Chapter V (2)

I zeng o' _Mary Ramsey's Crutch!_
"Thic little theng!"--Why 'tis'n much
It's true, but still I like ta touch
Tha cap o' _Mary Ramsey's Crutch!_
She zed, wheniver she shood die,
Er little crutch she'd gee ta I.
Did Mary love me? eese a b'leeve.
She died--a veo vor her did grieve,--
An _but_ a veo--vor Mary awld,
Outliv'd er friends, or voun 'em cawld.
Thic crutch I had--I ha it still,
An port wi't wont--nor niver will.
O' her I lorn'd tha cris-cross-lâin;
I haup that't word'n quite in vâin!
'Twar her who teach'd me vust ta read
Jitch little words as _beef_ an _bread_;
An I da thenk 'twar her that, âter,
Lorn'd I ta read tha single zâter.
Poor Mary ôten used ta tell
O' das a past that pleas'd er well;
An mangst tha rest war zum o' jay
When I look'd up a little bway.
She zed I war a good one too,
An lorn'd my book athout tha _rue_.
[Footnote: This Lady, when her scholars neglected their duty, or
behaved ill, rubbed their fingers with the leaves of _rue!_]
Poor Mary's gwon!--a longful time
Zunz now!--er little scholard's prime
A-mâ-be's past.--It must be zaw;--
There's nothin stable here belaw!
O' Mary--âll left is--er _crutch!_
An thaw a gift, an 'tword'n much
'Tis true, still I da like ta touch
Tha cap o' _Mary Ramsey's Crutch!_
That I lov'd Mary, this ool tell.
I'll zâ na moor--zaw, fore well! [Footnote: Fare ye well.]

HANNAH VERRIOR.

Tha zâ I'm maz'd,--my Husband's dead,
My chile, (hush! hush! Lord love er face!)
Tha pit-hawl had at Milemas, when
Thâ put me in theäze pooät-hawl place.

Thâ zâ I'm maz'd.--I veel--I thenk---
I tâk--I ate, an oten drenk.--
Tha _thenk_, a-mâ-be, zumtimes, _peel_--
An gee me stra vor bed an peel!

Thâ zâ I'm maz'd.--Hush! Babby, dear!
Thâ shan't come to er!--niver fear!
Thâ zâ thy Father's dead!--Naw, naw!
A'll niver die while I'm belaw.

Thâ zâ I'm maz'd.--Why dwont you speak?
Fie James!--or else my hort ool break!--
James _is_ not dead! nor Babby!--naw!
Thâ'll niver die while I'm belaw!

REMEMBRANCE.

An shall I drap tha Reed--an shall I,
Athout one nawte about my SALLY?
Althaw we Pawets âll be zingers,
We like, wi' enk, ta dye our vingers;
Bit mooäst we like in vess ta pruv
That we remimber those we love.
Sim-like-it than, that I should iver
Vorgit my SALLY.--Niver, niver!
Vor, while I've wander'd in tha West--
At mornin tide--at evenin rest--
On Quantock's hills--in Mendip's vales--
On Parret's banks--in zight o' Wales--
In thic awld mansion whaur tha bâll
Once vrighten'd Lady Drake an âll;--
When wi' tha Ladies o' thic dell
Whaur witches spird ther 'ticin spell--
[Footnote: COMBE SYDENHAM, the residence of my Friend, GEORGE
NOTLEY, Esq. The history of the _Magic Ball_, as it has been
called, is now pretty generally known, and therefore need not
be here repeated.]
Amangst tha rocks on Watchet shaur
When did tha wine an wâters raur--
In Banwell's cave--on Loxton hill--
At Clifton gâ--at Rickford rill--
In Compton ood--in Hartree coom--
At Crispin's cot wi' little room;--
At Upton--Lansdown's lofty brow--
At Bath, whaur pleasure flânts enow;
At Trowbridge, whaur by Friendship's heed,
I blaw'd again my silent Reed,
An there enjay'd, wi' quiet, rest,
Jitch recollections o' tha West;
Whauriver stapp'd my voot along
I thawt o' HER.--Here ends my zong.

DOCTOR COX; A BLANSCUE.

_(First printed in the Graphic Illustrator.)_

The catastrophe described in the following sketch, occurred near _Highbridge_, in Somersetshire, about the year 1779.--Mr. or _Doctor Cox_, as surgeons are usually called in the west, was the only medical resident at Huntspill, and in actual practice for many miles around that village. The conduct of Mr. Robert Evans, the friend and associate of Cox, can only be accounted for by one of those unfortunate infatuations to which the minds of some are sometimes liable. Had an immediate alarm been given when we children first discovered that Cox was missing, he might, probably, have been saved. The real cause of his death was, a too great abstraction of heat from the body; as the water was fresh and still, and of considerable depth, and, under the surface, much beneath the usual temperature of the human body. This fact ought to be a lesson to those who bathe in still and deep fresh water; and to warn them to continue only a short time in such a cold medium. [Footnote: Various efforts to restore the suspended animation of _Cox,_ such as shaking him, rolling him on a cask, attempts to get out the water which it was then presumed had got into the stomach or the lungs, or both, in the drowning; strewing salt over the body, and many other equally ineffectual and improper methods to restore the circulation were, I believe, pursued. Instead of which, had the body been laid in a natural position, and the lost heat gradually administered, by the application of warm frictions, a warm bed, &c., how easily in all probability, would animation have been restored!]

