The Folk-Speech of Cumberland by Alexander Craig Gibson, F.S.A

TO

WILLIAM DICKINSON,

OF NORTH MOSSES AND THORNCROFT,

F. L. S.,

Author of “A Glossary of Cumberland Words and Phrases,”
“Lamplugh Club,” “A Prize Essay on the Agriculture
of West Cumberland,” “The Botany of
Cumberland,” &c., &c., &c.,

THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED,

IN CORDIAL RECOGNITION OF THE PRE-EMINENT
INDUSTRY AND SKILL DISPLAYED IN HIS ELUCIDATIONS
OF THE HOMELY SPEECH
OF OUR NATIVE COUNTY, AND IN GRATEFUL
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT OF THE UNFAILING SYMPATHY
AND THE KINDLY HELP WITH WHICH HE
HAS BRIGHTENED A FRIENDSHIP
OF MANY YEARS.

One or two of the Cumberland stories included in this volume, as well as some of the pieces in rhyme, have already been circulated very largely in newspapers, pamphlets, and collections. Their reappearance, along with many hitherto unpublished additions, in this aggregated form, is due mainly to the popularity attained by them separately. Whether they may be as popular in this more pretentious guise as in their humbler, and perhaps, more appropriate form, remains to be tried.

I claim superiority over most of the earlier workers in the same philological ground in respect of the greater purity of my dialect. The Cumberland speech as written herein is pure Cumbrian, as the speech of the Scottish pieces, introduced for variety’s sake, is pure Scotch. Miss Blamire, Stagg, Anderson, Rayson, and others, have all written their dialect pieces, more or less, in the Scoto-Cumbrian which prevails along the southern side of the west Border. In other respects my inferiority to those deservedly popular writers is sufficiently evident. But, as expositions of the folk-speech of those parts of the County where, and where only, the unadulterated old Norse-rooted Cumbrian vernacular is spoken, I claim for these Tales and Rhymes the distinction of surpassing all similar productions, excepting only the dialect writings of my friend Mr. Dickinson, and perhaps the Borrowdale Letter of Isaac Ritson, and the Gwordie and Will of Charles Graham. I should not omit to state, however, that Mr. John Christian of London, and a writer who assumed the nom de plume of Jack Todd, have evinced in their contributions to the local press, a mastery over the dialect of Whitehaven and its vicinity which makes us wish that their pens had been more prolific.

For the illustrations I have attempted of the speech of High Furness and its Westmorland border, I ask no such distinction. The dialect there, as in the adjacent parts of Cumberland, is vitiated by an intermixture of that of the County Palatine, of which Furness forms a portion; and as it is spoken, so, if written at all, should it be written. These appear here for the reason already assigned for the introduction of the Rhymes given in the dialect of Dumfriesshire.

The work rests its claims to favourable consideration entirely on its value as a faithfully rendered contribution to the dialect literature of the country. No higher estimate is sought for it. The production of its various contents has been an occasional amusement indulged in during some of the intervals of leisure and repose afforded by pursuits of a more important, more engrossing, and it is hoped, a more useful character, with which, had it in any wise interfered, it had not been proceeded with. Its composition has been a relaxation, not a task; a divertisement, not an occupation; and had its success when published been deemed incompatible with these conditions, it had not appeared.

Bebington,
December 18th, 1868.

A het foorneun, when we war oa’ gaily thrang at heàm, an oald gentleman mak’ of a fellow com’ in tul ooar foald an’ said, whyte nateral, ’at he wantit somebody to gà wid him on’t fells. We oa’ stopt an’ teuk a gud leuk at him afoor anybody spak; at last fadder said, middlin’ sharp-like—(he ola’s speaks that way when we’re owte sa thrang, does fadder)—“We’ve summat else to deu here nor to gà rakin ower t’fells iv a fine day like this, wid nèabody kens whoa.” T’gentleman was a queerish like oald chap, wid a sharp leuk oot, grey hair and a smo’ feàce—drist i’ black, wid a white neckcloth like a parson, an’ a par of specks on t’top of a gay lang nwose at wasn’t set varra fair atween t’ e’en on him, sooa ’at when he leuk’t ebbem at yan through his specks he rayder turn’t his feàce to t’ya side. He leuk’t that way at fadder, gev a lal chèarful bit of a laugh an’ said, iv his oan mak’ o’ toke, ’at he dudn’t want to hinder wark, but he wad give anybody ’at ken’t t’fells weel, a matter o’ five shillin’ to gà wid him, an’ carry two lāl bags. “’Howay wid tha, Joe,” sez fadder to me, “it’s a croon mair nor iver thou was wūrth at heàm!” I meàd nèa words aboot it, but gat me-sel’ a gud lūmp of a stick, an’ away we set, t’oald lang nwos’t man an’ me, ebbem up t’ deàl.

As we war’ climmin’ t’fell breist, he geh me two empty bags to carry, meàd o’ ledder. Thinks I to me-sel’, “I’s gān to eddle me five shillin’ middlin’ cannily.” I niver thowte he wad finnd owte on t’ fells to full his lal bags wid, but I was misteàn!

He turn’t oot to be a far lisher oald chap nor a body wad ha’ thowte, to leuk at his gray hair and his white hankecher an’ his specks. He went lowpin owre wet spots an’ gūrt steàns, an’ scrafflin across craggs an’ screes, tul yan wad ha’ sworn he was sūmmat a kin tul a Herdwick tip.

Efter a while he begon leukin’ hard at oa’t steàns an’ craggs we com’ at, an’ than he teuk till breckan lūmps off them wid a queer lal hammer he hed wid him, an’ stuffin t’ bits intil t’ bags ’at he geh me to carry. He fairly cap’t me noo. I dudn’t ken what to mak o’ sec a customer as t’is! At last I cudn’t help axin him what meàd him cum sèa far up on t’fell to lait bits o’ steàns when he may’d finnd sèa many doon i’t deàls? He laugh’t a gay bit, an’ than went on knappin’ away wid his lal hammer, an’ said he was a jolly jist. Thinks I to me-sel’, thou’s a jolly jackass, but it maks nèa matter to me if thou no’but pays me t’ five shillin’ thou promish’t ma.

Varra weel, he keep’t on at this feckless wark tul gaily leàt at on i’t efter-neun, an’ be that time o’ day he’d pang’t beàth o’t ledder pwokes as full as they wad hod wid bits o’ steàn.

I’ve nit sèa offen hed a harder darrak efter t’ sheep, owther at clippin time or soavin time, as I hed followin’ that oald grey heidit chap an’ carryin’ his ledder bags. But hooiver, we gat back tul oor house afoor neeght. Mūdder gev t’ oald jolly jist, as he co’t his-sel’, some breid an’ milk, an’ efter he’d teàn that an’ toak’t a lal bit wid fadder aboot sheep farming an’ sec like, he pait ma me five shillin’ like a man, an’ than tel’t ma he wad gi’ ma ūdder five shillin’ if I wad bring his pwokes full o’ steàns doon to Skeàl-hill be nine o’clock i’t mwornin’.

He set off to woak to Skeàl-hill just as it was growin’ dark; an’ neist mwornin’, as seun as I’d gitten me poddish, I teuk t’ seàm rwoad wid his ledder bags ower me shoolder, thinkin’ tul me-sel’ ’at yan may’d mak a lal fortune oot o’ thūr jolly jists if a lock mair on them wad no’but come oor way.

It was anūdder het mwornin’, an’ I hedn’t woak’t far till I begon to think that I was as gūrt a feul as t’oald jolly jist to carry brocken steàns o’t’ way to Skeàl-hill, when I may’d finnd plenty iv any rwoad side, clwose to t’ spot I was tackin’ them tul. Sooa I shack’t them oot o’ t’ pwokes, an’ then stept on a gay bit leeter widout them.

When I com nār to Skeàl-hill, I fūnd oald Aberram Atchisson sittin on a steul breckan steàns to mend rwoads wid, an’ I ax’t him if I med full my ledder pwokes frae his heap. Aberram was varra kaim’t’ an’ tell’t ma to tak them ’at wasn’t brocken if I wantit steàns, sooa I tell’t him hoo it was an’ oa’ aboot it. T’ oald maizlin was like to toytle of his steul wid laughin’, an’ said me mūdder sud tak gud care on ma, for I was ower sharp a chap to leeve varra lang i’ this warld; but I’d better full my pwokes as I liked, an’ mak’ on wid them.

T’ jolly jist hed just gitten his breakfast when I gat to Skeàl-hill, an’ they teuk ma intil t’ parlour tul him. He gūrned oa’t feàce ower when I went in wid his bags, an’ tell’t me to set them doon in a neuk, an’ than ax’t ma if I wad hev some breakfast. I said I’d gitten me poddish, but I dudn’t mind; sooa he tell’t them to bring in some mair coffee, an’ eggs, an’ ham, an’ twoastit breid an’ stuff, an’ I gat sec a breakfast as I never seed i’ my time, while t’ oald gentleman was gittin’ his-sel’ rūddy to gang off in a carriage ’at was waitin’ at t’ dooar for him.

When he com doon stairs he geh me t’udder five shillin’ an’ pait for my breakfast an’ what he’d gitten his-sel’. Than he tell’t ma to put t’ ledder bags wid t’ steàns in them on beside t’ driver’s feet, an’ in he gat, an’ laugh’t an’ noddit, an’ away he went.

I niver owder seed nor heard mair of t’ oald jolly jist, but I’ve offen thowte ther mun be parlish few steàns i’ his country, when he was sooa pleas’t at gittin’ two lāl ledder bags full for ten shillin’, an’ sec a breakfast as that an’. It wad be a faymish job if fadder could sell o’ t’ steàns iv oor fell at five shillin’ a pwokeful—wadn’t it?

BEING

Another Supplement to “Joe and the Geologist.”1

BY JOE HIS-SEL’.

HAT Tommy Towman’s a meàst serious leear—an’, like o’ leears, he’s a desper’t feùl. By jing! if I hed a dog hoaf as daft I wad hang’t, that wad I! He gits doon aboot Cockerm’uth an’ Wūrki’ton, noo’s an’ than’s; an’ sūm gentlemen theear, they tak’ him inta t’ Globe or t’ Green Draggin, an’ jūst for nowte at o’ else but acoase they think he kens me, they feed him wid drink an’ they hod him i’ toak till he can hardly tell whedder end on him’s upbank; an’ than they dro’ him on to tell them o’ mak’s o’ teàls—o’ mak’s but true an’s—aboot me; an’ t’ pooar lāl gowk hesn’t gumption aneuf to see ’at they’re no’but makin’ ghem on him. But, loavin’ surs! if he’d hed t’ sense of a gūrse gā’n gezlin he wad niver ha’ browte oot sec a lafter o’ lees as he’s gitten yan o’ them Wūrki’ton gentlemen (yan ’at ken’s weel hoo to write doon oor heàmly toke) to put inta prent; an’ what mak’s yan madder nor o’ t’ rest,—to put them i’ prent jūst as if I’d tel’t them me-sel’. I’s nūt t’ chap to try to cum ower an oald jolly jist wid whinin’ oot “Fadder’s deid!” when ivery body kens ’at fadder’s whicker nor meàst on us. My sarty! he’s nin o’ t’ deein’ mak’ isn’t fadder. Wes’ hev to wūrry fadder when his time cūms, for he’ll niver dee of his-sel’ sa lang as ther’s any wark to hoond yan on tull. An’ I needn’t tell any body ’at knows me, ’at I was niver t’ chap to tak’ in owder a jolly jist or any udder feùl; an’ if I was, I’s nūt a likely fellow to be freeten’t for what I’d done. But ther’s m’appen sūm ’at doesn’t; an’ mebbee ther’s a lock ’at doesn’t know what a leear Tommy Towman is, an’ sooa, bee t’ way o’ settin’ me-sel’ reet wid beath maks, I’ll tell yé what dūd gā forret ’atween me an’ t’ jolly jist t’ seckint time he com tul Skeàl-hill.

