THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 TO 
 
 C. H. G. 
 
 A KIND PHYSICIAN, A SKILFUL SURGEON 
 AND A STEADFAST FRIEND
 
 A MOORLAND BECK. 
 
 {Frontispiece.
 
 MY MOORLAND 
 ;' PATIENTS 
 
 BY A YORKSHIRE DOCTOR 
 
 (THE LATE DR R. W. S. BISHOP) 
 
 y * 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 LONDON 
 
 JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W. 
 
 1922
 
 All rights reserved
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE 1 
 
 READERS of this book who have become interested in the personality 
 of its author may welcome a short account of his life. 
 
 R. W. S. Bishop was born and spent his youth at Ripon ; 
 entered as a medical student at Leeds (it was before the days of 
 the University), and after some two or three years there went to 
 London and studied at St Mary's Hospital, whence he qualified 
 as M.R.C.S. and L.R.C.P. in 1889. 
 
 He then went to Paris, where he studied in the hospitals under 
 Charcot and other famous French teachers. It was at this time 
 that he acquired the love for and fluency in the use of the French 
 language which remained with him to the very last, so that in 
 his dying hours he spoke almost as much French as English. 
 
 On returning to England he spent some years as assistant to 
 doctors practising in the neighbourhood of Sheffield, and among 
 the Derbyshire hills before settling at Bradford as House-Surgeon 
 to the Children's Hospital. 
 
 But he was by nature no townsman, and finally the call of the 
 moorlands was not to be resisted. He was not only a notable 
 angler, but had a real and deep feeling for wild country and for 
 unsophisticated country people. 
 
 Of his prowess with the rod and his love of nature, a contributor 
 to the Yorkshire Post writes : " Dr Bishop was widely known in 
 the North, especially to anglers, and his wonderful gift of memory 
 made him ever welcome on a dull day. He was a member of the 
 Yorkshire Fishery Board, the Yorkshire Esk Fishery, and the 
 Yorkshire Angling Associations ; also of the Tanfield Angling Club 
 (of which he was Hon. Secretary for many years), and in his earlier 
 days of several other fishing associations. . . . Many a salmon 
 in one year thirty-eight paid the penalty of attraction to his fly 
 on his best-known river, and the trout and the grayling had no 
 
 1 Taken, except where otherwise specified, from notes furnished 
 by an intimate, personal, and professional friend of the late Dr 
 Bishop. 
 
 V 
 
 872:1 15
 
 vi BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE 
 
 deadlier tempter than he, both there and in the smaller streams 
 to which he had welcome access. Being greatly interested in the 
 free passage of salmon up the rivers, he erected a salmon pass 
 at his own expense at Newby. Birds had in him a firm friend 
 and protector; even the heron, with its predilection for salmon 
 and trout fry, was not banned." 
 
 In 1894 he acquired a practice at Kirkby Malzeard (on the 
 edge of the moor north of Ripon), where he worked for twelve 
 years. It was during these years that most of the material of 
 his book was stored in his really remarkable memory. When asked 
 during his last illness whether he had not any notes to assist his 
 writing, he replied, tapping his forehead with a long finger, 
 " Only there." 
 
 "As a physician," writes the friend who furnishes these notes, 
 "he was characterised by an extreme conscientiousness. He has 
 told me how after walking home some miles late at night from 
 a difficult case, he has gone to bed and, unable to sleep because of 
 some idea that he had overlooked some point, he has got up and 
 dressed again and trudged off through a winter night over miles of 
 dark lanes back to the patient's house to satisfy himself on the 
 point which he might have overlooked. I can fully credit it. It is 
 just the sort of thing he would do. I have naturally met and 
 sometimes attended a good many of his old patients and have been 
 much struck with the powerful impression he had made on them. 
 He understood them so well that he was able to make them do 
 anything he recommended, and they had the most implicit faith in 
 anything that Dr Bishop had said. 
 
 " Speaking from the professional point of view, I thought him 
 a very discerning and thoughtful physician. His knowledge was up 
 to date, and he read a good many recent books on medical subjects. 
 Most remarkable was the way in which he gained the confidence of 
 his patients of all classes. I always felt that he would have made 
 a mark in a much wider and more prominent sphere if he had cared 
 to do so. But he loved the country and country-folk, and would 
 perhaps never have been happy in a town." 
 
 On retiring from practice Dr Bishop made his home in Tanfield 
 on the River Ure. Here in 1915 he was attacked by a painful and, 
 as it proved, fatal disease, whose progress the best treatment and 
 the most devoted nursing failed to arrest. His book was written 
 during the last year of his life, in the intervals of acute suffering. 
 He died on 31st December 1921 and was buried in Tanfield 
 Churchyard. 
 
 THE EDITOK of My Moorland Patients.
 
 PREFACE 
 
 THESE pages are my response to the insistent 
 demand of friends that I would place on per- 
 manent record tales I have told them after dinner 
 or over the smoking-room fire of the moorland 
 folk with whose ways and speech my many years 
 of practice on the Yorkshire moors have made 
 me familiar. 
 
 Although the period of time covered concludes 
 so recently as the outbreak of the Great War, these 
 narratives may not be without value. Life and 
 character on the moorlands is rapidly changing. 
 With the coming of the motor car and cycle, the 
 charm and seclusion of remote England has nearly 
 departed. No far off moorland lane is now free 
 from their intrusion, and it is fortunate that they 
 cannot yet jump the stone walls and hedges, so 
 that the footpaths are still left to us. What it 
 will be like when the air is thick with flying 
 machines, I will not attempt to imagine. 
 
 With so many intruders, the old kindly 
 hospitality is rapidly vanishing. Compulsory 
 standard education is responsible for the dis- 
 appearance of countless old words and distinc- 
 tions of dialect. Old customs and usages have 
 been dropped. Superstition is practically dead. 
 Those uplands, so suitable for stock-breeding and 
 
 vii
 
 viii PREFACE 
 
 rearing, are now being given over to dairying. 
 The stock-markets, which are everywhere, have 
 limited the frequency and fierceness of the old 
 Yorkshire bargainings. 
 
 I should have liked to treat my subject with 
 more of historical, topographical, and archaeological 
 detail, but that would have involved the disclosure 
 of my identity. 1 Ninety-nine per cent, of my stories 
 are true, and those that I cannot vouch for are 
 true in spirit if not in fact. Many of my dramatis 
 personce are fortunately still alive, or have only 
 recently joined the majority. 
 
 My days are now, alas, filled with sadness and 
 suffering, but the memory of past happy years, 
 when I received the love and affection of so many 
 of my moorland patients, is a compensation that 
 is priceless. 
 
 1 This preface was written by the author who, had he lived to 
 see the book published, desired to maintain his anonymity, but his 
 death and notices of him which have appeared in the newspapers 
 have removed this objection to giving his name as the author.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAP. PAO 
 
 I. THE MOORS AND THE MOORLANDERS : MY PATIENTS . 1 
 
 Marked Personality Effects of Solitude Impressions 
 of the Town Beauty of Scenery AtWalking Chro- 
 nometer Coming of the Steam-roller Rokes and 
 Fogs Cat's Eyes "Ye mun tak care, Doctor" 
 Snowstorm of 1895 " Scauds " " Nearness " 
 " Pairing " for Grave-stones Sheep-dogs Savage 
 Dogs "A reight saucy yan." 
 
 II. THE MOOES AND THE MOOKLANDEES: CHRONICLES . 35 
 
 "Singing for gess" Births Miss Frank Peter 
 Thirkill's two Books Nehemiah and Ezra. 
 
 III. THE MOOES AND THE MOOELANDERS : CHRONICLES . 46 
 
 Footpaths Freeholders Corn Court Leet Right 
 by Usage Quaint Customs Furmety. 
 
 IV. OLD YOEKSHIEE WOEDS 60 
 
 Illiteracy Advantages of knowing the Dialect 
 Cure for Laziness Sick-room Phrases Old Mary's 
 Vocabulary Yorkshire Words. 
 
 V. SOME MOORLAND TEAGEDIES 75 
 
 The Scots " Badger "Primitive Barbarities " A 
 wick tumour " Child-murder Kester Homer 
 The Story of Hester Bully Kettlewell. 
 
 VI. YORKSHIRE WIT AND HUMOUE 102 
 
 "I put t'capper on" "The Lord luves a cheerful 
 giver " The " Conneril " " Less grammar and mair 
 grace" An Intractable Patient Balaam's Ass 
 " Lowzin' tahm " " Physital generation." 
 
 te B
 
 x CONTENTS 
 
 VIL PARSONS AND SQUIRES 118 
 
 Parsons bad Patients No-man's-land " Tawd devil 
 has left nowt " Doctor versus Parson The Bishop's 
 Telegram Powerful in Prayer Great Houses 
 The " Old Originals "Euthanasia "Aud Pollard." 
 
 VIII. FUNERALS . 139 
 
 Reading of the Will A Corpse as Testator Krofer 
 Duffield's Funeral" T'cakes for tlnirying "Virtue 
 of a Wreath" Moses in the Bulrushes " " Aye, but 
 he has altered ! " " Lovely John " " None a gallopin' 
 matter" "Bidding" to a Funeral Cattle-dealers 
 Funerals under Difficulties. 
 
 IX. SOME CURIOUS CASES 165 
 
 A Human Air-cushion The Occasional Toper 
 " Jumping Pills " Feminine Modesty. 
 
 X. INSANITY 174 
 
 Inbreeding Doubting One's Senses A Mad Organist 
 Persecution Mania The Fiend exorcised Alco- 
 holic Insanity The Case of George Wilson The 
 Man with a Grievance A Determined Suicide. 
 
 XI. HOSPITALITY 193 
 
 A Strange Refusal A Difficult Choice In Defence 
 of Alcohol "Botchet" A Drinking-match "Twenty 
 shillings to t'pund" Yorkshire Pudding. 
 
 XII. THREEAPINS AN' DIFFERINS 208 
 
 An Exceptional Village "Narsty Furriners"- 
 Bargain-making Obstinacy Reconciliation, with 
 an " if " " Poor Dr Johnson ! "A Vindictive Squire 
 "Hit 'er ower t'nappercracker " "We deeant 
 want thee till Sunday." 
 
 XIII. DE SENECTUTB 226 
 
 Distinction conferred by Old Age Conservatism 
 of Old Age Farmhouse Kitchens A Ruined Consti- 
 tution " T'aud lad" Fellow-feeling "Ye know 
 his faither war oppened." 
 
 INDEX 241
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 A MOORLAND BECK ....... Frontispiece 
 
 ' ' DRY-WALLING ON THE MOOES is A HANDICRAFT 
 
 REQUIRING THE GREATEST SKILL "... Face p. 42 
 
 "SOME OP THE OLD PACKHORSE ROADS OVER THE 
 
 MOORS . . . ARE QUITE EASY TO VERIFY" . ,,46 
 
 "MANY OF THESE MOORLAND FARMHOUSES HAVE 
 
 MOST PICTURESQUELY FURNISHED KITCHENS" . 232
 
 MY MOORLAND PATIENTS 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE MOORS AND THE MOORLANDERS : MY PATIENTS 
 
 NEARLY the whole of my professional life as a 
 doctor has been spent on the Peak of Derbyshire, 
 and the high moorlands of South and North-West 
 Yorkshire. It has, naturally, been a hard and 
 exacting one, and full of drawbacks and difficulties. 
 The people were often ignorant and prejudiced, 
 the distances were great, the roads, specially in 
 my younger days, were bad, and the climate was 
 severe for many months in the year. Men of 
 like education and position, with whom I could 
 associate on anything like intimate terms, were 
 few, and often far off. 
 
 The hum and bustle of modern existence were 
 almost beyond the horizon. Amusements in the 
 current sense were unknown. 
 
 On the other hand it was God's own country, 
 scarce touched by man's defiling hand. The pages 
 of the great book of Nature were always invitingly 
 open, and there were ample opportunities for sport 
 of every kind. 
 
 The people, on the whole, were most kind and 
 hospitable. Their folk-lore, habits, and language 
 were a source of perpetual interest and study,
 
 THE MOORS AND THE MOORLANDERS 
 
 and, if the conditions were trying, it was a 
 healthy land. 
 
 The air was always tonic and conducive to 
 energy, and even on the hottest days of mid- 
 summer we were rarely without a refreshing 
 breeze. 
 
 A country doctor's patients are all more or 
 less stationary, and in this respect he has a very 
 great advantage over his brother practitioner in 
 the towns, who has to deal with a continually 
 moving procession. As time went on I got to 
 know quite well the individual character and 
 mentality of all my patients, as well as their 
 physical constitution. This knowledge saved a 
 great deal of time, and was very helpful. I knew 
 beforehand whom to coax, flatter, or coerce. Of all 
 the problems the human problem is far away the 
 most difficult to solve and the most interesting. 
 
 I remember one day a friend remarking to 
 me, "You look rather worried, Doctor." "Not 
 a little," was my reply. "I have just seen two 
 women living next door to each other; one I 
 cannot persuade to go to bed, the other I cannot 
 persuade to get out of bed." 
 
 It is said that the parson knows a man at 
 his best, the lawyer knows him at his worst, but 
 that only the doctor knows him as he really is. 
 This is true. When man is sick and racked with 
 bodily or mental pain, he recognises his frailty ; 
 all his artificiality and veneer depart for the while, 
 and his true character is revealed. The country 
 doctor who knows how to make use of this 
 opportunity and tries to live up to the highest 
 ideals of his profession, is a privileged being,
 
 MARKED PERSONALITY 3 
 
 wielding great power and bearing a great re- 
 sponsibility in his little kingdom. He sees Jack 
 and Jill, whom he brought into the world, grow 
 up and develop. He becomes the confidential 
 friend of the family, the trusted adviser in 
 important events, and the depositary of sacred 
 secrets. His life is so rich in human problems 
 that he can never he dull. 
 
 My neighbours perhaps differed more from one 
 another in character, personality, and habits than 
 human beings ordinarily do. Such differences 
 were conspicuous in a sparsely populated country, 
 and became exaggerated by isolation. 
 
 Dwellers in towns, like stones in the pot-hole 
 of a river-bed, have all their edges and peculiarities 
 rounded off. 
 
 In the country, on the other hand, there is 
 so much elbow-room for everybody that individual 
 eccentricities are accentuated, and the edges of 
 character become sharp and rugged. Moreover, 
 in the country, everybody knows everything about 
 everybody and seeks to know more. Curiosity 
 is rampant. It is said that country people will 
 even look down the chimney to see what their 
 neighbours are having for breakfast. An unused 
 chimney sending forth for the nonce its volume 
 of smoke advertises to the country-side that some- 
 thing unusual is on foot. "Another chimbley 
 smoking at Trotter's this morn." "What's up? 
 Onnyways t'bairn isn't looked for yet awhile. 
 Must be his sister fra Lunnon, or yon painting 
 chap is there ageean." Country curiosity is in- 
 satiable. Paul Prys abound. Eavesdropping is 
 no disgrace. One salutes the passer-by in the
 
 4 THE MOORS AND THE MOORLANDERS 
 
 dark, purely in order to recognise the voice and 
 guess what his business may be. The village 
 postman in those days would read all the cor- 
 respondence he could, and then retail it for his 
 neighbours' benefit. One local postman I knew 
 made a sad blunder. After steaming two letters 
 open he put the letters into the wrong envelopes, 
 and of course there was trouble, which sent him 
 back to cobbling and bitter reflections. 
 
 I knew of an incident where, to satisfy an 
 extreme curiosity, a ladder was noiselessly ascended 
 to the window of a particular bedroom. A state- 
 ment was made to me once in confidence, so extra- 
 ordinary and unbelievable, that I refused to credit 
 it. I said, " I don't believe a word of it. It's all 
 rubbish." "It may be rubbish," was the reply, 
 "but Ah see'd it all wi' me 'am ees." Then I 
 realised what it meant to have seen with his own 
 eyes, and hurried away in disgust. It was a case 
 of incest. 
 
 I give the following as an example of country 
 curiosity. One of my patients was a widow, who 
 with a son and grandson farmed a small holding 
 some five or six miles away. She was a toothless 
 old lady, and the only meal of the day she really 
 fancied was a late supper to which she "reached 
 with a long arm," consuming often most indigestible 
 foods, with the natural result that, in the small 
 hours of the morning, she frequently had attacks 
 of severe indigestion. So painful were these 
 attacks, which she called the " spavins," that she 
 thought of course she was going to die at once, and 
 very urgent messages would be sent demanding my 
 immediate attendance.
 
 EFFECTS OF SOLITUDE 5 
 
 These hasty summonses came so constantly and 
 the payment of her bill so rarely, that I became 
 chary of responding, and arranged with my wife 
 that she should answer the calls through the bed- 
 room window. Early one winter's morning it was 
 the old story. " Please tell the Doctor to come to 
 Mrs Lonsdale, she's got t'spavins despert bad, and 
 weeant live till morning, unless summat's dean 
 right sharp," was the message two men brought. 
 My wife answered, "The Doctor has gone to 
 Mardale, and I will send him along as soon as he 
 returns." Then she said " good-night " and closed 
 the window, and we went off to sleep again. Now 
 I must explain that Mardale was a distant dale, 
 with many farms, and it was one undertaking to 
 arrive there and another to return therefrom. But 
 within half an hour we were again roused from our 
 slumbers, with a much more peremptory message. 
 " Tell the Doctor to come at once to Mrs Lonsdale. 
 He hasn't gone to Mardale, and is in t'hoos. He 
 can't gan to Mardale widout 'osses." These curious 
 prying fellows had first listened at the locked stable 
 door, then had inspected the coach-house, and 
 finally examined the roadway. 
 
 Environment makes the moorsiders hardy, 
 cautious, thrifty, stoical, and self-reliant. On the 
 other hand, they are thereby rendered hard, 
 suspicious, taciturn, quarrelsome, and implacable. 
 When a man is his own chief companion, this 
 solitude makes for strength of mind and happiness 
 so long as all is well within, but should it be other- 
 wise then it makes for the worst. If he drinks, 
 he soon drinks heavily, mental strain or worry 
 develops into madness. Again sparseness of
 
 6 THE MOORS AND THE MOORLANDERS 
 
 population leads to the practice of endogamy. 
 The frequent intermarrying of cousins was the 
 cause of a great deal of insanity, a subject which 
 I discuss elsewhere, and had a deteriorating effect 
 on the physique of the moorland people. They 
 were by no means a level lot. Some were 
 magnificent stalwart fellows, almost perfect in 
 form and build, but many were only of average 
 height, slightly built or slender, though all were 
 tough and wiry. When I first went to the moor- 
 lands the older people had excellent teeth. Some 
 veterans have almost perfect sets ; but it was not 
 so with the younger ones. The teeth seemed to 
 go bad in a single generation. This I attribute 
 entirely to the soft, pappy, starch foods and the 
 modern, ultra- white, fine bread, which cause 
 fermentation in the mouth and give the teeth no 
 work to do. They often spoke to me of the rough 
 oat and barley meal, which was the staple food of 
 their forefathers. 
 
 Man is a sociable animal, and this social 
 instinct has been the main factor in the civilisa- 
 tion of the world. Civilisation in turn makes men 
 still more sociable. Yet these moorland dwellers 
 loved intensely their lives of solitude, and would 
 not have exchanged them for any other. The 
 "homing" instinct was strong. Those who did 
 venture into the larger world to seek their 
 fortunes invariably returned whether successful 
 or unsuccessful. | Many of my patients never 
 wandered much farther than the neighbouring 
 markets or fairs. Some of the stay-at-home house- 
 wives had not even been to the local market for a 
 period of twenty or thirty years, or even longer.
 
 IMPRESSIONS OF THE TOWN 7 
 
 Then there were some of those exceptional beings 
 who had never been in a train. One of these, a 
 farmer, I must describe. He lived in the last 
 house of a ghyll, where a syndicate of jovial 
 sportsmen, who had taken the grouse shooting of 
 the adjacent moors, always lunched. To them his 
 terse, quaint talk was a constant source of interest 
 and amusement. He was a veritable moorland 
 philosopher, with his head as full of wit and 
 wisdom as an egg is full of meat. Nothing would 
 satisfy these good sportsmen but that this rare old 
 moor bird must take his first railway journey into 
 the big world under their auspices. After some 
 consideration he somewhat reluctantly consented. 
 Arrangements for his comfort and enjoyment 
 were liberally made. He travelled first-class one 
 Saturday morning to Leeds, in the company of the 
 head keeper. He had a recherche lunch and 
 dinner at the Queen's Hotel, took a long drive to 
 see the principal buildings and streets, and went 
 finally to a music-hall performance. Naturally he 
 was very " mafted and moidered " with such a 
 sudden plunge into city dissipation, and only 
 too thankful to return safe and sound to his 
 moorland eyrie. 
 
 Another farmer whom I knew was in the 
 Yorkshire Yeomanry, and being a smart soldier 
 and good rider was a great favourite with his 
 landlord, the noble lord who commanded the 
 regiment. During the annual training at York, in 
 those days there was always an Easter pantomime. 
 One performance was held under the patronage of 
 the colonel and officers of the regiment. A few 
 days afterwards the noble colonel stopped in the
 
 8 THE MOORS AND THE MOORLANDERS 
 
 street this man, Caygill, with several other privates 
 who were all his tenants, asking, " How did you 
 enjoy the ballet, Caygill, the other night?" Caygill 
 stared in bewilderment, not understanding. " How 
 did you enjoy the ballet, Caygill ? " he repeated. 
 A companion whispered something to Caygill, who 
 now understood and answered very promptly, " If 
 'tis leg and thigh, ye mean, my Lord, whya I saw 
 mair than eneagh to last me my lifetime." 
 
 I shall never forget the deep impression made 
 on my mind by the case of a certain sheep farmer, 
 who was dying by inches from a painful cancer. 
 He had never married, and his only companion, 
 his housekeeper, was a grim, silent old woman, 
 with apparently not a particle of human love or 
 sympathy in her composition. He never read, and 
 there he lay in that lonely and remote farmhouse, 
 always in discomfort or pain, with no one to love, 
 or be loved by, for nearly two long years, waiting 
 without a murmur and with most stoical resigna- 
 tion for the order of release. Such a picture of a 
 lonely heart touches the depth of human pathos. 
 In old age love is as necessary as in childhood. 
 
 I one day asked a moorsider how he spent his 
 hours of leisure, and in reply he said, " Ah sits and 
 smokes and thinks, sometimes Ah sits an thinks, 
 and sometimes Ah just sits." 
 
 These folk, though having constantly before 
 their eyes scenes of great beauty, perpetually 
 renovated by the interchange of shadow and sun- 
 light, storm and calm, are yet curiously indifferent 
 to or unconscious of all this natural beauty. I 
 cannot say I ever remember one of them drawing 
 my attention to it as a matter of pleasure and
 
 BEAUTY OF SCENERY 9 
 
 delight, though they were proud of their power 
 of long sight. They could distinguish objects on 
 the horizon which were quite invisible to me, and 
 I could thoroughly appreciate the immense advan- 
 tage the Boer marksmen had over our men on 
 the veld. 
 
 To me in my restless journey ings, the daily 
 panorama of impressive and often entrancing 
 beauty was a continual feast and never - failing 
 joy. It was the clerk of the weather of course 
 who so considerately varied the colouring or altered 
 the perspective for me. Sometimes he was too 
 erratic and capricious for my comfort, but I only 
 really grumbled when he turned on the mists or 
 fogs, or when the deep snows were melting. The 
 most wonderful moments I have ever lived in life 
 have been on those distant moorland hills in the 
 earliest hours from dawn, on a midsummer morning. 
 Then only Nature is to be seen in her freshest 
 beauty, her most exquisite purity. 
 
 Even in the more cultivated mind familiarity 
 breeds indifference. 
 
 I once asked a country parson who was retiring 
 after many years' work, and had lived in a most 
 picturesquely and romantically situated moorland 
 vicarage, if he was not loth to leave it for the town 
 to which he was going. He replied that he had 
 lived on scenery nearly forty years, and had had 
 more than enough of it. He longed now for the 
 scenery of human faces. A Yorkshire man who 
 had just paid his first visit to Switzerland was 
 asked on his return for his opinion of that land of 
 mountains. " I reckoned nowt tae it. I could see 
 nowt for t'bloomin' hills."
 
 10 THE MOORS AND THE MOORLANDERS 
 
 A moorland clergyman once declined an invita- 
 tion of his bishop to his palace for a series of 
 "quiet days" by replying that all his days were 
 quiet, but that he would very gladly come if his 
 lordship would kindly arrange for a little earth- 
 quake or cataclysm of some sort. 
 
 The element of distance of course played an 
 important part in my life. The very long journeys 
 I daily took on my rounds were exceedingly trying, 
 especially in my early days. Before the Local 
 District Councils Act was passed for their improve- 
 ment, " bad " does not describe the condition of the 
 roads. Many of them were damnable. A certain 
 distant township could be approached by three 
 diverse ways, all equally long and equally bad, and 
 I remember how each time full of hope I would 
 choose a different one, only to regret that I had 
 not taken another. So very bad was one main 
 road that I was compelled to report it to the chief 
 constable. I called on him personally, asking him 
 not to give me away. He was very nice about it, 
 and said by way of a joke, that I evidently wanted 
 him to ride over it and have a big fall so that I 
 might have the pleasure of setting his broken limb. 
 Ten days afterwards I met an army of farmers with 
 carts, looking dreadfully angry and uttering fierce 
 threats against some unknown busybody. 
 
 I one day asked a moorsider, or a " moor pout," 
 as these people call themselves, hurrying along the 
 moorland road, how his wife and daughter, whom 
 I was attending, were. Without troubling to 
 stop, he kept on at the same pace answering my 
 questions over his shoulder in what I thought a 
 very rude and surly fashion. A few days later
 
 A WALKING CHRONOMETER 11 
 
 I tackled him about it. His explanation was 
 very simple. He was sexton of the moorland 
 church, and it was his task to keep the clock in 
 order. But he had no watch. He used to walk 
 the eight miles over the moors to the moorland 
 town every week to make his family purchases, 
 and, when ready to return, would note the correct 
 time of day by the post-office clock. From long 
 experience he knew almost to a minute how long 
 it would take him, going at a fixed pace, to reach 
 home. The clocks of the dale were then set by 
 this scientific and accurate method. They were 
 notoriously correct. 
 
 In one historic and long- continued snowstorm 
 it was so many days before I reached the house, 
 where I had been engaged for a confinement, that 
 it was reported up and down dale that my services 
 were then bespoken for the next one. They were 
 such a hardy race, that nearly half my babies were 
 happily born before my arrival. This obviated 
 the long waiting which was necessary in other 
 cases. 
 
 A newcomer, a doctor, and successor to one 
 who had died, was hours late for a confinement, 
 and by mistake went to the house of an old maid 
 of the same name as his patient. He rushed into 
 the house with his black bag, exclaiming to the 
 astonished lady, " I hope I am in time." 
 
 A rather good story is told of a stranger 
 journeying to a far distant dale in Yorkshire. On 
 arrival at the railway terminus he proceeded to 
 engage a seat in a conveyance plying to his 
 destination. Asked if he required a first-, 
 second-, or third-class ticket, he took a first-class,
 
 12 THE MOORS AND THE MOORL ANDERS 
 
 though not a little mystified by the request. 
 This mystification became annoyance when at 
 the appointed time all crowded into the convey- 
 ance without any distinction of class. He naturally 
 thought he had been " had." However, after a five- 
 mile run on the level, the driver pulled up at the 
 foot of a tremendously long steep hill. "First- 
 class passengers," he directed, " sit still, second-class 
 passengers get out and walk, third-class passengers 
 shove up behind." 
 
 Although my moorland friends used to say 
 that third-class riding was better than first-class 
 walking, some of the happiest hours of my life 
 have been spent in walking to the far off moor- 
 land farms, straight across country, over walls 
 and ditches. It was a land of footpaths, many 
 of them made by the feet of the children from 
 the scattered farms, in their daily pilgrimage to 
 and from the moorland school. 
 
 The farmers used to drive their horses at top 
 speed headlong down the steepest and roughest 
 roads, covered with loose, rolling stones, with 
 here and there exposed rock or beds of sand. 
 At first I thought it a most reckless, dare-devil 
 fashion, but I found afterwards that it was much 
 the safest and surest way. If accidents did un- 
 fortunately sometimes occur, it was not the fault 
 of their good Galloways or of their driving, but 
 of their rotten old gear. I never had nerve to 
 imitate them, but my man, a real high-sider, 
 knew the game quite well. 
 
 I remember being fetched by a farmer in his gig 
 one perfect midsummer morning, to his far distant 
 farmhouse, for a confinement. He was terribly
 
 COMING OF THE STEAM-ROLLER 13 
 
 anxious, and we simply flew down several long 
 steep hills at breakneck pace. I have never had 
 such an experience, except when some of my 
 horses have run away. Fortunately the harness 
 held and nothing happened. I was hours before 
 time, and have often remembered the delightfully 
 happy day I spent getting an insight into the life 
 of a large moorland sheep-farm, as I wandered 
 with the farmer after his sheep. 
 
 The first steam-roller which came to the moor^' 
 lands caused much excitement and wonder among \ 
 the moormen. Crowds gathered to watch it at 
 work. One big fellow became so excited that he 
 had a bad fit and was carried to a moorland inn, 
 where he died six weeks afterwards. The steam- / 
 roller was condemned of course at first as a useless / 
 expense, but what an incalculable boon and comfort/ 
 it was. Moorland roads in hot summer weather/ 
 become exceptionally dry, and before the day 01 
 the roller loose stones were everywhere. Even 
 behind the safest of horses there was always 
 anxiety. **^ 
 
 One of the greatest difficulties of a doctor's life 
 in a remote unopposed country practice, is the in- 
 accessibility of his nearest medical neighbours. It 
 is the unexpected which always happens. Sudden 
 and quite unforeseen emergencies arise, and when 
 human life is in peril, moments are precious. There 
 must be no delay, no shirking or running away, 
 if one would have that priceless possession, that 
 " music at midnight," a clear conscience. 
 
 I know only too well what it means to be 
 miles away from home, in the middle of the 
 night, perhaps wet through and shivering with 
 
 D
 
 14 THE MOORS AND THE MOORLANDERS 
 
 cold, face to face with one of these great events, 
 only a tallow dip for light, and only one's groom 
 or some handy farmer's wife to hold the ether 
 apparatus. How one longs for two pair of hands, 
 instead of the single pair provided by nature. I 
 must give all praise and credit to the moorland 
 women, that at such crises they exhibited more 
 nerve and resource than the men. I remember 
 one case in particular, during a big snowstorm, 
 when outside help was impossible. Four big 
 strong men one after another took charge of the 
 ether apparatus, only to relinquish it almost 
 immediately in a half-fainting condition, till an 
 active, quick-witted, plucky farmer's wife took 
 hold, and stood firm and fast to the end. 
 
 On these exposed moorlands weather was an 
 / important factor, and in course of time I became 
 very weather-wise. One farmer described the 
 climate as "nine months' winter and three 
 months' caud weather." The west winds in 
 spring often blew continuously for weeks, and 
 were frequently accompanied by rain, and there 
 were the bitter east winds, the March "Higs." 
 The higher the altitude, of course, the greater 
 the rainfall. Yet at the highest altitudes I have 
 experienced, in mid-winter, heat and brilliant sun- 
 shine, when the rolling valleys below were wrapped 
 in a mantle of mist or fog. It was interesting to 
 notice the incidence of thunderstorms, and how 
 the configuration of the hills constantly regulated 
 their track. One farmhouse, now in consequence 
 deserted and in ruins, standing at the edge of a 
 deep ghyll, was struck three times by lightning, 
 once, it was said, when a honeymoon couple were
 
 ROKES AND FOGS 15 
 
 occupying it. In another ghyll on the same spot 
 a horse was killed one year, and the next year in 
 two storms a man on each occasion was struck 
 and severely injured. In another storm I saw 
 the chimney-stacks at either end of an exposed 
 farmhouse struck by successive flashes. On wide, 
 exposed tablelands it was marvellous that there 
 were not more accidents. Often when I was 
 driving across them the lightning seemed to play 
 all round my horse and cart. 
 
 My weather wisdom was instinctive rather than 
 constructive, and in course of time I found myself 
 astonishingly correct in reading the omens of the 
 sky. Such wisdom comes naturally to those who 
 are observant and live out of doors. In accord 
 with an old saying, some of the dullest witted 
 moorlanders were numbered among the wisest 
 and most reliable of the weather prophets. The 
 almost constant mist in evidence on the most 
 distant hills is a constant problem and often most 
 difficult to interpret. When the barometer rises 
 very slowly and steadily, this mist on the hills 
 is a sure sign of a spell of dry weather, but if 
 the movement of the barometer is at all erratic 
 it invariably foretells more rain. On the other 
 hand, mornings when the atmosphere is preter- 
 naturally clear are often followed by stormy and 
 unsettled weather. 
 
 It is scarcely possible adequately to describe 
 a fascinatingly wonderful transformation scene I 
 once witnessed. My man and I were driving 
 over a high tableland to an important burying 
 when the mist or "roke" was so dense that we 
 could scarcely see ten yards from the dogcart.
 
 16 THE MOORS AND THE MOORLANDERS 
 
 I had just remarked to him how unfortunate the 
 conditions were for the funeral, when the gentlest 
 of breezes came. It was so gentle as to be scarcely 
 perceptible. As if by magic hand the curtains of 
 mist were lifted and moved aside, and, "like the 
 baseless fabric of a vision," almost instantly dis- 
 solved. In the space of only five minutes by my 
 watch I could see the outlines of hills quite twenty 
 miles away. 
 
 I recall an even more remarkable instance. A 
 friend and I drove to a distant moorland vicarage 
 one winter's night in a dense roke. Such an 
 expedition under such circumstances would to 
 the majority of people have been an impossibility, 
 but in regard to weather no such word exists in 
 moorland vocabularies. After four miles of the 
 slowest going we stabled the horse at a farm- 
 house previous to a difficult walk of a mile up and 
 down the braes of a very steep ghyll. During the 
 five minutes we were engaged in making the mare 
 comfortable, the mist had dissolved so quickly that 
 every star in the firmament was revealed to us to 
 the farthest horizon. I took back the carriage 
 lamp I had taken to light the way, but required 
 it badly three hours afterwards, when after leaving 
 the hospitable vicarage we found the black pall 
 of mist had returned and was if possible more 
 dense than before. 
 
 V' One must distinguish between moor rokes and 
 fogs, because by the latter is implied a mixture of the 
 roke with town smoke. How very real this mixture 
 is can be seen by the sooty deposit on the whitest 
 and purest of the moorland snow miles distant from 
 the town after only a few hours of the fog.
 
 CAT'S EYES 17 
 
 Although I had almost second sight in the 
 dark, and have been gifted with an unusually big 
 bump of locality, I have several times been hope- 
 lessly lost in a moorland roke. It is quite possible 
 by constant practice to pick up on the darkest 
 night a fairly marked footpath, provided one is 
 alone, and there is not that fatal hindrance, a 
 bright light on the horizon in front. The con- 
 tiguity of a wall or fence can be appreciated even 
 a couple of yards away. A bull reclining on the 
 footpath is a decidedly uncomfortable distraction. 
 When a farmer once twitted an assistant I had on 
 his carrying a lantern at night, he replied with much 
 asperity, "I haven't cat's eyes like the Doctor." 
 
 One night I was summoned to a patient who 
 resided many miles away over the moors. There 
 were two ways to the place, one more devious by 
 moorland road the whole way, and the other by 
 high road for five miles with a little over two miles 
 walk by moorland footpath. I chose the latter. 
 Although there was some moonlight there was a 
 slight roke, which as we gradually ascended became 
 slowly denser. Under such circumstances we 
 invariably drove without lamps risking all fines. 
 The old mare, an experienced roadster, if given 
 her head, instinctively kept the road. 
 
 Arriving at the moorland footpath I sent my 
 man home with the dog-cart, and set off on my 
 way with a small hand lantern in case of emergency. 
 The proceeding was by no means free from risk, 
 because on the right were many acres of bog, and 
 on the left a ravine with steep crags, a fall down 
 which would have been instantly fatal. The foot- 
 path though rarely used was not ill-defined till it
 
 18 THE MOORS AND THE MOORLANDERS 
 
 crossed about a quarter of a mile away diagonally 
 a line of grouse butts, where it became very 
 indistinct owing to the heather having been well 
 burnt round about. I knew the path quite well, 
 and carried in my head the exact line and contour 
 of the butts, and the exact angle of crossing. On 
 this occasion I must have wandered from the path 
 just before I reached the butts. The problem was 
 to pick up the path on the other side, whence the 
 way would be comparatively easy, and it could 
 only be done by counting the butts from the 
 extreme right. There was the even greater 
 difficulty that in trying to follow them I might 
 lose them altogether as the roke was now thicker 
 than ever, and this is what eventually happened. 
 Using the greatest caution, I had as I thought 
 accounted for two butts when I lost them 
 altogether. I lit the lantern, but that only made 
 matters worse. I tried to find the shorter heather, 
 but I had wandered even from that too. I was 
 hopelessly lost, and the only thing to be done, as 
 it was perishingly cold, was to keep moving very 
 very slowly on, if possible to higher ground. When 
 after what seemed an eternity daylight dawned 
 four hours afterwards, I found I had wandered 
 fortunately well away from the bog to higher 
 ground close to the road, and I knew where I was. 
 How the right arm pulls on such an occasion 
 the following incident shows. Under similar 
 circumstances I was obliged to cross a wide 
 moorland allotment of many acres, across which 
 were three footpaths, with all of which I was 
 familiar. I got through an "owergaat" (stone 
 stile), and after half an hour's slow going came to
 
 "YE MUN TAK CARE, DOCTOR" 19 
 
 another owergaat which I could not remember 
 ever to have seen before and which I stared at in 
 bewilderment. It was unrecognisable, and my 
 wonder was so great that I even took the trouble 
 to pinch myself to see if I was quite awake. 
 Satisfied on this point, I thought perhaps by getting 
 over the stile I might come nearer to a solution of 
 its identity and my whereabouts, and when I did 
 so found to my surprise that it was the same stile 
 I had got over half an hour previously. So I 
 essayed again, and at the end of twenty minutes 
 found myself back again at this fatally magnetic 
 " owergaat." The only course to save my reason 
 was to take another footpath, which though a most 
 inconvenient detour eventually brought me home. 
 
 One gloomy winter's afternoon just before dark, 
 when the moorlands were lying deep in snow, I 
 remarked to a farmer whose house I was just 
 leaving that I intended taking a short cut to a 
 neighbouring but a very inaccessible farm, from 
 which in another direction there was an easy way 
 home. Till then this comparatively wild and 
 desolate part of the country was almost unknown 
 to me, necessitating frequent reference to the map. 
 Beyond staring rather fixedly at me for a few 
 seconds, the farmer, who was a stolid fellow, 
 merely replied, "Ye mun tak care, Doctor." His 
 wife described to me afterwards that during the 
 whole of the following evening he seemed pre- 
 occupied and worried, till at nine o'clock, he 
 suddenly lit a stable lantern, remarking that he 
 could "band it ner langer" (bide it no longer). 
 Pressed for an explanation, he said that he was 
 afraid I might have fallen down a steep unprotected
 
 20 THE MOORS AND THE MOORLANDERS 
 
 precipice, which I must have passed on my way, 
 and about which he had omitted to warn me. He 
 followed my footsteps through the snow, and was 
 much relieved to find that I had safely passed it, 
 though within a margin of only about eight inches. 
 When I saw for the first time by daylight what I 
 had safely avoided, I don't wonder he was per- 
 turbed in mind. 
 
 Do pigs really see the wind as the old country 
 gaffers affirm, or is the following occurrence merely 
 a coincidence ? While walking the horse up a 
 steep road past a wayside farmhouse on the after- 
 noon of a perfect spring day, my groom and I 
 beheld a big porker leave its precincts and proceed 
 with most business-like mien to a sugar-loaf hill in 
 the adjacent field, which was quite a conspicuous 
 landmark. Arrived at the summit he surveyed 
 for a few minutes the wide landscape unfolded, 
 turning his head alternately from side to side in 
 ludicrously human-like deliberation. If pigs' eyes 
 can see as far as human eyes, this porker's must 
 have taken in a view of at least thirty- five miles. 
 Suddenly he turned his head homewards and 
 bolted as fast as his legs could carry him, snorting 
 horribly all the while. "What an extraordinary 
 performance," I remarked to my Yorkshire man. 
 "Nowt o't soart," he answered. "It's seein' 
 t'wind, and we sail have some varra mucky 
 weather." My man was surprised and not a 
 little contemptuous to find me ignorant of so well 
 known a fact of natural history. The same night 
 there was a terrific gale. "Ah tauld yer seea," 
 was his triumphant comment next morning. 
 
 The snowstorms were, however, my greatest
 
 SNOWSTORM OF 1895 21 
 
 bugbear and trial. The moorland roads and 
 tracks were often hopelessly blocked by snow- 
 drifts for weeks. It was sometimes days before 
 I could reach my patients. First I would 
 abandon my cart, then my horse, and finally 
 perhaps, after wading nearly waist deep for some 
 distance, would be compelled to relinquish the 
 struggle. Once when attending the pretty old 
 lady of the moor, I was obliged to go to bed 
 for four hours till I had recovered from my 
 strenuous toil. 
 
 The nine weeks' storm of 1895 was of course 
 the record storm. Till the great thaw came, the 
 moorlands were covered deep with snow, which, 
 owing to continuous frost and slight mid-day 
 thaws, became firmly frozen over on the surface, 
 so that one could walk without difficulty straight 
 across country over the buried stone walls. Many 
 houses were deep in drifts, and in one homestead 
 the household were roused from their slumbers 
 by hearing the sheep on the roof. The roads were 
 continually opened by an army of farmers, only 
 to be blocked again by recurring blizzards. The 
 moorland sheep were brought to the lowlands, 
 where also flocked the moorcock and all moor- 
 land birds. 
 
 In a remote ghyll lived a farmer and his house- 
 keeper. She had been his housekeeper and mistress 
 for twenty-three years. Often and often the moor- 
 land parson had implored him to marry her and 
 make her an honest woman. At last he consented, 
 and the "spurrings" were read out for the first 
 time on the Sunday before the great storm. Un- 
 fortunately the woman was taken seriously ill a 
 
 E
 
 22 THE MOORS AND THE MOORLANDERS 
 
 few days afterwards. I made repeated journeys 
 when I could to the distant farmhouse, because 
 I was more than anxious under the circumstances 
 to save her life. The neighbouring farmers were 
 most sympathetic in keeping a way open for me. 
 But alas ! it was willed otherwise and our efforts 
 were vain. To the deep sorrow of the whole 
 ghyll she passed gently away. She was buried 
 in her bridal dress, and her bier was dragged 
 by hand over the great snowdrifts to the moor- 
 land church. 
 
 Thrift was a natural concomitant of an existence 
 where there were no shops to tempt, or amusements 
 to attract. There was a saying that when sixpence 
 went over the local bridge it never returned. 
 
 One very thrifty wife used to give her husband, 
 a huge man, threepence for the refreshment of his 
 big body, when he set off on the fourteen miles' 
 task of fetching a rare load of coals, and more 
 often than not he would return the threepence, 
 and look for the word of praise she would always 
 bestow. 
 
 Some were more than thrifty, they were mean 
 and miserly, and almost too miserable to live. 
 They were by long habit real misers, and the 
 grasping and hoarding were the main object of 
 life and the only source of happiness. The pre- 
 dominant partner in meanness was invariably the 
 woman. I doubt if it is really possible for a man 
 to be as mean as a woman can be. I used to look 
 at these crabby, thin, industrious, and mean " scrats," 
 and wonder if ever they had had feelings of love, 
 romance, or sympathy within their being. 
 
 My wife and I were staying at a moorland
 
 "SCAUDS" 23 
 
 farmhouse during the war, and owing to the 
 shortage of labour she had gone one day into 
 the potato field to assist in the picking. This 
 naturally pleased the farmer immensely. The 
 same evening I overheard a conversation between 
 my wife and the farmer's wife. "Aye," said the 
 latter, " Reuben war pleased wi' ye in t'tatie field 
 to-day. He are takken wi' ye, I can tell ye, right 
 takken." Then after a long pause and a deep 
 sigh, she added, " I wish he war harf as takken 
 wi' me." Probably it was entirely her own fault 
 that poor Keuben had ceased to be "takken" 
 with her. 
 
 What autocratic power some little shrill- voiced 
 " scauds " seem to wield over their big husbands. 
 I have seen a big six-foot-three policeman, and an 
 ex-soldier, humbly take off his shoes at his wife's 
 bidding, and walk gingerly over the newly swept 
 and garnished kitchen floor. 
 
 I knew a head gamekeeper who was a strong, 
 powerful man, and a terror to poachers and evil- 
 doers, and whose second wife had quarrelled with 
 his nearest relation, his only sister, forbidding him 
 to have any dealings with her. He was obliged to 
 get three parts drunk before ever he ventured to 
 pay her a visit at her moorland farm. Once she 
 was dreadfully ill and nearly died. It was a long 
 time before I could understand his strange conduct 
 in being always so drunk while his sister's life was 
 in danger. In this drunken state he would often 
 come to inquire about her, or fetch her medicine, 
 and was dreadfully quarrelsome and offensive. 
 All this to-do and fuss because he was afraid of 
 his angelic-looking, baby-faced wife.
 
 24 THE MOORS AND THE MOORLANDERS 
 
 The following is an extreme example of thrift 
 and greediness. The vicar of one moorland parish, 
 who had a fancy for rare breeds of poultry, one 
 day unexpectedly purchased a pen of birds of quite 
 a new variety, but had no run ready for them. 
 He approached a neighbouring farmer who had an 
 isolated farm building, asking him to take charge 
 of them for a few weeks till accommodation was 
 ready, and to keep the eggs in return for the keep. 
 As they were all laying, it was a profitable bargain 
 for the farmer, and he readily consented. A few 
 days afterwards the vicar went for a sitting of eggs, 
 and, knowing his man, offered him the market price 
 of a shilling per sitting. "Nay, Nay, Nay," said 
 the farmer. " Them's a particular soart, and Ah's 
 sellin' 'em at two-and-sixpence a sitting," and he 
 declined to let the vicar have the sitting at a 
 lower rate. 
 