The BRUE war bright, and deep and clear;
[Footnote: The reader must not suppose that the _river Brue,_
is generally a clear stream, or always rapid. I have elsewhere
called it "lazy Brue." It is sometimes, at and above the
floodgates at _Highbridge,_ when they are not closed by the
tide, a rapid stream; but through the moors, generally, its course
is slow. In the summertime, and at the period to which allusion is
made, the floodgates were closed.]
And Lammas dâ and harras near:
The zun upon the waters drode
Girt sheets of light as on a rode;
From zultry heät the cattle hirn'd
To shade or water as to firnd:
Men, too, in yarly âternoon
Doft'd quick ther cloaths and dash'd in zoon
To thic deep river, whaur the trout,
In all ther prankin, plâd about;
And yels wi' zilver skins war zid,
While gudgeons droo the wâter slid,
Wi' carp sumtimes and wither fish
Avoordon many a dainty dish.
Whaur elvers too in spring time plâd,
[Footnote: Young eels are called _elvers_ in Somersetshire.
_Walton_, in his Angler, says, "Young eels, in the Severn,
are called _yelvers_." In what part of the country through
which the Severn passes they are called yelvers we are not told in
Walton's book; as eels are called, in Somersetshere, yels, analogy
seems to require _yelvers_ for their young; but I never heard
them so called. The elvers used to be obtained from the salt-water
side of the bridge.]
And pailvuls mid o' them be had.
The wâter cold--the zunshine bright,
To zwiminers than what high delight!
'Tis long agwon whun youth and I
Wish'd creepin Time would rise and vly--
A, half a hundred years an moor
Zunz I a trod theäze earthly vloor!
I zed, the face o' Brue war bright;
Time smil'd too in thic zummer light.
Wi' Hope bezide en promising
A wordle o' fancies wild ö' whing.
I mine too than one lowering cloud
That zim'd to wrop us like a shroud;
The death het war o' Doctor Cox--
To thenk o't now the storry shocks!
Vor âll the country vur and near
Shod than vor'n many a horty tear.
The _Doctor_ like a duck could zwim;
No fear o' drownin daver'd him!
The pectur now I zim I zee!
I wish I could liet's likeness gee!
His _Son_, my brother _John, myzel_,
Or _Evans_, mid the storry tell;
But thâ be gwon and I, o' âll
O'm left to zâ what did bevâll.
Zo, nif zo be you like, why I
To tell the storry now ool try.

Thic _Evans_had a coward core
And fear'd to venter vrom the shore;
While to an vro, an vur an near,
And now an tan did _Cox_ appear
In dalliance with the wâters bland,
Or zwimmin wi' a maëster hand.
We youngsters dree, the youngest I,
To zee the zwimmers âll stood by
Upon the green bonk o' the Brue
Jist whaur a stook let water droo:
A quiet time of joyousness
Zim'd vor a space thic dâ to bless!
A dog' too, faithful to his maëster
War there, and mang'd wi' the disaster--
_Vigo_, ah well I mine his name!
A Newvoun-lond and very tame!
But Evans only war to blame:
He âllès paddled near the shore
Wi' timid hon and coward core;
While _Doctor Cox_ div'd, zwim'd at ease
Like fishes in the zummer seas;
Or as the skaiters on the ice
In winin circles wild and nice
Yet in a moment he war gwon,
The wonderment of ivry one:
That is, we _dree_ and Evans, âll
That zeed what Blanscue did bevâll.--
Athout one sign, or naise, or cry,
Or shriek, or splash, or groan, or sigh!
Could zitch a zwimmer ever die
In wâter?--Yet we gaz'd in vain
Upon thic bright and wâter plain:
All smooth and calm--no ripple gave
One token of the zwimmer's grave!
We hir'd en not, we zeed en not!--
The glassy wâter zim'd a blot?
While Evans, he of coward core,
Still paddled as he did bevore!
At length our fears our silence broke,--
Young as we war, and children âll,
We wish'd to goo an zum one câll;
But Evans carelissly thus spoke--
"Oh, _Cox_ is up the river gone,
Vor sartain ool be back anon;--
He tâlk'd o' cyder, zed he'd g'up
To Stole's an drenk a horty cup!"
[Footnote: Mr. Stole resided near _Newbridge_, about a mile
from the spot where the accident occurred; he was somewhat famous
for his cyder.]
Conjecture anty as the wine!
And zoon did he het's faleshood vine.

