The Abipones of South America similarly alter the names of the friends and relatives of a dead member of the tribe, and the words which entered into the composition of his name are dropped out of use.[121] For a parallel superstition we have only to think of the old European belief in the omen involved in the mere pronunciation of a word, which caused the Greek to speak of his left hand as ἀρίστερος, “the better one,” and the Roman to change Maleventum into Beneventum. The belief in the power of words, in the vis verbi as the Latin termed it, is even now not extinct, and the same feeling which altered the “Cape of Storms” into the “Cape of Good Hope” is still prevalent among us.
The sacred jargon of the Eskimaux sorcerer, which finds its analogue in the slang of the schoolboy, is merely one step lower than the ceremonial dialects which are to be met with all over the world. The Bhasa Krama or ceremonial language of Java, for example, like the ceremonial languages of the larger islands of Polynesia, or the ceremonial conjugation of the ancient Azteks, hedges in the upper classes of the community with a veritable tapu. So, too, the Japanese when addressing a superior has to speak of himself as gu-sau, “a stupid vegetable,” or yátsŭ-ko (contracted yákko), “house-boy,” and of another as nandzi, “famous,” or te-máye-san, “the gentleman at hand,” while o or on, “great,” is prefixed to all words which relate to the latter[122] and distinctive verbs and verbal forms employed expressive of courtesy.[123] The Chinaman is equally the slave of an artificial politeness; he is himself “the thief” (ts’ie), “the soft-brained” (’iu), while the person he addresses is “the honourable” (ling) or “the noble brother” (ling hiung).[124] The Indian bhavan, “present,” is construed with the third person in order to denote the second with ambiguous courtesy, and the same reluctance to place oneself on a footing of equality by a blunt “thou” shows itself in the Latin of the Hungarian, who will say “Dominus dignetur commodare mihi librum,” meaning the second person.[125] The ceremonial use of the pronouns reaches a still greater extreme in German, where in addition to the various titles with which “His Highly well-born,” “His most serene,” or “His Transparency” require to be addressed, the second person singular has to be represented sometimes by a masculine Er (“he”), sometimes by a feminine Sie (“she”), sometimes by a plural Sie (“they”). The latter reminds us of the Hebrew “pluralis majestatis,” and recalls our own employment of the plural you for the singular thou. Our usage in this respect was probably influenced by the French use of vous, and it is perhaps to the same influence that we may ascribe the Basque use of Zute, “you,” instead of Zu, “thou,” which seems of comparatively late introduction. Two Basque dialects, indeed, the Souletin and the east Low Navarese, have even developed a ceremonial conjugation, every person of which, except the second plural, assumes a special form when a superior is addressed. Besides the ceremonial conjugation there is also a feminine one, employed whenever a woman is spoken to. It must be remembered that the Basque verb is an amalgamation of the verbal root with the personal pronouns.
The rapid changes undergone by languages in a natural state can only be appreciated by those who have had experience of a tribe of wandering savages, or who have observed the alterations children would make in the language they learn if left to themselves. According to Waldeck, a dictionary compiled by Jesuit missionaries in Central America became useless within ten years; and Messerschmidt states that the inhabitants of Ostiak villages, only a mile or two apart, are unintelligible to one another.[126] The Hurons, Sagard stated in 1631, spoke such a variety of dialects that not only was the same language hardly to be heard in two adjacent villages, but even in two adjacent houses, and these multitudinous dialects he further described as changing every day. Mr. Trumbull, however, points out that Sagard’s account must be received with caution, since he says that the instability of language among the French was almost as great as among the Hurons, and his “very imperfect dictionary of this unstable language, 200 years or more after it was compiled, enabled Duponceau to make himself understood without apparent difficulty by the Wyandots, a remnant of the last nation of the Hurons.”[127]
But the following account given by Sir C. Lyell in his “Antiquity of Man,”[128] shows that it is not necessary for a community to be semi-civilized or barbarous in order to prove how rapidly a non-literary language can be transformed. “A German colony in Pennsylvania,” he says, “was cut off from frequent communication with Europe for about a quarter of a century, during the wars of the French Revolution, between 1792 and 1815. So marked had been the effect even of this brief and imperfect isolation, that when Prince Bernhard of Saxe-Weimar travelled among them a few years after the peace, he found the peasants speaking as they had done in Germany in the preceding century, and retaining a dialect which at home had already become obsolete. Even after the renewal of the German emigration from Europe, when I travelled in 1841, among the same people in the retired valleys of the Alleghanies, I found the newspapers full of terms half-English and half-German, and many an Anglo-Saxon word which had assumed a Teutonic dress, as ‘fencen,’ to fence, instead of umzäunen; ‘flauer,’ for flour, instead of mehl, and so on.” Destroy literature and facility of intercommunication, and the languages of England and America would soon be as different as those of France and Italy.
