wafers?’ she inquired, adding, ‘you can have more.’ ‘Well, mum,’ said the mother, ‘Ah c’u’dn’t saay foor sartin whether he liked ’em or nut. Ya see, ez seean ez ya sent ’em, Ah put him t’ white yan on his chist; bud he ’pleeaned ’at it felt varra cau’d, an’ seea Ah teeak it off, an’ put t’ pink un on a plate i’ front o’ t’ fire ti warm. Bud Ah think t’ cat must ’a’e gitten ’t, foor it war gone when Ah went for’t. So ya see, iv a waay, he ’adn’t a fair go wiv ’em. Bud you needn’t send na mair, he’s gahin fast noo.’

A gentleman said to a Yorkshire dame, ‘Your little chap looks very robust.’ ‘Aye, an’ your larl chap leeaks t’ saame,’ said she; not in the least knowing what ’robust’ meant. ‘Nay, nay,’ said the gentleman; ‘I only wish he was’—glancing at the very weakly child he held by the hand. The dame perceived she had made a mistake, so added, ‘Whya he seean wad be’; and then, not quite certain of her ground, or where ‘robust’ was going to land her, continued, ‘bud then yan nivver knaws.’ When the gentleman had left the group, one of the bystanders said, ‘Dolly, what diz ro-bust meean?’ ‘Deean’t ass me, Ah’ve na mair idea na t’ man i’ t’ meean,’ said she. ‘Then what maad ta saay ’at his bairn leeaked t’ saame ez what he sed thahn did?’ ‘Whya, Ah thowt ’at if he war calling mah bairn naames, Ah’d let him ’ev ez good ez he sent; whahl, if he war sayin’ summat i’ praise on ’t, Ah sud be deeaing t’ saame byv his.’

On another occasion, a village dame entered the doctor’s visiting-room. ‘Noo, then,’ she commenced, ‘gie ma summat, an’ leeak sharp aboot it, fer Ah is badly; Ah can nowther bahd ti sit doon, stan’ up, ner nowt.’ ‘What is the matter with you?’ inquired the doctor. ‘Naay, what; it’s neea ewse assing me, Ah’ve cumd to see you aboot that.’ ‘Well, but what ails you?’ ‘Aals ma! Ah’ve gitten galloping paans all reet roond aboot ivverywheear; Ah is badly.’ ‘But what have you been doing to get them?’ ‘Whya, Ah can think o’ nowt bud, t’ daay afoor yesterdaay, Ah war weshin’, an’ Ah mun ’a’e kept a damp ap’on on, an’ Ah aim ’at it’s gi’en ma cau’d all reet roond aboot ivverywheer.’ ‘Now I know what’s the matter with you. Here’s a bottle for you; take it home, and you had better drink a teaspoonful every ten minutes, and it will be best if you take it in a recumbent position,’ said he, handing Martha the bottle. Now, ‘recumbent position’ was quite outside Martha’s vocabulary; she had not the least idea what he meant, but she was not going to expose her ignorance by asking. So off home she set, saying to herself as she went along, ‘“Re-cum-bunt po-zition;” noo what diz that mean?’ However, Yorkshire like, she hit upon a plan of getting to know, without exposing her own ignorance. Calling on a neighbour as she passed by, she shouted, ‘‘Liza Jane, Ah’ve been ti t’ doctor, an’ he’s gi’en ma a bottle o’ stuff, an’ Ah ’ev ti tak a speeanful on ’t ivvery ten minits; bud he sez ’at Ah ’ev ti tak it in a recumbunt po-zition. Bud thoo knaws Ah ’evn’t gitten yan, an’ Ah thowt mebbe ’at thoo’d be seea good ez ti let ma ’a’e t’ len’ o’ thahn; will ta?’ Liza Jane knew no more what ’recumbunt po-zition’ meant than Martha, but she was not going to give herself away, so she replied, ‘Ah wad ’a’e deean sa wi’ t’ gertest o’ pleasure i’ t’ wo’lld, nobbut Ah lent mahn yisterday. Bud ez thoo gans up t’ village, call in at t’ shop an’ buy yan for thisen, an’ then thoo’ll ’ev it at heeam when thoo wants it; an’ if tha ’evn’t gitten yan, buy a mug—it’ll deea just t’ seeam.’

One more. Bessy having explained to the doctor that her husband was suffering from a fearful pain in the head, was ordered to apply the half-dozen leeches which he gave her. Now, had the doctor said, ‘stick ’em on,’ or ’clap ’em on,’ Bessy would have known what she had to do with them. However, she had half a dozen leeches to do something with, so she went home and did her level best. A couple of days after, the doctor, seeing Bessy, asked her how John was. ‘Oh, he’s all reet noo. Them things capped him; tha did, hooivver.’ ‘You managed all right, did you, Bessy?’ asked he. ‘Whya, Ah caan’t saay ’at wa mannished sa weel wi’ t’ fo’st un ’at Ah gav’ him; he chow’d on wi’ ‘t, bud he c’u’d catch ho’d on ’t neea road, soa Ah boil’d him t’ rest, an’ he sluthered ’em doon neycely.’

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.

CHAPTER V
WIT AND CHARACTER—continued

I purpose devoting this chapter to stories which in themselves are good examples, embracing, as they do, many phases of Yorkshire character. With the exception of the first two or three, they will be given regardless of classification. But these two or three do need just a word. Our country-people, in their own way, hold in sincere veneration all spiritual teaching; but don’t look for too much. Bear in mind, superstition dies hard, and in judging them on this head, it is well to keep to the forefront the fact that in religion, as well as in everything else, they cling to much which their grandmothers believed before them, just as they speak of their parents as ‘t’ au’d fau’k,’ without in the least being disrespectful. So, without the least intention of being irreverent, the Deity is often addressed and spoken of in a manner which would shock the ears of many. ‘Ah wadn’t ’a’e deean that if Ah’d been Him,’ said an old dame, after hearing how the Israelites had been punished by God’s vengeance. ‘He owt ti ’a’e letten ’em off that tahm,’ was her concluding remark. It was her opinion, and she freely gave it. The Deity being spoken of as ‘Him’ and ‘He,’ was as natural to the old lady as it would have been for us to say ‘the Lord.’ Anyway, for real piety, I for one make my bow to the old dame.