_John Cox_ took up his father's cloaths--
Poor fellow! he beginn'd to cry!
Than, Evans vrom the wâter rose;
"A hunderd vawk'll come bimeby,"
A zed; whun, short way vrom the shore.
We zeed, what zeed we not avore,
The _head_ of Doctor Cox appear--
Het floated in the wâter clear!
Bolt upright war he, and his hair,
That pruv'd he sartainly war there,
Zwimm'd on the wâter!--Evans than,
The stupid'st of a stupid man,
Call'd _Vigo_--pointed to that head--
In _Vigo_ dash'd--_Cox was not dead_!
But seiz'd the dog's lag--helt en vast!
One struggle, an het war the last!
Ah! well do I remember it--
That struggle I sholl ne'er forgit!
Vigo was frightened and withdrew;
The body zink'd at once vrom view.

Did _Evans_, gallid _Evans_ then,
Câll out, at once, vor father's men?
(Thâ war at work vor'n very near
A mendin the old Highbridge pier,)
A did'n câll, but 'mus'd our fear--
"A hundred vawk ool zoon be here!"
A zed.--We gid the hue and cry!
And zoon a booät wi' men did vly!
But twar âll auver! _Cox_ war voun
Not at the bottom lyin down,
But up aneen, as jist avore
We zeed en floatin nigh the shore.

But death 'ad done his wust--not âll
Thâ did could life's last spork recall.
Zo Doctor Cox went out o' life
A vine, a, and as honsom mon,
As zun hath iver shin'd upon;
A left a family--a _wife_,
Two _sons_--one_dater_,
As beautiful as lovely Mâ,
Of whom a-mâ-bi I mid za
Zumthin hereâter:
What thâ veel'd now I sholl not tell--
My hort athin me 'gins to zwell!
Reflection here mid try in vain,
Wither particulars to gain,
_Evans_ zim'd all like one possest;
Imagination! tell the rest!

L'ENVOY.

To âll that sholl theeäze storry read,
The _Truth_ must vor it chiefly plead;
I gee not here a tale o' ort,
Nor snip-snap wit, nor lidden smort.
But ôten, ôten by thie river,
Have I a pass'd; yet niver, niver,
Athout a thought o' _Doctor Cox_--
His dog--his death--his floatin locks!
The mooäst whun Brue war deep and clear,
And Lammas dâ an harras near;--
Whun zummer vleng'd his light abroad,--
The zun in all his glory rawd;
How beautiful mid be the dâ
A zumthin âllès zim'd to zâ,
_"Whar whing! the wâter's deep an' clear,
But death mid be a lurkin near!"_

A DEDICATION.

Thenk not, bin I ood be tha fashion,
That I, ZIR, write theäze Dedicâtion;
I write, I haup I dwon't offend.
Bin I be proud ta câll You FRIEND.
I here ston vooäth, alooän unbidden
To 'muse you wi' my country lidden;--
Wi' remlet's o' tha Saxon tongue
That to our Gramfers did belong.
Vor áll it is a little thing,
Receave it--Friendship's offering--
Ta pruv, if pruf I need renew,
That I esteem not lightly YOU.

THE FAREWELL.

A longful time zunz I this vust begun!
One little tootin moor and I a done.
"One little tootin moor!--Enough,
Vor once, we've had o' jitchy stuff;
Thy lidden to a done 'tis time!
Jitch words war niver zeed in rhyme!"
Vorgee me vor'm.--Goo little Reed!
Aforn tha vawk an vor me plead:
Thy wild nawtes, mâ-be, thâ ool hire
Zooner than zâter vrom a _lyre_.
Zâ that, _thy mäester's pleas'd ta blaw 'em,
An haups in time thâ'll come ta knaw 'em;
An nif zaw be thâ'll please ta hear
A'll gee zum moor another year._
Ive nothin else jist now ta tell:
Goo, little Reed, an than forwel!

FARMER BENNET AN JAN LIDE,

_A DIALOGUE._

_Farmer Bennet.--_ Jan! why dwon't ye right my shoes?

_Jan Lide.--_ Bin, maëster 'tis zaw cawld, I can't work wi' tha tacker at âll; I've a brawk it ten times I'm shower ta dâ-- da vreaze za hord. Why Hester hanged out a kittle-smock ta drowy, an in dree minits a war a vraur as stiff as a pawker; an I can't avoord ta keep a good vier--I wish I cood--I'd zoon right your shoes and withers too--I'd zoon yarn [Footnote: Earn.] zum money, I warnt ye. Can't ye vine zum work vor me, maester, theäze hord times--I'll do any theng ta sar a penny.--I can drash--I can cleave brans--I can make spars--I can thatchy--I can shear ditch, an I can gripy too, bit da vreaze za hord. I can wimmy--I can messy or milky nif ther be need o't. I ood'n mine dreavin plough or any theng.