It is civilization which counteracts the natural tendency to multiply dialects, and which is ever striving to absorb the manifold dialects that exist into a single tongue. All the social conditions of civilized life tend to break down dialects, to assimilate languages, and to create a common medium of intercourse. A common government, a common literature, a common history and a common law, all require a common language. The Macedonian Empire made Greek the language of the East, and Rome effectually stamped out the various idioms of its subjects in the West. It needed an invasion of barbarism and the overthrow of Roman organization and culture to restore the period of linguistic disunion. The Church remained the sole representative of civilization, and consequently the sole possessor of a common tongue. In fact, wherever civilization has made an advance, the action of the great causes of change in language has received a check. Every conquest over a horde of barbarians, every attempt to found a settled government, to establish a code of laws, to systematize a religion, or to originate a literature, is a step forward in the direction of linguistic unity. The practical aim of the science of language is the formation of a universal speech, and the time may yet come when the dream will be converted into a reality. The inventions of the present century—the steamer, the railway, and the telegraph—are bringing all parts of the world into a closer connection with one another, and abolishing the barriers created by differences of speech. Commerce demands a lingua franca, and now that commerce is world-wide its lingua franca must be world-wide also.
The language of the chief trading nations must finally prevail in the struggle for existence, and the prophecy has already been hazarded that pigeon-English, or a similar grammarless jargon, will be the future medium of universal intercourse. However this may be, the endeavour to revive the perishing languages of Europe, and to make the limits of speech the limits of nationality, is a reversal of the lesson of history and a return to primitive barbarism. It is but the transient reaction against the Empire of the first Napoleon, based on the false belief that language and race are convertible terms. But the endeavour, however flattering to nations without a history, is doomed to failure. Little by little the weaker languages and dialects of Europe are disappearing before the schoolmaster and the railway, and artificial nurture can alone protract their lingering existence. Gaelic and Welsh in our own islands, like Breton in France or Lithuanian in Germany and Russia, must share the fate which has already overtaken Cornish and Wendic. The last Wendic speaker, Frau Gülzsin, died on the Island of Rügen as long ago as 1404,[129] while Lithuanian is now used by scarcely a million and a half persons, in spite of the philosopher Immanuel Kant’s plea for it as “a still unmixed language of an old people, now isolated and confined within narrow bounds,” which would throw light on the history of the past.[130] The tendency of time is to unify and simplify, and exact science even now has but one tongue throughout the world. The attempt of Bishop Wilkins to invent a universal language failed, not because it was premature, but because such a language, like all others, must be a spontaneous growth; a better fortune may await the Pasigraphy of Bachmaier,[131] which attempts to do for the man of literature what the Arabic ciphers have done for the mathematician, since writing differs from language in being a conscious human invention.
The history of the extinction of languages is similar to that of the extinction of dialects. We see the same process at work in both cases, only on a different scale. Where several dialects exist together, the one which belongs to the dominant class will finally prevail over the others. The “Queen’s English” is really the court dialect of Chaucer’s day, which became the dialect of literature and education, and so has succeeded in degrading its sister-dialects into illiterate provincialisms, and in many cases in destroying them altogether. Where the educated and ruling caste is small, the other dialects will continue to flourish among the mass of the people, and on the overthrow of the cultured class will once more assert their own. But in a democratic age like the present, when books and newspapers are multiplied by the printing press, and the whole nation is being leavened by the general spread of education, the dialect of civilization will sooner or later swallow up its less favoured sisters. The remarkable sameness of dialect which prevails among the Arabic-speaking populations of the East may be largely accounted for by the democratic spirit of Mahommedanism which holds all men equal before the supreme Khalif. It is, therefore, of the highest importance to comparative philology that the decaying dialects of our own or other countries should be observed and written down before they have perished. The history of a language can be traced only by a comparison of its dialects, which often preserve words and forms that have become obscure and inexplicable in the standard dialect itself. Where the allied dialects have disappeared, the chasm that divides the language we are studying from those with which it was once connected may be too wide to be easily spanned. For in language, as in everything else, dialect passes gradually and insensibly into dialect, and it is not until we compare the two extremes in the series that we are made aware of the accumulated differences which the transitions have involved.
