“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 o 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 etre,—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:—
Shelkin gallopas Selling ferns. Soobli, Soobri Brother, friend—a
man. Bewr Woman. Gothlin or goch'thlin Child. Young bewr Girl. Durra,
or derra Bread. Pani Water (Romany). Stiff A warrant (common cant).
Yack A watch (cant, i.e. bull's eye,
Yack, an eye in Romany). Mush-faker
Umbrella mender. Mithani (mithni) Policeman. Ghesterman (ghesti)
Magistrate. Needi-mizzler A tramp. Dinnessy Cat. Stall Go, travel.
Biyeghin Stealing. Biyeg To steal. Biyeg th'eenik To steal the thing.
Crack A stick. Monkery Country. Prat Stop, stay, lodge. Ned askan
Lodging. Glantherin (glad'herin) Money, swindling.
This word has a very peculiar pronunciation.
Sauni or sonni See. Strepuck (reepuck) A harlot. Strepuck lusk,
Luthrum's gothlin Son of a harlot. Kurrb yer pee Punch your head or
face. Pee Face. Borers and jumpers Tinkers' tools. Borers Gimlets.
Jumpers Cranks. Ogles Eyes (common slang). Nyock Head. Nyock A penny.
Odd Two. Midgic A shilling. Nyo(d)ghee A pound. Sai, sy Sixpence.
Charrshom, Cherrshom, Tusheroon A crown. Tre-nyock Threepence.
Tripo-rauniel A pot of beer. Thari, Bug Talk.
Can you thari Shelter? Can you bug Shelta? Can you talk tinkers'
language?
Shelter, shelta Tinker's slang. Larkin Girl.
Curious as perhaps indicating an affinity between the Hindustani
larki, a girl, and the gypsy rakli.
Snips Scissors (slang). Dingle fakir A bell-hanger. Dunnovans
Potatoes. Fay (vulgarly fee) Meat.
Our informant declared that there are vulgar forms of certain words.
Gladdher Ring the changes (cheat in change).
“No minkler would have a bewr who couldn't gladdher.”
Reesbin Prison. Tre-moon Three months, a 'drag.' Rauniel, Runniel
Beer. Max Spirits (slang). Chiv Knife. (Romany, a pointed knife,
i.e. tongue.) Thari To speak or tell.
“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.
Scri, scree To write.
Our informant suggested scribe as the origin of this word.
Reader A writ.
“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:
Theddy Fire (theinne. Irish). Strawn Tin. Blyhunka Horse.
Leicheen Girl. Soobli Male, man. Binny soobli Boy. Binny Small. Chimmel
Stick. Gh'ratha, grata Hat. Griffin, or gruffin Coat. Respes Trousers.
Gullemnocks Shoes. Grascot Waistcoat. Skoich, or skoi Button. Numpa
Sovereign, one pound. Gorhead, or godhed Money. Merrih Nose (?). Nyock
Head. Graigh Hair. Kaine, or kyni Ears (Romany, kan). Melthog
Inner shirt. Medthel Black. Cunnels Potatoes. Faihe, or feye Meat (
feoil. Gaelic). Muogh Pig (muck. Irish). Miesli, misli To go
(origin of “mizzle”?) Mailyas, or moillhas Fingers (meirleach,
stealers
Gaelic). Shaidyog Policeman. Respun To steal.
Shoich Water, blood, liquid. Alemnoch Milk. Raglan, or reglan Hammer.
Goppa Furnace, smith (gobha, a smith.
Gaelic). Terry A heating-iron. Khoi Pincers.
Chimmes (compare chimmel) Wood or stick. Mailyas Arms. Koras
Legs (cos, leg. Gaelic). Skoihopa Whisky. Bulla (ull as
in gull) A letter. Thari Word, language. Mush Umbrella (slang).
Lyesken cherps Telling fortunes. Loshools Flowers (lus, erb or
flower?
Gaelic). Dainoch To lose. Chaldroch Knife (
caldock, sharply pointed.
Gaelic). Bog To get. Masheen Cat. Cambra Dog.
