In the wild October night time, when the wind raved round the land, And the back-sea met the front-sea, and our doors were blocked with sand, And we heard the drub of Dead-man’s Bay, where bones of thousands are, (But) knew not what that day had done for us at Trafalgar.[3] The isolation of Dorset, which has been before spoken of, has had much to do with preserving from extinction the old dialect spoken in the days of the Wessex kings. Within its boundaries, especially in “outstep placen,” as the people call them, the old speech may be heard in comparative purity. Let it not be supposed that Dorset is an illiterate corruption of literary English. It is an older form of English; it possesses many words that elsewhere have become obsolete, and a grammar with rules as precise as those of any recognised language. No one not to the manner born can successfully imitate the speech of the rustics who, from father to son, through many generations have lived in the same village. A stranger may pick up a few Dorset words, only, in all probability, to use them incorrectly. For instance, he may hear the expression “thic tree” for “that tree,” and go away with the idea that “thic” is the Dorset equivalent of “that,” and so say “thic grass”—an expression which no true son of the Dorset soil would use; for, as the late William Barnes pointed out, things in Dorset are of two classes: (1) The personal class of formed things, as a man, a tree, a boot; (2) the impersonal class of unformed quantities of things, as a quantity of hair, or wood, or water. “He” is the personal pronoun for class (1); “it” for class (2). Similarly, “thëase” and “thic” are the demonstratives of class (1); “this” and “that” of class (2). A book is “he”; some water is “it.” We say in Dorset: “Thëase tree by this water,” “Thic cow in that grass.” Again, a curious distinction is made in the infinitive mood: when it is not followed by an object, it ends in “y”; when an object follows, the “y” is omitted:—“Can you mowy?” but “Can you mow this grass for me?” The common use of “do” and “did” as auxiliary verbs, and not only when emphasis is intended, is noteworthy (the “o” of the “do” being faintly heard). “How do you manage about threading your needles?” asked a lady of an old woman engaged in sewing, whose sight was very dim from cataract. The answer came: “Oh, he” (her husband) “dô dread ’em for me.” In Dorset we say not only “to-day” and “to-morrow,” but also “to-week,” “to-year.” “Tar’ble” is often used for “very,” in a good as well as a bad sense. There are many words bearing no resemblance to English in Dorset speech. What modern Englishman would recognise a “mole hill” in a “wont-heave,” or “cantankerous” in “thirtover”? But too much space would be occupied were this fascinating subject to be pursued further.