Again, they have a way of materializing the most spiritual things. To them, heaven is nothing more than a big, beautiful city, which they have to try their best to get into, and having managed to do so, they are safe for ever. Doubtlessly they picture it sunnier, purer, and altogether more delightful than any place they have ever seen or heard of. But to them it is just a city. Certainly this applies more especially to the older people in our dales; the rising generation are learning different, but it will be long before they altogether leave the old and beaten track. And may it be so, for, after all, their religion is to them a very real and tangible thing. It is something which in these days of higher criticism many of us are letting slip from us. When reading the following stories, it should be borne in mind why they are given, and just what I wish to illustrate.

A clergyman having asked an old dying woman if she were quite happy, received this reply: ‘Neea, that Ah isn’t. Ah’s boun to dee, an’ Ah s’ gan ti heaven, an’ it’s that what’s boddering ma. Nut gahin ti heaven—Ah deean’t meean that—bud t’ music,’ said she, emphatically. ‘Ya see, Ah’ve nivver larnt nowt o’ music; Ah knaw nowt aboot it, an’ if tha start ma off wiv owther a harp or a dulcima, Ah s’all mak nowt bud a laughing-stock o’ mysel, for Ah can nowther tune ner scrat on ’em. Noo, if ’t c’u’d be ’ranged foor ma ti tak care o’ yan o’ t’ angel babbies, Ah s’u’d be ez reet ez ninepins, foor Ah allus did git on wi’ childer, an’ Ah’d fetch it up a pattern, an’ Ah’d promise nivver ti slap it; onny road, Ah s’all mak nowt ow ’t wiv a dulcima.’

The village artist was dying; he had painted three out of the four village signs, he had executed the scrollwork for every church decoration for years past, and there was in his house an imitation marble mantelpiece, which he had yearned to show every one. The clergyman was about to leave him, but before doing so, asked if he should pray. ‘Aye, aye,’ said the dying man, ‘and ez mebbe this’ll be t’ last tahm ’at ya will pray foor ma, Ah s’u’d be glad if ya’d mention ’at Ah’s a good hand at decorating; it’ll mebbe help yan a bit.’

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.’

A vicar once asked his sexton what he thought of the previous Sunday’s preacher. The pulpit had been occupied on that occasion by a clergyman whose oratorical powers are pretty widely known, but whose sermon had been quite over the heads of his congregation on that particular day. The reply the vicar got was certainly to the point. ‘Whya, Ah wadn’t saay bud what mebbe you mud larn summat fra what he tell’d uz, acoz ther’s neea doot ’at he war varra far larnt; bud ez foor me, an’ t’ likes o’ me, wa’d reyther sit an’ lissen ti t’ saam au’d ditties fra you ’at wa’ve heeard ower an’ up agaan. Aye, that wa wad; ya see, wa knaw what’s cuming.’

A neighbour’s third wife lay dead. Said a dame to the husband, ‘Mary’s gone! Dear me, hoo sum fau’k diz ’ev bad luck; thoo’ll ’a’e ti gan ti t’ burying, hooivver.’ ‘Naay,’ said the husband, ‘Ah deean’t think ’at Ah s’all gan this tahm; Ah went ti t’ tother tweea—they’ll ‘ ti mannish bidoot ma this tahm.’ ‘Naay, what, thoo’ll ’a’e ti gan, hooivver; it’ll nivver deea eftther seeing t’ other tweea sahded by, nut ti gan ti t’ tho’d un. Whativver maks tha think ’at thoo weean’t gan?’ ‘Whya, thoo sees, it’s ez thoo sez, Ah’ve seen tweea on ’em sahded by, an’ Ah think ’at it leeaks a bit greedy ti gan ti t’ tho’d un. Thoo sees, up ti noo Ah’ve nivver been yabble ti return t’ compliment, an’ Ah deean’t leyke ti put on a chap, an’ Ah s’aan’t gan.’

A good dame found her husband lying on the chamber floor. ‘Whativver is ta deeaing, ligging on t’ cham’er fleear foor?’ ‘Aa, lass,’ the old chap groaned, ‘Ah thowt Ah war boun ti dee; Ah did, hooivver. If ivver Ah’s ta’en leyke that agaan, Ah s’aan’t cum round na mair; thoo’ll finnd ma deead wheear Ah tumm’ls.’ ‘Whya, let’s get tha inti bed, an’ Ah’ll fetch tha a basin o’ gruel up; an’ Ah’ll put t’ au’d stick byv t’ sahd o’ t’ bed, an’ thoo mun think on ’at thoo mun thump on t’ fleear if thoo’s ta’en queer agaan; whativver thoo diz, noo, thoo maun’t dee unbeknawn. It’s varra inconsiderate o’ fau’k ti tak thersens off i’ that waay,’ said the wife, bustling about. ‘Bud thoo knaws yan caan’t help ’t,’ said the old chap. ‘Whya, thoo mun deea thi best, an’ bear i’ mahnd what a tideea ther wad ’a’e been if Ah’d happened ti finnd tha deead on t’ fleear. Crowner wad ’ev ’ed ti cum’d, an’ all t’ jury chaps gahin in an’ oot ez if t’ pleeace warn’t yan’s awn, an’ leykly eneeaf afoor yan ’ed gitten tidied up, an’ then Ah s’u’d ’a’e ’ed t’ bobby fussing aboot an’ assing all manner o’ quessions, an’ Ah deean’t knaw what else. Noo, thoo mauh’t let ma in foor a gahin-on leyke that. Ah’ve putten tha t’ stick handy, seea mahnd thoo dizn’t drop off bidoot gi’ing yan warning. It weean’t tew tha mich ti thump on t’ fleear, an’ then Ah’ll be up iv a crack. Noo, deean’t forgit thoo ’ezn’t ti dee bidoot thumping.’

Old Sally was dying. On being asked by the vicar if she felt quite happy, the old lady said, with great unction, ‘Oh yes, Ah s’all seean be iv Jacob’s bosom.’ ‘Abraham’s bosom, Sally,’ corrected the vicar. ‘Aye, well, mebbe it is, bud if you’d been unmarried for sixty-fahve year, leyke what Ah ’ev, ya wudn’t be particular wheeas bosom it war, seea lang ez ya gat inti sumbody’s.’

A good story is told in Gloucestershire, which is a fair example that Yorkshiremen are credited with being able to take care of themselves by those of other counties. An ostler at one of the inns in that county in a general way managed to draw a tip from all who put up, even from one or two chaps who were well known as being very greedy. Said a gentleman one day to the ostler, who had just led out of the yard the horse and trap of one of these penurious old chaps, ‘Did you manage to drag a tip out of him?’ ‘Aye,’ said the ostler, ‘he awlus gi’es ma summat, bud it ommaist brecks his heart ivvery tahm he gans away.’ ‘Yorkshire, are you not?’ questioned the gentleman. ‘Aye, Ah’s Yorkshire hard eneeaf,’ was the characteristic reply. ‘Why,’ said the questioner, with a smile, ‘I am a bit surprised, seeing that you have been here so long, that the whole place doesn’t belong to you.’ To which, with a twinkle in his eye, the ostler replied, ‘It mebbe wad ’a’e deean afoor noo, if my maister ’edn’t been Yorkshire an’ all.’

