Her Majesty is not the only Royal visitor who has honoured the Exhibition with her presence. Another has made his appearance lately and set up what I suppose must be styled his “Palace” near Cross’s Indian Pavillion, and in the middle of what may be called a quagmire. The “palace” of course is not a very imposing erection, the only difference between it and an ordinary gipsy tent being that it is a little larger and that the stuff with which it is covered is red in colour, the accommodation being supplemented by a travelling caravan which is decidedly more gaily painted than such vehicles usually are. His Majesty is not likely to suggest to any one the phrase “every inch a king,” his appearance being more like that of a gamekeeper, though it was sufficient to attract a large crowd of starers, who, however, showed no disposition to have their fortunes told, probably fancying that they knew them well enough already. This was the more remarkable as King Smith had been callen upon by the Queen while in Scotland, and he might therefore claim to be a Royal fortune teller, “by appointment” with more accuracy than is generally observed by those using the phrase.
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.