“So good a proficient in one quarter of an hour that I can drink with any tinker in his own language during my life.”—King Henry the Fourth.

One summer day, in the year 1876, I was returning from a long walk in the beautiful country which lies around Bath, when, on the road near the town, I met with a man who had evidently grown up from childhood into middle age as a beggar and a tramp. I have learned by long experience that there is not a so-called “traveler” of England or of the world, be he beggar, tinker, gypsy, or hawker, from whom something cannot be learned, if one only knows how to use the test-glasses and proper reagents. Most inquirers are chiefly interested in the morals—or immorals—of these nomads. My own researches as regards them are chiefly philological. Therefore, after I had invested twopence in his prospective beer, I addressed him in Romany. Of course he knew a little of it; was there ever an old “traveler” who did not?

“But we are givin’ Romanes up very fast,—all of us is,” he remarked. “It is a gettin’ to be too blown. Everybody knows some Romanes now. But there is a jib that ain’t blown,” he remarked reflectively. “Back slang an’ cantin’ an’ rhymin’ is grown vulgar, and Italian always was the lowest of the lot; thieves kennick is genteel alongside of organ-grinder’s lingo, you know. Do you know anythin’ of Italian, sir?”

“I can rakker it pretty flick” (talk it tolerably), was my reply.

“Well I should never a penned [thought] sitch a swell gent as you had been down so low in the slums. Now Romanes is genteel. I heard there’s actilly a book about Romanes to learn it out of. But as for this other jib, its wery hard to talk. It is most all Old Irish, and they calls it Shelter.”

This was all that I could learn at that time. It did not impress me much, as I supposed that the man merely meant Old Irish. A year went by, and I found myself at Aberystwith, the beautiful sea-town in Wales, with my friend Professor Palmer—a palmer who has truly been a pilgrim outre-mer, even by Galilee’s wave, and dwelt as an Arab in the desert. One afternoon we were walking together on that end of the beach which is the antithesis of the old Norman castle; that is, at the other extremity of the town, and by the rocks. And here there was a little crowd, chiefly of young ladies, knitting and novel-reading in the sun, or watching children playing on the sand. All at once there was an alarm, and the whole party fled like partridges, skurrying along and hiding under the lee of the rocks. For a great rock right over our heads was about to be blasted. So the professor and I went on and away, but as we went we observed an eccentric and most miserable figure crouching in a hollow like a little cave to avoid the anticipated falling stones.

“Dikk Ó dovo mush adoi a gavverin lester kokero!” (Look at that man there, hiding himself!) said the professor in Romanes. He wished to call attention to the grotesque figure without hurting the poor fellow’s feelings.

“Yuv’s atrash o’ ye baryia” (He is afraid of the stones), I replied.

The man looked up. “I know what you’re saying, gentlemen. That’s Romany.”

“Jump up, then, and come along with us.”

He followed. We walked from rock to rock, and over the sand by the sea, to a secluded nook under a cliff. Then, seated around a stone table, we began our conversation, while the ocean, like an importunate beggar, surfed and foamed away, filling up the intervals with its mighty roaring language, which poets only understand or translate:—

“Thus far, and then no more:”
Such language speaks the sounding sea
To the waves upon the shore.

Our new acquaintance was ragged and disreputable. Yet he held in his hand a shilling copy of “Helen’s Babies,” in which were pressed some fern leaves.

“What do you do for a living?” I asked.

“Shelkin gallopas just now,” he replied.

“And what is that?”

“Selling ferns. Don’t you understand? That’s what we call it in Minklers Thari. That’s tinkers’ language. I thought as you knew Romanes you might understand it. The right name for it is Shelter or Shelta.”

Out came our note-books and pencils. So this was the Shelter of which I had heard. He was promptly asked to explain what sort of a language it was.

“Well, gentlemen, you must know that I have no great gift for languages. I never could learn even French properly. I can conjugate the verb Être,—that is all. I’m an ignorant fellow, and very low. I’ve been kicked out of the lowest slums in Whitechapel because I was too much of a blackguard for ’em. But I know rhyming slang. Do you know Lord John Russell?”

“Well, I know a little of rhyming, but not that.”

“Why, it rhymes to bustle.”

“I see. Bustle is to pick pockets.”

“Yes, or anything like it, such as ringing the changes.”

Here the professor was “in his plate.” He knows perfectly how to ring the changes. It is effected by going into a shop, asking for change for a sovereign, purchasing some trifling article, then, by ostensibly changing your mind as to having the change, so bewilder the shopman as to cheat him out of ten shillings. It is easily done by one who understands it. The professor does not practice this art for the lucre of gain, but he understands it in detail. And of this he gave such proofs to the tramp that the latter was astonished.

