# The Sources of Standard English/Chapter III - The Rise of the New English

CHAPTER III.
the rise of the new english.
(A.D. 1303.)
We have seen the corruption of speech in the Mercian Danelagh and East Anglia; a corruption more strikingly marked there than in other parts of England, with the exception of Yorkshire and Essex, where the same inter­mixture of Norse blood was bringing about like results. We shall now weigh the work of a Lincolnshire man who saw the light at Bourne within a few miles of Rut­land, the writer of a poem begun in the year that Ed­ward I. was bringing under his yoke the whole of Scot­land, outside of Stirling Castle. It was in 1303 that Robert of Brunne (known also as Robert Manning) began to compile the Handlyng Synne, the work which, more clearly than any former one, foreshadowed the road that English literature was to tread from that time for­ward. Like many other lays of King Edward I.'s time, the new piece was a translation from a French poem; the Manuel des Pechés had been written about thirty years earlier by William of Waddington. The English poem ​differs from all the others that had gone before it in its diction; for it contains a most scanty proportion of those Teutonic words that were soon to drop out of speech, and a most copious proportion of French words. Indeed there are so many foreign words, that we should set the writer fifty years later than his true date, had he not himself written it down. In this book we catch our first glimpse of many a word and idiom, that were afterwards to live for ever in the English Bible and Prayer Book, works still in the womb of Time. Indeed, the new Teu­tonic idioms that took root in our speech after this age were few in number, a mere drop in the bucket, if we com­pare them with the idioms imported between 1120 and 1300. This shows what we owe to Robert Manning; even as the highest praise of our Revolution of 1688 is, that it was our last. The Handlyng Synne is indeed a land­mark worthy of the carefullest study. I shall give long extracts from it, and I shall further add specimens of the English spoken in many other shires between 1300 and 1340. We are lucky in having so many English manuscripts, drawn up at this particular time: the con­trasts are strongly marked. Thus it will be easy to see that the Lincolnshire bard may be called the patriarch of the New English, much as Cadmon was of the Old English six hundred years earlier. We shall also gain some idea of the influence that the Rutland neighbour­hood has had upon our classic tongue. This was re­marked by Fuller in his time; and in our day Latham ​tells us that ‘the labouring men of Huntingdon and Northampton speak what is usually called better English, because their vernacular dialect is most akin to that of the standard writers.’ He pitches upon the country between St. Neots and Stamford as the true centre of literary English. Dr. Guest has put in a word for Leicestershire. Our classic speech did not arise in Lon­don or Oxford; even as it was not in the Papal Court at Rome, or in the King's Palace at Naples, or in the learned University of Bologna, that the classic Italian sprang up with sudden and marvellous growth.
The Handlyng Synne shows how the different tides of speech, flowing from Southern, Western, and Northern shires alike, met in the neighbourhood of Rutland, and all helped to shape the New English. Robert of Brunne had his own mother-tongue to start with, the Dano-Anglian dialect corrupted by five generations since our first glimpse of it in 1120. He has their peculiar use of niman for the Latin ire, and other marks of the East Midland. We have seen a specimen of the North Lincolnshire speech of 1240; this, as Robert was to do later, had substituted no for ne (the Latin nec). From the South this speech had borrowed the change of a into o and c into ch (hence Robert's moche, eche, whyche, swych), of sc into sh, g into w, and o into ou. From the West ​came one of the worst of all our corruptions, Layamon's Active Participle in ing instead of the older form: Robert leans to this evil change, but still he often uses the old East Midland Participle in and. With the North Robert has much in common: we can see by his rimes that he wrote the Norse þeþen (page 81) and mykel (page 253), instead of the Southern þen and mochyl, which have been foisted into his verse by the Southerner who transcribed the poem sixty years later. The following are some of the forms Robert uses, which are found, many of them for the first time, in the Northern Psalter: childer, fos, ylka, tane, ire, gatte, hauk, slagheter, handmayden, lighten, wrecched, abye, sle, as sone as, many one, dounright, he seys, thou sweres, sky (cœlum). He, like the translator of the Psalter, delights in the form gh; not only does he write sygh, lagheter, doghe, nyghe, neghbour, but also kneugh and nagheer (our knew and nowhere). This seems to show that in Southern Lincolnshire, in 1303, the gh had not always a guttural sound. He also sometimes clips the ending of the Imperative Plural; but turns the Yorkshire thou has into thou hast. In common with another Northern work, the Sir Tristrem, Robert uses the new form ye for the Latin tu; also the new senses given in that work to the old words smart and croun. To the bond (servus) of the aforesaid poem he fastens a French ending, and thus compounds a new substantive, bondage, where­with he translates the French vileynage: this is a most astounding innovation, the source of much bad English. Our tongue might well seem stricken with barrenness, ​if English endings were no longer in request. He holds fast to the Norse of his forefathers when writing words like yole, kirk, til, werre (pejus). For the Latin idem he has both same and yche. We can gather from his poem that England was soon to replace ʓede (ivit) by went, oþer by second; that she was soon to lose her swithe (valdè), and to substitute for it right and full: very is of rather later growth. Almost every one of the Teutonic changes in idiom, distinguishing the New English from the Old, the speech of Queen Victoria from the speech of Hengist, is to be found in Manning's work. We have had few Teutonic changes since his day, a fact which marks the influence he has had upon our tongue. He it was who sometimes substituted w for u, as down for doun. In his writings we see clearly enough what was marked by Sir Philip Sidney almost three hundred years later: ‘English is void of those cumbersome differences of cases, genders, moods, and tenses, which I think was a piece of the Tower of Babylon's curse, that a man should be put to schoole to learne his mother tongue; but for the uttering sweetly and properly the conceit of the minde, which is the ende of speech, that it hath equally with any other tongue in the world.’ The Elizabethan knight ought to have been well pleased with the clippings and parings of the Edwardian monk.
In the Handlyng Synne are the following Scandina­vian
Ekename (nickname), from the Swedish öknamn. Nygun (niggard), from the Norse nyggja, to scrape. Squyler (scullion), from the Norse skola, to wash.
Some words, which we have in common with other Teutons, are found for the first time; as plank and stumble; also midwife, which has been explained by Junius.