A story is told of two Yorkshire Tykes bargaining—of course this was a case of ’when Greek meets Greek.’ Said one, ‘Whya, noo then, John, what diz ta think if wa mak a unseen swap on ’t? Thoo ’ezn’t seen mah meer, an’ Ah ’evn’t seen tha cob; bud Ah knaw ’at thoo awlus leyked t’ meer, an’ Ah’ve awlus ’ed a bit ov a leaning ti t’ cob, an’ wa’ve knawn t’ ane t’ ither foor a lang whahl—noo, what diz ta saay?’ ‘Whya noo, ez thoo sez wa’ve knawn t’ ane t’ ither ivver sen wa war lads, an’ ez thoo ’ezn’t seen t’ cob an’ Ah ’evn’t seen t’ meer, whya, thoo mun ho’d the han’ oot.’ And so the bargain was struck. Then said one to the other, ‘Whya, it’s owered noo. Ther’s neea backing oot fra t’ bargain noo, bud Ah aim ’at thoo war a larl bit ti keen. Thoo sees it’s leyke this: t’ meer’s geean that deead laam, ’at Ah deean’t think ’at sha’ll ivver gan agaan,’ ‘Oha, why, nivver mahnd,’ said the other; ‘t’ cob’s deead altigither, an’ flayed.’

In the preceding five chapters, I have striven to give you some insight into the character of our people. This, however, has not been my only aim. I have endeavoured—and shall continue to do so—to put the dialect in such a way as to be easily mastered by my readers, even should they be strangers to our county.

Please bear in mind that the North and East Ridings dialectically are the same. Certainly some few words have been retained or dropped, as the case may be, in each Riding, but the pronunciation is identical, or at least almost so. These remarks, however, do not hold good when applied to the West Riding. Ripon (my native place) and Leeds are not very far distant, only twenty-six miles. Ripon, although in the West Riding, is to all intents dialectically in the North, but by the time you have travelled the twenty-six miles all is changed—you have as it were crossed the line.

CHAPTER VI
CUSTOMS OF THE YEAR AND FOLKLORE

Custom and folklore are so interwoven that it is quite impossible to write of them separately. The North Riding to-day is par excellence the home of both. This is easily accounted for. Many of the dales are far removed from the varied influences of the outer world; they are little communities; they belong to themselves. Many of the older people have never seen a locomotive. It is in and about such places the student may gather a rich harvest of folklore, always remembering that any given area is not the whole of the riding, much less of Yorkshire. I mention this because a custom, superstition, or peculiarity of dialect, which may still flourish in one dale, may be quite unknown in some other part of the riding. Bear in mind the riding, within a very few miles, stretches from the North Sea to St. George’s Channel; so it will be readily conceived that over such an extensive area, much of which is sparsely populated and not easy of access, custom and superstition still go hand in hand.

Our greatest observance of custom is, as it should be, in connexion with Christmastide; indeed preparation for the same really commences some weeks in advance. There is the pudding to make and partly boil; all the ingredients for the plum-cake to order; the mincemeat to prepare for the mince-pies; the goose to choose from some neighbouring farmer’s stock; the cheese to buy and the wheat to have the hullins beaten off, and to cree, for the all-important frumenty; the yule-cakes or pepper-cake to make; the hollin to gather; the mistletoe and Santa Claus presents to buy for the little folk’s stockings; the old yule log and a new one to see after, as well as the yule candles. Even long before these various duties have been taken in hand, children nightly sing their Christmas carols on our doorstep, reminding us the great event of the year is fast approaching, when peace and good will should be extended to all men. The ’vessel-cups’ (i.e. wassail-cup) still come round, with their doll in a box, decked out as the Virgin Mary, lying in pink cotton-wool and evergreens. Some of these vessel-cups are in their way quite little works of art. I remember (up to the time I left Guisborough five years ago) Lavinia Leather travelled every year all the way from the other side of Leeds, to sing the vessel-cup throughout that part of Cleveland. As my wife had known the old body for many years, we always had a call. There was no mistaking the advent of Christmas, when, after unceremoniously opening the door, the old lady commenced saying,—

God bless t’ maaster of this hoos,

An’ t’ mis-ter-ess also,

An’ all yer lahtle bonny bairns

‘At round yer table go!

Fer it is at this tahm

Straangers travel far an’ near.

Seea Ah wish ya a merry Kessamas

An’ a happy New ‘Ear.

But the days speed on, until there comes a night when the charred remains of last year’s yule log glow with heat intense beneath the one of that year’s cutting; for the new log must always rest upon and be lighted by the old one, which has been carefully stored away for this, the night of nights—Christmas Eve. The lads have kissed the lasses under the mistletoe, fashioned out of two hoops bedecked with holly, oranges, and apples, and with a bunch of the mystic white berries glistening beneath. Every picture-frame, ornament, and everywhere, where a sprig of holly would remain, has had the dark green leaves and red berries thrust into or behind it. The old folk clasp each other’s hands, knowingly nodding their heads the while, ‘for they remember,’ and, remembering, note the flashing eyes and whispered nothings, sweet and low, of those whose horizon for the present is illumined with love, with never a cloud in sight. Shrieks of laughter loud and hilarious from the younger branches ring from basement to roof, almost deafening the ’au’d fau’k,’ but a smile lights up their wrinkled faces as they remember. By-and-by, the magic words uttered by the maid, ‘T’ frummety’s riddy,’ results in a rush for the dining-room or kitchen, as the case may be. But first the yule candle must be lighted by the master of the house. This must be done from a piece of the candle saved from the year previous; it too must be lighted from the blaze of the yule log, and on no account must anything be lighted from it. That would be as unlucky as giving or receiving a light on Christmas Day. Next, a cross must be scraped on the top of the uncut cheese, and then, after having wished the guests assembled ‘A merry Christmas,’ the frumenty may be attacked. And very palatable is the creed-wheat when boiled in milk, thickened with ’lithing,’ seasoned with nutmeg and cloves, and sweetened with treacle. After this there are the yule-cakes, one for each person, with a dice of cheese and a glass of mulled ale or hot elder-berry wine.

