stood the famous Fairlop Oak, which the tradition of the country traces
half-way up the Christian era. This forest possesses more beautiful
scenery than, perhaps, any other forest in England. Fifty years since
the oak was still a noble tree. About a yard from the ground, where
its bole was thirty-six feet in circumference, it spread into eleven
vast arms, yet not in the manner of an oak, but rather in that of a
beech, its shade overspreading an area of 300 feet in circuit. Around
this fine old tree, eighty years since, archery meetings were held by
the gentry of the district, with picnics in tents, bands of music,
&c.; and then, to protect the old oak, it was enclosed with a spiked
paling, inscribed as follows: "All good foresters are requested not
to hurt this old tree, as a plaister has been put to its wounds."
The extremities of its branches had been sawn off, and Forsyth's
composition applied to them, to preserve them from decay.
But the tree has a more popular history. Upon a small estate, near
the oak, in the last century, there dwelt one John Day, a well-to-do
block and pump maker, of Wapping, who used to repair annually, on the
first Friday in July, to the forest, and there meet a party of his
neighbours, and dine under the shade of the famous oak, on _beans
and bacon_. In the course of a few years, Day's rural feast induced
other parties to follow his homely example, and suttling booths were
erected for their accommodation. In addition to the entertainment given
to his friends, Mr. Day never failed, on the day of the feast, to
provide several sacks of beans, with a proportionate quantity of bacon,
which he distributed from the trunk of the tree to the persons there
assembled. About the year 1723, the scene on the first Friday in July
exhibited the appearance of a _regular fair_, such as John Gay, in one
of his _Pastorals_, almost contemporaneously describes in these lines:--
Pedlars' stalls with glitt'ring toys are laid,
The various fairings of the country maid:
Long silken laces hang upon the twine,
And rows of pins and amber bracelets shine.
Here the tight lass, knives, combs, and scissors spies,
And looks on thimbles with desiring eyes.
The mountebank now treads the stage, and sells
His pills, his balsams, and his ague spells.
Now o'er and o'er the nimble tumbler springs,
And on the rope the vent'rous maiden swings;
Jack-Pudding, in his parti-coloured jacket,
Tosses the glove and jokes at every packet;
Here raree-shows are seen, and Punch's feats,
And pockets picked in crowds, and various cheats.
For several years before the death of the generous founder of this
fair and public bean-feast, the pump and block makers of Wapping went
annually to the fair in the forest, seated in a boat of one entire
piece of fir, covered with an awning, mounted on a coach-carriage,
and drawn by six horses; attended with flags and streamers, a band of
music, and a great number of persons on foot and horseback. The number
of carriages was then increased to three, two of them being rigged as
ships. At six o'clock precisely they all paraded round the oak, singing
a glee composed for the occasion; after which the holiday-keepers
returned to town.
A few years before Mr. Day's death, the Fairlop Oak lost a large limb,
out of which he had a coffin made for his own interment. He died on the
19th of October, 1767, at the age of eighty-four. His remains, pursuant
to his own request, were conveyed to Barking by water, attended by
six journeymen pump and block makers, to each of whom he bequeathed a
new leather apron and a guinea. There is a memorial of him in Barking
churchyard.
The fair long survived the patriarchal pump-maker, good John Day,
as did also the oak. It was enclosed, as we have stated, at the
commencement of the present century. But, notwithstanding the appeal to
the "good foresters," and the respect due to the veteran of the forest,
the rabble broke down the palings and lit their fires within the trunk
in the cavities formed by the roots, and several of the limbs were
broken off. The space within the trunk may be estimated by the evidence
of a resident in the neighbourhood. "When a boy," he writes, "I have
driven in a hot day from out of the hollow three or four horses, and
sometimes four or five cows." But the tree received the greatest
injury on the 25th of June, 1805, when a party of sixty persons, who
came from London to play at cricket, &c., kindled a fire, which, after
they had left, spread very considerably, and caught the tree. It was
not discovered for two hours, and though a number of persons brought
water to extinguish it, yet the main branch on the south side and part
of the trunk were consumed. Fifteen years later, the high winds of
February 1820, brought the massive trunk and limbs to the turf which
the tree had for so many ages overshadowed with its verdant foliage.
Its wood was very much prized; a pulpit was made of it for Wanstead
Church; the rest of the timber of the Fairlop Oak was purchased by Mr.
Seabrook, the builder, who formed with it the very handsome pulpit and
reading-desk for the church of St. Pancras, in the New Road, then in
course of erection.
