The Dialect of the West of England; Particularly Somersetshire by James Jennings (the mitten read aloud TXT) 📕

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 sheeape 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 sheeape 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’ sheeape! 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 sheeape 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 sheeape 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 sheeape 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