By-and-by the younger ones are packed off to bed, and with us, as the world over, their stockings are hung at the bed-foot to await the mysterious visit of Santa Claus. It may be the sword-dancers are announced; if so, their quaint performance is gone through, they are served with ’summat to keep ’em warm’ and a few coppers, and they depart for pastures new[3]. Some maiden mayhap has retired to her chamber with a leaf and a berry plucked from the mistletoe under which she has been saluted. Having locked her door, the berry must be swallowed, whilst on the leaf she will prick the initials of him her heart loves best; this she will stitch in the inside of her corset, so that it rest near her heart, and thus bind his love to her so long as there it remains.

In the early hours of the morning the waits will arrive, and tunefully or otherwise sing ‘Christians, awake,’ and, unless precautions are taken to stuff the bell with paper and fasten down the knocker, there will be no sleep after five o’clock; for the children, in their eagerness to catch the early worm, follow one another without a moment’s rest, singing loudly through your key-hole one or other of their Christmas greetings, as—

I wish ya a merry Kessamas

An’ a happy New ‘Ear,

A poss (purse) full o’ money

An’ a barrel full o’ beer,

A good fat pig

‘At’ll sarve ya thruff t’ year,

An’ pleease will ya gi’e ma

My Kessamas box.

Gentle and simple herald Christmas morn[4] with kindly greetings, ‘A merry Christmas to you,’ as they pass. And oh the parties, night after night, the games, postman’s knock, hunting the slipper, spinning the trencher, cushion dance, forfeits, &c.! Aye, but we knew how to enjoy ourselves when I was a lad, and in many of our dales to-day Christmas is Christmas still, with all the old observances treasured; aye, and the old old games too. Amidst such scenes one is apt to forget that the hair is turning grey at the sides, and easy to brush on the crown.

The Christmas dinner with its sirloin, turkey, or goose, followed by the rich plum-pudding and mince-pies, in a greater or less degree, is indulged in by all. Go where you may on and after Christmas Day, either plum or pepper cake (a rich kind of gingerbread), or spice-cake (a cheaper form of plum-cake) and cheese, will be found upon the sideboard or table. ‘Ya mun ’ev a bit o’ keeak an’ cheese, hooivver,’ say the country folk almost before you are seated. And be it remembered, for every cake and cheese you taste one more happy month is added to your life.

On St. Stephen’s Eve maybe some will pay a visit to the ’coo byre’ in the hope of seeing the oxen kneel, for the quaint notion still lives that on this eve the oxen kneel in their stalls in commemoration of the martyr’s death.

On New Year’s Eve it is customary to eat the remains of the frumenty left from Christmas Eve. This being finished, none other will be made until the festive season comes round again. The older people always watch the old year out and the new year in, which is made known by the ringing of the church bells, and the loud knocking at your door of the ‘first foot or lucky bird.’ This happens immediately on the last stroke of twelve. This first foot to cross your threshold—for none must go out until the first foot has come in—must be a man or boy with dark hair. Such only can bring luck to the household; for should he have light hair, he would not be admitted, for he could only bring dire and disastrous results.

The same clamorous singing as on Christmas Day commences just as early on New Year’s morn, greetings for the new year are as freely given, and the festive season itself lasts pretty well on towards the middle of the month.

The dumb-cake is yet made—of which more hereafter—whilst other rites, ceremonies, and charms are still indulged in by the buxom lasses of the riding.

By due observance of certain ritual performed on the eve of St. Agnes, a maiden might have a vision of her future spouse.

Very often, however, difficulties of no light kind had to be overcome, before the ritual could be carried out in its entirety. And in some cases, to my thinking, the maiden would need nerves of iron, and the supple limbs of an acrobat, before she would be able to accomplish the demands made upon her.

Take for example the following, which was given to me by an old lady in Rosedale:—At midnight on the eve of St. Agnes, a maiden must pluck from the grave of a bachelor a blade of grass, walk backward from the grave to the church gate, and then hurry to her bed-chamber. Safely there, she had to lock her door, hanging the key on a nail outside the window, then undress herself; but—and here comes the difficulty—her various garments had to be removed in the same order as they had been put on, that is, that which she had donned first must be taken off first. This must have been a feat requiring great agility and no little patience, exceeding by a long way the task of skinning an eel in the dark. No doubt everything would be worn very loosely that day, and any undue exertion must have rendered such a maid liable any moment to assume the condition of a statue. Of one thing I am absolutely certain: did the maid accomplish the feat so far as her skirts and other items of her apparel are concerned, she would have to sleep with her boots on, for her stockings would present a problem which jeers at the senile efforts of the Sphinx. But, having performed the said ritual so far, it only remained for her to wrap the blade of grass in a clean sheet of paper, place it under her pillow, leave a burning candle near the window, and retire to rest, when presently she would see the man who was to be her husband open the window, look in, throw the key into the room, close the window, and depart. Where the chamber was on the ground floor, or ladders were handy, I can well understand this ritual would often succeed.

Maidens, however, may have a vision of their future lord and master(?) without the necessity of almost dislocating their joints. For I find at the present time it is only needful, on the day of the eve of St. Agnes, to fast from the time of rising, only eating a little stale bread and drinking parsley tea. On retiring to rest, remake your bed, putting thereon clean sheets and pillow-cases, remembering to repeat as you lay on each cover the following:—

St. Agnes, I pray unto thee,

I, a maid, would married be,

So thou my husband show to me.

Retire to rest, sleeping by yourself, and you will see the man you will marry in a dream. Should you awake, my advice is—having seen the future husband, get up and have a good supper; parsley tea and stale bread for a day is not satisfying. There are other forms of the same charm, differing only in minor details.

The making of the dumb-cake, however, differs only in one particular throughout the riding. Some hold that those engaged in its preparation must stand on something upon which they have never stood before, no two persons standing on a similar thing, e.g. a box-lid, a newspaper, &c. Others altogether ignore this canon in the ritual. Therefore I must leave my fair readers to decide which formula they will adopt, in case they decide to make a dumb-cake for themselves. As to the actual preparation, it must be begun after eleven o’clock p.m. on the eve of St. Agnes, and either three, five, or seven maidens may take part. In the making of a dumb-cake, each must take a handful of flour and lay it on a sheet of clean paper (this must be pretty large), bearing in mind that from the moment the first hand is dipped in the flour, not a word must be uttered whilst the cake-makers remain in that room, or the spell will be broken.