“A tinker would like to have a wife who knows as much of that as you do,” he remarked. “No woman is fit to be a tinker’s wife who can’t make ten shillings a day by glantherin. Glantherin or glad’herin is the correct word in Shelter for ringing the changes. As for the language, I believe it’s mostly Gaelic, but it’s mixed up with Romanes and canting or thieves’ slang. Once it was the common language of all the old tinkers. But of late years the old tinkers’ families are mostly broken up, and the language is perishing.”

Then he proceeded to give us the words in Shelta, or Minklers Thari. They were as follows:—

This word has a very peculiar pronunciation.

Can you thari Shelter? Can you bug Shelta? Can you talk tinkers’ language?

Curious as perhaps indicating an affinity between the Hindustani larki, a girl, and the gypsy rakli.

Our informant declared that there are vulgar forms of certain words.

“No minkler would have a bewr who couldn’t gladdher.”

“I tharied the soobri I sonnied him.” (I told the man I saw him.)

Mushgraw.

Our informant did not know whether this word, of Romany origin, meant, in Shelta, policeman or magistrate.

Our informant suggested scribe as the origin of this word.

“You’re readered soobri.” (You are put in the “Police Gazette,” friend.)

Our informant could give only a single specimen of the Shelta literature. It was as follows:—

“My name is Barney Mucafee,
With my borers and jumpers down to my thee (thigh).
An’ it’s forty miles I’ve come to kerrb yer pee.”

This vocabulary is, as he declared, an extremely imperfect specimen of the language. He did not claim to speak it well. In its purity it is not mingled with Romany or thieves’ slang. Perhaps some student of English dialects may yet succeed in recovering it all. The pronunciation of many of the words is singular, and very different from English or Romany.

Just as the last word was written down, there came up a woman, a female tramp of the most hardened kind. It seldom happens that gentlemen sit down in familiar friendly converse with vagabonds. When they do they are almost always religious people, anxious to talk with the poor for the good of their souls. The talk generally ends with a charitable gift. Such was the view (as the vagabond afterwards told us) which she took of our party. I also infer that she thought we must be very verdant and an easy prey. Almost without preliminary greeting she told us that she was in great straits,—suffering terribly,—and appealed to the man for confirmation, adding that if we would kindly lend her a sovereign it should be faithfully repaid in the morning.

The professor burst out laughing. But the fern-collector gazed at her in wrath and amazement.

“I say, old woman,” he cried; “do you know who you’re rakkerin [speaking] to? This here gentleman is one of the deepest Romany ryes [gypsy gentlemen] a-going. And that there one could gladdher you out of your eye-teeth.”

She gave one look of dismay,—I shall never forget that look,—and ran away. The witch had chanced upon Arbaces. I think that the tramp had been in his time a man in better position. He was possibly a lawyer’s clerk who had fallen into evil ways. He spoke English correctly when not addressing the beggar woman. There was in Aberystwith at the same time another fern-seller, an elderly man, as wretched and as ragged a creature as I ever met. Yet he also spoke English purely, and could give in Latin the names of all the plants which he sold. I have always supposed that the tinkers’ language spoken of by Shakespeare was Romany; but I now incline to think it may have been Shelta.

Time passed, and “the levis grene” had fallen thrice from the trees, and I had crossed the sea and was in my native city of Philadelphia. It was a great change after eleven years of Europe, during ten of which I had “homed,” as gypsies say, in England. The houses and the roads were old-new to me; there was something familiar-foreign in the voices and ways of those who had been my earliest friends; the very air as it blew hummed tunes which had lost tones in them that made me marvel. Yet even here I soon found traces of something which is the same all the world over, which goes ever on “as of ever,” and that was the wanderer of the road. Near the city are three distinct gypsyries, where in summer-time the wagon and the tent may be found; and ever and anon, in my walks about town, I found interesting varieties of vagabonds from every part of Europe. Italians of the most Bohemian type, who once had been like angels,—and truly only in this, that their visits of old were few and far between,—now swarmed as fruit dealers and boot-blacks in every lane; Germans were of course at home; Czechs, or Slavs, supposed to be Germans, gave unlimited facilities for Slavonian practice; while tinkers, almost unknown in 1860, had in 1880 become marvelously common, and strange to say were nearly all Austrians of different kinds. And yet not quite all, and it was lucky for me they were not. For one morning, as I went into the large garden which lies around the house wherein I wone, I heard by the honeysuckle and grape-vine a familiar sound,—suggestive of the road and Romanys and London, and all that is most traveler-esque. It was the tap, tap, tap of a hammer and the clang of tin, and I knew by the smoke that so gracefully curled at the end of the garden a tinker was near. And I advanced to him, and as he glanced up and greeted, I read in his Irish face long rambles on the roads.

“Good-morning!”

“Good-mornin’, sorr!”

“You’re an old traveler?”

“I am, sorr.”

“Can you rakker Romanes?”

“I can, sorr!”

“Pen yer nav.” (Tell your name.)

“Owen ---, sorr.”