_Farmer Bennet.--_ I've a got nothing vor ye ta do, Jan; bit Mister Boord banchond ta I jist now that thâ war gwain ta wimmy, ond that thâ wanted zumbody ta help 'em.

_Jan Lide._--Aw, I'm glad o't, I'll him auver an zee where I can't help 'em; bit I han't a bin athin tha drashel o' Maester Boord's door vor a longful time, bin I thawt that missis did'n use Hester well; but I dwon't bear malice, an zaw I'll goo.

_Farmer Bennet._--What did Missis Boord zâ or do ta Hester, than?

_Jan Lide._--Why, Hester, a mâ-be, war zummet ta blame too: vor she war one o'm, d'ye zee, that rawd Skimmerton--thic mâ game that frunted zum o' tha gennel-vawk. Thâ zed 'twar time to a done wi'jitch litter, or jitch stuff, or I dwon knaw what thâ call'd it; bit thâ war a frunted wi' Hester about it: an I zed nif thâ war a frunted wi' Hester, thâ mid be frunted wi' I. This zet missis's back up, an Hester han't a bin a choorin there zunz. Bit 'tis niver-the-near ta bear malice; and zaw I'll goo auver an zee which wâ tha wine da blaw.

THOMAS CAME AN YOUNG MAESTER JIMMY.

_Thomas Came._--Aw, Maester Jimmy! zaw you be a come whim vrom school. I thawt we shood niver zeenamoor. We've a mist ye iver zunz thic time, when we war at zea-wall, an cut aup tha girt porpus wi' za many zalmon in hiz belly--zum o'm look'd vit ta eat as thaw tha wor a bwiled, did'n thâ?--

_Jimmy._--Aw eese, Thomas; I da mine tha porpus; an I da mine tha udder, an tha milk o'n, too. I be a come whim, Thomas, an I dwon't thenk I shall goo ta school again theäze zumrner. I shall be out amangst ye. I'll goo wi' ta mawy, an ta hâ-makin, an ta reapy--I'll come âter, an zet up tha stitches vor ye, Thomas. An if I da stâ till Milemas, I'll goo ta Matthews fayer wi'. Thomas, âve ye had any zenvy theäze year?--I zeed a gir'd'l o't amangst tha wheat as I rawd along. Ave you bin down in ham, Thomas, o' late--is thic groun, tha ten yacres, haind vor mawin?

_Thomas Came._--Aw, Maester Jimmy! I da love ta hire you tâk- -da zeem za naatal. We a had zum zenvy--an tha ten yacres be a haind--a'll be maw'd in veo dâs--you'll come an hâ-maky, o'nt ye?- -eese, I knaw you ool--an I da knaw whool goo a hâ-makin wi', too --ah, she's a zweet maid--I dwon't wonder at ye at âll, Maester Jimmy--Lord bless ye, an love ye booäth.

_Jimmy._--Thomas, you a liv'd a long time wi' Father, an' I dwont like ta chide ye, bit nif you da tâk o' Miss Cox in thic fashion, I knaw she on't like it, naw moor sholl I. Miss Cox, Thomas, Miss Cox ool, a-mâ-be, goo a hâ-makin wi' I, as she a done avaur now; bit Sally, Miss Cox, Thomas, I wish you'd zâ naw moor about er.--There now, Thomas, dwon't ye zee--why shee's by tha gate-shord! I haup she han't a hird what we a bin a tâkin about.-- Be tha thissles skeer'd in tha twenty yacres, Thomas?--aw, thâ be. Well, I sholl be glad when tha ten yacres be a mawed--an when we da make an end o' hâ-corrin, I'll dance wi' Sally Cox.

_Thomas Came_.--There, Maester Jimmy! 'tword'n I that tâk'd o' Sally Cox!

MARY RAMSEY,

_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 wâke ye. Now, _Billy_ there's a good bway! Ston still there, an mine what I da zâ 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, pronounced _Kirs_.] girt â little â--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--âll in one lidden--_hum, hum, hum,_--You'll niver lorn ta read well thic fashion.--Here, _Pal,_ read theäze 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 zâ _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 âlways zed that Pâson Tuttle's grandâter 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 âll 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 analysed; _Give us to see them_.] nif you please, _Miss Polly_.--Tha _Zeven Champions_--_Goody Two Shoes_--_Pawems vor Infant minds_.--Theäzamy here be by vur tha best.--There is a moril ta mooäst o'm; an thâ be pirty bezides.--Now, _Miss_, please ta read thic-- _Tha Notorious Glutton_.--_Pal Came!_ turn tha glass! dwon't ye zee tha zond is âll hirnd out;--you'll stâ in school tha longer for't nif you dwon't mine it.--Now, âll o' ye be quiet ta hire _Miss Whitin_ read.--There now! what d'ye zâ 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 voäth_.

SOLILOQUY OF BEN BOND,

THE IDLETON.