Having each laid a handful of flour on the sheet of paper, all add a small pinch of salt, water being also added, all taking part in working the same into dough, every one kneading and assisting in rolling the same into a thin cake, sufficiently large for each to mark her initials in fairly large letters thereon. All must now lend a hand in lifting it on to a tin, and in carrying it to the fire, in front of which it must be laid. Having seated themselves as far from the fire as possible, each will in turn rise, cross the room, and turn the cake round once—not over, as it must be left the inscribed side uppermost. All this having been accomplished before twelve strikes, remain quietly seated; for, a few minutes after midnight, the husband of the maiden who is to be married first will appear and touch her initials, often leaving his fingermark upon the same. So there can be no doubt about it.

Should you have no opportunity of joining others in the preparation of a dumb-cake, you may, if so inclined, on the Friday evening following that of St. Agnes (some say any Friday but Good Friday), have a vision of your future husband by a strict observance of the following:—

Make a flat dough cake about the size of a crown piece; on this prick the initials of the one you secretly love. Next procure three small keys, all different, and make an impression of each on the underside of the cake. On retiring to rest, thread the three keys on the garter of your left leg, wrapping the same about the little cake; stitch this ball to the inside of your nightdress so that it will rest in the centre of your bosom, and you will then dream, either of the man you love, or some other swain. If not of the one you love, then your affections for the present are misplaced.

The days in Holy Week are familiarly known as Collop Monday, Pancake Tuesday, Frutas or Fritters Wednesday, Bloody Thorsday,

An’ Lang Friday ’at’s nivver deean,

Seea lig i’ bed whahl Seterdaay neean.

The usual menu for the week is still pretty much as it was. Collops of bacon and fried eggs on Monday. Pancakes served with either treacle or lemon-juice and sugar on Tuesday. Frutas, or fritters, made from a light kind of tea-cake paste, only much richer in fruit and fried either in lard or butter, on Wednesday; and, with many of humble degree, black puddings on Thursday. Whilst on Friday, fast is kept on any frutas which may have been spared from Wednesday’s feast, and there always is a very considerable helping left over.

Paste-egg or Troll-egg[5] Day, is now celebrated on Easter Monday, but in days past Easter Day and Paste-egg Day were one. At the present time the last five Sundays of Lent and Easter Day are still called Tid, Mid, Miseray, Carlin’, and Paum, an’ Paste-egg Day. There is some uncertainty as to what Tid and Mid mean, but there can be no doubt that Miseray is a corruption of Miserere, the commencement of one of the psalms ordered to be read during Lent. The whole of the names, however, take us back to mediaeval times, and though some are inclined to think that Tid means ‘Te Deum’ and Mid ‘Mid Lent,’ it seems to me careful research will in time give a more plausible solution. Carling Sunday is still observed in many places, grey peas fried with bacon or in butter being a well-known dish on that day, many even carrying a goodly store about in paper bags. At Great Ayton, and in many parts of Cleveland, Carling Sunday is still fully observed. The same is equally true of Palm Sunday, or, as it is called, ‘Paum Sunda,’ catkins, or lambs’ tails, as they are universally designated, being carried in the hand, thrust in the buttonhole, or worn in the hat, whilst many a mantelpiece and ornament is often tastefully decorated with the same. From noon on Easter Day to noon the following day, an old custom which is now only kept up in remote villages, but which was quite general throughout the riding when I was a lad, was that of one or more young fellows seizing a female and forcibly pulling off her shoe, sometimes both, laces being no protection. These were held in bondage until a fine was paid. This very rough proceeding was formerly known as ’buckle-snatching,’ the old name for the theft during the days when buckles were worn. However, if the lads had their good time from the Sunday to Monday’s noon, the lasses did not fail to retaliate from that time until noon on Tuesday. From any hidden corner or doorway, out they rushed, and rarely failed to snatch either a hat, whip, stick, handkerchief, or something, they were not particular what, or to scratching either, generally managing to recuperate themselves for any losses of the day previous. On Easter Monday the bairns hie themselves to some field and roll or troll their hard-boiled eggs dyed in many colours; this lasts until the egg is broken, when the youngsters feed upon the contents. Many of the lads, however, have a much speedier method of either adding to their store of food or losing their egg. They jaup or jarp them together, i.e. one lad strikes his egg against that of his opponent, when one or both are broken; if only one, it is forfeited and becomes the property of the conqueror. Shuttlecock and battledoor is now greatly en evidence with the girls, and knur and spell with the lads. One might well, and with profit, write a chapter on the sequence of games, but such comes hardly within the scope of this work. But here and there a few will be noted when they have attached to them special peculiarities.

There is an old custom, almost dead now. It is only in hidden and unfrequented spots that it still survives—I mean ’the wading of the sun.’ It was common enough thirty years ago. The modus operandi was as follows:—As the sun rose on Easter morn, a bucket of water was placed in such a position that the sun was reflected in it. If the sun waded, i.e. glimmered in the water, it would rain that day; but if it kept fine in the morning and rained in the afternoon, then the spring would be fine and the autumn wet, and vice versa. On this morning too the flight of the crows was carefully observed; if they settled near home, instead of flying far afield to feed, the farmer shook his head, for they plainly told him, by so doing, that grub and other pests would sorely afflict his crops that year.

Friday is looked upon as an unlucky day to commence or conclude any undertaking. It is considered unlucky for the first lamb to be dropped on a Friday, to begin sowing or reaping, or to lead the last load on that day. Should the weather be very threatening, instead of finishing leading on the Friday, one stook is very often left, and not brought in until the following day.

Of St. Valentine’s Day we might truly write, ‘Poor St. Valentine! for with thee it is Ichabod.’ No longer do we find shop windows filled with works of art, wrought in silver, lace, and gold; no longer within a coral bower, hung with icicles and rosebuds, is the maiden’s hand clasped or waist encircled; no longer does a pathway of powdered fish-scales lead direct to the little church seen in the far distance, whilst the overfed cupid, who managed to sit on the edge of a very thin cloud, must have fallen off and decamped with the couple of skewered hearts which were usually floating at their own sweet will ’mid heaven. Hearts are at a discount now. Fifty years ago, love-making was a very real and somewhat pedantic proceeding; in these days, when time is money, the whole thing has been curtailed. It is—cut the dialogue and come to the bank book.

Why, there was a time, and only a few years ago, when as many pounds were spent on these love tokens as pennies now.

There may be, here and there, a maiden left who, before retiring to rest, splits a holly twig and binds within the split part a small slip of paper, upon which she has written, with her heart’s blood, the name of him she loveth best, and who places the same under her pillow, so that she may dream her fate. There may be, but I doubt it. Their grandmothers did, though.

