And what do you think of bofen-yed?  I once heard a farmer, shouting from the garden fence, with the vocal powers of a Boanerges, to a labourer at work about a quarter of a mile away, “Yer gret bofen-yed, can ter ear noat?” (Anglice, “You ox-headed lout, are you stone deaf?"); and more frequently the terms, pudding-yed and noggen-yed have been addressed in my hearing to obtuse and stupid folk.  The former requires no comment, and an explanation of the latter—­noggen, hard, rough, coarse—­may be found in Johnson.  “Nay, I did na say thee wor a noggen-yed; I said Lawyer said thee were a noggen-yed,” was a poor apology, once spoken in Lancashire.  And there also, in time-honoured Lancaster, was made the following illustrative speech.  A conceited young barrister, with a nez retrousse and a new wig, had been bullying for some time a rough, honest Lancashire lad, who was giving evidence in a trial, and at last the lawyer, thinking that he saw his opportunity, turned sharply upon the witness and said, “Why, fellow, only a short time ago you stated so and so.”  To which came the indignant answer, “Why, yer powder-yedded monkey, I never said noat o’ sort; I appeal to th’ company!”

I have a loving faith in children.  Mixing with them daily—­in church, in school, and at their play—­I think that I know something about them; and I maintain that a disagreeable child is a sorrowful exception to the rule, and the result of mismanagement and foolish indulgences on the part of parents and teachers.  But when this abnormal nuisance is found, a peevish, fretful child—­a child who is always wanting to taste, a child who ignores the admirable purposes for which pocket-handkerchiefs were designed, such an enfant terrible as he who told the kindly mother, offering to bring her ’Gustus to join him in his play, that “if you bring your ’Gustus here I shall make a slit in him with my new knife, and let out his sawdust”—­when, I repeat, we come in contact with such an obnoxious precocity as this, what word can describe him so satisfactorily as the monosyllable—­brat?

More detestable, because more powerful to do hurt, and with less excuse for doing it, is the Blab; the unctuous, tattling Blab, who creeps to your side with words softer than butter, but having war in his heart; he “always thought that Sam Smith was such a friend of yours, and” (hardly waiting for your “So he is”) “was surprised and rather disgusted by his remarks at the Club last Thursday.”  And then he tells you something which, for a moment, and until principle prevails over passion, suggests the removal by violence of several of Sam’s teeth, and he leaves you distressed and distrustful, until you discover, as you most probably will, that there has been cruel misrepresentation.  Ah, if poor Jeannette’s desire were realised, and they who make the quarrels were the only men to fight, how nice it would be to sit upon an eminence and watch the Battle of the Blabs!