(_First printed in the Graphic Illustrator_.)

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, refreshing, and playful. The rushing Parret, with its ever shifting sands, was also heard in the distance. It should be stated, too, that Larence is the name usually given in Somersetshire 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 beät 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 âll a breakin droo tha hadge inta tha vivean-twenty yacres; an Former Haggit'll goo ta Lâ 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 zâ, thee bist a bad un! Oot thee hire what I da zâ? Come now an let I scooce wi'. Lord a massy upon me! Larence, whys'n thee let I up?" _Câz I wunt. What! muss'n I hâ an hour like wither vawk ta ate my bird an cheese? I do zâ 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 awâ 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; cass'n thee let I goo. I'll gee thee a _hâ 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 zâ, oot let me up. I zeed Farmer Haggit zoon âter 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: thâ'll zoon hirn vur anow. Thâ'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-wâter; 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 zâ vur as _Slow-wâ_; the ditches be, menny o'm zâ dry 'tis all now rangel common! There! I'll gee thee _dree hâ pence_ ta let I goo." _Why, thee hass'n bin here an hour, an vor what shood I let thee goo? I da zâ, lie still!_

"Larence! why doos'n let I up? There! zim ta I, I da hire thic pirty maid, _Fanny 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-mâ-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 stâ 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 cockygee! I dwont like en. at âll; a's za rough, an za zoür. An _Will Popham_ too, ta betwite me about tha maid: a câll'd er a ratheripe _Lady-buddick_. I dwont mislike tha name at âll, thawf I dwont care vor'n a stra, nor a read mooäte; nor thatite o' a pin! What da thâ câll _he_? Why, tha _upright man_, câs a da ston upright; let'n; an let'n wrassly too: I dwont like zitch _hoss-plâs_, nor _singel-stick_ nuther; nor _cock- squailin'; nor menny wither mâ-games that Will Popham da volly. I'd rather zitin tha poorch, wi' tha jessamy ranglin roun it, and hire Fanny 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 Fanny. What bisniss ad thâ ta up wi't? I dwont like norn'om? _Girnin Jan_ too shawed iz teeth an put in his verdi.--I--wish theeäze vawk ood mine ther awn consarns an let I an Fanny alooäne.

"Larence! doose thee meän 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 hoür; whaur tha yeos an lams an âll 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 wâll."--

"_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 PRONOUNS.

BY JAMES JENKINGS.

(_From the Graphic Illustrator._)

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 pronoun 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 pronoun, I, unquestionably is.

As to the term "barbarous," Mr. Horace Smith, the author of "_Walter Colyton_," assures 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 _amusement_, to say the least for such writings, be advantageous to our literature, surely novelty and amusement 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 _ichè_, 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 pronunciation 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 _Somersetshire_, as well as in _Devonshire?_ 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 pronunciation; and a proof too, that, we, the descendants of the Anglo-Saxons, have chosen the initial letter only of that pronoun, 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 Somersetshire at the present time, may be heard for the pronoun I, _utchy_ or _ichè, 'ch,_ and _ise_. To the absence originally of general literary information, and to the very recent rise of the study of grammatical analysis, are these anomalies and irregularities to be attributed.

We see, therefore, that _'ch'ud, ch'am,_ and _'ch'ill_, are simply the Anglo-Saxon _ich_, contracted and combined with the respective verbs _would, am,_ and _will_; that the _'c'_ and _'ch'_, as quoted in the lines given by Miss Ham, are contracts for the Anglo-Saxon _iche_ or _I_, and nothing else. It may be also observed, that in more than one modern work containing specimens of the dialect of Scotland and the North of England, and in, I believe, some of Sir Walter Scott's novels, the word _ise_ is employed, so that the auxiliary verb _will_ or _shall_ is designed to be included in that word; and the printing or it thus, _I'se_, indicates that it is so designed to be employed. Now, if this be a _copy_ of the _living_ dialect of Scotland (which I beg leave respectfully to doubt), it is a "barbarism" which the Somerset dialect does not possess. The _ise_ in the west is simply a pronoun and nothing else; it is, however, often accompanied by a contracted verb, as _ise'll_ for I will.

In concluding these observations on the first personal pronoun it may be added, that the object of the writer has been to state facts, without the accompaniment of that _learning_ which is by some persons deemed so essential in inquiries of this kind. The best learning is that which conveys to us a knowledge of facts. Should any one be disposed to convince himself of the correctness of the _data_ here laid before him, by researches among our old authors, as well as from living in the west, there is no doubt as to the result to which lie must come. Perhaps, however, it may be useful to quote one or two specimens of our more early Anglo- Saxon, to prove their analogy to the present dialect in Somersetshire.

The first specimen is from _Robert of Gloucester_, who lived in the time of Henry II., that is, towards the latter end of the twelfth century; it is quoted by _Drayton_, in the notes to his _Pulyolbion_, song xvii.