The progress of civilization, then, implies a continuous diminution of the languages and dialects of the world, and a corresponding extension of a single tongue. Just as we have seen that language advances from complexity to simplicity, so we now see that it advances from multiplicity to unity. The more barbarous a society is, the more numerous will be the languages that it speaks. The further back we go into the past, the greater must be the linguistic anarchy with which we meet. A language begins with dialects, and since language is the product and reflection of the community that uses it, the primæval languages of the world must have been as infinitely numerous as the communities that spoke them. We start with the Babel of confusion, with the houseless savage who did that which was right in his own eyes. Language, it is true, first cemented society together, but it also made each society a body of hostile units. Many as are the existing languages of the earth, they are but the selected relics of an infinitely greater number which have passed away. Here and there we still come across the last waifs of an otherwise extinct family of speech, the last survivors of a group of languages and dialects which has long since been forgotten. The Basque, like the scattered languages of the Caucasus, seems to have no connection with any other known speech; sheltered by the mountain fastnesses of Biscay, it remains to bear witness to the linguistic character of an extinct world. So far as appears at present, the mysterious Etruscan which has left us some 3,000 short inscriptions is another forlorn waif, without kith or kin in the world of known tongues. Perhaps, too, the language of the Lykian inscriptions, which still refuses to be “classified” in spite of the efforts that have been made to turn it into an Iranian idiom, is a further example of the same kind. The boulders that have been left on our hilltops do not tell us with more certainty of the icebergs and icefloes which brought them thither, than do these stray languages of the manifold forms of speech of which they are the scanty remnants. Our only wonder should be not that there are any tongues which refuse to be classed with others, but that there are so few which thus maintain an isolated existence.
As we shall see hereafter, families of languages are exceptional in the history of speech. Professor Max Müller very truly says:[132] “Families of languages are very peculiar formations; they are, and they must be, the exception, not the rule, in the growth of language. There was always the possibility, but there never was, as far as I can judge, any necessity for human speech leaving its primitive stage of wild growth and decay.” “If we confine ourselves to the Asiatic continent, with its important peninsula of Europe, we find that in the vast desert of drifting human speech, three, and only three oases have been formed, in which, before the beginning of all history, language became permanent and traditional; assumed, in fact, a new character—a character totally different from the original character of the floating and constantly varying speech of human beings.” And these oases, these families of speech, it is important to remember, are themselves made up of dialects, only dialects with a common grammar and a common stock of roots. We may, if we like, construct a hypothetical “parent-speech,” from which we may derive the several dialects and languages which are the only facts we have to work upon; but we must not forget that such a parent-speech is purely hypothetical, the product of reflective analysis and logical deduction. Fick’s dictionary of the Parent-Aryan is as much the creation of the comparative philologist’s closet as Schleicher’s “restoration” of its grammatical forms. Because the Sanskrit panchan and the Latin quinque can both be reduced to the same form quemquem, it does not follow that the latter form was ever actually existent. As far back as we can go, we still find ourselves in the presence of allied dialects, never of a single tongue. The east-Aryan primitive ghard, “heart,” cannot be reduced to the same form as the west-Aryan kard, with the same meaning; the two variant forms of the root testify to a dialectical difference from the outset.[133] Such, too, is the evidence of words like those for “daughter,” Greek θυγάτηρ, but Sanskrit duhitâ, or “door,” Greek θύρα, Sanskrit dwâram (not dhwâram), while the demonstrative pronouns appear from the first under two incompatible forms sa(s) and ta(s). For the sake of convenience we may assume a parent-speech; we may even go so far as to picture to ourselves a family of languages like a family in social life, except that it springs not from two ancestors but from one; but unless we bear in mind that these assumptions are like the assumptions of the geometer, ideal creations, never realized in the actual world, we shall be betrayed into numberless absurdities and false conclusions. It is to them, indeed, that we owe the belief that the primitive Aryans had but the single vowel a in their alphabet besides the three tenues k, t, p, the labials r, m, n, and the sibilant s. Even Dr. Murray, with his nine primæval roots ag, bag, dwag, gwag, lag, mag, nag, rag, and swag, did better than this.[134]