Laprogh Goose, duck. Kaldthog Hen. Rumogh Egg. Kiena House (ken,
old gypsy and modern
cant). Rawg Wagon. Gullemnoch Shoes. Analt To
sweep, to broom. Analken To wash. D'erri Bread. R'ghoglin (gogh'leen)
To laugh. Kradyin To stop, stay, sit, lodge, remain. Oura Town. Lashool
Nice (lachool. Irish). Moinni, or moryeni Good (min,
pleasant. Gaelic). Moryenni yook Good man. Gyami Bad (cam.
Gaelic). Probably the
origin of the common canting term
gammy, bad. Ishkimmisk Drunk (
misgeach. Gaelic) Roglan A four-wheeled vehicle. Lorch A two-wheeled
vehicle. Smuggle Anvil. Granya Nail. Riaglon Iron. Gushuk Vessel of any
kind. Tedhi, thedi Coal; fuel of any kind. Grawder Solder. Tanyok
Halfpenny.
(Query tani, little, Romany, and
nyok, a head.) Chlorhin To hear. Sunain
To see. Salkaneoch To taste, take. Mailyen To feel (cumail, to
hold. Gaelic). Crowder String. Sobye (?) Mislain Raining (mizzle?).
Goo-ope, guop Cold. Skoichen Rain. Thomyok Magistrate. Shadyog Police.
Bladhunk Prison. Bogh To get. Salt Arrested, taken. Straihmed A year.
Gotherna, guttema Policeman. [A very rare old word.] Dyukas, or Jukas
Gorgio, Gentile; one not of the
class. Misli Coming, to come, to send. To
my-deal To me. Lychyen People. Grannis Know. Skolaia To write.
Skolaiyami A good scholar. Nyok Head. Lurk Eye. Menoch Nose. Glorhoch
Ear. Koris Feet. Tashi shingomai To read the newspaper. Gorheid Money.
Tomgarheid (i.e. big money) Gold. Skawfer, skawper Silver.
Tomnumpa Bank-note. Terri Coal. Ghoi Put. Nyadas Table. Kradyin Being,
lying. Tarryin Rope. Kor'heh Box. Miseli Quick. Krad'hyi Slow.
Th-mddusk Door. Khaihed Chair (khahir. Irish). Bord Table.
Grainyog Window. Rumog Egg. Aidh Butter. Okonneh A priest. Thus
explained in a very
Irish manner: “Okonneh, or Koony,
is a sacred man, and kuni
in
Romany means secret. An' sacret and
sacred, sure, are all the same.” Shliema
Smoke, pipe. Munches Tobacco. Khadyogs Stones. Yiesk Fish (iasg.
Gaelic). Cab Cabbage. Cherpin Book. This appears to be vulgar.
Llyower was on second thought
declared to be the right word.
(Leabhar, Gaelic.) Misli dainoch To
write a letter; to write; that is,
send or go. Misli to my bewr Write to my
woman. Gritche Dinner. Gruppa Supper. Goihed To leave, lay down. Lurks
Eyes. Ainoch Thing. Clisp To fall, let fall. Clishpen To break by
letting fall. Guth, gut Black. Gothni, gachlin Child. Styemon Rat.
Krepoch Cat. Grannien With child. Loshub Sweet. Shum To own. L'yogh To
lose. Crimum Sheep. Khadyog Stone. Nglou Nail. Gial Yellow, red. Talosk
Weather. Laprogh Bird. Madel Tail. Carob To cut. Lubran, luber To hit.
Thom Violently. Mish it thom Hit it hard. Subli, or soobli Man (
siublach, a vagrant. Gaelic).
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:—
Hain, or heen One. Do Two. Tri Three. Ch'air, or k'hair Four. Cood
Five. She, or shay Six. Schaacht, or schach' Seven. Ocht Eight. Ayen,
or nai Nine. Dy'ai, djai, or dai Ten. Hinniadh Eleven. Do yed'h Twelve.
Trin yedh Thirteen. K'hair yedh, etc. Fourteen, etc. Tat 'th chesin
ogomsa That belongs to me. Grannis to my deal It belongs to me. Dioch
maa krady in in this nadas I am staying here. Tash emilesh He is
staying there. Boghin the brass Cooking the food. My deal is mislin I
am going. The nidias of the kiena don't The people of the house don't
know granny what we're a tharyin what we're saying.
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.
That bhoghd out yer mailya You let that fall from your hand.
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 preference,—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, voila 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!