I said afooar ’at I’d niver seen mair o’ t’ oald jolly jist, an’ when I said that, I hedn’t; but yā donky neet last summer fadder hed been doon Lorton way, an’ ’t was gaily leàt when he gat heàm. As he was sittin’ iv his oàn side o’ t’ fire, tryin’ to lowse t’ buttons of his spats, he says to me, “Joe,” says he, “I co’t at Skeàl-hill i’ my rwoad heàm.” Mudder was sittin’ knittin’ varra fast at hūr side o’ t’ hārth; she hedn’t oppen’t her mooth sen fadder co’ heàm,—nay, she hedn’t sa mūch as leuk’t at him efter t’ ya hard glowre ’at she gev him at t’ fūrst; but when he said he’d been at Skeàl-hill, she gev a grunt, an’ said, as if she spak till nèabody but hur-sel’, “Ey! a blinnd body med see that.” “I was speakin’ till Joe,” says fadder. “Joe,” says he, “I was at Skeàl-hill”—anudder grunt—“an’ they tel’t me ’at thy oald frind t’ jolly jist’s back ageàn—I think thu’d better slip doon an’ see if he wants to buy any mair brocken steàns; oald Aberram has a fine heap or two liggin aside Kirgat. An’, noo, ’at I’ve gitten them spats off, I’s away to my bed.” Mudder tok a partin’ shot at him as he stacker’t off. She said, “It wad be as weel for sūm on us if yé wad bide theear, if yé mean to carry on i’ t’ way ye’re shappin’!” Noo, this was hardly fair o’ mudder, for it’s no’but yance iv a way ’at fadder cū’s heàm leàt an’ stackery; but I wasn’t sworry to see him git a lāl snape, he’s sae rūddy wid his snapes his-sel’. I ken’t weel aneuf he was no’but mackin’ ghem o’ me aboot gittin’ mair brass oot o’t’ oald jolly jist, but I thowte to me-sel’, thinks I, I’ve deun many a dafter thing nor tak’ him at his wūrd, whedder he meen’t it or nūt, an’ sooa thowte, sooa deùn; for neist mwornin’ I woak’t me-sel’ off tull Skeàl-hill.

When I gat theear, an’ as’t if t’ jolly jist was sturrin’, they yan snùrtit an’ anudder gurn’t, till I gat rayder maddish; but at last yan o’ them skipjacks o’ fellows ’at ye see weearin’ a lāl jacket like a lass’s bedgoon, sed he wad see. He com back laughin’, an’ said, “Cūm this way, Joe.” Well, I follow’t him till he stopp’t at a room dooar, an’ he gev a lal knock, an’ than oppen’t it, an’ says, “Joe, sur,” says he. I wasn’t gā’n to stand that, ye know, an’ says I, “Joe, sur,” says I, “he’ll ken it’s Joe, sur,” says I, “as seùn as he sees t’ feàce o’ me;” says I, “an’ if thoo doesn’t git oot o’ that wid thy ‘Joe, sur,’” says I, “I’ll fetch the’ a clink under t’ lug ’at ’ll mak’ the’ laugh at t’ wrang side o’ that ugly mug o’ thine, thoo gūrnin yap, thoo!” Wid that he skipt oot o’t’ way gaily sharp, an’ I stept whietly into t’ room. Theear he was, sittin at a teàble writin—t’ grey hair, t’ specks, t’ lang nwose, t’ white hankecher, an’ t’ black cleàs, o’ just as if he’d niver owder doff’t his-sel’ or donn’t his-sel’ sen he went away. But afooar I cūd put oot my hand or say a civil wūrd tull him, he glentit up at mé throo his specks, iv his oan oald sideways fashion—but varra feùrce-like—an’ grūntit oot sum’at aboot wūnderin’ hoo I dār’t to shew my feàce theear. Well! this pot t’ cap on t’ top of o’. I’d chow’t ower what fadder said, an’ hoo he’d said it i’ my rwoad doon, till I fūnd me-sel’ gittin rayder mad aboot that. T’ way ’at they snurtit an’ laugh’t when I com to Skeàl-hill meàd me madder; an’ t’ bedgoon cwoatit fellow wid his “Joe, sur,” meàd me madder nor iver; but t’ oald jolly jist, ’at I thowte wad be sa fain to see mé agean, if t’ hed no’but been for t’ seàk of oor sprogue on t’ fells togidder—wùnderin’ ’at I dar’t show my feàce theear, fairly dreàv me rantin’ mad, an’ I düd mak a brūst.

“Show my feàce!” says I, “an’ what sùd I show than?” says I. “If it cūms to showin’ feàces, I’ve a better feàce to show nor iver belang’t to yan o’ your breed,” says I, “if t’ rest on them’s owte like t’ sample they’ve sent us; but if yé mūn know, I’s cūm’t of a stock ’at niver wad be freetn’t to show a feàce till a king, let aleàn an oald newdles wid a creùkt nwose, ’at co’s his-sel’ a jolly jist: an’ I defy t’ feàce o’ clay,” says I, “to say ’at any on us iver dūd owte we need shām on whoariver we show’t oor feàces. Dār’ to show my feàce, eh?” says I, “my song! but this is a bonnie welcome to give a fellow ’at’s cum’t sa far to see yé i’ seckan a mwornin!” I said a gay deal mair o’t’ seàm mak’, an’ o’t’ while I was sayin’ on’t—or, I sūd say, o’t’ while I was shootin’ on’t, for I dudn’t spar’ t’ noise—t’ oald divel laid his-sel’ back iv his girt chair, an’ keept twiddlin’ his thooms an’ glimin’ ūp at mé, wid a hoaf smūrk iv his feàce, as if he’d gitten sum’at funny afooar him. Efter a while I stopt, for I’d ron me-sel’ varra nār oot o’ winnd, an’ I begon rayder to think shām o’ shootin’ an’ bellerin’ sooa at an oald man, an’ him as whisht as a troot throo it o’; an’ when I’d poo’t in, he just said as whietly as iver, ’at I was a natteral cur’osity. I dùdn’t ken weel what this meen’t, but I thowte it was soace, an’ it hed like to set mé off ageàn, but I beàtt it doon as weel as I cūd, an’ I said, “Hev yé gitten owte ageān mé?” says I. “If yé hev, speak it oot like a man, an’ divn’t sit theear twiddlin yer silly oald thooms an’ coa’in fwoke oot o’ ther neàms i’ that rwoad!” Than it o’ com oot plain aneuf. O’ this illnater was just acoase I hedn’t brong him t’ steàns ’at he’d gedder’t on t’ fells that het day, an’ he said ’at changin’ on them was ayder a varra dūrty trick or a varra clumsy jwoke. “Trick!” says I. “Jwoke! dud yé say? It was rayder past a jwoke to expect me to carry a leàd o’ brocken steàns o’t’ way here, when ther’ was plenty at t’ spot. I’s nūt sec a feùl as ye’ve teàn me for.” He tok off his specks, an’ he glower’t at mé adoot them; an’ than he pot them on ageàn, an’ glower’t at mé wid them; an’ than he laugh’t an’ ax’t mé if I thowte ther’ cud be nèa difference i’ steàns. “Whey,” says I, “ye’ll hardly hev t’ feàce to tell me ’at ya bag o’ steàns isn’t as gud as anudder bag o’ steàns—an’ suerlye to man, ye’ll niver be sa consaitit as to say yé can break steàns better nor oald Aberram ’at breaks them for his breid, an’ breaks them o’ day lang, an’ ivery day?” Wid that he laugh’t agean an’ tel’t mé to sit doon, an’ than ax’t me what I thowte meàd him tak so mickle trùble laitin’ bits o’ stean on t’ fells if he cud git what he wantit at t’ rwoad side. “Well!” says I, “if I mun tell yé t’ truth, I thowte yé war rayder nick’t i’ t’ heid; but it meàd nea matter what I thowte sa lang as yé pait mé sa weel for gān wid yé.” As I said this, it com into my held ’at it’s better to flaitch a feùl nor to feight wid him; an’ efter o’, ’at ther’ may’d be sum’at i’t’ oald man likin steans of his oan breakin’ better nor ūdder fwoke’s. I remember’t t’ fiddle ’at Dan Fisher meàd, an’ thowte was t’ best fiddle ’at iver squeak’t, for o’ it meàd ivery body else badly to hear’t; an’ wad bray oald Ben Wales at his dancing scheùl boal acoase Ben wadn’t play t’ heàm meád fiddle asteed of his oan. We o’ think meàst o’ what we’ve hed a hand in oorsel’s—it’s no’but natteral; an’ sooa as o’ this ron throo my heid, I fūnd me-sel’ gitten rayder sworry for t’ oald man, an’ I says, “What wad yé gi’ me to git yé o’ yer oan bits o’ steàn back ageàn?” He cockt up his lugs at this, an’ ax’t mé if his speciments, as he co’t them, was seàf. “Ey,” says I, “they’re seàf aneùf; nèabody hereaboot ’ill think a lal lock o’ steans worth meddlin’ on, sa lang as they divn’t lig i’ the’r rwoad.” Wid that he jūmpt ūp an’ said I mud hev sum’at to drink. Thinks I to me-sel’, “Cūm! we’re gittin’ back to oor oan menseful way ageàn at t’ lang last, but I willn’t stūr a peg till I ken what I’s to hev for gittin him his rubbish back, I wad niver hear t’ last on’t if I went heàm em’ty handit.” He meád it o’ reet hooiver, as I was tackin’ my drink; an’ he went up t’ stair an’ brong doon t’ ledder bags I kent sa weel, an’ geh mé them to carry just as if nowte hed happen’t, an’ off we startit varra like as we dūd afooar.

T’ Skeàl-hill fwoke o’ gedder’t aboo’t dooar to leùk efter us, as if we’d been a show. We, nowder on us, mindit for that, hooiver, but stump’t away togidder as thick as inkle weavers till we gat till t’ feùt of oor girt meedow, whoar t’ steans was liggin, aside o’ t’ steel, just as I’d teem’t them oot o’t’ bags, only rayder grown ower wid gūrse. As I pick’t them up, yan by yan, and handit them to t’ oald jolly jist, it dūd my heart gūd to see hoo pleas’t he leùkt, as he wipet them on his cwoat cūff, an’ wettit them, an’ glower’t at them throo his specks as if they wer’ sum’at gud to eat, an’ he was varra hungry—an’ pack’t them away into t’ bags till they wer’ beàth chock full ageàn.

Well! t’ bargin was, ’at I sud carry them to Skeàl-hill. Sooa back we pot—t’ jolly jist watchin’ his bags o’t’ way as if t’ steans was guineas, an’ I was a thief. When we gat theear, he meàd me’ tak’ them reet into t’ parlour; an’ t’ fūrst thing he dūd was to co’ for sum reed wax an’ a leet, an’ clap a greet splatch of a seal on t’ top of ayder bag; an’ than he leūkt at me, an’ gev a lal grunt of a laugh, an’ a smartish wag of his heid, as much as to say, “Dee it agean, if thoo can, Joe!” But efter that he says, “Here, Joe,” says he, “here five shillin’ for restworin’ my speciments, an’ here anudder five shillin’ for showin’ mé a speciment of human natur’ ’at I didn’t believe in till to-day.” Wid that, we shak’t hands an’ we partit; an’ I went heàm as pleas’t as a dog wi’ two tails, jinglin’ my mūnny an’ finndin’ sūm way as if I was hoaf a jolly jist me-sel’—an’ whoa kens but I was? For when I gat theear, I says to fadder, “Fadder,” says I, “leùk yé here! If o’ yer jibes turn’t to sec as this, I divn’t mind if ye jibe on till yé’ve jibed yer-sel’ intul a tip’s whorn;” says I, “but I reckon yé niver jibed to sec an’ end for yer-sel’ as ye’ve jibed for me this time!”

