By Mrs Ann Wheeler
Ann Coward was born about 1735 in Cartmel. As a young woman, she left North Lancashire for London where she married Captain Wheeler, a seaman in the Guinea trade. At his death she returned to the north and lived with her brother, W.M. Coward, at Arnside Tower until her death in 1804. During her years at Arnside, she wrote several books, including The Westmorland Dialect in Four Dialogues in which she tried to convey the local dialect phonetically.
It is not only the dialect spoken in our area at the end of the eighteenth century that her Dialogues recreate. Their subject matter is drawn from the life of the time and the place, and though fictitious, they do seem to tell us something about the way our predecessors here two hundred years ago may have lived.
The selection included here is entitled
‘A Prefatory Discourse.’ It is hoped it will introduce readers to Mrs Wheeler’s phonetic technique, in preparation for extracts from the main Dialogues.
Mr A. Green of Arnside brought the Dialogues to my attention and with his help I have prepared the ’translation’ which accompanies the passage. I apologise both to those who don’t need such an aid and may consider it patronising and to those who do and may find it insufficient.
‘A Prefatory Discourse.’
I kna many of my readers will think, nay en say, I hed lile et dea tae rite sic maapment about nae body knas wha; I mud hev fund mitch better employment in a cuntry hause, tae mind milkiness, sarra th coafs, leak heftert pigs en hens, spin tow for bord claiths en sheets; it wod hev been mitch mair farently then ritin books, a wark ets fit for nin but parson et dea; but en ea mud rite I sud hev meaad receits for sweet pyes en rice puddins, en takin mauls aut eth claiths, that mud hev done gud, but as tae this, nea yan knas what it means, it’s a capper.
It wur net ith time of Oliver Crumel ner King Stune, but sum udder king, two men com a girt way off, ameast be Lunon, an they wanted toth gang cwar Sand, but when they com an leaked what a fearful way it wur owar, en nae hedges ner tornpike tae be seen, they wur flayed en steud gloarin about net knain what toth dea, when belive a man com ridin up tew em en eshed whaar they wur bawn; they sad owar Sand, but it wur sic a parlish way they didn’t like tae gang, for feard ea been drownt; this mon sed cum gang wie me, I’ll tak ye’th seaf owar I’ll uphod ye’th; wie that they set off, an thor men hed bean at a college caod Cambridg, en they thout tae hev sum gam wie their guide, soa as they raidd alang, yan on em sed ho wod give a supper an a crawn baul of punch if they cud cap him ea ony six words; they tryd mony a time, but cud net deat. At last they gat seaf owar Sand, en ridin up Shilla, two wimen wur feighten, hed pood yan udder’s caps off en neckcloths; they steud and leakd et em a lile bit, when th guide cood out ‘En udder blae el deat.” Upon hearing this, our travellers sed yee hev won the wager, for that wur a language unknawn to onny university.
Translation
I know many of my readers will think, nay and say, I had little to do to write such nonsense about nobody knows what; I might have found much better employment in a country house, to mind the dairy work, feed the calves, look after pigs and hens, spin tow for table cloths and sheets it would have been much more suitable than writing books, a work that’s fit for none but a parson to do, but if I must write I should have made recipes for sweet pies and rice puddings, and taking mauls cut of cloths, that might have done good, but as to this, no one knows what it means, it’s a capper.
It was not in the time of Oliver Cromwell nor King Stune, but some other king, two men came from a great way off, almost by London, and they wanted to go over the Sands, but when they came and looked what a fearful way it was over, and no hedges nor turnpike to be seen, they were afraid and stood gazing about not knowing what to do, when, believe it, a man camo riding up to them and asked where they were bound, they said over the Sands, but it was such a dangerous way they didn’t like to go, for fear of being drowned; this man said come go with me, I’ll take you safe over, I’ll take care of you; with that they set off, and these men had been at a college called Cambridge, and they thought to have some sport with their guide, so as they rode along, one of them said he would give a supper and a crown bowl of punch if they could stump him with any six words; they tried many a time, but could not do it. At last they got safe over the Sands, and riding up Shilla, two women were fighting, had pulled one another’s caps off and neckcloths; they stood and looked at them a little bit, when the guide called out “En udder blae el deat.1” Upon hearing this, our travellers said you have won the wager, for that was a language unknown to any university.
This Dialogue2 entitled ‘Between Ann and Mary, upon running away from a bad husband,’ describes a bad domestic situation but in the telling reveals a glimpse of Arnside/Silverdale at the turn of the 19th century.
Ann. What ails tae? … What’s Joan [ John] an thee fawn awt [fallen out] agayn?
Mary. Aye, Ise gangin tae Lirple [Liverpool] wie Peter, I’ll stay nin here, I’ll nivver leev [live] wie him maar, Ise git a servis sum whaar I racken.
Ann. Nae daut but thau may, but thaul want to be at heaam [home] agayn.
Mary. Nay nivver while I leev, for I’ve born his ill humour and sorliness ivver sen I wor wed, naw gangin ea [on] eight yeer, an hees ivvery day waars, and I’ll bide nea langer, sas gang I will.
Ann. But what, hee’s nea waars then he wur, is he?