There are a few remarkable changes in the meanings of English words.
Kind had hitherto meant natural, but in page 167 we read,
To serve hym (God) þat ys to us so kynde.
The two senses were alike used for nearly 400 years, as we see in Milton's works.
In page 161 we read, ‘he is to hym mynde,’ that is, inclined: mind was getting a new sense, used by us when we say, ‘I have a mind to go;’ ‘ye that mind to come.’
Truth had hitherto stood for fides, but it now comes to mean veritas, and in the end has all but driven out the good old sooth. To this day our true will translate either fidus or verus.
Hyt ys no trouþe, but fals belevyng. — Page 13. Forswere ʓow nevere for worldys gode. For ʓe wyte weyl, and have hyt herde, Þat troupe ys more þan alle þe worlde. — Page 88.
Eton Bucks is the name that used to be given to the lads bred at King Henry the Sixth's renowned College. In the Handlyng Synne (page 102), we see how the Old English bucca (hircus) came to mean a dandy. ​
And of þese berdede buckys also, Wyþ hem self þey moche mysdo, Þat leve Crystyn mennys acyse, And haunte alle þe newe gyse; Þer whylys þey hade þat gyse on hande Was nevere grace yn þys lande.
These are Robert's own rimes; for Waddington, writing earlier, had not thought it needful to glance at the beard movement, though he bore hard on the ladies and their dress.
The Old English nœddre (serpens) now loses its first letter, as it also did in the Alexander. Ekename, on the other hand, has since gained the letter n.
And addres bete hym by þe fete. — Page 166.
In this poem, both the Northern ky and the Southern keyn stand for the Latin vaccœ. Reafian gets the new sense of snatching:
Refte þe saule unto helle. — Page 154.
We have seen how in the South one came to stand for aliquis and quidam. It was brought into Lincolnshire, and is now used in a new sense, thereby avoiding the repetition of a substantive that has gone before;
She ledde hym to a moche felde, So grete one nevere he behelde. — Page 104.
London thieves speak of their booty as swag. The word of old meant nothing but a bag; the connexion between the two ideas is plain:
Þere was a wycche, and made a bagge, A bely of leþyr, a grete swagge. — Page 17.
now find the first mention of ‘ready money:’
And ten mark of pens redy. — Page 198.
A well-known religious phrase is found in the following lines:
Þys erymyte lenede hym on a walle, Ande badde hys bedys. — Page 378.
We have seen that hál or hol came to mean integer before 1100; we now find our well-known adverb com­pounded from it. Something had to be invented to replace the lost eallunga. ‘Ta confessiun deit estre entere’ is tranlated
Alle holy oweþ þy shryfte be doun. — Page 367.
The old leosan (amittere) had had loren for its Past Participle and þu lure for the second Person Singular of the Perfect; we now light on a wonderful change:
Here wurschyp ys lost for evermore. — Page 94 And brynge þe aʓen to hys grace Þat þou lostest. — Page 373.
We still keep the true Old English Gerundial form in the phrase, ‘this house to let.’ It was corrupted in Lincoln­shire by the year 1303, and Tyndale unhappily followed this corruption in his account of St. Paul's rebuke to St. Peter. Robert of Brunne says —
Þey beþ to be blamede eft þarfore. — Page 50.
The verb have was now gaining its sense of ‘to drag:’
She had hym up, wyþ here to go. — Page 104.
of money. We first find this in the Handlyng Synne.
Þe whyles þe executours sekke, Of þe soule þey ne rekke. — Page 195.
This phrase seems not to have been understood in the South; for the Southern transcriber writes over sekke the words fyl þe bag.
The old teogan (trahere) is pared down, and from it a new substantive is formed, to express dalliance:
And makeþ nat a mys þe toye. — Page 246.
Orrmin's laffdiʓ (domina) had been cut down in many English shires to its present form, shortly before 1300. Robert of Brunne throws the accent on the last syllable, as is so often done in English ballads:
For to be holde þe feyryst lady. — Page 103.
Can and coude, as in the Peterborough Chronicle, are used very freely, where of old may and might would have been employed. Our cannot now first appears as one word:
Þat ʓyf ʓe kunnat, lerneþ how. — Page 298.
The couþe (potuit) of the Havelok now becomes coude, as in East Anglia; the verb has since changed for the worse, owing to a false analogy. We see do and did, as in page 193 of my work, employed as auxiliaries. There are some instances of this idiom before the Norman Con­quest, but the fashion had long been dropped until shortly before the year 1300. Robert of Gloucester has it. ​
I give many of the new words and phrases, well worn as they now seem, which crop up for the first time, or for all but the first time, in the Handlyng Synne:
To wake a corpse. To waste stores. To ley a waiour (wager). The Saturday was doun (finished).
Besides these, we find for the first time other words, most of them common enough now; such as, to betroth, to bestead, to hap, burble (bubble), lyʓtning, welfare, for­sayde, shameful, boastful, ruefully, a sory present, a trew­man, umwhile (the Scottish umquhile). Ládman (dux) is turned into lodesman; a word something like our loadstar.
We now light upon a well-known by-word,
‘The nere þe cherche, þe fyrþer fro Gode.’ — Page 286.
St. Æthelthryth, the Patroness of Ely, is shortened into St. Audre, in page 325. The poet had doubtless knelt at her shrine, on his way from Lincolnshire to Cambridge. Of all our English clippings and parings, none is more startling than the contraction of this Saint's name. Botolphston was later to be cut down to Boston. Robert gives original tales of events that happened in Cambridgeshire, Norfolk, and Kesteven in his own time; though he is too discreet to set down the names of the misdoers.