A brief conversation ensued, during which we ascertained that we had many friends in common in the puro tem or Ould Country. All at once a thought struck me, and I exclaimed,—

“Do you know any other languages?”

“Yes, sorr: Ould Irish an’ Welsh, an’ a little Gaelic.”

“That’s all?”

“Yes, sorr, all av thim.”

“All but one?”

“An’ what’s that wan, sorr?”

“Can you thari shelta, subli?”

No tinker was ever yet astonished at anything. If he could be he would not be a tinker. If the coals in his stove were to turn to lumps of gold in a twinkle, he would proceed with leisurely action to rake them out and prepare them for sale, and never indicate by a word or a wink that anything remarkable had occurred. But Owen the tinker looked steadily at me for an instant, as if to see what manner of man I might be, and then said,—

“Shelta, is it? An’ I can talk it. An’ there’s not six min livin’ as can talk it as I do.”

“Do you know, I think it’s very remarkable that you can talk Shelta.”

“An’ begorra, I think it’s very remarkable, sorr, that ye should know there is such a language.”

“Will you give me a lesson?”

“Troth I will.”

I went into the house and brought out a note-book. One of the servants brought me a chair. Owen went on soldering a tin dish, and I proceeded to take down from him the following list of words in Shelta:

There you are, readers! Make good cheer of it, as Panurge said of what was beyond him. For what this language really is passeth me and mine. Of Celtic origin it surely is, for Owen gave me every syllable so garnished with gutturals that I, being even less of one of the Celtes than a Chinaman, have not succeeded in writing a single word according to his pronunciation of it. Thus even Minklers sounds more like minkias, or pikias, as he gave it.

To the foregoing I add the numerals and a few phrases:—

This was said within hearing of and in reference to a bevy of servants, of every hue save white, who were in full view in the kitchen, and who were manifestly deeply interested and delighted in our interview, as well as in the constant use of my note-book, and our conference in an unknown tongue, since Owen and I spoke frequently in Romany.

I also obtained a verse of a ballad, which I may not literally render into pure English:—

“Cosson kailyah corrum me morro sari,
Me gul ogalyach mir;
Rahet manent trasha moroch
Me tu sosti mo diele.”

“Coming from Galway, tired and weary,
I met a woman;
I’ll go bail by this time to-morrow,
You’ll have had enough of me.”

Me tu sosti, “Thou shalt be (of) me,” is Romany, which is freely used in Shelta.

The question which I cannot solve is, On which of the Celtic languages is this jargon based? My informant declares that it is quite independent of Old Irish, Welsh, or Gaelic. In pronunciation it appears to be almost identical with the latter; but while there are Gaelic words in it, it is certain that much examination and inquiry have failed to show that it is contained in that language. That it is “the talk of the ould Picts—thim that built the stone houses like beehives”—is, I confess, too conjectural for a philologist. I have no doubt that when the Picts were suppressed thousands of them must have become wandering outlaws, like the Romany, and that their language in time became a secret tongue of vagabonds on the roads. This is the history of many such lingoes; but unfortunately Owen’s opinion, even if it be legendary, will not prove that the Painted People spoke the Shelta tongue. I must call attention, however, to one or two curious points. I have spoken of Shelta as a jargon; but it is, in fact, a language, for it can be spoken grammatically and without using English or Romany. And again, there is a corrupt method of pronouncing it, according to English, while correctly enunciated it is purely Celtic in sound. More than this I have naught to say.

Shelta is perhaps the last Old British dialect as yet existing which has thus far remained undiscovered. There is no hint of it in John Camden Hotten’s Slang Dictionary, nor has it been recognized by the Dialect Society. Mr. Simson, had he known the “Tinklers” better, would have found that not Romany, but Shelta, was the really secret language which they employed, although Romany is also more or less familiar to them all. To me there is in it something very weird and strange. I cannot well say why; it seems as if it might be spoken by witches and talking toads, and uttered by the Druid stones, which are fabled to come down by moonlight to the water-side to drink, and who will, if surprised during their walk, answer any questions. Anent which I would fain ask my Spiritualist friends one which I have long yearned to put. Since you, my dear ghost-raisers, can call spirits from the vasty deep of the outside-most beyond, will you not—having many millions from which to call—raise up one of the Pictish race, and, having brought it in from the Ewigkeit, take down a vocabulary of the language? Let it be a lady par prÉference,—the fair being by far the more fluent in words. Moreover, it is probable that as the Picts were a painted race, woman among them must have been very much to the fore, and that Madame Rachels occupied a high position with rouge, enamels, and other appliances to make them young and beautiful forever. According to Southey, the British blue-stocking is descended from these woad-stained ancestresses, which assertion dimly hints at their having been literary. In which case, voilÀ notre affaire! for then the business would be promptly done. Wizards of the secret spells, I adjure ye, raise me a Pictess for the sake of philology—and the picturesque!