 They would never pay a doctor for his time or 
 advice under any circumstances, though they were 
 quite willing to pay for the bottle and mileage. 
 They never paid their bills till they were obliged, 
 and then always expected something back. They 
 were always anxious of course that everything 
 possible should be done in illness, when it was 
 absolutely necessary, but not a whit beyond that. 
 "Mi missus is deean," they would say; "she's 
 wore out, so if you can't dea her any mair good, 
 whya if ye please deeant come any mair." Three- 
 quarters of the way to a farmhouse I was stopped 
 by the husband of the patient, " Ye moant gan 
 onny mairs now, ye've put her to rights," he said. 
 "What about a bottle of tonic?" I suggested. 
 "Nay, Nay, mi missus an' I we've considered
 
 NEARNESS " 25 
 
 t'matter weel ower, and we're not in favour of 
 another bottle. Ah tell ye we're not favourable." 
 Of course the bottle of medicine, or "stuff," as 
 it is called in Yorkshire, was the outward and 
 only visible cause of cure in their eyes, and the 
 more "meat and drink" about it, with perhaps 
 in addition a taste of " summat warmin'," the 
 better. 
 
 One old farmer having come to the conclusion 
 that medicine was by far the most expensive liquor 
 that ever came into his house, invariably finished 
 off all the remnants, with great gusto and satis- 
 faction. As for gargles I never prescribed them 
 for Yorkshire farmers, because the greedy fellows 
 invariably swallowed them. All liquor that goes 
 into a Yorkshireman's mouth, by a natural law 
 must go down his "throttle" instantly. 
 
 A stranger on a walking tour called at a York- 
 shire moorland inn for a refreshing drink. The 
 only other occupant of the bar was a cattle drover, 
 and in a high good humour he asked the latter if 
 he would have a glass of ale. "Aye, thankee," 
 was the reply, and he immediately swallowed the 
 glassful which had been drawn for him in one "let 
 down." "Will you have another?" asked the 
 kindly stranger. "Thankee ageean," responded 
 the drover, and as promptly swallowed the second 
 glass at one gulp. " Have a third ? " offered the 
 stranger, in deep admiration. The third glassful 
 was again promptly " necked " at one asking. 
 Quoth the stranger, "You must be very thirsty." 
 "Noa, Noa," protested the drover. "Yeah seea," 
 very confidentially, "yance Ah had yan knocked 
 ower." "Yan would rather see the Church Broach
 
 26 THE MOORS AND THE MOORLANDERS 
 
 (Steeple) fall, than a glass of good liquor be spilt," 
 is quite an old Yorkshire saying. 
 
 A Yorkshire farmer called on horseback at a 
 Yorkshire inn for a glass of gin and "watter." 
 After one critical drink he questioned the landlord, 
 "Ah say, did ye put t'gin in fust, or t' watter?" 
 "The gin first of course," was the reply. "Aye, I 
 sail come at it i'noo," was the oracular comment. 
 
 A moorland sheep farmer being critically ill, it 
 was decided, on the urgent recommendation of the 
 doctor in attendance to call in from the nearest 
 town a " Physicianer " or "Doctor of advoice," as 
 consultants are often called on the moorland. 
 When the great man had seen the patient and 
 pronounced his verdict, he was asked by the 
 thrifty, if not miserly, wife to name his charge. 
 "My fee will be ten guineas," said the doctor. 
 "Ten fiddlesticks," answered the wife. "Ye 
 surely moant charge all that." "That is my 
 lowest fee," replied the doctor. After giving the 
 latter a very big piece of her mind on the enormity 
 of his fee, she very reluctantly paid the ten guineas. 
 The consultant, no doubt a little influenced by her 
 tirade, kindly offered to come again for half the 
 fee should his services be required further. After 
 his departure the old woman thus delivered herself 
 to the sufferer. " Nae then, he's takken ten pund 
 ten wi' him, and if he comes agean it'll be five pund 
 five. It's a seet o' good brass, bud if I war ye, 
 Ah'd mannish ter dea widout him an' his fangle- 
 ments and die like a Briton." 
 
 In like manner one of my farming friends was 
 very graphically describing to another how after 
 a long illness he had paid me a bill of 60, and
 
 PAIRING" FOR GRAVESTONES 27 
 
 that on my recommendation he had afterwards 
 drunk 30 worth of good port, before he was 
 fully restored to health. The other remarked 
 very solemnly, "It war a seet o' good brass. 
 Ah knaws what Ah'd a deean. Ah'd a deead 
 sooner." 
 
 Another example of meanness. At the weekly 
 market I once asked a moorsider for a lift home, 
 which he cordially agreed to. These people as 
 a rule were only too ready to give a lift on the 
 way to anyone, and no doubt regarded it as some 
 variation of hospitality. Judge of my surprise 
 when thanking him at the end of the journey 
 he remarked, "Noo, we'll call oursens straight 
 ower they twa bottles of stuff Ah got on yer t'other 
 day." I declined to agree to this mean bargain 
 and we came to high words over it. "Never," 
 I said, "ask me for any more stuff." "Never," 
 retorted he, "ask me for any mair lifts." He got 
 the better of me, because I did not report him 
 to the Revenue Authorities, which I felt very much 
 inclined to do. 
 
 At the moorland sidings or funerals as an 
 almost universal rule no expense was spared or 
 grudged, even by the most miserly and thrifty. 
 My astonishment was all the greater when in 
 one moorland churchyard I found that several 
 families had "paired" for gravestones, one family 
 using one face and the other the reverse. 
 
 During a bad plague of influenza I was 
 attending an old couple in a far-off dale who 
 were both seriously ill. The old man was re- 
 ported to be fabulously rich. The wealth of any- 
 one rather more fortunate than themselves was
 
 28 THE MOORS AND THE MOORLANDERS 
 
 invariably exaggerated by envious moorside neigh- 
 bours. "He fair stinks o' brass he's thousands 
 out at interest he don't know what he is worth," 
 are samples of the usual comment It is a fact 
 that this man was well off, and had easily the 
 cheapest farm in the dale, but so terrified was he 
 of the rent being raised that he invariably paid 
 it by instalments, to the secret amusement of 
 the agent and his clerk. At each farce he used 
 to say, "I've mannished to bring ee twenty 
 pund, all I can scrape together these varra 
 bad times." 
 
 But what true loyalty these moorland folk 
 gave to their old doctors, even when, as some- 
 times happened, they had by constant neglect, 
 incapacity, or drunkenness, long forfeited any 
 claim to it. It was amazing what they would put 
 up with, and how long-suffering they were. 
 
 The greatest demonstration of genuine grief 
 and emotion by a general body of mourners I ever 
 witnessed was at the funeral of an old moorland 
 doctor who had once had a big practice and 
 reputation, but had nearly ruined it by drink 
 and incapacity. 
 
 I shall never forget a grim, hard moorsider 
 telling me how at last he had been compelled to 
 part with this old doctor of many years' service 
 and friendship. He evidently had felt the parting 
 terribly. These stoical men rarely showed any 
 sign of agitation, but there was a suspicious 
 moisture in his eyes, and a rapid contortion of 
 his rugged, weather-beaten features when he said, 
 "Ah tell ee it war warse than having mi ee tooth 
 drawn. Ah think I would rather have shutten
 
 SHEEP-DOGS 29 
 
 t'aud dog." Could he possibly have expressed 
 himself more feelingly? A sheep farmer loves 
 his dog more deeply than anything on earth. To 
 me there was no sight more pathetic or more 
 touching than to see that faithful friend and 
 companion of a thousand walks over moor and 
 fell, now so white in the muzzle and so dim in 
 the eye, no longer able to respond to the call 
 of the master's voice save perhaps by a sudden 
 look up, the cocking of an ear, or the slight wag 
 of a tail, sleeping his last days away by the warmth 
 of the peat fire. Who can know the mental anguish 
 and heartache that his master endures as he thinks 
 of the day, surely coming, when he must put t'aud 
 dog away ? 
 
 The moorland working sheep-dogs were of 
 varied degree and quality, from the purer English 
 sheep-dog, the rough and smooth Scottish collies to 
 the mongrel cur. All the farmers had one dog and 
 many two. One was really ample for the majority 
 of the farmers. It was only on the largest farms 
 with the greatest rights of stray that two were 
 required. I am certain the stock were far too 
 much dogged, and that there were too many sheep- 
 dogs in the country. Ewes heavy in lamb and 
 heifers in calf should not be dogged under any 
 circumstances, and specially when being driven 
 through gates. Dogs are absolutely indispensable 
 of course to cattle drovers, and for shepherding 
 sheep on the misty moorlands. In the perpetual 
 quarrellings over the rights of stray, the dogs 
 were the active agents in harrying the sheep, and 
 thoroughly they appreciated and enjoyed the game. 
 There was scarcely a dog which would have been 
 
 F
 
 30 THE MOORS AND THE MOORLANDERS 
 
 looked at at a kennel club show, but for pure intelli- 
 gence many of them could not be surpassed, and 
 would easily have outclassed the most fashionable 
 prize-winners. The cleverest were undoubtedly 
 those of the old English breed, and one has only 
 to watch sheep-dog trials to realise their almost 
 human intelligence. Some had more than a local 
 reputation for cleverness and sagacity, and their 
 performances were often the subject of fierce 
 argument and discussion before farmhouse fire or 
 in wayside inn. One I knew which belonged to a 
 well-known local cattle dealer. He was worth 
 half a dozen men, and no money could buy him. 
 He knew every cross-road in the country, and was 
 always watchfully there without any shouting or 
 whistling. It is perfectly astonishing at what a 
 great distance a good working sheep-dog can 
 follow his master's voice or whistle and carry out 
 all his behests, in such matters as rounding the 
 sheep up, separating them from others, hurrying 
 laggards, fighting off other dogs, taking his charge 
 to pasture, protecting them, or bringing them back 
 safe to fold. 
 
 On the largest farms on the most remote moor- 
 lands, one dog would be specially trained to find 
 the sheep buried in the big snowstorms, and kept 
 solely for that purpose. I think I knew every 
 sheep-dog in the country, and from long experience 
 affirm very decidedly that no sheep-dog can be 
 trusted to make friends with one. An unfriendly, 
 fierce and brave sheep-dog is an ugly customer to 
 tackle, but when it came to two of them I was 
 obliged to get my back to a stone wall and keep 
 them off as well as I could with the stout stick
 
 SAVAGE DOGS 31 
 
 I always carried, until help came. I remember 
 walking across the moorland with a friend, when 
 we were attacked by two savage dogs, which I 
 knew quite well. They saw us a long way off and 
 flew towards us. We had to get back to back till 
 we got up to the shelter of a stone wall, where 
 they kept us till the farmer came to our assistance. 
 They were as fierce as wolves and made terrific 
 leaps in the air. It is the blow on the front legs 
 you must try and get home if possible. The old 
 stone-throwing dodge only infuriates them. 
 
 In the dog-fights one could nearly always put 
 one's money on the one fighting in defence of home 
 and flock. He seemed to fight with greater deter- 
 mination than the intruder, even if the latter were 
 the more powerful. 
 
 There were occasional outbreaks of sheep- 
 worrying, and the worst case was due to that 
 unholy and terrible combination of a fox terrier 
 and a sheep-dog. 
 
 How indifferent the owners of really unreliable 
 dogs were. It was always necessary to keep a 
 watchful eye open, specially for the dog who comes 
 sneaking slyly behind. 
 
 A parson friend of mine was paying a parochial 
 visit on an old Yorkshire woman. His knock at 
 the door was followed by a fierce growling from 
 a sheep-dog within. He was bidden to enter. 
 Cautiously opening the door he asked if the dog 
 would bite. " Cum in, tak no noatice of t'dog, it 
 woant bite ye, it nobbut nips," was the reassuring 
 reply. As he still hesitated to enter, the old 
 woman repeated, "Ah tell ye, it doant bite, it'll 
 nobbut nip ye." My friend, quite unable to
 
 32 THE MOORS AND THE MOORLANDERS 
 
 appreciate the fine distinction between a nip and 
 a bite, refused even to be nipped, and would only 
 enter when the dog had been chained up. 
 
 A medical friend was once, after much prepa- 
 ration, on the point of plunging a knife deep 
 into a painful carbuncle, when the patient re- 
 marked, "If I give mouth t'aud dog'll click ye 
 for sure," and pointed to the sheep-dog under 
 the table suspiciously watching proceedings. 
 
 And if I knew all the sheep-dogs well, I knew 
 equally well the bulls. Bulls are no more to be 
 trusted than sheep-dogs, and the older they grow 
 the more dangerous they are. Footpaths were 
 everywhere, and there were the bulls in spite of 
 the bye-laws. It was curious how they seemed 
 to leave the children alone. I once saw some 
 children making a detour, and when I asked them 
 the reason for it, they said very cheerily, "Jack 
 Parker's bull is varra saucy." 
 
 Once I had a very narrow escape from a savage 
 bull. He had wandered on to a footpath, part of 
 which was a narrow pass out of a steep rocky 
 ghyll. He thought he had got me, but I managed 
 to climb down the very rough rocks to lower ground. 
 His unwelcome attentions were advertised by fierce 
 bellowings, which reverberated up and down the 
 ghyll, and were heard by the farmers. Knowing 
 that in the dusk of the summer evening I had 
 passed that way, they came to the rescue armed 
 with pitchforks, and were much relieved to find 
 me unharmed. 
 
 To illustrate the treachery of these brutes. A 
 farm servant employed by a noble lord in the next 
 dale to look after a pedigree bull, which he had
 
 A HEIGHT SAUCY YAN" 33 
 
 done for several years without any manifestation 
 of unfriendliness on the bull's part, was one day 
 gored to death when feeding it indoors. Its 
 terrible bellowing proclaimed to the whole dale 
 that a tragedy had been enacted, and everyone 
 who heard it knew what had happened. 
 
 The following is the best bull story I ever 
 heard, and was told me by an angling friend. A 
 dalesman, much annoyed by trespassing mushroom 
 pickers, decided to put an efficient bull on patrol. 
 At the next fair he met an old friend who generally 
 bred a bull, and to him expressed his wish to have 
 a "reight saucy yan," "and explained his reason. 
 " Ah've just t'yan for yer, bud be varra careful, for 
 he knocked me down yance," was the friend's 
 warning. The bargain was struck, and the 
 "saucy" bull delivered. Some weeks afterwards 
 when the friends met again, the farmer said, 
 "Ah reckon nowt o' t'bull, he's as quiet as a 
 sheep, and them damned mushroomers pick 
 t'mushrooms up reight tinder his varra nose. 
 Thous' takken yan in." "Well," replied his 
 friend, "it's varra strange. Ah tell ee he 
 knocked me down yance. Noo thee tak care, 
 he noan so quiet as a sheep Ah'll warrant ye. 
 Thee tak care. Ah've noan takken thee in, and 
 maybe he'll tak thee in yan o' these days." About 
 a fortnight after this little recrimination, the friend 
 driving past the farmer's house called to have a 
 "crack." The maid, answering the door, told him 
 the master was very ill in bed, but thought he 
 might possibly see him. He went to the sick 
 farmer's bedside and asked, " Nowt varra bad Ah 
 hope?" "Bad eneagh," was the reply, "bud it
 
 34 THE MOORS AND THE MOORLANDERS 
 
 might have bin warse, Ah might 'ave bin in 
 t'churchyard. D n that saucy bull o' thine. 
 It's takken me in reight eneagh. He felled me, 
 an' if it hadn't bin for Jack Trueman coming up 
 in t'nick o' time wi' a pitchfork, it would have bin 
 all ovvered." 
 
 Even more dangerous than a bull is a bad 
 tempered and wicked cow. She indulges in no 
 preliminary formalities, but makes one decided 
 fierce rush, which it is almost impossible to 
 dodge.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THE MOORS AND THE MOORLANDERS I CHRONICLES 
 
 HYPOCRITES abounded in the land and, apparently 
 as the result of successful bargains with the 
 Almighty, they flourished like the holly bushes. 
 
 One type was the Sabbatarian hypocrite. 
 
 The wife of one of my patients said that her 
 husband was invariably quarrelsome after having 
 been at Holy Communion, but otherwise was most 
 equable and amenable. It was a sort of mortifying 
 of the flesh, of which the nearest and dearest get 
 the full benefit. Another of this type was known 
 among us as the Pious Gambler. He would play 
 cards and gamble until midnight on Saturday, but 
 strictly apply the closure a few seconds before the 
 hour struck. A farmer I knew well, during a 
 " catchy " hay time, in order to ease the thing 
 he called his conscience, put the kitchen clock 
 back half an hour before midnight, so enabling 
 him to finish off a special lot. One of my patients, 
 a retired farmer, had quarrelled both with the 
 Church and Chapel, to each of which he had 
 belonged in turn, and set up a religion of his own. 
 I found him one Sunday reading the Bible very 
 industriously. With superb self-complacency he 
 promulgated the following thesis : " There's no 
 need, Doctor, to go to either Church or Chapel,
 
 36 THE MOORS AND THE MOORLANDERS 
 
 as long as one reads the Great Book and does 
 what's right." " How do you know what is right ? " 
 was my query. After a long pause he pronounced, 
 "I feel it here, that tells me," placing his hand 
 over his stomach. Conviction apparently came 
 with repletion, for he was an excellent trencher- 
 man, and had just had his fill. 
 
 Still another hypocrite on the moor edges, 
 known as "Old Self," gave me a most weird and 
 incredible account of how he found Salvation. 
 While saying his prayers at the bedside one night 
 he was suddenly seized by some unknown agency 
 and violently thrown on his back on the bed. 
 All became darkness, but he felt, while held firmly 
 down, some violent pulling of one leg and then 
 heard the voice of the devil shouting and claiming 
 him for "his ain." He resisted with all his moral 
 might. The devil was evidently in good form, for 
 the terrific struggle went on for hours. "Self" 
 said he became "as wet as muck," and that his 
 shouts of appeal for help to the Almighty could 
 be heard far across the ghyll. However, towards 
 morning, the devil's hold on the leg began gradually 
 to slacken, and the moment " t'house " clock struck 
 four he let go. Shouting with his remaining 
 strength, " Victory ! Victory ! Victory ! " he fell 
 asleep, and woke up a new and different man. 
 "I war saved frae that moment. It war grand, 
 and it's bin grand ever sin. Aye, Doctor, ye 
 mun try and get saved yer sen if ye can nobbut 
 mannish it." 
 
 Some of them were not above actually bargain- 
 ing on the Sabbath. It was generally the local 
 preacher looking round the farm of his host.
 
 "SINGING FOR GESS" 37 
 
 Seeing a likely milker the former would remark, 
 "If it warn't Sunday, I dare offer thee twenty 
 pund for yon milker." "If it warn't Sunday, I 
 darn't tak twenty- five pund," was the answer, and 
 so on, such was the Sabbatarian formula. The 
 bargain having been made was not struck, because 
 that would have been an insult to the Almighty 
 on His Day the local preacher would arrange to 
 send for the cow the next day. 
 
 One beautiful Sabbath summer morning I was 
 on the point of entering the old Parish Church for 
 service, when I became aware that the vicar's 
 warden, a big burly farmer, who used to annoy 
 the fastidious nose of the Squire in the next pew 
 by the strong odour of sanctity and cows which 
 was wafted from him in midsummer, was delivering 
 a short sermon of his own to some young men who 
 had congregated on the grass of the churchyard. 
 "Now come off the graves of your great-grand- 
 fathers and grandmothers and your fore-elders, 
 and show respect to those who are dead and gone. 
 Don't stand there, come on to the path," was what 
 I overheard. The young men obeyed and came 
 into church. 
 
 This excellent fellow was the tenant of the 
 grass of the churchyard, and haytime was 
 approaching. 
 
 The sexton of one of the churches had a 
 stentorian voice which he used like a fog-horn, 
 and of which he was inordinately proud. He 
 put on full organ in singing the responses and 
 hymns, and with such an effect that his voice was 
 a much more prominent feature of the service than 
 the parson's sermons, or " ditties," as they are often 
 
 G
 
 38 THE MOORS AND THE MOORLANDERS 
 
 called on the moorland. Strangers at the services 
 remarked and commented on such a phenomenon. 
 "Why a deeant ye knaw, it's nobbut old Joe 
 Jobson, t'saxton he awlus sings for gess (grass)." 
 The grass crop of the churchyard was part of his 
 emolument. 
 
 A sublime hypocrite whom I used to attend as 
 a pauper, was a retired farmer who had seen much 
 better days. In his old age he lived in a cottage 
 near a great lady, who with several others in her 
 train used to visit him regularly, much impressed 
 by his tremendous piety. They invariably left 
 substantial gifts, which were of course most 
 acceptable. On every occasion I visited him, 
 and he was for ever sending for me, I found him 
 industriously poring over the Bible. I discovered 
 that his wife had some mysterious way of signalling 
 to him when anyone was approaching the cottage 
 to be prepared with this pious pose. He was 
 nothing but a pious, kindly old humbug, and 
 traded on his piety for all it was worth. His 
 wife used to describe very graphically his terrible 
 attacks of pain and convulsions, but whenever I 
 examined the old boy his heart was as steady as 
 a rock. I pointed out to her that this was scarcely 
 consistent with her dreadful description. Her 
 explanation was invariably the same, and is my 
 excuse for telling this story. It had quite a 
 nautical flavour. "Yer see, Doctor, he ebbs and 
 he flows, and he's awlus flowing when ye see him. 
 Yah sud nobbut 'ave heeard him last neet when he 
 ebbed, his skrikes were summat awful, and his 
 pains were despert." I could not imagine this 
 kindly old man skriking at all. He was the only
 
 BIRTHS 39 
 
 old hypocrite I ever liked, and perhaps I misjudged 
 him. Peace to his ashes. 
 
 My annual average of births was sixty, which 
 for a practice in a sparsely populated moorland 
 country was a decidedly high one, and an eloquent 
 proof of the extensive district covered. A town 
 friend much interested in the moorlands once 
 accompanied me to the annual Sunday School 
 treat of a moorland church, which was attended 
 alike by the Church and Chapel children. He saw 
 no village, nor even any pretence at a hamlet, and 
 yet there were about seventy children present. 
 He was so astonished at the number of them, that 
 he asked the parson where they had all come from. 
 " Oh ! you must ask the Doctor that question," was 
 the amusing reply. 
 
 On the higher moorlands the illegitimate births 
 were much below the average of a country district. 
 When a moorland maid did get into trouble, there 
 seemed to be a high sense of honour among the 
 young moorland men, so that a marriage almost 
 invariably followed. Moreover, moorland maids 
 were not too plentiful, and housewives were con- 
 sequently in demand. But as one descended to 
 the lowlands, the number gradually increased to 
 the normal average of the country. 
 
 Many were distinctly attributable to the 
 frequent religious revivals, and the midnight 
 services which sometimes formed part of them in 
 summer-time. One of the most popular preachers 
 was a young woman who, in addition to her gift 
 of eloquence, had considerable personal charms. 
 All the young men were desperately in love with 
 her, and followed her about to the different villages
 
 40 THE MOORS AND THE MOORLANDERS 
 
 in turn, some being quite a long way off, and I 
 heard she had many offers of marriage from them. 
 
 Few male resident servants were employed on 
 the larger farms now the days of corn-growing 
 were passed. The average was one, and at the 
 outside two were employed. Much out-of-door 
 work was done by the strong farm lasses, such as 
 milking, or feeding the calves and pigs. Quite a 
 number of the male servants had been in the same 
 place thirty or even forty years, and curious quaint- 
 looking fellows they were with their long whiskers 
 and beards, and generally antediluvian appearance. 
 They were treated quite as members of the family, 
 and were as much a figure in the picture of the 
 farmhouse kitchen, as the sides of bacon or the 
 sheep-dogs. They were naturally, too, great stay- 
 at-homes, going to the market town perhaps only 
 once a year, or occasionally to neighbouring feasts 
 or fairs. 
 
 The school-mistress of one village school 
 "happened a misfortune," which soon advertised 
 itself, both to the whole village and to the school 
 children. Country children are astonishingly wide 
 awake on such matters. She had hitherto borne 
 an irreproachable character, and was the victim of 
 a heartless scoundrel. She was more sympathised 
 with than condemned. The school managers came 
 to a deadlock over the question whether she should 
 be dismissed at once with three months' salary, or 
 kept on till her notice expired. Half, including 
 the vicar, were in favour of the former course, 
 while the other half, who were her sympathisers, 
 and also economically inclined, were in favour of 
 the latter. The whole village took sides, with the
 
 MISS FRANK 41 
 
 inevitable " threeaping and differing." So obstinate 
 were the managers that a local Solomon was called 
 in to deliver judgment as to who were in the right. 
 He wasted no time in bush-beating, but promptly 
 and very wisely decided that the school was there 
 for the good of the children, and not the school- 
 mistress, and therefore the unfortunate woman 
 must go at once. The vicar's wife who had been 
 the principal stone-thrower, was cleverly rebuked 
 by the great lady of the village for her lack of 
 charity. Miss Frank had a heart of gold, and was, 
 where erring sinners were concerned, full of love 
 and charity. It is not the way of all old maids 
 when their weaker sisters fall. 
 
 At a rather crowded afternoon tea-party at the 
 large house, the matter came up for discussion. 
 The vicar's wife having animadverted strongly on 
 village immorality, Miss Frank turned to her and 
 remarked very quietly, " At the next meeting of 
 your Mothers' Union of which you are so proud, 
 ask Mary Cartman how soon her George was born 
 after the wedding, Susan Blades how soon Susie 
 was born," and so on, naming at least half a dozen 
 of the mothers and their first-born. It appeared 
 that nearly half of those superior matrons had each 
 a little past of pre-nuptial laxity. 
 
 One of my patients was a dry-waller. As 
 his name, Peter Thirkill, indicates, he was a 
 Scandinavian by descent. There were many on 
 these moorlands, telling of the long past invasion 
 of their forebears. Like all moorlanders he was 
 thin and gaunt. Though they have excellent 
 appetites and eat well they are poor "feeders," 
 and belong to the lean kine variety. Peter, or
 
 42 THE MOORS AND THE MOORLANDERS 
 
 Pete as he was invariably called, was above 
 average height, had a long golden red beard, then 
 well streaked with grey, and with his hooky nose 
 and bright eyes gleaming beneath his shaggy 
 angular eyebrows, had quite a hawk-like appear- 
 ance. His deeply lined features, weather-beaten 
 from constant exposure, were as rosy as the rosiest 
 of summer apples. 
 
 Dry-walling on the moors is a handicraft 
 requiring the highest skill. With a liberal or 
 extravagant use of cement or mortar any of us 
 might attempt to build a wall of some fashion 
 which would stand fairly straight, but let him try 
 his amateur hand on dry-walling. He will quickly 
 give the game up as quite beyond his nous. 
 Picking up heavy cobbles or stones only to reject 
 them, is a laborious, back-aching task, consuming 
 no end of time. 
 
 Pete was a prince of stone-wallers, and known 
 far and wide as a past master at his craft. He 
 knew every trick, and never made a mistake or 
 took up the same stone twice. Those hawk-like 
 eyes seemed to measure an eighth of an inch. 
 He used to say, " Every cobble has a feeace, bud it 
 isn't any feeal (fool) can find it." I have watched 
 him often with absorbed and fascinated interest; 
 he worked quickly and was quite ambidexterous. 
 
 Many of the foundations of the stone walls 
 erected after the enclosure Acts of 1798 and 1800 
 were still standing firmly, but of course in time 
 stone perishes, and the wall gives way. I was 
 much interested in hearing about these enclosure 
 walls because my grandfather had been a Land 
 Commissioner under those Acts.
 
 [To face pagi 42.
 
 PETER THIRKILL'S TWO BOOKS 43 
 
 The Spaniards have a proverb, " Fear the man of 
 one book." It is eminently true. Medical students 
 who know one book through and through on any 
 particular subject, and can quote it to the confusion 
 of their examiners, pass their examinations much 
 better than those clever fellows who read half a 
 dozen books and are master of none. 
 
 But Pete was a man of two books, one was the 
 Bible, and one was the other book. In his early 
 manhood he was fond of reading, and in the dark 
 winter months he spent many hours by his peat 
 fire, poring over his precious books. 
 
 The other book was one he had picked up 
 at a moorland sale, among a lot of rubbish and 
 odds and ends. It was a very old bound copy 
 of the London Journal, a weekly, I think, long 
 since defunct. Through its pages ran a melo- 
 dramatic serial in which from some weird fancy 
 or other the author had labelled all his characters 
 with Christian names beginning with the letter A. 
 He read and re-read this marvellous tome of which 
 he was inordinately proud. He could quote pages 
 of it, and I am afraid knew it much better than 
 his Bible. It fired the romance that is hidden 
 away in every moorlander's rough breast. He 
 sought out a moorland maid and offered his heart, 
 and all that was his, including his precious books. 
 He was happily mated. Gifts of boys and girls 
 came quickly and regularly, necessitating longer 
 hours at his stone-walling. His quiver was filled 
 two or three times over. 
 
 Of course they were all named after the heroes 
 and heroines of his great romance. Among the 
 boys were Albert, Anthony, Alfred, and Arthur,
 
 44 THE MOORS AND THE MOORLANDERS 
 
 and the girls were Alberta, Alvira, Alviretta, and 
 Alvirina. They all became my patients, and were 
 an admirable and formidable moorland tribe. And 
 then the list of names was exhausted. But another 
 boy arrived. 
 
 " What name this time, Pete ? " asked the 
 moorland parson. 
 
 " Whya Betsey an I thowt o' Ai," was Pete's 
 answer. 
 
 " Ai' ? Ai ? " questioned the parson. " You 
 cannot possibly call him Ai, because it is the 
 name of a place." 
 
 "Whya Betsey and I wanted t'shortest name 
 in t'Bible beginning with A," replied Pete. The 
 parson was a quick thinker, so the suggestion shot 
 out like an arrow. " Call him Asa." So he was 
 called Asa. 
 
 And still yet another boy came. " What name 
 this time," asked the parson. 
 
 "John William," was the reply. After this 
 descent from the heights of fancy there were no 
 more gifts. 
 
 I knew three brothers, all stone masons, who 
 were called Shadrach, Meshech, and Abednego, 
 and were known as Shad, Meshie, and Bedne. 
 
 Four brothers were called Leonard Peter 
 Poulter, Peter Leonard Poulter, John William 
 Poulter, and William John Poulter, and it was 
 rather bewildering when I heard their names 
 called out on the Coroner's Jury one day. I 
 knew them all, but till that day never realised 
 that they were all brothers. 
 
 A very intimate friend of mine, a moorland 
 doctor, had a faithful groom and friend called
 
 NEHEMIAH AND EZRA 45 
 
 Nehemiah Jackman. The latter declined to touch 
 his hat to the "quality" promiscuously, to the 
 annoyance occasionally of his master. A York- 
 shireman, unlike his Southern brother, has decided 
 views of his own as to who are the real article 
 and quite worthy of the honour. He was an 
 enthusiastic cricketer, and had unbounded rever- 
 ence and respect for a moorland parson, who was 
 an old Light Blue. So great was his respect that 
 he always touched his hat to him from quite a 
 long way off. One day the parson meeting the 
 doctor in his dog-cart stopped to speak, and then 
 turning to his man said, " Good-morning, Nehemiah, 
 how is Ezra ? " " He's varra weel thankee," was 
 the answer. " What do you mean ? " asked the 
 parson in some astonishment, "You don't mean 
 to say you have a brother called Ezra ? " " Yes 
 Ah have, an Ah nobbut had some lines frae him 
 this morn." 
 
 "Your father and mother ought to have 'had 
 the tread-mill for giving you such terrible names " 
 was the parson's very unkind comment, as he 
 strode away. It is scarcely necessary to say he 
 never received another salutation from the modern 
 prophet, as he was often called in the village. 
 
 H
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 THE MOORS AND THE MOORLANDERS : CHRONICLES 
 
 THERE was practically no poverty on those moor- 
 lands, even in the darkest days of agricultural 
 depression. In my extensive poor-law district of 
 27,000 acres, I never had more than twenty-five 
 paupers, and the remuneration worked out at 
 more than 1 per head per annum. I treated the 
 paupers exactly as the other patients, wrapping 
 their medicine up, and never let them think they 
 were in any way different from ordinary paying 
 patients. I once used the word pauper, with 
 intent, to a notorious " threeaper," who was very 
 inconsiderate. "Pauper! Pauper!" she shrieked, 
 "I hate the word pauper. T'Queen's a pauper, 
 t'Prince o' Wales is a pauper, Gladstone's a pauper." 
 
 I used to describe it as a land of footpaths, 
 holly bushes, and hypocrites. 
 
 There were footpaths in constant use between 
 all the old farmhouses. In course of time many of 
 the former had fallen into ruin, and had not been 
 rebuilt, but with the help of the Ordnance Survey 
 of 1840, I was able to trace all the old footpaths,- 
 and often amused a companion on my rambles by 
 poking with a stick in a dense holly bush and 
 finding the old upright stones of the long disused 
 pathway. Some of the old pack-horse roads over 
 
 48
 
 [ To face page 46.
 
 FOOTPATHS 47 
 
 the moors had disappeared, but many of them it 
 was quite easy to verify. 
 
 There was scarcely one big country mansion 
 where a public footpath did not run close to the 
 house. It was reminiscent of those bygone days 
 when the retainers and pensioners of the great 
 house lived in the adjacent village. The Squire 
 and his family knew them all and called them by 
 their Christian names. Then mansion and village 
 were one community and had the country to them- 
 selves. Nowadays there are fewer outdoor servants 
 or dependents employed, and so many strangers 
 from the towns visit the country, that the con- 
 tiguity of these footpaths has become a great and 
 real annoyance. I have often seen strangers, who 
 ought to have known better, staring at the private 
 doings of a country-house most impudently, and in 
 a way no villager would dream of doing. 
 
 In one case the public footpath ran the whole 
 length of a very large country mansion, and curious 
 passers-by could even see what the noble lord and 
 his lady had for breakfast. One old lord, in almost 
 recent years, welcomed this impertinent curiosity 
 rather than resented it. Sed tempora mutantur. It 
 was considered necessary to move this footpath if 
 it could be arranged. There was really a much 
 nearer way between the two villages. The agent 
 of the estate, a shrewd and able man of the world, 
 approached the leading Radical of the district, a 
 jealous guardian of the rights of the community, 
 and with the wisdom of the serpent asked his 
 advice and help. The latter, highly gratified by 
 this appeal to his importance, even suggested a 
 more convenient way than the former dared to
 
 48 THE MOORS AND THE MOORLANDERS 
 
 have looked for, and was instrumental in its 
 adoption. 
 
 In my very extensive district there were three 
 large estates, a few smaller ones of varying size, 
 and a large number of freeholds. The farms, not 
 of course counting rights of stray, varied from 
 15 acres to 150 acres. There were a few of as 
 much as 300 acres, but the general average was 
 about 40. The owners of large estates were 
 incomparably the best landlords. Two of these 
 were rich independently of their landed estates. 
 In the days of agricultural depression they behaved 
 very handsomely, giving substantial rebates, or gifts 
 of artificial manure or basic slag. The rents were 
 generally very low, though of course there were 
 inequalities. One landlord, rather worried by a 
 few grumblers, offered to have his large estate 
 revalued, the lowly rented farms to go up, and the 
 big ones to come down in rent. This sporting offer 
 silenced all the unreasonable grumblers, who had a 
 very warm time of it at the hands of the contented 
 majority, and nothing further was heard about it. 
 
 The dearest farms by far were those of the 
 small freeholds, and the smallest freeholds were 
 the dearest of all. I have known many cases 
 where the rent per acre of the small freehold was 
 more than double that of another farm which 
 belonged to one of the large estates, though the 
 two lay side by side and had the same soil 
 and aspect. 
 
 There were examples everywhere of reclaimed 
 moorland kept in good heart and well farmed, of 
 moorland being brought industriously under cultiva- 
 tion, and of reclaimed moorland going back. These
 
 FREEHOLDERS 49 
 
 various phases were a most interesting study. It 
 is astonishing how quickly reclaimed land reverts 
 to type, and how rocks and large stones spring up 
 as if by magic. On one large estate two or three 
 generations had worked hard and very successfully 
 on the same farm to reclaim the moorland, but 
 not the slightest attempt had been made by the 
 landlord to take any advantage of it. 
 
 There was one curious instance of an enclosure 
 some seventy or eighty years old. It was close to 
 a small open common on the high road. The land 
 was rather boggy, actually swampy in places, but 
 an enterprising forester had drained, fenced, and 
 planted it with trees. There it was in possession 
 of his descendants without any legal title. By 
 what rare and happy chance had this obscure 
 individual not been interfered with ? If it had 
 been a case of a powerful and influential land- 
 owner, one might not have wondered. The 
 owner of the large adjacent estate of course paid 
 an exorbitant sporting rent for it. 
 
 Where the freeholders farmed their own land, 
 many complications often arose. It was the 
 custom of the country for the eldest son to 
 take over the freehold on the death of the father, 
 paying off the beneficiaries as time went on. 
 Should he have a run of bad luck or if prices 
 went down, he was really worse off than the 
 others. If he died before he had paid them off, 
 and in turn his eldest son had taken on the 
 family freehold, under the same conditions, then 
 the tangle became almost hopeless. Should the 
 remorseless money-lender come on the scene, the 
 end soon came.
 
 A forebear of one of the local squireens in a 
 distant dale had been a successful money-lender 
 under these conditions, and in course of time, by 
 foreclosing, had come into possession of quite a 
 considerable estate. 
 
 The same trouble arises in all countries where 
 there are many freeholds. 
 
 When farms fell vacant on the large estates, 
 the eldest son or other sons of the late tenant, 
 or even near relatives, were always first considered 
 before the outsider had any look in. A yearly 
 tenancy was much more advantageous in every 
 way than a lease would have been and was quite 
 as secure. Smaller farms were occasionally thrown 
 into the larger farms, when suitable tenants were 
 not available, or for other good reasons. I have 
 often heard the landlord bitterly attacked for this 
 policy, but after all he must look after himself and 
 get his rents where he can. Some of the outgoing 
 tenants had not been satisfactory. A j oiner perhaps 
 who does a little farming, or a farmer who does 
 a little joinering, often comes to grief between his 
 two industries. Again in a changeable climate 
 like ours, a farm must be of a sufficient size to 
 allow the farmer, if one source of profit fails, to 
 fall back on another. 
 
 I saw examples everywhere of small allotments 
 enthusiastically taken up after the cry of three 
 acres and a cow, which had later become derelict 
 and abandoned. 
 
 It was a sheep-grazing and stock-breeding 
 country, though corn had once been freely grown 
 on the high uplands. Some of the old granaries 
 were still standing, and not a few of the farm-
 
 CORN 51 
 
 houses were quite commodious, and had ample 
 indoor servants' accommodation. But the yield 
 must have been very poor, to judge from what 
 little land was still left under arable cultivation. 
 The seasons were often so dreadfully late. I 
 remember in one moorland parish the church 
 harvest festival service, arranged for the usual 
 late date, was held before a single stook of corn 
 had been " led." I have seen a farmer bring his 
 corn, stook by stook, up to December, into his 
 kitchen to be dried before the fire. The steam- 
 thrasher rarely ventured to these inaccessibilities, 
 the horse-thrasher being still used or on the 
 smallest farms the old hand flail. The meadows 
 were regularly grazed till May Day, and the hay 
 harvest occasionally gathered in September. Yet 
 on those high hills there were plenty of instances 
 of a marvellous hay yield, quite equal to that of 
 the best land in England. Some of those old 
 moorland pastures in certain districts grew the 
 sweetest grass, and I am perfectly certain no more 
 delicious butter was made the whole world over 
 than at some of those moorland farms. 
 
 To-day the separator is almost universal, but in 
 those days, which were really only yesterday, the 
 clever farmer's wife, who knew every trick of 
 successful dairying, produced a butter which for 
 flavour, firmness, and quality could not be equalled. 
 
 Two of my patients used to take the first or 
 second prizes at all the local shows, and their 
 butter was bespoken years in advance. 
 
 There is really no comparison between the best 
 old-fashioned butter and the best modern dairy 
 butter. Dairies are now all over the land, and the
 
 52 THE MOORS AND THE MOORLANDERS 
 
 resulting butter is a more uniform and pure pro- 
 duct, but very insipid by the side of the old butter. 
 
 I used to fancy and perhaps it was not mere 
 fancy that all the moorland foodstuffs, not only 
 the butter and the honey but the fish, flesh, and 
 fowl, were superior in flavour to the products of 
 the more highly cultivated plainlands. 
 
 I attribute this to the purity of the air and the 
 absence of artificial substitutes for the nutriment 
 which nature provides. 
 
 Those moorlands, so eminently suitable for 
 stock-breeding and stock-rearing, are gradually 
 being given over to dairying, a deplorable and 
 disastrous change for British agriculture. The 
 valuable material which ought to remain on the 
 land is now taken away from it and milkers are 
 becoming dearer. 
 
 Like all English farmers only more so these 
 moorsiders were incessant grumblers and eternal 
 pessimists. Nothing ever satisfied them. If the 
 crops were abnormally good, there was the extra 
 cost involved in gathering them. If the potatoes 
 had yielded well, there were no little ones for the 
 pigs. Should I point to any particularly bright 
 spot in the fortunes of the farm, they immediately 
 passed over it and told me of something terribly 
 depressing. I was watching a farmer examining 
 in detail, as they came through a gate, a large head 
 of stock which had been bought for him for feed- 
 ing purposes by a friendly neighbour, an excellent 
 judge. They were a most level lot and had been 
 well bought, but of course he was not going to 
 admit this. Not he. He waited till the only 
 wastrel, which he had already spotted with his
 
 COURT LEET 53 
 
 " gimlet " eye, came. Then he indulged in some 
 very forcible old Yorkshire swear words, expressing 
 a strong doubt if he should ever see any profit, or 
 even his own money back. 
 
 This pessimism was reflected in my medical 
 dealings with them. " How are you to-day ? " I 
 would ask a patient. "I'se nae warse." He 
 really meant that he was much better. "I've 
 takken yer stuff an' it's deean me nae hurt." This 
 was better still. My "stuff" was doing him a 
 great deal of good. The single and only brilliant 
 exception I can ever recall to this Slough of 
 Despond was when we had a record crop of hay. 
 Such a haytime had never been known. There 
 had been no late frosts or cold nights and grass 
 grew thick and fast. These threeaping and 
 differing fellows actually quarrelled as to who had 
 the best crop instead of the worst crop. After all, 
 one cannot wonder that a farmer is a confirmed 
 pessimist. Although we are the best farmers in 
 the world, our climate is the most fickle : the 
 results of much expense in labour, money, and 
 thought may be swept away in a few hours. 
 
 The court leet of one large manor was 
 regularly held. The lord of this manor kept a 
 watchful eye on his manorial rights specially as 
 regards rights of sport. He provided liberally for 
 our entertainment and the function was most 
 enjoyable. The steward of the manor, a well- 
 known solicitor, directed proceedings. Twenty 
 jurymen, residents in the different townships 
 within the manor, were summoned by name. 
 They elected a foreman, and usually this office 
 fell to me. I was duly sworn in, and in turn 
 
 i
 
 assisted in swearing in the jurymen. The bailiff, 
 the town-crier, and the pinder were then elected. 
 The duties of the last-mentioned were to impound 
 stray stock, but since the enclosure of the commons, 
 and owing to stricter bye-laws, his services were 
 not often required. The condition of the various 
 pinfolds would be inquired into, and any com- 
 plaints of infringements from the freeholders of 
 the different townships within the manor, of their 
 common-rights of stray, of turf for fuel, bracken 
 for bedding, ling for besoms, and of stone for 
 repairs of existing buildings or road-mending, 
 would be considered. One year we beat the 
 bounds of the manor, and at the time settled a 
 dispute as to the boundary of the common-rights 
 of two townships. The justice of our decision has 
 been questioned and I think we were probably 
 wrong. Even in these days, with the authorita- 
 tive accuracy of the Ordnance map, mistakes of 
 boundary can arise. Boundary stones or land- 
 marks may fall, perish, or be removed. Repeated 
 infringement may grow into a custom. On such 
 an occasion the experience and help of a local 
 Solomon, learned in the topography of the district, 
 is invaluable. Such men are occasionally to be 
 met with in the country, and of this rare order 
 was the manor bailiff. His memory in this respect 
 was prodigious, and he could detail the curious 
 nomenclature of every field or enclosure within the 
 manor, the many carrs, ings, garths, clooases, hags, 
 boddums, plantins, yakkers, bran fits, grassins, 
 plaans, and so on. He knew, too, the boundaries 
 of the various common-rights. Naturally he was 
 often consulted when local properties changed
 
 RIGHT BY USAGE 55 
 
 hands, and when he died at the age of seventy, 
 much valuable knowledge was buried with him. 
 I should like to remark about this good man in 
 passing. He only consulted me a week before his 
 death, on a day when he had walked sixteen miles. 
 I found an immense cancer of the liver, which 
 fortunately for him had been comparatively pain- 
 less, and marvelled that he had been able to con- 
 tinue his activities so nearly to the end. Felix 
 opportunitate mortis. 
 
 When the formal proceedings of the court had 
 concluded, the real business began of attacking 
 the huge joints of meat provided. The foreman 
 took the chair and the steward the vice-chair. 
 There followed many toasts and much interesting 
 discussion of varying manor law and custom, 
 extending to late afternoon. 
 
 In after years the manorial rights of this 
 particular manor have been settled permanently 
 by special Act of Parliament, and I have not 
 heard since of this court being held. 
 
 Right by usage and contrary to award was the 
 origin of a law case which excited much interest 
 not only locally but widely, on the part of owners 
 of grouse moors. It was between a noble lord, 
 the plaintiff, and the tenant of a freehold, the 
 defendant, with regard to a moor, of which the 
 noble lord was lord of the manor. The tenant 
 insisted on pasturing the moor with his sheep, 
 contrary to the terms of the award of 1782, which 
 stated that by reason of the poverty of the soil 
 it would not repay the expense of dividing into 
 separate allotments, nor be useful as a stinted 
 pasture, and ordered and directed that the moor
 
 56 THE MOORS AND THE MOORLANDERS 
 
 should remain open and unenclosed and be held 
 and enjoyed by the several persons interested 
 thereon, for the sole and only purpose of getting 
 peat, earth, turves, and stones, in the same manner 
 as they held and enjoyed the same. 
 
 In the first instance the owner brought an 
 action in the local County Court for an injunction 
 restraining the defendant from pasturing the moor 
 and claimed five shillings damages, but the judge 
 dismissed the case as he considered he had no 
 jurisdiction. 
 
 Subsequently two further actions were brought 
 at the assize before well-known judges and a special 
 jury, when evidence was given that there had been 
 sixty years' usage as of right of a certain portion 
 defined on a plan with frontage to the farmhouse 
 prior to 1886. 
 