I print in italics the remarkable phrases first found in this poem. The stock of true English words had every year been getting scantier, and new resources seemed now to be called for. The poet was not ​particular as to drawing on French or English; thus, lequel is translated literally. The yn as moche is re­markable as a sister form to the Gloucestershire foras­much; many such forms were to crop up in the Four­teenth Century and to remain in use till about the Re­storation. When new phrases come into a language, it is in adverbial forms and in conjunctions that they are mostly found; thus only and rather are in the Thirteenth Century used, not merely as adjectives, but in a new sense. The Handlyng Synne should be compared with another poem due to the same shire, and written five hundred and sixty years later; I mean Mr. Tennyson's Northern Farmer. Some of the old forms are there repeated, especially the a which stands first in the fol­lowing rimes:
He ys wurþy to be shent, For a doþ aʓens þys comaundment. — Page 84. Yole, ys yone þy page? — Page 184. A gode man and a ryʓt stedefaste. — Page 74. A man yn fiesshe as he dyde se. — Page 391. Beþ wakyng . . . . What tyme þat ʓoure lorde wyl kalle. — Page 137. Crystendom . . . . >Þurghe þe whych we are savede alle. — Page 294.
Ho haþ made þy chylde so blody? — Page 24. For ho so haunteþ comunly, &c. — Page 42. Þou mayst be wroþe sum body to chastyse. — Page 120. Þat of þe Iewes seye sum oun. — Page 294. He shulde be cumbrede sumwore. — Page 301. One of þys dayys shul ʓe deye. — Page 105. Sum tyme was ones a Iew. — Page 241. And sette at noʓt þat he hadde told. — Page 242. Nat only for soules ys he herde, But also for, &c. — Page 324. Oftyn tyme a foule þoʓt, &c. — Page 388. Of gentyl men, þyr are but fo. — Page 270. Men sey, and have seyde here before. — Page 102. For yn as moche þat she douþ men synne, Yn so moche shal she have plyghte ynne, — Page 110. For to reyse þe devyl yn dede. — Page 12. As weyl as for soules yn purgatorye. — Page 110. Þarfore he þat ys ones baptysede. Ones for ever ys. — Page 300. To helpe chyldryn yn many kas Men wete never what nede one has. — Page 297. The dede mevede hys hede to and fro. — Page 74. Yn every sykenes aake hyt al weys. — Page 348. Men askede hym why he þedyr ʓede, Syn he was an holy man yn dede. — Page 246. A party hyt halpe þer un to. — Page 322. Þe þornes prykkede, the netles dyde byte. — Page 234. Alle þat we do jangle, þe fende doþe wryte. — Page 287. Y dar weyl seye þou hym dyffamest. — Page 361.
Yyf he ys aboute to tempte þe. — Page 374. Yn alle aloghenesse he bereþ þe bel. — Page 135. Y brast on lagheter þere y stode. — Page 288; Yyf þou be come of hyghe blode. — Page 97. Wulde Gode þat many swyche wommen wore! — Page 331. Lorde! what shal swych men seye? — Page 137. Yn Londun toune fyl swyche a chek. — Page 86. He sette hym by hym, syde be syde. — Page 244. Þe body, whyl hyt on bere lye, A day or two ys holde yn prys. — Page 195. Þank hym noþer yn wele no wo. — Page 160. Þou mayst þan sykerly go þy weye. — Page 346. Comyþ alle home, and havyþ doun. — Page 31. Hyghely shal he go alone To the devyl, body and bone. — Page 169. Ne slepte onely a lepy wynke. — Page 283. Ande Jumna was wonte wyþ here to wone. — Page 330. Every man shulde have a fore þoʓt. — Page 334. And gnoghe hyt ynwarde al to pecys. — Page 114. Fro wykkede to wers y do hem falle. — Page 392. And to þe ded was as trew as steyl. — Page 75. Þat gadren pens un to an hepe. — Page 190. Yyf þey come not also þurghe þoghte. — Page 15. Þey myghte no more be broghte a sondre. — Page 277. Þat tyme hyt happede for to be. — Page 199. For some when þey yn age are come. — Page 54. Y trowe God shewede þys merveyle. — Page 82. To do a man to deþ þarfore. — Page 189.
has shown the change in our tongue so strikingly as Robert of Brunne. Many of our writers had fastened an English ending to a foreign root, such as martir­dom; but no Englishman before 1303 had fastened a French ending to an English root, as bondage; and none had employed a French Active participle instead of an English preposition, as ‘passing all things.’ Robert commonly writes y instead of i, a fashion which lasted for two hundred years, and then happily dropped. He seems to be conscious that he was an innovator, for in page 267 he asks forgiveness
‘For foule Englysshe and feble ryme, Seyde oute of resun many tyme.’
In his seventy lines on Confirmation, at page 304, he employs French words for at least one-third of his nouns, verbs, and adverbs; the same proportion that was afterwards to be used in the Collects of the English Prayer Book, as also by Addison, and by most good writers of our own day. No more nonsense, it is to be hoped, will now be talked about Chaucer, who not long ago was looked upon as the first Englishman who employed French words to a great extent.
In my specimens taken from Robert's work, I have chosen parts that are wholly his own and no transla­tion from the French. I give first a tale of the great Bishop of Lincoln, who died but a few years before our poet's birth; I then give St. Paul's description of ​Charity, a well-known passage, which may be compared with our Version of the Bible put forth three hundred years after the Handlyng Synne. Next comes a peep into English life in Edwardian days; next, a tale of a Norfolk bondeman or farmer; last of all comes the bard's account of himself and the date of his rimes. Had the Handlyng Synne been a German work, marking an era in the national literature, it would long ago have been given to the world in a cheap form. But we live in England, not in Germany. I could not have gained a sight of the poem, of which a few copies have been printed for the Roxburgh Club, had I not happened to live within reach of the British Museum.
