Chapter 4
It remains to speak of the Yankee dialect. And, first, it may be premised, in a general way, that any one much read in the writings of the early colonists need not be told that the far greater share of the words and phrases now esteemed peculiar to New England, and local there, were brought from the mother-country. A person familiar with the dialect of certain portions of Massachusetts will not fail to recognize, in ordinary discourse, many words now noted in English vocabularies as archaic, the greater part of which were in common use about the time of the King James translation of the Bible. Shakspeare stands less in need of a glossary to most New Englanders than to many a native of the Old Country. The peculiarities of our speech, however, are rapidly wearing out. As there is no country where reading is so universal and newspapers are so multitudinous, so no phrase remains long local, but is transplanted in the mail-bags to every remotest corner of the land. Consequently our dialect approaches nearer to uniformity than that of any other nation.
The English have complained of us for coining new words. Many of those so stigmatized were old ones by them forgotten, and all make now an unquestioned part of the currency, wherever English is spoken. Undoubtedly, we have a right to make new words, as they are needed by the fresh aspects under which life presents itself here in the New World; and, indeed, wherever a language is alive, it grows. It might be questioned whether we could not establish a stronger title to the ownership of the English tongue than the mother-islanders themselves. Here, past all question, is to be its great home and centre. And not only is it already spoken here by greater numbers, but with a far higher popular average of correctness, than in Britain. The great writers of it, too, we might claim as ours, were ownership to be settled by the number of readers and lovers.
As regards the provincialisms to be met with in this volume, I may say that the reader will not find one which is not (as I believe) either native or imported with the early settlers, nor one which I have not, with my own ears, heard in familiar use. In the metrical portion of the book, I have endeavoured to adapt the spelling as nearly as possible to the ordinary mode of pronunciation. Let the reader who deems me overparticular remember this caution of Martial:--
"_Quem recitas, meus est, O Fidentine, libellus; Sed male cum recitas, incipit esse tuus._"
A few further explanatory remarks will not be impertinent.
I shall barely lay down a few general rules for the reader's guidance.
1. The genuine Yankee never gives the rough sound to the _r_ when he can help it, and often displays considerable ingenuity in avoiding it even before a vowel.
2. He seldom sounds the final _g_, a piece of self-denial, if we consider his partiality for nasals. The same of the final _d_, as _han'_ and _stan'_ for _hand_ and _stand_.
3. The _h_ in such words as _while_, _when_, _where_, he omits altogether.
4. In regard to _a_, he shows some inconsistency, sometimes giving a close and obscure sound, as _hev_ for _have_, _hendy_ for _handy_, _ez_ for _as_, _thet_ for _that_, and again giving it the broad sound it has in _father_, as _hânsome_ for _handsome_.
5. To the sound _ou_ he prefixes an _e_ (hard to exemplify otherwise than orally).
The following passage in Shakspeare he would recite thus:--
"Neow is the winta uv eour discontent Med glorious summa by this sun o' Yock, An' all the cleouds thet leowered upun eour heouse In the deep buzzum o' the oshin buried; Neow air eour breows beound 'ith victorious wreaths; Eour breused arms hung up fer monimunce; Eour starn alarums ch[)a]nged to merry meetins, Eour dreffle marches to delightful measures. Grim-visaged war heth smeuthed his wrinkled front, An' neow, instid o' mountin' barebid steeds To fright the souls o' ferfle edverseries, He capers nimly in a lady's ch[)a]mber, To the lascivious pleasin' uv a loot."
6. _Au_, in such words as _daughter_ and _slaughter_, he pronounces _ah_.
7. To the dish thus seasoned add a drawl _ad libitum_.
[Mr. Wilbur's notes here become entirely fragmentary.--C. N.]
{a}. Unable to procure a likeness of Mr. Biglow, I thought the curious reader might be gratified with a sight of the editorial effigies. And here a choice between two was offered,--the one a profile (entirely black) cut by Doyle, the other a portrait painted by a native artist of much promise. The first of these seemed wanting in expression, and in the second a slight obliquity of the visual organs has been heightened (perhaps from an over-desire of force on the part of the artist) into too close an approach to actual _strabismus_. This slight divergence in my optical apparatus from the ordinary model--however I may have been taught to regard it in the light of a mercy rather than a cross, since it enabled me to give as much of directness and personal application to my discourses as met the wants of my congregation, without risk of offending any by being supposed to have him or her in my eye (as the saying is)--seemed yet to Mrs. Wilbur a sufficient objection to the engraving of the aforesaid painting. We read of many who either absolutely refused to allow the copying of their features, as especially did Plotinus and Agesilaus among the ancients, not to mention the more modern instances of Scioppius Palæottus, Pinellus, Velserus, Gataker, and others, or were indifferent thereto, as Cromwell.