 At the second trial the judge reserved judgment, 
 certified for a special jury, and in London directed 
 that judgment should be entered for the plaintiff 
 for forty shillings, and granted an injunction forth- 
 with restraining the defendant, his servants, or 
 agents, from depasturing sheep" or entering upon 
 any part of the moor except so much thereof as 
 was enclosed between certain inked lines on a 
 plan. He reserved the question of further costs 
 until a later date with leave to apply. Finally, he 
 adjudged neither party had costs beyond the 
 aforesaid forty shillings. 
 
 The real defendant in this case was of course 
 the freeholder, but in the terribly heavy law 
 expenses he was helped by the tenants and I 
 believe other freeholders, who regarded the 
 manorial lord's action as an infringement of their
 
 COURT LEET 57 
 
 rights. The final result was after all only in the 
 nature of a compromise, and probably, if the 
 defendant had desisted from pasturing his sheep 
 during the grouse nesting, no action would have 
 been taken in the first instance. After the second 
 trial an offer was made somewhat on these lines by 
 the owner, who offered to pay all expenses to date, 
 provided the question was never reopened. 
 
 COURT LEET 
 
 The following account of quaint usage and 
 custom, prior to enclosure in 1800, in a certain 
 manor of six townships, where the lord of the soil 
 had right of depasturage on the moorland, as well 
 as ownership of a large rabbit warren, may not be 
 uninteresting. 
 
 The lord's shepherd has a pre-eminence of 
 tending his sheep on any part of the common, 
 and wherever he herds the lord's sheep, the 
 several other shepherds are to give way to him, 
 and give up their hoofmg-place so long as he 
 pleases to depasture the lord's sheep thereon. 
 The lord holds his court the first day in the year ; 
 and to entitle those several townships to such 
 right of estray, the shepherd of each township 
 attends the court, and does fealty by bringing to 
 the court a large apple pie, and a twopenny sweet- 
 cake, except the shepherd of one township, who 
 compounds by paying sixteen pence for ale (which 
 is drunk as after mentioned), and a wooden spoon. 
 Each pie is cut in two and divided by the bailiff, 
 one-half between the steward, bailiff, and tenant of 
 theconey warren before mentioned, and the other
 
 58 THE MOORS AND THE MOORLANDERS 
 
 half into six parts, one to each of the six shepherds 
 of the before mentioned six townships. In the 
 pie brought by the shepherd of one township, an 
 inner one is made filled with prunes. The cakes 
 are divided in the same manner. The bailiff of 
 the manor provides furmety and mustard, and 
 delivers to each shepherd a slice of cheese and 
 a penny roll. The furmety well mixed with 
 mustard is put into an earthen pot and placed 
 in a hole in the ground in a garth belonging to 
 the bailiff's house, to which place the steward 
 of the court, the bailiff, the tenant of the warren, 
 and the six shepherds adjourn, with their re- 
 spective wooden spoons. The bailiff provides 
 spoons for the steward, the tenant of the warren, 
 and himself. The steward first pays respect to the 
 furmety by taking a large spoonful, the bailiff has 
 the next honour, the tenant of the warren next, 
 then each of the shepherds in turn. Then each 
 person is served with a glass of ale (paid for by 
 the sixteen pence brought by the shepherd of 
 one township), and the health of the lord of the 
 manor is drunk; then they adjourn back to the 
 bailiff's house, and the further business of the 
 court is proceeded with. 
 
 Within recent memory a very old man who had 
 occasionally attended this court leet, describes 
 in detail the proceedings. He says that each pie 
 contains about a peck of flour, is about sixteen or 
 eighteen inches in diameter, and as large as will 
 go into the mouth of an ordinary oven ; that 
 the bailiff of the manor measures them with a 
 rule, and takes the diameter, and if they are not 
 of a sufficient capacity, he threatens to return
 
 COURT LEET 59 
 
 them, and fine the township. If they are large 
 enough, he divides them with a rule and compasses 
 into four equal parts, of which the steward claims 
 one, the warrener another, and the remainder is 
 divided amongst the shepherds. In respect to 
 the furmety, he says that the top of the dish in 
 which it is put is placed level with the surface 
 of the ground ; that all persons present are invited 
 to eat of it, and those who do not are not deemed 
 loyal to the lord ; that every shepherd is obliged 
 to eat of it, and for that purpose is obliged to take 
 a spoon in his pocket to the court, for if anyone 
 of them neglects to carry his spoon with him, he 
 is to lie down upon his belly, and sup the furmety 
 with his face to the pot or dish ; at which time it 
 is usual by way of sport for some of the bystanders 
 to dip his face into the furmety ; and sometimes a 
 shepherd by way of diversion will purposely leave 
 his spoon at home.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 OLD YORKSHIRE WORDS 
 
 IN spite of compulsory education and other 
 destructive influences which are always at work, 
 the old Yorkshire words are dying out much 
 more slowly and hardly in the remoter moorland 
 districts than the majority of people imagine. 
 This happy state of affairs is due to the fact that 
 the great industry of agriculture is naturally and 
 instinctively antagonistic to all "book laming," 
 general education, and self-culture. It is man's 
 most primitive occupation and appeals to his 
 earliest instincts. Any country schoolmaster will 
 tell you how amazingly quickly his scholars, 
 including the brightest and most intelligent, when 
 once they have embarked on an agricultural life, 
 hurry to forget all he has so laboriously taught 
 them, except perhaps the vital rudiments of read- 
 ing, writing, and arithmetic. 
 
 The exceptions to this rule are those who 
 follow another call in life, or who are anxious to 
 "better" themselves. One is inclined to think 
 that much of the energy and time given in the 
 school to " book-larning " might have been more 
 advantageously and profitably spent in inculcating 
 the rudimentary and invaluable technicalities of 
 agriculture, forestry, and road-mending. As it is, 
 
 00
 
 ILLITERACY 61 
 
 a thousand and one useful details and essentials 
 have to be taught personally afterwards by hand 
 to hand instruction. 
 
 Not long ago a farm manservant of twenty-four, 
 who aspired to become a policeman, came to me 
 to be put through an easy educational test. I was 
 surprised to find how even the mere writing of his 
 name was an exertion to him. On my telling the 
 schoolmaster about it, he replied that the would-be 
 policeman had been by far the best scholar when 
 he left the school. 
 
 I have been surprised too to discover that some 
 of the more substantial farmers, who exhibited 
 such evident signs of distress and travail in filling 
 up ordinary government agricultural forms, or 
 income-tax papers, had once had quite a sound, 
 if not liberal, education. Of those whom I knew 
 personally only two had attempted a yearly stock- 
 taking, or kept any proper business books. What 
 terrible grimaces the majority of my farming friends 
 made in even signing their names. One very 
 successful moorlander invariably took his coat off 
 to the job. He would pant and puff, and perspira- 
 tion would pour from his brow. I often heard the 
 farmers angrily taking to task some of their 
 offspring for indulging in "book laming," when 
 they thought they ought to have been busy on the 
 land. Sunday was as a rule the only day when 
 reading was permitted. 
 
 The purest and the broadest of the old York- 
 shire, which was still spoken, came from the mouths 
 of the "gaffers and gammers," and especially of the 
 latter, who had not wandered so far into the world 
 as their spouses. It was they who passed on the 
 
 K
 
 62 OLD YORKSHIRE WORDS 
 
 old words for the benefit of their children and 
 grandchildren. In reality two languages were 
 spoken, the more modern standard English for 
 converse with the "bettermy end," and their broad 
 dialectical Yorkshire, which was the language of 
 family life and friendly intercourse. Under any 
 excitement or emotion they would quickly lapse 
 from the modern to the old. I have heard mothers 
 scold their children in almost an unknown language, 
 and then explain in more modern English why they 
 were doing so. And among the school children 
 this use of two languages was most noticeable. 
 Immediately school " louzed " one could distinguish 
 the dialect in the children's play words. 
 
 "Aye, Bairn. Ah thowt lang on yer coomin'. 
 T'lads laated yer awl ower. Ah's bad Ah can tell 
 yer. T'pains past bahdin. Mi shackles wark, mi 
 belly warks, mi head warks, mi back warks, an' Ah 
 warks awl ower. Ah gotten er perishment o' caud, 
 dhriven fra Skipton Statis er week coom Settherda 
 neet, an' Ah's ligged i' bed sin Tuesda. Ah's ez 
 wet ez a soomp, an' cud dhrink er well dhry, bood 
 Ah can eeate nowt, an' Ah's that weeak an' wanklin, 
 that yah moon mannish sharp er bottle er reight 
 stuff ter giv' mah gud mends, else it'll seean be 
 owered wi' me." 
 
 " Oh, Bairn. How long you have been coming. 
 The boys looked for you everywhere. I assure 
 you I am very ill. The pain is worse than I can 
 bear and I ache all over. I caught a severe cold 
 driving from Skipton Hirings last Saturday night, 
 and have lain in bed ever since Tuesday. I am 
 wet through with perspiration and dreadfully 
 thirsty, but have no appetite. I am now so weak
 
 ADVANTAGES OF KNOWING THE DIALECT 63 
 
 and feeble that unless you can prescribe an excellent 
 tonic to pick me up I shall soon die." 
 
 This is an example of the "pleeans" or complaints 
 with which I was daily greeted at the bedside of my 
 patients. 
 
 I was called " Bairn " or " Barn " even after my 
 grey hairs came. The term is decidedly friendly, 
 kindly, and familiar, though slightly depreciatory, 
 and I have frequently heard quite the oldest people 
 use it to each other in their confidences. 
 
 Happily, I needed no interpreter. Indeed I 
 was able to answer them back in their broadest 
 Yorkshire, and found the accomplishment most 
 useful especially in securing the confidence of 
 the children. But my "locums" and assistants 
 found the old Yorkshire expressions terribly 
 puzzling, and although the patients were anxious 
 to oblige with standard English, it was not always 
 easy or possible. When moorlanders are really 
 ill, they are too much preoccupied to "scrape 
 their tongue," "knick-knack" their words, and 
 talk "larnedly." When they were misunderstood 
 they became terribly irritable and most difficult 
 to manage. They soon fell back into the native 
 dialect, and this tendency was always noticeable 
 with increasing years. One true son of the moor- 
 land, of quite humble stock, who had gone forth 
 in early years to seek his fortune in the world of 
 commerce, succeeded beyond his dreams. He 
 became well known and honoured throughout the 
 country, leader of the Conservative Party in the 
 large Yorkshire town where he "took root," and 
 finally a knight. I met him for the first time in 
 his native village one Sunday morning after service
 
 64 OLD YORKSHIRE WORDS 
 
 in the old church, walking deep in memory down 
 a country lane, when he stopped to inquire where 
 the little cemetery was. He stared rather hard 
 when I asked him in reply if he was a confirmed 
 humorist perpetrating jokes even on the Sabbath 
 day. Pressed for further enlightenment, I explained 
 that in inquiring the whereabouts of the "siding 
 ground" he was asking the man most responsible 
 in the district for filling it, to wit, the local doctor. 
 He laughed heartily, and from that moment began 
 an intimate friendship which lasted until his all 
 too early death. He was one of nature's gentle- 
 men, serene in temper and the soul of honour. 
 His clever, gifted daughters and son, and their 
 children in turn, made happy and fortunate 
 marriages with members of the oldest aristocracy. 
 His manners and speech were those of a highly 
 educated man, but he was full of Yorkshire grit, 
 and it was interesting to note how, under the 
 influence of good fellowship and when the good 
 wine was passing, the old Yorkshire words of 
 his moorland youth would, like the moorland 
 boulders, work their way to the surface. 
 
 A very wise doctor I knew used to say that no 
 doctor should employ a " locum " more capable than 
 himself, so that on his return home he might be 
 sure of a hearty welcome from his patients. My 
 patients seemed always delighted to see me 
 again, and I believe it was entirely due to my 
 being able to talk with them in their own 
 expressive language. 
 
 Idleness, which is rightly regarded by all 
 industrious "foak" who are anxious to survive, 
 as a sin rather than failing, was not unknown on
 
 CURE FOR LAZINESS 65 
 
 the moorlands. There were a few lazy human 
 monsters, who foregathered at the more remote 
 inns, where they clacked (chattered) all day long, 
 or played pitch-and-toss or dominoes, laid tribute 
 on weary but enthusiastic tourists, or occasionally 
 took a hand in a little poaching. Very rarely 
 a sheep mysteriously disappeared. Sometimes 
 this bone-laziness was looked on as an infirmity, 
 but, like cancer, considered to be quite beyond 
 medical cure. It was then called " Laakin fever " 
 (with derivation from the Danish, at lege, to play). 
 Anxious relatives with the appeal of despair, would 
 ask me if nothing could really be done for the un- 
 fortunate sufferers. One hard-working farmer had 
 a son who was a thoroughly bad lot, a typical 
 "bowdykite," who " fair tremmled ageean " at the 
 mention of the word work. One day he remarked 
 that though he really believed I was a "varra 
 clever feller," yet he was ready to bet me a 
 sovereign that I could not cure his son of his 
 disorder. To his surprise I struck the bet, with a 
 forcible smack of the hand, and the unsatisfactory 
 son was sent for. He happened to be in a very 
 good humour at the time, seemed much amused 
 when he heard the nature of the bet, and at once 
 offered to undergo any treatment ordered. I 
 explained the modus operandi that two blisters 
 would be applied to that part of his anatomy 
 provided for sitting down, and that each night he 
 must take one of my celebrated "early risers," 
 a pill, which would call him out of bed at five 
 o'clock in the morning. I also told him he would 
 be required to come down to my surgery for a 
 course of faradic stimulation. He took exception
 
 66 OLD YORKSHIRE WORDS 
 
 to the blisters but came down for the electric 
 treatment. I placed the two rheophores under his 
 oxters (armpits) and gave him a good ten minutes 
 at high pressure, during which he "flackered, 
 dithered, dothered, and shook awl ower." This 
 very drastic treatment he stood like a man though 
 "sweeat" rolled down his face. He took also in 
 my presence one of my pills. It was a lightning 
 cure. He sent a message the next morning to 
 say that he had had more than "eneagh of that 
 rivin devilment," and was going to work that 
 same afternoon. Whether it was a case of sudden 
 repentance, or the suggestion that cure was possible, 
 or a sympathetic wish that I should win the bet 
 I know not, but the miracle had been worked. 
 From that day he turned over a new leaf. He 
 became very industrious, and all his "black fat" 
 the native expression for superfluous blubber 
 disappeared. The farmer who was overjoyed at 
 his son's reformation, sent me a fine Yorkshire 
 ham instead of the sovereign, and my wonderful 
 ' N cure was much "cracked" and discussed. 
 
 In common with others of my profession, I 
 found after experience it was always a folly to 
 begin my professional questioning with the usual 
 inquiry, " Noo what's t'matter \ " to which, of 
 course, they quickly and venomously replied, 
 "Naay, Naay, that's what I've sent for thee for, 
 for thee to tell me what's t'matter wi' me, an' not 
 me to tell thee." It was much safer to begin, 
 " Noo what are yer pleeans ? " (Of what do you 
 complain.) How they loved to hear long names 
 applied to their ailments. " What's matter wi' me? 
 give it a name," a moorlander asked. " Borborygmi
 
 SICK-ROOM PHRASES 67 
 
 stomachi," I answered. "That's grand an' com- 
 fortin'. Say it ageean, Doctor. Ah knew it war 
 soomat despert." Its mysterious resonance evi- 
 dently brought great relief. One woman boasted 
 proudly that her mother had died of five different 
 complaints, t'rheumatis, t'heart disease, dropsies, 
 t'neuralgey, and the chronic." 
 
 A doctor unused to Yorkshire, if told by a 
 patient that he was "better," would understand 
 him to mean that he was improving, whereas what 
 he had really meant to convey was that he was 
 entirely recovered. Degrees of improvement or 
 retrogression are described in such phrases as 
 "on the mend," "on the improve," "making good 
 mends," or "making bad mends," "making badla 
 on or oot," "ganning t'wrang rooad," "ganningfast," 
 "sweealing away," "tapering off," and "pegging 
 out." The last stage is "it's owered wid t'man, an' 
 he'll seean be ready for flapping oop job." 
 
 The origin of the word "pinker," 1 as applied 
 to the women who performed the gruesome task 
 of laying out the dead, I cannot trace. I only 
 occasionally heard it used in this sense, but was 
 assured it was the term applied to this calling. 
 
 One of my patients was an old Yorkshire 
 widow, whom I was obliged to see once a week 
 
 1 The word " pink " was used according to Skeat (1) as a verb 
 meaning to prick (Fr. piquer nasalised, cp. pincer) and in particular 
 to pierce round holes or eyes in cloth for purposes of decoration ; 
 (2) as an adjective in the sense of half-closed (cp. Old Dutch 
 pinckento shut the eyes). Whether the term "pinker" in the 
 sense given to it in the text is to be connected with (1) or (2) it is 
 hard to determine. In favour of the former derivation is the fact 
 that within living memory the notice "Pinking done here" was 
 sometimes to be seen in the windows of undertakers' shops. [Note 
 by the Editor.]
 
 68 OLD YORKSHIRE WORDS 
 
 during at least ten years, for a tiresome ailment 
 she suffered from. She lived quite alone, only 
 went out under the shadow of darkness, and the 
 doors were always bolted and barred, necessitating 
 a long and vexatious delay. Hers was the truest 
 and purest old Yorkshire I ever listened to, and 
 was quaint and realistic beyond all powers of 
 description. How she used to click her tongue 
 round the old words, rasping them out with 
 monosyllabic distinction. Of course I often in- 
 spected her tongue, which was a very unruly 
 organ, flagellating and "illyfing" her neighbours 
 most unmercifully. It was very broad and 
 supple, apparently working on three swivels 
 lateral, vertical, and rotatory which explained 
 her wondrous powers of expression. She had an 
 excellent memory and forgot nothing. At one 
 time or other she seemed to have had a sly peep 
 into every skeleton-cupboard in the district, and 
 according to her, every prominent member of the 
 community had a dark past of which she knew the 
 details. Her vocabulary was voluminous, including 
 many old words, which according to existing 
 glossaries were obsolete, but which I frequently 
 heard in out-of-the-way corners. I collected at 
 least two hundred old words from her, most of 
 which, as they appear in well-known glossaries, 
 there is no advantage in detailing. 
 
 It is reported that the army in Flanders in 
 more remote and in more recent times too swore 
 terribly and was very "chatty." The old lady 
 could certainly swear very forcibly in old York- 
 shire, and she was very chatty in a double sense. 
 The finest and most robust race of fleas (lopps)
 
 OLD MARY'S VOCABULARY 69 
 
 flourished in that cottage, not to mention other 
 creepy-crawlies. My acquirement of ancient lore 
 was attended by no small drawbacks, and I 
 scarcely ever left her precincts without gaining 
 some "adherents." She had very little furniture 
 in her cottage, which was her own property. It 
 appeared to be clean, because she was always busy 
 cleaning something. That was a gross deception. 
 But her expressive language was a revelation, and 
 well worth the torment I endured. Seeing how 
 much I appreciated her witty sallies she played 
 well up and gave me of her best. 
 
 I am sorry to say she turned out a great fraud 
 in another way ; for she led me to believe she was 
 very poor, and induced me to forgive her half her 
 bills. My wife called regularly with J Ib. packets 
 of tea, and I enlisted the help of the Squire's kindly 
 wife on her behalf. She was a pure miser, hoard- 
 ing for the sole delight of hoarding, for she had no 
 near relative in the world. When she died, golden 
 sovereigns were found everywhere, and twenty- 
 seven packets of my wife's special tea. 
 
 " Baubosking " was one of her favourite words, 
 signifying " to wander restlessly about " in contra- 
 distinction to staying at " heeam " or " yam " (home). 
 "Sho war er reeight baubosker." "Sho's awlus 
 bauboskin aboot." I have not been able to trace 
 the origin of this word. 
 
 "Bowdykite" was another word she constantly 
 used, denoting a fat lazy " good-for-nowt " fellow 
 with a big paunch. I once overheard a moorland 
 farmer reading the riot act to his lazy sons, or as 
 he termed it, "straightening their jackets." Bill 
 was "nowt bud a bowdykite." Sam was a "gorm- 
 
 L
 
 70 OLD YORKSHIRE WORDS 
 
 less dosselheead " (" dossel " being the pointed knob 
 of the pike-shaped corn stacks), and Jack " war a 
 daft dunder-heeaded feal." All jellies, blanc-manges, 
 and "dithery steeafs," invalid delicacies, which 
 " t'lady " or " t'quality " brought her, she classified 
 as "blashments." This word, which has such an 
 expressive sound, she also applied to melted 
 snow or wet mud. "Chuntering" is delightfully 
 expressive too, and implies grumbling or growl- 
 ing. " Chunter ! Chunter ! Chunter ! awl t'day 
 lang. She war awlus chuntering an threeapin'." 
 "Taistrell" is a querulous and peevish being. 
 " Naupins," a most difficult word to trace, meant 
 pickings or profits. "Narkey" is expressive of 
 bad temper "T'less getherer war narkey, an' 
 Ah war narkey teea, an' thar war a pair er narkey 
 vans." "Gerds" were spasms or fits "Ah had 
 yan o' them dizzey gerds." " Nappercracker " 
 means the head " Ah gat er yan ower t'napper- 
 cracker an' that put t'stopper on." Nothing could 
 be more expressive than " ditherum-dotherums " 
 " Ah war i' t'ditherum-dotherums awl t'daay an' 
 varra dowly, an' cud deea nowt." A "scrat" is 
 a mean, miserly woman, but also signifies scabies 
 or itch. That native sin, in which we are all 
 supposed to be born, requires so much vigorous 
 treatment as we journey onwards through life, that 
 it is no wonder the old Yorkshire has many words 
 expressive of necessary and unavoidable correc- 
 tion such as, skelping, basting, towelling, hezzelling, 
 bussacking, yanking, twilling, lacing, bensiling, 
 bellacing, clouting, lamming, raddling, neavilling, and 
 " straightening jackets." "Neavilling" or "nevill- 
 ing " is of interest, being evidently of Danish origin.
 
 YORKSHIRE WORDS 71 
 
 (Neeve, Danish " fist.") " Clackers," "callers " (with 
 short a), and " trailtengs " are Yorkshire moor- 
 land ladies given to gossip, chatter, and babble. 
 " Slaisterers " and " hauvygauvies " are lazy stupid 
 young moorlanders. "Ragabashes," "rackapelts," 
 "fustilugs," and "stracklins" are all worthless, 
 dissolute fellows. A " ramscallion " is dirty as 
 well as dissolute. " Nesh " is an adjective 
 suggestive of a tender and delicate constitution 
 "Ah gitten varra nesh an seean sweeats." "Niff- 
 naffs" are trifling matters, of no account, and 
 beings who go " niff-naffing about " are wasting 
 precious moments. An " offally " chap is a worth- 
 less chap. " Owerkessen " is an adjective applicable 
 to weather ( = overcast). " It's badly owerkessen 
 is t'weather." A " shaffletoppin " is a thoroughly 
 unreliable being, rich in promise but poor in 
 performance. " Saam " or " seeam " is lard 
 " Ah's hard put teea an' Ah's nowt fer mi breeacus 
 bud breead an' saam." A " blatherheead " is a 
 very silly fellow who talks rubbish or "through 
 his neck." " Chaudyguts " is a greedy customer 
 who is never satisfied. To "cod" is to humbug 
 or deceive "Ah codded 'em reeight when we 
 war card-laakin'." (I humbugged them completely 
 when we were card-playing.) A "cobby" woman 
 is a well-made and well-built woman. "Dcsalby" 
 is an adjective denoting orderliness. A " telly - 
 pye-tit " is very descriptive of a tell-tale. " Tattlins," 
 "fanglements," or "concarns" were old Mary's 
 description of my surgical instruments and appli- 
 ances, which she rightly regarded with awe and 
 horror. " Top-dressing," originally applied to 
 surface manure, came to mean work that was
 
 72 OLD YORKSHIRE WORDS 
 
 only half done " It war nobbut er top-dressin' he 
 gav it." " Cat-licking " equally applies to playing 
 with work "It war nobbut a cat-lick." "By 
 gum yar stuff tengs " (by gum your medicine does 
 sting) was Mary's complaint about some medicine 
 I had sent her. "Carcase" is a great Yorkshire 
 word for body, and in daily use. The wife of one 
 of the "bettermy" farmers called me in to see 
 her daughter "Ah can mak nowt on 'er. Sho 
 taks yer stuff bud maks badla on. Sho's a bit 
 fleeaced, bud sho's gotten er gradeley carcase on 
 er," implying that the body was well nourished. 
 "Waffly" (adjective) has many meanings, viz., 
 weak, vacillating, shaky, and silly. "Weeks" is 
 a most interesting word signifying corners of the 
 eye or mouth, clearly of Danish origin (= wick). 
 Mary once drew attention to the state of her eyes 
 " T'weeks er mi ees air awl iver atteril." " Atteril," 
 also of Danish origin, means pus. A " scallibrat " 
 is a very wicked child, or a little "miracklous." 
 "Slaverment" is pure unadulterated fawnsome 
 hypocrisy. "Sho gav mi nowt bud slaverment." 
 A "belderer" and a "bealer" is a preacher who 
 bellows and bawls. 
 
 "Caigny" and "nattery" are used of peevish 
 ill-temper one of Mary's many failings, which her 
 bad health made excusable. To " splauder " one's 
 feet is to spread their progression at an angle 
 of "a quarter to twelve o'clock." A " splauder- 
 ment " is an ostentatious display of dress or food. 
 " Skriking and skirling " are similar words indica- 
 tive of screaming "T'pains war that bad, sho 
 skirled an' skriked awl t'neet lang." "Swanky" 
 was in use on the moorlands long before it became
 
 YORKSHIRE WORDS 73 
 
 fashionable slang. A " stride-whalloper " is an 
 overgrown, hobbledehoy, longlegged lass, and a 
 "whalloper" is a term denoting largeness of size 
 in man or beast. "Menseful" and "immenseful" 
 are very useful Yorkshire adjectives constantly in 
 use, meaning orderly and disorderly. "Aunter- 
 some " is not only an old Yorkshire but also an old 
 English word meaning adventurous. To " maddle " 
 is to wander in delirium, or to talk foolishly 
 " He war tewing an' maddling awl t'neet." To be 
 "moidered" is to be thoroughly upset in mind. 
 " Rumbustical " signifies blatantly noisy. "Smittle " 
 is both a Yorkshire verb and adjective meaning to 
 infect and be infectious. " Gammerstangs " and 
 " donnots " are low lewd women. 
 
 "Rag-back day" is the day after Martinmas 
 Day, when the farmhouse lads and lasses who 
 have found new places pack up their belongings. 
 "Fest" or "fast pennies," "God's pennies" or 
 "arles" were the crowns or half-crowns paid by 
 masters or mistresses to the lads or lasses they had 
 engaged at the Hirings or " Statis," and was legally 
 binding, unless returned before day of service. 
 " Crowdy " was oatmeal porridge, and " blencorn " 
 a mixture of wheat and rye flour. The old farmers 
 told me rye flour was frequently so mixed with 
 wheaten flour in the Napoleonic days, producing 
 a bread which though very dark-coloured was 
 exceedingly sweet in flavour, and would keep 
 quite moist and eatable for at least ten days. In 
 those times occurred occasionally cases of gangrene, 
 produced from the ergot fungus which attacked the 
 rye. "Havver" cake is oat cake (Danish hafr = oats). 
 " Boggle " and " boggart " are old Yorkshire terms
 
 74 OLD YORKSHIRE WORDS 
 
 for hobgoblins. "Meg" is old Yorkshire for 
 halfpenny, and I frequently heard the word in 
 use "Sho war meean an' nobbut gav yan (one) 
 a meg." "Souse" was used on the South York- 
 shire moorlands, and is old Yorkshire for brawn. 
 "Parkin" is ginger bread, made specially for the 
 5th of November. On the South Yorkshire moor- 
 lands it is also called " T'harth Cake." 
 
 An ironmonger in a local town told me that 
 one evening a typical high-sider, living back-o- 
 beyont, asked for what he called a "posnet" on 
 behalf of a neighbour. After much questioning 
 he came to the conclusion that a saucepan was in 
 demand. In correspondence later with a wholesale 
 firm, he was informed that " posnet " was a term 
 applied in the remote districts to both basins and 
 saucepans. (Old French, pocenet, a small basin.) 
 
 Of the local names of birds, beasts, and plants 
 a long and etymologically most interesting list could 
 be made, but my readers will be crying "lam 
 satis," and I have no wish to inflict a complete 
 glossary upon them. If I have given them enough 
 " Yorkshire " to make what follows intelligible, my 
 purpose in this chapter has been served.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 SOME MOORLAND TRAGEDIES 
 
 ANYBODY who has any intimate knowledge of the 
 remote moorlands of North Yorkshire, Lancashire, 
 and Westmoreland, must have heard the story of 
 the missing Scots " Badger " (pedlar). There are 
 several variations of the same story, which very 
 briefly is as follows. One of the many Scotch 
 pedlars, who perambulated the Northern Counties 
 some one hundred and fifty years ago, a man well 
 known for the regularity and constancy of his rounds 
 and the general excellence of his merchandise, failed 
 to arrive home. As he was long overdue, inquiries 
 were at last made and his movements traced to 
 his last house of call, a farm occupied by a free- 
 holder, who had previous to the pedlar's disappear- 
 ance been "desperately put teea it ter carry on, 
 an' war in varra low watter," but had afterwards 
 waxed prosperous, "makin' girt sploaderment " 
 (ostentation). Though the crime could not be 
 brought home to him, the very strong presumption 
 was that he had murdered the Scotsman, and 
 possessed himself of the considerable sum of money 
 the latter would then have had on his person. So 
 far so good, but the amazing part of the story is 
 that there is hardly a remote farmhouse in the 
 above-mentioned districts which does not lay claim 
 
 75
 
 76 SOME MOORLAND TRAGEDIES 
 
 to the distinction of being the scene of the Badger's 
 disappearance and putative murder, and the only 
 conclusion one can come to is an absurd one. 
 Either some dozens of unhappy but rich Scotch 
 pedlars were in those days cruelly done to death 
 by the bloodthirsty Northern farmers, or the same 
 man was murdered over and over again in different 
 localities. 
 
 When I first heard this extraordinary story, the 
 claim of my district to be the setting of the tragedy 
 seemed irrefutable. One perfect summer's morning, 
 when every detail of the wide-rolling valley before 
 us, dotted with grey stone homesteads, was un- 
 usually clear, I sat on an " owergaat " with a very 
 alert old man of eighty- eight, who very graphically 
 pointed out to me the various farms at which the 
 ill-fated Scot had called in the course of his last 
 progress. He traced him at last along the ascend- 
 ing " waygate " (footpath) to the " owergaat " on 
 which we sat, and then turning round pointed to 
 the farm on the crest of the hill beyond, remarking 
 impressively, " He went in thar, an' it war Spring- 
 wire Jack's grandfaither wha knocked 'im ower 
 t'heead." He added further details similar to those 
 I have heard elsewhere, that the murderer and his 
 son after him would "mak throng deed" on the 
 anniversary of the pedlar's murder, and act 
 "the Play of the lost Pedlar," someone actually 
 masquerading in the pedlar's old garb, and with 
 the original pack on his back. I thanked my 
 ancient friend for his trouble and went on to 
 interview Jack Malthaus or Springwire Jack, as 
 he was invariably called. Had I known as much 
 of this man as I did later, I should have had no
 
 THE SCOTS "BADGER" 77 
 
 delicate hesitation in asking for further details. 
 The Pennine hills of Yorkshire abound with 
 strange characters and human oddities, but this 
 man was incomparably the most weird I ever came 
 across. As soon as he grasped the purport of my 
 visit, he shouted out, "Whya yer meean'im ez mi 
 grandfaither murdered ? " I soon discovered that 
 he was immensely proud of his ancestor's exploit. 
 He entered into fuller particulars, and even took 
 the trouble to take me to an enclosed moorland 
 allotment on his farm called Scotsman's allotment, 
 where he said the Scotsman was buried. "He 
 murdered 'im reeight eneeagh, an' got awl 'is brass, 
 an' a rare gud job teea. He war at t'far end an' 
 abart bruzzen, an' he sihded 'im thar." 
 
 On my return home I at once referred to an 
 Ordnance map of the district of 1840, and thereon 
 was marked " Scotsman's allotment." This was 
 apparently conclusive. But in my many excursions 
 farther afield I heard almost identical stories, and 
 found also on the map many other "Scotsman's 
 allotments." So there I must leave this mysterious 
 legend. 
 
 It is quite beyond my modest capabilities to 
 do even the faintest justice to the "miraklous" 
 personality of Springwire Jack. His mother, I 
 was frequently told, suckled him till he was seven. 
 It is probably true, too, that when he was being 
 christened in the old Parish Church at the age 
 of two years, he opened his eyes asking, "Is it 
 gin, mother ? " and shocking the parson dreadfully. 
 Gin seems to have been a staple article of his diet 
 through life. During his tender years his terrible 
 father used to wake him out of his childish slumbers, 
 
 M
 
 78 SOME MOORLAND TRAGEDIES 
 
 bringing him down into "t'hoos," and tormenting 
 him, till he delighted the parental heart by swearing 
 horribly. He was then rewarded with a "let 
 down" of gin, pronounced to be a "reeight tyke" 
 and worthy of the stock, and then taken back 
 to bed. Such an upbringing ought to have ruined 
 his constitution, but he grew instead into the 
 strongest of men. He was " ez hard ez a brazzil, 
 ez wick ez an eel, ez tough ez pin-wire, and 
 ez game ez a cockroach." His teeth were like 
 granite, and his voice was the voice of a human 
 corncrake, with the metallic resonances of a gramo- 
 phone. I could pick it out immediately in a 
 crowded market, and have easily heard it two 
 miles away across the valley, when he yelled 
 to his sheep-dog. He had a bottomless barrel 
 of swear words when he "ramed an' rahved." 
 It was impossible, too, to " switch him " (make 
 him drunk), and he could ride hell-for-leather 
 anything on four legs "from a pig to a jackass." 
 He either never slept or turned night into day, 
 because I was constantly meeting him at all 
 unearthly hours, in most out-of-the-way places. 
 In his mysterious horse-dealings he was like the 
 Elusive Pimpernel. I once met him on a distant 
 dale railway miles away from home late at night, 
 and when he told me that he had just come from 
 Hull, I could not have been more astonished than 
 if he had mentioned the other well-known place 
 beginning with the same letter. With his raven 
 black hair one could not guess his age within 
 thirty years, and I know that during the Boer 
 War he patriotically volunteered for a cavalry 
 regiment, completely humbugging a recruiting
 
 PRIMITIVE BARBARITIES 79 
 
 office as to his age, and was accepted, till his 
 huge imposture was discovered. 
 
 The barbarian and primitive instincts of those 
 of the moorlanders who had "bred back" were 
 frequently in evidence. Some of their actions 
 were more than cruel. The dutiful son of one 
 who was eternally " threeaping " with and " pashing 
 at" his wife carried out to the letter his father's 
 
 behest to cut her " d d heead off," decapitated 
 
 his mother with an axe and on his father's return 
 from market presented him with the head on a 
 charger. The last woman hanged at York was 
 a moorlander. It was the old story of a woman 
 scorned and transformed into a hell-cat. She was 
 thrilled with love for the farmer for whom she 
 kept house, but unfortunately he was not re- 
 sponsive, much preferring, to her deep affection, 
 the excellent fatty "gaufer " cakes which she made. 
 The stupid man might have endured the former, 
 while revelling in the latter. Having tried in vain 
 all her arts and artfulness, including no doubt 
 spasmodic hysterics, she popped the question only 
 to be refused. The next day during the farmer's 
 absence at market she bought some "puzzon" 
 (poison) which she mixed with the cakes he so 
 dearly loved. The tipsy old doctor was quite 
 unsuspicious and would have given a certificate 
 of death, had not the significant coincidence of 
 all the farmyard poultry dying after picking up 
 some of the dead man's vomit, been brought 
 to his notice. 
 
 In affairs of the heart a convenient attack of 
 " stericks " is occasionally very useful in bringing 
 matters to a crisis. A moorland patient of mine,
 
 80 SOME MOORLAND TRAGEDIES 
 
 a widower, advertised for a housekeeper with a 
 view to matrimony, and was so overwhelmed with 
 replies that he invoked the parson's aid and mine 
 to help in his decision. The successful applicant 
 turned out to be such a " gradely and bettermy " 
 person, that, after having well proved her capacity 
 as a housekeeper, he became dreadfully bashful 
 and afraid of putting the more important question. 
 His tiresome dallying urged her to prompt action. 
 One evening I was hastily summoned to the house 
 to find her apparently unconscious, and while the 
 distressed farmer was assisting me in placing her 
 in a more comfortable position, she suddenly awoke 
 to consciousness, and putting her arms round the 
 farmer's neck, exclaimed, "Aa, Jammie, Ah deea 
 luve ye." That "sattled t'job up" and they were 
 happily married. 
 
 I heard a story of a gamekeeper who, having 
 lost his leg in an accident, gave instruction for its 
 safe deposit in an oak box pending his recovery, 
 when, dreading a serious handicap on the Day of 
 Resurrection, he approached five country parsons 
 imploring them in turn to read the burial service 
 over it. They all refused this very reasonable 
 request. So he treasured the discarded member 
 till he departed this life when it was " sihded " with 
 him. I asked the Squire whose father had employed 
 this man, if the story was true. " Perfectly true," 
 he replied, "but it was a great waste of time, 
 because if ever a lying, thieving, rascally poaching 
 devil went to h 1, he did." 
 
 The following incident I cannot omit, though 
 it is not easy to relate. I was once consulted by 
 a woman, quite a stranger to me. She told me
 
 A WICK TUMOUR" 81 
 
 she was unmarried and lived with her mother, a 
 widow, and her brother, a bachelor, at a sheep 
 farm in a village which was nearly at the end of 
 the world, and quite back-o'-beyond. It was 
 really outside my district, and I rarely went so far 
 afield. I put her age at thirty-five, and thought her 
 simple-minded. She complained of indigestion, and, 
 though her symptoms were decidedly suspicious, I 
 said nothing, but on the " wait and see " principle, 
 gave her a bottle of " stuff." After she had gone 
 she came back, evidently as an afterthought, to the 
 house unannounced. Opening my consulting-room 
 door very gently, she put her head in, remarking, 
 "Am I going to have a little baby?" "Good 
 gracious me, do come in and tell me why you ask 
 such a question," was my reply. " My brother says 
 so and is very angry about it, and I want to know," 
 she explained. I pointed out that gifts of babies 
 only came through one agency. She point-blank 
 denied all possibility of this, but persisted in her 
 request ; so I arranged for an appointment for her 
 to come with a friend to settle the momentous 
 question. She never kept it. 
 
 It is amazing how women in trouble will deny 
 this possibility. I recall in passing a case when I 
 said very explicitly to a woman, "It is either a 
 baby or a tumour, and from your own knowledge 
 you know of course which it is." "If it is a 
 tumour," she asked, "what does it mean?" "An 
 operation at an infirmary," I replied. Will it be 
 believed that this woman, whom I thought to be 
 unusually intelligent, took to her bed, and gave it 
 out that she was going to the infirmary for an 
 operation. The whole country-side sympathised,
 
 82 SOME MOORLAND TRAGEDIES 
 
 the parson of the parish was solicitous in his 
 inquiries, offering a recommendation for the 
 hospital, and the Squire's wife, who was terribly 
 down on any immorality, offered all kinds of help. 
 A relative of this woman's, a shrewd old sheep- 
 farmer, asked me shortly afterwards what kind of 
 a tumour his sister-in-law had. I replied that it 
 was "a wick tumour." "There's all soarts 
 o' tumours nowadays, bud I never heeard of a 
 wick un afore," was his comment, as I left him 
 thoughtfully scratching his old puzzled head. 
 "Wick" in Yorkshire means lively, and for once 
 at any rate this tyke who was ordinarily "wick 
 eneagh " was " as daft as a broom shaft ! " 
 
 To go back to my original story of the simple- 
 minded woman. About two months after this 
 amusing consultation, when fishing one of our 
 numerous delightfully picturesque ghylls, in which 
 trout of an unusually light brown colour abounded, 
 I came across one of those ancient curios, a farm 
 servant who had been in the same place forty 
 years. He was a weird-looking customer, with 
 long black Piccadilly weepers, and would have 
 made an excellent scarecrow. Like all of his 
 class he was very talkative, and soon told me all 
 about himself, and that he came from this distant 
 village where Creation first commenced. He was 
 evidently ignorant of my identity, so I asked him 
 if he knew anything of my patient. She was in 
 trouble and not for the first time, and the talk of 
 the village, he replied, adding that she had been 
 to the clever Muxley doctor, who said it was 
 "nowt but windy spasms." 
 
 I heard nothing further about her till nearly a
 
 CHILD-MURDER 83 
 
 year after, when an Inspector of County Police 
 with the poor-law guardian of the village, called 
 on me, and asked me what I thought of her con- 
 dition when she consulted me. At first of course 
 I declined to give any information. The patient's 
 secrets must be the doctor's secrets. Then they 
 informed me that there was overwhelming, but not 
 incriminating, evidence that this woman must have 
 had at least seven or eight babies, which she had 
 managed somehow to put out of the way. There 
 is no need to detail the evidence, but it was very 
 convincing. The garden and any likely place 
 round the farm had been thoroughly searched for 
 any possible remains. The wide, open moor near 
 the farm was a convenient place for their disposal, 
 and that had been carefully examined too. No 
 doctor had ever attended her, and the old mother 
 evidently had been an abetter and an accessory. 
 I could give them no reliable information of course. 
 Six months later I received a letter from the vicar 
 of this very extensive parish, which was a strong 
 appeal ad misericordiam on the woman's behalf. 
 He stated therein that the noble lord who owned 
 the farm, which these people's forebears had farmed 
 for nearly two hundred years, was so terribly upset 
 by the state of affairs which had been disclosed, 
 that he had given them notice to quit. Nothing 
 would stay his hand except a certificate from me 
 to the effect that she was a virgin. He added that 
 he believed the woman was quite an innocent 
 victim of cruel suspicion, and was quite anxious 
 to have an examination. I went to the distant 
 farm and wasted two precious hours. The woman 
 obstinately refused to be examined, though she and
 
 84 SOME MOORLAND TRAGEDIES 
 
 the old woman went down on their knees to me 
 begging piteously for the " sustificate." Two years 
 afterwards when driving through that village, I said 
 to my man, " Where is Steean Beck Farm ? " He 
 stopped the horse and we gazed in bewilderment. 
 The farmhouse and buildings had been wiped off 
 the face of the earth, and the land evidently joined 
 to an adjacent farm. 
 
 The following paddynoddy (account) of " strange 
 deed" on the remoter moorland in the twentieth 
 century is perhaps scarcely credible. Moorland 
 people, though they are eternally and viciously 
 curious about the " concarns " of their neighbours, 
 are slow to attempt any interference. They have 
 a most wholesome dread of the law and its 
 mysterious and never-ending sequences. There 
 are, it is true, very rare occasions when the stang 
 is still ridden to shame some prominent local 
 individual or manifest hypocrite, who has shame- 
 fully used a woman in either single or married 
 life. The influence of the country bully, quick to 
 follow a threat by a blow, must not be under- 
 rated. And as far as the outer and greater world 
 is concerned the clannish feeling is still very strong. 
 I was called once to a lonely and distant farm to 
 see a fugitive from justice, who had been success- 
 fully hidden for a long time by his daughter, and 
 was amazed that his concealment had not been 
 given away. He was wanted in a notorious 
 poaching case. 
 
 Apropos of "awe ov t'law," a local Squire one 
 night, during a dinner-party, received a most urgent 
 message that the wife of one of his oldest tenants 
 wished to see him at once on a matter which
 
 KESTER HORNER 85 
 
 would admit of no delay. Like all her sisters 
 she was an " aramastorky " (a most powerfully 
 built woman), and he found her in the house- 
 keeper's room looking terribly fierce, and nursing 
 a huge hammer. She explained that an assigna- 
 tion for that night between one of her married 
 daughters and the latter's husband, a thorough 
 rakapelt (rascal) and incorrigible horse-stealer, 
 whom the Squire had been instrumental in sending 
 to jail, had just come to her ears. "Yon shak-rag 
 good-fer-nowt Peter 'as cum owt o' t'hoile (hole or 
 jail) an' is cumin ter late (meet) our Mary Anne 
 at nine by t'clock ter neet at t'owd barn, bud mind 
 yah, Ah sail be thaar teea back o' t'door, an' just 
 fell 'im like this." Raising the murderous-looking 
 hammer she illustrated the proposed coup de grace. 
 "Bud mind ye, Squoire, John (her husband) an' 
 me sail be awl t'same obliged to yer if ye will be 
 sae good ez to stand between us an' t'law." He 
 had much difficulty in persuading the irate mother- 
 in-law that it would be quite beyond his power to 
 grant her modest request, to shield her after pre- 
 meditated, though perhaps justifiable, homicide. 
 
 Kester (Christopher) Horner, a member of the 
 large moorland clan of that name, was a sheep 
 farmer, farming "muckle well to profit" the 
 holding of his fore- elders. He had very few near 
 relatives left, his branch having nearly passed out. 
 No more gentle and kindly son of the moorland 
 ever watched over flocks by day or night. In 
 contrast to the other moorlanders he was like 
 a graceful birk (birch) tree, growing among the 
 knotted and gnarled oaks of the uplands. At 
 fifty-eight he was a most "viewly" man, tall, 
 
 N
 
 86 SOME MOORLAND TRAGEDIES 
 
 slender, clean-shaven, with well -cut features, 
 abundant grey hair, and deep blue eyes. A Non- 
 conformist and a total abstainer, he bore locally 
 an unsullied reputation for honesty and truth in 
 all his dealings. He was perhaps a little lethargic 
 in manner, a slow thinker and mover, and decidedly 
 a dreamer. He was a bachelor living with his 
 two unmarried sisters who, with an elderly farm 
 man-servant of long-trusted service, were the 
 other occupants of the farmstead. That he had 
 never seen his way to matrimony was ever the 
 deepest regret to him, becoming as years passed 
 almost a grievance. Owing to a severe accident 
 his father had been till death a chronic invalid, 
 and the responsibility of the farm and home had 
 fallen from quite early years on his shoulders. 
 There was such a strong strain too of insanity in 
 his branch of the family, that he rightly considered 
 it as a bend sinister. Sarah, the eldest of the sisters, 
 was " kitling- brained " (weak-minded) and almost 
 an imbecile, while Mally (Martha) the younger, 
 though a clever and "moiling" (industrious) 
 housekeeper, was so terribly highly-strung that 
 any sudden shock or mental strain would easily 
 overwhelm her. Homer's other two relatives 
 were a young cousin of about twenty-six years 
 of age, Caleb Horner, and a second cousin, who 
 had married years before, Reuben Wythes, then 
 a retired farmer, by whom I was drawn into the 
 story. Caleb Horner, who was a cabinetmaker 
 living in London, and a very steady, diligent, and 
 skilful workman, generally spent a brief annual 
 holiday at the moorland farm, where he was 
 regarded by both Kester and his sisters as their
 
 THE STORY OF HESTER 87 
 
 ultimate beneficiary. Reuben Wythes I knew 
 well. He was a zealous chetch-ganner (goer) and 
 "wardener" of the Old Church for many years, 
 and a more upright, conscientious mortal, " with a 
 good heart in his belly," it was impossible to meet. 
 In his leisure of retirement he was a frequent 
 and welcome visitor for a few hours at the farm. 
 
