And yet it must not be thought that either “Bassetts” or “Little Baddow”
figures in the “Little Bradmarsh” of my story. The artist cannot be tied
down: he creates a composite landscape to his needs. Moreover, in these
last four or five years a zealous constabulary can testify out of what
odds and ends the strange inquiring figure, who walked, cycled, or rode
in carriers’ carts to forgotten hamlets or sea-marshes, has composed his
background. Nor have I followed photographic realism even in my dialect,
deeming the Cockneyish forms, except when unconsciously amusing, too
ugly to the eye in a long sustained narrative, though enjoyable enough
in those humorous sketches which my friend Bensusan, the true
conquistador of Essex, pours forth so amazingly from his inexhaustible
cornucopia. I differ—in all diffidence—from his transcription on the
sole point that the Essex rustic changes “i” into “oi” in words like
“while,” though why on the other hand “boil” should go back to “bile”
can be explained only by the perversity which insists on taking
aspirates off the right words and clapping them on the wrong, much as
Cockney youths and girls exchange hats on Bank Holiday. I have limited
my own employment of this local vowelling mainly to the first person
singular as sufficiently indicative of the rest. In the old vexed
question of the use of dialect, my feeling is that its value is simply
as colour, and that the rich old words, obsolete or unknown elsewhere,
contribute this more effectively and far more beautifully than vagaries
of pronunciation, itself a very shifting factor of language even in the
best circles. It is not even necessary for the artistic effect that the
reader should understand the provincial words, though the context should
be so contrived as to make them fairly intelligible. In short, art is
never nature, though it should conceal the fact. Even the slowness and
minuteness of my method—imposed as it is by the attempt to seize the
essence of Essex—are immeasurable velocity and breadth compared with
the scale of reality.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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