{b}. Yet was Cæsar desirous of concealing his baldness. _Per contra_, my Lord Protector's carefulness in the matter of his wart might be cited. Men generally more desirous of being _improved_ in their portraits than characters. Shall probably find very unflattered likenesses of ourselves in Recording Angel's gallery.
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{g}. Whether any of our national peculiarities may be traced to our use of stoves, as a certain closeness of the lips in pronunciation, and a smothered smoulderingness of disposition, seldom roused to open flame? An unrestrained intercourse with fire probably conducive to generosity and hospitality of soul. Ancient Mexicans used stoves, as the friar Augustin Ruiz reports, Hakluyt, III., 468,--but Popish priests not always reliable authority.
To-day picked my Isabella grapes. Crop injured by attacks of rose-bug in the spring. Whether Noah was justifiable in preserving this class of insects?
{d}. Concerning Mr. Biglow's pedigree. Tolerably certain that there was never a poet among his ancestors. An ordination hymn attributed to a maternal uncle, but perhaps a sort of production not demanding the creative faculty.
His grandfather a painter of the grandiose or Michael Angelo school. Seldom painted objects smaller than houses or barns, and these with uncommon expression.
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{e}. Of the Wilburs no complete pedigree. The crest said to be a _wild boar_, whence, perhaps, the name. (?) A connection with the Earls of Wilbraham (_quasi_ wild boar ham) might be made out. This suggestion worth following up. In 1677, John W. m. Expect ----, had issue, 1. John, 2. Haggai, 3. Expect, 4. Ruhamah, 5. Desire.
"Hear lyes y^e bodye of Mrs Expect Wilber, Y^e crewell salvages they kil'd her Together w^th other Christian soles eleaven, October y^e ix daye, 1707. Y^e stream of Jordan sh' as crost ore And now expeacts me on y^e other shore: I live in hope her soon to join; Her earthlye yeeres were forty and nine." _From Gravestone in Pekussett, North Parish._
This is unquestionably the same John who afterward (1711) married Tabitha Hagg or Rag.
But if this were the case, she seems to have died early; for only three years after, namely, 1714, we have evidence that he married Winifred, daughter of Lieutenant Tipping.
He seems to have been a man of substance, for we find him in 1696 conveying "one undivided eightieth part of a salt-meadow" in Yabbok, and he commanded a sloop in 1702.
Those who doubt the importance of genealogical studies _fuste potius quam argumento erudiendi_.
I trace him as far as 1723, and there lose him. In that year he was chosen selectman.
No gravestone. Perhaps overthrown when new hearse-house was built, 1802.
He was probably the son of John, who came from Bilham Comit. Salop. circa 1642.
This first John was a man of considerable importance, being twice mentioned with the honourable prefix of _Mr._ in the town records. Name spelt with two _l_-s.
"Hear lyeth y^e bod [_stone unhappily broken_.] Mr. Ihon Willber [Esq.] [_I inclose this in brackets as doubtful. To me it seems clear._] Ob't die [_illegible; looks like xviii._] ... iii [_prob. 1693._] ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... paynt ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... deseased seinte: A friend and [fath]er untoe all y^e opreast, Hee gave y^e wicked familists noe reast, When Sat[an bl]ewe his Antinomian blaste, Wee clong to [Willber as a steadf]ast maste. [A]gaynst y^e horrid Qua[kers]...."
It is greatly to be lamented that this curious epitaph is mutilated. It is said that the sacrilegious British soldiers made a target of this stone during the war of Independence. How odious an animosity which pauses not at the grave! How brutal that which spares not the monuments of authentic history! This is not improbably from the pen of Rev. Moddy Pyram, who is mentioned by Hubbard as having been noted for a silver vein of poetry. If his papers be still extant, a copy might possibly be recovered.
FOOTNOTES:
[3] The reader curious in such matters may refer (if he can find them) to "A Sermon preached on the Anniversary of the Dark Day," "An Artillery Election Sermon," "A Discourse on the Late Eclipse," "Dorcas, a Funeral Sermon on the Death of Madam Submit Tidd, Relict of the late Experience Tidd, Esq." &c. &c.
