DIALECT POETRY.

BY the death of Mr. Brown, the poet who wrote "Betsy Lee" and "Fo'c's'le Yarns," the world has lost a true poet. Many lovers of poetry never managed to read even "Betsy Lee," being alarmed at the thought of the dialect; but it is not too much to say that no one whose opinion was worth having ever read half way through "Betsy Lee " with- out admitting that the writer had passion, inspiration, imagination, and all the qualities that belong to the true poet. Whether the reader personally liked or disliked verse written in the vernacular of a special district, he could not close the book without the remark, "At any rate this is the real thing." But though a re-reading of 'Fo'c's'le Yarns" can only confirm the verdict that Mr. Brown was a true poet. it is almost sure to raise thequestion, What justification is there for dialect poetry ? Is there a place for dialect poetry, and d the poets who make use of dialect to express their inspiration make a wise choice ? When the dialect chosen is the poet's I own natural language there can, of course, be no doubt as to the answer. A poet writes best in the tongue in which was born and bred and in which he thinks, and he is almost certain to be happiest and most free when he uses it. Burns was, of course, right to use Lowland Scotch, for that was his natural tongue. Barnes, again, was right to use the Dorset- shire country speech for his exquisite lyrics, for he heard it round his cradle and in the pleasant villages and farms of the land in which he was brought up. It is true that Barnes ultimately passed into a world of men and women who talked ordinary English, but his duties as a country clergyman gave him plenty of excuse for keeping up his Dorsetshire talk. The real problem arises when we come to writers like Mr. Brown, who, though he lived as a boy and again in old age among the sailor-folk of the Isle of Man, could not be said to speak ordinary English as an acquired tongue and the Manx dialect by nature. It cannot be said, except very paradoxically, that the Manx dialect was the tongue which came naturally to him. He may have schooled himself into preferring it above all others, and he may indeed have come to think in it, but primarily it was to him an exotic form of speech, just as ordinary English was an exotic in the case of Burns. How, then, is it possible to justify Mr. Brown in deliberately choosing to write in a language which must in reality have been as artificial to him as ordinary English was to Burns ? That is the problem, and a vc ry interesting one, since on its solution depends, as it were, the future of dialect poetry. If Mr. Brown made a mistake in writing dialect verse because the Manx dialect was not his natural daily speech, then we shall quickly see an end of dialect poetry, for it is hardly likely that many poets will arise in the future who will use a dialect naturally and as part of their birthright. But though we have stated the literary problem involved by Mr. Brown's poetry in these abstract terms, we do not intend to discuss it on abstract lines. The best solution is to go to the poems themselves. "Betsy Lee" is the answer to the question, Was Mr. Brown justified in writing in dialect ? No one with an ounce of feeling for poetry can read that enchanting tale without saying that the writer was amply justified from every point of view, and that he could not possibly have used his powers better than in producing so noble a poem. The problem, to be worth discussing, must then be stated in a different way. How is it that Mr. Brown was able to write such heart-stirring verse in a dialect which was not his by nature, and which, though he knew it so intimately, must always have been an exotic ? The answer is, we believe, to be found in the fact that Mr. Brown always used the Manx dialect dramatically, and seldom, if ever, personally. If he had written lyrics of personal feeling in the

Manx dialect (as Barnes wrote them in the Dorsetehire) he would have made as great a failure as Barnes did when he wrote poems in common English. What enabled Mr. Brown to write as he did write was his habit of speaking in the person of an old Manx sailor. By the genius of sympathy he was enabled to produce exactly the words and feelings of the sailor-folk whom he loved so well. Thus though, as we have said, it is hardly likely that we shall have another Burns or another Barnes, men who can write of themselves and of their own emotions in dialect, there will, as long as the dialects last, be a place, and a most legitimate place, for dialect poetry. The only condition will be that the presenta- tion shall be dramatic in form. We shall not again have poems like " Lwonesome Woodlands, Zunny Woodlands," but there is no reason why we should not have tales in verse like "Betsy Lee" and "Tommy Big-Eyes."

We have written thus because the true reason, and so apology, for dialect poetry of the kind written by Mr.

Brown seems so often ignored. It must not, however, be supposed that we have fallen into the error of thinking

that Mr. Brown was chiefly interesting because he was a skilful user of the Manx fisher talk. That would indeed be a capital error in literary criticism. Mr. Brown's use of dialect, wise and full of taste and good sense as it was, was the least important thing in his poetic equipment.

The man was a poet in every nerve and fibre. His poetry, in truth, is worth troubling about, not because it is in dialect, but because the " ichor of spring," to borrow Mr.

