n 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