Extract from the “Liverpool Courier,” June 19th, 1886.

Whence came those guests who, unknown and uninvited, migrated into Europe in the fifteenth century? This question, which has puzzled the fertile minds of many historians, was the one that naturally presented itself to me as I wended my way to the gipsy encampment in the grounds of the great International Exhibition. I confess I had no poetic or sentimental ideas in regard to the tribes who own Bohemia as their birthplace. On the contrary, I was afflicted with the common prejudice that these nomadic individuals were nothing more nor less than itinerant thieves and natural vagabonds, whose existence is a social anomaly, and who constitute a standing protest against the rigour of our game laws. The entrance to the red cloth-covered tent was surrounded by a crowd whose curiosity appeared to be as insatiable as their credulity; and it was with no small difficulty that I succeeded in breaking through the serried ranks of the gaping throng. The whole aspect of the place was totally different from the conventional notion of a gipsy camp. The public picture to themselves a few dilapidated and ragged shanties, begrimed by smoke, and worn by long service; a like number of painted and bedizened carts, shaggy, unkempt, and ill-tended horses, and an indefinite number of dark-eyed, dark-skinned children. But here the conditions are entirely reversed. The interior presented an air of oriental luxury. A rich carpet covered the floor; cushioned seats invited to repose; and there was not wanting other accessories to remind one of the sybaritic elegance of a Turkish divan. The squalid children were not there, but in their stead appeared a bevy of handsome damsels, with Gitano complexions. The comely girls were attired in robes of the brightest hues, scarlet, pink, and yellow, and from their ears depended large silver rings, which imparted to them a dashing Bohemian mien. But it is on beholding the King and Queen of these Pharoahites that one’s preconceived ideas sustain the rudest shock. I must confess to a feeling of disappointment on being ushered into the presence of the King. Instead of being confronted with a picturesque old gentleman of dirty and forbidding look, I saw before me a perfectly respectable middle-aged man with a quiet self-possessed air, and wearing the very unimposing garments prescribed by nineteenth century civilisation. There was nothing striking about his bearing, and I searched in vain for any indications of royal characteristics. His Majesty may be a true descendant of “Romany Ri”; he may boast of the blood of the genuine Zingari, but he certainly does not show it in the “tawny skin, the vellum of the pedigree they claim.” His countenance strikes one as being more English than Egyptian, and were it not for a slight swarthiness observable about the eyes no one would suspect that he had the remotest connection with the “vagabond followers of Isis.” His Royal Consort, who at the time I entered was engaged at the homely occupation of peeling potatoes. The Queen is much darker. Indeed her visage has assumed a saffron hue, and amongst her own people she must have been regarded as a very prepossessing specimen twenty years ago. The King received me with the utmost courtesy, and on being informed of the object of my visit insisted on me taking a chair while he squatted on the carpet. His Majesty was not only ready but eager to supply the information which I required.

May I be favoured with your name? Oh, certainly—George Smith.

“It strikes me I have heard that name before,” was the comment which instinctively came to the lips, but I refrained.

“Ah, you may say that is a common name for a Bohemian like me to bear, but I can tell you that the Smith’s are as old a tribe as the Stanleys, the Lovells, the Hernes, and the Coopers.”

“What is the extent of your family here?” “Well, the occupants of this tent and that covered cart which you see outside are myself and my wife, four daughters, and their two female cousins, and four sons there”—and he pointed with his finger to a group of strapping young fellows who had just entered the camp.

“Can you trace your descent far back?” “Oh, yes.” At this point his Royal Consort exclaimed with evident pride, “I can remember my great grandmother. She and her tribe never lived out of tents.”

The King: “You see, sir, its a kind of a mystery where we came from. Some say we are from the Rekkybites (Rechabites), and others say as how we are the lost tribes. It has been a great puzzle as to where we have originated.”

“Do you speak the gipsy language?” “Yes, to be sure. We talk Romany.” And as if to convince me of the truth of his assertion he addressed a few words to the Queen in that mysterious lingo which I regret not to have been able to follow.

“It is said that, like the Red men, you gipsies are being civilised out of being.” “Its this way, sir. There’s good and bad among us. Some wander about the country, and by their depredations get a character that’s not very nice; but now we are more prosperous than the generality of our class.”

“May I enquire what is your principal source of income?” “Oh, bless you, I and my sons do a great deal in the way of horse dealing; and we don’t employ our idle time, like some of the strollers, in tinkering. We go to Ireland very often and buy horses for the French Army, and the English Government as well.”

“Will you allow me to ask whether you practice fortune-telling at all?” “Well, the fact is we don’t go in for that. But if ladies insist, we don’t object to do it. My wife and the girls tell fortunes when they are asked.”

“Given the mysteries of gipsy life, and the curiosity of the public, I suppose your camp is crowded every day since your arrival?” “Why, sir, on Whit-Monday we were so full as almost to be suffocated. The people came in droves, and the entrance was blocked up with them all the time.”

“It strikes me that I have seen her Majesty in the neighbourhood of Everton for some time past?” “Well, you see, we have been camped there, but we come from Epping Forest. The Queen visited us when we were in Dunbar, Scotland. And if we weren’t real gipsies Her Majesty would not have come to see us.”

The King at this juncture said he should be exceedingly obliged if I would put in the papers the fact that their habitation was scrupulously neat and clean, and that the sanitary arrangements were of an unexceptional character—which I told him I should have much pleasure in doing.

“There is another thing which you might mention too,” he added in a whisper. “We don’t herd together, higgledy-piggledy, like some wanderers. My wife and I pass the night in that end of the tent, and at the opposite end, which is curtained off, my boys sleep. And as for the girls, they occupy the caravan.” His Majesty then conducted me to the caravan outside, and showed me a veritable boudoir for comfort and elegance. He was careful to point out every detail of the well-appointed vehicle, and to exhibit the gee-gaws and showy dresses which the ladies wore on gala days.

“Look here, sir, some people think that we gipsies are a little loose in our morals. But I can tell you it’s nothing of the sort. We are very particular people. Our daughters’ virtue is very dear to us, and rather than see them injured we would sooner see them die.” And by the powerfully self-restrained manner of Mr. Smith, I could see that he meant what he said.

In reply to the question as to whether he really preferred gipsying to the ordinary mode of life, he said, “It’s our regular way of living, and if you gave me the grandest house, I would not give up my camp for it.”

And the Queen chimed in, “Our ancestors always lived in tents, and so shall we. I am happier as I am than if I was in a palace. Indeed, I would not live in one, and no more would my daughters.”

Observing an ancient-looking parrot in a gaudy cage, I ventured to ask if it belonged to the family. “Bless your life,” replied the Queen, “we have had that ’ere bird for more than fifteen years. It knows our ways, and can talk Romany. But it only speaks when the spirit moves it.” Just at that moment Poll was in one of her most taciturn moods, and could not be induced to open her beak, but no doubt, like the traditional bird of that ilk, she thought the more.

“Have you any history of your tribe or biographical records of yourself?” I inquired; to which his Majesty pathetically answered: “Unfortunately I have not. Ah, if I had only got one-half the accounts that the Scotch reporters put in about us, they would be worth any money to me just now. However, I have given some particulars to a gentleman who is going to put it in a little book for me.”

“Are you permitted to do any trafficking here?” “Well, yes, a little. Mr. Bapty allows us to sell a few fancy baskets, if we like.”

“And then perhaps the ladies do not offer insuperable objections to have their palms crossed?” To this soft impeachment the gipsy monarch only returned a knowing wink, as much as to say, “Why should we not humour the whims of our fair visitors.”