speech differing from the standard or literary language.” When we talk of “speakers of dialect,” we imply that they employ a provincial method of speech to which the man who has been educated to use the language of books is unaccustomed. Such a man finds that the dialect-speaker frequently uses words or modes of expression which he does not understand or which are at any rate strange to him; and he is sure to notice that such words as seem to be familiar to him are, for the most part, strangely pronounced. Such differences are especially noticeable in the use of vowels and diphthongs, and in the mode of intonation.

The speaker of the “standard” language is frequently tempted to consider himself as the dialect-speaker’s superior, unless he has already acquired some elementary knowledge of the value of the science of language or has sufficient common sense to be desirous of learning to understand that which for the moment lies beyond him. I remember once hearing the remark made—“What is the good of dialects? Why not sweep them all away, and have done with them?” But the very form of the question betrays ignorance of the facts; for it is no more possible to do away with them than it is possible to suppress the waves of the sea. English, like every other literary language, has always had its dialects and will long continue to possess them in secluded districts, though they are at the present time losing much of that archaic character which gives them their chief value. The spread of education may profoundly modify them, but the spoken language of the people will ever continue to devise new variations and to initiate developments of its own. Even the “standard” language is continually losing old words and admitting new ones, as was noted long ago by Horace; and our so-called “standard” pronunciation is ever imperceptibly but surely changing, and never continues in one stay.

In the very valuable Lectures on the Science of Language by Professor F. Max Müller, the second Lecture, which deserves careful study, is chiefly occupied by some account of the processes which he names respectively “phonetic decay” and “dialectic regeneration”; processes to which all languages have always been and ever will be subject.

By “phonetic decay” is meant that insidious and gradual alteration in the sounds of spoken words which, though it cannot be prevented, at last so corrupts a word that it becomes almost or wholly unmeaning. Such a word as twenty does not suggest its origin. Many might perhaps guess, from their observation of such numbers as thirty, forty, etc., that the suffix -ty may have something to do with ten, of the original of which it is in fact an extremely reduced form; but it is less obvious that twen- is a shortened form of twain. And perhaps none but scholars of Teutonic languages are aware that twain was once of the masculine gender only, while two was so restricted that it could only be applied to things that were feminine or neuter. As a somewhat hackneyed example of phonetic decay, we may take the case of the Latin mea domina, i.e. my mistress, which became in French ma dame, and in English madam; and the last of these has been further shortened to mam, and even to ’m, as in the phrase “Yes, ’m.” This shows how nine letters may be reduced to one. Similarly, our monosyllable alms is all that is left of the Greek eleēmosynē. Ten letters have here been reduced to four.

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:

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,