its life to the written phrase. In dialect the author is forbidden to
search for the word, for there is none lurking for his choice; but of
tones, allusions, and of references and inferences of the voice, the
speaker of dialect is a master. No range of phrases can be his, but he
has the more or the less confidential inflection, until at times the
close communication of the narrow street becomes a very conspiracy.

Let it be borne in mind that dialect properly so called is something all
unlike, for instance, the mere jargon of London streets. The difference
may be measured by the fact that Italian dialects have a highly organized
and orderly grammar. The Londoner cannot keep the small and loose order
of the grammar of good English; the Genoese conjugates his patois verbs,
with subjunctives and all things of that handsome kind, lacked by the
English of Universities.

The middle class--the _piccolo mondo_--hat shares Italian dialect with
the poor are more strictly local in their manners than either the opulent
or the indigent of the same city. They have moreover the busy
intelligence (which is the intellect of patois) at its keenest. Their
speech keeps them a sequestered place which is Italian, Italian beyond
the ken of the traveller, and beyond the reach of alteration. And--what
is pretty to observe--the speakers are well conscious of the characters
of this intimate language. An Italian countryman who has known no other
climate will vaunt, in fervent platitudes, his Italian sun; in like
manner he is conscious of the local character of his language, and tucks
himself within it at home, whatever Tuscan he may speak abroad. A
properly spelt letter, Swift said, would seem to expose him and Mrs
Dingley and Stella to the eyes of the world; but their little language,
ill-written, was "snug."