THE BIGLOW PAPERS.
No. I.
A LETTER
FROM MR. EZEKIEL BIGLOW OF JAALAM TO THE HON. JOSEPH T. BUCKINGHAM, EDITOR OF THE BOSTON COURIER, INCLOSING A POEM OF HIS SON, MR. HOSEA BIGLOW.
JAYLEM, june 1846.
MISTER EDDYTER:--Our Hosea wuz down to Boston last week, and he see a cruetin Sarjunt a struttin round as popler as a hen with 1 chicking, with 2 fellers a drummin and fifin arter him like all nater. the sarjunt he thout Hosea hedn't gut his i teeth cut cos he looked a kindo's though he'd jest com down, so he cal'lated to hook him in, but Hosy woodn't take none o' his sarse for all he hed much as 20 Rooster's tales stuck onto his hat and eenamost enuf brass a bobbin up and down on his shoulders and figureed onto his coat and trousis, let alone wut nater hed sot in his featers, to make a 6 pounder out on.
wal, Hosea he com home considerabal riled, and arter I d gone to bed I heern Him a thrashin round like a short-tailed Bull in fli-time. The old Woman ses she to me ses she, Zekle, ses she, our Hosee's gut the chollery or suthin anuther ses she, don't you Bee skeered, ses I, he's oney amakin pottery[4] ses i, he's ollers on hand at that ere busynes like Da & martin, and shure enuf, cum mornin, Hosy he cum down stares full chizzle, hare on eend and cote tales flyin, and sot rite of to go reed his varses to Parson Wilbur bein he haint aney grate shows o' book larnin himself, bimeby he cum back and sed the parson wuz dreffle tickled with 'em as i hoop you will Be, and said they wuz True grit.
Hosea ses taint hardly fair to call 'em hisn now, cos the parson kind o' slicked off sum o' the last varses, but he told Hosee he didn't want to put his ore in to tetch to the Rest on 'em, bein they wuz verry well As thay wuz, and then Hosy ses he sed suthin a nuther about Simplex Mundishes or sum sech feller, but I guess Hosea kind o' didn't hear him, for I never hearn o' nobody o' that name in this villadge, and I've lived here man and boy 76 year cum next tater diggin, and thair aint no wheres a kitting spryer 'n I be.
If you print 'em I wish you'd jest let folks know who hosy's father is, cos my ant Keziah used to say it's nater to be curus ses she, she aint livin though and he's a likely kind o' lad.
EZEKIEL BIGLOW.
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Thrash away, you 'll _hev_ to rattle On them kittle drums o' yourn,-- 'Taint a knowin' kind o' cattle Thet is ketched with mouldy corn; Put in stiff, you fifer feller, Let folks see how spry you be,-- Guess you 'll toot till you are yeller 'Fore you git ahold o' me!
Thet air flag 's a leetle rotten, Hope it aint your Sunday's best;-- Fact! it takes a sight o' cotton To stuff out a soger's chest: Sence we farmers hev to pay fer 't, Ef you must wear humps like these, Sposin' you should try salt hay fer 't, It would du ez slick ez grease.
'T would n't suit them Southern fellers, They 're a dreffle graspin' set, We must ollers blow the bellers Wen they want their irons het; May be it 's all right ez preachin', But _my_ narves it kind o' grates, Wen I see the overreachin' O' them nigger-drivin' States.
Them thet rule us, them slave-traders, Haint they cut a thunderin' swarth (Helped by Yankee renegaders), Thru the vartu o' the North! We begin to think it 's nater To take sarse an' not be riled;-- Who 'd expect to see a tater All on eend at bein' biled?
Ez fer war, I call it murder,-- There you hev it plain an' flat; I don't want to go no furder Than my Testyment fer that; God hez sed so plump an' fairly, It 's ez long ez it is broad, An' you 've gut to git up airly Ef you want to take in God.
'Taint your eppyletts an' feathers Make the thing a grain more right; Taint afollerin' your bell-wethers Will excuse ye in His sight; Ef you take a sword an' dror it, An' go stick a feller thru, Guv'ment aint to answer for it, God 'll send the bill to you.