 Existence passed happily enough for Homer 
 in the constant tending of his many sheep, and 
 was like the gentle runnel which flowed through 
 his lands. The superior and ever-restless house- 
 keeping of his sister Mally, who was continually 
 "rountering and scowdering" (cleaning), was 
 perhaps the only discord in the peaceful life of 
 the farm. In his spare hours Horner read much, 
 delighting in poetry and good works of fiction 
 which appealed to his dreamy, romantic nature. 
 Though he loved women with eye and mind, and 
 was ever attracted by feminine grace and charm, 
 Horner avoided rather than sought their society. 
 His manner towards them when he rarely met 
 them, was that of a very shy and swainish 
 (bashful) man. It is true that he would antici- 
 pate and sometimes seek his occasional meetings 
 with Hester Kettlewell, the servant lass of Birk- 
 lands Farm, as she came tripping along the 
 "bypath " which ran through his allotments, on her 
 visits home to a farm on the higher moorland. 
 On her part these meetings were purely accidental ; 
 but she liked this most gentle man, whom she 
 regarded as older than his years, almost an old 
 man, who always treated her so kindly and was 
 so ready and willing to answer the vague and 
 perplexing questions she often asked him. The
 
 88 SOME MOORLAND TRAGEDIES 
 
 most impressive feature of these moorlands is the 
 number and variety of boulders of millstone grit 
 scattered in fantastic fashion everywhere. Some 
 are Time's most majestic landmarks. Several 
 were close to the bypath offering a tempting 
 and easy resting-place, and pinnocked (perched) 
 on them, Horner and the girl sometimes had 
 quite long confidences together. Should they by 
 chance be disturbed by a rare passer-by there was 
 no trace of embarrassment visible in either. 
 
 As Hester had been in the same place for 
 nearly five years, they were now quite old if not 
 intimate "partiklers" (friends). Kester's attitude 
 towards the girl was one solely of friendship and 
 sincere interest in her welfare. The possibility of 
 matrimony he had long and sternly ruled out. He 
 delighted to look at a healthy and pretty moorland 
 lassie in the full joy and glory of her youth, and to 
 hear the music of her happy laugh. Sometimes he 
 would bring her a story-book, a gift she gladly 
 accepted. She was the eldest of the large family 
 of Roger and Susan Kettlewell. Of this Roger 
 Kettlewell little indeed can be said to his good. 
 In addition to being a farmer, farming two farms, 
 of which one homestead was empty, he carried on 
 the business of a butcher in a small way and cattle 
 dealer. At one time he had certainly moiled 
 industriously, but from early manhood his constant 
 failing had been drink, and he was now a confirmed 
 "swab" (drunkard). In appearance he was a 
 "braunging" (coarse), powerfully built, and tall 
 man, with a coal-black beard, florid complexion, 
 and deep-set, pig-like, and cunning eyes. He 
 was known throughout the dale as a fearless,
 
 THE STORY OF HESTER 89 
 
 " obstracklous " (masterful) bad-tempered bully 
 whom when "noppy" (tipsy) it was unwise to 
 "threeap" (contradict), or even refuse to drink 
 with. His poor wife by constant ill-treatment and 
 blows, had had all the spirit knocked out of her, 
 and was now "nowt less than a slutter-muck." 
 Whatever little affection or love this "harden- 
 faced " brute possessed, was reserved entirely for his 
 first-born, Hester, who alone had any influence over 
 him, or treated him with any degree of fearlessness. 
 The father lived in the daughter, in her strong, 
 well-knit "cobby" figure, her rich colouring, her 
 thick black hair, and slight coarseness of feature. 
 Hers, too, was his passionate and jealous nature, 
 with some mixture of slyness and cunning. What- 
 ever inconvenient legacy of heredity Time had in 
 store for her, there is no doubt that she was then 
 a most attractive and "delightsome" maid of the 
 moor, whose charm and beauty had wrought sad 
 havoc in moorland hearts. That she had many 
 admirers and worshippers is easily imagined, who 
 were only too willing to offer her their hearts and 
 "cotterils" (possessions). But all their advances 
 she rudely rejected, and even seemed to enjoy the 
 snubs she dealt out. To her father and mother 
 alike her attitude to marriage was a puzzle. The 
 former, much " feshed " (annoyed) by her five long 
 years' service in one place, would constantly " crob " 
 (scold) her. "If thou weeant wed them as Ah 
 uphod (uphold) as favourable an' is ready ter pop 
 doun thi throttle (throat), whya Ah would mannish 
 ter gan in tiv er bether pleeace instead ov rivin 
 yer-sen i'bits fer Mecca an' his blasted scrattin 
 woman" (mean wife).
 
 90 SOME MOORLAND TRAGEDIES 
 
 Hester's long and faithful service in one place, 
 and her brusque if not cruel treatment of her many 
 adorers was no unsolvable enigma. It was really 
 a very old human story of a deep and overwhelm- 
 ing love, and of a passion bereft of reason. In 
 the first hour of her life at Birklands she was 
 irresistibly attracted by the "maister," Edward 
 Metcalfe, or Ned Mecca. His outstanding good 
 nature and handsome face seemed at once to 
 "owerwin" her. He was a "goodlike" man, 
 "lingy" (active) and well-built, favouring his 
 Scandinavian "get" (descent), with golden-red 
 hair and short tufted beard. Good nature and 
 happiness radiated from him. His cheery laugh, 
 his whistle or his song was never still. He was 
 eternally joking and "funning." "Nowt never put 
 him about nohow." Then, at about thirty-six years 
 of age, he had married six years before a distant 
 cousin who owned the farm, and there were now 
 three children. His wife was a quiet, unimaginative, 
 unsuspicious woman, with little pretence to good 
 looks, whose constant purpose in life was to bring 
 up her children well and "put by for them." 
 Naturally industrious and thrifty, as the years 
 passed she worked harder and harder, her temper 
 soured appreciably, and her thrift bordered on 
 meanness. 
 
 The farm was one of about sixty acres, and 
 Mecca, though occasionally employing a "daytal- 
 dick" (day labourer), did the bulk of the work, 
 and shared with Hester the milking, the serving of 
 calves, and the feeding of pigs. The latter was up 
 at cocklight (daylight) and a most " laboursome " 
 and willing helper till "murking." When after a
 
 THE STORY OF HESTER 91 
 
 few weeks Hester awoke to the wonder of a 
 terrible love for this man, she made no effort nor 
 had any desire to escape or resist it. Now only to 
 be near him, working and helping was her sweetness 
 of life. Her natural cunning and wit told her it 
 was a secret to be jealously hidden. In the house 
 the mistress could find no possible fault, but always 
 praised her, and out-of-doors her strength and 
 willingness prompted her to do the task of a man. 
 Little wonder her mistress thought her a treasure, 
 and was anxious to keep her, "makin' much on 
 her," and encouraging Mecca to take her to 
 "t'chetch" sometimes, or to an occasional fair 
 or distant "rant" (feast). When Mecca returned 
 from market or fair, Hester would give him a sly 
 smile of welcome, and by her witchcraft contrived 
 to have ready the " meats " he loved best. From 
 the first he had "takken" to the buxom lassie 
 who worked so cheerily and hard, and who enjoyed 
 the many jokes he cracked for her benefit. Her 
 witty efforts, too, to cap them delighted his heart. 
 Thrown constantly together an intimate familiarity 
 naturally came to pass between them. 
 
 Time was on Hester's side, as was also, too, 
 the scolding but unsuspicious wife. The sparks 
 from the fire of a deep and jealous passion kindled 
 at last a responsive conflagration, and the inevitable 
 happened. It was more probably the case of a 
 man seduced than of a woman seduced. Such 
 seductions occur more often than we wot. 
 
 It was a long, stormy, and unhappy conference, 
 when in the absence of Mary Mecca at a "tea- 
 drinkin','' Hester told Mecca the result of her 
 secret visit to the doctor. To her surprise "he
 
 92 SOME MOORLAND TRAGEDIES 
 
 ra'med and rahved" like a madman, accusing her 
 of having tempted him to sin. Apart from her 
 strong instinct of motherhood, Hester's feelings, 
 when she heard the doctor's verdict, were those 
 of a great and exultant joy that the father of 
 her unborn child was the man she so passionately 
 loved. She innocently believed that Mecca would 
 be equally "gladsome," and had a wild hope that 
 in the love he professed for her he would forsake 
 his home. Quickly calming down he " pleeaned " 
 that his home life would be ruined, and his wife 
 to whom he was much " behodden " would never 
 forget and "leeak ower t'job." He loved, too, his 
 children. He implored her to go quietly and un- 
 suspiciously away, promising her "awl t'brass he 
 could lay hands on." In the stress and weariness 
 of mind which followed, Hester's most fearful 
 dread was that her father, who was then drinking 
 heavily and recklessly, might " ferret t'matter out " 
 and make terrible "to do." In darker moments 
 came thoughts even of suicide in the river of the 
 dale. Though she sought in vain for " heart ease " 
 she moiled harder than ever. All her merriment 
 went, and her "bad leeak" became evident. Her 
 mood at first was to avoid her old friend Kester 
 Horner, passing him hurriedly on the bypath 
 of the pasture with some short excuse of being 
 "varra thrang." But her intense longing to talk 
 to him was not to be resisted. There was no 
 attempt to confide or ask his help or advice, but his 
 "up-looking" (upright) presence and sympathetic 
 nature seemed to give her in her weariness some 
 measure of comfort and strength. He was quick 
 to see she was " sadla put about " by some deep
 
 THE STORY OF HESTER 93 
 
 trouble, and had a vague suspicion of its nature. 
 All her pert, irresponsible chatter had gone, and 
 she sat sad-eyed and silent. On one occasion 
 when she had completely broken down, sobbing 
 hysterically, fate unkindly arranged that Kettlewell 
 should pass that way homewards with a neighbour- 
 ing farmer. So engrossed was Kester in his helpless 
 effort to calm the girl that he failed to notice their 
 coming. He had just taken her hand, breaking 
 into the homely and delightful old Yorkshire, 
 " Cum, honey sweet, deeant tak on seea. Nobbut 
 tell me what's wrang an' Ah'll help thee, bairn," 
 when he heard Kettlewell shouting, " Hester, lass, 
 what's ter deea ? " For the moment taken aback 
 and evidently embarrassed, Horner managed at 
 last to reply, "T'lass is sair putten about about 
 summat. She weeant tell me, but maybe sho'll 
 tell ye." Hester vouchsafed no explanation, but 
 followed her father and the farmer homewards. 
 
 By the rarest of chances Kettlewell happened 
 that day to be in a comparatively sensible frame 
 of mind. For some time he had been "hard set 
 teea " to carry on. Pressed by his creditors, and 
 behind with his rent, he was "at t'far end," and 
 practically "bruzzen" (bankrupt). A bombshell 
 in the form of a notice to quit, received by post 
 from his landlord had quite sobered him. He 
 had more than his share of native gumption 
 (shrewdness), which in a man of his character 
 would be perhaps better described as a downright 
 and unscrupulous cunning. Pondering over what 
 he had just witnessed, he remembered his wife 
 had told him that there was " summat wrang wi' 
 Hester who had not been hersen for some time." 
 
 o
 
 94 SOME MOORLAND TRAGEDIES 
 
 It was scarcely probable he thought that there 
 could be anything between her and Kester. He 
 was too old and "not given" to matrimony. If 
 by any chance there was "owt o' t'soart," she 
 might "deea mickle war." He war "well laid for 
 brass," and might help him out of his difficulties. 
 After tending his stock, he entered " t'hoos " 
 (kitchen) to find his wife "Siting" (scolding 
 sharply) Hester, who was again sobbing and 
 crying. "Hodd yer blethering. What's awl this 
 ter deea?" he asked. "What's this ter deea?" 
 repeated Susan Kettle well, " Thou mun well axe. 
 Nobbut use yer een, thou's noan surelie blin' 
 (blind)." He "glimed" (stared) incredulously at 
 Hester for some moments, and then with a harsh 
 laugh said, " By gok, Hester lass, thou's a grand 
 un ter get yersen intiv a mess. Thou that wadna 
 leeak at a man. It caps owt." Then he angrily 
 asked, " Wha's t'faither ? " and receiving no answer, 
 " It's noan yon Kester ? " Hester shook her head 
 very decidedly. "Wha is it then? Ah'll mak 
 thee tell me." There followed a long silence, 
 broken only by sobs, when Kettlewell drew a bow 
 at a venture. "It's noan Ned Mecca?" There 
 was no responsive shake of the head, but a deep 
 crimson blush told him he had hit the mark. "By 
 
 G d, Ah'll shoot t'd 1," shouted Kettlewell, 
 
 who now described the absent Mecca in his foulest 
 language. Exhausted at last with his curses, 
 and bidding Hester to "bide at heeam," he 
 announced his intention of thinking " t'intrikiter 
 job weal ower." Apparently his deep reflection 
 had given him great satisfaction, because he was 
 "ez chuff ez a cheese" when he explained his
 
 THE STORY OF HESTER 95 
 
 course of action. " Ah sail faither t'bairn on yon 
 Kester. He's a farrantly and gradely (genteel 
 and upright) fogrum (fogey), wi' er great consate, 
 bud he's ez soft ez er turmit, an' Ah'll flay 
 (frighten) 'im. He'll never stand tiv t'disgrace. 
 He'll marry thee, an' ef nut, Ah'll mak 'im pay 
 five hunderd pund ter keep wi mouths shutten. 
 Shuttin (shooting) ez ower marciful fer Mecca, an' 
 ez sure ez mi name ez Roger Kettlewell Ah'll 
 reckon wi 'im some daay. We sud git lahtle (little) 
 out ov 'im. Deea ez Ah bid ye, an' Ah'll noan 
 mak a rummacks (mess) ov t'job. Ah's et last 
 batten (end) an' about beggar-staffed." 
 
 Hester intensely relieved that Mecca would for 
 the time escape any blame, was content to sacrifice 
 Horner to her father's interest. Whatever remorse 
 of conscience she must have felt when she heard 
 the disclosure of his unprincipled purpose, she 
 comforted herself by believing it was her duty to 
 stand by him in his difficulties. She leaves the 
 story now. Though she had many excellent and 
 admirable qualities, her acquiescence is remembered 
 to her lasting discredit. 
 
 Knowing well Kettlewell's queer and un- 
 scrupulous character, Horner had an instinctive 
 " forefeeling " that he would plot some mischief 
 after the scene he had witnessed. Although it 
 was with no surprise he saw him coming on the 
 moor the following morning, he was utterly un- 
 prepared for the man's extremely bullying and 
 threatening demeanour. "Noo Mr Kester Horner," 
 he began, " maybe ye have a bit ov a inklin' ov mi 
 business, bud Ah'll insense (inform) ye reeight. 
 Ye have gitten mi lass intiv er sair mess. Maybe
 
 96 SOME MOORLAND TRAGEDIES 
 
 ye weeant faither t'bairn. Ower muckle disgrace 
 likely for t'Horner family quality. Bud leeak ye, 
 ye mun either marry her, or ye mun pay me five 
 hunderd pund ter lap t'job up." Though no coward, 
 Horner was for a moment completely staggered by 
 the audacity of the blackmail, and the utter black- 
 guardism of the man. He stared at him for some 
 minutes in mute astonishment. "Ye may weeal 
 gloar (stare)," added Kettle well. "Ye can't get 
 owt ov it. Ower many foak hav seean ye billin' an' 
 cooin' together on t'steeans (stones). Joblin's a 
 witness ye war hoddin' Hester's hand when she 
 war fleppering (weeping bitterly)." 
 
 "What about Hester?" Horner at length 
 asked, "She knows you speak a shameless lie." 
 "Hester," shouted Kettlewell, "mains (swears) 
 t'bairn is thine. Noo tak notage Ah give ye a 
 week ter chavvle (chew) and study t'job weeal 
 ower, and mak yer mind up. Ye mun get axed 
 at t'chetch, or ye mun pay." With these parting 
 words Kettlewell strode away in great "belk" 
 (spirits) and feeling quite " t'joss-o't-nocks " (master 
 of the situation). 
 
 To say that Horner was " owersetten " only 
 too mildly describes his mental upset. He was 
 completely "baffunded" (dumbfounded) by this 
 infamous accusation. His was a rare type of 
 moorland character, though I have come across it 
 in both sexes, an experience very dear to memory. 
 Gentleness and serenity is its keynote, the reflex 
 of a peaceful and pastoral life, and in great contrast 
 to the love of quarrelling and even fierce pugnacity 
 which is the usual product of hill and heather. 
 Truth and honour were as precious to him as the
 
 THE STORY OF HESTER 97 
 
 breath of the moorland. He had a deep pride of 
 family. Sympathy made music of his life. 
 
 Till then no great and critical trouble had come 
 his way to upset the tranquillity of his days. He 
 fully believed Hester had no part or share in the 
 villainy, though he realised she was only clay in 
 her father's masterful hands. He realised, too, that 
 to marry her or pay the exorbitant blackmail would 
 deliver him hopelessly into the merciless clutches 
 of a scoundrel. The publicity of fighting it out 
 was equally abhorrent. 
 
 Always by habit shy and reserved, he un- 
 fortunately took no one into his confidence nor 
 asked any advice. The penalty and mischief of 
 solitude is that mental worry is indescribably and 
 grotesquely magnified. Solitude is no less pro- 
 ductive of mental breakdown than the excitement 
 and unrest of crowded life. 
 
 No wonder a brain, probably weak by heredity, 
 collapsed. All sleep fled from Kester. Vainly he 
 haunted the bypath in the hope that he might see 
 Hester again. One evening, taking his gun on to 
 the moor with the pretence of a shot at a rabbit, 
 he never returned. He perished by his own hand 
 in the shadow and sorrow of a black despair. 
 
 At the Crowner's Quest little evidence was 
 called. His sister deposed that he had told her 
 he was "Sadla feshed by a great trouble," but 
 could give no clue to its nature, and Jacob 
 Goystacker, the old farm-servant, who was obliged 
 to pass through the maister's bedroom to reach his 
 own, stated that the latter had never slept for five 
 nights, but had paced restlessly up and down, and 
 acted like a " strackling " (a demented being).
 
 98 SOME MOORLAND TRAGEDIES 
 
 Kettlewell waited till the more acute manifesta- 
 tion of a deep widely-spread grief and astonish- 
 ment at Horner's tragic death had passed, before 
 diligently spreading the report that it was due to 
 remorse at the seduction of his daughter. Ill news 
 flies quickly in the country, much more so than 
 good news, but such was the high character of this 
 man that no one believed it, in spite of the fact 
 that the rural mind almost invariably dwells on the 
 darker side of a mystery, and is full of imaginative 
 suspicion. A few days after the funeral Kettlewell 
 went to the farm, and by sheer brutal bullying 
 compelled Martha Homer to believe, or at any rate, 
 accept his story that her brother Kester had ruined 
 his daughter, and agreed to pay five hundred 
 pounds in damages. His suicide, he swore, was 
 an open confession of guilt. As evidence of good 
 faith on his own part, he offered to manage the 
 farm. He so terrorised the distracted and grief- 
 stricken woman, that she went at once with him 
 to the bank to arrange for the payment of the 
 money. From that day she evidently lived in 
 abject fear of him. In his management of the 
 farm he took care to rob her systematically and 
 thoroughly. Having settled with his landlord 
 and creditors, he was again in high feather, ever 
 swaggering, and drinking with his "bragabash" 
 (following) of disreputable companions. Reuben 
 Wythes paid frequent visits to the farm, but was 
 powerless to influence the terrified woman. At 
 Kettlewell's behest she applied for the tenancy of 
 the farm, which had been held by the family over 
 one hundred and fifty years; but apart from her 
 evident incapability, the landlord was aware of the
 
 BULLY KETTLEWELL 99 
 
 rascality going on, and refused her application. 
 When at the end of nearly two years the tenancy 
 expired, Kettlewell removed the two women and 
 their furniture to his empty farmstead, where 
 henceforth they were kept close prisoners under 
 lock and key. , He supplied them daily with food, 
 and his farm-servant slept on the premises. 
 
 This farmhouse was close to a moorland by- 
 road on the sloping upland, and completely over- 
 looked by the one occupied by Kettlewell, who 
 with his family kept it constantly under observa- 
 tion. Periodically he would order Martha to 
 "garb her sen up and gan" with him to the 
 market-town, where under his instruction she 
 would enter the bank alone and withdraw 50 
 or 100, which he took possession of on the 
 doorsteps. These proceedings were witnessed 
 by some of their neighbours who curiously 
 watched them. 
 
 Nothing escapes the rural eye or ear. The 
 moorside was therefore fully aware of the wicked 
 "deed" going on, and there was considerable 
 "upshake" thereat. 
 
 Any remonstrance addressed to Kettlewell 
 about his wickedness was angrily resented by 
 him with a threat or a blow. Everyone seemed 
 to be afraid of this " bellocking " (powerful) bully. 
 No concerted action was taken. The vicar of 
 the parish, the poor-law guardian, and the local 
 " mancatcher " (policeman) each tried to help the 
 women, but from "fear of the law" and brute 
 violence, nothing came of their effort. Caleb 
 Horner, their nearest relative, who was naturally 
 anxious to salve what was left of their money
 
 100 SOME MOORLAND TRAGEDIES 
 
 by the robber, threw up his job, and came north 
 to Reuben Wythes to tackle the "crazzler" 
 (difficult task). Any attempt by them, or other 
 friends, to communicate with the women through 
 the window was frustrated by Kettlewell or his 
 sons, who would abusively order them away. On 
 one or two occasions Mr Kettlewell affably per- 
 mitted them an interview, of course in his presence, 
 but Martha, too cowed to say anything, was almost 
 mutely reticent, and nothing resulted. The ex- 
 perienced agent of a large local estate, who was 
 a magistrate, gave excellent advice that they 
 should take men with carts, force an entry into 
 the house, and remove the women and their 
 belongings, leaving Kettlewell to take what legal 
 action he dared ; but, unfortunately, they were too 
 timid to follow it. A consultation with a well- 
 known firm of lawyers showed a possible way 
 out. One evening Wythes and Horner gave me 
 a long and full history of the case. The lawyers 
 offered me a good fee if I would send them 
 a report on the mental condition of the women, 
 with a view to a de lunatico inquirendo as to 
 their capability of managing their affairs. They 
 also similarly instructed the leading medical 
 practitioner of the market-town. But a few days 
 afterwards the latter declined to take on the 
 job, having heard too much of Kettlewell's 
 desperate character. I was informed that one 
 certificate, if sufficiently comprehensive, would 
 probably meet the case. Seeing that Kettlewell 
 was reported to be drinking madly and, fearing 
 the game of plunder was up, had threatened to 
 shoot anyone who interfered, Wythes and I decided
 
 BULLY KETTLEWELL 101 
 
 to wait for a local fair, winch would probably be 
 attended by the Kettlewell "cagment," before 
 trying to get into the house by stealth. One 
 bitterly cold March day we drove over the high 
 moorland to a remote farm, where we stabled 
 the horse, and by a long devious route reached 
 our destination, after crawling under the cover 
 of many stone walls. We were fortunately un- 
 observed, but had some trouble in persuading the 
 women to open a window for us to enter. Both 
 looked unkempt, much neglected, dirty, but not 
 ill-nourished. There was no difficulty about Sarah. 
 She was clearly a "crackey" (weak-minded). 
 She smiled sweetly, kept up a continual hand- 
 shake, and with true Yorkshire instinct asked 
 us if we would have " summat to eeat." Martha 
 was certainly not insane, but I had the greatest 
 difficulty in persuading her to answer my questions. 
 She was continually peering out of the window, 
 or at the door, expecting the " black-a- vised " 
 monster to appear, and quite evidently lived in 
 terror of him. On this account alone she was 
 incapable of managing her affairs. I had scarcely 
 got the necessary information when we were 
 disturbed by the appearance of Kettlewell's farm 
 servant who, as soon as he saw us, raced at top 
 speed to Kettlewell's farm, giving us an opportunity 
 to escape. Kettlewell was duly served with notice 
 of the "inquirendo," but allowed the time-limit 
 of possible objection to pass. About a fortnight 
 afterwards he got pneumonia which was his 
 "deeathding" (death-blow). Subsequent investi- 
 gation brought to light that he had robbed these 
 poor women of about 2000. 
 
 p
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 YORKSHIRE WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 HILL-DWELLERS all over the world have, as the 
 natural consequence of a special environment, 
 common characteristics which distinguish them 
 from their lowland brethren. Yorkshire and 
 Derbyshire moorlanders are no exception; they 
 resemble each other in character and habits, and 
 morally, as well as geographically, look down on 
 their lowland neighbours, whom they regard as 
 quite of an inferior race. There is, however, one 
 marked and significant difference between them. 
 The Yorkshire moorlander possesses a native wit 
 and humour peculiarly his own, with a lively and 
 keen appreciation of the same gift in others, 
 whereas his Derbyshire brother is as heavy as 
 lead, without a particle of wit or humour in his 
 composition. "Strong in the arm and weak in 
 the head," is quite an old and well-known Derby- 
 shire saying. A joke which in Yorkshire would 
 be sure of appreciation, is either not understood 
 across the border, or mistaken for an insult. A 
 former patient of mine, a witty Yorkshire farmer, 
 who had taken a farm in the Derbyshire Peak 
 district, complained very strongly of this mental 
 defect of his new neighbours, and told me he was 
 continually getting into hot water after firing off 
 
 102
 
 "I PUT TCAPPER ON" 103 
 
 his Yorkshire witticisms. " They don't know what 
 a joke is," was his lament. 
 
 I was born in Yorkshire, though only just 
 within the border. My grandfather's property 
 extended into Derbyshire, and I have been in 
 practice in both counties, so that I have had ample 
 opportunity for observation and comparison. The 
 absence or presence of this faculty for appreciating 
 a joke was nearly as reliable as a map. I know 
 this is a strong indictment of the Derbyshire man. 
 Nevertheless I believe it to be perfectly true. 
 
 Yorkshiremen generally are witty and humorous, 
 but in this respect there is also a decided difference 
 of degree between the moorlanders and the low- 
 landers. And among the moorlanders themselves, 
 those of the Pennine Kange are incomparably more 
 witty and humorous than those of the Wolds, or 
 of the Cleveland Hills and the moorlands of North- 
 east Yorkshire. 
 
 After leaving the high moorlands I practised in 
 the adjacent lowlands, and soon discovered that 
 the local brand of native wit was much less 
 pungent and sparkling than that which I had 
 been daily accustomed to. Some of those old 
 moorlanders could scarcely open their mouths 
 without some witty or humorous remark coming 
 forth. 
 
 The wit is, like the man himself, of the hard- 
 bitten variety. It is nearly always, I am afraid, 
 provocative, wicked, and even venomous. 
 
 A Yorkshire moorsman delights in a battle of 
 words, and loves dearly a duel of native wit a toute 
 outrance. He is nimble in parry and thrust, and 
 will chuckle for many a long day over his coup de
 
 104 YORKSHIRE WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 grace, when he "put t'capper on." "I capped and 
 larnt him," is his invariable description over the 
 friendly glass and pipe afterwards. 
 
 A Yorkshireman, with a fancy for dogs, met a 
 friend out for a stroll with a dog, evidently a new 
 possession. After critical examination of the latter 
 he remarked, "It's a grand pup ye've gotten." 
 "Aye it is," was the reply. 
 
 " What dae ye want for t' ? " 
 
 "Ten pund." 
 
 " It's a h 1 of a price." 
 
 " It's a h 1 of a dog," replied the Yorkshire- 
 man, and walked on. 
 
 I once asked a shrewd Yorkshire farmer his 
 honest opinion of a neighbour of his, another 
 farmer, who though a prominent Churchman was 
 a decidedly dark horse. "Whya, ye see, Doctor, 
 bottomly (at bottom) he's yan o' this soart. He'd 
 gan to t'chetch, tak t'sacriment, then sharpen his 
 knife on a tombstone and cut his own mother's 
 throttle." This bit of word painting, summed the 
 man up admirably. He was a self-seeking, time- 
 serving hypocrite of the worst type. 
 
 A stranger on holiday in a small moorland 
 town, not feeling very well, asked the landlord of 
 the inn where he was staying, his opinion of the 
 local medical faculty. The extensive practice 
 round had been unequally shared between two 
 doctors for many years, one having all the rich 
 cream and leaving only very blue milk for his less 
 successful rival. The landlord, not wishing to 
 show any bias very cleverly replied, " Thar both 
 varra clever men, bud yan, ye can't get him to 
 come, and t'other ye can't get him to go."
 
 "THE LORD LUVES A CHEERFUL GIVER" 105 
 
 N 
 
 A dear old parson friend, now sleeping his last 
 sleep in God's acre, came across a farmer named 
 Thackeray belabouring a donkey most unmercifully. 
 He took him to task, expressing wonder that he 
 could treat a poor dumb animal so cruelly, con- 
 cluding his rebuke thus : " Don't forget, Thackeray, 
 that it was on a donkey that our Blessed Lord 
 rode into Jerusalem." " Aye," replied Thackeray, 
 " an' if 'e'd bin on a lazy b - like this, He would 
 never have got there yet." My friend told me this 
 retort left him as dumb as the donkey. It was a 
 clear knock out. 
 
 One of my pauper patients was an old lady 
 who had quite a local reputation for her tart wit. 
 Although she had excellent health she was very 
 exacting and insisted on a weekly visit. I missed 
 her one week and on my next visit she received 
 me with a hard stony stare. After quite a long 
 silence she at last remarked very venomously, " I 
 see they let you out sometimes." Her landlord, 
 the great lady of the neighbourhood, who had never 
 married, and with whom she was a great favourite, 
 invariably paid her a visit on her return from town. 
 The old lady's first remark was always, "Where's 
 yer man? I reckon nowt to yer Lundon if yer 
 ain't got yan." 
 
 An old Yorkshire widow, a tremendous 
 " charackter " (with an accent on the second 
 syllable) was being pestered by the deacon of a 
 local chapel for a donation to the circuit funds. 
 He was notorious as a very keen and grasping 
 man of business. He wound up his appeal thus, 
 "Noo, Mary, the Lord luves a cheerful giver." 
 "Aye," was Mary's retort. "But He decant luve
 
 106 YORKSHIRE WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 a greedy takker." This was a knock-out blow 
 too. 
 
 This man, with three or four other earnest 
 members of the flock, conceived the idea of a 
 house-to-house visitation and mission, to bring 
 back erring sinners to the fold. It prospered 
 very successfully till it came to old Mary's turn. 
 After an explanation from them of their purpose, 
 she rose to the situation at once. She carefully 
 locked her kitchen-door, and after putting the 
 key in her capacious pocket, proceeded to rake 
 up in turn some notorious sin and wickedness in 
 the past history of each member of the mission. 
 They had all been sinners and had become trans- 
 formed into saints, on the same principle I suppose 
 that poachers become the best gamekeepers. She 
 had a very long memory and did not spare them. 
 When they were "fair maddled and moidered," 
 she finally allowed them to depart, but the mission 
 came to an abrupt end. 
 
 A very rich financier who had bought a sporting 
 estate in Yorkshire, and never discounted his own 
 self-importance, had a little chat with an old 
 Yorkshire character busy on a stone heap, 
 i "Suppose, Barker," he said, "we changed places, 
 and that you had all my money, and I took 
 your hammer, what would you think ? " " Think ! 
 Think ! " was the quick reply, " Ah sud think we 
 sud both be a pair of daft, silly feeals, and neither 
 of us wad shine." 
 
 I saw this man once at Christmas time, with 
 a suspicious-looking bottle under his arm, walking 
 homewards. " What have you got there, Barker ? " 
 I asked.
 
 THE "CONNERIL" 107 
 
 " Can't ye see, Doctor, yer not blind, surely ; 
 it's a bottle of whisky, for sure," was his reply. 
 "I thought bread was the staff of life, not whisky/' 
 I said. "So it is, so it is," he retorted, "bud," 
 waving the bottle in the air, " this is life itself." 
 
 An old Yorkshire squire, a retired colonel, 
 who was always busy poking about and seeing 
 that his many retainers worked industriously inj 
 the station of life to which they had been called, 
 was peering over a hedge and watching one oi 
 them who was nearly as big a character as himsel 
 at work on the stone heap, when suddenly a huge 
 stone flew past his head. " Ashby ! Ashby ! " hj 
 angrily shouted. "What the devil do you meaj 
 throwing big stones over the hedge like that ; 
 you know that nearly hit me on the head ? " " Oh ! 
 it's ye is it, Conneril?" replied Ashby, in great 
 surprise, "Whya thems that's not favourable I 
 awlus export and just chuck 'em ower t'hedge."^ 
 
 The very old and great lady of one village, 
 being wheeled through one of her hay fields in a 
 bath-chair, stopped to speak to one of the hay- 
 makers, an oldish man who had saluted her. Not 
 knowing him she asked, "Who are you?" "My 
 name's Patterson," was his reply. "Where do you 
 live?" she further asked. "In the village," he 
 answered, " an' it's all along of ye I came to live 
 here." "What do you mean?" said the great 
 lady, "by all along of me?" "They said afore I 
 came that Miss Frank was varra good to t'poor, 
 and I've lived here three year now, and never got 
 nowt out of ye yet," was his explanation. (In old 
 Yorkshire the negatives never cancel one another, 
 but serve for accentuation.)
 
 108 YORKSHIRE WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 A county Squire asked a shrewd old Yorkshire 
 cattle dealer his opinion of a well-known farmer in 
 the neighbourhood, who was not too popular. 
 The dealer simply picked up a piece of stray straw 
 on the roadside and let it fall to the ground. 
 
 The shortest reason I ever heard for a change 
 in faith was from a Yorkshire man. The vicar of 
 a certain parish was much gratified to see a rather 
 prominent Nonconformist attending regularly the 
 Church service. After the third Sunday he looked 
 him up, and told him how pleased he was to see him, 
 asking him if he liked the services. " Varra cum- 
 fortable, varra cumfortable, and a nice cumpany," 
 he replied ; adding, that he would like to become 
 a Churchman, and be confirmed. The vicar 
 naturally wanted to know the reason of his con- 
 version, offering to help him on any matter of 
 conscience or difficulty. 
 
 "It war a leg of mutton," said the farmer. 
 " A leg of mutton ! " gasped the vicar in astonish- 
 ment, " I don't understand ! " " Well, t'war like 
 this," was the explanation. " If Simpson," naming 
 the local butcher, " who is a big man at t'Chapel, 
 can sell me who is a regular chapeller a rotten 
 leg of mutton, then I say his religion is rotten too." 
 
 A new vicar was appointed to a very remote 
 moorland living. He was very broad-minded, 
 energetic, and anxious to be the Father Confessor 
 and Consoler to all his parishioners, irrespective of 
 creed or sect. The Nonconformists, however, of 
 whom there were many in the parish, held 
 obstinately aloof, and would have no co-operation. 
 Meeting one of the most prominent of them, an 
 old sheep farmer, at supper one night, the vicar
 
 "LESS GRAMMAR AND MAIR GRACE" 109 
 
 asked him point blank why those of his persuasion 
 did not give him a turn occasionally by coming to 
 the parish church. " Whya," was the explanation, 
 " it's like this. Ye see at t'Chetch, ye mak ower 
 much of t'Ten Commandments, an' we deeant 
 reckon mich to 'em." This was going to the 
 rock bottom of all morality and religion with a 
 vengeance. There were, it is true, occasional 
 cases of sheep-stealing on those moors. 
 
 A young, conceited Yorkshire cattle dealer, 
 whose affairs were not too satisfactory, at a sheep 
 fair, clapped an old hard-headed and very successful 
 member of the same calling on the back, remarking 
 in a very patronising way, " Hoo are ye gettin' on, 
 Broadwith?" The old man turned round and 
 seeing who it was, fairly hissed out, " Hoo am I 
 gettin' on? Thank ye I've gotten on, an' that's 
 mair than ye will ever deea." 
 
 A parson friend taking up his first duty in his 
 new cure, set off to attend a weekly prayer meeting 
 in the village. Being quite a stranger, and the 
 night pitch dark, he lost his way and arrived very 
 late. He was received with stony, silent dis- 
 approval. Of all men, a clergyman should never 
 be unpunctual, because it is so suggestive of 
 being late for the Day of Judgment. The leader 
 addressed him, "Thou's varra late. Thou pray 
 first." So my friend led off with what he inwardly 
 thought was a very well-polished and moving 
 appeal. At its conclusion the leader then 
 announced. "Noo I'll pray." "Oh Lord," he 
 began, "if it please Thee give us less grammar 
 and mair grace." 
 
 The same friend told me how he was once 
 
 Q
 
 110 YORKSHIRE WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 confounded by a Yorkshireman's humour. In a 
 new vicariate he soon made friends with a retired 
 tradesman, who was a faithful Churchman, an 
 excellent fellow, a handy man, and one who was 
 always ready to do a good turn to anybody, or help 
 any lame dog over a stile. This regular worshipper 
 failing to turn up at the Sunday services, the new 
 vicar looked him up, and was promptly shown to 
 his bedside. After warmly shaking hands, he 
 asked, "I hope there is nothing seriously amiss." 
 "Nay, nay," was the reply. "I nobbut had a 
 drop too much on Saturday neet." "A drop too 
 much," repeated the vicar in pained surprise. 
 Then after a short pause he added, "I am very 
 very grieved to hear this, but come, it is a great 
 thing to have confessed at once your transgression." 
 " Aye, aye, I'd a reight drop too much. Saturday 
 neet I war mending t'aud clock, and t'big weight 
 dropped on t'big toe, mashing it up." 
 
 One of my predecessors, whom I knew well, 
 had a very ready wit. He was a thorough York- 
 shireman, and a member of a county family. He 
 had been attending an important and very dignified 
 Yorkshire Squarson for three weeks without any 
 visible improvement in the latter's condition. One 
 morning after answering the doctor's professional 
 questions very laconically, the Squarson remarked, 
 " Well, Doctor, I am getting slowly worse rather 
 than better in spite of having taken very con- 
 scientiously four bottles of your precious physic. 
 The fact is that although you country doctors are 
 always very kind and attentive, you are naturally 
 quite out-of-date. So I must tell you, that I have 
 arranged to go up to town to consult Sir Russell
 
 AN INTRACTABLE PATIENT 111 
 
 Key n olds, the President of the Royal College of 
 Physicians." 
 
 "What an extraordinary coincidence," replied 
 the doctor. "Do you know for the last three 
 weeks I have been terribly worried about the state 
 of my own soul, but seeing you country parsons 
 are so very deficient in your Theology, I have 
 decided to run up to town, too, to consult the 
 Archbishop of Canterbury." 
 
 On another occasion he met daily in consultation 
 a medical neighbour living some miles away. After 
 the usual greetings, he invariably made the same 
 cryptic remark, "I have nearly done it." "Done 
 what?" asked the friend. "Wait and see," was 
 the further cryptic remark. "Wait and see " was 
 evidently invented before Mr Asquith's time. He 
 was attending at the time a well-known and busy 
 Yorkshire baronet, who was very irritable, peppery, 
 and a most difficult patient. The latter was 
 suffering, as the result of an accident, from one of 
 those small ulcers of the skin which every doctor 
 knows to be very painful and intractable, and for 
 which complete rest is the only cure. After a 
 fortnight's rest he insisted much against the 
 doctor's wishes on attending a meeting of Kailway 
 Directors in town, and at the same time meditated 
 a visit on the sly to the then great skin specialist, 
 Sir Erasmus Wilson. The great man looked at 
 the ulcer, remarked that it was indolent, and 
 immediately cauterised it, advising the baronet to 
 go home and rest. Unfortunately, instead of 
 following this excellent advice, he went to the 
 Royal Academy and then dined out, with the 
 result that on the following day whon he arrived
 
 112 YORKSHIRE WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 at his Yorkshire home the last state of the leg was 
 much worse than the first. Murder was out, and 
 the relations between the doctor and his patient, 
 difficult enough before, became ten times more so. 
 One morning he arrived at the consultation 
 evidently in high good humour, remarking, "I've 
 done it, I've done it." 
 
 " What have you done ? " his friend asked. 
 
 "I've told Sir Frederic M - to go to h 1, 
 and take his b y leg with him." 
 
 One of our very wise and alert Methuselahs 
 amused us once very much. A clerical friend of 
 the vicar's had arrived from town on a visit to the 
 old vicarage, and offered to preach the sermons on 
 the following Sunday, an offer which was only too 
 thankfully accepted. Visitors of this kind who 
 offer to relieve by way of a sermon, are doubly 
 welcome to the tired parson who has preached to 
 the same people in the same place for perhaps 
 twenty or even thirty long years. 
 
 The visitor was a thorough townsman, knowing 
 little or nothing of the country or country ways, 
 and there was a little self-interest behind his 
 kindly offer. He had never preached an extempore 
 sermon, though anxious to do so, and thought here 
 was a golden opportunity to make the first attempt 
 before a simple-minded and ignorant country con- 
 gregation. He could not have made a more fatal 
 mistake. There is no more critical congregation 
 in the world than that of a large Yorkshire moor- 
 land parish. If they think the sermon is worth 
 listening to, they follow it with rapt attention. It 
 will be discussed by the moorland sages throughout 
 the week up and down dale or on moorside, when-
 
 BALAAM'S ASS 113 
 
 ever opportunity chances. After all there is not 
 much to talk about in the country among the men- 
 folk beyond the state of the crops, the ruling prices 
 at market or fair, or possibly the latest quarrel, so 
 the parson's " ditty " comes in for its due share. 
 
 The vicar heard his visitor's explanation of his 
 offer without comment, but smiled wisely. The 
 subject chosen for the first sermon was Balaam 
 and his ass. He essayed to compare the ass to 
 the Church, as carrying the soul through life. It 
 was a difficult enough metaphor to handle even by 
 the most experienced, but under those circum- 
 stances was certain to land him in disaster. He 
 was in difficulties from the beginning, and soon 
 showed signals of nervous distress. But he 
 struggled perseveringly on, and concluded by 
 making a terrible mess of it. Unfortunately, he 
 repeated two or three times that not only was the 
 ass the Church, but it was in the church. 
 
 Naturally the sermon of a stranger received 
 concentrated moorland criticism. Towards the 
 end of the week the vicar met the master-minded 
 village Nestor, who by then had "sized up the 
 wonderful ditty to a hayseed." This was his 
 comment, delivered with the relentless sour and 
 cruel Yorkshire wit. 
 
 " It war a grand subject, a reight topper, bud 
 yon bleather-heearded spoil-sarmon had tangled 
 and tewed it till it war nowt but muckment. He 
 said yah (one) thing that were trew eneagh, that 
 t'ass war in t'chetch, bad he might a said a bit 
 mair, that t'ass war then braying in t'pulpit." 
 
 One constantly heard amusing mispronuncia- 
 tions of words. They were inevitable on the
 
 114 YORKSHIRE WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 moorland. I once asked a very bright and 
 intelligent Yorkshire maid we had, what was the 
 meaning of the word " threeaping." After a few 
 moments' thought she replied, "Contradictious." 
 She could not have given a cleverer definition and 
 I complimented her on it. She came to grief, 
 however, over the word chauffeur, when the motor 
 cars came. She knew it was French, and required 
 a special pronunciation. She eventually called it 
 "chiffonier," and seemed very proud of her 
 linguistic success. It was so delightful that we 
 conspired to keep it going for quite two years after- 
 wards. "Give Colonel Plantagenet's chiffonier 
 that letter," I would instruct. 
 
 In the small moorland town an enterprising 
 tradesman had opened refreshment-rooms, which 
 he distinguished by the name of cafe, of which the 
 accent at first worried the moorlanders. At one 
 house a farmer's wife informed me that she had 
 had an excellent meal at the cafe pronounced as 
 it is written without an accent. "No, no," cor- 
 rected her more educated daughter, " It is * caffee V 
 Afterwards I heard it called, carfe, corfe, and caff. 
 
 But it was not always the patient who mis- 
 pronounces a word but occasionally the doctor 
 himself, as the following story tells. A doctor was 
 attending a great classical scholar and in ordering 
 an enema for the learned man's benefit, pronounced 
 the word enema with the second syllable long 
 instead of short. " Oh, the quantity ! the quantity ! " 
 exclaimed in agony the sick man. "About two 
 pints," the doctor replied. 
 
 By way of chaff I said to a roadman one day, 
 who interpreted his hours of labour very much as
 
 "LOWZIN' TAHM" 115 
 
 he liked. " I thought, Jasper, twelve o'clock was 
 * lowzin' tahm ' ? " " So it is," was the prompt reply, 
 "and it's twelve o'clock by this," pointing to his 
 paunch. "No, no, Jasper. Half past eleven by 
 the sun." I saw he was very angry. He had only 
 one eye, which always gave him a decidedly sinister 
 expression, and it gleamed very viciously. I left 
 him meditating revenge. A few days afterwards 
 when crossing the open moor I heard a voice 
 shouting, " Doctor, Doctor," and saw a man waving 
 frantically. Thinking it was a case of serious 
 accident, I jumped several walls, and then found 
 it was Jasper. His eye gleamed more maliciously 
 than ever and ought to have warned me. " Have 
 ye got them pair of hams at Danby ? " he asked. 
 " What hams ? " I replied in bewilderment. " Whya 
 deean't ye knaw 1 There's a pair o' hams waiting 
 for the first man that knaws how to mind his own 
 business." Then he grinned diabolically, and the 
 malicious eye rolled and rolled so that I thought it 
 was quite loose. I threw him a shilling, which he 
 picked up remarking, " It's lowzin' tahm ony ways 
 now." I saw him a few minutes later disappearing 
 through the doorway of the " Moor Cock Inn." 
 