HE was ola’s a top marketer was ooar Betty, she niver miss’t gittin’ t’ best price gā’n beàth for butter an’ eggs; an’ she ken’t hoo to bring t’ ho’pennies heàm! Nūt like t’ meàst o’ fellows’ wives ’at thinks there’s nèa hūrt i’ warin’ t’ odd brass iv a pictur’ beuk or gūd stūff for t’ barnes or m’appen sūm’at whyte as needless for ther’sels,—Betty ola’s brong t’ ho’pennies heàm.

Cockerm’uth’s ooar reg’lar market—it’s a gay bit t’ bainer—but at t’ time o’ year when Kes’ick’s full o’ quality ther’s better prices to be gitten theear; an’ sooa o’ through t’ harvest time, an’ leater on, she ola’s went to Kes’ick. Last back-end, hooiver, Betty was fashed sadly wid t’ rheumatics iv her back, an’ yā week she cūd hardly git aboot at o’, let alean gā to t’ market. For a while she wadn’t mak’ ūp her mind whedder to send me iv her spot, or ooar eldest dowter, Faith; but as Faith was hardly fowerteen—stiddy aneuf of her yeàge, but rayder yūng,—Betty thowte she’d better keep Faith at heàm an’ let me tak’ t’ marketin’ to Kes’ick.

Of t’ Setterda’ mwornin’, when it com’, she hed us o’ ūp an’ stūrrin, seùner nor sūm on us liket; an’ when I’d gitten sūm’at to eat, iv a hūgger mūgger mak’ of a way, says Betty till me, says she—“Here’s six an’ twenty pūnd o’ butter,” says she. “If thoo was gud for owte thoo wad git a shilling a pūnd for’t, ivery slake. Here’s five dozen of eggs,” says she, “I wadn’t give a skell o’ them mair nor ten for sixpence,” says she, “but thoo mun git what thoo can,” says she, “efter thu’s fūnd oot what ūdder fwoke’s axin. When thu’s meàd thy market,” says Betty, “thu’ll gā to t’ draper’s an’ git me a yard o’ check for a brat, a knot o’ tape for strings tūl’t, an’ a hank o’ threed to sowe’t wid—if I’s gud for nowte else, I can sowe yit,” says she, wid a gurn; “than thoo mūn git hoaf a pūnd o’ tea an’ a quarter of a steàn o’ sugger—they ken my price at Crosstet’s—an’ hoaf a steàn o’ soat, an’ a pūnd o’ seàp, an’ hoaf a pūnd o’ starch, an’ a penn’orth o’ steàn-blue, an’ git me a bottle o’ that stùff to rūb my back wid; an’ than thoo ma’ git two oonces o’ ’bacca for thysel’.

If thoo leùks hoaf as sharp as thoo sūd leùk thu’ll be through wid beàth thy marketin’ an’ thy shoppin’ by twelve o’clock; an’ thoo ma’ gā an’ git a bit o’ dinner, like ūdder fwoke, at Mistress Boo’s, an’ a pint o’ yall. Efter that t’ seùner thoo starts for heàm an’ t’ better. Noo thu’ll mind an’ forgit nowte? Ther’ t’ check, an’ t’ tape, an’ t’ threed, that’s three things—t’ tea, an’ t’ sugger, an’ t’ soat, an’ t’ seàp, an’ t’ starch, an’ t’ steàn-blue, an’ t’ rūbbin’ stūff, an’ t’ ’bacca—I’s up-ho’d the’ nūt to forgit that!—elebben. Ten things for me, an’ yan for thysel’! I think I’ve meàd o’ plain aneùf; an’ noo, if thoo misses owte I’ll say thoo’s a bigger clot-heid nor I’ve teàn the’ for—an’ that ’ill be sayin’ nèa lal!”

Many a fellow wad tak t’ ’frunts if his wife spak till him i’ that way—but bliss yè I leev’t lang aneùf wid Betty to know ’at it’s no’but a way she hes o’ shewin’ her likin’. When she wants to be t’ kindest an’ best to yan, yan’s ola’s suer to git t’ warst wūrd iv her belly.

Well, I set off i’ gŭd fettle for Kes’ick, gat theear i’ gradely time, an’ pot ūp at Mistress Boo’s. I hed a sharpish market, an’ seùn gat shot o’ my būtter an’ eggs at better prices nor Betty toak’t on. I bowte o’ t’ things at she wantit, an’ t’ ’bacca for mysel’, an’ gat a gud dinner at Mistress Boo’s, an’ a pint o’ yall an’ a crack.

He wad be a cliverish fellow ’at went ta Kes’ick an’ gat oot on’t adoot rain; an’ suer aneùf, by t’ time ’at I’d finished my pint an’ my crack, it was cūmmin’ doon as it knows hoo to cūm doon at Kes’ick.

But when it rains theear, they hev to deù as they deù ūnder Skiddaw, let it fo’! an’ wet or dry, I hed to git heàm tūll Betty.

When I was aboot startin’, I begon to think ther’ was sum’at mair to tak wid me. I coontit t’ things ower i’ my basket hoaf a dozen times. Theear they o’ warr—ten for Betty, yan for me! Than what the dang-ment was’t I was forgittin? I was suer it was sūm’at, but for t’ heart on me I cūdn’t think what it med be. Efter considerin’ for a lang time, an’ gittin’ anūdder pint to help mé to consider, I set off i’ t’ rain wid my basket an’ t’ things in’t, anonder my top-sark to keep o’ dry.

Bee t’ time I gat to Portinskeàl, I’d begon to tire! T’ wedder was slattery, t’ rwoads was slashy, t’ basket was heavy, an’ t’ top sark meàd me het; but t’ thowtes o’ hevin’ forgitten sūm’at tew’t mè t’ warst of o’. I rūstit theear a bit—gat anudder pint, an’ coontit my things ower and ower, “Ten for Betty!—yan for my-sel.” I cūd mak nowder mair nor less on them. Cockswūnters!—what hed I forgitten? Or what was’t ’at meàd mè suer I’d forgitten sūm’at when I’d o’ t’ things wid mè?

I teuk t’ rwoad agean mair nor hoaf crazy.

I stop’t ūnder a tree aside Springbank, an’ Dr.—— com’ ridin’ up through t’ rain, on his black galloway. “Why, Robert,” says he, “ye look as if ye’d lost something.” “Nay, doctor,” says I, “here t’ check an’ t’ tape an’ t’ threed—I’ lost nowte—that’s three. Here t’ soat, an’ t’ seàp, an’ t’ starch, an’ t’ steàn-blue—that’s sebben—I’ lost nowte, but I’ forgitten sum’at. Here t’ tea, an’ t’ sugger, an’ t’ rūbbin’ bottle—that’s ten; an’ here t’ ’bacca—that’s elebben.—Ten for Betty, an’ yan for me! Ten for Betty, an’ yan for me!! Doctor, doctor,” says I, “fwoke say ye ken oa things—what hev I forgitten?” “I’ll tell ye what ye haven’t forgotten,” says he, “ye haven’t forgotten the ale at Keswick. Get home, Robert, get home,” says he, “and go to bed and sleep it off.” I believe he thowte I was drūnk; but I wasn’t—I was no’but maizelt wid tryin’ to finnd oot what I’d forgitten.

As I com nār to t’ Swan wid two Necks I fell in wid greet Gweordie Howe, and says I, “Gweordie, my lad,” says I, “I’s straddelt,” says I, “I’s fairly maiz’t,” says I. “I left sūm’at ahint me at Kes’ick, an’ I’ve thowte aboot it till my heid’s gā’n like a job-jūrnal,” says I, “an’ what it is I cannot tell.” “Can t’e nūt?” says Gweordie. “Can t’e nūt? Whey, than, cūm in an’ see if a pint o’ yall ’ll help thé’.” Well, I steud pints, an’ Gweordie steud pints, an’ I steud pints ageàn. Anūdder time I wad ha’ been thinkin’ aboot what Betty wad say till o’ this pintin’, but I was gittin’ despert aboot what I’d forgitten at Kes’ick, an’ I cūd think o’ nowte else.

T’ yall was gud aneùf, but it dùdn’t kest a morsel o’ leet on what was bodderin’ on ma sa sair, an’ I teuk t’ rwoad ageàn finndin’ as if I was farder off’t nor iver.

T’ rain keep’t cūmmin’ doon—t’ rwoad gat softer an’ softer—t’ basket gat heavier an’ heavier—t’ top sark hetter an’ hetter, an’ my heid queerer an’ queerer. If I stopt anonder ya tree i’ t’ wūd, I stopt anonder twenty, an’ coontit ower t’ things i’ t’ basket till they begon to shap’ theirsels intil o’ mak’s o’ barnish sangs i’ my heid, and I fūnd mysel’ creunin’ away at sec bits of rhymes as thūrr—

“Lord preserve oor wits—sec as they ūrr,” says I. “I mūn be gā’n wrang i’ my heid when I’ve teàn till mackin’ sangs!” But t’ queerest break was ’at I dūddn’t mak’ them—they meàd thersel’s—an’ they meàd me sing them an’ o’, whedder I wad or nūt—an’ off I went ageàn till a different teùn—

“Well! It hes cūm’t till whoa wad hae thowte it,” says I, “if I cannot stop mysel’ frae mackin’ sangs an’ singin’ them of a wet day i’ Widdup Wūd; I’ll coont t’ things ower ageàn,” says I, “an’ see if that’ll stop ma.” Ye ma’ believe ma or nūt, as ye like, but iv anūdder tick-tack there was I coontin’ t’ things ower iv a sang:—

“Weel, weel,” says I, “If I is oot o’ my senses—I IS oot o’ my senses, an’ that’s oa’ aboot it,—but

Sang or nèa sang, t’ thowtes o’ hevin’ “hūr to feàce,” an’ that gaily seùn, rayder brong me to my oan oald sel’ ageàn. I set off yance mair, an’ this time, I dūdn’t stop while I gat fairly into t’ foald. Faith seed me cūmmin’, an’ met me oot side o’ t’ hoose dooar, an’ says Faith, “Whoar t’ meear an’ t’ car, fadder?” I dropp’t my basket, an’ I geàp’t at her! Lal Jacop com runnin oot, an’ says Jacop, “Fadder, whoar t’ meear an’ t’ car?” I swattit mysel’ doon on t’ stean binch, an’ I glower’t at them—furst at yan an’ than at t’ tudder on them. Betty com limpin’ by t’ God-speed, an’ says Betty, “What hes t’e meàd o’ t’ car an’ t’ meear, thoo maizlin?” I gat my speech ageàn when Betty spak’, an’, hoaf crazet an’ hoaf cryin’, I shootit oot, “’Od’s wūns an’ deeth, that’s what I’s forgitten!” That was what I said. What Betty said I think I willn’t tell yè.”

T was a fine job for Wilfrid Wankelthet ’at his fadder was bworn afooar him. If he’d cùm’t into t’ warld pooar, he wad ha’ bidden pooar, an’ geàn pooarer an’ pooarer still, till he’d finish’t on t’ parish.

He was yan o’ t’ hafe-rock’t mack, was Wiffy, varra lāl in him but what was putten in wid a speùn, an’ that hed run a gay deal mair to body nor brains.

For o’ that he wasn’t a bad fellow, an’ he wasn’t badly thowte on. Many a body said ’at Wise Wiff, if he hedn’t mūch in him, t’ lāl he hed in him wasn’t of a bad pattren; an’ es for his manishment, if he’d nò’but stuck till his fadder’ advice, he needn’t ha’ gitten sa varra far wrang.

