The Dialect of the West of England; Particularly Somersetshire Part 37

_A MONOLOGUE,

To er Scholards_.

Commether [Footnote: Come hither.] _Billy Chubb_, an breng tha hornen book. Gee me tha vester in tha windor, you _Pal Came_!--what! be a sleepid--I'll wake ye. Now, _Billy_ there's a good bway! Ston still there, an mine what I da za to ye, an whaur I da pwint.--Now;--cris-cross, [Footnote: The _cris_, in this compound, and in _cris-cross-lain_, is very often, indeed most commonly, p.r.o.nounced _Kirs_.] girt a little a--b--c--d.--That's right _Billy_; you'll zoon lorn tha cris-cross-lain--you'll zoon auvergit Bobby Jiffry--you'll zoon be _a scholard_.--A's a pirty chubby bway--Lord love'n!

Now, _Pal Came_! you come an vessy wi' yer zister.

--There! tha forrels o' tha book be a brawk; why dwon't ye take moor care o'm?--Now, read;--_Het_ _Came!_ why d'ye drean zaw?--_hum, hum, hum_;--you da make a naise like a spinnin turn, or a dumbledore--all in one lidden--_hum, hum, hum,_--You'll niver lorn ta read well thic fas.h.i.+on.--Here, _Pal,_ read theaze vesses vor yer zister. There now, _Het,_ you mine how yerzister da read, not _hum, hum, hum._--Eese you ool, ool ye?--I tell ye, you must, or I'll rub zum rue auver yer hons:--what d'ye thenk o't!--There, be gwon you _Het,_ an dwon't ye come anuost yer zister ta vessy wi' er till you a got yer lessin moor parfit, or I'll gee zummet you on't ax me vor. _Pally,_ you tell yer Gramfer Palmer that I da za _Hetty Came_ shood lorn ta knitty; an a shood buy zum knittin nills and wusterd vor er; an a shood git er zum nills and dird, vor er to lorn to zawy too.

Now _Miss Whitin_, tha dunces be a gwon, let I hire how pirty you can read.--I always zed that Pason Tuttle's grandater ood lorn er book well.--Now, _Miss_, what ha ye a got there?

_Valentine an Orson._--A pirty storry, bit I be afeard there's naw moril to it.--What be all tha tuthermy books you a got by yer goodhussey there in tha basket? Gee's-zee-'em,[Footnote: _Let me see them_. This is a singular expression, and is thus to be a.n.a.lysed; _Give us to see them_.] nif you please, _Miss Polly_.--Tha _Zeven Champions_--_Goody Two Shoes_--_Pawems vor Infant minds_.--Theazamy here be by vur tha best.--There is a moril ta mooast o'm; an tha be pirty bezides.--Now, _Miss_, please ta read thic-- _Tha Notorious Glutton_.--_Pal Came!_ turn tha gla.s.s!

dwon't ye zee tha zond is all hirnd out;--you'll sta in school tha longer for't nif you dwon't mine it.--Now, all o' ye be quiet ta hire _Miss Whitin_ read.--There now! what d'ye za ta jitch radin as that?--There, d'ye hire, _Het Came_! she dwon't drean--_hum, hum, hum_.--I shood like ta hire er vessy wi'

zum o' ye; bit your bad radin ood spwile her good.

OUT O' BOOKS!

_All the childern goo voath_.

SOLILOQUY OF BEN BOND,

THE IDLETON.

(_First printed in the Graphic Ill.u.s.trator_.)

Ben Bond was one of those sons of Idleness whom ignorance and want of occupation in a secluded country village too often produce. He was a comely lad, aged sixteen, employed by Farmer Tidball, a querulous and suspicious old man, tto look after a large flock o sheep.--The scene of his Soliloquy may be thus described.

A green sunny bank, on which the body may agreeably repose, called the _Sea Wall_; on the sea side was an extensive common called the _Wath_, and adjoining to it was another called the Island, both were occasionally overflowed by the tide. On the other side of the bank were rich enclosed pastures, suitable for fattening the finest cattle. Into these inclosures many of Ben Bond's charge were frequently disposed to stray. The season was June, the time mid-day, and the western breezes came over the sea, a short distance from which our scene lay, at once cool, grateful, refres.h.i.+ng, and playful. The rus.h.i.+ng Parret, with its ever s.h.i.+fting sands, was also heard in the distance. It should be stated, too, that Larence is the name usually given in Somersets.h.i.+re to that imaginary being which presides over the IDLE. Perhaps it may also be useful to state here that the word Idlelon is more than a provincialism, and should be in our dictionaries.