 The vicar of one parish, a former Cambridge 
 don, walked into a parishioner's house and 
 remarked after the usual greetings, " Featherstone, 
 why do you never come to church ? " Feather- 
 stone replied, " 'Cos I'm a Methody and awlus gan 
 to t'chapel." 
 
 " What do you go there for, they don't teach 
 sound doctrine ? " 
 
 " May be not, bud there's yah (one) thing they 
 teach ye."
 
 116 YORKSHIRE WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 "And what's that pray ? " asked the vicar. 
 
 " They teach you to tak yer hats off, when you 
 goes into somebody else's house." 
 
 I am afraid the vicar still continued to keep his 
 hat on when making calls. 
 
 A very distinguished 'Varsity Professor arrived 
 on holiday at a remote but most picturesque 
 Yorkshire dale town. His reputation and "high 
 laming" had preceded him, and he was accord- 
 ingly received with curiosity, respect, some native 
 suspicion, and no little awe. One evening after 
 dinner he condescended to be charmingly affable, 
 by descending to the well- filled bar of the old inn, 
 where he had made his headquarters, desiring to 
 hold converse with the native Yorkshireman, and, 
 if possible, add to the profundity of his knowledge. 
 His entrance was of course followed by a sudden 
 and prolonged silence, during which the dalesmen 
 followed their usual and characteristic wont of 
 "sizing and reckoning up" the stranger very 
 thoroughly. The latter called for his whisky and 
 soda, and at once launched into his pet subject, 
 "Physical Degeneration." Having both lectured 
 and written on this most important question, he 
 spoke very authoritatively and assertively. Could 
 he have successfully peered through the dense 
 clouds of smoke the silent dalesmen sent forth, 
 he might have noticed that one of them was 
 listening intently, puckering his brows, contorting 
 his rugged and weather-beaten features in a most 
 alarming fashion, and occasionally glancing quickly 
 round the "cumpany." At length the great man 
 concluded his dissertation by remarking, " I think 
 what I have told you, gentlemen, is convincingly
 
 " PHYSITAL GENERATION " 117 
 
 true." There followed a silence broken at last by 
 the very alert dalesman. " Nay ! Nay ! Ah's noan 
 sae sure about this physital generation yer maks 
 sae mich on." "My good fellow," replied the 
 professor, "the matter is beyond any dispute or 
 argument. Its truth has been admitted by every- 
 one and is only too sadly true." "Deea yer mean 
 ter saay thet t'men's not sae big an' sike (such) foine 
 fellas ez they war?" "Quite so. Take chest 
 measurements for example." "Ah deeant hod 
 wi' yer er minute, an' thou's talkin' nowt bud 
 blatherment. Whya thar's ten men onnyways 
 i' this bar noo weighing a ton or mair." The 
 professor stared in astonishment for some minutes, 
 his mathematical brain going through a lightning 
 calculation, before he exclaimed, " Impossible ! 
 Impossible ! " " We'll seea impossible," confidently 
 replied the dalesman as he produced a pocket-book 
 and pencil, rapidly taking down the weight of the 
 ten biggest men in the room, of whom the first was 
 24 odd stone, and the second 20 odd stone. The 
 final addition came to 2385 lb., being 145 Ib. over 
 the ton. Thus was professional wisdom put to 
 confusion by Yorkshire "gumption."
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 PARSONS AND SQUIRES 
 
 A GREAT many country parsons have been 
 numbered among my patients. I counted them 
 up one day and found I had attended over thirty 
 of them in their country parsonages. Some of 
 them were my greatest friends, and in this thinly 
 populated country, where men with any pretence 
 to a liberal education were so few and far, I 
 naturally sought their society. 
 
 My parson patients varied immensely in 
 character, habit, education, and doctrine. I found 
 the majority of the country people were rather 
 bewildered with the differences between the 
 Ritualists, the Anglicans, the Moderately High, 
 the Broad, and the Low. The keenest criticism 
 perhaps was reserved for the Ritualists and the 
 Anglicans, and I used to stare almost in con- 
 sternation when I heard some of those old peaceful 
 Christians rave and rage against the Papists and 
 Anglicans. Any ecclesiastical innovation which 
 they could not grasp, or to which they objected, 
 was fiercely denounced as the thin end of the 
 Papal wedge. One of my kindest and most 
 hospitable patients, the wife of a moorland farmer, 
 once disturbed a Church-defence meeting in order 
 to denounce the iniquity of the vicar of the parish 
 
 118
 
 PARSONS BAD PATIENTS 119 
 
 in lighting two candles on the altar table. The 
 latter went to see her afterwards when she was ill 
 in bed, but the moment the good lady saw him she 
 put her head under the bed-clothes. His attempts 
 to conciliate her were vain. The head remained 
 obstinately concealed and never emerged till he 
 had removed his obnoxious presence. 
 
 In the country, where the character and action 
 of our neighbours come in for daily discussion, the 
 parson is the most severely criticised personage; 
 so much so that whenever a countryman is out of 
 tune with the infinite, and feels he must let him- 
 self go, the parson is usually the whipping-block. 
 
 I am afraid I must confess that my clerical 
 friends were very bad patients. I regarded them 
 very critically in illness, because I have been 
 anxious to know not only how to live properly 
 but how to die properly. They gave me no help 
 there. I found them very nervous and more afraid 
 of dying than the majority of patients. 
 
 I once asked the clever and experienced matron 
 of one of the largest of the London Nursing Homes, 
 who made the worst patients. Without a moment's 
 hesitation she remarked "clergymen," they were so 
 terribly nervous and afraid of dying, and expected 
 so much attention, while some seemed to resent 
 the fact that they of all people should have been 
 picked out for affliction. The next worst, she 
 said, were the doctors who were equally nervous, 
 because they knew every move of the game, and 
 criticised too much the ways of the nurses, 
 rendering them in turn nervous. The last in the 
 order of inferiority were the nurses themselves. 
 
 How the parsons varied in character the follow-
 
 120 PARSONS AND SQUIRES 
 
 ing little story illustrates. I was attending an old 
 farmer aged ninety, who was slowly passing away 
 "tapering off" his neighbours called it. I one 
 day asked this old fellow if he would like to see 
 the church parson. Although he was a Noncon- 
 formist he replied that he would be " varra set up 
 to see yan, bud didn't knoaw which chetch parish 
 t'farm war in." I don't wonder the old man was 
 puzzled. The farm was a small isolated grazing 
 one of about thirty odd acres entirely surrounded 
 by moorland. Some eighty or a hundred years 
 back a moorlander with much more enterprise 
 than judgment had squatted there to reclaim the 
 moorland. He could not have picked out a more 
 desolate or "backendish" spot, and must have 
 spent all his days delving, for rock was everywhere 
 on the adjacent moor. By the map there were 
 three ways to this inaccessibility. A footpath 
 from the north, and two cart-tracks south and 
 east. The latter, though apparently the only ones 
 used by the people, were far too long and tedious 
 to be considered, and I had always used the foot- 
 path, till one day I thought I would attempt with 
 the dog-cart the south road which looked invitingly 
 easy with its level green turf. But there were no 
 ruts and this ought to have warned me not to 
 proceed. I was soon in difficulties, but went 
 perseveringly on till I landed myself in an impasse. 
 I could neither go backwards nor forwards. We 
 were obliged to unyoke, and it was only after 
 almost superhuman exertion that we were able to 
 get the cart back much damaged the way we had 
 come. I then proceeded to examine on foot the 
 track very carefully onwards. There had evidently
 
 NO-MAN'S-LAND 121 
 
 been quite a good road at one time, because parts 
 of it were still excellent, but moorland rocks, when 
 once the soil above them has been much disturbed 
 or loosened, have an irresistible trick of working 
 their way to the surface. It was this which had 
 made passage impossible. I found indistinct traces 
 of the road beyond the farm northwards for a long 
 distance, and came to the conclusion that originally 
 it had been an old packhorse track which the 
 squatter had tried to improve and had evidently 
 used for a time before abandoning it. 
 
 I knew the farmhouse must be in one of 
 three parishes whose boundaries were somewhere 
 "contagious" there. I went to interview the 
 parson of the parish which I thought most 
 probable. He was a thorough townsman who, 
 when almost worn out by years of hard work in 
 the slums of a large Yorkshire town, had been 
 preferred to this extensive moorland parish. He 
 was exceedingly anxious to do his work con- 
 scientiously, but was far too feeble and frail to 
 tackle his parish, of which the more populous half 
 was a village two miles over the hills from the 
 vicarage. He was besides very nervous and afraid 
 of walking down the lanes at night, though I 
 assured him life was much safer on the moorlands, 
 where there were no lamp-posts, than in his former 
 town slums. In reply to my request that he would 
 visit the sick man, he brought out a map and 
 showed me the course of a streamlet as one of the 
 boundaries of his parish, which put the solitary 
 farm just outside. He added that he would very 
 much have liked to visit my friend, but that to 
 interfere would be a breach of etiquette. Till
 
 122 PARSONS AND SQUIRES 
 
 then I knew that medical etiquette did sometimes 
 imperil men's lives, but never that clerical etiquette 
 imperilled their souls. Of course this attitude of 
 his was a reflex of his town environment because 
 country parsons are not usually so strict. He 
 finally suggested I should see No. 2 parson, and 
 accordingly to No. 2 I went. 
 
 No. 2 moorland parson asserted positively that 
 the farm was not in his parish, took no trouble to 
 consult a map, and began at once to talk on other 
 topics. There was no other alternative left now but 
 to see moorland parson No. 3. I knew this man 
 well and almost anticipated his action. He was 
 very exact, showed me a map of the three parishes, 
 pointing out that the farm was just within the 
 boundary of No. 2 parish ; was very much con- 
 cerned that the man had been deserted so long, 
 took up his staff and set off at once on the four 
 miles' rough walk to see him ere his spirit had 
 fled west. 
 
 It must be confessed that not many of the 
 parsons were a success, as success is judged in 
 other professions. Very few made any attempt to 
 accommodate themselves to their new environment, 
 or to create an atmosphere favourable to them- 
 selves and their work. I am told that commercial 
 travellers are specially instructed in the art of pre- 
 paring an atmosphere psychologically favourable to 
 the sale of their wares. If the parson would only 
 take the trouble to talk intelligently and sym- 
 pathetically to the farmer about stock-breeding or 
 turnip-sowing, to the forester about forestry, or to 
 the gamekeeper about the owl, kestrel, or badger, 
 half his troubles and difficulties would vanish.
 
 "TAWD DEVIL HAS LEFT NOWT" 123 
 
 It is a blundering patronage which prefers men 
 from the town, at a time of life when they are too 
 old to adapt themselves to an entirely new environ- 
 ment and make new friendships, too often indeed 
 men already worn out, and physically incapable of 
 attending to the spiritual needs of a wild and 
 extensive district. 
 
 The majority of the moorland livings were 
 dreadfully poor, not excepting that ancient 
 parish whose glorious old church, known as the 
 "Cathedral of the Moors," was the mother of six 
 daughter churches. The great tithes were the 
 property of one of our most famous colleges, and 
 therefore were not available for ecclesiastical 
 purposes, which we all thought was a most 
 flagrant injustice. In my earlier days only 'Varsity 
 graduates with private means were preferred to 
 these poor moorland livings, but as harder times 
 came, wealthy incumbents became harder to find. 
 
 The parson with the long purse has a great 
 pull. "And Mammon wins where seraphs might 
 despair." I was trying to console one poor old 
 widow who had lost her only son and support, by 
 remarking, "We all have sorrows," to which she 
 replied, "Give me fat sorrow rather than lean 
 sorrow." One of our Yorkshire canons who was 
 a notoriously generous giver, when descending 
 from the sick-room closed rather loudly the front 
 door of the cottage which stood ajar. Thinking 
 he had gone, the sick man shouted from the top 
 of the stairs, " What's t'awd devil left ? " " T'awd 
 devil has left nowt and weeant deea," the Canon 
 answered back. 
 
 One parson, bearing a name famous in
 
 124 PARSONS AND SQUIRES 
 
 ecclesiastical history, was a Pluralist, vicar of 
 two extensive parishes, rich in the possession of 
 two beautiful old churches. He was a gifted 
 scholar and unquestionably one of the ablest men 
 in the diocese. His will was indomitably strong, 
 there were no mists or clouds in his clear-thinking 
 brain, and character was written all over him. 
 But he was blessed or cursed, however one may 
 regard the possession of such a dangerous gift, with 
 a superlatively quick wit, which he used indis- 
 criminately. No one was spared. That he ought 
 to have received higher preferment, and would 
 have brought light and learning to greater office, 
 was freely acknowledged, but his caustic tongue 
 had always stood in his way. It was feared by 
 all, and even the two bishops under whom he had 
 ministered regarded him with awe. The vicarial 
 wit dismayed and too often offended the episcopal 
 dignity and importance. 
 
 An autocratic south-country college don in 
 the uncongenial atmosphere of a dale parish of 
 stubborn, hard -headed, and quarrelsome Yorkshire- 
 men, is a well-nigh hopeless incompatibility. 
 
 His attitude to the Nonconformists, of whom 
 there were many in the parish, was uncompro- 
 misingly militant, and they hated him whole- 
 heartedly. They even said with Yorkshire venom 
 that he was their best friend, because he had 
 stimulated their opposition and strengthened their 
 forces so that they were enabled to build their 
 formidable temple. 
 
 I invariably received the greatest kindness and 
 courtesy from him, and had a deep respect for his 
 transcendent ability. Only once I came up against
 
 DOCTOR VERSUS PARSON 125 
 
 it, and though my will prevailed, it was a moral 
 annihilation. 
 
 It was one of those rare occasions when a 
 doctor takes the very grave responsibility of 
 excluding for the time being a minister of religion 
 from the sick-room. When a patient is in extremis 
 and there is no hope of recovery, the doctor is 
 compelled by every moral and ethical law to allow 
 the presence of a spiritual consoler. But the 
 doctor's standpoint is, that while hope remains, 
 he must exclude any influence which he thinks is 
 inimical to recovery. His most dangerous enemy 
 is fear, fear of suffering, and specially fear of 
 death, and it unfortunately happens sometimes 
 that the presence of the minister in the sick-room 
 is to the patient a symbol of the King of Terrors. 
 This is more often so in the case of the young. 
 Some ministers, and specially Church parsons, 
 literally exhort and pray ex cathedra, with a 
 volume of voice that can often be heard outside 
 the house. Some linger far too long. This 
 particular case was one of sudden dangerous 
 haemorrhage in a young woman, a visitor to a 
 house close to the vicarage, the church, and my 
 house. She was engaged to be married and 
 intensely anxious to get better. The most absolute 
 rest and quiet was her only chance. One day she 
 begged me to ask the curate to discontinue his 
 visits, complaining not only that his voice was too 
 penetrating, but that his coming made her fearful 
 and afraid of death, bringing on palpitation. 
 
 I saw my great friend the curate-in-charge, and 
 begged him to discontinue his visits, explaining my 
 reasons for doing so ; but unfortunately he took my
 
 126 PARSONS AND SQUIRES 
 
 interference very badly, and angrily protested that 
 we doctors rated the vile body far too highly, when 
 the safety of the soul was above all other con- 
 siderations. The expected happened. Called to a 
 second violent haemorrhage I saw in the tail of my 
 eye the parson just disappearing into his parsonage 
 as I hurried to my patient. When the nurse told 
 me the haemorrhage had recurred during the 
 parson's prayer, the fiat went forth that no one 
 should be admitted into the sick-room without my 
 permission. My parson friend and I had a very 
 stormy interview afterwards, our only real great 
 quarrel during a long friendship. In high spleen 
 he suddenly decided to go off on a holiday and 
 remove himself from such an atmosphere of annoy- 
 ance and mortification. The patient became so 
 critically ill that on the following Sunday the 
 church-wardens at my request agreed to ring only 
 the lightest of the old church bells, for a few 
 seconds. The first question the vicar asked the 
 church-wardens when he arrived from his distant 
 vicarage to take the service, was why the usual 
 peal of bells was not being rung, and, on hearing 
 the reason, remarked that he would go and see the 
 patient directly after service. The church-wardens 
 smiled but explained nothing. He entered the 
 house of sickness as was his wont, first knocking 
 gently at the door and then proceeded unasked 
 upstairs. But a guardian angel was there and 
 barred the way. 
 
 "There is someone dangerously ill here," the 
 vicar remarked. 
 
 "Yes," replied the guardian angel, "but I have 
 strict orders not to admit anybody to the sick-room."
 
 THE BISHOP'S TELEGRAM 127 
 
 " Whose orders pray ? " 
 
 "Dr Browning's." 
 
 " Oh ! Dr Browning's. Well, if Dr Browning 
 cannot save the patient, it is no use God Almighty 
 trying. Good-morning." 
 
 The patient made an excellent recovery, and is 
 now a happy grandmother. 
 
 It was on the occasion of an afternoon Con- 
 firmation service, when on the point of sitting 
 down with a party of guests to a well-furnished 
 lunch table, that the same divine received a prepaid 
 telegram from the bishop asking the hour of Con- 
 firmation. "That's the kind of bishop we have 
 who doesn't even know his own official appoint- 
 ments," scornfully exclaimed the vicar as he sent 
 the form fluttering to the floor. "I shall not 
 answer it." Perhaps he was rather hungry and 
 therefore rather angry. Towards the end of the 
 feast, when the good red wine had passed round 
 and all were feeling happy, a guest who was 
 devoted to the bishop, asked, "Don't you think, 
 vicar, the wire requires an answer as a mere matter 
 of courtesy?" "Perhaps it does," was the reply, 
 as he picked up the form and thereon wrote very 
 quickly, "Time of Confirmation my time three 
 o'clock official time not known." 
 
 The bishop really deserved the vicarial rebuke ; 
 he was much more of a courtier than a diocesan. 
 
 I once heard the vicar get the better of an old 
 stubborn Yorkshire farmer, who disliked him very 
 much, and whom he had asked for his annual 
 subscription to some parish object before the end 
 of the financial year. 
 
 " I never pays aforehand," said the farmer.
 
 
 128 PARSONS AND SQUIRES 
 
 " Are you sure ? " 
 
 "Never in a week o' Sundays; nobbut feeals 
 pay aforehand." 
 
 " Oh I suppose you never put stamps on your 
 letters ; always pay at the end of railway journeys and 
 all entertainments." He left the farmer speechless. 
 
 The uncle of a moorlander had died in a distant 
 workhouse, and there had been some unavoidable 
 delay about his burial in the family grave in the 
 old churchyard. The nephew called on the vicar 
 to arrange about the final interment. Naturally a 
 " threeaper," his temper was not improved by being 
 kept waiting some time, and it was in no amiable 
 mood that he addressed the vicar, " Noo thens, we 
 sail bring t'aud lad ten miles by t'road, an' we 
 reckon we sail be at t'chetch by three by t'clock 
 or rather mair for t'sahding ter morrow arterean." 
 The vicar, who was not a man to accept dictation, 
 replied very decidedly, " Oh ! what about my con- 
 venience in the matter ? You cannot have funerals 
 just when you think fit." 
 
 "We're noan patickler ter half an hour or 
 mair," suggested the moorlander. 
 
 " I cannot possibly take the funeral to-morrow 
 afternoon," was the uncompromising answer. 
 
 " Thou meeans thou weeant try an' mannish it. 
 I tell thee what, other foalk can be ez meean ez 
 muckment teea. I'll warrant ye we sail bring t'aud 
 lad along in his box, an' if thou weeant hap t'job 
 up, then we sail upend him ageean t'chetch door, and 
 thou can sahd him whenever thou's amind." With 
 this ultimatum the stubborn Yorkshireman strode 
 away. The funeral took place at three o'clock the 
 
 following afternoon without further ado. 
 \
 
 POWERFUL IN PRAYER 129 
 
 To be powerful in prayer was the highest v 
 attainment of the local preacher. Great lung 
 power, described by the wicked as beldering 
 (bellowing) or ranting, was the first great essential. 
 The second great essential was the use of occasional 
 long pauses in the prayer, and of emotional pianos, 
 crescendos, and fortissimos. Too easy or affected 
 (knick-knacking) fluency was suggestive of the 
 ready-prepared prayers of the Established Church, 
 and therefore a decided disqualification. The less 
 grammar the better. The crucial test of excellence 
 was the extent of responsive "gerning" (groaning) 
 from the travailing and wrestling suppliants. 
 
 One very gentle, kindly, and delightful old man, 
 the Nestor of the local preachers, was a marked 
 exception to this general rule of shouting, though 
 he regarded power in prayer as the highest 
 qualification. He and his forebears had owned 
 and farmed the same land for at least four hundred 
 years, and had deeds to prove it. One forebear had 
 been the vicar of the old parish. Perhaps his long 
 and respectable descent accounted for his gentle- 
 ness of speech. He was recovering from a long 
 illness I had been attending him for, when one day 
 he asked, "Does Mr Linacre come to see you?" 
 Mr Linacre was the parson, and the greatest 
 friendship existed between us. I replied at once, 
 " Yes ! We are the greatest friends. We take 
 long walks together over the moors and we go 
 a-fishing together." " No ! no ! " he asked again, 
 " does he come to see you ? " I could not make 
 out what the old boy was driving at, so I replied 
 that he called nearly every morning just after 
 breakfast for a few minutes' chat, to ask who were
 
 130 PARSONS AND SQUIRES 
 
 ill. " No ! no ! Does he come to see you ? Does 
 he give you spiritual consolation ? " He rolled out 
 the spiritual with unctuous satisfaction. Now my 
 friend was a most manly, straightforward, stand- 
 no-nonsense Christian pastor, who never hesitated 
 to talk to me for my soul's good, or even occasion- 
 ally offer me a little whisky for my bodily good. 
 I could answer quite truthfully a decided "Yes." 
 Then his next question was, "Do you think he 
 is powerful in prayer ? " This was rather a poser, 
 but I answered, "Yes, quite above the average." 
 "Well," replied the old preacher, "t'man's reet 
 eneagh, an' a good liver, bud he puts nae power in 
 his prayer. He gat agate ower quick an' knick- 
 knacked it ower fine. It war high larned bud 
 thar war no boddums in it, and Ah nobbut gerned 
 yance when he came to see me to-day." 
 
 When I told the parson the story the same 
 evening, he was much amused and not a little 
 chagrined, because it appeared he had specially 
 prepared an "extempore" prayer, and had left 
 the sick man feeling rather proud of his effort. 
 Probably there had been too much good grammar 
 in it. 
 
 I found the families of the county squires in- 
 comparably the most agreeable and satisfactory 
 patients to attend. Once their confidence gained, 
 they were the most loyal and considerate of friends 
 and supporters. 
 
 One great drawback in attending at the large 
 houses was the valuable time lost in running the 
 gauntlet of so many flunkeys. Attending a great 
 lady, I was conducted from the front door to the 
 library by a footman, from the library to Miladi's
 
 GREAT HOUSES 131 
 
 boudoir by the butler, from the boudoir to a 
 dressing-room by her maid, and from the latter 
 to the sick-room by the nurse. Time twenty 
 minutes. The next morning I walked up un- 
 announced to Miladi's bedroom and knocked at 
 the door. 
 
 " Who is there ? " asked Miladi. 
 
 "The doctor," I answered. 
 
 " Oh I'm not ready," she protested, but I told 
 her I was anxious to see her when she was not 
 ready, so that I could more easily judge of her 
 true condition. This making of the patient ready 
 and pretty by fastidious nurses is often very 
 deceptive. I remember well a case where a 
 specialist saw a patient who, after being made 
 ready and pretty, pulled himself together in extra- 
 ordinary fashion although desperately ill. To our 
 astonishment the great man gave a most favourable 
 prognosis, only to have the mortification after 
 lunch of reversing it. The patient died the 
 next day. 
 
 The gentlefolk had nothing of the silly modesty 
 about the functions of their bodies, which is so 
 evident among the middle classes. Many of the 
 latter would lower their voices to a whisper and 
 look so very mysterious that one might think some 
 momentous secret was on the point of revelation. 
 
 They never gave each other away, however 
 much they depreciated some of their neighbours, 
 and they never pressed one to eat, which was a 
 great relief in this tenaciously hospitable country. 
 They boasted perhaps too much about the antiquity 
 of their families. But after all this was excusable. 
 Pride of race is instinctive and immemorial, and
 
 132 PARSONS AND SQUIRES 
 
 in these days when the old families are being 
 rapidly taxed out of their lands, it is the only 
 heritage that is left. Did not two Scotchmen 
 named Grant and Macpherson once have a fierce 
 discussion on the antiquity of their respective 
 families ? The former possessed a family Bible in 
 which by some strange accident there was a 
 misprint, which stated that "there were Grants 
 (instead of giants) in those days." He proudly 
 pointed out this irrefutable proof of the antiquity 
 of the Grants, and at the same time the fact that 
 there was no mention of the Macphersons in the 
 Ark. "Hoots mun," replied Macpherson, "the 
 Macpheersons had a bait o' their am." 
 
 They boasted too of their wine, though not in 
 the unblushing fashion of the profiteer. That was 
 equally excusable. "When one swallows a curio, 
 its description makes it still more delectable. 
 There is something, though, rather pathetic about 
 the drinking of very old wines. While they exist, 
 they are curios to be proud of, but when they have 
 been consumed they have vanished for ever. 
 
 After all, the English aristocracy of the land is 
 the most virile in the world. 
 
 Even the most bitter and irreconcilable of the 
 country Radicals always professed to have a soft 
 place in their political hearts for what they called 
 the " Old Originals," the old county families, though 
 how they could always distinguish them was not 
 quite clear, seeing that the absorption of landed 
 aristocracy by plutocracy has been going on steadily 
 for centuries. They, however, discriminated in 
 their favour, and even sometimes went so far as 
 to suggest that if all the country aristocracy were
 
 THE "OLD ORIGINALS" 133 
 
 up to the high level of the old families, the raison 
 d'etre of their Radicalism would no longer exist. 
 One specially militant old Radical, who had 
 prospered exceedingly in life, used to boast with 
 pride how his father had made the coffin of a 
 great territorial lady landowner. I wondered at his 
 being so proud of it, because this particular high- 
 crusted Tory lady, when her nominee had been 
 rejected in her pocket borough at the Reform 
 Election of 1832, took a very high-handed revenge 
 by turning out all her tenants, and stopping the 
 pension of all those who had had the hardihood 
 to vote against her interest. That the Yorkshire 
 moorlanders were the most stubborn of politicians 
 it is easy to understand. One never heard of con- 
 version. So pig-headed and obstinate were they, 
 I used to say that if they died and rose again they 
 would still not believe. 
 
 How men, level-headed and well-balanced 
 enough in the ordinary affairs of life, can be so 
 unreasonable in their outlook on politics and 
 religion, is one of the most puzzling of enigmas. 
 
 I was struck in general with the devoted 
 friendship and love which these old families had 
 for their long- tried and well- trusted servants, 
 though I often wondered how the old squires, 
 who were professedly good Christian churchmen, 
 reconciled their exclusiveness on this earth with 
 the probably democratic atmosphere of the 
 Kingdom of Heaven. I remember a widow 
 showing me a letter she had received from a 
 squire on the death of her husband, an old 
 retainer. It was a touching kindly letter, referring 
 to the man's long faithful service ; but the writer 
 
 T
 
 134 PARSONS AND SQUIRES 
 
 went on to say that he looked forward to sitting 
 near the deceased in Heaven, and evidently con- 
 templated an intimacy which he would not have 
 entertained for a moment on earth. On the other 
 hand I remember one old squire referring to an 
 old family nurse thus, " Though she were armless 
 and legless and perfectly helpless, still she shall 
 have a home of comfort and happiness with us 
 till she dies." 
 
 A great lady of old family, the queen of her 
 village and kingdom, Miss Frank, literally gave 
 all she had to the sick and the poor, after the 
 immediate requirements of her establishment had 
 been met. That she might more readily know 
 exactly how much she could spare for them, she 
 insisted on paying all her accounts, including mine, 
 every month. She was downright and thorough in 
 all her methods, full of commonsense, with great 
 breadth of mind, and almost sledge-hammer 
 decision. Human love and charity were con- 
 spicuous in her, and to all erring sinners she was 
 mercifully tolerant. But hypocrisy and religious 
 cant were an utter abomination to her and excited 
 her scorn. She lived to the ripe age of ninety, 
 though in later years she was crippled by 
 rheumatism which prevented her, to her great 
 grief, from attending the village church, built and 
 endowed by her father. One day there came to 
 her the personification of sanctimonious cant, the 
 vicar's wife's mother. 
 
 "Are you not deeply sorry, Miss Frank," said 
 the latter, "that you cannot come to the dear 
 church again ? " 
 
 "On the contrary," snapped Miss Frank, "I
 
 EUTHANASIA 135 
 
 am very pleased that I have not the vicar's dry 
 windy old sermons to listen to." 
 
 A painful pause was followed by another 
 attempt, "What a blessed consolation it must be 
 that you are still able to read the Blessed Book 
 instead." 
 
 " I never read the Bible." 
 
 A still more painful pause. Then " Oh, how 
 overjoyed you must be that each day brings you 
 nearer to Heaven." 
 
 "I don't wish to die," rasped Miss Frank. 
 "I want to live as long as I can, and when I do 
 die I am going to Hell. I shall meet possibly 
 more of my friends there than in Heaven." Such 
 was her uncompromising mood, as she put the 
 vicar's wife's mother to flight. 
 
 When her maid of forty years' faithful service 
 and companion of many journeyings abroad, whom 
 she loved most dearly, was dying from painful 
 cancer, she was terribly anxious that she should 
 die quickly and escape from her torment and 
 suffering. Each day came the impatient question, 
 if she was nearer the end. I believe if I had 
 poisoned her straight off she would have warmly 
 thanked me and offered me a handsome fee. I 
 cannot say that I was unsympathetic to this 
 attitude of hers towards hopeless and almost 
 helpless suffering. In fact quite the contrary. 
 Unless the patient himself expressly wishes it, 
 I have never acquiesced in the practice of keeping 
 these cases alive by concentrated foods and strong 
 drugs, and am thankful to confess have occasionally 
 helped and speeded them on their journey. It is 
 too often the loving and solicitous relations, who
 
 136 PARSONS AND SQUIRES 
 
 would not hesitate two moments about putting 
 out of the way a favourite dog or horse under 
 the same circumstances, who selfishly insist on this 
 purposeless prolongation of life, and I hope the 
 day will come when painless extinction of hopeless 
 suffering will be legalised. 
 
 One old squire whom I attended was well 
 known throughout the country, and had character 
 written all over his face. In the early days he 
 had been in the Navy, but afterwards settled down 
 in the county, farming a considerable portion of 
 his own estate. He loved all the old expressive 
 Yorkshire words, and, with his wondrous gift of 
 mimicry, was inimitable in telling a good Yorkshire 
 story. His gift of language, in his case an 
 hereditary endowment, was a revelation, and in 
 exhorting his retainers to a due and proper 
 appreciation of their duties, could serve him for 
 a good ten minutes without repetition. 
 
 I once went to see him in a nursing home 
 where he had been some weeks. "Don't you 
 find it very dull, Squire ? " I asked. " Dull ! Not 
 a bit," he replied, "I have been inventing some 
 more Yorkshire swear-words. I am afraid all my 
 old ones have lost their sting." 
 
 Some of the old squires I knew were quite 
 proud of their old Yorkshire, and often talked 
 it as broadly as possible in addressing the herd. 
 One, a baronet, who unfortunately drank heavily, 
 and was often carried to bed in a helpless state 
 by one of my friends, was chairman of the bench 
 of magistrates in his district, but for a long time 
 had dealt out justice in a ridiculously lenient 
 fashion, carrying matters with a very high hand,
 
 AUD POLLARD 11 137 
 
 At last his brother magistrates, tired of being 
 ignored, held an indignation meeting, threatening 
 to report him to the Lord Chancellor unless he 
 mended his ways. He was very contrite, promising 
 immediate amendment, but at the very next case 
 which came before him, completely forgot his 
 promise. It was a double one of assault and 
 drunkenness. He thus pronounced sentence to 
 the offending Yorkshire man. "Noo thens, for 
 t'assault we'll fine yer a shilling and costs. As for 
 t'drunkenness we'll say nowt about it, as we get 
 drunk oorsells." 
 
 This story recalls another. An habitual 
 drunkard, taking stock of the bench of magistrates 
 assembled to try his case, commented rather 
 audibly to himself. "I don't care a damn for 
 aud Pollard," naming one of them. Unfortunately 
 this remark was overheard by old Pollard, who 
 retorted, "And aud Pollard doesn't care a damn 
 for thee." 
 
 Some sixty years ago a local and most autocratic 
 squarson, who was the proprietor of all the land, 
 the houses, the trees, the rivulets, the church, 
 and everything pertaining to his village except the 
 canopy of the sky, took to task, as he hurried 
 to take the Sunday morning service, a villager 
 who had long annoyed him by never attending 
 church. On the great Day of Rest many Christians 
 are often dreadfully austere and stern, and the 
 Squire- Parson was particularly so that morning. 
 "You never come to church, Thwaite," he said 
 angrily. "Telling me weeant mak onny better 
 of t'job," replied the stubborn Yorkshire tyke. 
 "I will make you come to church," threatened
 
 138 PARSONS AND SQUIRES 
 
 the parson. "Thou weeant deea nowt o' t'soart, 
 an' thou weeant mak me gan to t'chetch." "I 
 will. If you don't come to church, I will turn 
 you out of your cottage." 
 
 " Damn ye, Ah tell yer Ah weeant gan to t'chetch 
 an* neabody will mak me," shouted Thwaite, as 
 he turned his back on the parson, who strode on 
 to the House of Prayer, full of holy wrath. 
 
 He summoned the man the following week, 
 before the local court on the charge of using 
 profane language, and the case came before two 
 local magistrates, a famous sporting baronet and 
 a retired army captain. Both these magistrates, 
 who were very hard swearers themselves, and had 
 taken a double first in maledictory philology, were 
 much exercised in mind when they had heard the 
 evidence. They secretly sympathised with the 
 offender, and in their long consultation afterwards 
 were delighted in finding a way out. The Baronet 
 thus delivered judgment, "Now, Thwaite, you 
 certainly used very bad language, but not profane 
 language. If you had said ' God damn you,' that 
 would have been profanity, but as you only said 
 'Damn you,' we dismiss the case."
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 FUNERALS 
 
 THE director of ceremonies at an important 
 Yorkshire moorland funeral was busily engaged 
 in instructing the numerous gathering of family 
 and other mourners regarding the bestowal of 
 their persons in the crowded array of conveyances 
 provided for the occasion. "Mr Parnaby," he 
 directed, "will drive with Mrs Umpleby in the 
 dog-cart behind the piebald." Now it happened 
 that Mrs Umpleby was Mr Parnaby's mother-in- 
 law, and his features, which up to that moment 
 had worn a rather solemn but otherwise pleasant 
 and expectant look, became suddenly clouded over, 
 and he remarked in lugubrious and doleful accents, 
 "If I have to drive with she I shan't enjoy myself 
 a bit." 
 
 This honest, if rude remark of Mr Parnaby 
 explains very briefly how Yorkshiremen, and 
 specially dalesmen and moorsiders, think of funerals. 
 They " enjoy " every detail of the rite, the farewell 
 look at the "corpse," the drive to and from the 
 moorland church, the society of their fellow- 
 mourners, the stories and anecdotes told of "the 
 corpse's " worth and virtues, and above all, the big 
 feast of Yorkshire ham and funeral baked meats 
 at the end. 
 
 139
 
 140 FUNERALS 
 
 They look forward to it with pleasant feelings 
 of expectation ; they wonder who will be there 
 from up the dale or over the moor, and they 
 speculate as to the worldly possessions "the 
 corpse " will leave behind him. By way of working 
 up the interest they would exaggerate the wealth 
 of their deceased neighbour. "Mr Richmond 
 or Mr Verity," they would say, "will cut up 
 for thousands " ; but at the final dissection of 
 these gentlemen it was more usually a case of 
 hundreds. 
 
 They would rather miss a favourite fair or a 
 tempting sale than an important family burying, 
 and were much disappointed when rain or snow- 
 storm marred their pleasure. 
 
 Although it is quite usual among lowlanders 
 and lowsiders to exaggerate their woe on these 
 occasions, I saw few manifestations of the sort 
 among their hardier high-side brothers. More 
 than once I have closely scanned every face in a 
 packed moorland church and not seen the slightest 
 sign of emotion. If anything, their demeanour 
 was sterner and harder than usual. It was 
 tearless grief. Only here and there a hot scalding 
 tear would force its way out despite all contortion 
 of rugged features. 
 
 When the departed had died rich in years, he 
 was worn out and done, and it was all in the 
 course of nature ; over one younger in years 
 genuine regret would be expressed that he had 
 slipped away so early. "It war a pity," was the 
 laconic formula. 
 
 When on these occasions the feast of the body 
 is at length ended, there follows the feast of the
 
 READING OF THE WILL 141 
 
 mind and flow of reason mid blinding clouds 
 of tobacco smoke. Provided the testamentary 
 bequests of the "corpse" are just, fair, and 
 satisfactory to all concerned, the utmost harmony 
 and good fellowship prevail. 
 
 Stories innumerable, long- and short-winded, 
 are recounted of his skill in bargaining, his sound 
 judgment of a horse, his wondrous sheep dogs, 
 the days of his courtship, the birth of his first-born, 
 incidents of great snowstorms, of long lost and 
 buried sheep, of good and bad hay harvests, and of 
 all the important events of his life. Then one by 
 one these friends from early youth will yoke up 
 and drive quietly away. Some of them, perhaps, 
 have come thirty or forty miles from a far-off dale, 
 and the weather may be dark and stormy. 
 
 One of my patients was buried in a distant 
 dale, and on the return journey the mourners were 
 overtaken by a terrible blizzard. Some of the 
 more delicately constituted had to take refuge in 
 the hearse, in which, closely packed together, they 
 eventually arrived home in safety. 
 
 Should, however, the last will and testament of 
 the " corpse " be manifestly unjust, vindictive, or 
 a blow to schemers, then it is quite another story. 
 There is an atmosphere of lowering clouds. The 
 interested mourners maintain their wonted taci- 
 turnity and stern demeanour ; the ham is consumed 
 in grim silence, broken now and again perhaps 
 with acrimonious and angry remarks, hissed out 
 with much snarling and pouting. There is a 
 declaration of war, secret or open, and the quarrel 
 commenced that day between the various members 
 of the family and their sympathising connections 
 
 u
 
 142 FUNERALS 
 
 and friends, will be maintained bitterly and relent- 
 lessly till death. 
 
 It is impossible for a country doctor to refuse 
 the sudden demands that are occasionally sprung 
 upon him to make the will of a dying patient. 
 The schoolmaster, the parson or other educated 
 person may not be immediately available and the 
 patient is obviously in extremis. The request may 
 come from the patient, or from interested relations, 
 or the doctor himself may have decided that it is 
 the only right and proper thing to do under the 
 circumstances. But it is at the best a most 
 thankless job, apart from the intrinsic difficulties 
 of execution. If the will should cause dissatis- 
 faction, and a family quarrel ensue, which, under 
 the circumstances of stress, is almost sure to be 
 the case, the doctor, however disinterested he may 
 be, and however pure and honest his motive, 
 becomes ipso facto a party to the quarrel, and is 
 never forgiven. 
 
 What I have done has been raked up and 
 thrown in my teeth years and years afterwards, 
 showing a deep and bitter resentment. 
 
 The first will I was brave enough to make was 
 for an old retired farmer of ninety-two, who, like 
 many others, had never made one for fear of 
 immediately fatal consequences. 
 
 All his sons and daughters with one exception 
 had married early in life and left him. The excep- 
 tion, a daughter, had kept his house for many years, 
 helped him to save, and nursed him in illness. 
 Quite lately she too had married, her husband 
 taking up his residence in the father's house 
 with them.
 
 A CORPSE AS TESTATOR 143 
 
 It was naturally the old man's strong wish that 
 she should have a double share of his possessions, 
 in return for her long years of devotion. The 
 arrangement seemed to me. quite fair under the 
 circumstances, and I drew the will up accordingly. 
 But these excellent brothers and sisters, among 
 them two local preachers, were dreadfully bitter, 
 quarrelled with their sister for life, and with me 
 also. I was abused like a pickpocket up and 
 down dale, and never heard the last of it. 
 
 I once disturbed a band of conspirators. 
 Entering a patient's room unexpectedly, I found 
 four of them strenuously holding up the " corpse," 
 while a fifth was directing the dead hand in 
 signature of the will they had just concocted. 
 The "testator" had been dead for four hours. 
 
 On another occasion the age on the coffin was 
 younger than the eldest son's age, who as chief 
 mourner was at the head of the funeral procession. 
 This was some cunning scheme to rob the company 
 with whom the "corpse" had been insured. In 
 those days some insurance companies were very 
 slack in their methods, specially when opening up 
 a fresh district. So many industrial policies were 
 allowed by the holders to lapse, that profits accru- 
 ing from them more than covered any delinquencies 
 of unscrupulous agents. 
 
 Funerals or "sidings" as they are regularly 
 called in Yorkshire, are anxiously arranged and 
 provided for, often years beforehand, by the family. 
 How they spread themselves to provide a burying 
 worthy of the station in life of the deceased ! If 
 the family had fallen from higher estate, the greater 
 the determination and the pinching. Even the
 
 144 FUNERALS 
 
 most miserly and mean for once throw prudence 
 to the winds, and have one crowded hour of plenty 
 and extravagance. 
 
 Directly after the death of one of my patients 
 I sent the widow a small gift of money. She was 
 nearly destitute, overwhelmed with grief, and worn 
 out with nursing and want of good food. But she 
 had no blinds to draw down in the two front 
 windows of her cottage, and my gift went in the 
 purchase of funeral blinds. 
 
 There was rivalry too as to who could go one 
 better in funeral pomp and display. One of Phil 
 May's characters, I believe, remarks, "Wait till 
 we've a funeral at our house, and we'll show yah." 
 
 I paid a visit of condolence one day to a 
 bereaved widow, and I found her in great trouble 
 and weeping bitterly. I tried hard to console her 
 with words of comfort, but it was all in vain. 
 Presently I discovered the cause of her woe. 
 Joseph, she was sure, had gone straight to Heaven, 
 but the tiresome butcher from the neighbouring 
 town had forgotten to send the beef ordered for the 
 funeral, and there was no more to be got. 
 
 Some forty years ago I was fortunate enough 
 to witness, personally, one of the old-fashioned 
 Yorkshire funerals in all its grandeur. The 
 circumstances were unusually conducive to the 
 display of funeral pomp and fuss, which in those 
 days was considered so necessary to do honour to 
 the dead. The "corpse," Krofer Duffield, was a 
 retired farmer, a well-to-do, hard-bitten Yorkshire- 
 man, known far and wide as a "character." He 
 had always dispensed a bountiful hospitality, and 
 had never been known to run short of good liquor.
 
 KROFER DUFFIELD'S FUNERAL 145 
 
 It was said, too, that for the last twenty years of 
 his life he had never gone to bed sober. In spite 
 of this he had reached the ripe old age of eighty- 
 six. He was a Roman Catholic, and had been 
 a great sportsman, a combination from which 
 experience taught me to expect the "very best." 
 I was personally " bidden " by a member of the 
 family, in this case his grandson and heir. No 
 wonder when I arrived at the house, shortly after 
 midday, I found a large "company" of relatives 
 and friends assembled to do honour to his memory, 
 and " enjoy " themselves. If they had not enjoyed 
 themselves, I am sure the "corpse" would have 
 been excessively annoyed. Though it was a bitterly 
 cold day in winter, I must personally confess that 
 I thoroughly enjoyed this wonderful ceremony. 
 
 Two mutes were stationed on either side of the 
 front door. Each of the bearers had long black 
 silk scarves fixed round their top hats ; and to 
 each of the family mourners was presented a pair 
 of black kid gloves. 
 
 As the Roman Catholic Church was many miles 
 distant, mourners were treated to a very substantial 
 dinner. Of the rest of us, the " quality " had good 
 old port and sponge cake, and the "many" mulled 
 ale and "parkin" (a Yorkshire variety of ginger- 
 bread). 
 
 There were many mourning coaches and con- 
 veyances of every sort and description. 
 
 The director of ceremonies was the family 
 lawyer, who "sorted" us all, and directed who 
 should ride with whom. 
 
 In the meantime everybody had taken a last 
 farewell of the deceased in his coffin.
 
 146 FUNERALS 
 
 There was of course much delay and confusion, 
 much running about for further refreshments for 
 late arrivals, much getting in and out of carriages, 
 and we were in consequence quite an hour behind 
 scheduled time. However, at last the coffin lid 
 was screwed down, and the gallant old sportsman 
 set off on his last journey across country, beneath 
 the waving and nodding plumes of the hearse. 
 
 At the last moment the family lawyer and I 
 were obliged to accommodate two "gentlemen" 
 with evil-smelling clothes, one of whom, with wise 
 forethought for the immediate future, at once pro- 
 ceeded to borrow half a crown from me. 
 
 His "Missus," he explained, was so "maddled" 
 in getting him ready for such an important burying, 
 that she had forgotten to give him any ready money. 
 He promised of course to repay me on the first 
 opportunity, but I never saw or smelt him again. 
 
 What a strange medley and mix-up of humanity 
 it was. I can see that long straggling procession 
 now as we turned the many winding corners of 
 the distant way. There were top hats of every 
 shape and form, and funeral garments of every cut 
 and fashion, some mouldy with dust, some green 
 with age. 
 
 The long tedious journey at last came to an end. 
 
 The church was like an ice house, and after the 
 final "siding," we were only too thankful for the 
 hour's rest and warmth arranged for at the three 
 village inns. The journey home was as fast as the 
 horses could make it. A Gargantuan banquet of 
 hot and cold meats was provided on our return, 
 and certainly no funeral feast ever had more ample 
 justice done to it.
 
 "TCAKE'S FOR TBURYING" 147 
 
 The vicar of a large Yorkshire parish was one 
 day accosted on the road by a parishioner, a moor- 
 sider who lived on the distant boundary. Quoth 
 he, "How much do you charge for siding 'em, 
 Parson?" "Ten shillings," replied the parson, 
 "Why do you ask?" "Whya it's like this, 
 Parson. My ole wuman, she is non sa varra 
 capital, and I shall be bringing her along yan o' 
 these days." 
 
 Six weeks afterwards the " ole wuman " brought 
 the " ole man " along instead. 
 
