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His fame was due to the perfection of a single book; he ranked as a potentate in STYLE. But literary perfection, whether in prose or poetry, is a fragile quality, an afflatus irregular, independent, unamenable to orders; the official tributes of a Laureate we compliment at their best with the northern farmer's verdict on the pulpit performances of his parson: "An' I niver knaw'd wot a mean'd but I thow't a 'ad summut to saay, And I thowt a said wot a owt to 'a said an' I comed awaay."
"Yo' moosn' suppawse I dawn feel baad, Essy. I've laaid awaake manny a night, thinkin' what I've doon t'yo'." "What 'ave yo' doon, Jimmy? Yo' maade mae 'appy fer sex moonths. An' there's t' baaby. I didn' want 'im before 'e coom seemed like I'd 'ave t' 'ave 'im stead o' yo'. But yo' can goa right awaay, Jimmy, an' I sudn' keer ef I navver saw yo' again, so long's I 'ad 'im."
"Ay, he would, mum," sez I, "for he's fond o' laady's coompany. Coom here, Rip, an' speeak to this kind laady." An' Rip, seein' 'at t' mongoose hed getten clean awaay, cooms up like t' gentleman he was, nivver a hauporth shy or okkord. "Oh, you beautiful you prettee dog!" she says, clippin' an' chantin' her speech in a way them sooart has o' their awn; "I would like a dog like you.
Then she looked up at him, but with more incredulity than reproach. "Yo' wudn'," she said. "Yo' cudn' bae crool t' lil Jimmy." He scowled. "Yo've called 'im thot, Essy?" "An' why sudn' I call 'im? 'E's a right to thot naame, annyhow. Yo' caann't taake thot awaay from 'im." "I dawn' want t' taake it away from 'im. But I wish yo' 'adn'. I wish you 'adn', Essy."
'Ay, he would, mum, sez I, 'for he's fond o' laady's coompany. Coom here, Rip, an' speeak to this kind laady. An'Rip, seein' 'at t'mongoose hed getten clean awaay, cooms up like t' gentleman he was, nivver a hauporth shy or okkord. 'Oh, you beautiful you prettee dog! she says, clippin' an' chantin' her speech in a way them sooart has o' their awn; 'I would like a dog like you.
"Dosn't thou 'ear my 'erse's legs, as they canters awaay? Proputty, proputty, proputty that's what I 'ears 'em saay. But I knawed a Quaaker feller as often 'as towd ma this: 'Doant thou marry for munny, but goa wheer munny is!" Helen had much to do to keep her busy during the next few days.
Her'd ha' corned to gie thee a kiss, if her'd a-been 'n a vit staäte; but her's zent thee zummat " He foraged in the skirt pockets of his threadbare coat and brought out a paper of sandwiches and a long-nosed apple. I saw the young man wince. "Her reckoned you'd veel a wamblin' in the stommick, travellin' arl the waäy from Hexeter to Plymouth. There, stow it awaäy. Not veelin' peckish?