Page 150.
| Y shall ʓow telle as y have herde | |
| Of þe byssbope Seynt Roberde, | |
| Hys toname $^a$ ys Grostest | $^a$ surname |
| Of Lynkolne, so seyþ þe gest.$^b$ | $^b$ story |
| He lovede moche to here þe harpe; | |
| For mannys wyt hyt makyþ sharpe; | |
| Next hys chaumbre, besyde hys stody, | |
| Hys harpers chaumbre was fast þerby. | |
| Many tymes be nyʓtys and dayys, | |
| He had solace of notes and layys. | |
| One askede hym onys,$^c$ resun why | $^c$ once |
| He hadde delyte yn mynstralsy: | |
| He answerede hym on þys manere, | |
| Why he helde þe harper so dere: | |
| ‘Þe veitu of þe harpe, þurghe skylle and ryʓt, | |
| Wyl destroye þe fendes myʓt, | |
| And to þe croys by gode skylle | |
| Ys þe harpe lykenede weyle.$^d$ | $^d$ well |
| Anoþer poynt cumforteþ me, | |
| Þat God haþ sent unto a tre | |
| So moche joye to here wyþ eere; | |
| Moche þan more joye ys þere | |
| Wyþ God hym selfe þere he wonys,$^e$ | $^e$ dwells |
| Þe harpe þerof me ofte mones,$^f$ — | $^f$ reminds |
| Of þe joye and of þe blys | |
| Where Gode hym self wonys and ys. | |
| Þare for, gode men, ʓe shul lere,$^g$ | $^g$ learn |
| Whan ʓe any glemen here, | |
| To wurschep Gode at ʓoure powere, | |
| As Davyde seyþ yn þe sautere, | |
| Yn harpe, yn thabour, and symphan gle, | |
| Wurschepe Gode, yn troumpes and sautre, | |
| Yn cordys, an organes, and bellys ryngyng, | |
| Yn al þese, wurschepe ʓe hevene kyng.’ | |
Page 222.
| Se now what seynt Poule seys | |
| Yn a pystyl, þe same weys, — | |
| ‘Þoghe y speke as weyl wyþ tung | |
| As any man or aungel haþ song, | |
| And y lyve nat wyþ charyte, | |
| No þyng avayleþ hyt to me. | |
| For y do þan ryʓt $^a$ as þe bras, | $^a$ just |
| And as þe tympan, þat bete $^b$ was; | $^b$ beaten |
| Þe bras to oþer ʓyveþ grete sown. | |
| And bet hym self up and down. | |
| And þoghe y speke al yn prephecye. | |
| And have þe kunnyng of every maystrye,$^c$ | $^c$ knowledge |
| And wyþ gode beleve myghte Beye | |
| Þe hylles to turne ym to þe valeye, | |
| L̄yf hyt ne be wyþ charyte wroghte, | |
| Elles, he seyþ þat y am noghte. | |
| Þogh y ʓyve alle my wurldes gode | |
| Unto pore mennys fode, | |
| And ʓyve my body for to brenne | |
| Opunly oþer men to kenne,$^d$ | $^d$ teach |
| But ʓyf $^e$ þar be charyte wyþ alle, | $^e$ unless. |
| My mede þarfore shal be ful smalle.’ | |
| Loke now how many godenesse þer are | |
| Wyþ oute charyte noghte but bare. | |
| Wylt þou know þy self, and se | |
| L̄yf þou wone $^f$ in charyte? | $^f$ dwell |
| ‘Charyte suffreþ boþe gode and yl, | |
| And charyte ys of reuful wyl, | |
| Charyte haþ noun envye, | |
| And charyte wyl no felunnye; | |
| Charyte ys nat irus, | |
| And charyte ys nat coveytous; | |
| Charyte wyl no bostful preysyng; | |
| He wyl noʓhte but ryʓtwys þyng; | |
| Charyte loveþ no fantome, | |
| No þynges þat evyl may of come; | |
| He haþ no joye of wykkednes, | |
| But loveþ alle þat sothefast $^g$ es; | $^g$ truthful |
| Alle godenes he up bereþ; | |
| Alle he suffreþ, and noun he dereþ,$^h$ | $^h$ harms |
| Gode hope he haþ yn ryghtewys þyng. | |
| And alle he susteyneþ to þe endyng; | |
| Charyte ne fayleþ noghte, | |
| Ne no þyng þat wyþ hym ys wroghte. | |
| When alle prephecyes are alle gone, | |
| And alle tunges are leyde echone, | |
| And alle craftys fordo $^i$ shul be, | $^i$ ruined |
| Þan lasteþ stedfast charyte.’ | |
* Þus seyþ seynt Poule, and moche more,
* Yn pystyl of hys lore.
Page 227.
| As y have tolde of rere $^a$ sopers, | $^a$ late |
| Þe same falleþ of erly dyners; | |
| Dyners are oute of skyl and resun | |
| On þe Sunday, or hye messe be doun. | |
| Þoghe þou have haste, here ʓyt a messe, | |
| Al holy,$^b$ and no lesse, | $^b$ completely |
| And nat symple a sakare,$^c$ For hyt ys nat ynow for þe, | $^c$ the conse­cration part |
| But $^d$ hyt be for lordys powere | $^d$ unless |
| Or pylgrymage þat haþ no pere. | |
| Are þou oghte ete, þys ys my rede, | |
| Take holy watyr and holy brede; | |
| For, yn aventure kas, hyt may þe save, | |
| L̄yf housel $^e$ ne shryfte þou mayst have. | $^e$ Eucharist |
| Alle ofer tymes ys glotonye | |
| But hyt be grete enchesun $^f$ why. | $^f$ reason |
| On oþer hyghe dayys, ʓyf þat ou may, | |
| Þoghe þat hyt be nat Sunday, | |
| Here þy messe or þou dyne, | |
| L̄yf þou do nat, ellys ys hit pyne;$^g$ | $^g$ woe |
| Lordes þat have preste at wyl, | |
| Me þenkeþ þey trespas ful yl | |
| Þat any day ete, are þey here messe. | |
| But ʓyf $^h$ hyt be þurghe harder dystresse. | $^h$ unless |
| Þe men þat are of holy cherche, | |
| Þey wete weyl how þey shul werche; | |
| But swych $^i$ y telle hardyly, | $^i$ such |
| Þat swych a preste douþ glotonye | |
| Þe levyþ hys messe on þe auter | |
| For to go to a dyner. | |
| So ne shulde he do, for no þyng, | |
| For love ne awe of no lordyng, | |
| But ʓyf $^k$ hyt were for a grete nede | $^k$ unless |
| Þat shulde hym falle, or a grete drede. | |
Page 269.
