Part 2

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.”

* * * * *

_Extract from the_ “_Liverpool Review_,” _June_ 26_th_, 1886.

The gipsies are still the rage at the Exhibition, and each day King Smith and his Royal consort receive the homage of well-dressed crowds of lady admirers. With the prestige gained by the patronage of Queen Victoria, they come with confidence before a credulous public, and so far their _levees_ have been pecuniarily successful. Their cleanly and well ordered encampment was visited this week by the Mayor and Mayoress, who were much interested, if not edified, by their interviews with these ultra respectable Bohemians. Selling little fancy baskets is ostensibly the only traffic carried on by the olive complexioned family; but this is not their only stock-in-trade. It is surprising to witness the large number of _graudes dames_ who enter the tent for the sole object of having their fortunes told. This strange curiosity was supposed to exist only amongst domestic servants, but Mary Jane’s mistress seems quite as anxious to dive into the mysteries of the future. Many ladies feel ashamed to patronise chiromancy in the Exhibition, but have asked for private appointments with her Majesty Mrs. Smith. Not a few in their eagerness to penetrate into futurity conquer their natural timidity, and boldly enter. In such cases it is an amusing spectacle to observe the furtive manner in which the operation is conducted, and how the fair ones make a hurried exit as if conscious of having done something very foolish and ridiculous. As a rule it is the Queen whose palm is crossed, but some young mashers prefer having their fortunes told by one of the princesses.

* * * * *

_Extract from the_ “_Glasgow Weekly Mail_,” _Saturday_, _May_ 21, 1892.

GIPSY KING IN GLASGOW.

IN A TENT OF ISHMAEL.

Lord Rosebery’s statement last Friday, in the St. Andrew’s Halls, that there were 138,000 vagrants in Scotland, persons who did nothing but roam the country and admire the scenery, induced me to pay the Gipsy King, Mr. George, a visit. His Majesty, with family, are presently located in Glasgow, in Great Western road. I found Mr. Smith in his tent, a large and commodius structure, some eight feet in height, the frame of strong ash girders covered with a dark purple cloth. The place answering to the kitchen is near the entrance, and the family had just finished breakfast a few minutes before I put in an appearance. They do not sit on chairs at meals, but squat in tailor-like fashion on the floor, and in the same attitude that I have seen American Indians do in their wigwams. The members of the Smith family are dark-eyed and dark-haired. The women have the true Zingara beauty of face, olive-tinted forehead, sharp glittering eyes, and their black hair, that peculiar metallic hue which one sees on the wings of the dusky raven. The women are fond of jewellery, heavy earrings fall on their necks, and their small copper-coloured hands sparkle with rings. A collie bitch, a cat, and a canary were the only animals about the hut. No part of the show ground is kept so scrupulously clean as that allocated to the Gipsies.

Mr. Smith is a general type of the race—gentlemanly, intelligent, and courteous. In years he must be over sixty, but he is still as straight as a poplar, and wiry and muscular as a man of thirty, He has in his time been an extensive horse dealer, and for years made regular visits to Ireland. He has purchased hundreds of Irish horses and disposed of them in France and Germany.

“No, sir,” he said, with an imperial toss of the head, “I’m not one of Lord Rosebery’s 138,000 vagrants. I belong to a race whose history began in the twilight of the world, back in a time when lords and dukes were not dreamt of. I pay a regular license for my caravan, and when I am moving about over the country I pay, like other gypsies, for permission to pitch my tent, the same as I do here. There is no vagrancy in that. I am unable to say how many gypsies may be in Scotland and England. Scotch Tinklers—men and women who wander about making spoons, soldering pails, and skellets—are not gypsies. They are simply pariahs. There is not a drop of gypsy blood in their veins. The scotch tinker lived originally in a house, but abandoned it from various causes. They are a drunken, useless class of people, these tinkers, but persons will have them related somehow to us true gypsies. I claim to be the