During the latter part of the Soliloquy Farmer Tidball arrives behind the bank, and hearing poor Ben's discourse with himself, interrupts his musings in the manner described hereafter. It is the history of an occurrence in real life, and at the place mentioned. The writer knew Farmer Tidball personally, and has often heard the story from his wife.

SOLILOQUY

"Larence! why doos'n let I up? Oot let I up?" Naw, I be sleapid, I can't let thee up eet.--"Now, Lareuce! do let I up. There! bimeby maester'll come, an a'll beat I athin a ninch o' me life; do let I up!"--Naw I wunt.

"Larence! I bag o'ee, do ee let I, up! D'ye zee! Tha shee-ape be all a breakin droo tha hadge inta tha vivean-twenty yacres; an Former Haggit'll goo ta La wi'n, an I sholl be kill'd. _--Naw I wun't-- 'tis zaw whot: bezides I hant a had my nap out._ "Larence! I da za, thee bist a bad un! Oot thee hire what I da za? Come now an let I scooce wi'. Lord a ma.s.sy upon me! Larence, whys'n thee let I up?"

_Caz I wunt. What! muss'n I ha an hour like wither vawk ta ate my bird an cheese? I do za I wunt; and zaw 'tis niver-tha-near to keep on._

"Maester tawl'd I, nif I wer a good bway, a'd gee I iz awld wasket; an I'm shower, nif a da come an vine I here, an tha shee-ape a brawk inta tha vive-an-twenty yacres, a'll vleng't awa vust! Larence, do ee, do ee let I up! Ool ee, do ee!"--_Naw, I tell ee I wunt._

"There's one o' tha sheep 'pon iz back in tha gripe, an a can't turn auver! I mis g'in ta tha groun an g'out to'n, an git'n out. There's another in tha ditch! a'll be a buddled! There's a gird'l o' trouble wi' shee-ape! Larence; ca.s.s'n thee let I goo. I'll gee thee a _ha peny_ nif oot let me."--_Naw I can't let thee goo eet._

"Maester'll be shower to come an catch me! Larence! doose thee hire?

I da za, oot let me up. I zeed Farmer Haggit zoon ater I upt, an a zed, nif a voun one o' my shee-ape in tha vive-an-twenty yacres, a'd drash I za long as a cood ston auver me, an wi' a groun ash' too!

There! Zum o'm be a gwon droo tha vive-an-twenty yacres inta tha drauve: tha'll zoon hirn vur anow. Tha'll be poun'd. Larence! I'll gee thee a _penny_ nif oot let I up." _Naw I wunt._

"Thic not sheep ha got tha shab! Dame tawl'd I whun I upt ta-da ta mine tha shab-water; I sholl pick it in whun I da goo whim. I vorgot it! Maester war desperd cross, an I war glad ta git out o' tha langth o' iz tongue. I da hate zitch cross vawk! Larence! what, oot niver let I up? There! zum o' tha shee-ape be gwon into _Leek- beds_; an zum o'm be in _Hounlake_; dree or vour o'm be gwon za vur as _Slow-wa_; the ditches be, menny o'm za dry 'tis all now rangel common! There! I'll gee thee _dree ha pence_ ta let I goo." _Why, thee ha.s.s'n bin here an hour, an vor what shood I let thee goo? I da za, lie still!_

"Larence! why doos'n let I up? There! zim ta I, I da hire thic pirty maid, _f.a.n.n.y o' Primmer Hill_, a chidin bin I be a lyin here while tha shee-ape be gwain droo thic shord an tuther shord; zum o'm, a-ma-be, be a drown'd! Larence; doose thee thenk I can bear tha betwitten o' thic pirty maid? She, tha Primrawse o' Primmer-hill; tha Lily o' tha level; tha gawl-cup o' tha mead; tha zweetist honeyzuckle in tha garden; tha yarly vilet; tha rawse o' rawses; tha pirty pollyantice! Whun I seed er last, she zed, "Ben, do ee mind tha sheeape, an tha yeos an lams, an than zumbody ool mine _you_." Wi'that she gid me a beautiful spreg o' jessamy, jist a pickt vrom tha poorch,--tha smill war za zweet.