"The meste wo that here _vel_ bi King Henry's days, In this lond, _icholle_ beginne to tell _yuf ich_ may."

_Vel_, for fell, the preterite of to fall, is precisely the sound given to the same word at the present time in Somersetshire. We see that _icholle_, for _I shall_, follows the same rule as the contracts _'ch'ud, 'ch'am_, and _'ch'ill_. It is very remarkable that _sholl_, for shall, is almost invariably employed in Somersetshire, at the present time. _Yuf_ I am disposed to consider a corruption or mistake for _gyf_ (give), that is, _if_, the meaning and origin of which have been long ago settled by Horne Tooke in his Purley.

The next specimen is assuredly of a much more modern date; though quoted by _Mr Dibdin_, in his _Metrical History of England_, as from an _old ballad_.

"_Ch'ill_ tell thee what, good fellow,
Before the vriars went hence,
A bushel of the best wheate
Was zold for vourteen pence,
And vorty egges a penny,
That were both good and new,
And this _che_ say myself have seene,
And yet I am no Jew."

With a very few alterations, indeed, these lines would become the _South_ Somerset of the present day.

No. II.--ER, EN, A--IT HET--THEEAZE, THEEAZAM, THIZZAM--THIC, THILK--TWORDM--WORDN--ZINO.

There are in _Somersetshire_ (besides that particular, portion in the _southern_ parts of the country in which the Anglo-Saxon _iche_ or _utchy_ and its contracts prevail) _two_ distinct and very different dialects, the boundaries of which are strongly marked by the River _Parret_. To the east and north of that river, and of the town of Bridgewater, a dialect is used which is essentially, (even now) the dialect of all the peasantry of not only that part of Somersetshire, but of Dorsetshire, Wiltshire, Gloucestershire, Hampshire, Surrey, Sussex, and Kent; and even in the suburban village of _Lewisham_, will be found many striking remains of it. There can be no doubt that this dialect was some centuries ago the language of the inhabitants of all the south and of much of the west portion of our island; but it is in its greatest _purity_[Footnote: Among other innumerable proofs that Somersetshire is one of the strongholds of our old Anglo-Saxon, are the sounds which are there generally given to the vowels A and E. A has, for the most part, the same sound as we give to that letter in the word _father_ in our polished dialect: in the words tâll, câll, bâll, and vâll (fall), &c., it is thus pronounced. The E has the sound which we give in our polished dialect to the a in pane, cane, &c., both which sounds, it may be observed, are even _now_ given to these letters on the Continent, in very many places, particularly in Holland and in Germany. The name of Dr. Gall, the founder of the science of phrenology, is pronounced Gâll, as we of the west pronounce tâll, bâll, &c.] and most abundant in the county of Somerset. No sooner, however, do we cross the _Parret_ and proceed from Combwich [Footnote: Pronounced _Cummidge_. We here see the disposition in our language to convert _wich_ into _idge_; as _Dulwich_ and _Greenwich_ often pronounced by the vulgar _Dullidge, Greenidge_.] to _Cannington_ (three miles from Bridgewater) than another dialect becomes strikingly apparent. Here we have no more of the _zees_, the _hires_, the _veels_, and the _walks_, and a numerous et cætera, which we find in the eastern portion of the county, in the third person singular of the verbs, but instead we have _he zeeth_, he sees, _he veel'th_, he feels, _he walk'th_, he walks, and so on through the whole range of the similar part of every verb. This is of itself a strong and distinguishing characteristic; but this dialect has many more; one is the very different sounds given to almost every word which is employed, and which thus strongly characterize the persons who use them. [Footnote: I cannot pretend to account for this very singular and marked distinction in our western dialects; the fact, however, is so; and it may be added, too, that there can be no doubt both these dialects are the children of our Anglo-Saxon parent.]

Another is that _er_ for he in the nominative case is most commonly employed; thus for, _he said he would not_, is used _Er zad er ood'n--Er ont goor_, for, _he will not go_, &c.

Again _ise_ or _ees_, for I is also common. Many other peculiarities and contractions in this dialect are to a stranger not a little puzzling; and if we proceed so far westward as the confines of Exmoor, they are, to a plain Englishman, very often unintelligible. _Her_ or rather _hare_ is most always used instead of the nominative _she_. _Har'th a dood it_, she has done it; _Hare zad har'd do't._ She said she would do it. This dialect pervades, not only the western portion of Somersetshire, but the whole of Devonshire. As my observations in these papers apply chiefly to the dialect east of the Parret, it is not necessary to proceed further in our present course; yet as _er_ is also occasionally used instead of _he_ in that dialect it becomes useful to point out its different application in the two portions of the county. In the eastern part it is used very rarely if ever in the beginning of sentences; but frequently thus: _A did, did er?_ He did, did he? _Wordn er gwain?_ Was he not going? _Ool er goo?_ will he go?