Repulsion and division, then, is the natural condition of language. The three causes of change are ever actively at work, and the influence of civilization cannot entirely destroy their power. But with the advance of culture, the dividing barriers are broken down, and to borrow a metaphor from mechanics, the centrifugal is exchanged for the centripetal force. Dialects make way for languages, and languages in their turn tend to centralization. Where thought is of more consequence than the vocal symbols in which it is expressed, means will be found for making the symbols uniform and constant. Language begins with multiplicity and disunion, but its end is unity. The theory that would derive the idioms of the world from three or four primæval centres, or even from a single centre, is contrary to the facts. In the very act of being formed a language necessarily splits itself into dialectical variety. The children of to-day resemble those children of humanity, the first framers of articulate speech, and the children of a single household, if left to themselves, would have each his own jargon, his own dialect. So it was, too, with primitive man. Where circumstances were favourable the inhabitants of the same locality, breathing the same air, and enjoying the same food, would maintain a family likeness in the tongues they spoke; but elsewhere all the causes of change would have had free play, and the languages of mankind would have been as numerous as the songs of birds. With the growth of society, however, language, the great social unifier, became more and more fixed and settled; though dialects continued to branch off, they each occupied a wider area, belonged to a larger community, and retained their marks of relationship to one another. When the first level of civilization had been reached, the history of language entered upon a new phase. Families of speech became possible, and the same causes that produced permanence and stability in the customs and beliefs of the community produced them also in the dialects that it used. The first step had been made towards counteracting the anarchy of primæval speech and attaining that ideal unity to which language tends. Here and there the race may have deteriorated; the Hottentots, for instance, with their developed dialects, may be the degenerate descendants of more civilized ancestors; but the movement on the whole has been forward and not backward. Science with a myriad voices declares the ascent and not the descent of man. Our civilization, it is true, like the languages that reflect it, is still imperfect, is still far from the goal that it has in view. But we may take heart from what has been achieved, and perhaps even look forward to the day when there shall be not only one hope and one faith, but also one language in which they shall find utterance.
Maltese.
St. John i. 1-14. (1.) Fil bidu kienet il kelma, u il kelma kienet ’aand Alla, u Alla kien il kelma. (2.) Dina kienet fil bidu ’aand Alla. (3.) Kollosh biha sar; u minn ’aayrha sheyn ma sar, milli sar. (4.) Fiha il ḥaỹa kienet, u il ḥaỹa kienet id dawl tal bniedmin. (5.) U id dawl yilma fid dlamiyiet, u id dlamiyiet ma fehmuhsh. (6.) Kien hemma bniedem mib’aut mn’ Alla, li ismu Jwan. (7.) Dana jie b’shiehed biesh yished mid Dawl, biesh il koll yemmnu bih. (8.) Hua ma kiensh id Dawl, izda kien biesh yishhed mid Dawl. (9.) Kien Dawl tas sew̃a, li yuri lil koll bniedem li yiji fid dinya. (10.) Hu kien fid dinya, u id dinya bih saret, u id dinya ma ’aarfetush. (11.) Jie fiḥ weyju, u niesu ma laq’auhsh. (12.) Izda lil dawk kollha li laq’auh, tahom il yedd illi isiru ulied Alla, lil dawka li yemmnu b’ Ismu: (13.) Li le twieldu(sh) mid demm, u la mir rieda tal jisem, lanqas mir rieda tar rajel, izda mn’ Alla. (14.) U il kelma saret jisem, u ’aammret fostna (u rayna sebḥu [or kburitu], bḥala sebḥ li mnissel-waḥdu mil missier), mimlia bil graẓya u bis sew̃a.
Creolese (or broken Danish), the language of 39,000 negroes in Danish West Indies, possessing no genders or numbers, declension or conjugation. See Klauer-Klattowski, “Deutsche Orthoepie,” p. 108, and J. C. Kingos, “Kreool A B C Buk” (S. Croix, 1770). The language is really Dutch with Danish words intermixed.