| Yn Northfolk, yn a tounne, | |
| Wonede a knyʓt besyde a persone;$^a$ | $^a$ parson |
| Fyl hyt so, þe knyʓtes manere $^b$ | $^b$ manor |
| Was nat fro þe cherche ful fere;$^c$ | $^c$ far |
| And was hyt þan, as oftyn falles, | |
| Broke were þe cherche ʓerde walles. | |
| Þe lordes hyrdes often lete | |
| Hys bestys yn to pe cherche ʓerde and ete; | |
| Þe bestys dyde as þey mote nede, | |
| Fylede $^d$ overal þere þey ʓede.$^e$ | $^d$ defiled $^e$ went |
| A bonde man say $^f$ þat, ande was wo | $^f$ saw |
| Þat þe bestys shulde þere go; | |
| He com to þe lorde, and seyde hym þys, | |
| ‘Lorde,’ he seʓde, ‘ʓoure bestys go mys,$^g$ | $^g$ amiss |
| L̄oure hyrde doþ wrong, and ʓoure knavys, | |
| Þat late ʓoure bestys fyle þus þeso gravys; | |
| Þere mennys bonys shulde lye, | |
| Bestes shulde do no vyleynye.’ | |
| Þe lordes answere was sumwhat vyle, | |
| And þat falleþ evyl to a man gentyle; | |
| ‘Weyl were hyt do $^h$ ryʓt for þe nones | $^h$ done |
| To wurschyp $^i$ swych cherles bones; | $^i$ honour |
| What wurschyp shulde men make | |
| Aboute swych cherles bodyes blake?’ | |
| Þe bonde man answerede and seyde | |
| Wurdys to gedyr ful weyl leyde, | |
| ‘Þe Lorde þat made of erþe erles, | |
| Of þe same erþe made he cherles; | |
| Erles myʓt and lordes stut $^k$ | $^k$ stout |
| As cherles shal yn erþe be put. | |
| Erles, cherles, alle at ones, | |
| Shal none knowe ʓoure fro oure bones.’ | |
| Þe lorde lestenede þe wurdes weyl | |
| And recordede hem every deyl;$^l$ | $^l$ bit |
| No more to hym wulde he seye, | |
| But lete hym go furþe hys weye; | |
| He seyde þe bestys shulde no more | |
| By hys wyl come þore.$^m$ | $^m$ there |
| Seþen $^n$ he closede þe chercheʓerde so | $^n$ afterwards |
| Þat no best myʓt come þarto. | |
| For to ete ne fyle þer ynne, | |
| So þoʓt hym seþen þat hyt was synne. | |
| Þyr are but fewe lordes now | |
| Þat turne a wrde so wel to prow;$^o$ | $^o$ advantage |
| But who seyþ hem any skylle,$^p$ | $^p$ wisdom |
| Mysseye aʓen $^q$ fouly þey wylle. | $^q$ abuse in turn |
| Lordynges, þyr are ynow of þo;$^r$ | $^r$ those |
| Of gentyl men, þyr are but fo.$^s$ | $^s$ few |
Page 3.
| To alle Crystyn men undir sunne. | |
| And to gode men of Brunne, | |
| And speciali alle bi name | |
| Þe felaushepe of Symprynghame, | |
| Roberd of Brunne greteþ ʓow | |
| In al godenesse þat may to prow.$^a$ | $^a$ advantage |
| Of Brymwake yn Kestevene, | |
| Syxe myle besyde Sympryngham evene | |
| Y dwellede yn þe pryorye | |
| Fyftene ʓere yn companye. | |
| Dane Felyp was mayster þat tyme | |
| Þat y began þys Englyssh ryme. | |
| Þe yeres of grace fyl $^b$ þan to be | $^b$ fell |
| A þousynd and þre hundrede and þre. | |
| In þat tyme tumede y þys | |
| On Englysshe tunge out of Frankys, | |
| Of a boke as y fonde ynne; | |
| Men clepyn þe boke ‘Handlyng Synne.’ | |
NORTH LINCOLNSHIRE.
(A.D. 1338.)
Now of kyng Robin salle I ʓit speke more, & his broþer Tomlyn, Thomas als it wore, & of Sir Alisandere, þat me rewes sore, Þat boþe com in skandere, for dedes þei did þore. Of arte he had þe maistrie, he mad a corven kyng In Cantebrige to þe clergie, or his broþer were kyng. Siþen was never non of arte so þat sped, Ne bifore bot on, þat in Cantebrigge red. Robert mad his fest, for he was þore þat tyme, & he sauh alle þe gest, þat wrote & mad þis ryme. Sir Alisander was hie dene of Glascow, & his broþer Thomas ʓed spiand ay bi throw, Where our Inglis men ware not in clerke habite, & non wild he spare, bot destroied also tite. Þorgh þe kyng Robyn þei ʓede þe Inglis to spie, Here now of þer fyn þam com for þat folie.
YORKSHIRE.
(About A.D. 1340.)
hampole.
Ðan waxes his hert hard and hevy, And his heved feble and dysy; Ðan waxes his gast seke and sare, And his face rouncles, ay mare and mare; His mynde es short when he oght thynkes, His nese ofte droppes, his hand stynkes, His sight wax dym, þat he has, His bax waxes croked; stoupand he gas; Fyngers and taes, fote and hande, Alle his touches er tremblande. His werkes for-worthes that he bygynnes; His hare moutes, his eghen rynnes; His eres waxes deef, and hard to here, His tung fayles, his speche is noght clere; His mouthe slavers, his tethe rotes, His wyttes fayles, and he ofte dotes; He is lyghtly wrath, and waxes fraward, Bot to turne hym fra wrethe it es hard.
DURHAM.
(About A.D. 1320.)
metrical homilies.
A tal of this fest haf I herd, Hougat it of a widou ferd, That lufd our Lefdi sa welle, That scho gert mac hir a chapele; And ilke day deuotely, Herd scho messe of our Lefdye. Fel auntour that hir prest was gan
And com this Candelmesse feste. And scho wald haf als wif honeste Hir messe, and for scho moht get nan, Scho was a ful sorful womman. In hir chapele scho mad prayer, And fel on slep bifor the auter, And als scho lay on slep, hir thoht That scho in til a kyrc was broht, And saw com gret compaynye Of fair maidenes wit a lefedye, And al thai sette on raw ful rathe, And ald men and yong bathe.
LANCASHIRE.
(About A.D. 1340.)
sir gawayne.