"Larence! I mus goo! I ool goo. You mus let I up. I ont sta here na longer! Maester'll be shower ta come an drash me. There, Larence!

I'll gee _tuther penny_, an that's ivry vard'n I a got. Oot let I goo?" _Naw, I mis ha a penny moor._

"Larence! do let I up! Creeplin Philip'll be shower ta catch me!

Thic c.o.c.kygee! I dwont like en. at all; a's za rough, an za zour. An _Will Popham_ too, ta betwite me about tha maid: a call'd er a ratheripe _Lady-budd.i.c.k_. I dwont mislike tha name at all, thawf I dwont care vor'n a stra, nor a read mooate; nor that.i.te o' a pin! What da tha call _he_? Why, tha _upright man_, cas a da ston upright; let'n; an let'n wra.s.sly too: I dwont like zitch _hoss-plas_, nor _singel-stick_ nuther; nor _c.o.c.k- squailin'; nor menny wither ma-games that Will Popham da volly. I'd rather zitin tha poorch, wi' tha jessamy ranglin roun it, and hire f.a.n.n.y zeng. Oot let I up, Larence?"--_Naw, I tell ee I ont athout a penny moor._

_"Rawzey Pink_, too, an _Nanny Dubby_ axed I about f.a.n.n.y.

What bisniss ad tha ta up wi't? I dwont like norn'om? _Girnin Jan_ too shawed iz teeth an put in his verdi.--I--wish theeaze vawk ood mine ther awn consarns an let I an f.a.n.n.y alooane.

"Larence! doose thee mean to let I goo?"--_Eese, nif thee't gee me tuther penny_.--"Why I han't a got a vard'n moor; oot let I up!"- -_Not athout tha penny.--"Now Larence! doo ee, bin I liant naw moor money. I a bin here moor than an hour; whaur tha yeos an lams an all tha tuthermy sheep be now I dwon' know.--_Creeplin Philip_[Footnote: Even remote districts in the country have their satirists, and would-be-wits; and Huntspill, the place alluded to in the Soliloquy, was, about half a century ago, much pestered with them. Scarcely a person of any note escaped a pariah libel, and even servants were not excepted. For instance:--_Creeplin Philip_, (that is "creeplin," because he walked lamely,) was Farmer Tidball himself; and his servant, William Popham, was the _upright man_. _Girnin Jan_ is Grinning John.] ool gee me a lirropin shower anow! There!--I da thenk I hired zummet or zumbody auver tha wall."--

"_Here, d--n thee!_ I'll gee tha _tuther penny, an zummet besides!_" exclaimed _Farmer Tidball_, leaping down the bank, with a stout sliver of a crab-tree in his hand.--The sequel may be easily imagined.

Nanny Dubby, Sally Clink, Long Josias an Raway Pink, --Girnin Jan, Creeplin Philip and the upright man.

TWO DISSERTATIONS ON SOME OF THE ANGLO-SAXON p.r.o.nOUNS.

BY JAMES JENKINGS.

(_From the Graphic Ill.u.s.trator._)

No. 1.--I, IC, ICH, ICHE, UTCHY, ISE, C', CH', CHE, CH'AM, CH'UD, CH'LL.

Until recently few writers on the English Language, have devoted much attention to the origin of our first personal p.r.o.noun I, concluding perhaps that it would be sufficient to state that it is derived from the Anglo-Saxon _ic_. No pains seem to have been taken to explain the connexion which _ic, ich,_ and _iche_ have with _Ise, c', ch', che',_ and their combinations in such words as _ch'am, ch'ud, ch'ill, &c_.