Valentine’s Day may be dead, but April Fools’ Day is still with us. ‘Makking t’ feeal o’ yan’ is yet common. The last sell I heard of was sending a lad from one place to another for a bucket of steam. I wonder how long ago it is since the first boy was sent for ’a penn’orth o’ strap oil’ or ’a pint ov pigeon’s milk,’ &c., &c.

On Good Friday it is considered impious to dig or plough.

On Good Friday rist thi pleeaf;

Start nowt, end nowt, that’s eneeaf.

Perhaps one of the oldest customs is that in connexion with St. Mark’s Eve. The belief is still held that those who watch the church porch at the hour of midnight on that eve, will see pass in front of them and enter the church the spirits of all those friends who will die during the coming year. With some it is held to be a sine qua non that the watcher must sit within the porch; whilst others hold four cross roads to be equally efficacious, always provided that the body of one who had committed suicide, with the orthodox stake driven through the chest, had been buried there, that being the end of suicides in the good old days.

It should be borne in mind that there are two slight penalties attached to this porch or cross-road watching.

Firstly, should the watcher fall asleep, there is every probability of its being the sleep of death. Should he, however, manage to awaken from such a lethargic slumber, it doesn’t amount to much, as he will assuredly die within the next twelve months. Secondly, whoever tries this game once must continue to do so ever afterwards. There is no escape; the spell upon them is said to be too strong to withstand.

Said an old fellow at Carthorpe, ‘Ah nivver watched mysen, bud one James Haw used ti watch t’ deead gan in an’ cum oot o’ Bon’iston Chetch ivvery St. Mark Eve ez it cam roond. He ’ed teea; he war forced tul’t, he c’u’dn’t help hissen; he’d deean it yance, an’ ‘ed ti gan on wi’ ‘t. Aye, an’ he seed t’ sperrits ov all them ’at war gahin ti dee that year, all on ’em dhrissed i’ ther natt’ral cleeas, or else hoo mud he ’a’e kenn’d whau tha war? They all passed cleease tiv him, bud neean on ’em ivver gav’ him a nod, na nowt o’ that soart. Bud,’ added he, almost in a whisper, ‘them ’at duz it yance awlus ’ev ti deea’t; tha cann’t ho’d thersens back, they’re forced ti gan ivvery tahm St. Mark’s Eve cums roond. Mun! it’s a despert thing ti ’a’e ti deea, ’coz ya ’a’e ti gan, whahl at t’ last end ya see yersen pass yersen, an’ then ya knaw ’at yer tahm’s cum’d an’ ‘at ya’ll be laid i’ t’ cau’d grund afoor that daay cum twelve-month.’

There was another method of divination very commonly resorted to, known by the name of ’caff riddling’ (chaff riddling). The rite was carried out as follows:—At midnight, with the barn doors thrown wide open, a quantity of chaff had to be riddled, those taking part in the ceremony riddling in turn; should a coffin pass the door whilst any one was working the sieve, that person would die within the year. A story is still current in Malton of a woman who tried the above divination. It would seem, some little time after she had commenced to riddle, two men passed the open doors carrying a coffin, and on those who were with her rushing outside to see where they went, neither men nor coffin were anywhere to be seen. Only the woman saw the coffin. It is on record that she died within the year. The occurrence took place about forty years ago.

Perhaps we are a trifle more superstitious than some other counties, but it must be borne in mind that a wealth of folklore adds great respectability to a genealogy which dates back to times so far remote, that the rites and ceremonies of the religion from which it sprang must now be sought for in the myth-history of other lands.

In connexion with Royal Oak Day took place the locking out of the schoolmaster by the scholars, loudly singing, whilst they held the fortress—

It’s Royal Oak daay,

T’ twenty-nahnth o’ Maay,

An’ if ya deean’t gi’e uz hollida

Wa’ll all run awaay.

The above was sung, to the entire satisfaction of the lads, a couple of years ago at Great Ayton. On this day it is customary for every one to display a twig of oak; should any one be so remiss as to walk abroad without sporting an oak-leaf or two, it is quite probable some urchin may give the delinquent a sharp reminder by switching him over the hand with a nettle. And woe betide the lad who is so foolhardy as to venture forth oakless, for in addition to being stung with nettles, he may have to submit to being rubbed over with chalk until he looks very like a miller. It may be mentioned that Royal Oak Day is often called Chalky-back Day.

There are several charms and ceremonies peculiar to Midsummer Eve, the careful observance of which enables a maiden to learn something of what fate may have in store for her. Does she doubt the constancy of her lover, she can satisfy herself once for all, no matter what other folk may say, and in spite of anything she may have seen or imagined herself, by observing the following rite. Certainly the carrying out of the ceremony is a wee bit troublesome, but of what account is trouble when such vital points are at issue as the unmasking of perfidy or the establishment of truth and love? To perform the rite the maiden must proceed as follows:—Pull three hairs from the tail of a perfectly black cat, also three from a red cow; gather three leaves of the deadly nightshade, and, having killed a white pigeon, smear each leaf with blood from its heart. Now make three flat parcels, each containing a cat’s hair, a cow’s hair, and a leaf. Next stew the pigeon, saving the gravy. Now make a savoury dish, adding thereto the gravy. The suspected one must be asked to supper on Midsummer Eve, the damsel being careful to place under the tablecloth the three parcels, in such manner that one will lie under his plate, one under the dish containing the gravy, and the third under her own plate. During supper, should her lover find the least fault with any person or thing, he is faithless. If the maiden is very deeply in love, I should advise her to do most of the talking; let it be only a one-course supper, and hurry through with it. The above charm is rarely resorted to now; the several difficulties which have to be overcome before it can be successfully carried out, have almost laid it on one side. But I well remember its being tried years ago by one of our servants, and I have been informed that it was resorted to, inside of the last five years, at a farm-house near Swainby.

Here is another one for the same eve, which is much more widely known, and believed in yet by many. Three maids, unseen by and unknown to any other but themselves, must each gather a sprig of rosemary, and between the hours of eleven and twelve p.m. retire to an upper chamber, lock the door, and from the moment the key is turned not a word must be spoken. Near one end of the room a basin half full of water must be placed, in which each maiden has dropped a handful of red-rose leaves; the three sprigs of rosemary must now be laid on the rose leaves; next, fix a line across the room, over which each must throw—not fasten in any way—a chemise of her own make, but which she has never worn. Having thus arranged matters, they must seat themselves as far from the basin as possible, when they will be shortly rewarded, for a few moments after twelve o’clock the husband of each will appear. There can be no doubt about this, because each apparition will seize a sprig of rosemary and sprinkle the chemise of the girl he loves. Nothing could be more convincing than this; now, could there be?