T’ way he gat his fadder’ advice was this. When t’ oald man fund ’at he was gà’n whoar he cūdn’t carry his land an’ his morgidges, an’ his mūnney, an’ his moiderment alang wid him—whoar they wadn’t dee him mickle gūd if he cūd—he sent for Jobby Jinkison, o’ Jūrtinsyke, a smo’ farmer of his ’at hed deùn a gūd deal o’ bisness for him at fairs, an’ markets, an’ seàles, an’ sec like, efter he’d growne ower frail to git fray heàm his-sel; an’, says he, “Jobby, I’s leavin’t o’,” he says, “I’ve meàd a fair scraffle, Jobby,” says he, “an’ I’ve gedder’t a gay bit togidder, but I can’t tack it wid me, Jobby, an’ I’s wantin to speak till thé’ aboot that pooar lad o’ mine, ’at it o’ hes to cūm till. Nèabody kens better nor thee what he’s shwort on—nèabody kens so weel hoo I’ve triet to git a bit o’ edication drūven intūl him, an’ hoo lāl we’ve meàd on’t. Ya scheùlmaister said he was shwort o’ apprehension; anūdder, ’at he wantit ability; an’ a thūrd, ’at he hed nèa capacity. If thúr hed been things ’at mūnny wad ha’ bowte, he sūd hed them o’, but they warn’t. What God’s left oot we cannot o’ put in, thoo knows, an’ we mūn sūbmit—we mūn sūbmit, Jobby,” says he, “an’ mack t’ best o’ things as they ūrr. But I cūd súbmit better—I cūd dee easier if thoo wad promish to leùk efter things for him when I’s geàn. I divn’t want him to be idle o’ togidder, an’ sooa I wad wish him to keep t’ Booin-leys iv his oan hand—it’ll give him sūm’at to think aboot, an’ mack fwoke leùk up till him mair nor if he was deùin nowte at o’; an’ I fancy ’at if thoo wad agree to deù o’ his buyin an’ sellin for him, an’ seàv him fray bein teán in an’ laugh’t at, I cūd be happier noo. Wil’tè?” Jobby wasn’t a man o’ many wūrds, but he said “I will, maister! I’ll dee o’ for him t’ seám as if ye wer heear to worder it yersel’ an’ see it deùn. Wid t’ farms o’ weel set—wid t’ Booin-leys liggin i’ girse, an’ wid me to leùk efter his barg’ins, I wad like to see t’ fellow ’at wad laugh at ooar Wiff.” “I believe the’, Jobby—I believe the’, my lad,” says t’ deein man, “I leùk’t for nēa less at thy hand. Fetch him in here, an’ I’ll tell him afooar the’ what I wis him to deù when I’s geàn. Wiffy, my lad,” says he, as his son com in, leùken, as he thowte, mair sackless nor iver. “Wiffy, my pooar lad, thy oald fadder’s gā’n to leave thee. Whey, whey, gūd lad! it’s reet aneùf thoo sūd be sworry to lwoase sec a fadder, but divn’t gowl i’ that way,” for Wiff hed brassen oot wid a meàst terrable rooar. “I say I hev to leave thee, an’ that afooar lang. Hod thy noise, thoo bellerin coaf, an’ hear what I’ve to say,” says t’ fadder, as he got oot o’ patience at Wiff’s gowlin, an’ went back tūll his oald hard way o’ speakin til him. “Stop thy beelin, I say, an’ lissen to me. I’ve hed Jobby here browte ower, ebben o’ pûrpose, to mack him promish ’at he’ll leùk efter thee when I’s away. Hod t’ noise on the’, wil’té! I’s leavin the’ weel providit for, an’ o’ t’ land mūn be let but t’ Booin-leys; thoo mūn keep them i’ thy oan hand—thūrty yacre o’ gûd grūnd. Ey,” says he, hoaf till hissel, “t’ best land ’at iver laid oot o’ dooars. Whativer way ye gang fray’t ye warsen! Thoo’ll hod them i’ thy oan hand, for t’ seàk o’ hevin sūm’at to deù. Thoo’ll hev to leùk efter t’ fences, an’ t’ yatts, an’ t’ water-coorses. Keep them i’ order; an’ keep t’ plew oot o’ t’ land; it ’ill give t’ meàst liggin t’ green side ūp. Jobby ’ill deù thy tradin’ for the’. Dūnnot thee mell wid buyin or sellin. Leave o’ that to Jobby, an’ pay him whativer he charges for his trūble. He’ll deù what’s reet, will Jobby. An’ noo I’s aboot deùn. Gi’ me yer hands, beàth on yé, an’ say ye’ll deù what I tell yè. Wilfrid! thoo’ll be advised by Jobby. Jobby! thoo’ll be true frind to my pooar lad, as if I was theear to see. Promish!”

This was a langish noration for a body wid t’ breath leavin him, an’ when it was done he laid back on his pilliver, an’ leùk’t at them varra wistful-like, till they promish’t, an’ it was a bit afooar they cūd, for by this time they war beáth on them yewlin, t’ yan ower t’ ùdder, whedder to yewl t’ hardest.

When t’ oald man was bury’t oot o’ geàt, Wilfrid an’ Jobby wūrk’t away togidder varra cannily. Job bowte stock for t’ Booin-leys, an’ selt them as they fatten’t off, an’ enter’t o’ iv a big beùk ’at Wiff niver so mūch as leùk’t atween t’ backs on. He’d his fadder’s last wūrds for Jobby deein what was reet, an’ they war aneùf.

Nowte com to put owder on them oot of his way, till Wiff gat a wife—or mebbe I wad be narder t’ truth if I said, a wife gat Wiff—for when ivery body seed ’at he went on i’ sec a stiddy soort of a way—gittin heavy incomins i’ rent, an’ interest, an’ shares, an’ néabody kent what; an’ makin varra leet ootgangins, it was plain aneùf ’at he wad seùn be yan o’ t’ yablest men i’ thur parts, an’ t’ lasses begon to cock ther caps at him of o’ sides—’specially them ’at thowte a man isn’t wūrth hevin if he hesn’t gitten a bit o’ t’ feàce o’ t’ yūrth; an’ efter a while yan o’ that mack fassen’t Wiffy.

She meàd him a fairish wife, as wives gang, an’ if she’d no’but been wise aneùf ta tack him as he was, an’ let things gā on as they hed deùn, o’ wad been weel; but she cūdn’t bide t’ thowtes of oanin’, owder till hersel or ūdder fwoke, ’at she’d weddit a Tommy Moakison for t’ seàk of his brass; an’ sooa she keept eggin him on to dee his oan tūrns, an’ let fwoke see ’at he wasn’t sec a natteral as he was co’t. It was this whim-wham o’ t’ wife’s ’at gat him t’ nick-neām of Wise Wiff, an’ it com tūl him i’ this geàt. Amang t’ stock ga’n on t’ Booin-leys ya year there happen’t to be hoaf a scwore of as bonnie Galloway Scots as iver hed yār o’ t’ ootside on them. Jobby hed bowte them i’ t’ spring o’ t’ year at a gūddish price, acoase he seed ther was mūnny to be gitten oot on them efter a sūmmer’s rūn iv a gūd pastur’. Jūst as they war rūddy for a cūstomer, an’ Wiff was thinkin o’ gā’n doon to Jobby to toke aboot sellin on them, t’ wife says, “Ther’s a butcher cūmmin fray Cockerm’uth to-day aboot buyin them Scots.” “Whey than,” says Wilfrid, “I’s just step doon to Jobby, an’ tell him to cūm up an’ meet t’ butcher.” “Thoo’ll dee nowte o’ t’ mack,” says t’ mistress, “Thoo’ll set to wark, as a gentleman sūd dee, an’ let Jobby Jinkison, an’ ivery body else, see ’at thoo wants néabody to cūm atween thee an’ thy oan bisness.” “Well, but,” says Wiff, “I promish’t fadder on his deith-bed ’at Jobby sūd dee o’ t’ buyin’ an’ sellin.” “Niver thee mind that,” says she, “fadder willn’t cūm back to claim thee promish, an’ if he dūd, I wad tell him ’at if a promish isn’t reet it’s wrang to keep it. Thoo’ll dee as I tell thee.” “Well, but,” says pooar Wiffy ageàn, “fadder meàd me varra nār sweear tul’t.” “Shaff o’ thee fadder!” says she, “What sense is ther i’ flingin a deid fadder iv a leevin wife’s feàce i’ this ugly fashin. Does t’e know what t’ scriptur’ says aboot it?—’at a man mūn leave his fadder and mudder, an’ stick till his wife! I say ageàn, sell thee oan gūds thee oan sel’, an’ mack t’ best thoo can on them.” “But hoo’s I to ken what price to ex?” says he. “Whey,” says she, “cannot thoo leuk into t’ beuk ’at Jobby writes o’ doon in, an’ finnd t’ price he pait for them? That ’ill be a guide for the’. But I wad rayder loase a pūnd or two, if I was thee, nor be meàd a barne on any lang-er.” Like many a cliverer fellow, pooar Wiff fūnd ther was nowte for’t but lettin his wife hev her way; an’ when t’ butcher com, he went reet ower wid him to t’ fields whoar t’ bullocks was gā’n, an’ sel’t them tūll him oot o’ hand.

Iv his rwoad heàm he went roond by Jūrtinsyke to tell Jobby of his mwornin’s wark. Jobby leuk’t rayder strūcken iv a heap when he hārd it; but efter considerin a lāl bit, he said, “Weel, maister,” (he oalas spack respectful-like to pooar Wilfrid, dūd Jobby hissel, an’ he wadn’t let any body else dee udder ways when he was theear.) “Weel, maister,” says Jobby, “I willn’t oalas be here to mannish for yé, an’ yé may as weel begin noo as efter I’s geàn to try yer fist at tradin. But what gat yé for t’ Scots?” “I dūd bravely, lad,” says Wiff, “I dūd bravely. I gat nine pūnd ten a heid for them.” “Nine pūnd ten!” Jobby shootit, “Whey, that’s what I geh for them, mair nor five mūnth sen!” “I ken that,” says Wiff, “I teùk a peep into t’ girt beùk, an’ fūnd theear what thu’d gi’én for them.” “An yé jūst gat what they cost i’ t’ spring?” says Jobby. “I think if yé carry on a trade like that owte sa lang, yé’ll be mackin’ t’ oald maister’s mūnny bags leùk gaily wankle.” “Mūnny bags,” says Wiff, “What’s t’ use o’ toakin aboot mūnny bags? T’ mūnny bags is seàf aneùf sa lang as I git as mūch for beasts as I gi’ for them. I think I’ve meàd a varra fair trade, whativer thoo may think.” “Aih dear! aih dear!” says Job, “it wad mack t’ oald maister git up oot o’ his grave, if he cūd hear this. Whoar’s t’ rent o’ t’ land to cūm fray wid yer fair trade?” “T’ rent o’ t’ land, thoo oald neudles,” says Wiff, “t’ rent o’ what land? T’ land’s my oan!”

Sooa Mistress Wanklethet fūnd ’at her fadder-in-lo’, kent his sūn better nor she dūd her man; an’ o’ ’at com of her middlin was to git her husband a nickneàm an’ mack him a by-wūrd; for iver sen, when any body theear aboots macks a queerish bargin, somebody else is suer to say, “T’ land’s my oan, says Wise Wiff!”

This phrase is proverbial in central Cumberland, and is generally used in a negative sense; thus, of a person whose character for upright conduct will not bear the full light of day, it is said, “He’s nūt t’ clean Ned o’ Kes’ick.”

NOTE.