‘Where schulde I wale þe,’ quoth Gauan, ‘where is þy place? I wot never where þou wonyes, by hym þat me wroʓt, Ne I know not þe, knyʓt, þy cort, ne þi name. Bot teche me truly þerto, & telle me howe þou hattes, & I schal ware all my wyt to wynne me þeder, & þat I swere þe for soþe, & by my seker traweþ.’ ‘Þat is innogh in nwe-ʓer, hit nedes no more,’ Quoth þe gome in þe grene to Gawan þe hende, ‘Gif I þe telle triwly, quen I þe tape have, & þou me smoþely hatʓ smyten, smartly I þe teche Of my hous, & my home, & myn owen nome, Þen may þou frayst my fare, and forwardeʓ holde, & if I spende no speche, þenne spedeʓ þou þe better, For þou may leng in þy londe, & layt no fyrre, bot slokes;
Ta now þy grymme tole to þe, & let se how þou cnokeʓ.’ ‘Gladly, syr, for soþe,’ Quoth Gawan; his ax he strokes.
SALOP.
(About A.D. 1340.)
william and the werwolf.
Hit tidde after on a tune, as tellus oure bokes, As þis bold barn his bestes blyþeliche keped, Þe riche emperour of Rome rod out for to hunte. In þat faire forest feiþely for to telle; Wiþ alle his menskful meyné, þat moche was & nobul; Þan fel it hap, þat þei founde ful sone a grete bor, & huntyng wiþ hound & horn harde alle sewede; Þe emperour entred in a wey evene to attele, To have bruttenet þat bore, & þe abaie seþþen, But missely marked he is way & so manly he rides, Þat alle his wies were went, ne wist he never whider; So ferforth fram his men, feþly for to telle, Þat of horn ne of hound ne miʓt he here sowne, & boute eny living lud lefte was he one.
HEREFORDSHIRE.
(About A.D. 1300.)
Þilke that nulleþ aʓeym hem stonde Ichulle he habben hem in honde. . . . . . .
He is papejai in pyn that beteth me my bale, To trewe tortle in a tour, y telle the mi tale. He is thrustle thryven in thro that singeth in sale, The wilde laveroc ant wolc ant the wodewale. He is faucoun in friht dernest in dale. Ant with everuch a gome gladest in gale, From Weye he is wisist into Wyrhale, Hire nome is in a note of the nyhtegale. In a note is hire nome, nempneth hit non. Whose ryht redeth roune to Johon.
GLOUCESTERSHIRE.
(About A.D. 1300.)
Þus come, lo! Engelond into Normannes honde. And þe Normans ne couþe speke þo bote her owe speche, And speke French as dude atom, and here chyldren dude also teche. So þat heymen of þys lond, þat of her blod come, Holdeþ alle þulke speche, þat hii of hem nome. Vor bote a man couþe French, me tolþ of hym wel lute. Ac lowe men holdeþ to Englyss, and to her kunde speche ʓute. Ich wene þer ne be man in world countreyes none, Þat ne holdeþ to her kunde speche, bote Engelond one. Ac wel me wot vorto conne bothe wel yt ys, Vor þe more þat a man con, þe more worþ he ys.
THE ENGLISH PALE IN IRELAND.
(About A.D. 1310.)
Jhesu, king of heven fre, Ever i-blessid mot thou be! Loverd, I besech the, to me thou tak hede. From dedlich sinne thou ʓem me, while I libbe on lede; The maid fre, that here the so swetlich under wede. Do us to se the Trinité, al we habbeth nede.
This sang wroʓt a frere, Jhesu Crist be is secure! Loverd, bring him to the toure! frere Michel Kyldare; Schild him fram helle boure, Whan he sal hen fare! Levedi, flur of al honur, cast awei is care; Fram the schoure of pinis sure thou sild him her and thare! Amen.
SOMERSETSHIRE (?)
(About A.D. 1300.)
Wharfore ich and Annas To-fonge Jhesus of Judas, vor thrytty panes to paye. We were wel faste to helle y-wronge, Vor hym that for ʓou was y-stonge, in rode a Godefridaye. . . . . . . Man, at fulloʓt, as chabbe yrad, Thy saule ys Godes hous y-mad, and tar ys wassche al clene. Ac after fullouʓt thoruʓ fulthe of synne, Sone is mad wel hory wythinne, alday hit is y-sene.
OXFORDSHIRE
(About A.D. 1340.)
That is fro old Hensislade ofre the cliff into stony londy wey; fro the wey into the long lowe; fro the lowe into the Port-strete; fro the strete into Charewell; so aftir strem til it shutt eft into Hensislade — De Bolles, Couele, et Hedyndon. Thare beth hide londeymere into Couelee. Fro Charwell brigge andlong the streme on that rithe. . . . This privilege was idith in Hedington . . . . myn owne mynster in Oxenford. There seint Frideswide . . . . alle that fredome that any fre mynstre frelubest . . . . mid sake and mid socna, mid tol and mid teme . . . . and in felde and alle other thinge and ryth that y . . . . belyveth and byd us for quike and dede and . . . . alle other bennyfeyt.
KENT.
(A.D. 1340.)
Aye þe vondigges of þe dyeule zay þis þet volʓeþ. ‘Zuete Jesu þin holy blod þet þou sseddest ane þe rod vor me and vor mankende: Ich bidde þe hit by my sseld avoreye þe wycked vend al to mi lyves ende. zuo by hit.’
Þis boc is Dan Michelis of Northgate y-write an Englis of his oʓene hand, þet hatte: Ayenbite of inwyt. And ​is of þe boc-house of saynt Austines of Canterberi, mid þe lettres : C : C :
Holy archanle Michael. M. C. C. Saynt Gabriel and Raphael. Ye brenge me to þo castel. Þer alle zaulen vareþ wel. Lhord Jhesu almiʓti kyng. þet madest and lokest alle þyng. Me þet am þi makyng. to þine blisse me þou bryng. Amen.
Blind and dyaf and alsuo domb. Of zeventy yer al vol rond. Ne ssolle by draʓe to þe grond. Vor peny vor Mark ne vor pond.
MIDDLESEX.
(A.D. 1307.)