St. John i. 1-14. (1.) In die Begin die Woord ha wees, en die Woord ha wees bie Godt, en Godt ha wees die Woord. (2.) Die selve ha wees bie Godt in die Begin. (3.) Almael gut ka maek door die selve; en sonder die niet een gut ka maek, van almael, wat ka maek. (4.) Die Leven ha wees in hem, en die Leven ha wees die Ligt van die Mensen. (5.) En die Ligt ha skien in die Dysternis, en die Dysternis no ha begriep die. (6.) Die ha hab een mens, Godt ha stier hem, en sie naem ha wees Johannes. (7.) Hem ha kom tot een Getiegnis, dat hem ha sal getieg van die Ligt, dat almael ha sal gloov door hem. (8.) Hem no ha wees die Ligt, maer dat hem ha sal getieg van die Ligt. (9.) Die ha wees die waeragtig Ligt, die verligt almael Mensen, die kom na die Weereld. (10.) Hem ha wees in die Weereld, en die Weereld ka maek door hem, en die Weereld no ka ken hem. (11.) Hem ha kom na sie Eigendom, en sie eigen no ha neem hem an. (12.) Maer sooveel ka neem hem an, na sender hem ka giev magt for kom kinders van Godt, die gloov in sie Naem; (13.) Die no bin gebooren van Blud, ook niet van die Wil van Vleis, ook niet van die Wil van man, maer van Godt. (14.) En die Woord ka kom Vleis, en ka woon onder ons, en ons ka kik sie Heerligheid, een Heerligheid, als van die eenig gebooren Soon van die Vaeder, vol van Gnaede en Waerheid.
Surinam Negro-English (or rather Negro-English-Dutch), spoken in the Dutch colony of Guiana by at least 100,000 persons, of whom 10,000 are Europeans. See Greenfield, “Defence of the Surinam Negro-English Version,” p. 17. It includes Spanish, Portuguese, and French words. Nearly all its words end in a vowel, and it is nearly devoid of grammar. It is called by the Negroes, Ningre-tongo or Bakra.
St. John i. 1-14. (1.) Na begin da Woord ben de, da Woord ben de nanga Gado, en da Woord ben de Gado srefi. (2.) Da ben de nanga Gado na begin. (3.) Nanga hem allasanni ben kom, en sondro hem no wansanni ben kom, dissi de. (4.) Da Liebi ben de na inni va hem, en da Liebi ben de da kandera va somma. (5.) En da kandera de krieni na dongroe, ma dongroe no ben teki da kandera. (6.) Gado ben senni wan somma, hem neem Johannes; (7.) Da srefiwan ben kom vo wan getingenis, va a getinge vo da kandera, va dem allamal kom briebi nanga hem. (8.) Hem srefi no ben de da kandera, ma a ben kom va takki vo da kandera. (9.) Datti da reti troe kandera, dissi kieni gi alla somma dissi kom na kondre. (10.) A ben de na kondre, en em srefi ben meki kondre; en kondre no ben sabi hem. (11.) A ben kom na hem Eigendom, en dem somma va hem no ben teki hem. (12.) Ma sa menni va dem dissi ben teki hem, na dem a ben gi trangi, va kom pikien va Gado; dem, dissi briebi na hem neem. (13.) Dissi no komoppo na broedoe, effi na wanni vo skien [nanga broedoe], effi na wanni vo wan man, ma dissi ben kom gebore na Gado. (14.) En da Woord ben kom somma, a ben liebi na wi mindri, en wi ben si hem Glori, wan Grangglori, dissi fitti da wan Pikien va Tatta Gado, foeloe va Gnade en Troefasi.[135]
The broken Negro-Spanish of Curaçao which belongs to the Dutch in the Caribbean Sea. See J. J. Putman: “Gemeenzame Zamenspraken” (1853).