The late Benjamin Wells was, for about half a century, the best known and most popular of all the dancing-masters who have plied their vocation amongst the country people of West Cumberland; and, as a teacher of the old-fashioned style of dancing, in which vigour, activity, and precision are, rather than gracefulness, the main desiderata, he has never been surpassed. As a violin player his performance was remarkably correct, distinct, and strongly marked as to time—in fact, the best possible fiddling to dance to. The last time I met with him was about twenty years ago, in the bar-parlour of an inn in the southern part of the Lake district, which was somewhat out of his ordinary beat, and where the strains of his fiddle, produced at my request, caused such excitement that a general and very uproarious dance (of males only) set in, and was kept up with such energy that, the space being confined, the furniture was seriously damaged, and Ben was at last ejected by the landlady as the readiest, indeed the only method of putting a stop to the riot. He was light, muscular, and springy, and, in his earlier years, wonderfully swift of foot, so much so that the late Dr. Johnstone, of Cockermouth, told me that he once (at Scale Hill) saw him, without any assistance, run down and capture a wild rabbit—a proof of activity rarely paralleled. Poor old Ben! It will be long ere his erect, compact little figure, his bright, cheery expression, his sprightly address, and his quick firm step are altogether forgotten in the western dales and seaward parishes of Cumberland. Requiescat!

  yer jornas ooer Wa’na Scar to Seeathet ye’ll offen aneeuf ha nooatish’t a lot o’ round heeaps o’ steeans strinklet heear an’ theear ooer t’ feeace o’ Bannasyde mooer: an’ if ye leuk inta them fine maps ’at t’ gūverment’s putten owt ye’ll see ’at t’ pleeace ’at’s meeant for Bannasyde has cairns, cairns, cairns dottit o’ ooer ’t. They wor sharp fellows wor t’ surveyors ’at went ooer t’ grund ùt meeak thor maps. Yā lot o’ them com’ efter anudder for iver so many years, sūm wi’ reed cooats an’ sūm wi’out; an’ they teeuk for iver o’ pains wi’ the’r wark. Why, when t’ doctor gat a lile lūmp off àld Geoordie Flimming’ field ùt meeak his-sel’ a bit of a gardin, efter they’d survey’t an’ mizzer’t it, they went o’ ooer t’ grūnd a-fresh, just ùt put it in; an’ theear it is i’ t’ maps, as plain as t’ field its-sel’.

Bit about thor cairns. I mun tell yé ’at when I furst hard o’ them, I cùdn’t meeak end nor side o’ what they cud be, an’ I went tull Rodger Forness ut ex about them. Rodger kna’s meear about sike things nor a deeal o’ fooak; sooa I went tull him, an’ he telt mé ’at cairns was heeaps o’ lilely steeans ’at hed been rais’t ooer t’ graves o’ girt men lang sen, afooer ther was any kirk-garths ut bury t’em in—’at Dunmal Raise is t’ biggest cairn i’ t’ country, an’ ’at it was pilet up ooer a king ’at was kil’t theear. Rodger an’ me hed a gūd laugh togidder ooer t’ Bannasyde cairns, for we beeath kna’t gaily weel how they com to be theear, but we said t’ yan til’t’ tudder, “Let’s hear, an’ see, an’ say nowte.”

Bit howiver, when them ’cute ordnance chaps, as they co’t thersel’s, was teean in wi’ thor heeaps, it’s lile wūnder ’at a gentleman ’at leev’t here—yan Mr. Rowlins, sud ha’ meead his-sel’ cock suer ’at they wor nowder meear nor less nor sooa many lile Dunmal Raises, an’ thowte he wod like ut see what they hed in belā’ t’em; an’ as it wodn’t be like a gentleman ut keep o’ t’ fun till his-sel’, he ex’t a lot of udder gentlemen, frinds o’ his, mainly what parsons, fray about Ooston, ut come an’ see t’ cairns oppen’t, an’ t’ grūnd under t’em groven up, ut finnd out what they cūver’t.

Well! they o’ torn’t up true to t’ day. Ald Billy Bamthet, Tommy Thackra, an’ yan or two meear Cunniston chaps hed been hired ut due t’ wark, an’ away they o’ went, out on Bannasyde, an’ at it they set.

O’ t’ fun ’at they gat, howiver, was a bit of a laugh noos an’ thans at āld Bamthet. He was a queer āld dog was Bamthet, an’ he keep’t exin’ on them o’ manner o’ questions about what they wor laitin on. At ya time he wod say till a parson varra seriously “Irr yé expectin’ ut finnd a Bishop?” at anudder he wod ex t’em if they thowte Moses was buriet theear. Bit nowte’s nowte, whativer may be laitit for! an’ suer aneuf ther’ was nowte ut be fūnd under t’ heeaps o’ steeans.

It was a cāld, sleety, slattery sooart of a day o’ through, but they steeak tull the’r wark like Britons, tull it was turnin’ sooa dark ’at āld Bamthet says “Irr we ut hod at it any lang-er, Mr. Rowlins? Tommy Thackra’s gittin’ terrable teer’t, an’ it’s growan sooa dark ’at we’ll seeùn nit be yable ut say whedder what we may finnd be t’ beeans of a bishop or t’ beeans of a billy-gooat, wi’out ther’s some amang ye ’at knā’s beeans by greeapin’ at ’em.”

Well, they o’ thowte they mud give it up for a bad job. They’d torn’t ooer meear nor a scooer o’ t’ steean heeaps, an’ they hedn’t fūnd sa mich as t’ shin beean of a cracket ut egg ’em on any farder. Sooa Mr. Rowlins tel’t his men ut gidder up the’r hacks an’ the’r speeads an’ things, an’ git away heeam.

As they wor o’ trailin away varra slā’ an’ varra whishtly, down Willy Garnett girt intak’, āld Bamthet sidelt up till amang t’ gentlemen, an’ says, “Now, Mr. Rowlins,” says he, “just tell us what ye thowte was to be fūnd i’ t’ clearin’s o’ t’ Bracken-beds.” “What do you call clearin’s of Bracken-beds, William?” Mr. Rowlins ex’t. “Why! dunnot yè knā,” says Bamthet, “dunnot yè knā ’at t’ farmers mā’s t’ brackens i’ t’ back-end, ut bed the’r beeas’s wi’?” “Of course I know that,” says Mr. Rowlins, “but what has mowing brackens to do with these cairns?” “Due wi’ them?” says t’ tudder, “why, ivery thing ut due wi’ them! How d’yè think the’r leys wad cūm on if t’ cobble steeans wor left liggin howe-strowe amang t’ brackens when they com ut mā’ t’em? They gidder ’em off, to be suer, an’ pile ’em up into t’ heeaps ’at we’ve been wrowkin’ amang o’ t’ day, an’ yee co’ cairns. I reckon cairns is t’ genteel wūrd for t’ clearin’s o’ t’ bracken-beds, bit I niver heer’t ’em co’t cairns afooer, an’ I’ll niver co’ t’em cairns ageean—t’ āld neeam’s reet aneeuf for fellows like me!”

Well, when they heer’t t’is, t’ parsons leeuk’t at t’ gentlemen, an’ t’ gentlemen leeuk’t at t’ parsons, an’ than they leeuk’t t’ yan at t’ tudder o’ round as they steeud, an’ than they brast out wi’ a laugh loud aneeuf ut raise o’ t’ ravens on t’ Bell Crag an’ o’ t’ gleads i’ Buckbarrow. Efter they’d whyeten’t down a bit, Mr. Rowlins says, “Well but, William, why didn’t you tell us this before?” “Nay, nay,” says t’ āld thief, “I wosn’t gā’n ut spoil yer day’s spooart i’ that fashi’n, when ye’d browte yer frinds sa far ut see’t. That wodn’t ha’ been manners!” An’ away down t’ intak’ he went sneeakin an’ sniggerin till Tommy Thackra an’ t’ rist o’ them. But Tommy an’ t’ rist o’ them didn’t snigger back ageean. They o’ growl’t at him, an’ yan o’ them said, “It’s an āld tūrkey! What for cudn’t it hod t’āld tūng on’t till we’d gitten anudder gud day’s weeage or two, an’ plenty ut itt an’ drink wi’t, out o’ t’ clearin’s o’ t’ bracken-beds? T’er’s anew o’ t’em left too ha’ keep’t us gā’n for a week!”

TILL harping upon married life, I wish to draw your attention to one of the finest passages in Wordsworth’s greatest poem—The Excursion, which abounds in fine passages. In that I refer to, the poet gives a very charming account of the daily life of a humble couple in Little Langdale, on whose hospitality he describes himself, or his hero, as being thrown, when benighted and lost in that narrow vale, where, as I have found occasionally, the closely encircling belt of high mountains makes a dark night very black indeed. The poet says—

Climbing the heights, however, he finds that the light proceeds from a lantern, held out by a woman to guide her husband homewards from the distant slate quarry. The poet proceeds to tell of his hospitable reception, the husband’s arrival, and the unusual beauty of the good-man’s face, adding—

Thus much for Jonathan Yewdale. His wife, Betty, is made to speak for herself—but to speak in language very different from that she really used, as may be seen in a still more remarkable work than that I quote from—The Doctor, namely, by Robert Southey, wherein Betty Yewdale, in her “oan mak’ o’ toke,” relates “The true story of the terrible knitters of Dent.” In The Excursion, however, she is made to speak thus—

This, no doubt is, as I have said, a very charming picture of humble house life in a lonely home; but the picture is drawn by a poet, and, in his words—certainly not in those of the worthy dame from whose lips they are made thus melodiously to flow.

I have conversed with many elderly people who knew this couple familiarly, and several have told me of the almost seraphic beauty of the old man’s features, lowered, as it was, by a lack of expression, denoting a weakness of mind and character, which, in the opinion of neighbours, perfectly justified Betty in maintaining full domestic supremacy and undisputed rule.

Of the manner in which she sometimes asserted that supremacy, and brought her husband back to his allegiance, when, as was rare, he happened to stray from it, an amusing instance was told to me by a respectable widow, who for many years occupied the farm of Oxenfell, a lonely spot, amid the wild craggy uplands on the Lancashire side of Little Langdale, and nearly opposite to Hackett, where the Yewdales resided. Were it only to show how differently great poets and ordinary people regard the same subject, this is worthy of preservation, and I give it, very nearly, in my informant’s own phraseology.

“Ther’ hed been a funeral fray about t’ Ho’garth, an’ varry nār o’ t’ men fooak about hed geean wi’ ’t till Cūnniston. Nixt fooarneeun, Betty Yewdale com’ through fray Hackett, an’ says she till me, ‘Hes yower meeaster gitten back fray t’ funeral?’ ‘Nay,’ says I, ‘he hesn’t!’ ‘An’ irrn’t ye gān ut lait him?’ says Betty. ‘Lait him!’ says I, ‘I wodn’t lait him if he didn’t cù heeam for a week.’ ‘Why, why!’ says she, ‘yee ma’ due as ye like, but I mun bring mine heeam, an’ I will!’ An’ off she set i’ t’ rooad till Cūnniston. On i’ t’ efterneeun, she co’ back, driving Jonathan afooer her wi’ a lang hezle stick—an’ he sartly was a sairy object. His Sūnda’ cleeas leeūk’t as if he’d been sleepin i’ them on t’ top of a durty fluer. T’ tye of his neckcloth hed wūrk’t round till belā’ t’ ya lug, an’ t’ lang ends on’t hung ooer ahint his shoulder. His hat hed gitten bulged in at t’ side, an’ t’ flipe on ’t was cock’t up beeath back an’ frūnt. O’ togidder, it wod ha’ been a queerly woman body ’at wod ha’ teean a fancy till Jonathan that day.

“Says I till Betty, ‘What, ye hev fūnd him than?’ ‘Fūnd him!’ says she, ‘ey, I’ fūnd him! I knā’t whār ut lait him! I fūnd him at t’ Black Bull, wi’ yower meeaster, an’ a lock meear o’ t’ seeam sooart. They wor just gān ut git the’r dinner, wi’ a girt pan o’ beef-steeaks set on t’ middle o’ t’ teeable. I meead t’ frying pan an’ t’ beef-steeaks flee gaily murrily out o’ t’ duer, an’ I set on an’ geh them o’ sike a blackin’ as they willn’t seeun forgit. Than I hail’t Jonathan out fray amang them; bit when I’d gitten him out wi’ mè, I shām’t ut be seen on t’ rooads wi’ him. Dud iver yè see sike a pictur’?’ ‘Why, nay! nit sa offen, indeed,’ says I. ‘Well,’ says Betty, ‘as I wodn’t be seen i’ t’ rooads wi’ him, we hed to teeak t’ fields for’t, an’, as it wosn’t seeaf ut let him climm t’ wo’s, I meead him creep t’ hog-hooals.7 I meead him creep t’ hog-hooals,’ says Betty, ‘an’ when I gat him wi’ his heead in an’ his legs out, I dūd switch him.’”

This true story shows Wordsworth’s humble heroine in not quite so romantic a light as he throws round her in the passages I have quoted; but I don’t see that it need lower her in our esteem.