If not yet fully satisfied, they may make another attempt on the eve of St. Mary Magdalene. For this they will have to prepare the following decoction:—Take a wineglassful each of rum, gin, and red wine, a teaspoonful of honey, treacle, and sugar, and the same of vinegar, lemon-juice, and sour oranges; these must be mixed together in some utensil purchased that day, and for which each must pay an equal share. When mixing the ingredients, the following rule must be observed: the first maiden must pour in the spirits and wine, the second the sweets, and the third the sours; this must be done at the hour of midnight. Let each now take a sprig of rosemary, dip it in the liquor, and then carefully stitch the same securely to the bosom of her nightdress; bear in mind you are an old maid for ever if you and your sprig part company during the night. Each in turn must now drink a tablespoonful of the mixture, until every drop is consumed, then jump into bed, all three together, and on falling asleep, each maiden will have a dream, the meaning of which cannot be misunderstood. This seems to be quite certain, and there is another thing equally assured—one and all will awake with such a splitting headache in the morning, that they will forswear improvised cold punch for ever afterwards.

It is not within the scope of this work to take note of purely local customs, deeply interesting though they be. Therefore the Vardy dinner at Helmsley, the procession of the Lord Mayor and Lady Mayoress of York at Kilburn, the race up the hill at Askrigg, or the May-pole dances at several other places, and the like, must be passed over.

The mell supper, though lacking much of its pristine glory, is still with us. Mr. Robinson of Carthorpe, and many others in the riding, still keep to the good old ways. The mell supper, i.e. a supper and a dance after the ingathering of the harvest, is exceedingly common, but with its older observances, or at least as many of them as are remembered, is only adhered to here and there. Still, at the present day, something of the old-time doings are to be met with. The last sheaf at Carthorpe, as in Jutland, is called the ’widow,’ and the last load is always led triumphantly home with songs of joy.

In many places it is common for the last few sheaves to be bound together, these being decorated with ribbons and handkerchiefs—the women racing for the ribbons, and the men contending for the handkerchiefs. This, of course, is a survival of the time when the sheaves themselves were run for; and in the days when an additional bushel of grain was a thing greatly to be desired, the prize would be not a little coveted. Here and there the mell doll is still made; certainly it is not now bedecked with all the gaudy trappings it was adorned with in days of yore, but often some skilful hand will plait the straw into fantastical shapes, exhibiting considerable artistic taste and skill. When completed, whether it be in the form of a doll[6] or that of some other device, it still goes by the name of ’t’ mell doll,’ and is placed in the centre of the barn, round which, by-and-by, the guests will trip on the light fantastic toe.

One characteristic of the mell supper, so far as I know, is now a thing of the past, i.e. the guisers. These were a kind of sword-dancers, who twenty years ago generally came as unbidden guests after the dancing had commenced; as a rule they were accorded a hearty welcome, as they added greatly to the merriment of the evening’s revel, for as the cake and ale went round, the excitement increased, songs and shouting became general, and the dancing something after the nature of a stampede, till at last the uproar was general. It is at such times when age forgets its years, and the young let slip the tether of their youthful spirits, and romp—aye, romp; for the ale is good, the lasses are bonny, ‘slim o’ waist and leet o’ foot.’ It is Yorkshire, all Yorkshire.

The fifth of November, with its bonfires and Guy Fawkes, is as religiously observed in the riding as in any other part of the country. Over a wide area it is the festive occasion on which every good wife bakes a store of parkin, its general form being that of a flat cake of gingerbread, the recipe varying according to the means of the house.

In the days when there were no county police, if not wise enough to securely lock up your yard broom, of a certainty it would be stolen; and if ever you did see it again, it would be on the evening of the fifth, soaked with tar, in the hands of some fellow rushing like a mad thing along the street with your property blazing in front of him. I have known of scores of brooms which were stolen—aye, and stolen them myself—but I do not recollect an instance of the thief being prosecuted. No, if you did not secure your broom, it went, and that was very much the end of it. There was more fun running with a stolen besom than a bought one.

Quite an interesting collection of doggerel verses might be given, which the lads in various parts sing when dragging their load of sticks and thorns to the site of the bonfire. I give one, which an old inhabitant of Great Ayton tells me was sung when his grandfather was a boy.

Au’d Grimey sits upon yon hill

Ez black ez onny au’d craw;

He’s gitten on his lang grey coat

Wi’ buttons doon afoor-oor-oor,

Wi’ buttons doon afoor-oor-oor,

Wi’ buttons doon afoor-oor-oor,

He’s gitten on his lang grey coat

Wi’ buttons doon afoor.

Within a week, the young carol-singers will be on your doorstep night after night, reminding you that Christmas is drawing nigh.

A very old custom, but which has now been pretty nigh stamped out by the county policeman, is that of ‘Riding the Stang.’ It is not dead yet, though; I witnessed the stang being ridden as recently as 1891 in Guisborough, and in many of the villages in Wensleydale it is to this day resorted to when considered needful.

The stang is held in wholesome dread by a certain class of evil-doers. Wife-beaters and immoral characters chiefly had and have the benefit of the stang[7]. Whatever their discovered sin might be, was fully set forth in the stang doggerel. One or two points have to be, or at least are, most carefully observed: (1) The real name of the culprit must not be mentioned. (2) The stang must be ridden in three separate parishes each night; and in many places, to make the proceedings quite legal, it was considered a sine qua non that the stang-master must knock at the door of the man or woman they were holding up to ridicule, and ask for a pocket-piece, i.e. fourpence.

The whole proceeding was carried out as follows:—An effigy made of straw and old clothes, representing the culprit, was bound to a pole[8] and set in an upright position in the centre of either a handcart or a small pony cart, in which was seated the stang-master; and following behind were gathered all the ragamuffins of the village, armed with pan lids, tin cans, tin whistles, or anything which could be made to produce a discordant sound. Being ready, the cart was drawn in front of the culprit’s house, and after a fearful hubbub, the stang-master cried out, in a sing-song voice,—

Ah tinkle, Ah tinkle, Ah tinkle tang,

It’s nut foor your part ner mah part

‘At Ah rahd the stang,

Bud foor yan Bill Switch whau his weyfe did bang,

Ah tinkle, Ah tinkle, Ah tinkle tang.

