Part 7

An’ it keept on sa bad, he tūrn’t maffelt an’ maiz’t, An’ sa wankle an’ wake ’at he to’k tull his bed, Whoar, liggin’ hoaf deid, ey, an’ mair nor hoaf craiz’t, He cūd think aboot nowte but what t’ doctor hed said.

He triet nūt to speak on’t—He knew ’twasn’t reet, But it ola’s beàd by him—his uppermor’ thowte; An’ he yammer’t at t’ wife tull she went back at neet To dig ūp t’ oald thūmb, an’ brong’t heàm iv a cloot.

They laid it i’ t’ gardin, an’ hoo ’t com’ aboot Nowder t’ mistress nor t’ parson cūd under-cum-stand, But sarten it was, fray that varra time oot, Sairy Jwosep’ was bodder’t na mair wid his hand.

But Jwosep’ was niver ageàn his oald sel’. An’ a questi’n com’ ūp still whativer he tried, “If a thùmb i’ t’ churchyard was sa bad, whoa cūd tell What a corp’ pùtten in’t o’togidder mūd bide!”

This he maddel’t aboot ebben endways away— As lang as he breath’t it was ola’s his drone; An’ t’ wife hed na peace till he gat her to say He sud lig by his-sel’ iv a field o’ the’r oan.

An’ Joe tiet her up till her wūrd iv his will, For theear suer aneuf when he dee’t it was fūnd ’At he’d left o’ tull hūr, no’but if she’d fulfil His craze ageàn liggin’ i’ consecrate grūnd.

An’ Joe hed his way, for a square roughish steàn[21] By t’ dike, i’ t’ Sco’-lonnin’, at this varra day, Tell’s whoar Jwosep’ Thompson ligs whyet an’ leàn— Keep us weel fray sec doctors as Jwosep’s, I pray!

An’ keep us, I pray, fray o’ wild wicket toak, Bringan’ bodder an’ fashment tull oald an’ tull yūng. Jwosep’ Thompson wad ristit wid Christian fwoke, If t’ doctor he went tull hed hodden his tūng!

[17] Harrington Town, the ancient village about half a mile inland, is so called in distinction from Harrington Harbour, the small sea-port, which is modern. The heiress of the family which took its name and title from Harrington was mother of the Lord Bonville and Harrington, brother-in-law to the king-making Earl of Warwick. The manor was forfeited by the attainder of Henry Grey, Duke of Suffolk, great-grandson of the said Lord Bonville, and father of Lady Jane Grey, and given by the Queen (Mary), to the Curwens of Workington, who still hold it.

[18] Should this compendium of topical applications seem at all overcharged, I would state that it consists of well known popular remedies, mostly of _some_ use, and falls far short, whether in variety, extravagance, or repulsiveness of the multifarious nostra recommended by amateurs of the healing art in Cumberland and the adjacent counties. The “poultice of o’ maks” is not, as its name seems to imply, a compound, but a simple substance, which it is unnecessary to indicate more distinctly than to mention that it was generally turned to when pleasanter applications had failed. I have frequently heard old people extol its virtues as a promoter of suppuration, but I trust its use may now be classed with the “many precious rites and customs of our rural forefathers,” which, as Wordsworth has said, “are gone or stealing from us.“

[19] This alludes to the popular belief, not altogether unfounded, that readiness in healing is connected with an easy disposition.

[20] A delusion common enough after amputation.

[21] The stone stood—I believe stands—behind the hedge which on the western side fences the lane called Scaw-lonning, near High Harrington. When I last saw it—many years ago—the subjoined inscription was quite distinct upon it—plainer, indeed, than any of similar date in the churchyard:—

”JOSEPH THOMPSON may here be found Who would not lie in consecrated ground Died May 13th 1745 Aged 63 when he was alive”

With the traditional account of the circumstances that caused this fancy of Joseph Thompson’s, the details given in the rhyme coincide as closely as my recollection of a tale heard in boyhood enables me to make them.

Since the first appearance of this, however, another version of the matter has been reported to me by old friends near the spot—but inasmuch as it does not account so perfectly as the old story for Joseph’s objection to ALL consecrated ground, I feel bound to abide by my first choice. The, to me, new story tells that Joseph Thompson annoyed the clerk in the church so seriously by repeating the responses in a voice that quite drowned his, that at length the said functionary exclaimed during service—“Is thoo t’ clark, or is I t’ clark? If thoo’s t’ clark, cūm up hèar, an’ I’ll cūm doon thèar!“—and, on Joseph’s paying no attention to his appeal, supplemented it by assaulting him. The clergyman taking his clerk’s side in the quarrel, Joseph Thompson declared he would never come near the church again, dead or alive, and kept his word.

I take leave to think that my version is the better, whichever may be the truer tale. I have further been told that the stone formerly stood in the centre of the field—and on the land coming into the possession of Mr. John Christian Curwen, the farmer waited upon that distinguished agriculturist to obtain permission to remove it to the hedge-side, and to plough the field. When he was told the history of the monument, and its inscription was recited to him, Mr. Curwen exclaimed, _more suo_, ”_Would not lie in consecrated ground!_ Then, plough him up! D—— him, plough him up!”

CURSTY BENN.

Cūrsty Benn of Under-Skiddaw Leev’t on t’ land whoar he was bworn; Eight-ty yacre, lea and meedow— Forty, green-crop, seeds an’ cworn. Cūrsty’ wife, a fewsome body, Brong him barnes, some nine or ten, Menseful, meat-heàl, fat an’ ruddy;— “Whoar’s their like?” said Cūrsty Benn.