Wut 's the use o' meetin-goin' Every Sabbath, wet or dry, Ef it 's right to go amowin' Feller-men like oats an' rye? I dunno but wut it's pooty Trainin' round in bobtail coats,-- But it 's curus Christian dooty This ere cuttin' folks's throats.
They may talk o' Freedom's airy Tell they 're pupple in the face,-- It 's a grand gret cemetary Fer the barthrights of our race; They jest want this Californy So 's to lug new slave-states in To abuse ye, an' to scorn ye, An' to plunder ye like sin.
Aint it cute to see a Yankee Take sech everlastin' pains All to git the Devil's thankee, Helpin' on 'em weld their chains? Wy, it 's jest ez clear ez figgers, Clear ez one an' one make two, Chaps thet make black slaves o' niggers Want to make wite slaves o' you.
Tell ye jest the eend I've come to Arter cipherin' plaguy smart, An' it makes a handy sum, tu, Any gump could larn by heart; Laborin' man an' laborin' woman Hev one glory an' one shame, Ev'y thin' thet 's done inhuman Injers all on 'em the same.
'Taint by turnin' out to hack folks You 're agoin' to git your right, Nor by lookin' down on black folks Coz you 're put upon by wite; Slavery aint o' nary colour, 'Taint the hide thet makes it wus, All it keers fer in a feller 'S jest to make him fill its pus.
Want to tackle _me_ in, du ye? I expect you 'll hev to wait; Wen cold lead puts daylight thru ye You 'll begin to kal'late; 'Spose the crows wun't fall to pickin' All the carkiss from your bones, Coz you helped to give a lickin' To them poor half-Spanish drones?
Jest go home an' ask our Nancy Wether I'd be sech a goose Ez to jine ye,--guess you'd fancy The etarnal bung wuz loose! She wants me fer home consumption, Let alone the hay 's to mow,-- Ef you 're arter folks o' gumption, You've a darned long row to hoe.
Take them editors thet 's crowin' Like a cockerel three months old,-- Don't ketch any on 'em goin', Though they _be_ so blasted bold; _Aint_ they a prime set o' fellers? 'Fore they think on 't they will sprout (Like a peach thet's got the yellers), With the meanness bustin' out.
Wal, go 'long to help 'em stealin' Bigger pens to cram with slaves, Help the men thet 's ollers dealin' Insults on your fathers' graves; Help the strong to grind the feeble, Help the many agin the few, Help the men thet call your people Witewashed slaves an' peddlin' crew!
Massachusetts, God forgive her, She's akneelin' with the rest, She, thet ough' to ha' clung fer ever In her grand old eagle-nest; She thet ough' to stand so fearless Wile the wracks are round her hurled, Holdin' up a beacon peerless To the oppressed of all the world!
Haint they sold your coloured seamen? Haint they made your env'ys wiz? _Wut_ 'll make ye act like freemen? _Wut_ 'll git your dander riz? Come, I'll tell ye wut I 'm thinkin' Is our dooty in this fix, They 'd ha' done 't ez quick ez winkin' In the days o' seventy-six.
Clang the bells in every steeple, Call all true men to disown The tradoocers of our people, The enslavers o' their own; Let our dear old Bay State proudly Put the trumpet to her mouth, Let her ring this messidge loudly In the ears of all the South:--
"I 'll return ye good fer evil Much ez we frail mortils can, But I wun't go help the Devil Makin' man the cus o' man; Call me coward, call me traiter, Jest ez suits your mean idees,-- Here I stand a tyrant-hater, An' the friend o' God an Peace!"
Ef I'd _my_ way I hed ruther We should go to work an' part,-- They take one way, we take t'other,-- Guess it would n't break my heart; Men hed ough' to put asunder Them thet God has noways jined; An' I should n't gretly wonder Ef there 's thousands o' my mind.
[The first recruiting sergeant on record I conceive to have been that individual who is mentioned in the Book of Job as _going to and fro in the earth, and walking up and down in it_. Bishop Latimer will have him to have been a bishop, but to me that other calling would appear more congenial. The sect of Cainites is not yet extinct, who esteemed the first-born of Adam to be the most worthy, not only because of that privilege of primogeniture, but inasmuch as he was able to overcome and slay his younger brother. That was a wise saying of the famous Marquis Pescara to the Papal Legate, that _it was impossible for men to serve Mars and Christ at the same time_. Yet in time past the profession of arms was judged to be {kat' exochên} that of a gentleman, nor does this opinion want for strenuous upholders even in our day. Must we suppose, then, that the profession of Christianity was only intended for losels, or, at best, to afford an opening for plebeian ambition? Or shall we hold with that nicely metaphysical Pomeranian, Captain Vratz, who was Count Königsmark's chief instrument in the murder of Mr. Thynne, that the scheme of salvation has been arranged with an especial eye to the necessities of the upper classes, and that "God would consider _a gentleman_, and deal with him suitably to the condition and profession he had placed him in"? It may be said of us all, _Exemplo plus quam ratione vivimus_.--H. W.]