He banged her, he banged her, he banged her indeed,

He banged her, he banged her, afoor sha steead need;

Upstairs aback o’ t’ bed

He sairly brayed her whahl sha bled,

Oot o’ t’ hoos on ti t’ green,

Sikan a seet ez nivver war seen,

Ez neean c’u’d think, ez neean c’u’d dream.

Sae Ah gat ma a few cumarades

Ti traal ma aboot;

Sae it’s hip hip hurrah, lads,

Set up a gert shoot,

An’ blaw all yer whistles,

Screeam, rattle, an’ bang

All ’at ivver ya’ve gitten,

Foor Ah ride the stang.

Then, for a few moments, there arose a tumult of sound, to which the wildest ravings of bedlam would seem insignificant.

This performance lasts three nights, and on the third the effigy is burnt in front of the culprit’s house.

Another very old custom, which is now rarely seen, is that of bottle breaking. When a house was ready for the thatch, in later days the tiles, a bottle was suspended by a ribbon from the ridge beam. Stones were then shied at it, and the one who was lucky enough to smash the bottle claimed the ribbon. If in days past this custom had anything of an occult nature attached to it, it has long ago been forgotten. In its last days it degenerated into what was considered to be a valid excuse for spending the rest of the day in the village pub. O tempora, O mores!

The daily life of the Guisboreans does not seem to have altered much from the time of Edward VI to the end of last century. In a letter among the Cottonian MSS., the writer, addressing Sir Thomas Chaloner, says, ‘The people bread here (Guisborough) live very longe, if they be a while absent they growe sicklye; they are altogether given to pleasure, scarce any good husband amongst them; Day and Nighte feastinge, making Matches for Horse Races, Dog runninge, or runninge on Foote,’ &c. The above was written about 1550, and we find in 1784 that things were still pretty lively, as the contents of the small hand-bill[9] (see next page) fully testify. The contents of another, setting forth the varied attractions of ‘Staithes Feast,’ are also characteristic of the time.

Gisbrough Races.

Saturday, August 14, 1784.

A MATCH between Sir William Foulis’s Ass Colt, Turkey Nab, and Mr. Chaloner’s Ass Colt, Sturdy; Catch-weights, 1l. 1s. play or pay, the last Comer-in to Win. Change of Jockeys, crossing, jostling, and kicking.

A PURSE of SILVER to be run for by Men in Sacks. Crossing and jostling.

LADIES’ PLATE.

A SHIFT to be run for by Ladies. No crossing-and-jostling. No Lady to enter who has won more than one Shift. A Pair of Cotton Stockings for the second Lady; and a Pair of Garters for the third. Free for all Weights and Ages.

⁂ After the Races, A Soap-tail’d PIG will be turn’d out. Whoever throws him over his Shoulder by the Tail is to have him for his own Property.

††† Smoaking, Cudgel-††playing, and other Entertainments.

JOHN HALE, Steward.

‡‡ An Ordinary at the Cock at Gisbrough at Half past Two o‘Clock. The Race to begin at Five o‘Clock.

---

Staithes Feast.

—WILL BE HELDE ON—

TUESDAY, JUNE 20, 1797.

When the prizes As advertized Below will be offered to All those skilled in such matters, as well as Divers others not herin stated.

TO WIT.

⁂ A fish skin purse contayninge SILVER will be run or rolled for in sacks a man and a boy in each sack. 25 Y^rds. Eric Staumer Esq. will adjudge.

††† A 50 Y^rds. race. To be run for, A Hood and Cloak, each, for maidens runninge in pairs, the right legge of the one to be fast bound below the knee and at the ancle, to y^e left legge of the other[10]. T. Metcalfe will Bind y^e legges and Adjudge.

⁂ A CROWN piece for A MAN and WIFE race, y^e wife to be hugged either on the backe, in arms, or by any other device, so as she be lifted clean from y^e ground, Husbands with light wives to be put backe. No WHEELBARROWS allowed. M^r. Mat Petch will Adjudge.

The choyce of a sark or petticote offered to the best performance of skille in a Skep and Pole tryal[11]. Only for married women. One clean turn to be mayde.
Thos. Hiltune Esq. will adjudge.

††† A CŌBLE RACE for 1.l. 1.s.

⁂ A LYKE SUM will be gyven to the owners of the best kept CŌBLE. To be equally divided. W. Hymers Esq. WILL adjudge.

††† 2 new CROWN pieces will be gyven to y^e maid under 18 yeares who shalle fyrst cleanly bayte 100 hooks. M^r. W. Pickles will adjudge.

⁂ Lykewise, Genning throw a Barfan, Smoaking, and other pastimes for y^e entertainment of all commers will in nowise be found lacking.
All friends and nighbours are dilligently invited.
This was wrote by I. Storey, schoolmaster.

N.B. This hand-bill was not printed, but most carefully and neatly written.

CHAPTER VII
CUSTOMS OF COURTSHIP, MARRIAGE, BIRTH, AND DEATH

Superstition.

The old customs and superstitions connected with marriage festivities are perhaps more closely observed here and there in the North Riding than in any other part of Yorkshire. In some parts of Cleveland, I doubt if the bride and bridegroom would consider themselves properly wedded if there were no race for a ribbon or handkerchief. And certainly it would be a most unlucky omen, should any one but the bride cut the first piece from the bride’s cake. But I anticipate—let us commence at the beginning. Very rarely, I imagine, is it that an orthodox proposal is ever made by a Yorkshire lad to the lass of his choice. No, they just ’keep cump’ny t’ ane wi’ t’ t’other.’ ‘Keeping company’ is the Yorkshire idiom for courting; and during that happy time, in days past, were a young fellow ever caught kissing his lady-love whilst a roof was over their heads (i. e. in any one’s house), he was liable—if he did not instantly throw on the table kiss-money—to be ‘pitchered[12]’ on the spot, i.e. either have a hole burnt through his coat or his buttons cut off. This violent attack on the person of arson and robbery was usually effected by a bevy of damsels.

In time, if all went well, the twain decided to become one; to this end the ’spurrings’ were put in, i.e. the banns were published. This having been accomplished, the couple were said to be ’hanging in the bell-ropes’—no maiden would ever think of attending church during the time she was hanging in the bell-ropes, or to use another expression, ‘whilst she was suffering from a broken leg after having tumm’l’d ower t’ bauk.’

The wedding day having arrived, the happy couple, accompanied by their friends, either proceed two and two, or hire a cab.

Of course the bride is properly garnished for the occasion, and very nice and blushy she looks—that goes without saying. But whatever her toilet may be, one thing is certain—not a speck of blue or green will be found anywhere about her, both colours being considered very unlucky; neither will the wedding take place on a Friday.