BOUT five or six years ago a gentleman entered a station on one of our local railways, and found the worthy station master (whose original occupation was that of a small Cumberland farmer,) in a state of great excitement. He inquired the cause, and received a reply of which the following is a verbatim report, committed to paper immediately afterwards. We must premise that Dr. —— was a well known amateur preacher,—a really benevolent man, who did good in his way, but had no charity for the opinions of others, and was ever intruding his views and advice on all who came in contact with him, and believed all who differed from him destined to perdition. The extreme Calvinistic doctrine of election and reprobation was a perfect mania with him. On this occasion he was accompanied by his servant, a man of sleek aspect, who distributed tracts, etc., for his master.

“What’s t’ matter wi’ mÉ? Wey, theear matter plenty! That Dr. —— com’ here aboot hoaf an oor sen to tak’ t’ train. I was stan’in’ at t’ time aback o’ t’ ticket wole, an’ what d’yÉ think he says;—he says, says he, ‘Isaac, you are a very wicked old man, and will most certainly be damned; you are worse than Cass (then under sentence of death in Carlisle gaol)—you are worse than a murderer.’ Says I, ‘Me war’ ner a murderer! What the sham’ an’ hangment d’yÉ mean be that?’ Says he, ‘I mean this, old man; it has been elected from the beginning that certain men shall be saved, and certain shall be lost. You are among the latter, and you will most certainly be damned.’ Says I, ‘An’ what ’ill come o’ you?’ Says he, ‘Oh, Christ elected me many years ago.’ Then, says I, ‘I think he meÀd a varra feckless choice; but if it be sooa, I wad like to know what I’ve deÙn ’at I’s to be damned! I’ve been weddit abeun forty year, an’ I’ve hed twelve barns, an’ I browte them o’ up weel, an’ I edicated them weel, an’ they’ve o’ turn’t oot weel; I’ve wrowte hard o’ me life, an’ I niver wrang’t a man oot of a ho’penny—what mair can a man deu?’ Says he, ‘Isaac, you might do much more, you might follow the teaching of the Bible; you might sell all you have and give it to the poor.’ Says I, ‘Sell o’ ’at I hev an’ give ’t to t’ poor! Is I to sell t’ bed fray anonder me wife ’at she’s sleept on for forty year? Is I to sell t’ chair fray anonder her ’at she’s sitten on for forty year, an’ turn her oot intil a dike gutter? What kind o’ religion is ther’ i’ that? Says he, ‘Oh, the Lord would provide for you.’ Says I, ‘The Lord provide for mÉ! Wad t’ Lord finnd mÉ wid a new bed an’ a new chair?—an’ if he dud, I wad likely hev to sell them ower ageÀn! Sell o’ ’at I hev an’ gi’ ’t to t’ poor! Do you sell o’ ’at you hev an’ gi’ ’t to t’ poor? I niver hard tell o’ yÉ sellin’ o’ ’at you hev an’ gi’in’ ’t to t’ poor! They tell me you hev atween fowrteen an’ fifteen hundert a year,—an’ mebbee yÉ may, for owte I know, gi’e away—we’ll say, a hunder’t a year, an’ that’ll be t’ ootside be a gay bit.— Do you co’ that sellin’ o’ ’at you hev an’ gi’n’ to t’ poor. I tell yÈ, you’re a rich man, an’ I’s no’but a poor an’, wi’ a loosey ten shillin’ a week to leeve on; bit, accordin’ to what I hev, I consider mysel’ to be beÀth a nowbler an’ a generouser fella ner you irr! Noo, theear a poor Irish family ’at leeves nar oor hoose, an’ ivery week end we send them o’ t’ scraps o’ meat an’ ’taties ’at we ha’e left, forby udder things;—that’s far mair, accordin’ to what I’ve gitten, ner your hunder’t a ’ear! You talk aboot me bein’ damned. Noo, I’s neea scholar, bit I’ve read t’ Bible for o’ that, an’ I’ve read ’at theear two mak’ o’ fwok ’at ’ill be damned—yan’s leears, an’ t’ tudder’s hypocrites. Noo, I’ll preÙv ’at you’re beÀth. You’re a leear for sayin’ ’at I was war’ ner a murderer i’ Carlisle gaol, an’ you’re a hypocrite for sayin’ seea when you knew you were leein’! I know hoo you mak’ o’ fwok argies—you reÙt t’ Scriptur’ through an’ through to finnd owte ’at suits yÉ, an’ than ye throw o’ t’ tudder owerbword. An’ I tell you what, Mr.——, theear anudder thing ’at I’ve read in t’ Scriptur’s—I’ve read ’at theear to be a day o’ judgment. Noo, you chaps say ’at it’s o’ settl’t afoorhan’ what’s to cum on us, whoa’s to be seÀv’t an’ whoa’s to be damned. You say you’re to be seÀv’t an’ I’s to damned. Noo, what’s t’ use of a day o’ judgment if it’s o’ settl’t afoorhan! Ther’ ’ill be nowte to judge aboot! I’ll tell yÉ what, Mr.——, theear will be a day o’ judgment, an’ beÀth you an’ me ’ill ha’e to mak’ oor appearance; an’ I doon’t know bit upon the whol’ I’ll stan’ full oot t’ better chance o’ t’ two! An’ what’s t’ use, I wad like to know, o’ you ga’n an’ preachin’ i’ that girt leÀth o’ yours of a Sunday neet till a parshal o’ taggelts, if it’s o’ fix’t what’s to come on them?’ Says he, ‘Old man, I perceive you are a child of the devil.’ Says I, ‘Wey, mebbee! Bit I’ll tell you what, Mr.——, t’ divvel hesn’t two better frin’s in o’ Cummerlan’ ner you an’ that man o’ yours—an’ which on yÉ ’s t’ bigger kneÀv I’s sure I can’t tak upon mysel’ to say.’ Just than t’ train com’ up, an’ my gentleman slipes. Theear was a kind of a country chap stan’in’ ootside, an’ when t’ train hed gone, he com’ intil t’ stashun hoose, an’ says, says he, ‘Is that yan o’ thur Methody chaps?’ ‘No,’ says I, ‘it’s yan o’ t’ Elect!’”

NOTE.

The above was most kindly sent to me by a gentleman well known in west Cumberland who has, from boyhood, been a keen and judicious observer of the peculiarities of thought and speech prevailing amongst his unsophisticated and unlettered neighbours; and who has also favoured me with extensive contributions to my stock of anecdotes illustrating the humorous side of rustic life in our common county. This remarkable piece possesses a higher value than any of my dialect productions, amongst which it appears, as being the veritable words used by one speaking the Cumberland vernacular and nothing else; and also as an exposition and powerful expression of the opinions on the doctrine referred to that prevails amongst his class, who are generally very matter-of-fact, and impatient of anything that transcends their power of apprehension or that goes beyond the grasp of their every-day sense. The old man’s self-laudation, when put upon his mettle, is perhaps the most characteristic point in the sketch.