Cūrsty hed ya mortal failin’— Whoa may say they’ve less nor that?— Rayder fond was he o’ trailin’ Off frae heàm an’ bidin’ leàt. Fray Kes’ick Kit was ola’s leàtish; Hoo that com’ t’ wife gat to ken, When i’ t’ market neets she’d nwotish Signs o’ drink i’ Cūrsty Benn.

Cūrsty’ wife was kind an’ canny, Nowder gi’en to flyte nor fret; “Weel aneùf,” she said, “I ken he Mayn’t be cured by sulks an’ pet; But I moon’t sit by an’ see him, Gear an’ grun’ spang-hew an’ spen’, I mūn gang till Kes’ick wi’ him!” Nowte ageàn’t said Cursty Benn.

When they dadg’t away togidder, O’ row’t reet a canny bit; Cūrsty, pleas’t to market wid her, Tiped his pints, but dūdn’t sit. No’but for a bit it lastit— Sooa ’t’s been afoor an’ sen! When fwoke thowte she’d wiled him past it, Tull’t ageàn went Cūrsty Benn.—

Tull’t ageàn i’ t’ public-hooses, Whilk an’ Cūrsty dūdn’t care; Adam Gill’s, or Mistress Boose’s, T’ Yak, t’ Queen’s Heed, or t’ Hoonds an’ Hare. Through them o’ t’ wife whiles went laitin’— Whiles, for hours an’ hours an’ en’, In their shandry sat she waitin’, Coald on t’ street, for Cūrsty Benn.

Ya’ fine neet when leàt she gat him— Fairly forced to flyte, t’ poor deàm Lowsed her tongue reet freely at him, While t’ oald yoad went stammerin’ heàm. Whietly Kit bore her clatter, Nea back-wūrd he’d gi’en her, when T’ mèar pu’t up aside some watter;— “Drink, gūd lass!” says Cūrsty Benn.

Lang she dronk, an’ lood she grūntit, Till a gay gud drain she’d hed; Than as t’ rwoad yance mair she frūntit, Cūrsty’ wife tūll Cūrsty said— “Sees t’e, min! that pooar oald mèar, When she’s full, she’s t’ sense to ken; Can’t thoo tak’ a pattren bee her— _Drink an deùn wi’t_, Cūrsty Benn?”

“Whey!” says Kit, “but tūrn that watter Intill yāll, wid udder yoads Sittin’ roond it—hoddin’ at her— Tellin’ her t’ time mak’s na odds— Shootin’ oot, ‘Here’s te the’, Cūrsty!— (Mèars is mèars—men’s nowte but men!)— But I dūrst lay a pūnd ’at dūrst Ee, _She_’d sit on—like Cūrsty Benn!”

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.

TOM RAILTON’S WHITE SPATS.

“Spats!” 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.”

A SNECK POSSET.

Niver ageàn, Eddy! Niver ageàn! If I moo’n’t hev a lad ’at ’ill coort me my leàn, ’At ’ill hod by ya sweetheart, an’ me be that yan, I mūn bide as I is till I dee. Thū’s coddel’t Keàt Crosstet, Ann Atchin, Jane Blair, ’Becca Rudd, Mary Mo’son, Ruth Lytle, an’ mair; Thoo says it’s o’ fūn, an’ sec fūn ma’ be fair, But it doesn’t seem jannic to me.

I favour’t the’, ey! abeùn o’ t’ lads aboot; I thowte, like a feùl, ’at thū’d sing-elt me oot Frae t’ tūdders, an’ I’ve been reet sarra’t, na doobt, To trust sec a taistrel as thee. Reet sarra’t? Ey, mess! I was warn’t gaily weel,— I was tel’t hoo thū’d feùl’t an’ than left Greàcy Peile; An’ what reet hed I to believe thoo wad deal Ayder fairer or fonter wi’ me?

Fwoke tel’t mé thoo com of a slape, sneeky breed;— ’At a tungue sec as thine seldom hung iv a heid;— ’At twice i’ three times when thoo said owte, thoo leed; But I fanciet that hardly cūd be. For ’Speàtry, I kent, was a hard-spocken pleàce, An’ I thowte ’at, may-hap, thū’d been wrang’t aboot Greàce;— God help mé!—I thowte I read t’ truth i’ thy feàce, When thoo swore thoo cared only for me.

We’re silly, us lasses—We’re maizlins, I know!— We’re t’ meàst teàn wi’ them ’at oor frinds meàst misco’; An’ when we’re teàn in, we’ve to shear what we sow, An’ to rue sec mistaks till we dee. But leet com’ i’ time, an’ it o’ com’ at yance, I so’t fair aneùf, but, to give thee ya chance, I went by mysel’ to Jane Loncaster’s dance, Just to see if thoo dūd care for me.

Theear, hoaf oot o’ seet, a bye corner I teùk, An’ thoo dūdn’t cū’ nār; nūt a smile nor a leùk Dūd té kest to poor me, as I dark’t i’ my neùk, An’ wūnder’t I’d trustit i’ thee. Thoo stack till Bess Bruff like a cockelty būr; An’ she cūtter’t wi’ thee jūst to greg Harry Scūrr;— When t’ cūshi’n com’ in thoo teùk t’ cūshi’n tull hur, An’ thoo glimed, when thoo kiss’t her, at me.

But Harry an’ Bess meàd it up iv a crack; An’ noo, ’at thū’s hed a begonk, thoo cū’s back; But if _thū’s_ fūnd oot _thine_, I’ve fūnd oot _my_ mistak’, An’, I’ll ho’d mysel’ heart-heàl an’ free. Sooa Neddy, gud lad, dro’ thy steàk, an’ be gā’n; Amang thy oald chances thū’s m’appen finnd yan Ma’ be fain, though thū’s snaip’t her, to hev the’ ageàn, But, Eddy! that yan isn’t me.

REMARKS ON THE CUMBERLAND DIALECT.

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 w_hick_, 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.