CCOMPANIED by the holder of a small farm in the dales, I was once riding up Yewdale sometime beyond the middle of a winter night. The fields on our right and the slopes and ledges of the screes and fells to the left and in front were shrouded in a vestment of frozen snow, which glared under the starlight with a brilliancy of reflection that rendered the absence of the moon unnoticed and uncared for. But the scattered groves and coppices to the eastern side, and the perpendicular craggs elsewhere, on neither of which the snow could rest as it fell, stood out black and dismal—blotches sable on a field argent—(queer heraldry this, but fair description) —with an intensity of gloom, a weird dreariness of aspect, which may hardly be realized by those who have looked upon Yewdale only when arrayed in the light verdure of spring, the matured leafiness of summer, or the marvellous variegation of autumn, under any one of which conditions that fair vale may fairly claim pre-eminence in beauty over all other minor dales of the Lake country.

On the occasion I tell of, the solemn desolation of the scenery, and the oppressive silence, broken only by the quick tramp of our ponies’ feet on the crisp snow, combined to discourage all thought of conversation or remark; and we traversed the whole length of the vale without the interchange of sentence or word. When, however, we had reached the point where the road to Tilberthwaite and Langdale Head diverges from that to Skelwith, and I was about to follow the latter, my companion laid his hand upon my rein, and said, in a rather peremptory tone, “We s’ teeak t’ tudder rooad, if yee pleease;” and on my objecting to quit the smoother and shorter road for the longer and rougher, he persisted—“It may bee as yee say, beeath t’ better an’ t’ bainer, bit nowte wad hire me to teeak t’ rooad ooer Oxenfell at this hour o’ t’ neet, an’ that’s o’ about it.” “But why?” I remonstrated, disinclined to yield in a matter of such importance to reasoning like this. “I s’ tell yee why,” he replied, “when we’s seeaf at my awn fireside, if ye sud ha’e time ut lissen.” “Is it a story?” I asked with some interest. “It’s nowte mitch of a stooary,” said he, “bit what ther’s on’t ’s true, an’ that’s meear ner can be said for many a better stooary. Bit cūm on, an’ ye s’ happen hear.” I resisted no longer, and we pursued our journey through Tilberthwaite, where the piebald dreariness of the scenery was even more marked and more depressing than in Yewdale. We reached our destination without disaster, but not without danger. The broad, deep ford in the stream, which there divides the two counties, and which we had to cross, was edged on either bank by a high, abrupt shelf of strong ice, very dangerous to slidder off and very difficult to scramble up on. Indeed, my fellow traveller, with his rough, clumsy little steed, more accustomed to the stangs of muck-cart or peat sledge than to saddle work, had a roll on the farther side—luckily rolling towards the land, and not into the water. But my sagacious old “Targus,” who, as I was wont in those days to boast, could carry me over any ground on which a mountain goat or a Herdwick sheep could find a foot-hold, after testing the strength of each slippery ledge by a heavy paw or two, traversed the dangerous passage with the same steadiness with which I had known him pace over others where a slip or a stumble would have had much more serious results.

Seated comfortably at the grateless peat fire of my travelling companion, now my host, and assured of the probability of leisure to hear his story out, I reminded him of the condition under which he had induced me to take the longer and less practicable way to his fell-girt house; and after some coy deprecation, which sat awkwardly enough upon his homely features and dale nurtured manner, he began.

“Jūst about ten year syne, of jūst sec anudder neet as t’is, only t’ snā’ wasn’t frozzen, I was out efter t’ yārs.” “Poaching?” I interpolated. “Co’t as yè like,” said he, in a tone of indifference. “I was out efter t’ yārs. I’d gitten a yār or two ooer about Holme grūnd way, an’ I was meeakin’ heeam alang t’ rooad atween Hodge Clooas an’ Oxenfell, when I thowte I was gā’n ut meet sūm fellows I cud heear toakin’, bit cudn’t see. Ye knā’, t’ rooad’s o’ heets an’ hooals theear about, an’, for that reeason, I dudn’t think mitch o’ nit seein’ ’em; bit whoaiver they med be, I dudn’t want them ut see me. Sooa I gat ooer t’ steean fence wi’ t’ gun an’ t’ yārs, an’ croodel’t doon aback on’t ut let ’em git whyetly by. Well, they com on, an’, as I cūd hear, they wor fratchin cruelly o’ t’ way as t’ey com. Ther’ was two on ’em, plain aneeuf, for sùm’times yan spak’, an’ sùm’times anudder, an’, gaily oft, they beeath spak’ at yance. As they co’ narder till whār I was hidin, t’ fratch gat feurcer an’ louder ner iver, an’ they shoutit, t’ yan ooer t’ tudder, whedder ut shout t’ harder; bit for o’ that, I cudn’t meeak out a wūrd ’at they said. When they gat ebben fornenst me, yan o’ them let out a meeast terrable skrike, an’ I lowpt back ooer t’ wo’ ut seeav life. Ther’ was neàbody theear! They wor rooarin’ an’ screeamin’ wi’in six yirds o’ mè, as I streetent mysel’ up ut lowp t’ wo’, an’ when I gat to me feet o’ t’ tudder side ther’ was nowte! An’ meear ner that, ther’ wasn’t a feeut-mark i’ t’ snā’ bit my awn, an’ they co’ t’ tudder way. How I gat heeam wi’ my gun an’ my yārs I knà’n’t, an’ I niver mun knā’—bit when I wācken’t i’ t’ mooernin’ theear was t’ gun an’ yārs atop o’ t’ teeable, an’ theear was I i’ my bed.

“An’ now I’ve telt yé t’ reeason ’at I wodn’t cū’ heeam by Oxenfell Cross. I niver hev been, ’cept i’ dayleet, on t’ rooad whār them fellows woaks, an’ I niver will, sa lang as I can git anudder ’at’s less nor a scooer o’ miles about.”

“Then is that road said to be haunted?” I enquired. “Said to be hā’ntit!” he exclaimed, in a tone of wonder and contempt. “Whār ha’e yee been o’ yer life, if yé hevn’t hard o’ Oxenfell Dobby?” “Has it been seen by any one besides you?” “Ey,” replied he, “by hunderts o’ fooak! Why, bliss yé! āld Ben Grave gat seckan a torn as he was cūmin’ heeam yance leeat frae Hāks’ed fair, ’at he dūd na meear gūd. He niver wod tell what it was, bit ivery body was suer ’at it was flayin’ o’ sūm mak’, an’ a varry sairious mak’ tue, for, as I said, āld Ben niver dūd no meear gūd efter that neet—bit dwinet away an’ deet.”

“Is it known,” I asked, “how the place came to be haunted?” “Why! It is—partly. It’s knā’n an’ it isn’t knā’n as a body may say—bit I can tell yé o’ ’at’s knā’n about it, if yé like ut hear.” “Tell away then,” said I, “I like to hear.” “Well!” he again began, “Ya Kersmas, afooer I can mind, ther’ was a hake about Clappersgeeat, an’ ther’ was a stranger at it ’at varry few knà’t owte about—bit it seeun gat out ’at he was a new Scotch gardener ’at hed just cūm’t tull Rydal Ho’. As t’ neet went ooer fooak nooatisht ’at he was girtly teean up wi’ lile Betty Briggs—a lively, rooesy-cheek’t bit of a winch ’at com’ frae Tilberthet. Betty hed an’ āld sweetheart theear ’at they co’t Jack Slipe; bit she was sa pleeas’t wi’ t’ new an’ ’at she wodn’t hev owte ut say tull Jack. It was plain aneeuf tull o’ theear ’at he dudn’t hoaf like’t; an when t’ Scotchman kiss’t Betty i’ t’ cushion dance, t’ fooak aside o’ Jack cūd hear his teeth crack as he grūnd ’em togidder.

“When t’ dance brak’ ūp t’ gardener wod see Betty heeam, an’ as Betty bed nowte ut say ageean it, they set off togidder up t’ rooad alang t’ Brathay—an’ Jack Slipe follow’t by his-sel’ a gay bit behint ’em.

“T’ Scotch gardener niver co’ back tull Rydal Ho’. He was niver seen ageean wi’ neàbody. He partit wi’ Betty at her fadder duer i’ Tilberthet—she said—an’ that was t’ last on him!” “And was nothing ever heard of him?” I enquired. “Why! nowte ’at was owte. Theear was a hoaf silly lass about Chapel-Steel ’at said she’d hed t’ Scotchman’ heead iv her brat ya meeunleet neet—bit when she was teean up an’ quees’t about it, they cūd meeak nowte out on her, an’ they let her lowce. It was said ’at Jooahn Tūrner, ’at hed t’ Oxenfell farm afooar Grave fooak, fund t’ beeans of a Christian yance when he was cūttin’ a drain iv his pastur’, bit it was niver leuk’t intull, an’ Jooahn said lile about it.”

“And what about Jack Slipe?” “Well! queerly aneeuf, he weddit t’ lass ’at dūd o’ t’ mischief, ān’ dee’t afooar he was an āld man, leeavin’ Betty wi’ a yūng family. He was niver knà’n ut smile or teeak part iv any spooart. He ol’a’s hed a wild scār’tly leeuk: as he woak’t alang a rooad he keept glimin’ fūrst ooer t’ ya shou’der an’ than ooer t’ tudder, an’ he niver durst bide by his-sel’ efter t’ darkenin’. He leev’t sarvant for a while wi’ āld Jooasep Tyson of Yakrow, an’ wheniver āld Joo’ep seed any o’ them signs of a bad conscience, he wod say, ‘Cūm! Dyne the’, Jack, thou med as gūd confess. Thou knā’s thou dud it!’ Bit whedder Jack dud it or nit neàbody can tell for suer. An’ that’s t’ way it mun rist!”

Being shown, at Lockerbie, a printed programme of after-dinner proceedings at the celebration there of Mr. R. Jardine’s marriage, the writer noticed in the list the sentence that heads this page, and enquired if it were a toast or a song. When told it was the former, he said it deserved to be a song; and, acting on his own hint, crooned out the following verses on his homeward journey by rail.

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 Sūnday 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’ thūr 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.

NOTE.

I remember reading somewhere the story of one of the many old women so treated, in the wisdom of our ancestors, who was drowned while undergoing the common ordeal of being bound and thrown into deep water—and her cat, supposed to be her familiar spirit, swimming in circles over the place where she sank till it became exhausted and was also drowned. A story which made a lasting impression on my young imagination.

NOTE.

Of this anecdote different versions are current, and various localities are assigned to it—Scotch as well as English. I take leave to think however that the Cumberland version, as given here, is the best of all that have been given.

PATS!” said Tom, “Nay! I niver hed a par o’ spats i’ my life; but yance I’d as nār as a toucher gitten two par; an’ I’s tell ye hoo it com’ aboot ’at I dudn’t.