Mary. When we wor wed he tewk me heaam to leev ith auld end with fadder fawk, it wur sic a spot as yee nivver saw barn, it wur as black as the Dule’s nutin bag wie seat [soot], an it reeks yee cannit see yan anudder; he began wie corsin an lickin me an hees hodden on ivver sen. I doant like cocklin, an gang toth skeer I’ll net [not], an I can nivver spin tow enuff to please him, hees sic a reeden paddock; last neet he lickd me with steal, threw a teanale [basket] wie cockls at me, brack aw me cups an saucers, a teepot I gav a grote for at Kendal Fair, threw tee imme een [eyes], but I was gaily une wie him for I slat a pot a weatin in his feace, meaad his een sae saar that he cud net hoppen em; he swaar he wad kill me when he gat haad omma [hold of me], soa he may, for Ise nivver ane him mair while i Leev.
Ann. Thau tauks terrably, whya thau wod be teerd in a lile time was tae frae him, what cud tae dea at Lirple, nae yan-[no one] dar tak the in, a husband has terrable pawer, nae justice can bang him, he can dea what he will wie the, he may lick the, nay hoaf kill the, or leaam [lame] the, or clam [starve] the, naae sell the, an nae yan dar mell on him.
Mary. Oddwhite justice an king teea, for meaakin sic laas, nae yan can bide wie him, an arrant filth! Hees oways drunk when heeas brass [money], an then he grudges me saut [salt] to me podish [porridge], nae he taks brass I git wie spinin tow, an barns an I may clam ith hause, he cares nawt abaut it; leak et me shoon, me coaats, Ise soa mad at him I cud welly hong me sel.
Ann. Nae, that wad be wars then runnin away frae him; he wad like to be rid baith oth wife an barns I racken.
Mary. Aye, then he mud gang hefter oth filth ith parish, for thear is not a dannet ith cuntry byt he knaas her; dud not he spend hoaf-a-crawn on a lairly ugly, and stayd oa neet wie her? Lost poak [sack], and hoaf a steaan a woo [half a stone of wool], a paund a shuger, hoaf a quartern a tee, a conny lile chees. Dule rive him for a drunken foal, its enuff to meaak onny woman mad, but ea godlins I’ll match him, as sure as ivver he matchd awr cock at Beetham.
Ann. What is he a cocker teya?
Mary. Aye, that he is, he meaad breead for cocks when barns clamd, an lickd lile Tom for brickin a bit oth cock breead, an becaase I tewk up for me nane barn, he up wie his gripen neaf an felt me owar.
Ann. Hees fearful nowt I racken, but sum haw I wad nit hae the leaave him. Whya whaarst caw [where’s the cow], what yee hae milk an butter?
Mary. Dule tak him he selt her. Yee mun kna we tewk sum gerse [rented some grazing] for her, it wor tae be a ginny, man com to lait the brass mony time, I towd him it wur a sham he dud nit payt, he sweaar he wad sell her, an like a rascot as he wur, he dreav her to Kirby Fair an selt her, an stayd thear tul he hed spent oth brass he gat for her. I thout I shud ea gean craisy I wur sae wae [unhappy] about partin wie her, thof she wor but a lile Scot she gav a conny swoap oa milk, an I’ve churnd five paund a butter ea week frae her, I cud sumtime selt a paund unknawn tae him, an fadder fowk dud let us chop her intil ther parrak ith winter, sae we dud varra connoly while we hed her: he cud net clam us while we hed a caw, but now oas gean, an leav him I wul.
Ann. But what’al become ath barns? Ise wae about them?
Mary. Whya they mun gang toth cockl skeer wie him, th lads is gayly weel up [pretty well grown up], an lass is wie her grondy; for tae leev ith auld end wie th auld fowk I nivver will, for they meaak bad waars and hes ivver sen se wur wed, they er arrant filths; en he caant dea wieth barns he mun fest em awt.
Ann. Aye they: er a terrable breed for sartan en thau hed ill luck tae cum amang sic a bad geat.
Mary. Aye, en I hed net been wie barn I wad nit hae hed Joan; but what cudee dea, tother fello et hed tae dea wie me [that had to do with me] ran away, soa I wur forst to tak this lairly.
Ann. When lasses deas sic tricks as that they mun tak it as it leets, what et dow can cum ea sic deains; but I mun say thau has carried the sel mannerly enuff sen thau wor wed.
Mary. Aye, I nivver rangd him, but he has hed deains wie awth lairlys ith parish, an mony a lump ea brass he hes teaan frae his poor barns an me, to carry to thor uglys. But I’ll gang an see for captan an kna when he sails, for gang I will, I’ll nivver stay an clam hear.
Notes
The dictionaries consulted for the following definitions are:
The English Dialect Dictionary, Nodal & Milner’s
A Glossary of the Lancashire Dialect,
Oxford English Dictionary.
sarra [from sarrow]: serve, feed
tow: hemp or flax fibres
farently [from farrand]: fit, becoming mauls: ?
capper: something which beats one’s comprehension
flayed [from fley]: frightened
gloarin [from glower]: to stare with wide open eyes, to gaze intently
King Stune: ?
Notes
Published in the Mourholme Magazine Issues 9 1984 and 10 1985