Hence we have been led to believe that such contractions are the vulgar corruptions of an ignorant and, consequently, unlettered people. That the great portion of the early Anglo-Saxons were an unlettered people, and that the _rural_ population were particularly unlettered, and hence for the most part ignorant, we may readily admit; and even at the present time, many districts in the west will be found pretty amply besprinkled with that unlettered ignorance for which many of our forefathers were distinguished. But an enquiry into the origin and use of our provincial words will prove, that even our unlettered population have been guided by certain rules in their use of an energetic language. Hence it will be seen on inquiry that many of the words supposed to be _vulgarisms_, and _vulgar_ and _capricious_ contractions are no more so than many of our own words in daily use; as to the Anglo-Saxon contractions of _ch'am, ch'ud,_ and _ch'ill_, they will be found equally consistent with our own common contractions of _can't, won't, he'll, you'll, &c., &c._ in our present polished dialect.

Whether, however, our western dialects will be more dignified by an Anglo-Saxon pedigree I do not know; those who delight in tracing descents through a long line of ancestors up to one primitive original ought to be pleased with the literary genealogist, who demonstrates that many of our provincial words and contractions have an origin more remote, and in their estimation of course, must be more legitimate than a mere slip from the parent stock, as our personal p.r.o.noun, I, unquestionably is.

As to the term "barbarous," Mr. Horace Smith, the author of "_Walter Colyton_," a.s.sures me that many of his friends call what he has introduced of the Somerset Dialect in Walter Colyton, "barbarous."--Now, I should like to learn in what its barbarity consists. The plain truth after all is, that those who are unwilling to take the trouble to understand any language, or any dialect of any language, with which they are previously unacquainted, generally consider such new language or such dialect barbarous; and to them it doubtless appears so. What induces our metropolitan _literati_, those at least who are, or affect to be the _arbitri elegantiarum_ among them, to consider the _Scotch_ dialect in another light? Simply because such able writers, as _Allan Ramsay, Robert Burns, Sir Walter Scott,_ and others, have chosen to employ it for the expression of their thoughts. Let similar able writers employ our _Western Dialect_ in a similar way, and I doubt not the result. And why should not our Western dialects be so employed? If _novelty_ and _amus.e.m.e.nt_, to say the least for such writings, be advantageous to our literature, surely novelty and amus.e.m.e.nt might be conveyed in the dialect of the _West_ as well as of the _North_. Besides these advantages, it cannot be improper to observe that occasional visits to the _well-heads_ of our language, (and many of these will be found in the West of England) will add to the perfection of our polished idiom itself. _The West may be considered the last strong hold of the Anglo-Saxon in this country._

I observed, in very early life, that some of my father's servants, who were natives of the _Southern_ parts of the county of Somerset, almost invariably employed the word _utchy_ for I.

Subsequent reflection convinced me that this word, _utchy_, was the Anglo-Saxon _iche_, used as a dissyllable _iche_, as the Westphalians, (descendants of the Anglo- Saxons,) down to this day in their Low German (Westphalian) dialect say, "_Ikke_" for "_ich_." How or when this change in the p.r.o.nunciation of the word, from one to two syllables, took place in in this country it is difficult to determine; but on reference to the works of _Chaucer_, there is, I think, reason to conclude that _iche_ is used sometimes in that poet's works as a dissyllable.

Having discovered that _utchy_ was the Anglo-Saxon _iche_, there was no difficulty in appropriating _'che, 'c',_ and _ch'_ to the same root; hence, as far as concerned _iche_ in its literal sounds, a good deal seemed unravelled; but how could we account for _ise_, and _ees_, used so commonly for I in the western parts of _Somersets.h.i.+re_, as well as in _Devons.h.i.+re?_ In the first folio edition of tlie works of Shakspeare the _ch_ is printed, in one instance, with a mark of elision before it thus, _'ch_, a proof that the _I_ in _iche_ was sometimes dropped in a common and rapid p.r.o.nunciation; and a proof too, that, we, the descendants of the Anglo-Saxons, have chosen the initial letter only of that p.r.o.noun, which initial letter the Anglo-Saxons had in very many instances discarded!

It is singular enough that Shakspeare has the _'ch_ for _iche, I,_ and _ise_, for I, within the distance of a few lines, in _King Lear_, Act IV. scene 6. But perhaps not more singular than that, in Somersets.h.i.+re at the present time, may be heard for the p.r.o.noun I, _utchy_ or _iche, 'ch,_ and _ise_. To the absence originally of general literary information, and to the very recent rise of the study of grammatical a.n.a.lysis, are these anomalies and irregularities to be attributed.