The Dialect of the West of England; Particularly Somersetshire by James Jennings (ebooks children's books free .TXT) đ
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During the latter part of the Soliloquy Farmer Tidball arrives behind the bank, and hearing poor Benâs 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
âLarence! why doosân let I up? Oot let I up?â Naw, I be sleapid, I canât let thee up eet.ââNow, Lareuce! do let I up. There! bimeby maesterâll come, an aâll beät I athin a ninch oâ me life; do let I up!ââNaw I wunt.
âLarence! I bag oâee, do ee let I, up! Dâye zee! Tha sheeape be âll a breakin droo tha hadge inta tha vivean-twenty yacres; an Former Haggitâll goo ta Lâ wiân, an I sholl be killâd. âNaw I wunâtâ âtis zaw whot: bezides I hant a had my nap out. âLarence! I da zâ, thee bist a bad un! Oot thee hire what I da zâ? Come now an let I scooce wiâ. Lord a massy upon me! Larence, whysân thee let I up?â Câz I wunt. What! mussân I hâ an hour like wither vawk ta ate my bird an cheese? I do zâ I wunt; and zaw âtis niver-tha-near to keep on.
âMaester tawlâd I, nif I wer a good bway, aâd gee I iz awld wasket; an Iâm shower, nif a da come an vine I here, an tha sheeape a brawk inta tha vive-an-twenty yacres, aâll vlengât awâ vust! Larence, do ee, do ee let I up! Ool ee, do ee!ââ_Naw, I tell ee I wunt._
âThereâs one oâ tha sheep âpon iz back in tha gripe, an a canât turn auver! I mis gâin ta tha groun an gâout toân, an gitân out. Thereâs another in tha ditch! aâll be a buddled! Thereâs a girdâl oâ trouble wiâ sheeape! Larence; cassân thee let I goo. Iâll gee thee a hâ peny nif oot let me.ââ_Naw I canât let thee goo eet._
âMaesterâll 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 oâ my sheeape in tha vive-an-twenty yacres, aâd drash I za long as a cood ston auver me, an wiâ a groun ashâ too! There! Zum oâm be a gwon droo tha vive-an-twenty yacres inta tha drauve: thââll zoon hirn vur anow. Thââll be pounâd. Larence! Iâll gee thee a penny nif oot let I up.â Naw I wunt.
âThic not sheep ha got tha shab! Dame tawlâd 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 oâ tha langth oâ iz tongue. I da hate zitch cross vawk! Larence! what, oot niver let I up? There! zum oâ tha sheeape be gwon into Leek-beds; an zum oâm be in Hounlake; dree or vour oâm be gwon zâ vur as Slow-wâ; the ditches be, menny oâm zâ dry âtis all now rangel common! There! Iâll gee thee dree hâ pence ta let I goo.â Why, thee hassân bin here an hour, an vor what shood I let thee goo? I da zâ, lie still!
âLarence! why doosân let I up? There! zim ta I, I da hire thic pirty maid, Fanny oâ Primmer Hill, a chidin bin I be a lyin here while tha sheeape be gwain droo thic shord an tuther shord; zum oâm, a-mâ-be, be a drownâd! Larence; doose thee thenk I can bear tha betwitten oâ thic pirty maid? She, tha Primrawse oâ Primmer-hill; tha Lily oâ tha level; tha gawl-cup oâ tha mead; tha zweetist honeyzuckle in tha garden; tha yarly vilet; tha rawse oâ rawses; tha pirty pollyantice! Whun I seed er last, she zed, âBen, do ee mind tha sheeape, an tha yeos an lams, an than zumbody ool mine you.â Wiâthat she gid me a beautiful spreg oâ jessamy, jist a pickt vrom tha poorch,âtha smill war za zweet.
âLarence! I mus goo! I ool goo. You mus let I up. I ont stâ here na longer! Maesterâll be shower ta come an drash me. There, Larence! Iâll gee tuther penny, an thatâs ivry vardân I a got. Oot let I goo?â Naw, I mis ha a penny moor.
âLarence! do let I up! Creeplin Philipâll be shower ta catch me! Thic cockygee! I dwont like en. at âll; aâs za rough, an za zoĂźr. An Will Popham too, ta betwite me about tha maid: a câllâd er a ratheripe Lady-buddick. I dwont mislike tha name at âll, thawf I dwont care vorân a stra, nor a read mooäte; nor thatite oâ a pin! What da thâ câll he? Why, tha upright man, câs a da ston upright; letân; an letân wrassly too: I dwont like zitch hoss-plâs, nor singel-stick nuther; nor cock-squailinâ; nor menny wither mâ-games that Will Popham da volly. Iâd rather zitin tha poorch, wiâ tha jessamy ranglin roun it, and hire Fanny zeng. Oot let I up, Larence?ââNaw, I tell ee I ont athout a penny moor._
âRawzey Pink, too, an Nanny Dubby axed I about Fanny. What bisniss ad thâ ta up wiât? I dwont like nornâom? Girnin Jan too shawed iz teeth an put in his verdi.âIâwish theeäze vawk ood mine ther awn consarns an let I an Fanny alooäne.
âLarence! doose thee meän to let I goo?ââ_Eese, nif theeât gee me tuther penny_.ââWhy I hanât a got a vardân moor; oot let I up!â- -_Not athout tha penny.ââNow Larence! doo ee, bin I liant naw moor money. I a bin here moor than an hoĂźr; whaur tha yeos an lams an âll tha tuthermy sheep be now I dwonâ know.â_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:â_Creeplin Philip_, (that is âcreeplin,â 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!âI da thenk I hired zummet or zumbody auver tha wâll.ââ
âHere, dân thee! Iâll gee tha tuther penny, an zummet besides!â exclaimed Farmer Tidball, leaping down the bank, with a stout sliver of a crab-tree in his hand.âThe sequel may be easily imagined.
Nanny Dubby, Sally Clink, Long Josias an Raway Pink, âGirnin 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.âI, IC, ICH, ICHE, UTCHY, ISE, Câ, CHâ, CHE, CHâAM, CHâUD, CHâLL.
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, câ, châ, cheâ, and their combinations in such words as châam, châud, châill, &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 châam, châud, and châill, they will be found equally consistent with our own common contractions of canât, wonât, heâll, youâll, &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 âbarbarous,â Mr. Horace Smith, the author of âWalter Colyton,â assures me that many of his friends call what he has introduced of the Somerset Dialect in Walter Colyton, âbarbarous.ââNow, 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 fatherâs 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, âIkkeâ for âich.â 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 poetâs works as a dissyllable.
Having discovered that utchy was the Anglo-Saxon iche, there was
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