We may here advert to the common corruption, I suppose I must call it, of _a_ for _he_ used so generally in the west. As _a zed a'd do it_ for, lie said he would do it. Shakespeare has given this form of the pronoun in the speeches of many of his low characters which, of course, strikingly demonstrates its then very general use among the vulgar; but it is in his works usually printed with a comma thus 'a, to show, probably that it is a corrupt enunciation of he. This comma is, however, very likely an addition by some editor.

Another form of the third personal pronoun employed only in the objective case is found in the west, namely _en_ for him, as _a zid en_ or, rather more commonly, _a zid'n_, he saw him. Many cases however, occur in which _en_ is fully heard; as _gee't to en_, give it to him. It is remarkable that Congreve, in his comedy of "_Love for Love_" has given to _Ben the Sailor_ in that piece many expressions found in the west. "Thof he be my father I an't bound prentice to en." It should be noted here that _he be_ is rarely if ever heard in the west, but _he's_ or _he is_. _We be, you be_, and _thâ be_ are nevertheless very common. _Er_, employed as above, is beyond question aboriginal Saxon; _en_ has been probably adopted as being more euphonious than _him_. [Footnote: I have not met with _en_ for him in any of our more early writers; and I am therefore disposed to consider it as of comparatively modern introduction, and one among the very few changes in language introduced by the _yeomanry_, a class of persons less disposed to changes of any kind than any other in society, arising, doubtless, from their isolated position. It must be admitted, nevertheless, that this change if occasionally adopted in our polished dialect would afford an agreeable variety by no means unmusical. In conversation with a very learned Grecian on this subject, he seemed to consider because the _learned_ are constantly, and sometimes very capriciously, introducing _new_ words into our language, that such words as _en_ might be introduced for similar reasons, namely, mere fancy or caprice; on this subject I greatly differ from him: our aboriginal Saxon population has never corrupted our language nor destroyed its energetic character half so much as the mere classical scholar. Hence the necessity, in order to a complete knowledge of our mother tongue, that we should study the Anglo-Saxon still found in the provinces.

_Het_ for _it_ is still also common amongst the peasantry. In early Saxon writers, it was usually written _hit_, sometimes _hyt_.

"Als _hit_ in heaven y-doe,
Evar in yearth beene it also."
_Metrical Lord's Prayer of_ 1160.

Of _theeäze_, used as a demonstrative pronoun, both in the singular and plural, for _this_ and _these_, it maybe observed, as well as of the pronunciation of many other words in the west, that we have no letters or combination of letters which, express exactly the sounds there given to such words. Theeäze is here marked as a dissyllable, but although it is sometimes decidedly two syllables, its sounds are not always thus apparent in Somerset enunciation. What is more remarkable in this world, is its equal application to the singular and the plural. Thus we say _theeäze man_ and _theäze men_. But in the plural are also employed other forms of the same pronoun, namely _theeäzam, theeäzamy_ and _thizzum_. This last word is, of course, decidedly the Anglo-Saxon ðissum. In the west we say therefore _theeäzam here, theeäzamy here_, and _thizzam here_ for these, or these here; and sometimes without the pleonastic and unnecessary _here_.

For the demonstrative _those_ of our polished dialect _them_, or _themmy_, and often _them there_ or _themmy there_ are the usual synonyms; as, _gee I themmy there shoes_; that is, give me those shoes. The objective pronoun _me_, is very sparingly employed indeed--I, in general supplying its place as in the preceding sentence: to this barbarism in the name of my native dialect, I must plead guilty!-- if barbarism our metropolitan critics shall be pleased to term it. [Footnote: By the way I must just retort upon our polished dialect, that it has gone over to the other extreme in avoidance of the I, using me in many sentences where I ought most decidedly to be employed. It was me [Footnote: I am aware that some of our lexicographers have attempted a defence of this solecism by deriving it from the French c'est moi; but, I think it is from their affected dislike of direct egotism; and that, whenever they can, they avoid the I in order that they might not be thought at once vulgar and egotistic!] is constantly dinned in our ears for it was I: as well as indeed one word more, although not a pronoun, this is, the almost constant use in London of the verb to lay for the verb to lie, and ketch for catch. If we at head-quarters commit such blunders can we wonder at our provincial detachments falling into similar errors? none certainly more gross than this!]

Thic is in the Somersetshire dialect (namely that to which I have particularly directed my attention and which prevails on the east side of the Parret) invariably employed for that. Thic house, that house; thic man, that man: in the west of the county it is thiky, or thecky. Sometimes thic has the force and meaning of a personal pronoun, as:

Catch and scrabble
Thic that's yable:--
Catch and scramble
He who's able.

Again, thic that dont like it mid leave it,--he who does not like it may leave it. It should be noted that th in all the pronouns above mentioned has the obtuse sound as heard in then and this and not the thin sound as heard in both, thin, and many other words of our polished dialect. Chaucer employed the pronoun thic very often, but he spells it thilk; he does not appear, however, to have always restricted it to the meaning implied in our that and to the present Somerset thic. Spenser has also employed thilk in his Shepherd's Calendar several times.