 An old friend of mine had been offered by the 
 ducal patron a country living, and one day paid a 
 quiet visit of inspection. In the churchyard he 
 found the sexton digging a grave, and introduced 
 himself to him, explaining the purpose of his visit. 
 The sexton was a fine specimen of his order, and 
 after closely scanning my friend, felt very favour- 
 ably impressed and by way of encouragement 
 remarked, " I have bin sextant here for forty-one 
 years, and I've buried three vicars, and I hope I 
 shall have the honour and pleasure of burying ye." 
 
 An old farmer was dying, and the owner of his 
 farm with his wife had walked over the moor to 
 inquire about him and if possible see him. The 
 old housewife who was notoriously mean and 
 miserly, made them a cup of tea, explaining that 
 she was too poor to provide more than simple bread 
 and butter for their entertainment. Unfortunately 
 this was overheard by a grandchild who, childlike, 
 exclaimed, " Oh ! grandmother, there's such a 
 beautiful cake in the cupboard." The old woman 
 shouted angrily, " Hod thee noise, doant ye know 
 t'cake's for t'burying."
 
 148 FUNERALS 
 
 By way of contrast, I will tell of one pretty 
 little old lady of the moor who was a great friend 
 of mine. She had been a widow many years, 
 living with her two sons and a daughter, in the 
 last farmhouse on one of the moorland roads. 
 She had perfect features and perfect colouring 
 suggestive of dainty Dresden china. She was 
 quite a conversationalist, and had a most retentive 
 memory. I always enjoyed my visits to her. I 
 have no doubt in another sphere of life she would 
 have been a great lady with a fashionable and 
 influential salon. 
 
 She was a great favourite with her landlord, a 
 noble lord, who never failed to take a cup of tea 
 with her when he shot that side of the moor. 
 
 She was slowly dying from heart disease. The 
 noble lord had asked her what I thought of her 
 condition, and chances of recovery. "Not very 
 favourably, thank your Lordship," she replied. A 
 jolly old Irish peer, standing by and listening, at 
 once chimed in, "My dear good lady, don't you 
 take the slightest notice of what the doctor says 
 on that score. It was twenty years since that 
 three doctors stood round my bedside, like three 
 big ugly black crows, and all three said I hadn't 
 a dog's chance to get better, and would be quite 
 dead by the week was over, and begorra, they're 
 all three dead themselves, everyone of them, and 
 buried, and I have just enjoyed the best day's 
 grouse-shooting I have ever had in my life." 
 
 She recounted his cheery and hopeful remarks 
 to me the next day with a twinkle in her eyes, and 
 a little chuckle in her voice. Only a few short 
 weeks afterwards her gentle spirit passed onwards,
 
 VIRTUE OF A WREATH 149 
 
 to my deep regret, the more so because I had been 
 compelled to leave her in the charge of a locum tenens, 
 owing to so important an event as my marriage. 
 
 Knowing that the end was not far off, I 
 returned from my honeymoon, choosing an indirect 
 route on purpose to introduce my bride to this 
 charming little old lady ; but we were too late, as 
 she had died that morning. 
 
 As the only doctor in the district, I was of 
 course morally compelled to attend all these 
 funerals, specially in my earlier days, whatever 
 my feelings or regard for the "corpse" might be. 
 If I had been in any way remiss in this duty I 
 should have been considered to fall short of the 
 high ideal of perfection to which a country doctor 
 should attain, and any shortcomings in attendance 
 or treatment of the deceased would not have been 
 condoned. 
 
 A country doctor I knew made a terrible error 
 in his diagnosis of a case. He told the relations of 
 a man who had taken to his bed that his ailment 
 was one of downright bone laziness, and ordered 
 them to get him up and out for a walk. However, 
 while they were nagging at him to get up and 
 assisting him to dress, he gave up the ghost. 
 
 Needless to say this shook their faith in their 
 family doctor to the very foundation, but the 
 arrival of a magnificent wreath from the doctor 
 on the day of the funeral and magnificent wreaths 
 are rare at these moorland funerals rapidly 
 restored him to favour again. 
 
 I cannot say I did not enjoy some of these 
 " sidings." Many of my best stories I gleaned, 
 after the disposal of the "corpse" and the ham. 
 
 x
 
 150 FUNERALS 
 
 It was very interesting to see variations in funeral 
 rites and ceremony, specially as old customs are 
 slowly dying out. My appreciation of the humorous 
 helped me through what to others would have 
 been often a dull time. 
 
 Sometimes I had the greatest difficulty in 
 preserving an appropriately solemn and sedate 
 expression. For instance, on one occasion the 
 local minister began his funeral oration over the 
 deceased, who had been abnormally stout, and for 
 many months confined to bed, by saying, " Brother 
 Lay field dwelt very largely in bed." Was it a joke 
 to cheer us up or not? The precept de mortuis 
 nil nisi bonum was sometimes very liberally 
 interpreted. Rogues and rascals were for the 
 nonce transformed into paragons and saints. They 
 would positively have blushed if they had heard 
 their own funeral orations. 
 
 An artist once wandered into a remote Yorkshire 
 dale, to him till then quite an unknown land, in 
 search of suitable quarters for six months' hard 
 work. Eventually after much inquiry he found an 
 ideal place. The people were kind, the food good 
 and well cooked, the rooms most comfortable, the 
 air very bracing, and the country round extremely 
 beautiful. Moreover, near at hand was a picturesque 
 lake, situated in a thick wood, with a rich growth 
 of rushes, iris, and many water plants, just the 
 ideal setting and inspiration for a subject he had 
 long contemplated, " Moses in the Bulrushes." 
 
 In these congenial surroundings he worked 
 well and rapidly, and when the six months had 
 quickly passed, was more than satisfied with what 
 he had accomplished.
 
 "MOSES IN THE BULRUSHES" 151 
 
 That great work, and afterwards historic 
 painting, "Moses in the Bulrushes," was com- 
 pleted to his own critical and complete satisfaction. 
 
 Almost from the beginning his relations with 
 the natives had been most cordial. At first they 
 naturally regarded with some suspicion the first 
 "painting chap" they had ever seen, but this had 
 soon passed away. They became interested in 
 his work, and even ventured to criticise it, though 
 of course always favourably. Gifts of pipefuls of 
 tobacco now and again cemented the friendly 
 feeling. 
 
 Before his departure he decided to invite all 
 his new friends to an " at home " and private view 
 of his sketches, landscapes, and magnum opus. 
 
 When the evening arrived his friends, without 
 exception, turned up. There was a splendid light, 
 and a generous supply of good ale, tobacco, and 
 light refreshments. 
 
 "Moses in the Bulrushes" of course occupied 
 the place of honour. 
 
 Among his guests was the great man of the 
 place, the largest farmer and the richest man 
 within miles. He was a big heavy man, with a 
 huge red beard, and very hearty jovial manner. 
 To him the artist naturally paid special attention, 
 taking him by the arm and explaining each sketch 
 and painting in detail. 
 
 The farmer's praise of the work was sincere, 
 generous, and unstinted, his only difficulty being 
 the limited supply of appropriate adjectives in 
 his vocabulary to express adequately his intense 
 admiration. 
 
 The climax was reached when he stood in awe-
 
 152 FUNERALS 
 
 struck contemplation of the immortal work. So 
 great was his astonishment, that he could only 
 remark, "Why, this caps owt! By gum it deeas." 
 Then critically examining Moses, "So that's little 
 Moses ? It's loikely he's bin dead a sight o' years. 
 Wha long, think ye?" "Oh," replied the artist, 
 "about three thousand years." 
 
 " Three thousand years," gasped the farmer, 
 "and ye've painted 'im real arter three thousand 
 years ? " 
 
 " Yes," modestly answered the artist. 
 
 " I tell 'ee what it be. Yah's yan o' t'cleverest 
 fellahs oi've ever set ees on." Then followed a 
 long pause, at last broken by the farmer. 
 "I wish ye'd coom an' pent me faither." 
 
 There was some hesitation on the artist's part, 
 arising not from disinclination, but from the fact 
 that he had arranged to leave as soon as his 
 canvases could be packed. 
 
 The farmer, misunderstanding, and thinking his 
 hesitation was due to a question of payment, at 
 once said, "Ah'll pay ye roight eneeaf. T'brass 
 is all roight, ise nut er'yarpenny chap. Hoo much 
 a foot de ye charge ? " 
 
 " It's not a question," protested the artist, " of 
 payment at all. I shall only be too pleased to 
 do what I possibly can, in return for the kindness 
 I have received from everybody. I had arranged 
 to leave at once, but after all i couple of days 
 will make little difference. I will come down 
 to-morrow afternoon, if you will have the old 
 gentleman ready in his best clothes." 
 
 " 'Ave t'aud gentleman ready ! " replied the 
 farmer, as if he had not heard aright. "Wya 
 he's bin dead fowty years or mair."
 
 " AYE, BUT HE HAS ALTERED ! " 153 
 
 "Then it will be impossible for me to paint 
 him if he is dead." 
 
 "Ye carnt pent 'im when 'ees only bin dead 
 fowty year ! And ye've pented Moses wha's dead 
 three thousand years ? " 
 
 This deduction was unanswerable. 
 
 "Have you a photograph or any picture of 
 him?" asked the artist. 
 
 " Nay, we've nae pictur, but he war varra loike 
 me at my time o' loife. Onnyways yah mun deea 
 t'best ye can." 
 
 So the artist went to the old kitchen of the 
 farmhouse, and made all possible use of the setting 
 of old furniture, and all details he could glean. 
 He worked hard, galvanised into lifelike existence 
 the old dog from his skin on the kitchen floor, 
 and by much skill and imagination succeeded in 
 reproducing what he thought might have some 
 possible resemblance to the old gentleman. 
 
 It was really a marvellous achievement, perhaps 
 even greater than that of " Moses in the Bulrushes." 
 
 When at last the farmer was brought in to 
 inspect the result of the artist's strenuous labours, 
 he was nearly speechless with astonishment at 
 the wondrous power of the artist's brush. 
 
 "By gum, this knocks t'stuffin' out o' Moses 
 in t'bulrushes. It deeas an' all. There's t'aud dog 
 Rover, t'aud armchair, t'aud clock, t'aud dresser, 
 t'aud chetch-wardener pipe, and 'is sup o' gin 
 an' watter." 
 
 Then after a long and searching scrutiny of 
 his dead parent's features, he remarked rather 
 sadly, " Aye, but he has altered ! " 
 
 A newly appointed vicar noticed that there 
 was no regular footpath to the vestry door, but
 
 154 FUNERALS 
 
 only a narrow track zigzagging between the tomb- 
 stones. Immediately to remove the historic stones 
 would not of course have been permitted under 
 any circumstances, but little by little the vicar 
 and his faithful coadjutor, the sexton, began to 
 move them a few inches at a time to either side. 
 It was done so gradually that nobody noticed it, 
 nor was anybody in the secret. At the end of 
 eight years the vicar pointed out to the annual 
 vestry that it would be advisable to make a regular 
 footpath, where there was such an evident space. 
 After inspection the plan was passed, carried, and, 
 within a few days, completed. Then of course 
 two or three old Methusalehs came poking round, 
 commenting that it was all "varra queer," and 
 threatening all sorts of inquiry and trouble which 
 never came. 
 
 One winter's evening, after a long and arduous 
 day's work, I was informed that there was a man 
 waiting to see me in the stable-yard. I found 
 it was "Lovely John." Why Lovely? Was he 
 not the ugliest man in the ghyll? Years ago, 
 it appears, that even he had had some feelings 
 of romance hidden somewhere under his tough 
 hide, and in concluding a billet doux to some fair 
 maid of the moor to whom he had given his heart, 
 had signed himself "your Lovely John." And 
 the name had stuck. 
 
 "Happen," he said, "you'll be coming up ower 
 yonder," jerking his finger over his shoulder in 
 the direction of his moorland home, "to-morn or 
 the day after. Maybe ye would call and see my 
 missus, she's killed wi' pain in her innards." I 
 said it was quite possible, and should come.
 
 "LOVELY JOHN" 155 
 
 "Maybe," he added, "you would mak her a 
 bottle to tak wi' me, and put her to rights in no 
 time." 
 
 On further questioning I gathered that his wife's 
 condition was much more serious than he had led 
 me to infer. I said I would walk up quietly the 
 three miles odd, and see her, to which suggestion 
 he agreed and left me to follow on. 
 
 I must explain the setting of this strange story. 
 This man, his brother, and wife lived alone 
 together. He owned his farm, which was quite 
 a good one, and both he and his brother had 
 saved a substantial sum in addition. But they 
 were notoriously mean and miserly. 
 
 The house was comfortless, there were no 
 carpets on the floors, and they had only the barest 
 necessities with which to carry on a fair-sized farm. 
 The wife was the worst of the three. Meanness 
 and miserliness were second nature to her, and 
 were bred in her bones. Only a few days after 
 her death, her father and mother came to demand 
 back the dowry of 100 which they had given 
 her twenty-five years before. 
 
 The only exception to this atmosphere of mean- 
 ness was that Lovely John loved good ale and 
 whisky, could not pass any inn without wetting his 
 whistle, and on market days usually returned home 
 "market fresh." 
 
 When I arrived, I found the woman's condition 
 quite as bad or worse than I expected, and 
 wondered how she had endured the dreadful pain 
 for several days. I explained that an immediate 
 operation was necessary to save her life, and even 
 then it was probably too late.
 
 156 FUNERALS 
 
 I asked Lovely John to get on his horse and 
 ride as fast as the wind to the nearest country 
 town with a request for a doctor there to come out 
 at once to my assistance. 
 
 "It's maybe not so bad as that. Maybe it 
 would do to-morn, market day," he remarked. 
 
 "No, you must go at once, as fast as possible," 
 I replied. 
 
 " It's none a gallopin' matter ? " he asked. 
 
 " It is a galloping matter, off you go, ride like 
 Jehu." I then went to the farm-buildings to look 
 for the brother. I found him and asked him to 
 fetch the woman's mother, and a farmer's wife 
 I knew, a very handy woman and quite reliable 
 in matters of this sort. 
 
 "It's none a gallopin' matter?" he asked. It 
 seemed galloping was quite a family adjective. 
 
 "Yes," I said, "gallop away and bring them 
 as soon as you can, because I must go home soon 
 to get my operation instruments together." 
 
 Then I went upstairs again to talk to the 
 patient, and prepare her for the coming ordeal. 
 I explained I had sent her husband off to Muxley 
 to fetch another doctor, and her brother to fetch 
 her mother and Mrs Peacock. I stayed chatting 
 with her some little time when I heard some sounds, 
 in what I thought was an empty kitchen below, 
 which I proceeded immediately to investigate. 
 
 Judge of my surprise when I discovered the 
 cause of the noise was Lovely John shaving in a 
 most painstaking and laborious way. 
 
 " What the devil are you doing here shaving ? 
 I thought you were miles on your way to Muxley," 
 I said very angrily.
 
 "NONE A GALLOPIN' MATTER" 157 
 
 "I never go to Muxley without shaving. 
 Besides it's market day to-morn," was his reply. 
 
 "Shaving be damned, get off at once." 
 
 " It's none a gallopin' matter is it ? " 
 
 "Yes. Gallop like blazes." 
 
 I saw him off at last, and heard him gallop 
 into the night, then rejoined the patient. Then 
 again I heard more noises, which further in- 
 vestigation proved to be the brother in the 
 dairy very busily skimming the milk, and packing 
 the butter for market by the light of a stable 
 lantern. 
 
 " What the devil are you doing there, too ? " I 
 asked. "I thought you were at the end of the 
 ghyll by now, fetching Mrs Peacock and Mrs 
 Taylor. Now hurry off." 
 
 " It's none a gallopin' matter ? " 
 
 " Yes," I replied, now very angry. " Gallop 
 like Hell, but don't break your neck." 
 
 Not till I heard him galloping up the moorland 
 road was I satisfied that these barbarians were 
 well away on their respective errands. 
 
 I then returned to the woman, and found her 
 in darkness. The last candle in the farmhouse 
 had burnt out. I searched everywhere for a light 
 of some sort, but in vain, made up the fire, .and 
 reluctantly left the suffering woman alone in that 
 lonely, farmhouse. I explained that I must get 
 home as soon as possible to meet the other doctor, 
 but she made not the slightest demur, and seemed 
 quite happy about being left by herself. 
 
 I walked thoughtfully home. On passing the 
 village inn, close to my house, judge of my fury 
 when I heard the raucous voice of Lovely John 
 
 Y
 
 158 FUNERALS 
 
 bidding good-night to the landlord, as he was 
 mounting his horse. 
 
 My language became far too lurid for the 
 pages of even this truthful narrative. 
 
 To my enquiry why he was not returning from 
 Muxley, rather than just setting off after all my 
 urgings, he shouted, "I never goes to Muxley 
 without calling for a sup at Danby. It's none a 
 gallopin' matter surely." 
 
 I was so sick and weary now of galloping 
 matters that I hurried away and left him. 
 
 When after all these delays my colleague and 
 I arrived eventually at the patient's bedside, it 
 was too late, all her pain had gone, and gangrene 
 had supervened. 
 
 On hearing the verdict she was least disturbed 
 of any of us, and took it all with stoical resignation. 
 She shook hands with us, and hoped we should 
 all meet in Heaven. 
 
 Her sole remaining anxiety then was to hear 
 that the market butter was ready packed, to say 
 good-bye to her only friend, and sell her her last 
 marketable ducks. 
 
 So the brother was again hurried off on horse- 
 back to the far end of another ghyll, and even he 
 now realised that it was a galloping matter 
 after all. 
 
 Lovely John received my grave opinion, too, 
 very quietly. " She's been a good wife to me," he 
 said. " She war a rare butter maker, and she's 
 helped me to put some brass together, but she war 
 varra mean about a sup of out to drink. Onyways 
 she shall have as good a siding as need be. But 
 it's a bad job for me. How can I deea without a
 
 "BIDDING 11 TO A FUNERAL 159 
 
 wife. Maybe ye know of a likely yan, Doctor. 
 Keep yer ees open." This before his wife was 
 dead. 
 
 True to his promise, John gave her a funeral 
 well up to the best traditions of the ghyll. Good 
 Yorkshire ham, good ale and liquor, and funeral 
 baked meats in plenty for all those bidden. He 
 insisted on black streamers to his hat and looked a 
 weird scarecrow of a mourner. 
 
 His final remark on alighting at the church 
 gate from the funeral coach was characteristic. 
 " My word, it's grand and comfortable riding in a 
 trap like yon I could ride all t'day in it." 
 
 There was a large " company " assembled. Not 
 a tear dropped, nor was there any sign of emotion 
 beyond a dreadful contortion of Lovely John's 
 face before he gave up the hopeless effort of 
 squeezing out a tear. 
 
 " Mrs Buck bids you to Mr Buck's funeral at 
 two o'clock on Friday, at the Carr House Farm," 
 was the style of the customary bidding. The 
 bidder on this occasion would be Mrs Buck's son, 
 or some near male relative. Rarely a great family 
 friend would undertake this duty. This ceremonial 
 bidding implied that you would be expected 
 punctually at the house, where you might possibly 
 join in a private family service held in the best 
 parlour, or if this was not large enough in the 
 house kitchen. These services at the house were 
 not by any means universal, but were very frequent ; 
 more so perhaps at Chapel than Church bury ings. 
 The service would be conducted by the Church or 
 Chapel minister, and a hymn would be always 
 sung. I was once present at such a service in the
 
 160 FUNERALS 
 
 drawing-room of a large Yorkshire mansion where 
 a member of an old county family had died. The 
 service concluded, port or sherry or home-made 
 wine would be handed round with sponge cake or 
 biscuits. Then followed the procession to the 
 church. At the conclusion of the Church or 
 Chapel service you were expected to return to 
 the house to do full justice to the "ham" and 
 funeral meats. 
 
 At the purely moorland funerals a hearse was 
 not always used, but the coffin carried by six 
 bearers, who often would be of the same sex or 
 description as the "corpse." Six married women 
 would carry a married woman, six maidens a 
 maiden, six boy or girl children, a boy or girl 
 child, and six single men a single man. The 
 carrying in these cases was always by hand, by 
 means of long towels, and never on the shoulders. 
 Over the snow a hand sledge would be dragged. 
 The way of the procession would naturally be the 
 shortest possible one. When the moorland church 
 was some distance away by road, lane, bridle-path 
 or footpath, rests or halts by the way would be 
 taken at intervals and hymns sung. 
 
 There is a well-established belief that which- 
 ever way a corpse is carried, " the corpse way," that 
 road thereby and thereafter becomes constituted 
 a public right of way ; I am told that in strict 
 English law this does not hold. I know, however, 
 it was acted on in good faith on the moorlands. 
 In one case in my practice a death had occurred 
 at a farmhouse within the precincts of the large 
 private park of a county mansion. There was the 
 ordinary right of way to the farmhouse, but for
 
 CATTLE DEALERS 161 
 
 the funeral procession to have followed this would 
 have involved a very long, irksome, and inconvenient 
 detour to the moorland church. The privilege of 
 a much shorter way through the park was applied 
 for and granted on payment of a small acknow- 
 ledgment. 
 
 The boundary line between two parishes in my 
 practice ran obliquely through a farmhouse, and 
 the question once arose as to which parish church- 
 yard should be the burial-place of a man who had 
 died there. The bed on which he lay was in both 
 parishes, and the deciding point was the position 
 of the corpse's head. 
 
 By far the largest country funeral I ever 
 attended was that of a cattle dealer, who was 
 barely forty years of age. Cattle dealers are 
 anything but popular characters on the moorside. 
 I have heard the bitterest and most venomous 
 things said even about the best of them. They 
 drive such hard bargains, and farmers have such 
 long memories and never forget or forgive sales 
 made under duress. Like doctors and policemen, 
 they are tolerated as necessary evils. It speaks 
 much for the high character and fine personality 
 of this man that his funeral was attended by 
 farmers from the valleys and fells of Cumberland, 
 Westmoreland, and other distant places. The 
 aspect of the village was like a fair day, yet all 
 were hospitably and generously entertained. The 
 oldest inhabitant could not recall the like of such 
 a burying. 
 
 The father of this man was the Nestor and 
 most successful of all the dealers, and was known 
 as the relieving officer of the farmers ; and, although
 
 162 FUNERALS 
 
 he had a far-flung connection, he carried all his 
 reckonings and lendings in his head. Many of 
 these old cattle dealers did the same. They were 
 ready reckoners and never by any chance made 
 a mistake. This man's opportunity came in those 
 terribly dark days of the cattle plague or rinderpest, 
 and he got the last ounce out of it. Farmers by 
 the hundred were ruined, and many insurance 
 companies collapsed. The North Biding markets 
 were closed, and in consequence the farmers were 
 at their wits' end to raise liquid capital. In the 
 West Kiding the cattle could only be removed 
 under a magistrate's order. Fortunately he lived 
 near the boundary of the Ridings in a remote 
 village, and the Squire, and local magistrate there, 
 who farmed his own land extensively, was very 
 sympathetic and appreciative of difficulties. He 
 had a conveniently deaf ear and blind eye, and 
 could always be relied upon to sign an order. 
 The dealer described very graphically to me in 
 later years his doings in those stirring days. 
 Often he rode a hundred miles a day on horses 
 borrowed, hired, or bought. Drovers went about 
 disguised as women. Cattle were smuggled across 
 the boundary in a most ingenious and daring 
 fashion. They were swum across the river, or 
 driven across the moorland at dead of night. 
 
 When, by rare good luck and hard work, a 
 cattle dealer was able to put together, as this 
 man had done, any considerable capital, he had 
 a tremendous pull as a lending dealer, specially in 
 those precarious times. Hence his sobriquet of 
 the farmers' relieving officer. The majority of 
 cattle dealers I know did badly and generally
 
 FUNERALS UNDER DIFFICULTIES 163 
 
 failed sooner or later. There is a saying that 
 cattle dealers live well and die poor. The really 
 successful ones could be counted on one hand. 
 The clever buyer and judge of beasts is like 
 the poet, born, not made. I always knew when 
 the markets were rising, by seeing these fellows 
 galloping furiously over the country. 
 
 The original parish of the old mother church 
 had been very extensive, in one direction being 
 quite eighteen miles across, and even after daughter 
 churches had one by one been built, many of the 
 inhabitants of the remote villages preferred to be 
 buried in the old churchyard. A very old man 
 used to describe to me some of these funerals. 
 Some were so late in the day that the final inter- 
 ment was by lamplight, or even by the flickering 
 light of a candle. In some cases the funeral parties 
 were snowed up on the moorlands. Very often 
 when the way was inordinately long the funeral 
 party would stay at least one night at the village 
 inn, and in some cases two nights, holding high 
 feast and drinking heavily. 
 
 In November 1902 a funeral party of one coach 
 with the hearse came fifty miles over the rough 
 high moorland roads. The time of interment had 
 been arranged for two o'clock in the afternoon, but 
 it was seven o'clock before the moorland church was 
 at length reached, and the actual interment could 
 only be accomplished with the light from stable 
 lanterns. It poured with rain the whole of the 
 tedious journey. In one place it was necessary 
 to negotiate the descent of a very long steep hill. 
 The horses were quite unequal to the strain, and 
 the drivers went some miles forward on foot till
 
 164 FUNERALS 
 
 they could procure some old shoes wherewith to 
 reinforce the brakes. 
 
 At one resting-place an old Yorkshire woman 
 quoted to one of the five mourners the old 
 Yorkshire saying : 
 
 " Blessed is t'bride that t'sun shines on, 
 An' blessed is t'deead that t'rain rains on." 
 
 In one of our nearest dales the local doctor's 
 wife, in her husband's absence, attended the funeral 
 of an old patient, a woman, who was a member 
 of that very rare sect, the followers of Joanna 
 Southcote, of whom there were a few in that 
 village. Never having been present at any of their 
 services or funerals, she was full of anticipatory 
 interest. The officiating member of the flock was 
 the local butcher, who appeared adorned in his 
 ordinary blue working smock, the other members 
 of the sect also wearing their everyday apparel. 
 There was no ritual or service. When the coffin 
 had been lowered into the grave, the butcher, 
 standing at the head of the grave, gazed very 
 steadily down at the coffin for some minutes before 
 delivering what the doctor's wife thought would 
 be a funeral oration, but which consisted simply 
 of these words, " Ah think they mun (might) have 
 laid her a bit straighter." Evidently the angle of 
 the grave or the coffin within offended his sense 
 of the rectilineal.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 SOME CURIOUS CASES 
 
 KIT BALDERSTONE, though he occasionally got very 
 tipsy, was no afternoon farmer, but following the 
 example and tradition of his father and grand- 
 fathers, industriously and strenuously wooed and 
 cherished into smiling cultivation the rough moor- 
 land allotments of his farm. There is a Spanish 
 proverb, " El pie del dueno estierco para la heredad" 
 which means that the farmer's foot is the best 
 manure for the farm. Now this man's feet were 
 always moving and his activity was richly rewarded. 
 Owing to his unfortunate lapses from sobriety 
 he had three most severe accidents within two 
 years, any one of which might easily have been 
 fatal ; but with the happy luck which so often 
 befriends the drunken, and his stout heart of oak, 
 he made marvellous recoveries. One of these was 
 so dramatic, and brought me quite early in my 
 practice such a great local reputation, that I cannot 
 refrain from describing it : moreover, it is of unusual 
 medical interest, one similar case being described 
 in Sir Eric Erichsen's classical work on Surgery. 
 This " miraklous man " would generally return from 
 the weekly local market very late and decidedly 
 "market fresh." On one occasion when he was 
 later than usual, his anxious wife at last heard the 
 
 165 Z
 
 166 SOME CURIOUS CASES 
 
 horse and cart stop opposite the farmhouse, and on 
 going out to "threeap" or scold him, was surprised 
 to find the cart empty. As he did not appear after 
 some minutes, she called her sons to unyoke and 
 help her to search for him. It was a pitch dark 
 night. On the farmhouse road were several 
 successive gates, which were usually open, with 
 the exception of the last one opening on to the 
 main moorland road, which was kept closed. 
 Here they found him on the ground, nearly un- 
 conscious, and groaning in intense agony. He had 
 evidently been badly crushed between the " steean 
 steeap of the yat" and the cart-wheel of his cart 
 in opening the gate. With the help of neighbours 
 he was first carried into the farmhouse kitchen, and 
 then with much difficulty up the narrow stairs to 
 his bedroom. No sooner was he deposited there 
 than, as his wife described it, he began to "swell 
 up awl ower." The urgent message I received 
 merely stated that "Kit Balderstone was fair 
 bruzzen wi' wind an' swellin' up fast." Thinking 
 it was a case of acute dyspepsia I arrived at the 
 farm without any surgical appliances. On the 
 bed I found my friend looking for all the world 
 like a blue balloon. It was as if somebody had 
 used a force pump and inflated him. What had 
 evidently happened was that he had broken some 
 ribs, and in carrying him upstairs the sharp edge 
 of one or two had been forced through not only 
 the pleural membranes but the lung tissue itself, 
 producing a valve-like opening in the latter. With 
 each inspiration air was being drawn through the 
 lungs into the pleural cavity, and then with the 
 recoil of expiration, forced into the areolar spaces
 
 A HUMAN AIR-CUSHION 167 
 
 of the true skin, producing what is known as 
 surgical emphysema. How these spaces inter- 
 communicate over the whole body was realistically 
 illustrated by this graphic case. They make 
 possible the process of flaying in all animals. He 
 was just conscious, cyanosed, gasping for breath, 
 and already the air had penetrated as far as the 
 eyelids, completely closing the eyes, and to the 
 backs of the hands and feet. He was a hard 
 human air-cushion, and the air was surely 
 squeezing the life out of him. Over his back it 
 appeared to be at least six inches deep. For- 
 tunately I had a very fast trotter, able, when put 
 to it, to do seventeen miles an hour, and I raced 
 home for a trocar with which to tap this air- 
 cushion. On my return the grief- stricken wife 
 greeted me with the words, "Ye're ower laate; 
 it's awl owered an' he's geean. T'lads have geean 
 for Mrs Feasby an' Mrs Hannen to lay 'im out." 
 When I arrived at the bedside I was fortunately 
 in time to see the very faintest effort of respiration, 
 or to use a realistic Yorkshire term for dying, 
 "It war t'last fetch." I immediately plunged the 
 instrument into the cushion first on one side and 
 then on the other, and, following an audible escape 
 of air in each instance, had the supreme satisfac- 
 tion of seeing an immediate return of respiration 
 and in ten minutes of consciousness. In the mean- 
 time the two ladies or "pinkers," as they are still 
 called on the moors, arrived on the scene with 
 mixed feelings of disappointment that there was 
 no job for them and of joy at the miracle that had 
 been accomplished. There was haemorrhage from 
 the lung for at least a fortnight following the
 
 168 SOME CURIOUS CASES 
 
 accident, and so much damage had been done on 
 both sides, that I was never able to apply even a 
 bandage or strapping. The most delicate examina- 
 tion showed that many ribs had been broken in 
 both chests. It was seven days before the patient 
 had the slightest vision. If for the time being I 
 had achieved a local Homeric reputation, my 
 patient became equally famous as "the man who 
 was deead yance bud cam back to life ageean." 
 Any reference to the next world in this man's 
 presence even to-day is followed by a remark of 
 this kind, "Thou knows awl abart it o' course, 
 thou's bin deead yance." What eloquent testimony 
 to the vis medicatrix Naturce in his case, for he 
 made a perfect recovery. An enthusiastic and 
 admiring neighbour who often describes this 
 eventful night, always ends her description with, 
 "My ! t'doctor's grand Galloway war a clipper to go." 
 If there is one great thing that some of us can 
 thank Almighty God for during our pilgrimage 
 through life, it is the faithful love and devotion of 
 our dog and horse friends. It is one of Nature's 
 greatest masterpieces and choicest gifts, and the 
 thought or doubt that they may not perhaps 
 accompany us across the Great Divide seems to 
 deaden the instinct for belief in a life hereafter. 
 More constant than that of human friends, it is a 
 sunbeam which lights up the clouds of our darkest 
 hours, and guards us from despair. This mare in 
 the day when carriage lamps were not compulsory, 
 never made a mistake, but brought me home safely 
 many hundred of miles through the darkest and 
 foggiest of nights. She had racing blood in her, 
 and was so mettlesome that we were always
 
 THE OCCASIONAL TOPER 169 
 
 compelled when away from home to yoke her with 
 her head away, yet in the stable she was as gentle 
 as a lamb. I pensioned her off to end her days 
 with a kindly farmer, and years afterwards, when- 
 ever I paid her a visit, I never failed to receive her 
 welcoming whinny as she trotted to me across her 
 pasture. 
 
 I have frequently come across cases of men, 
 who, while admirably energetic and industrious in 
 their own occupation or business, seemed absolutely 
 incapable of resisting the impulse at almost regular 
 intervals to indulge in a drunken carouse. They 
 would then throw all prudence and wisdom to the 
 winds, except as regards their own special business 
 or occupation. As an example I knew one very 
 wealthy and successful manufacturer who had 
 these regular attacks, and regardless of expense or 
 publicity would rush about from inn to inn, 
 followed by a band of human leeches and parasites, 
 whom under ordinary circumstances he would have 
 contemptuously ignored, but now treated with 
 more than friendly tolerance. It was most 
 interesting to note though, that should any attempt 
 be made in a matter of business to take advantage 
 of his condition to drive an unfavourable bargain, 
 however drunk he was, his native acumen and grit 
 were all there, and it was an impossibility to corner 
 him. The mentality or causation of these attacks 
 it is most difficult to explain satisfactorily. It 
 would seem that civilised man occasionally kicks 
 instinctively against all order and restraint, and 
 feels now and again a primitive and irresistible 
 longing to let himself go. Some, even, in response
 
 170 SOME CURIOUS CASES 
 
 to inquiry would assure me that they felt all the 
 better in health for these bouts afterwards. It is 
 well known that the upset of the human body by 
 sea- sickness is often followed by an improvement 
 in health, and so possibly a drunken upset may 
 produce the same result. One well-known local 
 preacher, then a quite reformed character, once 
 confessed to me that he occasionally actually 
 longed for a two or three days' debauch, explaining 
 that in former unregenerate days he felt so much 
 better after one, both in body and mind. 
 
 The following two incidents illustrate the 
 influence and power of suggestion. One of my 
 South Yorkshire patients was a file-cutter, who 
 brought his supply of files to be cut to his 
 moorland cottage, and was paid by piece-work. 
 He was a victim of lead poisoning from absorption 
 from the lead moulds in which the files are placed. 
 Lead poisoning is a matter of personal idiosyn- 
 crasy. Some, who disregard every precaution, never 
 suffer in the slighest degree from it, while others 
 even after most scrupulous care are compelled to 
 cease all contact with lead or its compounds. 
 This man who was an expert workman had 
 developed paralysis of the extensor muscle of the 
 hand and finger, known as "wrist drop," and it 
 was a bad case. A physician, who had seen him, 
 prescribed small doses of strychnine which I made 
 up for him in pill form. He improved very rapidly 
 under this treatment, so much so that, thinking he 
 could not have too much of a good thing, he 
 commenced taking, in spite of careful warning, 
 at first twice then thrice the dose. He early
 
 "JUMPING PILLS" 171 
 
 recognised the physiological effects of the drug by 
 his involuntary muscular twitchings, and soon 
 therefore began designating his pills as his 
 "jumping pills." I have no doubt suggestion 
 contributed to rendering his jumping efforts more 
 violent. However, he took his pills so recklessly, 
 and his jumping performances became so alarming, 
 that I became afraid he would take a sudden leap 
 into eternity, and therefore determined to avoid 
 any cumulation by making his pills up for a few 
 weeks minus strychnine. After taking these 
 harmless pills for about a fortnight he came to 
 me, looking terribly severe, and very important. 
 "Noo, Doctor, did thou mak them last lot o' pills 
 up yersen ? " he asked. " Yes," I replied. " Thou's 
 sure?" "Yes, perfectly." "Well, there's summat 
 wrong, t'missus gav me yan (one) last neet an' I 
 hadn't bin i' bed five minutes afore I jumped clean 
 out o' bed and nearly through t' window." 
 
 Influenza spread sometimes so rapidly, specially 
 on the exposed tablelands, that I am perfectly 
 certain climatic influences played a much greater 
 part in its causation than personal contagion. 
 Whole households of many adjacent farms would 
 simultaneously be rendered so suddenly helpless, 
 that the stock could not be fed or the cows milked. 
 This observation coincides with similar ones that 
 have been made in other parts of the world. I 
 was once called to visit a moorland farmer during 
 such an epidemic. I put the thermometer in the 
 old man's armpit, asked him the usual routine of 
 questions, gave the ordinary directions, and went 
 away quite forgetful of the thermometer. I only 
 made the discovery that I had left it at the next
 
 172 SOME CURIOUS CASES 
 
 call quite three miles away, when it was too late 
 to retrieve it. I expected it would be hopelessly 
 smashed. What a welcome I got from the old 
 fellow the next day. " Aye, Bairnie, Ah's glad to 
 see thee I can tell thee, bud what a job I've had 
 wi' yer fanglement. It kept slippin' doon an' I puts 
 it back an' it slipped ageean, an' I puts it back 
 ageean. By gum I nobbut winked (slept) a bit 
 afore it slipt ageean. I tewed all t'neet wi' it, bud 
 it's deean me ner hurt (much good), an' I sail soon 
 be makin' good mends." There at any rate was 
 my precious instrument quite whole. I did not 
 enlighten him about my forgetfulness, but left him 
 with the impression that though modern "fangle- 
 ments " might be troublesome they were effective. 
 
 I once explained as I thought very carefully 
 to a wife how to iron her husband's back over 
 brown paper, an excellent treatment for lumbago, 
 from which he was at the time suffering. Instead 
 of finding him much relieved by it, I found him 
 just as amiable as a sore bear. In fact he was 
 sorer than the bear. The woman, it appeared, 
 had first ironed the paper and then given the 
 luckless back a hard scrubbing, making it nearly 
 red raw. As she was not a very amiable lady 
 and a notorious threeaper, I rather suspect she 
 had taken advantage of the opportunity to pay 
 off old scores. 
 
 In the old days before the binaural stethoscope 
 superseded the old wooden trumpet-like stetho- 
 scope, I was called out of bed to see a patient 
 who was suffering from asthma. I had seen him 
 the previous day and had sounded and thumped 
 his chest very thoroughly. After delivering the
 
 FEMININE MODESTY 173 
 
 message, the messenger said, "Mind thou brings 
 thy thumper, t'thumping and t'braying thou gav 
 him did him a sect o' good." 
 
 I had not used for very long my first binaural 
 stethoscope, of which I was inordinately proud, 
 and which I always wore in a conspicuous position 
 in my front coat pocket, when a very old Yorkshire 
 woman, living high up on the moors, took me 
 gently aside and said, " I deeant hod wi' yer 
 waring yer midwifery concarns so as t'men foak 
 can see 'em, it's noan ser nice for t'puir bodies as 
 has ter hav 'em." (I don't agree with your carrying 
 your midwifery instruments about so that the men 
 can see them, it's not very nice for the poor bodies 
 who will be obliged to have them.) Till then 
 I had not realised that my up-to-date stethoscope 
 might be so regarded, and I took the old lady's 
 kindly hint. 
 
 2 A
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 INSANITY 
 
 STATISTICS show that the incidence of insanity in 
 sparsely populated country and moorland districts 
 is above the average. In reality it is much higher 
 than would appear from the figures. There are 
 many in the country, living the lives of ordinary 
 people in perfect freedom and under no restraint, 
 who, under the official and stricter surveillance of 
 the town, would be locked up at once. They are 
 looked upon as harmless ; everybody knows them, 
 humours their madness, and makes due allowance 
 for their vagaries. 
 
 Then there are many more on the borderland, 
 half-cracked and half-baked beings who, if exposed 
 to the strain and excitement of town life, would 
 break down at once. Occasionally, of course, a 
 tragedy does occur, just as one day the passer-by 
 on the public footpath is gored to death by the 
 reputedly quiet and harmless bull. 
 
 These mad folk marry and intermarry and 
 propagate children, and so multiply the evil. 
 Fortunately, by a compensating law of nature, 
 there is ever a strong tendency in the offspring 
 to revert to normal type ; these marriages, more- 
 over, are frequently childless, or, if not childless, 
 productive of weaklings who die early in life. 
 
 174
 
 INBREEDING 175 
 
 It was my duty as a poor-law medical officer 
 to certify all those who, by their inability to pay 
 the higher charges of a private asylum, became 
 ipso facto paupers, and if I had certified all those 
 I considered to be insane I should have locked 
 up a big proportion of the country-side. 
 
 It was said by a great authority, Maudsley, 
 I think, that it was the half- cracked relations of 
 the insane who hindered the proper treatment of 
 them under restraint. How they used to lie to 
 me when I asked the pertinent question whether 
 there was any insanity in the family. I was once 
 certifying a farmer whose relations swore stoutly 
 to the contrary, yet I knew quite well that one 
 of his brothers had murdered a sister under 
 peculiarly atrocious circumstances, and was at that 
 moment confined in a criminal asylum. 
 
 Consanguinity in marriage is a great factor 
 in the causation of insanity, and these moorland 
 people intermarried so much that the maze of 
 relationship was more than bewildering. One 
 never knew where it began or where it ended. 
 Nieces were sisters-in-law, brothers-in-law were 
 stepsons, and so on. I felt I was going mad 
 myself in threading my way through this labyrinth 
 of relationship. I was for ever discovering new 
 complications. 
 
 Another great factor is the extreme monotony 
 of their lives. Man is essentially a sociable animal, 
 and solitary confinement often means a punishment 
 worse than death. These moorland dwellers love 
 their lonely homes, are loth to leave them, and, 
 like their sheep, are eager to return to them, but 
 this very loneliness and isolation renders them
 
 176 INSANITY 
 
 more liable to collapse under any sudden shock, 
 strain, or mental excitement. One could see the 
 effect of the religious revivals in the many cases 
 of nervous collapse and actual insanity which 
 followed. 
 
 Finally, a good deal of hard drinking goes on, 
 and much of it is perforce of the secret kind. 
 The secret drinker is always the worst to cure, 
 and that is why, apart from other reasons, women, 
 when they are drinkers, are more hopeless than 
 men. Some of these cases, directly due to drink, 
 were the most dangerous I had to deal with, and 
 yet under restraint were the most easily cured. 
 
 Without, I hope, wearying the reader, I am 
 tempted here briefly to correct certain misconcep- 
 tions in the popular mind with regard to madness. 
 It is naturally quite easy to recognise madness 
 when the victim is raving maniacally, or is deeply 
 melancholic and refusing food. It is in dealing 
 with one who is of quiet demeanour, and behaves 
 to all outward appearances like a rational being, 
 but has a fixed delusion, often a most dangerous 
 one, that the difficulty arises. He knows that he 
 is considered by his relations and friends to be 
 mad, and that they regard as a delusion what 
 he is firmly convinced to be the most important 
 of truths. He meets with so much contradiction 
 on the point that he cunningly conceals his 
 delusion (and will even for the nonce affect to be 
 free of it) in order to gain his own ends. 
 
 It takes the wind out of one's sails when a 
 patient greets one, as I have been greeted, with 
 the words, "Now I know what you have come 
 for, you wish to send me to the asylum." Weary
 
 DOUBTING ONE'S SENSES 177 
 
 hours I have spent with this class of case, and not 
 without some personal risk. It is only when a 
 little excited or perhaps when his patience has 
 been worn out by incessant questioning, that the 
 monomaniac suddenly throws off his cunning 
 caution and lets himself go, laying bare his delusion 
 in all its nakedness. 
 
 With regard to this fixed delusion I was helped 
 to appreciate the madman's point of view by a 
 little incident which once happened to me. I was 
 returning late one beautiful calm and moonlight 
 night from a moorland vicarage where I had been 
 spending the evening, when, passing over the edge 
 of a deep ghyll, I suddenly felt a violent tremor 
 of the earth, which lasted some twenty seconds. 
 There was no railway within miles to account for 
 such a remarkable tremor. On reaching my home 
 some miles away, I met the village policeman and 
 at once asked him if he had noticed it. He said 
 he had not, and seemed much surprised at my 
 question. The next day I made the same inquiry 
 of my friends and patients with the same result. 
 In fact nobody believed a word of my story. 
 Finding myself alone in my belief, I began to 
 doubt the evidence of my own senses. However, 
 two days afterwards, the daily papers reported the 
 occurrence of a slight earthquake shock at the time 
 in question in the western counties, with earth 
 tremors extending to the north through the hilly 
 districts of Yorkshire and Lancashire. Imagine 
 how pleased I was to read this corroboration. 
 Without it I should in all probability have come 
 to believe in course of time that I had been the 
 victim of an hallucination.
 
 178 INSANITY 
 
 The moods or degree of madness of these crazy 
 folk used to vary considerably. Some days they 
 were astonishingly tractable and amenable to 
 reason, while on other days they were ready for 
 any devilry or mischief changes of course firmly 
 believed by the country folk to be due to the moon's 
 influence, but really due to the variation in blood- 
 pressure. 
 
 One of these moonstruck creatures had already 
 been in an asylum once for a short time, and the 
 story went about that on this occasion, when he 
 arrived with a half-baked relation of the same name 
 at the institution, the doctors had been in so much 
 doubt as to which was the lunatic, that they nearly 
 succeeded in locking up the wrong man. There is 
 no need to describe his appearance, beyond stating 
 that he was the exact facsimile of Uncle Sam Slick 
 with his long goatee beard. He was the terror of 
 a small hamlet in the middle of the moorland, 
 consisting of two or three farms, seven or eight 
 cottages, and a chapel, and in particular of his 
 faithful wife, who was of course a cousin. He 
 kept a small store, played the harmonium at the 
 chapel, had five children, and 500 in the bank. 
 I was very sorry for his wife, and most reluctant 
 to put him under restraint, because I knew the 
 500 would soon melt in asylum charges. More- 
 over, I was by no means sure he was really mad. 
 He puzzled me very much and gave me a good 
 deal of trouble. At times when he was excited by 
 a full moon and unusually naughty, I would, as a 
 measure of precaution, have him carefully watched 
 by his neighbours. Against one of these he nursed 
 a small private grievance. One day this man and
 
 A MAD ORGANIST 179 
 
 another farmer were sitting quietly by him, when 
 he suddenly struck a most vicious blow at the 
 obnoxious neighbour, which missed its mark and 
 landed heavily on the stomach of the other man 
 winding him, and nearly finishing him off. He 
 apologised most profusely to the latter, explaining 
 that he had intended the blow for his companion. 
 There was too much method here, I thought. 
 