FOOTNOTES:
[4] _Aut insanit, aut versus facit._--H. W.
No. II.
A LETTER
FROM MR. HOSEA BIGLOW TO THE HON. J. T. BUCKINGHAM, EDITOR OF THE BOSTON COURIER, COVERING A LETTER FROM MR. B. SAWIN, PRIVATE IN THE MASSACHUSETTS REGIMENT.
[This letter of Mr. Sawin's was not originally written in verse. Mr. Biglow, thinking it peculiarly susceptible of metrical adornment, translated it, so to speak, into his own vernacular tongue. This is not the time to consider the question, whether rhyme be a mode of expression natural to the human race. If leisure from other and more important avocations be granted, I will handle the matter more at large in an appendix to the present volume. In this place I will barely remark, that I have sometimes noticed in the unlanguaged prattlings of infants a fondness for alliteration, assonance, and even rhyme, in which natural predisposition we may trace the three degrees through which our Anglo-Saxon verse rose to its culmination in the poetry of Pope. I would not be understood as questioning in these remarks that pious theory which supposes that children, if left entirely to themselves, would naturally discourse in Hebrew. For this the authority of one experiment is claimed, and I could, with Sir Thomas Browne, desire its establishment, inasmuch as the acquirement of that sacred tongue would thereby be facilitated. I am aware that Herodotus states the conclusion of Psammiticus to have been in favour of a dialect of the Phrygian. But, beside the chance that a trial of this importance would hardly be blessed to a Pagan monarch whose only motive was curiosity, we have on the Hebrew side the comparatively recent investigation of James the Fourth of Scotland. I will add to this prefatory remark, that Mr. Sawin, though a native of Jaalam, has never been a stated attendant on the religious exercises of my congregation. I consider my humble efforts prospered in that not one of my sheep hath ever indued the wolf's clothing of war, save for the comparatively innocent diversion of a militia training. Not that my flock are backward to undergo the hardships of _defensive_ warfare. They serve cheerfully in the great army which fights even unto death _pro aris et focis_, accoutred with the spade, the axe, the plane, the sledge, the spelling-book, and other such effectual weapons against want and ignorance and unthrift. I have taught them (under God) to esteem our human institutions as but tents of a night, to be stricken whenever Truth puts the bugle to her lips, and sounds a march to the heights of wider-viewed intelligence and more perfect organization.--H. W.]
MISTER BUCKINUM, the follerin Billet was writ hum by a Yung feller of our town that wuz cussed fool enuff to goe atrottin inter Miss Chiff arter a Drum and fife. it ain't Nater for a feller to let on that he's sick o' any bizness that He went intu off his own free will and a Cord, but I rather cal'late he's middlin tired o' Voluntearin By this Time. I bleeve u may put dependunts on his statemence. For I never heered nothin bad on him let Alone his havin what Parson Wilbur calls a _pongshong_ for cocktales, and he ses it wuz a soshiashun of idees sot him agoin arter the Crootin Sargient cos he wore a cocktale onto his hat.
his Folks gin the letter to me and i shew it to parson Wilbur and he ses it oughter Bee printed. send It to mister Buckinum, ses he, i don't ollers agree with him, ses he, but by Time,[5] ses he, I _du_ like a feller that ain't a Feared.
I have intusspussed a Few refleckshuns hear and thair. We're kind o' prest with Hayin.
Ewers respecfly,
HOSEA BIGLOW.
* * * * *
This kind o' sogerin' aint a mite like our October trainin', A chap could clear right out from there ef 't only looked like rainin'. An' th' Cunnles, tu, could kiver up their shappoes with bandanners, An' send the insines skootin' to the bar-room with their banners (Fear o' gittin' on 'em spotted), an' a feller could cry quarter Ef he fired away his ramrod arter tu much rum an' water.