“Nūt varra lang efter we wer’ weddit, an oald uncle o’ t’ wife’s com’ ower t’ fell frae Ireby to see us an’ stop wid us a bit. Ya ebenin’ when we wer’ sittin’ crackin’ away roond t’ fire, some way or udder, oor toak happen’t to tūrn on men-fwoke’s driss, t’ change o’ fashions, an’ sec like; an’ oald uncle Geordie begon to brag ’at they used to driss far better when he was yūng nor they dūd than; an’ by way o’ clinchin’ his teàl, he says, ‘Can ye finnd me a smo’ steàtsman’s sūn noo-a-days ’at ’ll worder six par o’ white corduroy knee britches o’ at yance!’ ‘Six par o’ corduroy britches?’ says I. ‘Ey,’ says he, ‘corduroy britches, as white as drip!’ ‘Whey, no!’ says I, ‘I wadn’t ken whoar to leuk for a fellow ’at wad git six par o’ britches of any mak’ o’ at yance?’ ‘Well than,’ says he, ‘jūst rūb yer een clear, an’ leùk hard to this side o’ yer oan fire,’ says he, an’ ye’ll see a fellow ’at beath wad an’ dud git them! When I furst begon to ride efter t’ hoonds,’ says he, ‘I gat six par o’ white cword britches, an’ two par o’ top beùts. T’ beùts was worn oot many a year sen, but I’ve t’ six par o’ britches yit, laid bye, an’ for owte I know, they’re as white as iver.’ Wid that our wife spak up—she thowte a vast mair aboot my leùks than nor she does noo—an’ she says, ‘Uncle George,’ says she, ‘will ye iver weear yer white britches agean?’ ‘Nay, my lass,’ says he, ‘I think my white britches days is gaily weel ower, but what o’ that?’ ‘O, nowte,’ says she, ‘but I’ve a nwotion ’at Tom here wadn’t misbecome white britches an’ top beùts, when he’s ridin’ aboot, an’ as they’re o’ nea use till yersel’ noo, ye’d better send them ower till him.’ ‘Whe—e—ey!’ says he, iv a dronin’ soort of a way, ‘Whey! Whey! but m’appen they willn’t gang on him,’ says he. ‘O!’ says she, ‘but ye know we med mebbe let them oot a bit, an’ mak’ them gang on him.’ ‘Well, well,’ says her uncle, ‘I’ll send him ya par on them to try, an’ if they fit, an’ he likes them, he may hev mair efter.’ An’ sure aneuf, when he went back heam ageàn, he sent a par on them ower, as he said, as white as drip; an’ we beàth thowte he mud ha’ been a parlish oald buck if he hed o’ udder things to match when he gat sec a stock o’ white britches. Nowte wad sarra t’ wife, when we’d leukt at them, but I mud try them on theear an’ than, an’ see hoo they fittit. We gat a terrible begonk when we fund ’at they wadn’t gang on at o’. He was rayder a wizzent oald fellow than, an’ he’d been a wizzent fellow when he’d geàn sproguein’ aboot iv his white corduroys mebbe thurty year afoor, for t’ knees on them, wid o’ t’ buttons lowse, wadn’t come ower t’ bo’s o’ my legs, an’, what was warse nor o’ t’ tudder, ther was nowte left o’ t’ seam to let them oot wid. Sooa they wer laid bye be theirsel’s at oor hoose, just as t’ tudder five par on them wer liggin’ laid bye togidder at Ireby.

A gay while efter that, when I’d forgitten o’ aboot t’ white britches, an oald crony o’ mine chanced to be iv oor part, an’ co’t to see us, an’ stopt o’ neet. We nwotish’t ’at he hed shoes on, an’ t’ bonniest spats we’d ever owder on us seen; for they fittit roond his ancles an’ ower his shoe tops widoot ayder a lirk or a lowse spot, an’ I said, ‘Charley,’ says I, ‘whoariver did tè manish to git sec fitters as them?’ ‘O!’ says he, ‘I hed t’ pattren on them frae Scotland, an’ my sister maks them for me as I want them.’ ‘Thy sister maks them!’ says I, ‘Whey, I wad ha’ sworn thoo’d been to t’ varra heid tailior i’ Whitehebben for them!’ ‘Well,’ says he, ‘t’ pattren’s sa plain an’ simple ’at she cuts them oot by it, an’ mak’s them quite easy; an’, as ye say, they fit as weel as if t’ best tailior i’ t’ land hed been at t’ makin’ on them. But if ye like, I’ll send ye t’ pattren by post, an’ Mistress Railton may try her hand at them for thee.’

“Well, t’ pattren o’ t’ spats com, as Charley promish’t it sud, an’ efter she’ leùk’t it weel ower, an’ fittit it on my feùt, t’ wife clap’t her hands an’ shootit, ‘I can dee’t, Tom! I can dee’t! an’ thoo sall hev a par of white spats. There’s nowte maks a man leùk sa like a gentleman as clean white spats! Did t’e iver see Dr. Dick Ringer o’ Cockermouth? Well, what was’t ’at meàd him ola’s leùk cleaner, an’ breeter, an’ fresher, an’ better-like nor anybody theear? Whey, nowte at o’ else but t’ white spats ’at he used to weear ivery day! I’ll mak thee a par o’ spats oot o’ pooar oald uncle Geordie’s corduroys ’at wadn’t gang on the’, an’ I’ll mak them i’ time for the’ to put on when thoo gangs to Peerith nixt market day!’ I so’ it was nea use sayin’ she sudn’t, if I’d been that way inclined, an’ I wasn’t; sooa she set to wark off hand, an’ ripp’t doon t’ white breeks, an’ pin’t Charley’s pattren on t’ cleàth, an’ cot it up by ’t; an’ as her heart was set on t’ job, she hed t’ spats finish’t lang afoor t’ time she said. When we com to try them on, yan on them was a varra decent fit, but t’ tudder wasn’t: it seem’t to stand off whoar it sud sit clwose, an’ to sit clwose whoar it sudn’t, an’ it was a gay while afooar we fund oot t’ reason on’t. But I happn’t, at last, to glime up at hūr, an’ ther was mair trūbble iv her feàce ner I’d iver seen afooar. ‘Bliss thy heart, Mary!’ says I, ‘whativer’s t’ matter wid the’? Thoo leuks as if thy poddish was welsh!’ ‘Doesn’t thoo see?’ she says. ‘Can tè nūt see ’at I’ve meàd them beàth for t’ seàm feùt? Whoar’s thy eyes, thoo mafflin?’ says she, tackin’ it oot o’ me acoase she was mad at hersel’, ‘Whoar’s t’ een on the’, I wūnder, ’at thoo doesn’t see t’ buttons is at t’ inside o’ t’ ya feùt, an’ t’ ootside o’ t’ tudder?’ ‘By jing,’ says I, ‘an’ seea they urr! Thoo hes meàd a fist on’t! Thoo hes tailior’t till a bonnie end! If this be thy tailiorin’, I think thoo’d better stick till thy hoose-keepin’ wark for t’ rist o’ thy life!’ But I so’ t’ watter gedderin’ iv her eyes, an’ I so’ ’at it no’but wantit anudder wūrd or two to mak’ her blurt reet oot, an’ seea I said nea mair. O’ at yance she breeten’t up ageàn, an’ pot her arm roond my neck an’ ga’e me a kiss, an’ said, ‘Niver fret aboot it, Tom lad,’ says she, ‘ther’s aneùf left o’ t’ oald britches to mak anudder par o’ spats. Thoo’s gitten two for t’ reet feùt, an’ thoo sall hev two for t’ left, an’ than thoo need niver gang frae heàm adoot white spats to thy feet, for t’ ya par ’ill wesh t’ tudder thoo sees!’

“I thowte I was gā’n to be set up wi’ spats for sure, for she went at t’ oald corduroy ageàn feùrcer nor iver, an’ hed two mair meàd afoor I ken’t whoar I was. She hed them o’ wesh’t an’ iron’t, an’ straps putten on them, ruddy for gā’n to chūrch o’ t’ Sunday mwornin’; but loavin’ bliss us o’ weel! if she hedn’t geàn an’ meàd o’ t’ fower for t’ reet feùt, an’ left me just as far off hevin’ spats to my feet as iver. Mad as we war, we beàth brast oot laughin’, an’ laugh’t tull hūr laugh hed rayder less of a cry in’t nor it hed at t’ fūrst, an’ than says I, ‘What’s to be deùn noo, Mally?’ I says, ‘Urr we to send till Ireby for anudder par o’ t’ drip white corduroys, an’ hev fower par o’ spats? I is gā’n to be weel spattit i’ t’ lang run!’ ‘Nay,’ says she, ‘I’ll spat the’ na mair spats; I’ll lig thur i’ my oan top-dro’er, an’ wheniver I see them they’ll be a warnin’ to me nūt to mell wi’ wark at I hevn’t been browte up till. Fwoke says it taks nine tailiors to mak’ a man, but I divn’t think anybody hes tell’t us hoo many women it may tak’ to mak’ a tailior; but whedder it tak’s many or few, thoo may mak’ thysel’ seàf an’ suer ’at thy wife willn’t be yan o’ them.’ An’ that was t’ way I was deùn oot o’ my chance o’ gittin’ two par o’ spats.”

The dialect of Cumberland, spoken in its purity only in the central parts of the county, may be admitted to be deficient in rhythm; and remarkable as it is for force and expression, its harshness of cadence renders it scarcely available for any poetry except the humorous or descriptive. By those unaccustomed or unattached to it, it may probably be considered hard and coarse even in prose compositions.

Its principal peculiarity is to be found in its vowel and diphthongal sounds, which, for the most part, are made either broader or deeper than in ordinary pronunciation; and this may be indicated with sufficient ease and distinctness, by means of phonetic spelling, when written or printed, to enable any reader with a little practice and care to pronounce broad Cumbrian with tolerable correctness.

The most important instance of this vowel peculiarity exists in the pronunciation of the long A and the short U, the former of which is sounded generally yah and the latter uh; thus to secure the Cumbrian pronunciation—ale must be spelled yahl and ace, yahss, lame is made lyahm, name nyahm, etc., etc., all monosyllabic, or, to prevent the accent being laid upon the Y, and so making two syllables, these words might be written leahm, neahm. As regards the U, the first syllable of cunning is in Cumberland lengthened out exactly to the sound of the German kuhn, and come is made kuhm. These sounds can only be conveyed by the interposition of the H. When I first scribbled in the folk-speech of Cumberland I wrote it after this fashion, and the efficacy of the method was proved by the fact that intelligent or painstaking readers, knowing nothing of the dialect as spoken, were able to repeat the verses called “Branthet Neuk Boggle” in a style that might have satisfied even an exigeant professor of our Cumbrian philology.

The Cumberland dialect so written, however, had a remarkably ugly and uncouth appearance when printed, and the remonstrances of my present provincial publisher induced me to abandon the H orthography, and endeavour to secure the proper pronunciations by means of accent marks, spelling the words instanced above leàm, neàm, cūnning, cūm, et similia similiter.

The broad O and Oa are in our Cumberland speech altered into eà, with the sound of yah, home becoming heàm, broad breàd, etc. There are exceptions to this as to most other rules, for lane is rendered as lwoan or lonnin’, choke as chowk, croak as crowk, road as rwoad, and more as mair, while shore has its ordinary sound. Almost in reversal of these changes the broad A as in ball, a dance, Al, as in walk, Aw, as in awful, are sounded like the broad O or Oa, thus boall, woak, oaful, etc.; but the L is preserved in oala’s, for always, scalp is pronounced scowpe, and ball, a plaything, is bo’, all, oa’, call, co’, hall, ho’, etc., etc.

Ea gets the pronunciation properly given to it in veal and mead; so that bread is breed, head, heed, dead, deed, etc., etc.; but when this diphthong precedes R, as in bear, wear, etc., it becomes dissyllabic like fear, as commonly pronounced, and mare too becomes mee-ar.

Ei becomes ay, either and neither becoming ayder and nayder, sometimes owder and nowder.

The broad I in bite, write, etc., the Cumbrians deepen almost as is done by well educated people in the southern counties, with notable exceptions however, the first personal pronoun being made Ah; Igh, shortened and gutturalized by the Scotch, being sounded like Ee, night being neet, light, leet, etc., and find and bind pronounced like wind, viz.—finnd, binnd.

The double O is generally pronounced eù, or more exactly yuh shortly, fool being feùl, school, scheùl, etc., in one short syllable. Do and too are often pronounced according to this rule, but almost equally often are made into dee and tee, while the preposition to is for the most part changed into till or tull.

With Ou and Ow Cumberland speakers are somewhat capricious, round being made roond, town, toon, etc., but found and bound become fūnd and būnd, ought, owte, nought, nowte, etc.

O with the sound of the short U is treated in a very arbitrary manner—one being called yan, none, nin, and oven, yubben.

Qu is generally softened into wh, aspirated distinctly—quick being pronounced whick, and quite, white, and Quaker, with old people, is Whaker.

Y is sometimes converted into G, as in garth for yard, garn for yarn; and again that habit is sometimes reversed, as in yatt for gate.

