Nor is the least gratifying token of my connection with the Liverpool Exhibition, a memorial presented to me by the Hindoo and Cingalese Indians, on their departure to their own shores. Poor exiles from their native land! They assured me in the touching document above alluded to that were it not for my constant kindness to them, they would not have been able to endure their existence in this country, but when in the company of myself and family, they fancied themselves once more in their own far-off home.
I shall ever look back upon my stay at the Liverpool Exhibition as one of the brightest and happiest pages in my life.
I could go on, but the printer’s boy says he thinks I have said enough for the few pages this little emanation from yours obediently should occupy, but I cannot say “good bye” without expressing a few sentiments on this, the past subject of my life, by adding that as the sere and yellow leaf creeps over me, I think and often dream of the many well loved spots on this beautiful land I have visited in my boyhood’s days when all was health, glee and happiness. Now, alas! where are they? Gone! The busy work of the builders has covered those places once so dear to me. After even a short absence I seek a place once so well known and loved, to find what? a block of houses thereon, and the fairy-like home I have travelled far to see, vanished in the past. For the future, what bodes; fresh fields and pastures new! is an old and true saying, with me, as with others, so must it be, but where can I find those scenes I cannot forget; scenes and times where one fiftieth of the world’s goods now obtainable was all that was necessary to exist in peace and plenty. Smoky chimneys, the roaring of machinery and noise of mills, never dreamed of in days gone by, now meet my sight and ears; oh! how different. Perhaps my readers may think I am getting sentimental; perhaps so; if so, kindly forgive,
Your very obedient servant, GEORGE SMITH.
Gipsy Encampment, International Exhibition, Liverpool, 1886.
Extract from the “Liverpool Courier,” June 16th, 1886.
The King and Queen (Mr. George Smith and Mrs. Smith) were “at home,” and they and their four comely daughters were the cynosure of all eyes. A distinguishing feature of these “Epping Forest” Gipsies is their extreme cleanliness. Their tent is scrupulously neat and tidy, its appointments are comfortable not to say luxurious, and the caravan reveals the snug sleeping chamber of the daughters of their majesties. Fortune-telling is not the stock-in-trade of the tribe, but the dark-skinned “Gitanos” do not absolutely refuse to have their palms crossed if credulous ladies will insist in peering into the future. We understand that these descendants of Romany Ri have had the honour of appearing before the Queen in Dunbar, Scotland, and although the King does not impress one by his tawny skin he is a genuine ruler and speaks Romany.
Extract from the “Liverpool Review,” June 19th, 1886.
The poor Laplanders have now to play second fiddle to another wandering tribe whose origin is lost in the mists of antiquity. Ever since their celebrated moonlight flit the little northerners had been under a cloud, but their social extinction has been completed by the advent of the “Epping Forest Gipsies.” The King and Queen of these nomads bear the prosaic name of Smith. Nevertheless they claim to be in the line of descent of “Romany Ri.” It is an open question whether the Gitano complexion—the tawny complexion, the vellum of the pedigree they claim—cannot be whitened by partaking of gin and water in unfair proportions. This result is sometimes brought about among certain vagabond followers of Isis, but it would be the height of injustice to suggest that such retributive facial pallor can be laid to the account of Mr. George Smith, the ruler of the Exhibition gipsy encampment. The absence of swarthiness in his Majesty’s case must be attributed to other causes, for if rumour is correct we believe the monarch is a staunch teetotaler. Like the great majority of Bohemians, he is addicted to trafficking in horses, while his Royal consort and her young princesses do a good business in basket selling and fortune telling. The Queen is well known in the neighbourhood of Everton, hers being one of the most familiar figures to those who are in the habit of travelling to town in trams. For some time past she has chosen Liverpool as her winter residence, pitching her camp on the waste ground near Walton Breck, and during the absence of her lord and master in Ireland her caravan has been the resort of credulous nursemaids and naïve servant girls. A more respectable tribe than that of the Smiths never trod the open heath. They might be objected to as being a little too genteel. The interior of their camp is more like a Turkish divan than the good old smoke-begrimed vagrant habitation. Indeed they are so highly civilised as to boast of the patronage of Queen Victoria, who it appears paid them a special visit in Scotland. Another instance of the process of modern refinement on these Pharaohites is that they occupy exactly the same position as the other hirers of stands—they have paid for the privilege of showing their peculiar method of travelling and mode of life. Unlike the Laps, they have not been engaged as one of the attractions of the Exhibition, and on coming forward on their own account they display a business enterprise which does credit to their commercial instincts. On Whit Monday they did a roaring trade, many ladies of social standing persisting in having their fortunes told—“just for the fun of the thing, you know.” The female gipsies were attired in gaudy garments and quite captivated crowds of young “mashers,” who had come to see what they were like. For the moment the new comers are all the rage, and have snuffed out the blighted Laplanders.