Watson's phrase, is crimson in each line of it. How and why the shy old scholar carried a lad's heart with him to the grave is another question, and quite beyond our present intention. The fact remains that the spirit of youth and of joy and life leaps out of the pages. And what is stranger, and what would, we expect, be a mystery, if not indeed a wild contradiction, for readers of the Latin race (if they may for a moment be imagined), is the fact that this joyful note of springtime is blended with the true Northern melancholy. There is a note of pure delight in Nature and her ways—a note which "dailies with the innocence of love like the old age' —and yet alongside it is a note of tragic suffering, a note moralised and ennobled no doubt, but always present.

Where in our literature is there anything more full of life and pure joy than this from "Betsy Lee" ?—

" Now the beauty of the thing when childher plays is The terrible wonderful length the days is.

Up you jumps, and out in the sun, And you fancy the day will never be done : And you're chasin the bumbees hummin so cross In the hot sweet air among the goss [gorse], Or gath'rin blue-bells, or lookin for eggs, Or peltin the ducks with their yalla legs, Or a climbin, and nearly breakin your skulls, Or a shoutin for divilment after the gulls, Or a thinkin of nothin, but down at the tide, Singin out for the happy you feel inside.

That's the way with the kids, you know, And the years do come and the years do go, And when you look back it's all like a puff, Happy and over and short enough."

"Where, too, is there verse more touched with natural magic than the description of the cows in the cowshed P-

." Well, winter come, and then the cows

Was goin a milkin in the house.

And if you want peace and quietness, It's in a cow-house you'll get it the best.

For the place is so warm, and their breath is so sweet, And the nice straw bedding about their feet,

And hardly any light at all, But just a dip stuck on to the wall, And them yocked [yoked] in the dark as quiet as ghos'es, And a feelin for each other's noses.

And, bless me! sometimes you'd hardly be knowin It was them, excep' for their chewin and blovrin.

Aw, many a time I've felt quite queer To see them standin so orderly there.

Is it the Lord that makes them so still ?

Aw, I like them craythurs terrible!

Aye, aye ! the sea for the leks of us ! It's God's own work (though treacherous !); But for peace and rest and that—d'ye see ?

Among the cows is the place for me."

But in Mr. Brown's case, as in that of all true poets, the quality which really raises his verse above the level of ordinary achievement is that of passion. The thing that strikes one most in "Betsy Lee" is that every line is quivering with passion. We do not, of course, mean by passion the mere emotion of love, but the poet's passion,

the quality which marks the true poet, whether it burns from a piece of fantastic yen de sociitg like the "Rape of the

Lock," from a dissertation on theology like "The Hind and the Panther," or from a pure satire like the " Danciad." Passion in poetry is a communicable fire. The poet hides a subtle something in the words which kindle and warm us as we read, be the subject what it will. No one had more completely the power to work this miracle than the author of "Betsy Lee," and hence his verses have a rush and a " go " which are most exhilarating. They read themselves, as if they were ballads of Kipling. As an example of what we mean, take the half- humorous yet strangely moving description of the old parson :—

" Now the grandest ould pazon, I'll be bail,

That ever was, was ould Pazon Gale.

Aw, of all the kind and the good and the true!

And the aisy and free, and—' How do you do ? '

And 'How's your mother, Tom, and—the fishin ?'

Spakin that nice, and allis wishin Good luck to the boats, and—' How's the take ?'

And blessin us there for Jesus' sake.

And many a time he'd come out and try A line, and the keen he was, and the spry !

And he'd sit in the stern, and he'd tuck his tails, And well he knew how to handle the sails.

And sometimes, if we were smookin, he'd ax For a pipe, and then we'd be turnin our backs, Lettin on [pretending] never to see him, and lookin This way and that way, and him a smookin Twis' as strong and as black as tar, And terrible sollum and regular.

Bless me ! the sperrit that was in him too, Houldin on till all was blue !

And only a little man, but staunch, With a main big heart aback of his paunch!

Just a little round man—but you should ha' seen him agate

Of a good-sized conger or a skate : His arms as stiff, and his eye afire, And every muscle of him like wire."

We have not left ourselves space to speak of all the fine qualities of Mr. Brown's verse, but one especially must be mentioned. No man could tell a story better in verse than he. His power of narrative, of spinning a yarn in verse, and spinning it so that the story flows both evenly and swiftly, was very great. There has indeed been no better story-teller in verse

since Crabbe. His stories, like Crabbe's in this respect, are not, of course, romantic tales, nor have they elaborate plots. Their interest, too, is always a moral one. The tale to be told is, however, always unfolded with unflagging skill. We should like, did space allow, to illustrate what we mean both from "Christmas Rose" and from "Tommy Big-Eyes." As it is, we can only refer our readers to Mr. Brown's poems. If they do not know them already, and if they love good verse and true, they will, we dare assert, agree that they are in the presence of one of the most moving poets of this genera- tion, There were sides of life quite untouched by Mr. Brown, but in his own special field of story-telling in verse, and in verse always eloquent and full of the sense of beauty, few could rival him. He was not, of course, anything like as great a poet as either Tennyson or Browning, but he was probably a better narrator than either.