Of Syr Edward oure derworth kyng, Iche mette of him anothere faire metyng. Me thought he rood upon an asse, And that ich take God to witnesse; Ywonden he was in a mantell gray, Toward Rome he nom his way, Upon his hevede sate a gray hure, It semed him wel a mesure. . . . . . . Into a chapel I cum of ure lefdy, Jhe Crist her leve son stod by, On rod he was an loveliche mon, Als thilk that on rode was don. He unneled his honden two. . . . . . . Whoso wil speke myd me Adam the marchal In Stretforde Bowe he is yknown and over al.
Iche ne schewe nouʓt this for to have mede, Bot for God almiʓtties drede.
BEDFORDSHIRE (?).
(About A.D. 1340.)
Godys sone þat was so fre, Into þis world he cam, And let hym naylyn upon a tre, Al for þe love of man; His fayre blod þat was so fre, Out of his body it ran, A dwelful syʓte it was to se; His body heng blak and wan, Wiþ an O and an I. . . . . . . His coroune was mad of þorn And prikkede into his panne, Bothe by hinde and a-forn; To a piler y-bowndyn Jhesu was swiþe sore, And suffrede many a wownde Þat scharp and betere wore. He hadde us evere in mynde, In al his harde þrowe, And we ben so unkynde, We nelyn hym nat yknowe, Wif an O and an I.
We see what wild anarchy of speech was raging throughout the length and breadth of England in the first half of the Fourteenth Century; and this anarchy had lasted more than two hundred years. But at the same time we plainly see that the dialect of the shires nearest to Rutland was the dialect to which our own classic speech of 1873 is most akin, and that Robert of Brunne in 1303 was leading the way to something new. In a later chapter we shall weigh the causes that led to the triumph of Robert's dialect, though this triumph was not thoroughly achieved until a hundred and sixty years after he began his great work. Strange it is that Dante should have been compiling his Inferno, which settled the course of Italian literature for ever, in the self-same years that Robert of Brunne was compiling the earliest pattern of well-formed New English. Had King Henry VIII. known what we owe to this bard, the Lincolnshire men would not have been rated in 1536 as follows: ‘How presumptuous are ye, the rude commons of one shire, and that one of the most brute and beastly of the whole realm, and of least experience!’
TABLE I.
Words, akin to the Dutch and German, first found in England in the Fourteenth Century.
| Bark (cortex) | Botch | Cog (scapha) |
| Blear | Broker | Collier |
| Blister | Bum (bombizare) | Coot (mergus) |
| Blubber | Clew | Cough |
| Blunder | Cnop, knob | Crouch |
| Damp | Marl | Slobber |
| Drone (the verb) | Mumble | Slender |
| Duck | Mop | Slight |
| Fester | Moss | Sluttish |
| Flap | Moult | Snort |
| Flecked | Mud | Spout |
| Flitter | Notch | Stale |
| Flush | Pamper | Stem (sistere) |
| Freight | Patch | Stew (vivarium) |
| Gossamer | Peer | Struggle |
| Grasp | Plot | Tallow |
| Grunt | Poke | Tawny |
| Gulp | Polecat | Tattered |
| Handsome | Pond | Tickle |
| Hinge | Puddle | Tinkle |
| Howl | Rabble | Tittle |
| Humble-bee | Rack | Totter |
| Hurry | Rash | Tramp |
| Hush | Rat | Trample |
| Husk | Rumble | Troll |
| Hut | Rush | Tub |
| Jog | Satchel | Twitter |
| Lane | Scoop | Waist |
| Lash | Scum | Wattle |
| Lisp | Shock (quatere) | Waver |
| Loadstar | Shock (acervus) | Whirl |
| Loiter | Shore (fulcire) | Wimble |
| Loll | Seer | Wrap |
| Lull | Sidelong | |
Scandinavian Words, first found in England in the Fourteenth Century.
| Blab | Bustle | Clumsy |
| Bole (truncus) | Calf (sura) | Dairy |
| Bow (cortina proræ) | Crash | Dapple |
| Boot | Cucking-stool | Dowdy |
| Bracken | Cuff (manica) | Down (pluma) |
| Brag | Chime | Dump |
| Fell (mons) | Looby | Slant |
| Flake | Lubber | Spar |
| Flat | Lug (trahere) | Squeal |
| Froth | Mistake | Stagger |
| Gall (vulnus) | Odd | Sway (flectere) |
| Gasp | Pebble | Tarn |
| Gill (fauces) | Pikestaff | Throb |
| Glimmer | Rate (vituperare) | Tike |
| Glum | Reef | Trill |
| Haberdasher | Rugged | Trip |
| Happy | Shout | Windlass |
| Leap year | Skirt | Wrangle |
Celtic words, first found in English in the Fourteenth Century.
| Basket | Drudge | Rub |
| Bodkin | Gown | Spigot |
| Boisterous | Kick | Spike |
| Cobbler | Peck (a measure) | Strumpet |
| Crag | Pour | Tinker |
| Daub | Rail (a fence) | Whin |
TABLE II.
Words, akin to the Dutch and German, first found in England in the Fifteenth Century.
| Block | Bud | Cork |
| Blow (plaga) | Bulwark | Croon |
| Brick | Clammy | Chap (scindere) |
| Daw | Mellow | Prop |
| Fledge | Mole | Quill |
| Flue | Nag | Rabbit |
| Gag | Nightmare | Rattle |
| Glower | Nip | Shallow |
| Halloo | Noddle | Shrug |
| Jagged | Parch | Sink (latrina) |
| Ledge | Pickle | Sod |
| Lint | Pip | Spawn |
| Locker | Plump | Starch |
| Lump | Prank | Streamer |
| Lush (laxus) | Prawn | Stripe |
| Mash | Pretty | Tan |
| Measles | | |
Scandinavian words, first found in England in the Fifteenth Century.
| Bulk | Luck | Rump |
| Butt (meta) | Offal | Scant |
| Dapper | Peg | Smatter |
| Fleet (volitare) | Prong | Spud |
| Fry (semen) | Queasy | Steep (infundere) |
| Harsh | Ram (premere) | Wheeze |
| Hassock | Roach | Wicker |
* ↑ This work, with its French original, has been edited for the Roxburgh Club by Mr. Furnivall.