 To frighten his wife he used to rush furiously 
 at the sides of bacon hung up in his kitchen, with 
 a big carving knife, stabbing them all over. 
 
 Late one Sunday night the station-master of 
 the little country town, a local preacher, came to 
 me to demand the man's immediate incarceration. 
 At the afternoon's service, while playing the second 
 hymn, he had been so carried away with religious 
 ecstasy and musical emotion that he continued to 
 sing at the top of his voice, playing magnificent 
 chords the while and rolling his body from side to 
 side. Goodness knows how long he would have 
 continued at this little game, for he was a tough 
 old bird, had not a member of the congregation 
 pluckily pulled him off his perch. When the third 
 hymn came, he returned quietly to the instrument 
 and gave no further trouble. He entertained the 
 station-master afterwards to tea, and finding that 
 he was getting the worst of it in a theological 
 argument on the subject of the Unjust Steward, 
 had seized him by the throat and given him a 
 terrible shaking. 
 
 On another occasion he got up in the middle of 
 the night, and after very quietly dressing, got the 
 carving knife and narrowly scrutinisfi his wife's 
 face to see if she were asleep. Satisfied on this
 
 180 INSANITY 
 
 point, he carefully packed in a butter basket the 
 best china tea-service, carried it a mile on to the 
 moor and then unpacked it, leaving it among 
 the heather covered with bracken. 
 
 His wife had cautiously followed at a distance 
 to watch his proceedings, and a few days after- 
 wards, when the moon had passed the quarter, 
 brought back the tea-service, and restored it to its 
 proper place without comment from her spouse. 
 
 On another occasion I made him walk some 
 part of the distance home with me, giving him all 
 the time a severe admonishing on his wickedness. 
 On his return, his wife told me, he got two long 
 yule candles, lighted them, brought down the 
 family Bible, opened it at the " Song of Solomon," 
 and therefrom read aloud to his wife till far into 
 the morning. 
 
 Finally, one day he took off every rag of 
 clothing, and in stark nakedness and in anything 
 but his right mind, attended to the demands of his 
 customers, to their great consternation. I am sure 
 they sought in vain for the human form divine in 
 his scarecrow of a body. Although it was very 
 hot weather, there was no excuse for this kind of 
 behaviour; so I had him put under lock and 
 key again. 
 
 One of my patients, whom I will call Mrs 
 Buckton, was a good-looking and well-made 
 widow woman of thirty-eight years of age. She 
 was a native of the district, but had left it when 
 she was about eighteen for South Lancashire, 
 where she had married, and had had two children, 
 Bobby and Jacky, now aged eleven and fifteen. 
 She lived in a picturesque, well-built, if somewhat
 
 PERSECUTION MANIA 181 
 
 lonely cottage, in one of our numerous ghylls. 
 She was undoubtedly mad, but I was never asked 
 to certify her, nor did I feel inclined to do so. 
 
 Her fixed delusion, and apparently her only 
 one, was that she was persecuted and tormented 
 by a demon of a man who never desisted from 
 his obnoxious attentions. These attentions she 
 described to me as consisting of horrible grimacings, 
 fixing her with a malignant eye, uttering dreadful 
 noises with his mouth, laughing, snorting, hissing, 
 and groaning. 
 
 I never heard or saw anything of course, but it 
 was evidently very real to her. 
 
 Her persecutor never for a moment left her 
 precincts. In the night he was in the chimney of 
 her bedroom, in the daytime on the roof of the 
 cottage, or sitting astride the sides of bacon in the 
 dimly lighted kitchen, or lurking behind bushes in 
 the garden, or in any convenient hole or corner 
 into which he could creep. 
 
 Whenever she went out for a walk he invariably 
 followed, sneaking behind hedges, and never 
 ceasing to emit his horrible noises. 
 
 She was only safe when she went to church or 
 chapel ; her devil, it appears, was then out-deviled 
 by the squeaking devil, as the organ is still called 
 in country places. Her regular attendance earned 
 her high commendation from the parson and the 
 minister. 
 
 She led a lonely life, save for the company of 
 her two boys. She had quarrelled with all her 
 friends, because they refused to believe in the 
 existence of this persecuting monster. 
 
 She suffered occasionally from minor ailments, 
 
 2 B
 
 182 INSANITY 
 
 and invariably called me in. On all these occasions 
 the procedure was the same. Bobbie was immedi- 
 ately ordered to mount guard before the front door, 
 and Jacky before the kitchen door. She begged 
 me to speak in a low, whispering voice, so that my 
 intimate and delicate professional questions should 
 not be overheard by the monster. Suddenly she 
 would sit up in bed, and dramatically point to the 
 evil eye peering at her through a crack in the ceiling. 
 
 If I expressed the slightest doubt about his 
 being there, she would get very angry and excited. 
 If I affected to share her belief, she would become 
 very communicative and give me some details of 
 his history. 
 
 This devil of a man, she told me, was a little 
 undersized ugly Scotchman with a red beard, 
 about sixty years of age, and of intemperate 
 habits. He was engaged on some public works 
 in Lancashire, and had become friendly with her 
 husband lodging a few doors away. Shortly after 
 her husband's death he had proposed to her twice, 
 meeting on both occasions with a decided refusal. 
 On the second occasion he was drunk, and made 
 a terrible scene, using all sorts of threats and 
 frightening her badly. After this he suddenly 
 disappeared from the neighbourhood only to 
 return within a few days down her bedroom 
 chimney in the middle of the night. 
 
 It was to escape from him that she had returned 
 to her native land. At first she heard and saw 
 nothing of him and was delighted to think that 
 she had given him the slip. But alas, on the fifth 
 evening after the removal, while asleep before 
 the kitchen fire, she was roused by his hideous
 
 THE FIEND EXORCISED 183 
 
 laughter, and met his malignant eye glaring at her 
 through a hole in the kitchen door. After that 
 there was no peace. 
 
 However, with the coming of the census 
 enumeration of 1891, arrived the fateful hour 
 when she was enabled to place on record the 
 existence of this fiend, and so to exorcise him. 
 
 On the Monday morning when the census 
 form was to be collected, she rose early, polished 
 the kitchen poker carefully, achieved a becoming 
 toilet, and awaited the coming of the enumerator. 
 He was the moorland schoolmaster, and a highly 
 nervous and unusually timid man. Knowing some- 
 thing by repute of the lady's madness, he approached 
 the lonely cottage with some trepidation. 
 
 The widow received him with quiet deter- 
 mination, summoned the faithful sentinels to their 
 respective posts, locked, bolted, and barred the 
 kitchen door, placing the key in her pocket, 
 seized the kitchen poker, and pointing first to the 
 table, on which were pen and ink and the open 
 census paper, and then to the fiend at that 
 moment riding astride a side of bacon and cackling 
 most horribly, ordered the now trembling school- 
 master to enter the name of one Peter M'Kenzie, 
 aged sixty-three, of Glasgow, as a temporary 
 occupant of Toldrun Cottage. For a moment 
 the pedagogue hesitated, but seeing the poker 
 raised in a threatening attitude, hastily obeyed. 
 Mrs Buckton carefully examined the document, 
 and after being perfectly satisfied that all was in 
 order released the schoolmaster, who was only 
 too glad to escape from such a dreadful ordeal. 
 
 From that hour Mr M'Kenzie's attentions
 
 184 INSANITY 
 
 began to wane, his laugh grew less hideous and 
 his eye less malignant, and in a short time ceased 
 from troubling. 
 
 She became quite a sane and a rational woman 
 again. When, in after years, I once ventured to 
 refer to him, she only smiled ; a far-away dreamy 
 look came into her eyes, and she began to talk 
 again about her pigs and poultry. 
 
 George Wilson, as I will call him, was a sheep 
 farmer, nearly sixty years of age, and a widower. 
 Both his sons had left him and gone out into 
 the world. When clothed and in his right mind 
 he was good to look at, with his golden yellow 
 beard now tinged with grey, his deep blue eyes, 
 and imposing stature. His manner was quiet and 
 one of no little charm ; he was educated above his 
 station, and was a most agreeable and interesting 
 man to talk to. 
 
 The farm was his own property, and he did 
 all the work as far as possible single-handed. 
 The house itself was most picturesquely situated 
 on high ground amid a grove of fir-trees, and 
 was conspicuous for many miles round. I have 
 been able, on a clear day, to see from it a sugar- 
 loaf hill at least thirty-five miles away. It was 
 the last house before the interminable moor began. 
 
 His housekeeper was the only other occupant 
 of the comfortable farmhouse. 
 
 Owing to some secret worry he began to 
 drink deeply, steadily, and secretly. From some 
 idiosyncrasy the demon very quickly got the upper 
 hand. The man was soon transformed into a 
 dangerous madman. It was extraordinary to those
 
 ALCOHOLIC INSANITY 185 
 
 of us who knew him how great and rapid this 
 transformation was. 
 
 His faithful housekeeper, who had tried all her 
 powers of persuasion to rescue him from the mad 
 craze but in vain, was at length so terrified by his 
 threats that she was compelled to leave him 
 abruptly. 
 
 The sons, who had been summoned, were 
 powerless to interfere, and were ordered off by 
 the mad father. 
 
 Slowly and surely he became the terror of his 
 neighbours and the countryside. He threatened 
 all and sundry who opposed his will. He poached 
 indiscriminately, in defiance of all game laws and 
 gamekeepers, but his poaching was only on a small 
 scale and purely to supply his own larder. 
 
 In his excursions abroad he always went on 
 horseback with his loaded shot gun under his 
 arm. He was an excellent rider and had a very 
 good horse, so that he seemed to be here, there, 
 and everywhere in no time. He would fire off 
 his gun promiscuously to enforce his threats and 
 terrify his victims, and as he was an excellent 
 shot, no one happily was ever injured, though there 
 were some hairbreadth escapes. It was his custom 
 to descend on lonely farmhouses demanding, or 
 seizing, food and liquor, always with a watchful 
 eye ready to mount his gallant steed and ride away 
 across country. 
 
 One morning about eleven o'clock, after tying 
 his horse up in the yard, he invaded my house. 
 Uninvited and with loaded gun he walked into 
 the surgery and began messing about with the 
 drugs and bottles.
 
 186 INSANITY 
 
 My wife very pluckily begged him to come out, 
 but he refused, saying he was a fully qualified 
 doctor, and knew quite well what he was about. 
 However, she managed to entice him into the 
 kitchen, where a hurriedly prepared but substantial 
 meal was temptingly spread out. As he was 
 voraciously hungry, he speedily reached to and 
 made a terrific meal. At its conclusion he asked 
 for a cigar, mounted his horse and rode quietly 
 away. 
 
 On another occasion he marched into the village 
 church in the middle of divine worship with his 
 hat on and his shoulders covered with a big 
 flowing red shawl. With some sense of the order 
 of things, he had left the loaded gun at the 
 church door. He took a prominent place in the 
 congregation, interrupted the service with loud 
 amens and extraordinary gestures with his arms. 
 No one was brave enough to tackle him. After 
 his half hour's strange devotions he quietly with- 
 drew, to the great relief of the startled worshippers. 
 I have no doubt many silent prayers of thanks- 
 giving were uttered. 
 
 One dark night on a lonely moorland road 
 he gave me quite a bad fright by firing his gun 
 from the hedge bottom behind me. I never saw 
 him because it was too dark, but I knew only 
 too well whose playful trick it was. 
 
 Birds of a feather flock together, and many 
 stories of drunken orgies at the lonely farmhouse 
 were reported. Peaceful passers-by were compelled 
 to enter for carouse. 
 
 It is incredible on recalling these events that 
 his reign of terror should have lasted so long as
 
 THE CASE OF GEORGE WILSON 187 
 
 nearly three years. His neighbours either were 
 too timid to lay a complaint against him to the 
 authorities, or were reluctant to do so, remembering 
 him as the good and kindly neighbour of bygone 
 years. The clannish feeling is strong, and nearly 
 all of us had a sneaking regard for the man. Of 
 course reports of his misdoings reached the police. 
 The village policeman with a big family, and early 
 prospect of a well-earned pension, was anxious to 
 keep a whole skin. As an old soldier he was a 
 master of strategy and an adept at taking cover. 
 He made a great show of doing things, but it was 
 all masterly inactivity ; nothing was accomplished. 
 
 From his lofty stronghold, surveying with his 
 hawk-like eye all the kingdoms of the earth, 
 Wilson kept a watchful look-out. When danger 
 threatened and the policeman did pay a perfunctory 
 visit, he retired within, locking and bolting the 
 doors, and sat waiting with loaded gun for develop- 
 ments which never came. 
 
 He was no coward, and I am perfectly certain 
 he would have shot at sight anyone who attempted 
 to arrest him on his own premises. 
 
 On several occasions in his periodic flying visits 
 to the other dales or lowlands he was arrested and 
 punished for firing off his gun to the public danger, 
 but in his own immediate native land he always 
 escaped scot-free. 
 
 It is interesting to note in his case how soon 
 alcoholic insanity will pass away when its cause is 
 withdrawn. On one of his excursions to the low- 
 lands he was arrested and confined in a police- 
 station on the charge of being a dangerous lunatic 
 at large. There was some unavoidable but con-
 
 188 INSANITY 
 
 siderable delay in certifying him, and when the 
 doctors at length arrived for the purpose, he was 
 perfectly quiet, rational, and sane. 
 
 The local police authorities having failed to 
 bring him to task, I was one day, after one of his 
 mad pranks, requested to examine him and, if 
 possible, certify him. I saw that my will was in 
 order, and bade my wife an affectionate good-bye. 
 I scarcely believed he would harm me because we 
 had always been excellent friends, but I was in- 
 vading the precincts of his castle and knew that 
 accidents might happen. I thought it was wiser to 
 go alone, and approached the farm by a circuitous 
 footpath. To my no small relief I found the house 
 deserted. I heard afterwards that he had departed 
 on one of his flying visits up the dale to back of 
 beyond. 
 
 However, shortly after this his mad career came 
 to an end. He solved all our difficulties himself, 
 poor fellow, and his own at the same time. 
 
 The village idiot was acting as temporary post- 
 man one morning, and in passing the open door of 
 the barn of the farm, happened to look in. He 
 saw Wilson suspended by a rope, strangling himself 
 and still in his death struggle. Instead of cutting 
 him down, in his terror he ran away at top speed, 
 and never stopped till he met a passer-by two miles 
 off to whom he reported the occurrence ; then of 
 course it was too late to do anything. 
 
 The opinion of the countryside was that the 
 idiot was not so daft after all, and that by removing 
 himself quickly from the scene, he had acted with 
 great wisdom and judgment. 
 
 It was evidently a very sudden impulse that
 
 THE MAN WITH A GRIEVANCE 189 
 
 prompted Wilson to solve the great problem, 
 because the kettle was found to be boiling, the 
 bacon in slices and the egg ready for the breakfast 
 he never ate. 
 
 The last story I will inflict on the reader while 
 on this subject, is one of those events which stir 
 a countryside, are more than a nine days' wonder, 
 and are retold over and over again for years by 
 the peat fireside. 
 
 It was also one of great interest to me from a 
 psychological point of view. 
 
 There lived in the moorland village a stone- 
 mason then thirty-eight years of age. He came of 
 a well-balanced moorland stock, though I believe 
 eventually two brothers became hard drinkers. 
 He was clever at his job, always in demand, and 
 very industrious. Very rarely he had fits of 
 moodiness and sulkiness. 
 
 But he had what was to him a very great 
 grievance. It was the humble station in life to 
 which he had been called. He was appalled at 
 the terrific gap yawning between the poor and the 
 very rich. He hated all rich people and, unlike 
 most Englishmen, specially lords and their ladies. 
 It was really at the bottom a case of pure envy. 
 He broke the tenth commandment many times a 
 day. This grievance became an obsession, and 
 ultimately a delusion. 
 
 He was purely a moorland product, but he was 
 the material out of which anarchists are fashioned 
 one of those poisonous weeds which grow in all 
 lands, even, as it appeared, on moorlands. 
 
 He was an intense Radical, but took no interes* 
 in politics nor in any particular scheme for the 
 
 2 c
 
 190 INSANITY 
 
 abolition of rich lords. Although a good workman, 
 he had no desire to work very hard and so become 
 richer, nor did he feel inclined to help himself to 
 the good things he coveted. I have no doubt if 
 there had been a society in the village to annihilate 
 lords, he would have cheerfully joined and done 
 his share of the good work. 
 
 I know there are weak-minded people who 
 take a sudden fancy to possess the moon, and 
 when they find they cannot get it go raving mad. 
 But it seemed impossible to me that envy alone 
 would drive a man mad. 
 
 He was intelligent enough on all other matters, 
 and I had long talks and arguments with him to 
 try and reason him out of his obsession. It was 
 all to no purpose, "Why can't I be a lord and 
 ride in a carriage and pair ? Why can't I go fox- 
 hunting ? Why can't I dress up like a toff and go 
 to London ? " These were samples of his grievance. 
 To him, apparently, there was no satisfactory 
 answer to these questions. 
 
 One day when work was rather slack, he got 
 a job at some alterations in the stables of a very 
 rich peer of the realm. If he had been consistent, 
 he should have refused any favour at the hands of 
 such an odious being. 
 
 Perhaps it was a case of real personal curiosity 
 to see what actually did occur in the establishment 
 of a real live lord. Evidently the galaxy of foot- 
 men, grooms, gamekeepers, gardeners, horses, and 
 so forth which he saw completely knocked him 
 off his balance. For some days he was very quiet 
 though harping more than usual on his eternal 
 grievance ; then one dark winter's morning, after
 
 A DETERMINED SUICIDE 191 
 
 bringing to his wife's bedside the cup of tea he 
 never forgot, he set off on his five-mile walk across 
 country to his work. He never returned home, 
 nor was ever seen alive again. At first his wife 
 felt no uneasiness, thinking that he had got 
 convenient lodgings near his work; but further 
 inquiry elicited the fact that he had never returned 
 to work, nor had anybody heard or seen anything 
 of him. 
 
 Search was made up and down dale, but no 
 trace of him could be found. Christmas passed, 
 springtime came, and the poor distracted wife, now 
 at the end of resources, was compelled to apply 
 for parish relief, and to remove to another village 
 in order to obtain employment. 
 
 One glorious summer's evening, with a golden 
 sunset lighting the western sky, I was returning 
 homewards along the moorland road with fishing 
 rod over my shoulders, and well- filled creel, think- 
 ing what a glorious world it is, when I met a 
 woman hurrying toward me. " The've fun 'im," she 
 said. "Whom?" I asked. "Bob Waddington," 
 she replied, "and I'm off to tell Mary" his wife. 
 
 And this was the strange finding. Within only 
 four hundred yards of Waddington's cottage, adjoin- 
 ing a much frequented footpath, was a small cow- 
 shed. In the very diminutive loft, scarcely bigger 
 than a dog kennel, access to which could only be 
 obtained by climbing up the hay -rack, were stored 
 the farmer's hay-forks and hay-rakes. When 
 collecting these, the farmer's son found Waddington 
 strangled by a rope. Being a big man he had 
 done it with his knees on the ground. What a 
 determined suicide !
 
 192 INSANITY 
 
 I went on my way again, wondering sadly that 
 such strange tragedies should happen in such a 
 beautiful world. 
 
 That cowshed is still avoided, or passed 
 tremblingly by, from fear of seeing Bob Wadding- 
 ton's ghost.
 
 CHAPTEE XI 
 
 HOSPITALITY 
 
 YORKSHIRE hospitality, like that famous product of 
 the county, the Yorkshire ham, is known the whole 
 world over. 
 
 There is no pompous affectation or formality 
 about it, such as one encounters in some lands. 
 But one is always sure of a kindly welcome and 
 that is the true test of hospitality. I have had 
 hundreds of meals in the homes of my patients, 
 from the peer to the pauper, and never failed 
 of this kindly welcome. With the poor this 
 hospitality is an instinctive duty, and with the 
 rich it is a luxury. Yorkshiremen are notoriously 
 the keenest of business men and drive the hardest 
 of bargains, but their hospitality is a thing quite 
 apart. 
 
 I have heard it said that Yorkshire men feed 
 you and then rob you, but no statement could be 
 more misleading. 
 
 In primitive times the weakest went to the 
 wall. In the struggle for existence those who 
 were unable to fight or defend themselves in face 
 of greater strength or determination, naturally 
 starved. But as civilisation came and spread, 
 there grew correspondingly the obligation to care 
 for the weak, the needy, and the sick. Hospitality, 
 
 198
 
 194 HOSPITALITY 
 
 at first a duty, became a virtue, and then more 
 or less an instinct. Tradition says that Guaire, 
 King of Connaught, in the seventh century gave 
 so much in gifts of hospitality that his right arm 
 grew longer than his left. 
 
 In the Middle Ages nunneries and monasteries 
 established guest-houses, and dispensed charity to 
 the needy. These have been replaced for better 
 or for worse by the workhouse, the infirmary, and 
 countless charitable institutions. Hospitality had 
 naturally a disarming and elevating effect on those 
 who were entertained, and hence in time came the 
 feeling, that having eaten the bread and salt of 
 another, one must do him no wrong nor speak 
 any evil of him. Instances have been recorded 
 where the chance eating of an enemy's bread and 
 salt has meant the end of a feud. 
 
 In mountainous and hilly countries, which were 
 thinly populated, and where the conditions of life 
 were extremely hard and difficult, the obligations 
 of hospitality would be all the more necessary 
 and frequent. We are told that in classical times 
 the inhabitants of the backward and mountainous 
 kingdom of Thessaly enjoyed quite a reputation 
 for generous hospitality. It is therefore quite easy 
 to understand that on the hills and moors of 
 Yorkshire the virtue reaches its acme. There, 
 though the stranger is invariably the object of a 
 natural suspicion, he is, as a guest, assured of 
 a scrupulous hospitality. Even in houses where 
 the word hospitality would not be understood, the 
 thing exists, and the guest is invariably served first. 
 " Come thi ways, sit thee sen down and reach to," 
 is the formula of welcome, and the happiest
 
 A STRANGE REFUSAL 195 
 
 response is to " reach to with a long arm " and do 
 fullest justice to the well-laid table. 
 
 It must not be forgotten that the lives of these 
 people are very lonely ones, and that in that 
 wonderful air, specially after the hard work of 
 sheep-tending, they have huge appetites, and the 
 advent of the stranger is a good and sound excuse 
 to let themselves go. Hospitis adventus causa 
 bibendi. 
 
 I had an amusing experience once when on 
 foot in a remote district where I was not known. 
 It was a hot scorching day, and I was corre- 
 spondingly thirsty. I called at a farmhouse for 
 a glass of water. To my surprise my humble 
 request was angrily refused. Does not Hitopadesa 
 say that some straw, a room, water, and in the 
 fourth place gentle words are things never to be 
 refused in good men's houses ? I did not even 
 get gentle words. Just as I was turning away I 
 was still further mystified by an offer of milk or 
 beer. Then came the explanation. Pure drinking- 
 water was very precious, because in droughty 
 weather it had to be fetched from quite a long 
 distance. 
 
 The only objection I had to the delightful and 
 bountiful hospitality of my friends, was that they 
 insisted on my eating and drinking more than I 
 wanted or was good for me. It was often a very 
 real and a frequently recurring problem how to 
 avoid it without hurting their feelings. At feast 
 and fair the farmers kept open house. Christmas 
 time was a terrible trial, and I was compelled for 
 weeks to run the gauntlet of countless rich plum 
 cakes, fat cheeses, and much good cheer. It was
 
 196 HOSPITALITY 
 
 an embarrassment that might easily have been 
 fatal. 
 
 I once literally ran away to escape the relentless 
 Yorkshire hospitality. It was in this wise. I 
 had been watching over the safe hatching out of 
 another moorland chick. At these happy events 
 it is the custom to provide hospitality for the 
 refreshment of all who have been assisting at the 
 function, no matter what the hour may be. 
 Substantial feasts at unearthly hours are decidedly 
 provocative of sleeplessness and nightmares. 
 I said good-night to the mother and nurse 
 and descended to the house kitchen to find it 
 momentarily deserted. There were all the good 
 things spread out, but no one to bid me sit down and 
 "reach to." Here at any rate for once was a rare 
 chance to escape. As I happened to be afoot I 
 slipped out quickly, and got about two hundred 
 yards away from the house when I heard the farmer 
 calling loudly for me through the night. Then 
 he began to hurry after me in pursuit, first walking 
 and then running faster and faster. I got on to 
 the moor road, and took the precaution to run on 
 the grass at the side. Sounds carry far on the 
 moorland at night. He kept up the chase for 
 about a mile before he gave it up. Next day he 
 remarked, " What a walker ye be, Doctor, how ye 
 can leg it." They were dreadfully put out at what 
 they thought was their flagrant breach of good 
 manners. It seemed a ridiculous occurrence for a 
 doctor to be running away at top speed with a 
 black bag at three o'clock in the morning, to 
 escape from fried Yorkshire ham, but so it 
 happened.
 
 A DIFFICULT CHOICE 197 
 
 A patient once consulted me shortly before 
 Christmas for some rather serious dyspeptic 
 trouble. While I was detailing a long list of 
 forbidden foods, I noticed that his face grew 
 longer and longer. At last he burst forth, "Eh, 
 bairn, I wish I had put off till after Kersmass 
 seeing thee." 
 
 The degree of hospitality varies according to 
 the means and temperament of the hosts. The 
 predominant factor is the housewife, who sees 
 watchfully to the wants of everybody, and is the 
 last person served. All the household, including 
 servants, "meat" together in the "hoose" or 
 kitchen. Farmhouses are known far and wide as 
 good or bad meat-houses, as the case may be, and 
 in the former the servant question never becomes 
 acute. Even the meanest and most miserly 
 housewife realises the duty of hospitality, and 
 will set her best before you ungrudgingly. Any 
 offer of payment is indeed regarded as an insult. 
 
 I have noticed over and over again among 
 these thrifty but hospitable people, that in cases 
 of sickness or undeserved poverty among their 
 neighbours, though they were often generous to a 
 fault in the giving of food or delicacies, they would 
 never under any circumstances part with the 
 smallest coin of the realm. 
 
 I shall not easily forget my first professional 
 visit to a Yorkshire dale. Being a Yorkshireman 
 I knew quite well that unless I wished to earn a 
 reputation of being "'igh, 'aughty, and pompey," 
 I must accept on a first visit any hospitality offered 
 me. At the first farmhouse after my consultation 
 was over, I was asked by the farmer, " What will 
 
 2 D
 
 198 HOSPITALITY 
 
 ye tak ? " Thinking a little whisky would be the 
 least injurious under the circumstances, I asked 
 for it. The housewife's face became at once 
 solemn and serious and as long as a fiddle before 
 she said, "Ye are welcome reight eneagh to t'drop 
 o' whisky, but we deean't want any mair drunken 
 doctors in t'shop." What a stupid blunder on my 
 part. Then I went on to the next farmhouse 
 where I was also asked what I would " tak." 
 "A glass of milk," I replied, with great self- 
 confidence. But the second housewife's face 
 became, if possible, even more serious and solemn 
 than the previous one's. "Ye are welcome," she 
 explained, " to t'drop o' milk, but we deean't want 
 any mair drunken doctors. Dr Macpherson, when 
 he fust came, used to axe for milk like ye, and 
 thens he axed for whisky which war his ruin." I 
 had escaped from Scylla to Charybdis, and it was 
 all very perplexing. I was informed afterwards 
 that the majority of my predecessors had been 
 topers and "drunken dogs." 
 
 Is there any wonder that many country doctors 
 degenerate into drunken doctors in a county like 
 Yorkshire ? For many hours of a long night, 
 miles away from home in the depths of winter, 
 one may be tied up at a farmhouse waiting patiently 
 for the hatching of a moor chick. Peat fires give 
 out a delightful smell but not much heat, and it is 
 not always easy to keep warm by them. The 
 father, full of the traditional hospitality, possibly 
 begins " wetting the baby's head " hours before its 
 arrival, and is soon jovial and convivial. If there 
 is a little anxiety, all the more reason to combat it. 
 He of course presses and expects you to join him,
 
 IN DEFENCE OF ALCOHOL 199 
 
 and it requires some strength of will to refuse. 
 For my own reputation's sake I made it a firm 
 rule never to touch a drop of alcohol till the babe 
 was safely in the world. On the long, bitterly 
 cold drives in winter, I was often kindly invited 
 to have "summat warming." 
 
 The teetotalers may protest as much as they 
 like, but there is no pick-me-up so effective as a 
 whisky and soda when one is thoroughly jaded 
 after a hard day's work and too tired to eat. 
 Worries vanish as if by magic and appetite returns. 
 I have tried both the teetotal and the other plan. 
 A farmer once explained to me that his infallible 
 remedy for agricultural depression was a " sup o' 
 gin and watter," and that the outlook was always 
 brighter afterwards Ebrietas sollicitis animis onus 
 eximit. 
 
 A thrifty but generous Yorkshireman once 
 scored very cleverly off me, and chuckled heartily 
 over his success. I attended him occasionally for 
 attacks of syncope after hunting. On one occasion 
 after being summoned hurriedly to his bedside, he 
 asked if I was perfectly sure the attack was exactly 
 similar to the previous ones. Having replied in 
 the affirmative, he said with a most triumphant 
 expression on his face, "Then you need not send 
 me any more medicine at present, because I have 
 three-quarters of the last bottle you made in the 
 wine-cellar in a cool place." I don't know to this 
 day how many vintages of old physic he had, but 
 I do know there was some very excellent old port 
 which I helped him occasionally to drink. 
 
 I arrived at one confinement hours before time 
 to find the anxious father had been wetting the
 
 200 HOSPITALITY 
 
 baby's head in a thorough business-like and 
 anticipatory fashion. To escape his hospitable 
 attention I said I would lie down in the spare 
 bedroom. 
 
 Ten minutes afterwards he opened the bedroom 
 door, remarking, "This ligging (lying) down is a 
 varra good idea, Doctor, an' I'll come and keep ye 
 company an' lig wi' ye," and immediately lay down 
 beside me, a friendly enough proceeding but very 
 objectionable. I made an excuse at once to get 
 rid of him, by suggesting something for the patient's 
 good, and then bolted the door. He returned 
 shortly afterwards, and after persistent requests 
 for admission which I silently ignored, presently 
 sat down on the bedroom door-mat, with his back 
 to the door, and slept soundly for three hours 
 afterwards. 
 
 It was the custom of the country that the birth 
 of the baby should be celebrated by eating a big 
 fat plum cake called the baby-cake, made by the 
 expectant mother, who would relate proudly how 
 much good butter and how many eggs she had 
 used. It was afterwards consumed by callers 
 who came to see the mother and new arrival ; and 
 on these occasions in the " Bettermy " farmhouses 
 port or good home-made wine was produced. The 
 baby-cake takes the place of the christening cake 
 in other places, and the doctor is invariably 
 requested to cut the first piece. My wish on 
 these occasions was always " That the boy or girl 
 might grow up to be the father or mother of a 
 very large family and so help to keep the doctors 
 out of the workhouse," and always received as 
 quite a good joke.
 
 "BOTCHET" 201 
 
 Most excellent home-made wines were made 
 by the clever housewives. These were blackberry, 
 gooseberry, cowslip, rhubarb, colt's-foot, elderberry, 
 and beetroot. Some had been kept for some years 
 and were decidedly potent and very clear. A 
 beverage frequently brewed too on those moor- 
 lands was a species of mead called botchet, made 
 from the moorland honey. It was much too 
 sweet to be pleasant taking, and decidedly heady. 
 " Leggy " the natives called it because of its effects 
 on the gait. Many bees were kept in the district. 
 The moorland honey has a flavour peculiarly its 
 own, and I thought it much more delicious than 
 the ordinary variety. It is perhaps a trifle bitter, 
 and not agreeable to everybody's taste. 
 
 In the many moorland inns it was possible to 
 get a good glass of local ale, and the gin was also 
 always good and reliable, generally Nicholson's pro- 
 duct, but of the nondescript fiery stuff which they 
 invariably gave you whether you asked for Irish, 
 Scotch whisky, or brandy, the least said the better. 
 
 A retired farmer I knew many years ago and 
 whose funeral I describe elsewhere in detail 
 possessed a superlative reputation for lavish 
 hospitality and excellent liquor. Of the latter 
 Krofer Dumeld had never been known to run 
 short. Once, however, a consecutive nightly and 
 crowded carouse, together with roads blocked with 
 snow, which prevented any replenishment, brought 
 his supply perilously near vanishing point, and his 
 reputation was in danger. He might possibly in 
 emergency have borrowed, but such an humiliation 
 had never arisen. When some old "particulars" 
 turned up for the third night in succession, he
 
 202 HOSPITALITY 
 
 asked anxiously, " Are ye lads making a night on 
 it ? " " Nay ! nay ! " they replied, " we gan early." 
 Reassured on this point he produced the good gin. 
 But on these tiresome forgetful fellows sat, filling 
 their glasses high, " cracking away " and " capping " 
 each other's yarns, till the precious liquor had 
 nearly gone. 
 
 Asking to be excused, the host hastily filled a 
 two-gallon stone jar with water, corked and sealed 
 it. Then he turned it on its side, kicking it into 
 his parlour. Retiring again to fill a white top hat, 
 of which he was inordinately proud during its 
 summer wear, with a pound of tobacco, he returned 
 to bang it down on the parlour table. After lock- 
 ing the room door, and putting the key in his 
 pocket, he gave out, "Now ye lads, noan on us 
 quit this room till we've supped all t'gin an' 
 smeeaked all t'baccy." 
 
 All these merry fellows could carry their liquor 
 well, but this challenge alarmed them. They 
 emptied their glasses and departed, while Krofer 
 Duffield more than added to a hospitable pre- 
 eminence, which is immortal on the moorlands. 
 
 There is a story told locally of a visitor to 
 a ducal house in the dales for the winter's hunting. 
 He was an impecunious, sponging, south-country 
 colonel who, having ruined himself with riotous 
 living, was now anxious to help others at the same 
 game. He was known as a very hard drinker, 
 with great carrying capacity. One day while 
 discussing the great shire with his host, he 
 remarked, " I have always heard that Yorkshiremen 
 were men of unbounded stomach and able to carry 
 their whack of wine well, but they are a poor lot
 
 A DRINKING-MATCH 203 
 
 that I have met so far at your table, Duke." 
 "Egad, no, Colonel," replied the duke, "there are 
 scores of good Yorkshiremen who can easily see 
 you under the table." "Well, Duke, I should 
 like to meet them, that's all." There was a 
 suggestive challenge about this final remark, which 
 the duke, for the reputation of the county, could 
 not very well ignore. He recognised that the 
 colonel was a very hard nut to crack, and that 
 the matter required very careful handling. His 
 house steward, with whom he talked the matter 
 over, at once suggested, " Why not ask Jack Myers 
 for once, Your Grace ? " Jack Myers was a tenant 
 farmer on the ducal estate, who had the notoriety 
 of carrying his liquor better than any man in the 
 district. His admirers and friends asserted that 
 it was an utter impossibility to make him drunk. 
 He was a good-looking fellow too, of fine physique, 
 with decent manners, and an abundant gift of 
 native wit. " The very man," said the duke, and 
 immediately sent the steward with a personal 
 invitation, explaining the plot, and at the same 
 time offering the gift of a new suit of clothes 
 quite a la mode. Myers accepted with unconcealed 
 delight, saying that it was just his "game to a 
 hay seed." 
 
 On the fateful night the duke, in high good 
 humour, beamed on his well-filled table, confident 
 that the repute of the shire of many acres was in 
 safe hands. Myers, perhaps the handsomest and 
 best set-up man in the room, was at first shy and 
 reserved, but when the wine commenced to flow 
 freely, his natural wit came to his help. One by 
 one these gallant sportsmen went under the table
 
 204 HOSPITALITY 
 
 and were carried to bed. The duke's turn came 
 in time, and then only the fittest remained. The 
 colonel, slightly truculent and quarrelsome, sat far 
 into the night vis-a-vis the good-humoured York- 
 shireman. Many great episodes of hunting and 
 racing were recalled. Then the colonel began to 
 balance his words, shooting out his sentences, a 
 certain sign that the helpless stage of inco- 
 ordination was near. The supply of good wine 
 had temporarily run out. "Ring the bell," jerked 
 the colonel, "we want some more wine." "King 
 it yourself," said Myers. " It's just behind you, I'm 
 not your servant." The colonel looked anxiously 
 round, fixing in his eye the bell's position, and 
 after glaring angrily at the Yorkshireman for some 
 minutes, pulled himself together with one supreme 
 concentrated effort. He got up and managed to 
 walk to the bell, but unfortunately in returning 
 one foot caught in a skin rug, and down he went. 
 He was a big man and fell very heavily. The end 
 had come suddenly, and there he lay helplessly and 
 hopelessly drunk. When the footmen answered 
 the summons Myers said quietly to these astonished 
 menials, "Take that fellow to bed, he's as drunk 
 as a fiddler, and bring another bottle of wine." 
 The colonel was carried to bed, and another bottle 
 of wine brought in. After drinking this with 
 leisurely deliberation, Myers asked for his horse, 
 walked steadily to the great doors of the castle, 
 mounted, and rode into the night. 
 
 The colonel was unmercifully chaffed. So 
 pleased was the duke that he invited Myers to 
 dinner again and, it was said, even remitted him 
 half a year's rent.
 
 "TWENTY SHILLINGS TO TTUND" 205 
 
 A small manufacturer on the hills, although 
 hardworking and industrious, used such bad 
 judgment in buying that he continually found 
 himself in financial stress. He had, too, an 
 enormous appetite and was a notorious trencher- 
 man. On the third occasion when his creditors 
 had been called together, he was awaiting in an 
 adjoining room with a great friend for their decision 
 whether he should be made a bankrupt or not. 
 The pangs of hunger assailed him because it was 
 now long past his usual hour of dining. Suddenly 
 his friend saw him stop his restless pacing and 
 begin tapping his stomach. Then he heard him 
 address it thus, " Noo thens, thee be quiet, thou's 
 awlus had twenty shillings to t'pund, whatever 
 t'others have had." 
 
 The local preachers were always most hospi- 
 tably entertained, and thoroughly the majority 
 seemed to anticipate and enjoy it. Some of them 
 ate so much that one got the impression they had 
 eaten nothing during the previous week. 
 
 One terrific guzzler over-ate his welcome so 
 much that he was occasionally allowed to fall 
 back on his own humble parcel of refreshment. 
 However he discovered a very ingenious and 
 effective way of turning the tables on his village 
 hosts. At the commencement of the service he 
 hung his red handkerchief holding his food in 
 a conspicuous position near the pulpit, and at 
 intervals in the course of the sermon contrived 
 to draw attention to it. After making some state- 
 ment he would say, "It is as true as that thear 
 handkerchief holds my bit of food." Overcome 
 with remorse, quite a deputation of hosts waited 
 
 2 E
 
 206 HOSPITALITY 
 
 for him at the chapel door, pressing their hospitality. 
 After listening to all the invitations in turn, he 
 replied with great condescension, "I will go with 
 Mr Hogg" naming the host who kept the best 
 "meat house." 
 
 The product of the county in greatest repute is 
 the Yorkshire home-fed ham. It is really world 
 famous. When travelling abroad I have often 
 been assured that the ham I was consuming was 
 " Vrai jambon d'York," though it had scarcely the 
 faintest resemblance to the genuine article. There 
 could not have been a more captious critic. In 
 addition to the skill and care in curing, time is a 
 very great factor in its creation. It must be ripe 
 and mellow and not too lean. 
 
 Boiled or baked ham is the joint of honour 
 and chief "belly timber" on all occasions of 
 Yorkshire hospitality, at agricultural shows, feasts, 
 fairs, funerals, harvest homes, and chapel functions. 
 Well-baked ham is much superior to boiled ham. 
 And to-day the smell of fried ham at once brings 
 back the memory of happy days spent on the 
 moorlands, of the hospitality of those kindly 
 people, and the many great friendships I made. 
 
 Once when he was "market fresh," one of my 
 patients insisted that I should have some gin, 
 which I declined. "I'll mak ye tak it," he said. 
 As he was a big, powerful man and very quarrel- 
 some, there might have been trouble, but his 
 daughter behind his back made signs urging me to 
 take it, and for peace sake I gave way. 
 
 Only the previous week when market fresh he 
 had called on his son-in-law at a neighbouring
 
 YORKSHIRE PUDDING 207 
 
 farm, with whom he was in temporary disagree- 
 ment. In order to lay violent hands on him to 
 enforce an argument he proceeded to chase him 
 round a fourteen-acre field, but handicapped by 
 weight and liquor came in a very bad second. 
 These proceedings were witnessed by some neigh- 
 bours returning from the local market on the high 
 road, who to this day refer to it as the great 
 "Milne Eigg Kace." The man nearly died after 
 his strenuous effort. 
 
 The glories of Yorkshire ham must not lead 
 me to forget those of that twin pillar of Yorkshire 
 fame Yorkshire pudding. 
 
 A Yorkshire farmer, staying at an old-fashioned 
 London hotel, when asked by the waiter if he 
 liked Yorkshire pudding, astonished the diners 
 by replying, "Loike Yorkshire pudden, I sud 
 think I deea, bless ye I've eeaten yakkers (acres) 
 of it i' my toime."
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 THREEAPINS AN' DIFFERINS 
 
 I REGRET to say my moorland friends were very 
 obstinate, very quarrelsome, and very irreconcilable 
 in their quarrels. Hill men from earliest times in 
 all countries have been more quarrelsome and 
 pugnacious than their lowland brothers. They 
 are more remote from the influence of civilisation, 
 are stronger and hardier, and more primitive in 
 their instincts. 
 
 In former days a little judicious shedding of 
 blood relieved the tension, and bitter enemies 
 thereby often became excellent friends ; but the 
 good old game of fighting has long passed away 
 from the Yorkshire highlands. 
 
 To-day there is only the quarrelling left, which 
 is in consequence all the more bitter and relent- 
 less. My friends quarrelled in deadly earnest ; they 
 never forgave and they never forgot. Sometimes 
 the feud went on from father to son. They 
 quarrelled over their grazing and sporting rights, 
 over their sheep and stock, over trickery in 
 bargaining, and of course over those old bones 
 of contention wills, religion, and money. The 
 majority of them called themselves Radicals, and 
 terribly bitter politicians many of them were. 
 
 A Westmoreland friend of mine, in practice for 
 
 208
 
 A EXCEPTIONAL VILLAGE 209 
 
 many years in a mountainous district, quite early 
 noticed this proneness to quarrel among his fell- 
 side patients, and tried to account for it by various 
 theories. The conclusion he came to was that the 
 causation was climatic ; he thought their livers 
 were sluggish from constant exposure to the cold 
 winds so long prevalent during the year, which 
 rendered them peevish and irritable. That might 
 have something to do with it of course. The 
 destiny of nations has been changed before to-day 
 by an attack of indigestion. 
 
 But it is only too true that my moorland friends 
 were for ever " threeaping and differing." 
 
 The inhabitants of one moorland village were, 
 however, an extraordinarily marked contrast to 
 then- neighbours. They never seemed to quarrel, 
 were always amiable and good-tempered, gave one 
 a friendly salutation and greeting, and in sickness 
 could not do enough for one another. 
 
 I one day made the remark to the Squire of 
 this village, that of all the twelve or more villages 
 in my practice, the inhabitants of this village were 
 incomparably the best-mannered and most agree- 
 able to attend. My remark evidently pleased him 
 very much, his face fairly beamed, and he nodded 
 most significantly to his wife across the tea-table. 
 Then he told me how this delightful state of affairs 
 had been brought about in his little domain. 
 
 The previous Squire, a distant relative from 
 whom he inherited the property, had been a very 
 saintly man, with great force of character and high 
 ideals. His health had always been delicate and 
 prevented him from marrying, but he was exceed- 
 ingly fond of children, and took the deepest
 
 210 THREEAPINS AN' DIFFERINS 
 
 personal interest in the moral and spiritual welfare 
 of all the village children, from their earliest years. 
 He taught them in Sunday school, remembered 
 all their birthdays, called them by their Christian 
 names, took them out long walks in turn, reading 
 to them the great open book of nature, and it must 
 be added did not spare them a very vigorous 
 application of the rod when native sin required 
 it. The good seed fell on fertile ground, and here 
 was the rich harvest, many long years after he and 
 his beloved sister were laid to rest. Those he 
 taught so well and so lovingly were now parents 
 and grandparents, and the lapse of years and 
 experience of life had added to their gentleness 
 and sweet reasonableness. 
 
 Though they quarrelled so heartily amongst 
 themselves, my moorland friends instinctively pre- 
 sented a common and hostile front to " foreigners " 
 who ventured to invade their precincts. 
 
 I took to task one day a huge hard-bitten, 
 weather-beaten moorland giant, for this unfriendly 
 attitude. "Yans nae good," he retorted, "unless 
 he comes frae ower thaar," pointing to the frowning 
 moors beyond. This was conclusive. These were 
 England to him and his brethren. 
 
 "I'se glad to be back i' England again," a 
 patient whom I had sent away, remarked on his 
 return. They thought little of London and all 
 large towns. "What do you think of London?" 
 a Yorkshire Squire inquired of a tenant up for a 
 Royal Show. " I reckon nowt tae it. I can't get 
 a Darlington no ways," was his reply. The 
 Darlington and Stockton Times is the most widely 
 read paper in North Yorkshire.
 
 "NARSTY FURRINERS' 1 211 
 
 Two agricultural friends of mine being pestered 
 by two men selling newspapers, answered them 
 angrily in the broadest Yorkshire, " Git yam, yah 
 ragabush" (get home you rubbish). "Come 
 a-wye Bill," said one to the other. " Deean't ye 
 see, they're them narsty furriners." 
 
 When farms fell vacant, and no tenants were 
 available from among the younger sons of the clans, 
 the foreigner came in. If he hailed from other 
 moorlands then he knew the game, walked warily, 
 and in time panned in with the rest. But should 
 he be a luckless lowlander, then he was in for a 
 terrible time of it. Every hand was against him 
 at fairs, at markets, at sales, and in all bargainings. 
 His grazing rights were disregarded and his stock 
 were harried. Stories reflecting on his credit or 
 morality were invented or magnified, and in a 
 thousand little ways he was worried and persecuted. 
 Some gave the game up soon. 
 
 I knew one, an excellent fellow and a local 
 preacher, who struggled bravely on for fifteen 
 years before owning himself beaten. He was 
 obliged to take a farm in the adjacent lowlands. 
 
