The bronchial region chokes and clogs.
December, with its dearth of sun,
For sheer discomfort takes the bun.
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."