This irresistible tendency to indistinctness and loss is not, however, wholly bad; for it has at the same time largely contributed, especially in English, to such a simplification of grammatical inflexions as certainly has the practical convenience of giving us less to learn. But in addition to this decay in the forms of words, we have also to reckon with a depreciation or weakening of the ideas they express. Many words become so hackneyed as to be no longer impressive. As late as in 1820, Keats could say, in stanza 6 of his poem of Isabella, that “His heart beat awfully against his side”; but at the present day the word awfully is suggestive of schoolboys’ slang. It is here that we may well have the benefit of the principle of “dialectic regeneration.” We shall often do well to borrow from our dialects many terms that are still fresh and racy, and instinct with a full significance. Tennyson was well aware of this, and not only wrote several poems wholly in the Lincolnshire dialect, but introduced dialect words elsewhere. Thus in The Voyage of Maeldune, he has the striking line: “Our voices were thinner and fainter than any flittermouse-shriek.” In at least sixteen dialects a flittermouse means “a bat.”
I have mentioned Tennyson in this connexion because he was a careful student of English, not only in its dialectal but also in its older forms. But, as a matter of fact, nearly all our chief writers have recognised the value of dialectal words. Tennyson was not the first to use the above word. Near the end of the Second Act of his Sad Shepherd, Ben Jonson speaks of:
Green-bellied snakes, blue fire-drakes in the sky,
And giddy flitter-mice with leather wings.
Similarly, there are plenty of “provincialisms” in Shakespeare. In an interesting book entitled Shakespeare, his Birthplace and its Neighbourhood, by J.R. Wise, there is a chapter on “The Provincialisms of Shakespeare,” from which I beg leave to give a short extract by way of specimen.
“There is the expressive compound ‘blood-boltered’ in Macbeth (Act iv, Sc. 1), which the critics have all thought meant simply blood-stained. Miss Baker, in her Glossary of Northamptonshire Words, first pointed out that ‘bolter’ was peculiarly a Warwickshire word, signifying to clot, collect, or cake, as snow does in a horse’s hoof, thus giving the phrase a far greater intensity of meaning. And Steevens, too, first noticed that in the expression in The Winter’s Tale (Act iii, Sc. 3), ‘Is it a boy or a child?’—where, by the way, every actor tries to make a point, and the audience invariably laughs—the word ‘child’ is used, as is sometimes the case in the midland districts, as synonymous with girl; which is plainly its meaning in this passage, although the speaker has used it just before in its more common sense of either a boy or a girl.”
In fact, the English Dialect Dictionary cites the phrase “is it a lad or a child?” as being still current in Shropshire; and duly states that, in Warwickshire, “dirt collected on the hairs of a horse’s leg and forming into hard masses is said to bolter.” Trench further points out that many of our pure Anglo-Saxon words which lived on into the formation of our early English, subsequently dropped out of our usual vocabulary, and are now to be found only in the dialects. A good example is the word eme, an uncle (A.S. ēam), which is rather common in Middle English, but has seldom appeared in our literature since the tune of Drayton. Yet it is well known in our Northern dialects, and Sir Walter Scott puts the expression “Didna his eme die” in the mouth of Davie Deans (Heart of Midlothian, ch. xii). In fact, few things are more extraordinary in the history of our language than the singularly capricious manner in which good and useful words emerge into or disappear from use in “standard” talk, for no very obvious reason. Such a word as yonder is common enough still; but its corresponding adjective yon, as in the phrase “yon man,” is usually relegated to our dialects. Though it is common in Shakespeare, it is comparatively rare in the Middle English period, from the twelfth to the fifteenth century. It only occurs once in Chaucer, where it is introduced as being a Northern word; and it absolutely disappears from record in the tenth, eleventh, and twelfth centuries. Bosworth’s Anglo-Saxon Dictionary gives no example of its use, and it was long supposed that it would be impossible to trace it in our early records. Nevertheless, when Dr Sweet printed, for the first time, an edition of King Alfred’s translation of Pope Gregory’s Pastoral Care, an example appeared in which it was employed in the most natural manner, as if it were in everyday use. At p. 443 of that treatise is the sentence—“Aris and gong to geonre byrg,” i.e. Arise and go to yon city. Here the A.S. geon (pronounced like the modern yon) is actually declined after the regular manner, being duly provided with the suffix -re, which was the special suffix reserved only for the genitive or dative feminine. It is here a dative after the preposition to.
There is, in fact, no limit to the good use to which a reverent study of our dialects may be put by a diligent student. They abound with pearls which are worthy of a better fate than to be trampled under foot. I will content myself with giving one last example that is really too curious to be passed over in silence.
It so happens that in the Anglo-Saxon epic poem of Beowulf, one of the most remarkable and precious of our early poems, there is a splendid and graphic description of a lonely mere, such as would have delighted the heart of Edgar Allan Poe, the author of Ulalume. In Professor Earle’s prose translation of this passage, given in his Deeds of Beowulf, at p. 44, is a description of two mysterious monsters, of whom it is said that “they inhabit unvisited land, wolf-crags, windy bluffs, the dread fen-track, where the mountain waterfall amid precipitous gloom vanisheth beneath—flood under earth. Not far hence it is, reckoning by miles, that the Mere standeth, and over it hang rimy groves; a wood with clenched roots overshrouds the water.” The word to be noted here is the word rimy, i.e. covered with rime or hoar-frost. The original Anglo-Saxon text has the form hrinde, the meaning of which was long doubtful. Grein, the great German scholar, writing in 1864, acknowledged that he did not know what was intended, and it was not till 1880 that light was first thrown upon the passage. In that year Dr Morris edited, for the first time, some Anglo-Saxon homilies (commonly known as the Blickling Homilies, because the MS. is in the library of Blickling Hall, Norfolk); and he called attention to a passage (at p. 209) where the homilist was obviously referring to the lonely mere of the old poem, in which its overhanging groves were described as being hrimige, which is nothing but the true old spelling of rimy. He naturally concluded that the word hrinde (in the MS. of Beowulf) was miswritten, and that the scribe had inadvertently put down hrinde instead of hrimge, which is a legitimate contraction of hrimige. Many scholars accepted this solution; but a further light was yet to come, viz. in 1904. In that year, Dr Joseph Wright printed the fifth volume of the English Dialect Dictionary, showing that in the dialects of Scotland, Northumberland, Durham, and Yorkshire, the word for “hoarfrost” is not rime, but rind, with a derived adjective rindy, which has the same sense as rimy. At the same time, he called attention yet once more to the passage in Beowulf. It is established, accordingly, that the suspected mistake in the MS. is no mistake at all; that the form hrinde is correct, being a contraction of hrindge or hrindige, plural of the adjective hrindig, which is preserved in our dialects, in the form rindy, to this very day. In direct contradiction of a common popular error that regards our dialectal forms as being, for the most part, “corrupt,” it will be found by experience that they are remarkably conservative and antique.