"Seest not thilk same hawthorn stud How bragly it begins to bud And utter his tender head?" "Our blonket leveries been all too sad For thilk same season, when all is yclad With pleasance."

I cannot conclude without a few observations on three very remarkable Somersetshire words, namely twordn, wordn, and zino. They are living evidences of the contractions with which that dialect very much abounds.

Twordn means it was not; and is composed of three words, namely it, wor, and not; wor is the past tense, or, as it is sometimes called, the preterite of the verb to be, in the third person singular; [Footnote: It should be observed here that was is rather uncommon among the Somersetshire peasantry--wor, or war, being there the synonyms; thus Spenser in his 'Shepherd's Calendar.'"

"The kid,--
Asked the cause of his great distress,
And also who
and whence that he wer
You say he was there, and I say that _a wordn_;
You say that 'twas he, and I tell you that _twordn_;
You ask, will he go? I reply, not as I know;
You say _that_ he _will_, and _I_must _say, no,
Zino_!]

and such is the indistinctness with which the sound of the vowel in were is commonly expressed in Somersetshire, that wor, wer, or war, will nearly alike convey it, the sound of the e being rarely if ever long; twordn is therefore composed, as stated, of three words; but it will be asked what business has the _d_ in it? To this it may be replied that _d_ and _t_ are, as is well known, often converted in our language the one into the other; but by far the most frequently _d_ is converted into _t_. Here, however, the _t_ is not only converted into _d_, but instead of being placed after _n_, as analogy requires thus, _twornt_, it is placed before it for _euphony_ I dare say. Such is the analysis of this singular and, if not euphonious, most certainly expressive word.

_Wordn_ admits of a similar explanation; but this word is composed of two words only, _war_ and _not_; instead of _wornt_, which analogy requires, a _d_ is placed before _n_ for a similar reason that the _d_ is placed before _n_ in _twordn_, namely for euphony; _wordn_ is decidedly another of the forcible words.

_Wordn fir gwain_?--was he not going, may compete with any language for its energetic brevity.

_Zino_, has the force and application of an interjection, and has sufficient of the _ore rotundo_ to appear a classical dissyllable; its origin is, however, simply the contract of, _as I know_, and it is usually preceeded in Somersetshire by _no_. Thus, _ool er do it_? _no, zino_! _I thawt a oodn_. Will he do it? no, as I know! I thought he would not. These words, _Twordn_, _Wordn_, and _Zino_, may be thus exemplified:

CONCLUDING OBSERVATIONS.

I cannot, perhaps, better close this work, than by presenting to the reader the observations of Miss HAM, (a Somersetshire lady of no mean talents), in a letter to me on these dialects.

The lines, of which I desired a copy, contain an exemplification of the use of _utchy_ or _ichè_, used contractedly [see UTCHY in the _Glossary_] by the inhabitants of the _South_ of Somersetshire, one of the strongholds, as I conceive, of the Anglo-Saxon dialect.

In our polished dialect, the lines quoted by Miss HAM, may be thus rendered--

Bread and cheese I have had,
What I had I have eaten,
More I would [have eaten if] I had [had] it.

If the contradictions be supplied they will stand thus:--

Bread and cheese _ichè_ have a had
That _ichè_ had _ichè_ have a eat
More _ichè_ would _ichè_ had it.

CLIFTON, _Jan._ 30, 1825

Sir:

I have certainly great pleasure in complying with your request, although I fear that any communication it is in my power to make, will be of little use to you in your curious work on the West Country dialect. The lines you desire are these:

Bread and cheese 'e' have a had,
That 'e' had 'e' have a eat,
More 'ch wou'd 'e' had it.

Sounds which, from association no doubt, carry with them to my ear the idea of great vulgarity: but which might have a very different effect on that of an unprejudiced hearer, when dignified by an Anglo-Saxon pedigree. The Scotch dialect, now become _quite classical_ with us, might, perhaps, labour under the same disadvantage amongst those who hear it spoken by the vulgar only.

Although I am a native of Somersetshire, I have resided very little in that county since my childhood, and, in my occasional visits since, have had little intercourse with the _aborigines_. I recollect, however, two or three words, which you might not, perhaps, have met with. One of them of which I have traditionary knowledge, being, I believe, now quite obsolete. _Pitisanquint_ was used in reply to an inquiry after the health of a person, and was, I understand, equivalent to _pretty well_, or _so so_. The word _Lamiger_, which signifies an invalid, I have no doubt you have met with. When any one forbodes bad weather, or any disaster, it is very common to say _Don't ye housenee_. Here you have the verbal termination, which you remarked was so common in the West, and which I cannot help thinking might have been originally vised as a sort of diminutive, and that _to milkee_, signified to milk _a little_.