Matt. v. 1-12. (1.) Anto ora koe Hezoes a mira toer e heende nan, eel a soebi oen seroe; deespuees eel a sienta i soe desipel nan a bini seka dje. (2.) I eel a koemisa di papia i di sienja nan di ees manera. (3.) Bieenabeentoera ta e pober nan na spiritoe, pasoba reina di Dioos ta di nan. (4.) Bieenabeentoera ta ees nan, koe ta jora, pasoba lo nan bira konsolaa. (5.) Bieenabeentoera pasifiko nan, pasoba lo nan erf tera. (6.) Bieenabeentoera ees nan, koe tien hamber i sedoe di hoestisji, pasoba lo nan no tien hamber i sedoe mas. (7.) Bieenabeentoera ees nan, koe tien mizerikoordia, pasoba lo heende tien mizerikoordia koe nan. (8.) Bieenabeentoera ees nan, koe ta liempi di koerasoon, pasoba lo nan mira Dioos. (9.) Bieenabeentoera ees nan, koe ta perkoera paas, pasoba lo nan ta jama joe di Dioos. (10.) Bieenabeentoera ees nan, koe ta persigido pa motiboe di hoestisji, pasoba reina di Dioos ta di nan. (11.) Bosonan lo ta bieenabeentoerado, koe ta koos nan Zoendra i persigi bosonan, i koe ta koos pa mi kausa nan ganja toer soorto di maloe ariba bosonan. (12.) Legra bosonan i salta di legria, pasoba bosonan rekompeensa ta grandi deen di Ciëloe; pasoba nan a persigi di ees manera e profeet nan, koe tabata promee koe bosonan.
Indo-Portuguese, spoken in Ceylon and on the Indian coast by the mixed descendants of Dutch and Portuguese, 50,000 of whom are to be found in Ceylon. It omits cases, verbal suffixes, &c., and uses auxiliary particles, being a mixture of Dutch, Portuguese, and Indic.
St. John i. 1-14. (1.) Ne o começo tinha a Palavra, e a Palavra tinha junto de Deos, e a Palavra tinha Deos. (2.) O mesmo tinha ne o começo junto de Deos. (3.) Todas cousas tinha feitas de elle; e sem elle naõ tinha feita ne huã cousa que tinha feita. (4.) Em elle tinha vida; e a vida tinha o Lume de homens. (5.) E o Lume te luze em escuridade; e a escuridade nunca ja conhece aquel. (6.) Tinha hum homem mandado de Deos, quem seu nome tinha Joaõ. (7.) O mesmo ja vi por hum testimunha, pera da testimunho de o Lume, que todos de elle pode cré. (8.) Elle naõ tinha o Lume, mas tinha mandado pera da testimunho de o Lume. (9.) Aquel tinha o Lume verdadeiro, que te alumia per cada hum homem quem ta vi ne o mundo. (10.) Elle tinha ne o mundo, e de elle o mundo tinha formado, e o mundo per elle nunca ja conhece. (11.) Elle ja vi per seu mesmo povo, e seus mesmos nunca ja recebe per elle. (12.) Mas per todos quantos quem ja recebe per elle, per ellotros elle ja da poder pera fica os filhos de Deos, até, per ellotros quem ja cré em seu nome: (13.) Quem tinha nacido, nem de sangue, nem de a vontade de a carne, nem de a vontade de homem, mas de Deos. (14.) E a Palavra tinha feita carne, e ja mora entre nos (e nos ja olha sua gloria, a gloria como de o unigenito de o Pai), enchido de graça e verdade.
It is needless to give a specimen of the Judæo-Spanish of Turkey, which the Turkish Jews regard as their sacred language, since it is merely the old Spanish of three centuries ago, moulded in accordance with Hebrew idiom. Similarly the sacred language of the Polish Jews is old German, mixed with Hebrew words and idioms.
Negro-Portuguese, originally introduced into Surinam by Portuguese Jews, is now spoken only by one tribe of the free Bush Negroes, the Saramaccans, on the Upper Surinam, who call it Djoe-tongo, “Jews’ language.” There are no printed specimens of it.
Negro-French, spoken in Trinidad, San Domingo, Guadaloupe, and Martinique, is explained in the excellent “Theory and Practice of Creole Grammar” of J. J. Thomas (1869), and in a “Catéchisme en la Langue Créole” (1842). Here is a specimen:—
St. John iv. 6. Apouésent, pîts Jacob té nans place là. Jésis, con li té lasse épîs route li, assise bôd pîts la; et cété coté mindi con-ça. (7.) Yon femme, gens Samarie, vinî haler dleau. Jésis dîe li: Bâ-moèn boèr. (8.) Discipes li étant té aller nans boûq la gañèn povisions. (9.) Alosse, femme Samaritaine la dîe li: coument fair ous, qui yon Juif, ca mander dleau poû boèr nans lamain moèn, qui yon femme Samaritaine? pâce Juifs pas ca méler épîs gens Samarie.