“KING OF THE ENGLISH GYPSIES,”

and act for our people all over Great Britain. Take, for instance, that question before Parliament recently of the education of gipsy children. I was in the House of Commons and examined. Here you see letters from Justin M’Carthy, the President of the Local Government Board, and from a number of Members of Parliament. What are my views, you ask, on the education of gypsy children? Well, I have embodied my opinions in a memorial to the Government. Briefly, this is what I say. Every gipsy child should be educated, just as I have educated these children there, now men and women. There is no reason why our children should not be sent to school. Here, for instance, I will be settled altogether some six months. If I had children of school age, do you think it would be a hardship for me to be compelled to keep them at school? Certainly not. My opinion is this, that if a gypsy is located in a place for two days, for a week, a month or a year, he should be compelled to send his children to school. There would be no hardship in that. There is where the gypsy settles always a school in the neighbourhood. It is only in centres of population that we can live now. The old romantic days of pitching your tent in the forest and living on the fruits of the chase are gone for ever. We can only live, I repeat, where there is population, and where you have population you must have schools. Out of six days in the week, no matter how much a gypsy may travel, his child, if he were anxious to give it merely the rudiments of education, would at least have two and three days at school in the week. That is my view, and it seems to meet with the approval of the Local Government Board.

“A man named George Smith—no friend of mine—of Coalville, has been slandering and defaming our people for years. He has been making money out of books he has written about us. I have challenged him scores of times to prove his statements, but he has never had the courage to meet me. Amongst other things he says that we

BURY OUR DEAD ANY WAY

and anywhere. I took the trouble to explode this lie, and went to London to do it. I obtained from the directors of cemeteries in England and Scotland certificates as to our mode of burial. These certificates in every instance disproved Smith’s slanders, but he has not had the courage to withdraw them. Why, we have even here a burying ground, which has been procured from Sir Archibald Campbell. My sister is buried there, and she brought her son all the way from Galway, in Ireland, to be interred here. That does not look like neglecting our dead, does it? Then this man from Coalville says that we are filthier than the pigs. Does this little place of mine look like a pig-stye? The real gipsy, the dweller in tents, is cleaner than those who reside in houses. If a dog should lick any plate or vessel it is not afterwards used, but is destroyed or disposed of. Is that like the conduct of persons who, according to this man, are swinish in their habits?

“We call ourselves Protestants of the Church of England, and are christened, married, and buried at the church nearest to us. We have not joined a church in Glasgow yet, but in Edinburgh we went to Dr. Rankin’s.

“When a death takes place in the camp the corpse is laid out on the ground. The body is usually kept for a week, and during that time none of us go to sleep. A light is kept burning and we

EAT NO MEAT

until the grave closes over the departed. All that we take in the way of food is a cup of tea, or a bit of dry bread. We pay great reverence to our dead, more so than any other race on the face of the earth. There is a custom universal among our people, namely, of refraining from some usage or indulgence in honour of the departed. What I mean is this. Suppose the deceased was addicted to drink, it is common for the deceased’s brother to never taste liquor during the remainder of his life. That will do for an example. At our wakes no whisky is drunk, and a silence deep as the grave pervades the tents.

“There is nothing peculiar about our marriages. We just go to the minister, or else get a license. I must say that

THE SHERIFF’S LICENSE

is the most popular and the least expensive.

“Fifty years ago it was deemed an unheard of thing for a royal gipsy to marry a person of another race. In fact it was treason. To-day, among the genuine gipsies, it is nothing short of a crime. I have myself experienced the effects of this inter-marrying, and I tell you that it has not been satisfactory. One of my children has gone outside of our people. I make the statement, fearless of contradiction, that our people, in the aggregate, are the most moral that you can find. Search the

CRIMINAL RECORDS OF THE CENTURY

and you will not find an instance where a gipsy has stained his hands with human blood. He may have been hung for stealing a sheep or a horse, but not for committing a murder.

“About this fortune-telling, we believe that God Almighty has endowed our people with the faculty for foretelling events, and looking into the future. Strangers, of course, will laugh at that statement, but nevertheless, we maintain that it is correct. But fortune-telling is only a small part of the gipsy equipment. We do not attach much importance to it. We are of the dusky race, whose history began “on the dawn of the world.” John Bunyan was one of our people. Jesus Christ, the founder of Christianity, was a gipsy, and on Christmas Day we burn an ash tree in honour of Him, because He lived and died one of us.

“No sir, I’m not one of Lord Rosebery’s vagrants. If I am, then the Christ which Lord Rosebery professes to worship was also a vagrant. He too wandered wearily over the world, and was more homeless than the wild dove, which has a nest. Good morning.