The corruptions or variations of consonants are not so marked as those of vowels. The most notable are the hardening of Th into Dd, making father, fadder, mother, mūdder, etc.; and the dropping of the two last of the three letters in the definite article, well illustrated by the Whitehaven boy’s reply to an enquiry as to what ships had come in:—“T’ ’Enry, an’ t’ ’Ebe, an’ t’ Ant, an’ t’ Atlas, an’ t’ Aurora;” i.e. the Henry, the Hebe, the Ant, the Atlas, and the Aurora. Then we may notice the discarding of the final letter from all words ending in ing, and changing that syllable in all present participles to an, the participle of pass being in Cumberland more like the French passant than the English passing; also the final age being made ish, as in cabbish for cabbage, manish for manage, etc.; the final ous too undergoing the same change, as in faymish for famous, parlish for parlous, etc.; also idge as in poddish for porridge, or primarily, potage.

V is often converted into B or Bb—evening, eleven, Whitehaven being called ebenin’, elebben, Whitehebben, etc.

These corruptions and deviations comprise nearly all the points wherein the dialect of Cumberland differs in sound and pronunciation from ordinary English speech; and set forth roughly, as they are, (abbreviations explaining themselves, and archaic words being given in a concise glossary) they may, with a little attention, enable the uninitiated reader to understand all the Cumbrian pieces contained in this volume.

Some irregular verbs, as well as some not commonly classed as irregular, are curiously varied in Cumbrian conjugations. I give a few of these, written down as they rise in recollection, and arranged a la Lindley Murray.

Minced or modified oaths are remarkably numerous in Cumberland, and in very common use. Most of them have descended from the old Roman Catholic times when, as Dr. Newman in speaking of Roman Catholic populations of the present day, avers, habitual swearing indicated piety and reverence for things sacred, and not profaneness. As heard now in Cumberland, these ancient expletives are as void of piety as of profanity, being used without any knowledge of their original signification, and merely to add force to asseveration, and to express, as varied in tone, surprise, disgust, pleasure, or indeed almost any feeling or emotion whatever. I append a few of these with their probable, often obvious, etyma:—

The peculiarities of the Scottish dialect have been explained by many writers, much more ably, as well as more at length, than may be done by me. Therefore the only assistance towards the understanding my Scots rhymes that I offer the reader is to intermingle, in the glossary appended, such Scottish words as I have used, with those proper to Cumberland and those common to both sides the Border.

The brief glossary here given consists, then, only of the words used in Scotland or Cumberland, or both, which appear in the foregoing Tales and Rhymes; corruptions and abbreviations being omitted. The significations I alone am answerable for, having, in nearly all instances, adopted the sense I can recollect the words being used in by the people speaking them in their daily talk. The quotations are intended to make these significations more intelligible, and also, by showing the manner in which the words so illustrated are used by others, to prove that the meanings I have so adopted are generally correct.

A LIST OF BOOKS

PUBLISHED BY

GEO: COWARD, CARLISLE.

The SONGS and BALLADS of CUMBERLAND,
to which are added Dialect and other Poems; with Biographical Sketches, Notes, and Glossary. Edited by Sidney Gilpin. With Portrait of Miss Blamire. Small Crown 8vo. Price 7s.

(A New Edition in preparation.)

One of the most interesting collections of poetry which have been lately published is the “Songs and Ballads of Cumberland.” How many people know anything of Miss Blamire? Yet she was the author of that most beautiful and pathetic of ballads beginning, “And ye shall walk in silk attire.” Every one will, therefore, thank the editor for the conscientious way in which he has issued her pieces, and given us some account of her life. It was she, too, who wrote that other beautiful ballad, worthy of Lady Anne Lindsay, “What ails this heart o’ mine?” which, in our opinion, is poetry full of truth and tenderness. Indeed, we should be disposed to look upon it as a critical touchstone, and to say that those who did not like it could not possibly appreciate true poetry.... We can only advise the reader to buy the book, and we feel sure that he, like ourselves, will be thankful to the editor.—Westminster Review.

We like the Cumberland Songs a good deal better than the Lancashire ones which we reviewed a fortnight back. There is more go and more variety in them; the hill-air makes them fresher, and we do not wonder that Mr. Gilpin feels—now he has got “tem put in prent”—

Aw England cannot bang them.

We certainly cannot recollect a better collection.... While the author of “Joe and the Geologist” lives, we shall rest assured that the Cumberland dialect will be well represented in verse as well as prose, though we suppose he cannot love to describe the roaring scenes at weddings and the like that his predecessors witnessed.... The dialect is rich in reduplicated words—in good forms—in old English words; and the volume altogether is one that should find a place on the shelf of every reader of poetry and student of manners, customs, and language.—The Reader.

The truly Cumbrian minstrel towards the close of the last century seems to have approached the Scotch in his pictures of rural courtship, and to have been still greater in his descriptions of weddings, as of some other festivities of a more peculiar character. He had a healthy and robust standard of feminine beauty, and his most riotous mirth was more athletic and less purely alcoholic than that which flourished in Burns’s native soil.—The Spectator.

These Cumberland lyrics—till now scattered—are on the whole well worth the pains spent on their collection. In some cases, as in those of Relph and Miss Blamire, there is evidence of real genius for the ballad or the eclogue; and with respect to other writers, if the poetic feeling be less deep, humour and keen observation are displayed in dealing with the people and customs of a district which, in its lingering primitiveness and time-honored traditions, is richer in materials for fancy and character than regions which lie nearer the metropolis.—The Athenæum.

It is seldom that a book compiled on the local principle contains so much good matter as this collection of the “Songs and Ballads of Cumberland.” In the pathetic vein, Miss Blamire is a host in herself; and the humorous and “character sketches,” as we may call them, by various hands, are more vigorous and picturesque, and less vulgar or coarse, than is at all common in the works of local poets. To some readers the peculiar dialect may be objectionable; but to any one who can read Burns, it need be no stumbling-block to the enjoyment of the varied contents of this elegant and well-arranged volume.... The biographical and other notes are carefully and well written, judiciously informative, and not too long.—Scotsman.

Cumberland has a goodly store of ballads, the natural offspring of her hills and lakes, and fells and “forces,” a wealth of ballad literature, in fact, whereof the Southron in general knows, we fear, but little. Miss Susanna Blamire is a name of celebrity up North, the poetess of Cumberland; and Robert Anderson and many others hold almost equal repute there. Mr. Sidney Gilpin, himself owning a name which has belonged to more than one Cumberland celebrity, has collected and edited a volume of the dialect-songs and ballads, and other specimens of the minstrelsy of his county, and offers it to the appreciation of the English public. The “Songs and Ballads of Cumberland” ought to be a welcome volume to all who can relish the home-spun simple language of a genuine muse of the hills. There is much true and tender poetry in the book, and much rough, natural vigour.—Morning Star.

Cumberland has found in Mr. Sidney Gilpin an able and zealous champion; and the present collection of her Songs and Ballads, though not, perhaps, absolutely exhaustive, will decidedly extend her poetic fame, and no doubt surprise many even among the students of this peculiar lore.—Church and State Review.

F. Cap 8vo. Price 2s. 6d., in neat Cloth binding.

MISS BLAMIRE’S SONGS AND POEMS;
together with Songs by her friend Miss Gilpin of Scaleby Castle. With Portrait of Miss Blamire.

She was an anomaly in literature. She had far too modest an opinion of herself; an extreme seldom run into, and sometimes, as in this case, attended like other extremes with disadvantages. We are inclined, however, to think that if we have lost a great deal by her ultra-modesty, we have gained something. Without it, it is questionable whether she would have abandoned herself so entirely to her inclination, and left us those exquisite lyrics which derive their charms from the simple, undisguised thoughts which they contain. The characteristic of her poetry is its simplicity. It is the simplicity of genuine pathos. It enters into all her compositions, and is perhaps pre-eminent in her Scottish songs.

Carlisle Journal, 1842.

In her songs, whether in pure English, or in the Cumbrian or Scottish dialect, she is animated, simple, and tender, often touching a chord which thrills a sympathetic string deep in the reader’s bosom. It may, indeed, be confidently predicted of several of these lyrics, that they will live with the best productions of their age, and longer than many that were at first allowed to rank more highly.—Chambers’ Journal, 1842.

F. Cap 8vo. Price 2s., in neat Cloth binding.

ROBERT ANDERSON’S CUMBERLAND BALLADS.

As a portrayer of rustic manners—as a relator of homely incident—as a hander down of ancient customs, and of ways of life fast wearing or worn out—as an exponent of the feelings, tastes, habits, and language of the most interesting class in a most interesting district, and in some other respects, we hold Anderson to be unequalled, not in Cumberland only, but in England. As a description of a long, rapid, and varied succession of scenes—every one a photograph—occurring at a gathering of country people intent upon enjoying themselves in their own uncouth roystering fashion, given in rattling, jingling, regularly irregular rhymes, with a chorus that is of itself a concentration of uproarious fun and revelry, we have never read or heard anything like Anderson’s “Worton Wedding.”—Whitehaven Herald.

Just Published, F. Cap 8vo. Price 5s.

POEMS BY MRS. WILSON TWENTYMAN,
of Evening Hill. Dedicated, by permission, to H. W. Longfellow.

From the ILLUSTRATED TIMES, November 7th, 1868.

Her verses are occasionally poetical, and always dictated by some fine genuine feeling, which must come home to an honest reader. She does not write about “Men and Women,” as Mrs. Browning calls two of her most beautiful volumes, but about human nature—i.e., our hopes, fears, loves, aspirations, etc., are never personified and put into the dramatic form. The volume consists of short pieces, and the whole domestic morality of them will be fairly appreciated in houses where Longfellow is looked upon as the one poet.

From the CARLISLE EXPRESS, January 8th, 1869.

A spirit of piety and domestic affection permeates all Mrs. Twentyman’s pieces, but she has not yet attained the full power of her art which is to inspire as Nature inspires, by reproducing that which charms the mind. In all probability she has not made this her aim, her poems being the simple and unaffected outflow of pure womanly thought and feeling: the apparent aim of the volume being religious rather than literary.... Mrs. Twentyman’s best efforts are those in which her own experience as a wife and mother have helped her most. There she rises into the region of true poetry, drawing from Life and Nature. “Love’s Inspiration,” in which she evidently speaks of her own wedded life, is an example. “Our Ain Bonnie Bessie” is another flowing from the same fount—sweet, maternal love evidently inspiring the heart of the writer.... We give her a hearty “God-speed,” feeling that all local talent should have its just honour and encouragement. The proper encouragement of local literature generally improves it, and there are cases in which it has eventually called forth gifts of no ordinary power and compass. Sympathy and interest are the special needs of the poet who often cannot sing at all unless prompted to faith in his own powers by some sympathetic friend.

Crown 8vo. Price 2s. in extra Cloth binding; or 1s. in neat Paper Cover.

OLD CASTLES: Including Sketches of Carlisle, Corby, and Linstock Castles; with a Poem on Carlisle. By M.S., Author of an Essay on Shakspeare, &c.

From the CARLISLE EXPRESS.

M. S., by her many thoughtful and eloquent contributions to our local literature, has long since become favourably known to a wide circle of readers; and the little volume before us, in which her talents are employed on congenial themes, cannot fail to maintain and extend her reputation. The stirring historical events connected with the ancient Border strongholds she has selected for treatment require something more than the dry details which are all that are presented to us in the ordinary run of guide books to make them properly understood. Adhering strictly to historical truth, she has clothed the dry bones of the past with life; and the various notable actors who have played their part in the old castles, she so well delineates, seem to live and move before us as we read her account of them. Nor do the natural beauties which surround most of our ancient Border keeps lose anything of their rare charm in her hands. Her picture of Corby is, indeed, a prose poem of much beauty. But the gem of the book is the poem on Carlisle—worthily holding the place of honour.... We must now take our leave of this interesting little work. It is one which should be in the hands of every intelligent Cumbrian who cares for the honour of his native county; and the reader who desires to improve these glorious summer days by visiting any of the scenes it so well describes, could find no better companion to take with him.

CARLISLE: GEO. COWARD.