THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND.
In the course of a recent search for Italian conversation manuals I came upon one which put so strangely novel a complexion on our own tongue that, though it was not quite what I was seeking, I bought it. To see ourselves as others see us may be a difficult operation, but to hear ourselves as others hear us is by this little book made quite easy. Everyone knows the old story of the Italian who entered an East-bound omnibus in the Strand and asked to be put down at Kay-ahp-see-day. Well, this book should prevent him from doing it again.
But its great attraction is the courageous personality of the protagonist as revealed by his various remarks. For example, most of us who are not linguists confine our conversations in foreign places to the necessities of life, rarely leaving the beaten track of bread and butter, knives and forks, the times of trains, cab fares, the way to the station, the way to the post-office, hotel prices and washing lists. And even then we disdain or flee from syntax. But this conversationalist embroiders and dilates. He is intrepid. He has no reluctances. Where we in Italy would, at the most, say to the cameriere, "Portaci una tazza di caffè," and think ourselves lucky to get it, he lures the London waiter to invite a disquistion on the precious berry. Thus, he begins: "Còffi is ri-marchêbl fòr iz vère stim-iùlêtin pròpèrtê. Du ju nô hau it uòs discòvvard?" The waiter very promptly and properly saying, "Nô, Sôr," the Italian unloads as follows: "Uèl, ai uil tèl ju thèt iz discòvvarê is sêd tu hèv bin òchêsciònt bai thi fòllôin sôrcòmstanz. Som gôts, hu braus-t òp-òn thi plènt fròm huicc thi còffi sîds ar gàthard, uear òbsèrv-d bai thi gôthards tu bi èchsîdingle uêchful, ènd òfn tu chêpar èbaut in thi nait; thi pràior ôv ê nêbarin mònnastere, uiscin tu chip his mònchs êuêch èt thèar mat-tins, traid if thi côffi ud prôdiùs thi sêm èffècht òp-òn thèm, ès it uòs òbsèrv-d tu du òp-òn thi gôts; thi sòch-sès òv his èchspèrimènt lèd tu thi apprèsciêsciòn òv iz valliù."
A little later a London bookseller has the temerity to place some of the latest fiction before our chatty alien, but pays dearly for his rash act. In these words did the Italian let him have it:—"Ai du nòt laich nòv-èls èt òl, bicô-s ê nòv-èl is bàt ê fichtisciòs têl stof-t òv sô mène fantastical dîds ènd nònsènsical wòrds, huicc òpsèt maind ènd hàrt. An-hêppe thô-s an-uêre jòngh pèrsòns, hu spènd thèar prê-sciòs taim in ridin nòv-èls! Thê du nòt nô thèt nòv-èllists, gènnèralle spichin, ar thi laitèst ènd thi môst huim-sical raittars, hu hèv uêstèd ènd uêst thèar laif in liùdnès."
English people abroad do not, as a rule, drop aphorisms by the way; but our Italian loves to do so. Thus, to one stranger (in the section devoted to Virtues and Vices), he remarks, "Uith-aut Riligiòn ui sciùd bi uòrs thèn bîsts." To another, "Thi igotist spîchs còntinniùalle òv himself ènd mêchs himsèlf thi sèntar òv èvvère thingh." And to a third, a little tactlessly perhaps, "Impólait-nès is disgòstin." He is sententious even to his hatter: "Ê hèt sciùd bi prôpôrsciònd tu thi hèd ènd pèrsòn, fòr it is lâf-èbl tu sî ê largg hèt òp-òn ê smòl hèd, ènd ê smòl hèt òp-òn ê largg hèd." But sometimes he goes all astray. He is, for instance, desperately ill-informed as to English law. In England, he tells us, and believes the pathetic fallacy, "thi trêns stàrt ènd arraiv vère pòngh-ciùalle, òthar-uais passèn-giàrs hu arraiv-lêt fòr thèar bis-nès cud siù thi Compane fôr dèm-êgg-s."
He is calm and collected in an emergency. Thus, to a lady who has burst into flames, "Bi not êfrêd, Madam," he says, "thi fair hès còt jur gaun. Lé daun òp-òn thi flòr, ènd ju uil put aut thi fair uith jur hènds." His presence of mind saves him from using his own hands for the purpose. Resourcefulness is indeed as natural to him as to Sir CHRISTOPHER WREN in the famous poem. "Uilliam," he says to his man, "if ènebòde asch-s fòr mi, ju uil sê thèt ai scèl bi bèch in ê fòrt-nait."
He meets Miss Butterfield.
"Mis Bòttarfild," he says, "uil ju ghiv mi ê glàs òv uòtar, if ju plîs?" And that is the end of the lady. Or I think so. But there is just a possibility that it is she (no longer Miss Butterfield, but now a Signora) whom he rebukes in a coffee-house: "Mai diar, du nòt spích òv pòllitichs in ê Còffi-Haus, fòr nò travvellar, if priùdènt, èvvar tòchs èbaut pòllitichs in pòblich." And again it may be for Miss Butterfield that he orders a charming present (first saying it is for a lady): "Ghiv mi thèt ripittar sèt uith rubès, thèt straich-s thi aurs ènd thi hâf-aurs."
Finally he embarks for Australia and quickly becomes as human as the rest of us. "Thi uind," he murmurs uneasily, "is raisin. Thi si is vère ròf. Thi mô-sciòn òv thi Stim-bôt mêch-s mi an-uèl. Ai fîl vère sich. Mai hèd is dizze. Ai hèv gòt ê hèd-êch." But he assures a fellow-passenger that there is no cause for fear, even if a storm should come on. "Du nòt bi àlarmd," he says; "thèar is nô dêngg-ar. Thi Chèp-tèn òv this Stima-r is è vère clèvar mèn."
His last words, addressed apparently to the rest of the passengers as they reach Adelaide, are these: "Lèt òs mêch hêst ènd gô tu thi Còstòm-Haus tu hèv aur lògh-êggs èch-samint. In Òstrêlia, thi Còstòm-Haus Òffisars ar nòt hòtte, bàt vère pôlait."
"I AIN'T ENOUGH PAPER TO WROP HIM UP, MISTER; BUT NO ONE'LL NOTICE A NOOD WURZEL IN WAR-TIME."