 A most remarkable instance occurred in my 
 own village, and if I had not had almost daily 
 evidence I could not have conceived it possible 
 that such persecution could continue through a 
 whole long life. When I first knew this man he 
 was a fine old fellow of seventy. He came of a 
 farming stock, and fifty years before had taken a 
 grazing farm near the village. He was industrious 
 and hard-working. For a time things went badly 
 with him and he became bankrupt, but with great 
 determination and struggling managed to pay his
 
 212 THREEAPINS AN' DIFFERINS 
 
 creditors in full. He was a zealous Churchman, 
 and had frequently been nominated vicar's warden. 
 He was a powerfully built man of fine physique, 
 able to take care of himself, and did when occasion 
 arose. He always tried to stand his corner in any 
 movement for the public weal. 
 
 All these facts should have been in his favour, 
 and should have appealed to the Yorkshireman's 
 sense of fair play. But not at all. From the day 
 of his coming his neighbours never ceased to use 
 him with envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitable- 
 ness. Time had very little influence in softening 
 their attitude. In his old age unfortunately he 
 made a slip. It was nothing immoral, but he 
 gave away some woman who had confided in him. 
 Then came the long-sought opportunity. They 
 were at him like a pack of wolves, and hounded 
 him out of his church-wardenship, and one or two 
 honorary offices he held. 
 
 I liked the man, was friendly with him, and 
 employed him and tried hard to account for this 
 life-long animosity. There was certainly a slight 
 flavour of the religious hypocrite about him, but 
 that was all. Far greater hypocrites than he 
 abounded in the land. 
 
 Where there was no "stint" 1 of the open 
 pasturage of the moor, there naturally the quarrels 
 and feuds were the fiercest. 
 
 Between two clans in particular there had 
 been enmity for over one hundred and fifty years. 
 Violent quarrels and even violence were frequent, 
 
 1 The "stint" of moorland means the apportionment of the 
 sheep to free pasturage in proportion to the size of the freehold.
 
 BARGAIN-MAKING 213 
 
 till one day it was the old story of the way of a 
 man with a maid. 
 
 A son of one married a daughter of the other. 
 Their first child I brought into the world. All 
 went well for three years. Then another dreadful 
 quarrel arose. The father invaded his son-in-law's 
 house, and carried back his daughter and her baby 
 by main force. Though happily married she had 
 the feud in her bones, and was not by any means 
 unwilling to go back to her old home. 
 
 I happened at the time to mention this incident 
 to a friend who had just returned from a long 
 fishing holiday in Hungary, and he told me that 
 an exactly similar incident had occurred in the 
 district where he had stayed. 
 
 No Jew, Greek, or Armenian loves a bargain 
 better than a Yorkshireman. He reverences the 
 whole ritual, and goes through the farcical 
 preliminaries with the utmost seriousness and 
 solemnity. More value may be spent by the 
 parties to the bargain and their attendant satellites 
 in the drinks and refreshment than the amount 
 perhaps for hours at issue. But when once the 
 bargain has been struck with the forcible smack of 
 the hand, it is most scrupulously regarded. It's 
 a bond more binding than any legal document. 
 But should any low trickery be brought to light 
 afterwards then there is war to the knife, and a 
 bitter life-long quarrel may result. 
 
 A parson patient of mine bought a ham from 
 one of his parishioners who was a very bigoted 
 Nonconformist. On the Sunday following the pur- 
 chase this farmer turned up at morning service, 
 and in the evening all the various members of his 
 
 2 F
 
 214 THREEAPINS AN 1 DIFFERINS 
 
 household were at church. But they never came 
 again. Meeting the farmer one day, the parson 
 remarked how pleased he had been to see him and 
 all his family at church, asking him if he had liked 
 the service. "It war all varra nice and coom- 
 fortable and it war a good company, bud ye see it 
 war that thear ham ye bowt on me. Ye gave me 
 a turn, so I thowt it only reet to give ye a turn 
 teea." The true spirit of bargaining of course. 
 
 Though the moorlanders were jealous enough 
 about their sheep and stock rights, and quarrelled 
 incessantly about them, they never seemed to be 
 jealous of their women folk. There were alien 
 children everywhere, and everybody knew who 
 their fathers were except the children themselves. 
 I was repeatedly asked by the mothers whom 
 these children resembled, and they were evidently 
 very proud to enlighten me. I remember once 
 being asked before a room full of people, by the 
 mother of a farmer's wife, herself the wife of a 
 highly respected farmer, who her daughter was 
 the " spit and image of." I knew of course to 
 whom she was alluding but affected ignorance, 
 and received a sound rating for my dullness. The 
 girl was a squire's daughter. 
 
 Sexual jealousy is a most variable trait in 
 human nature, as every doctor well knows. An 
 old medical friend told me of the case of a man 
 who was almost insanely jealous of his wife, and 
 insisted on being present at her confinement. He 
 had approached four doctors in turn who all 
 refused his odd request. My friend effected a 
 compromise. The husband sat throughout his 
 wife's ordeal, with his back to the bed under a
 
 OBSTINACY 215 
 
 kind of awning specially constructed for the 
 occasion. Fortunately Dame Nature was very 
 kind and no complications arose. I was once 
 discussing with a friend, a former fellow-student 
 at a London hospital, then in practice in town, the 
 strange anomalies of human nature. He remarked 
 that in his practice there was an instance of a 
 widow, who had formerly held a good position in 
 decent middle class society, living on the immoral 
 earnings of her three daughters, and wondered 
 that such a thing should be possible. Curiously 
 enough I had shortly before in my own remote 
 moorland village come across an exactly parallel 
 case though in a humbler sphere. 
 
 Some of my patients were so contradictious, that 
 all that it was necessary to do in order to get my 
 wishes executed was to suggest the exact opposite. 
 
 How stubbornly obstinate some of these people 
 were. 
 
 Occasionally when a man had been much 
 moved by some untoward event in his life, he 
 would express himself very assertively about it; 
 and should this assertion, uttered in the presence 
 of witnesses, imply some definite course of action 
 or line of conduct in the future, then it became 
 more than assertion, it had almost the force of an 
 oath, to be strictly observed as a question of 
 personal pride and honour. There must be no 
 softening of the heart as time went on, but rather 
 ever a sterner hardening. 
 
 I knew a country joiner and carpenter, who 
 was an industrious, clever, and an honest workman. 
 One day, unfortunately, high words arose between 
 him and the vicar over some work he had done on
 
 216 THREEAPINS AN 1 DIFFERINS 
 
 the church pulpit, and before witnesses he ex- 
 pressed himself very assertively and emphatically 
 about Church parsons. Very shortly afterwards a 
 new vicar was preferred to the living, who was a 
 rich man and desirous of spending a large sum in 
 repairs and alterations to the vicarage. He sent 
 for this excellent man, and together they spent an 
 hour looking over the contemplated work. To the 
 vicar the man appeared very taciturn and almost 
 absent-minded, but in reality a terrible struggle 
 was going on within him between self-advantage 
 and self-pride. The latter at last got the upper 
 hand, and when finally the vicar requested him 
 to commence work at once, he fiercely turned 
 round on him, and hissed out : " I sed I'de 
 never deea a-nother job fur a Chetch parson 
 AN' I'll warrant ye I weeant Good arterneean." 
 
 George Ashby quarrelled with his life-long 
 friend Robert Kaye over a business transaction, 
 and asserted before witnesses that he would never 
 as long as he lived, cross his threshold again. As 
 time went on his feelings towards Robert underwent 
 some softening and inwardly, or "bottomly," as 
 they say in Yorkshire, he would have liked to 
 be reconciled, but his strong assertion anent the 
 threshold always stood in the way. However, a 
 resourceful friend of both men suggested a golden 
 bridge. Why not take up the threshold, and after- 
 wards replace it by a new one ? He approached 
 both George Ashby and Robert Kaye, and both were 
 more than agreeable to this solution. The threshold 
 was taken up, and George Ashby re- entered his 
 friend's house after thirty years' absence. 
 
 Two Yorkshire brothers, William and John
 
 RECONCILIATION WITH AN IF" 217 
 
 Bickerdike, quarrelled. How the quarrel arose 
 does not concern us, but it was a very real and 
 bitter one, and for forty years, though living in 
 the same village and nearly opposite to one another, 
 they completely ignored each other's existence. 
 They were both men of some substance and 
 position, bore excellent characters, and had many 
 friends. These had made repeated efforts to 
 reconcile the excellent fellows, but without success. 
 They remained implacably hostile, hard as adamant 
 or moorland boulder. 
 
 One day John fell ill, took to his bed, and was 
 soon like to die. 
 
 The mutual friends were much distressed and, 
 after putting their heads together, decided that 
 one last effort should be made to reconcile these 
 unforgiving brothers. 
 
 William was first approached, and after some 
 considerable hesitation, said he " was willin." John 
 likewise hesitated but in the end was also "willin." 
 
 So the brothers met and broke the long silence 
 of forty years. 
 
 Of course no allusion was made to the quarrel, 
 but they had quite an affecting talk of happy days 
 spent together before it took place, of their old 
 father and mother, and many interesting events; 
 finally, William hoped John would go straight to 
 Heaven, and John in turn hoped he would meet 
 William there when the latter's time came. They 
 shook hands warmly and bade farewell. But 
 before he left the house, William was hastily 
 summoned back to the sick man's bedside. John 
 had something very important to say. 
 
 He found John sitting bolt upright in bed,
 
 218 THREEAPINS AN' DIFFERINS 
 
 whereas he had left him laid quite flat. "Now, 
 William," said John very solemnly, and impressively 
 raising his hand, " Now, William, if I get better all 
 this is for nowt." 
 
 One Yorkshire lady was a thorn in my side 
 for several years. She was a widow, fairly well 
 educated, comfortably off, and wielded no little 
 influence in the community. She and two or three 
 others had remained faithful in their allegiance to 
 a distant doctor, who at one time had had quite 
 a number of patients in this particular village. 
 She took the defection of the others very much 
 to heart, and made it quite a personal matter. 
 She would follow me in and out of houses with 
 mischievous and meddlesome intent. It was not 
 so much what she said as the way she said it, or 
 what she left unsaid. I often found her waiting 
 in the sickroom for my visit, of course at the 
 patient's invitation. I could have ordered her out, 
 but that would have led to a quarrel with the 
 people, and a country doctor should avoid a quarrel 
 at all costs. It will do him more harm in the 
 end than even professional incapacity. 
 
 She would sit through the interview in grim 
 silence, and beyond raising an eyebrow significantly 
 now and again, gave no sign of life. She was 
 really a very astute person, and I regarded her as 
 a formidable if not a bitter enemy. 
 
 However, one day her special idol, Dr Johnson, 
 died rather suddenly, and, worse still, she herself 
 was taken ill shortly afterwards, though not 
 dangerously. Then ensued a struggle between 
 loyalty to the dead and her own obstinate self 
 on the one hand, and greater convenience, less
 
 " POOR DR JOHNSON ! " 219 
 
 expense, and the calling in of an entirely new man 
 with new ways on the other. She made herself 
 much worse worrying over the question before she 
 decided to call in the devil she knew, in preference 
 to the devil she didn't know. 
 
 It was a tremendous capitulation, and she made 
 up her mind to make things as disagreeable and 
 unpleasant as possible for me. Nothing I could 
 do for her was right. Each bottle of medicine 
 tried made her worse, my hands blistered her 
 delicate skin when they touched her; I never felt 
 her pulse like Dr Johnson, and to my stethoscope 
 she much objected. Poor Dr Johnson, she ex- 
 plained, used no trumpets and such things, but 
 would put his soft gentle hand on her chest and 
 pronounce, "Mrs Thackeray you have the con- 
 gestion." Then finally she would shed a few tears, 
 and between her sobs exclaim, "Poor Dr Johnson ! 
 Poor Dr Johnson ! " 
 
 Every day it was the 'same, till at last my 
 patience was quite worn out. I had had more 
 than enough of poor Dr Johnson and the miserable 
 woman's querulous plaints. 
 
 "Yes! Yes!" I joined in, "poor Dr Johnson, 
 but be of good cheer, you shall soon see the 
 dear man again." 
 
 She turned very pale, and stared at me in 
 strained surprise for a few minutes. 
 
 " What did you say ? " she gasped at last. 
 
 "That you must cheer up, for you will very 
 soon see the doctor again." 
 
 "I don't understand," she said. 
 
 " I am making all arrangements for your seeing 
 your dear old friend as soon as possible."
 
 220 THREEAPINS AN' DIFFERINS 
 
 " You surely don't mean you intend to poison 
 me ! " she shrieked. 
 
 "Yes," I replied, "and I shall do the job 
 thoroughly too." 
 
 Then she burst into violent sobbing and genuine 
 tears, and only when exhausted did I talk gently 
 and kindly to her like a Father Confessor. 
 
 What a magic transformation was effected. 
 From that hour she was as good as gold, and till 
 she died we were the greatest possible friends. 
 
 Another Yorkshire lady, also a widow but of 
 higher degree, with extensive possessions, had in 
 like manner great confidence in Dr Johnson. She 
 was on friendly terms with this genial man and 
 good all-round sportsman, and one day asked his 
 assistance and advice in arranging a shooting party 
 for her. This was gladly given, and gradually the 
 doctor in course of time took entire charge of all 
 her shooting arrangements. 
 
 Unfortunately there was a strain of self-conceit 
 in the doctor's character, and in this enviable 
 position he rather lost his head, or in other words 
 could not carry his corn properly ; with the result 
 that he and the old lady quarrelled. It won't be 
 a quarrel for long, thought the doctor, because the 
 supply of those precious and special pills he dis- 
 pensed for her at a guinea a box would soon run 
 out, and the old lady must surely have forgotten 
 how indispensable they were to her in occasional 
 attacks of the colic. But the old lady had not 
 forgotten. She had wisely sent some of them to 
 be analysed, and on learning that they were only 
 composed of ginger was more annoyed than ever 
 with poor Dr Johnson.
 
 A VINDICTIVE SQUIRE 221 
 
 One of my predecessors quarrelled with a small 
 Yorkshire squire. I can just recall the latter as 
 a big, tall, fine-looking and imposing man, and a 
 splendid specimen of his class. He and the doctor 
 had been great cronies for many years, and the only 
 subject of discord to disturb this friendship was 
 the shocking state of the squire's ratione tenures 
 roads, which of course the doctor was obliged to 
 use every day. 
 
 "Wait till I persuade them to make me 
 surveyor, then I will make you keep your roads 
 in better order," was the latter's frequent threat 
 uttered half in jest and half in earnest. 
 
 In those days surveyors of roads were appointed 
 annually by the different townships, and the usual 
 practice was to choose only those who would spend 
 the least, with the result that the roads were 
 uniformly bad. 
 
 Eventually the doctor got his wish, was 
 appointed surveyor, and proceeded at once to 
 carry out his threat. The long friendship was 
 irretrievably broken, the squire swearing that 
 neither the doctor nor his successors should ever 
 attend him or his family again. The squire's 
 descendants have made good his adjuration to 
 this day, much to their own inconvenience. 
 
 Eight of the doctor's successors have come and 
 gone, and not one has been called in. I only once 
 ventured to call at this house to report about a 
 tenant who was in extremis. I was not allowed 
 to cross the threshold, nor could anyone have been 
 less heartily welcomed. 
 
 One day I was called to what was the most 
 
 2 G
 
 222 THREEAPINS AN 1 DIFFERINS 
 
 " uncomeatable " farm in the whole district, to see 
 a woman who was reported to be very ill from 
 consumption. She had come unexpectedly from 
 another dale to her grandparents and her old home, 
 in the hope that her native air might effect a cure. 
 
 I found her in the last stage of consumption, 
 almost a skeleton, though her face, as is often the 
 case with the consumptive, was still rather plump. 
 I prescribed a "bottle" to relieve her pressing 
 symptoms. On my second visit I had a very warm 
 and friendly welcome from her. She told me my 
 "stuff" had from the first dose gone straight to 
 the spot, putting new life into her, expressed regret 
 that she had not consulted me before, and finally 
 made a number of complimentary remarks about 
 my skill. 
 
 I went away feeling quite sorry for her and 
 thinking what a sensible woman she was. But 
 my third visit was a decidedly mauvais quart 
 (fheure. She told me she wished she had never 
 set " ees " on me, that my stuff was " nowt " but 
 poisonous "muck" and had nearly finished her 
 off, and called me all the names she could put her 
 tongue to. She had an astounding vocabulary. 
 I was a "nasty good fur nowt," "a daft heeaded 
 barmpot," "a dothery bletherheead," and finally I 
 was "fit fur nowt but pigmeat." Then with 
 collected and concentrated effort she spat full in 
 my face covering me all over with her disgusting 
 saliva. 
 
 In no amiable or enviable mood I went on to 
 the moorland vicarage to lunch. Seeing that I had 
 been put out by something, the gentle wife of the 
 vicar asked me what was the matter. I told my
 
 
 "HIT 'ER OWER T'N APPERCRACKER " 223 
 
 story, and instead of sympathising with me over 
 my disgusting treatment they both began to laugh. 
 They then explained their amusement. It appears 
 that this woman had been housemaid with them 
 for some years, and they knew her only too well. 
 Though excellent in every other way, she was 
 exceedingly quarrelsome. 
 
 When her mother first took her to the vicarage, 
 she said very decidedly to the vicar's wife, " Noo 
 then, Mrs Jones, this lass o' oors is a reet wurker, 
 varra industrious and varra clean, but she's awlus 
 threeapin, an' gets hersen intiv strange tantrums 
 noos an' thens. But ye mun tak nae noatice. 
 Just up wi' yer fist and hit 'er ower t'nappercracker 
 (head) or onny ways I'se noan sa partickler, bud " 
 very impressively " mind ye just fell 'er. That'll 
 larn 'er." 
 
 It was difficult to imagine this gentle, gracious 
 lady "felling" a stalwart moorside maid. 
 
 In the days when surpliced choirs were be- 
 coming the fashion, an offer of the gift of surplices 
 was made by a prominent member of the congrega- 
 tion of a Yorkshire church, and gratefully accepted 
 by the vicar and church- wardens who, together 
 with the bulk of the congregation, were equally 
 anxious for the innovation. The great obstacle, 
 however, was that the most generous and the 
 most influential member of the congregation, a 
 stern unbending Protestant, was bitterly opposed 
 to it. There was every prospect of a deadlock 
 over the matter, when an ingenious compromise 
 and way out of the impasse was suggested and 
 agreed to by the vicar and wardens. The great 
 man sat in the north aisle, and his only view of
 
 224 THREEAPINS AN 1 DIFFERINS 
 
 the obnoxious surplices was through a narrow 
 space between the pulpit and the pillar of the 
 chancel arch. A board was fixed to fill it and 
 remained there till in the course of time he became 
 reconciled to the eyesore. 
 
 The following story illustrates the extreme 
 reluctance of the Yorkshireman to own up when 
 he knows he is quite in the wrong. 
 
 Two ladies driving alone over the moor met a 
 man with a horse and cart, and had great difficulty 
 in passing him on the narrow road. He became 
 exceedingly rude and abusive, so much so that 
 the ladies afterwards wrote a strongly worded 
 letter of complaint to his employer, whose name 
 they had recognised on the cart. The latter wrote 
 most courteously in reply, promising that the 
 man would come to apologise. When the carter 
 arrived, he was shown into the ladies' presence 
 and at once remarked, "Ah think ye be the two 
 laadies Ah toad to gan to Hell t'uther daay." 
 " Yes, we were," they replied. " Well, ye've nae 
 'casion," was the very curt apology. 
 
 If individuals could be so very quarrelsome 
 and obstinate, it followed of course that communities 
 could be equally so. 
 
 One day when the countryside was attending 
 the weekly market of the little country town of 
 Muxley, a terrible snowstorm and blizzard occurred, 
 and in an incredibly short time the roads were 
 hopelessly blocked, and the walls and hedges 
 obliterated by huge snowdrifts. 
 
 It was really a record storm, as I remember 
 to my own cost and discomfort. 
 
 News reached a large moorland village that its
 
 WE DEEANT WANT THEE TILL SUNDAY 1 ' 225 
 
 market people had stuck fast on the moorland high 
 road, and that all their conveyances were more or 
 less completely buried. 
 
 A large rescue party was hastily formed and 
 set off on its mission of salvation, with the village 
 blacksmith at its head. The very first man they 
 found was the village parson, who with his pony 
 and cart was almost out of sight in a deep ditch. 
 It happened at the time that this parson was in 
 very bad odour with the parishioners. There had 
 been much "threeapin" and "differin," and the 
 parson was for the moment the most unpopular 
 man in the village. 
 
 Moorland wit and gumption was not slow to 
 recognise that here was a golden opportunity sent 
 by the gods to more than square the long account. 
 There was a hurried consultation, after which the 
 village blacksmith delivered the ultimatum of the 
 party. 
 
 "Noo bide theesen wi' patience and lang 
 sufferin', fur thou's t'varra last man we sail dig 
 out. Thar's lang Tom, Bill of Sturrocks, and 
 Toldrum, Stubbings, Tommie wid t'lads, and 
 Tommie wid t'lasses an a seet mair as are all 
 wanted at heeam to milk t'coos, feed t'pigs, sarve 
 t'calves, and tend t'sheep. Thar's Cobbler Jack 
 has got sum mair leather, an thar's Mary Harper 
 with a seet o' groceries which '11 be ez wet ez 
 mook. Noo we deeant want thee till Sunday, so 
 bide thaar till we've laated all t'rest." 
 
 So the poor parson instead of being the first 
 was the very last man to be rescued.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 DE SENECTUTE 
 
 CENTENARIANS and very old people are always 
 objects of great personal interest, specially in the 
 country, where they stand out on the horizon of 
 life as human landmarks, living monuments of 
 past years and events, and links between present 
 and past generations. We are all proud of any 
 family longevity, and love to recall the doings 
 and sayings of our wondrously old relations. 
 Until we ourselves suddenly realise that we are 
 old, we live on hope and our hope is to live long 
 days and not grow old. We envy these old 
 patriarchs and strive to emulate them. But old 
 age is not always enviable. The cheery optimistic 
 Nestor is a treasure all too rare. Too often the 
 days of old age are, as the psalmist reminds us, 
 days of strength turned to labour and sorrow, 
 full of discomfort, illusion, prejudice, and strange 
 paradoxes of wisdom and childishness. 
 
 Old people, too, are often crabby and disagree- 
 able, and for ever asserting their prerogative of 
 experience. The ancient hypocrite who, having 
 sown wild oats, makes a parade of enforced 
 virtues, is the most intolerable of beings. 
 
 Some have a lonely old age and are left stranded 
 on the sands of time. 
 
 226
 
 One such among my patients possessed a sur- 
 passing vitality, his memory was marvellous, and 
 his eyes fairly used to blaze in their sunken orbits. 
 He was ninety-eight. He had outlived all his 
 children and grandchildren, and only one great- 
 granddaughter was left. His own stock had all 
 died out, and there he was, a grim, pathetic, 
 solitary figure, anxiously waiting for the Silent 
 Messenger who seemed to have forgotten him or 
 passed him by. 
 
 Another one, by contrast, whom I knew, was 
 anxiously cared for by his surrounding descendants. 
 He enjoyed excellent health and the good things 
 of life to the very end. He had been a good 
 all-round sportsman, and was an excellent bridge 
 player. His last message to his friends on his 
 death-bed was, " Tell them I am going No Trumps, 
 and hope to get a Grand Slam." 
 
 It is interesting to note how our feelings about 
 our own age vary as life goes on. In childhood 
 and early manhood we like to be thought older 
 than our years. When we attain our prime of 
 manhood we proclaim it and glory in it. Then 
 as years roll on we begin to conceal our age, 
 till one day we suddenly discover that we have 
 achieved old age and are then intensely proud of it. 
 
 A woman of course is as old as she looks, 
 till the day dawns when even she cannot resist 
 the temptation to announce a distinguished old age. 
 One lady whom I knew, a member of an old 
 county family, never gave herself away till her 
 hundredth birthday, when she wrote to her friends 
 announcing the fact. 
 
 In my extensive moorland practice there were
 
 228 DE SENECTUTE 
 
 quite a number of Methuselahs. Hereditary 
 influence and a healthy environment of course 
 played their part in their production, but it was 
 really and truly a case of survival of the fittest. 
 
 Local government inquiries into water and 
 drainage schemes having obliged me to go into 
 vital statistics and figures, I was astonished to find 
 that the average death rate, spread over a number 
 of years, was not much lower than that of the 
 towns. Recurring epidemics of infectious diseases 
 increased it. Deaths were more frequent in early 
 life and up to the forties, but beyond that they 
 dropped considerably. 
 
 In one year in a large parish I had five deaths, 
 two under two years, the others at ninety-seven, 
 ninety, and eighty-six years. In one moorland 
 parish of about forty farms there were no deaths 
 for two years nor any burial in the churchyard. 
 
 Man cannot add a cubit to his stature, but 
 he can add to his years. Some of these ancient 
 folk were not as old as they pretended to be. 
 
 One vain-glorious gaffer suddenly tacked on 
 ten years. I was attending him in his last illness 
 and asked his correct age. "Eighty-eight," he 
 replied very promptly. But I pointed out to him 
 that a year before when I was attending him he 
 had given his age as seventy-seven. 
 
 However, he stuck to his eighty- eight, and his 
 wife who, as I found out afterwards, was the 
 instigator of this addition, backed him up and 
 made herself very disagreeable about my doubts. 
 
 On the coffin -lid a few days afterwards were 
 the figures eighty-eight. His real age was of course 
 seventy-eight, and the true reason, I discovered
 
 CONSERVATISM OF OLD AGE 229 
 
 afterwards, of the addition, was the desire not 
 to fall too far behind an elder brother who had 
 died at ninety-two. 
 
 I was once intensely interested in hearing some 
 evidence in a celebrated right-of-way case. Of 
 course a great number of ancient witnesses to the 
 truth were called on both sides. 
 
 Among them was one who said his age was 
 ninety, but he was not quite sure about it. He 
 gave his evidence very well and convincingly, but 
 the examining Counsel, after rapid calculation of 
 the years covered by the various periods mentioned, 
 pointed out to him that by his own statements 
 his real age must be one hundred and thirty instead 
 of ninety years. "Yes," he replied proudly, "I 
 knew I was terrible old." 
 
 What a wonderful phalanx of " old aged men " 
 used to present themselves at these government 
 inquiries, to oppose, by their impressive presence 
 and their evidence, what was in their eyes a useless 
 waste of public money. 
 
 Although many of these active and sturdy 
 survivals of the fittest called themselves Liberals 
 or Radicals, they were the Toriest of Tories in 
 their fierce opposition to any new-fangled ideas 
 of efficient drainage, pure water, or in fact any 
 innovation proposed for the good of the community. 
 They deemed themselves to be in their own persons 
 so many irrefutable arguments against any such 
 change. As regards drainage I am not sure there 
 was not an element of wisdom in their opposition. 
 Up-to-date schemes and modern appliances are all 
 very well in towns, but in remote country districts 
 there are few to understand them and handle them 
 
 2 H
 
 230 DE SENECTUTE 
 
 efficiently. In like manner I have seen most 
 beautiful organs presented to country churches, 
 where there has been no one to play them 
 decently. 
 
 And by contrast those who dubbed themselves 
 Tories or Conservatives were the party of reform 
 and progress in our countryside life, and could 
 always be relied upon to help. 
 
 One morning I was told a woman wished to 
 see me. Before she spoke, I judged her age to be 
 about seventy. Her face was wrinkled and her 
 hair quite white. "I am afraid father is ailing 
 and mother is not too well either. I shall be glad 
 if you will come and see them some day soon," was 
 her request. 
 
 " Your father and mother ? " I involuntarily 
 exclaimed in some surprise. "Yes," she shortly 
 replied. " Can't I have a father and a mother ? " 
 I apologised for my apparent rudeness, and asked 
 their ages. Her mother, she said, was ninety, and 
 her father ninety -three. 
 
 The next day I went to the lonely farmhouse 
 situated near the end of a far-off ghyll. I knocked 
 at the door once or twice and, getting no response, 
 entered the dimly lighted kitchen. I saw seated 
 on one side of the fire a very old woman with 
 snow-white hair, and apparently quite blind. As 
 soon as she heard me, she began to grope for her 
 wooden briar pipe, which had fallen on the ground. 
 She would have nothing to say to me till I had 
 recovered it and given her a light, when, after a 
 few decided draws, she pointed with her thumb to 
 the ceiling. "It's John," she said, "and he's un- 
 common bad."
 
 FARMHOUSE KITCHENS 231 
 
 So I went upstairs to see John. He was lying 
 on his back, peacefully sleeping his way to the 
 greater world beyond. His pulse could still be 
 felt, but he was unconscious. I carefully turned 
 him on one side a golden rule when dealing with 
 the dying. It was a simultaneous and natural 
 decay of every organ. 
 
 I then leisurely examined the beautiful old 
 brown oak furniture of the bedroom, all well- 
 polished with a hundred years of beeswax and 
 elbow grease. In fact every article of furniture in 
 that old moorland farmhouse was good solid brown 
 oak. What rare bargains could be picked up in 
 those days in these far-off dales, before the 
 ubiquitous curio- dealer began to poke about on 
 his cycle or motor cycle. At the sale shortly after- 
 wards, I bought a delft rack for 10s., now worth 
 12, and a lovely old dresser for 2, 10s., now 
 worth at least 50. 
 
 I then returned to talk to the old lady. 
 "Well," she said, "what do you think to John?" 
 "John," I replied, "is very bad in fact dying." 
 " Ye never says so," she exclaimed in great surprise. 
 "Well," she added, " I knew it would come to this, 
 and warned him times without end to take care of 
 himself. But he would never heed. He's been 
 that man for rampaging and clashing about, that 
 he's mashed himself up and fair ruined his con- 
 stitution." 
 
 Good gracious, I reflected, what a land for a 
 doctor to settle in ! They ruin their constitutions 
 yet live to be ninety-three. 
 
 There was some truth and justice in the old 
 lady's plaint after all, as I found out afterwards.
 
 232 DE SENECTUTE 
 
 It appears that John had been a cattle drover in 
 the long past years when there were no railways. 
 His journeys had taken him far afield to West- 
 moreland, Cumberland, and Scotland. He had 
 been very quarrelsome, a heavy drinker, and 
 briefly was what they call in the Yorkshire dales 
 "a miraklous man." He had made some bitter 
 enemies, and these had once waylaid and so brutally 
 handled him, that they left him for dead on the 
 open moor. He lay there two whole days and 
 then managed to crawl home. Though recovery 
 was thought to be impossible, he lived through it 
 all, and began sheep farming. 
 
 Then his dutiful and faithful wife began to nag 
 at him to take care of himself, and she went on 
 nagging for fifty long years, till the end came 
 at last. 
 
 Many of these moorland farmhouses have most 
 picturesquely furnished kitchens, the mere sight of 
 which is worth a long journey. The picture is 
 before me now the dresser with its blue willow- 
 pattern plates and dishes and pewter vessels, the 
 long settle, the oak kist, the oak eight-day clock, 
 the many coloured samplers, the knife-box, and 
 the brass warming pan ; the hams and the sides of 
 bacon hanging from the roof; the sheep-dogs on 
 the floor, and the peat fire. 
 
 Should you be invited to taste the ham and 
 hear some of the moorland stories, you may count 
 yourself a fortunate man. 
 
 During a plague of influenza I was attending 
 an old patriarch of ninety-four. The curious 
 feature about this old man was his extraordinarily 
 deep and gruff voice. I wondered he had the
 
 [ To face page 232.
 
 A RUINED CONSTITUTION 233 
 
 strength to produce such a huge volume of sound. 
 I have rarely heard anything like it from normal 
 lungs, but from ninety-four-year- old lungs it was 
 ordinary phenomenal. The prognosis in his case 
 was naturally a grave one, but to our astonishment 
 he recovered. During his recovery he was very 
 talkative. One day after receiving my congratula- 
 tions on his marvellous constitution, he remarked, 
 " I ruined my constitution by lying out a day and a 
 night in a snowdrift in that snowstorm." 
 
 "What snowstorm?" I asked. "Why," he 
 replied, "that big snowstorm of course." We had 
 had a terrible snowstorm some seven years before, 
 and I naturally thought he was alluding to this. I 
 remarked that I had been out in it. 
 
 " Were you in it too ? " he asked in much 
 surprise. "Yes," I said, "up to the neck." 
 
 We compared notes, and it gradually dawned 
 on me that we were possibly talking about different 
 storms. To make sure of the point I asked again, 
 " You mean the great storm seven years ago ? " 
 " No," he bellowed. " Nowt ot soart, I mean t'big 
 storm in 1831. I tell ee I ruined my constitution 
 in it." 
 
 A few days afterwards he said, "It'll be a 
 hanging job arter all for me afore ye're right shut 
 on me." 
 
 At six o'clock one dark winter's morning I 
 was roused by a very loud knocking at the door. 
 On my opening it a few minutes afterwards, a tall 
 gaunt old man strode quickly past me into 
 my kitchen, whither I followed him. Fiercely 
 addressing me he said, " Do you lig (lie) in bed all
 
 234 DE SENECTUTE 
 
 day here?" "No," I protested. Taking off his 
 cap and pointing to some large wens on his head, 
 he commanded, ''Cut those damned things off, 
 and if you can't cut 'em off, cut my damned old 
 head off." I inquired this old ruffian's age (because 
 he looked old). " Ninety last May," he answered. 
 
 Tackling seven wens in an old man of ninety, 
 with no hot water or fire, on a cold winter's 
 morning, was rather a tall order, so I temporised. 
 I suggested that in such cold weather he might 
 get erysipelas or cold in the wounds. "There's 
 summat i' that," he replied. " I'll come when it is 
 warmer, good morning," and marched off again. 
 Country people have a dread of getting what they 
 call " cauld " in the wounds. 
 
 I had forgotten all about him, when one 
 summer morning at five o'clock there was another 
 loud knock at my front door. Putting my head 
 through the open window I saw my friend again. 
 "Do you lig in bed all day here ?" was again his 
 salutation. On this occasion there was nothing 
 to be done but tackle the job. 
 
 After closely watching my preparations, he 
 remarked characteristically, "It strikes me there's 
 going to be a bloody mess. I think we ought to 
 be in the stable." 
 
 I removed the seven wens without his turning 
 a hair or showing the slightest sign of pain. He 
 asked the "damages," and on my naming the fee 
 there ensued a hard Yorkshire bargaining. He 
 beat me down unmercifully, and I got much the 
 worst of it. Then I mentioned the necessary 
 dressings. " Dressings ! Dressings ! " he said, 
 " What's them ? I've never heard of such things. "
 
 "T'AUD LAD" 235 
 
 I told him the stitches would have to come out. 
 "We'll see about that when t'time comes," he 
 replied as he strode away. 
 
 I met him about a month afterwards, and so 
 tough was the old moorcock that all had gone on 
 well without dressings. 
 
 He was quite a man of substance, and had 
 been a marvellously successful pseaeher. One of 
 his farms, he told me, had been bought entirely 
 from the proceeds of his poaching depredations. 
 No one, it was said, could call a hare or a grouse 
 so cleverly as he in the whole district. 
 
 There was the greatest difficulty in persuading 
 these old people to lie in bed. They were not 
 used to it. Moreover, they regarded it as a 
 reminder that even they were mortal. When they 
 had been in bed a few days they used to say they 
 had "Thowt a lot." This is a well-understood 
 Yorkshire formula, meaning contemplation of the 
 latter end. They tried to compromise by offering 
 to stay in the "house," which in Yorkshire always 
 denotes the kitchen, usually the living-room of 
 the farm. 
 
 I was one day strongly urging an old man of 
 eighty- eight, who was known throughout the 
 district as " T'aud Lad," and was as obstinate as 
 his namesake, to stay in bed for a few days. At 
 last he consented, though very reluctantly, and 
 when I left him I felt quite pleased with my 
 success. 
 
 Unfortunately a few minutes afterwards I met 
 the parson who inquired who were on the sick 
 list. I mentioned T'aud Lad among the others. 
 
 A few days afterwards I had a very stormy
 
 236 DE SENECTUTE 
 
 reception from T'aud Lad. Instead of being in 
 bed, he was in the " house " with boots, hat, coat, 
 and walking-stick ready for an expedition abroad. 
 "You gave me up," he shouted angrily. "No," 
 I protested in the negative. "Oh yes, you did. 
 You told me to lig in bed, and then you sent 
 t'parson. I'll show ee whether I'm going to dee 
 or not. I'm going out for a walk." This the 
 obstinate old man at once proceeded to do, and 
 lived some years afterwards. 
 
 Edward Metcalfe, a retired Yorkshire sheep- 
 farmer, aged ninety-two, recognised that his time 
 had at last come, turned his face to the wall, and 
 prepared to depart in peace. 
 
 The vicar of the parish in which Metcalfe, or 
 Mecca, as he was called, lived, was one of the 
 kindest, most earnest and exemplary parsons I 
 have ever met in a long experience. 
 
 Unfortunately he suffered from a chronic minor 
 ailment of the nose, dry catarrh, which caused him 
 no little inconvenience. 
 
 As soon as the vicar heard that Mecca was 
 numbered among the sick, he hurried to his bed- 
 side. It happened to be a very healthy time, and 
 as there was no one else ill he concentrated all 
 his zeal on the dying man. He visited him two 
 or three times a day, reading to him, exhorting 
 him, and praying for him. 
 
 At first the old man was very much pleased 
 with these attentions but, as death lingered, he 
 began to weary of them, and to wish to be left 
 alone to die in peace. 
 
 Late one evening the vicar, who had been if 
 possible more earnest than usual in his ministra-
 
 FELLOW-FEELING 237 
 
 tion, leaned over the dying man and said, " Good- 
 night, my dear brother, I shall come and see you 
 first thing in the morning." 
 
 Suddenly, by a great effort Mecca sat up "on 
 end" and said, "I'll tell ye what it is, Vicar." 
 
 "Yes," replied the vicar, earnestly listening. 
 
 "I tell ye what it is, Vicar," gasped Mecca. 
 
 " Yes ! Yes ! " said the vicar, thinking it was 
 a dying confession and trying not to miss a word. 
 " Speak up ! " 
 
 "Y're breeath's noan so varra sweeat I can 
 tell ye." 
 
 Another story I must relate in passing of this 
 faithful priest. His only daughter, to whom he 
 was devotedly attached, was very dangerously ill, 
 and her recovery considered very doubtful. At 
 the crisis, when life was in the balance, her father 
 who, though a holy and devout man, found it 
 almost impossible to reconcile himself to his 
 possible loss, wandered restlessly in and out of 
 the houses of his parishioners, seeking the sympathy 
 they were willing enough to give. 
 
 One of these, after kindly inquiry said, " Well, 
 parson, I'se thankful to say ye're not alone in your 
 trubble." 
 
 "Oh!" asked the parson in quick sympathy. 
 "Are you in trouble too?" 
 
 "Ah is an' all. I'se sadly trubbled, I can tell 
 ee," replied the farmer. 
 
 " Oh do tell me what it is and let me share it, and 
 then let us kneel down together," begged the parson. 
 
 " I'se sadly trubbled. T'aud sow is varra bad, 
 and t'missis an' I we've bin up all neight doctoring 
 'er," was the farmer's explanation. 
 
 2 I
 
 238 DE SENECTUTE 
 
 " Good gracious me, don't compare my darling 
 to a pig," shouted the distracted parson as he 
 rushed out of the house. 
 
 The farmer's sympathy was very real. The sow 
 was a prolific one and helped to pay the rent. 
 Moreover, anybody who has ever had any veterinary 
 experience, knows quite well that of all domestic 
 animals the pig is by far the most difficult and 
 hopeless to treat. 
 
 I was once called in by a farmer who, with 
 the friendly aid of his neighbours, was busily 
 engaged in doctoring a sick pig. He slung the 
 animal up by a rope and proceeded to pour so 
 much neat gin down its throat that it expired on 
 the spot. 
 
 The parson's daughter recovered but the farmer's 
 pig died. 
 
 When I suddenly left the moorlands through 
 illness, a message was received by my successor 
 summoning him to see an old man of ninety-four. 
 It was not that he was specially ailing, but he 
 might suddenly "slip away" or "pop off" without 
 being seen by a doctor, which would have been 
 very awkward for the relations. I knew the man 
 well as a fierce, quarrelsome old fellow. His 
 daughter, seeing a stranger, hesitated for some 
 time about allowing him to see the old Tartar. 
 She saw the possibility of a paragraph in the 
 Darlington Times headed "Sensational Murder of 
 a Moorland Doctor," and explained her fears. My 
 successor, who was like inyself over six feet, 
 thought he could surely take care of himself in 
 a struggle with an old man of ninety-four, and 
 went upstairs. He described the scene very graphi-
 
 "YE KNOW, HIS FAITHER WAR OPPENED" 239 
 
 cally to me. A tall, gaunt, old giant was sitting 
 nearly naked on the edge of the bed. He looked 
 up, and as it slowly dawned on his old brain 
 that it was a stranger and not his old doctor, his 
 face gradually assumed a fierce tigerish expression 
 and he began clawing the air with his bony fingers. 
 There was a long pause during which my friend 
 thought he was preparing to spring at his throat ; 
 then hissing like a serpent he spat out, "Ah'll 
 noan tak yer bloody mooky stooff." 
 
 The moorlanders had more than the usual 
 horror of an inquest, and as for a post-mortem 
 examination, it was really a terrible blot on the 
 family escutcheon, never to be wiped out. One 
 day, in conversation with a farmer, I referred to 
 an unfortunate suicide which had occurred on the 
 moors. " What could ye expect ? " was his natural 
 comment. "Ye know, his faither war oppened."
 
 INDEX 
 
 " ARAMASTOKKY," an, 85 
 
 BABY-CAKE, 200 
 
 Balaam's ass, 113 
 
 " Baubosking," 69 
 
 " Bettermy " end, the, 80 
 
 " Blashments," 70 
 
 " Book-larning," dislike of, 60-61 
 
 "Bowdykite,"65, 69 
 
 Bulls, 32-34 
 
 Butter-making, 51 
 
 CATTLE dealers, 161-162 
 
 Cay gill and the ballet, story of, 
 
 7-8 
 
 Church and Chapel, 35 
 Corpse way, the, 160 
 
 " God's pennies," 73 
 
 Grammar and grace, 109 
 
 Grand Slam, 227 
 
 Grant and Macpherson, the rivalry 
 
 of, 132 
 Greedy " takker," a, 106 
 
 HATS off; the Vicar and the 
 
 Methody, 116 
 
 Horner, Kester, tragedy of, 85-101 
 
 Hospitality, 194-207; whisky and 
 
 milk, 197; wetting the baby's 
 
 head, 200; "leggy," 201; a 
 
 drinking competition, 202-204 
 
 ILLEGITIMATE children, 39, 214 
 Influenza on the moors, 171 
 
 Court leets, 53; quaint customs Insanity, 174-192; causes of, 6, 
 at, 57-59 175 ) ^ rs Buckton, 131 ; Bob 
 
 Waddington, 189 
 DOCTOB, the country, his isola- Intermarriage, 6, 175 
 
 tion, 1-13; compensations, 1-3; 
 
 "LAAKIN fever," the story of a 
 
 cure for, 65-66 
 Landlord and tenant, 48-50 
 Longsightedness of the moor- 
 
 varied duties of, 142 
 Dry- walling, 42 
 
 FARMS, large and small, 48-50 
 Fog and roke, distinction between, 
 16 
 
 landers, 9 
 'Lopps,"68 
 
 i? t non 10 A Lovely John, the story of, 154- 
 
 Funerals, stories of, 139-164; ,J? 
 
 feasting at, 145, 160 ; " bidding " 
 
 to, 159 
 Furniture, old oak, 231-232 
 
 GAMEKEEPER'S leg, the, story of, 80 
 "Gaufer" cakes, 79 
 
 241 
 
 " MAFTED and moidered," 7 
 
 March "Higs," 14 
 
 Moorland, the, scenery of, 8-9 ; 
 climate of, 14-16; snowstorms, 
 20, 21, 224-225; footpaths, 47-48
 
 242 
 
 INDEX 
 
 Moorlanders, the, curiosity of, 3, SABBATH bargains, 37 
 
 4, 84 ; longsightedness, 9 ; Saintly squire, the, 209-210 
 
 thrift, 22, 24 j chronicles, 35-59 ; " Seein' t'wind," 20 
 
 wealth, 48; pessimism, 52; " Senectute de," 226-239 
 
 tragedies, 75-102; their fear of Sexton, the, and the clock, 10, 11 
 
 the law, 84-85 ; politics, 132- Sheep-dogs, 29-31 
 
 133 ; quarrelsomeness, 208-225, " Spavins," the, 4, 5 
 
 210 ; longevity, 228 " Sploaderment," 75 
 
 Moses in the Bulrushes, the story Springwire Jack, the story of, 
 of, 150-153 76-78 
 
 NIGHT on the moors, 16-17 
 
 "Statis,"the,73 
 
 " Stint " of moorland, 212 
 
 OLD oak furniture, 231-232 
 
 j r\ i 7a 
 Old Originals, 132 
 
 T.arl " 91^ 
 
 . ,',. Q 
 
 TT>loomm hills, 9 
 m ~ ., , rt _ 
 
 u/-\ij a tc j 1.1. j M Ten Commandments, the, 109 
 
 "Old Self" and the devil, story , , , , , ' , ' A _ 
 
 , 36 Thackeray and the donkey, 105 
 
 Thermometer, the story of a, 
 
 171-172 
 Thowt a lot) 235 
 
 "Threeapins and Differins," 208- 
 
 PADDYNODDY, a, 84 
 Parish boundaries, 121-122 
 Parsons daughter and farmers 
 
 sow, story of, 237-238 
 Parsons of the moorland, tales 
 
 of, 9, 10, 108, 119-130 
 
 Patients, the worst, 119 WETTING the baby's head, 200 
 
 Pleeans"66 
 
 Thwaite's profanity, the story of, 
 ,,, 13 g 
 
 Physital generation," a story, 
 
 QTJAKRELS, stories of, 208-223 
 " Quiet days," 10 
 
 Whisky and milk, 197 
 
 Georg6) the tragedy of> 
 
 184-189 
 Words, old Yorkshire, 60-75 
 
 BAG-BACK Day, 73 
 
 YOEK ham, 206 
 
 Yorkshire dialect, a specimen of, 
 
 62 
 Rescue party, a, and the parson, Yorkshire pudding, "yakkers of 
 
 224-225 it," 207 
 
 Right by usage, 55-57 Yorkshire wit and humour, 103- 
 
 "Roke,"15, 17 117 
 
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