* ↑ The date of Waddington's poem is pretty well fixed by a passage in page 248 (Roxburgh Club edition of the Handlyng Synne). He writes a tale in French, and his translator says that the sad affair referred to happened ‘in the time of good Edward, Sir Henry's son.’
* ↑ I visited Stamford in 1872, and found that the letter h was sadly misused in her streets.
* ↑ This change is also seen in Layamon and in the Herefordshire manuscript of 1313; whence Mr. Wright has taken much for his Political Songs (Camden Society).
* ↑ His moche was used by good writers down to Elizabeth's time.
* ↑ This is as great a change as if the Latin intelligite were to be written intellig.
* ↑ The idea of swithe is kept in Pepy's ‘mighty merry,’ and the common phrase, ‘you be main heavy.’
* ↑ Since, nor, its, unless, below, until, are our main Teutonic changes since Manning's time.
* ↑ Quoted by Marsh, Lectures on the English Language, p. 88.
* ↑ He explains it as a woman who comes for mede.
* ↑ In this century, many adjectives were to have one fastened on to them; we still hear, ‘he is a bad un,’ &c. Dr. Morris thinks that this one represents an old inflection ne. He quotes from the Ayenbite ane littlene (a little un).
* ↑ In Somersetshire, they say ‘he do be,’ instead of ‘he is.’ Mr. Earle (Philology, page 492) gives instances of this idiom from the old Romance of Eger and Grime.
* ↑ The he had become ha and then a; this is one of the new forms that we have rejected; Mrs. Quickly used it.
* ↑ This is the Gothic jains, the Greek keinos. When I was at Hastings in March, 1873, I heard a maid (she had been told to look at a man carefully) reply, ‘What! yon?’ I asked where she came from; the answer was, from Lincolnshire.
* ↑ This stands for quem; it was an idiom that Robert was unable to establish.
* ↑ Here we find something like our modern pronunciation of who.
* ↑ This stands for olim, not semel.
* ↑ At first sight it would seem that this comes from the French on; but it is a corrupt form of the Old English ân. It is a pity that our Lincolnshire bard did not keep alive the indefinite man; in this we have had a sad loss.
* ↑ This is a wonderful shortening of the old siððan.
* ↑ This wulde (our would) replaced the old wolde, as in East Anglia.
* ↑ The original story has Deu! the French invocation. We have stuck to Lord ever since, as an Interjection; Pepys was fond of it.
* ↑ Hence the ‘ha done, do!’ common among our lower orders.
* ↑ Moore, in one of his best squibs, talks of Wellington in Spain, and proposes to ‘ship off the Ministry, body and bones, to him.’
* ↑ This would of old have been peningas.
* ↑ This would have been noht or nout earlier. Our author writes nat or not for non, and noghte for nihil. Here once more we get two different forms from one old word.
* ↑ Matthew Paris would have called Robert of Brunne ‘immutator mirabilis.’
* ↑ The Early English Text Society has printed a vast quantity of Fifteenth Century English, tales about Arthur, and what not; but they have not given us the Medytaciuns on the Soper of our Lorde, which is said to be another work of Robert of Brunne's. Its phi­lological value must be very great; it may contain forms which as yet have not been found in any writer before Mandeville.
* ↑ In these twenty-two lines there are thirteen French words, not counting repetitions; in our Version of 1611, there are but twelve French words in the same passage.
* ↑ Ere appears in this piece as or and are.
* ↑ Here we see the word put get the meaning of ponere; before this, it was trudere.
* ↑ In one copy of the Harrowing of Hell, Christ calls Satan ‘lording.’
* ↑ Hearne's Langtoft's Chronicle, ii. 336. The lines were written by Manning, some thirty years after his Handlyng Synne, at a time when he lived further to the North. The Northern dialect is most apparent. We here read of his getting a glimpse of the Bruce family at Cambridge, about the year 1300 or earlier.
* ↑ Morris, Specimens of Early English, p. 172. This poem should be compared with the Northern Psalter, at page 145 of my work.
* ↑ Small, Metrical Homilies, p. 160.
* ↑ Morris, Specimens, p. 233. In Alliterative verse obsolete words always abound.
* ↑ Morris, Specimens of Early English, p. 243.
* ↑ Percy Society, Vol. IV. 26. See the Preface to this volume, where the writer of this poem is proved to be a Herefordshire man. He here mentions the Wye. He in this piece stands for he (illa). The two detached lines at the beginning come from the version of the Harrowing of Hell, in the same manuscript.
* ↑ Hearne's Robert of Gloucester, I. 364.
* ↑ Reliquiœ Antiquœ, II. 193. From the Southern dialect of this piece, we might readily gather, even if history did not help us, that the early English settlers in Ireland came, not from Chester, but from Bristol and from ports near Bristol. The Wexford dialect is said to be very like that of Somerset and Dorset.
* ↑ Do., p. 242. The chabbe (ich habbe) reminds us of Edgar's dialect in Lear, and of the Somersetshire ballads in Percy's Reliques. The word bad (malus) occurs in this piece, which made its first appearance in Robert of Gloucester; it is also found in the Handlyng Synne.
* ↑ Kemble, Codex. Dipl., III. 329. This charter is a late forgery, and seems much damaged. The proper names in it will be recog­nised by Oxford men.
* ↑ Ayenbite of Inwyt (Early English Text Society), page 1. Here we must read s for z, sh for ss, and f for v.
* ↑ Warton, History of English Poetry, II. 2. This London dialect was to be somewhat altered before the time of Mandeville and Chaucer. The thilk (ille) held its ground in this city for 140 years longer. Compare this piece with the older London poem at page 134 of my work.
* ↑ Legends of the Holy Rood (Early English Text Society, p. 150). This piece seems to me to be the link between Manning's Handlyng Synne and Mandeville's Travels sixty years later. It has forms akin to both, and seems to have been compiled half-way between Rutland and Middlesex.
* ↑ The old word was windass, and l is inserted; r is the favourite insertion in English.
* ↑ Of course, it is hopeless to attempt to give the French words first used in England in this century; they would fill many pages.