The fair was still continued, though the loss of the oak and the
assemblage of booths and shows, and theatrical exhibitions, which
bordered the area in the forest, destroyed the simplicity that was
originally intended to be preserved by the founder. As the fair was
held on Friday, it became a great point to extend it to Sunday, when
shoals of visitors came; and, though the shows were interdicted,
the refreshment resorts grew to such licence as it became necessary
to curb. Of the fair of 1843, we have a special remembrance. The
block-makers, sail-makers, and mast-makers, as usual, came to "gay
Fairlop," in their amphibious frigates, gaily decorated and mounted
on carriages, each drawn by six horses; and the wives of the men in
their holiday gear followed in open landaus. But the Essex magistrates
had now by notice restricted the fair to _one day_. The booths and
shows were less numerous than on former occasions, but the gipsies were
in great numbers; the knights of the pea and thimble were vigilantly
routed by the police. The Lea Bridge and Ilford roads were crowded
with horses and vehicles; and many persons went by railway to Ilford,
and thence to the forest. But there came a heavy July rain to spoil
the sport, and the fair grew flat. The booths and shows could not be
removed till Monday, but nothing was allowed to be sold after Friday,
and the exhibitions were closed. Nevertheless, the Sunday visitors came
in thousands.
By these curtailments, Fairlop Fair was gradually brought to an end,
though not until it had existed for a century and a quarter.
A Princely Hoax.
In the autumn of 1785, when the Prince of Wales was at Brighton, he was
much in the company of Mr. and Mrs. Lawrell; of whom and the Prince,
Lady Llanover, in her _Memoirs of Mrs. Delany_, relates the following
piquant story, which she received from a gentleman, as well as from
Miss Burney, who had it from Lady Rothes, Sir Lucas Pepys' wife.[32]
It happened one afternoon that Mrs. Lawrell alone was of a party with
the Prince of Wales, Lady Beauchamp, and some other fine people. Mrs.
Lawrell, like a good wife, about nine o'clock, said she must go home
to her husband. The Prince said, he and the party would come and sup
with them; the lady received the gracious intimation with all the
respect that became her, and hastened home to acquaint her husband and
make preparation. Whether Mr. Lawrell was more or less sensible of
the honour that was designed him than his wife, I don't know, but he
said he should not come if he could help it, and if he did come, he
should have nothing to eat. It was in vain Mrs. Lawrell remonstrated;
he continued inflexible, and she had nothing for it but to put him to
bed, and write a note to Lady Beauchamp, informing her Mr. Lawrell was
taken suddenly ill, and begging she would entertain the Prince in her
stead. Between one and two o'clock in the morning, when the company
were pretty merry, the Prince, whether he guessed at the reason or was
concerned for the indisposition of his friend, said it was a pity poor
Lawrell should die for want of help, and they immediately set about
writing notes to all the physicians, surgeons, and apothecaries they
could think of in the place, informing them as from Mr. L. that he
was taken suddenly ill, and begged their immediate assistance; these
notes very soon set the medical body in motion towards Mr. L.'s doors;
a few of the _most alert apothecaries_ came first, but they were got
rid of by the servants, who assured them it was a mistake, that their
master and mistress were well and asleep, and that they did not care
to wake them. Soon after came Sir Lucas Pepys, who declaring that
"_nobody would presume to impose upon a person of his character_,"
insisted on seeing Mr. L., and was pressing by the maid towards his
bedchamber; she was then forced to waken her mistress, and Mr. L. being
very drowsy and disinclined to rise, his lady was obliged to appear
in great deshabille, and with the _utmost difficulty_, persuaded Sir
Lucas he _was_ imposed upon, and prevailed with him to retire. During
their dispute the staircase _was filled_ with the rest of the faculty
arriving in shoals.
[32] Sir Lucas Pepys was physician in ordinary to the King, and
seven years President of the College of Physicians. He had a seat at
Mickleham, in Surrey. One day, at Dorking, he inquired at a druggist's
what all his varieties of drugs were for. "To prepare prescriptions,"
was the reply. "Why," said Sir Lucas, "I never used but three or four
articles in all my practice."
[Illustration: The Prince Regent.]
Sir John Waters's Escape.
This distinguished man, in the Peninsular War, was the most admirable
spy ever attached to an army. He would assume the character of
Spaniards of every degree and station, so as to deceive the most acute.
He gave the most reliable and valuable information to Lord Wellington,
and on one occasion he was entrusted by his Lordship with a very
particular mission, which he undertook effectually to perform, and to
return on a particular day with the information required. Just after
leaving the camp, however, he was taken prisoner, before he had time
to exchange his uniform: a troop of dragoons intercepted him, and
carried him off; and the commanding officers desired two soldiers to
keep a strict watch over him and carry him to head-quarters. He was, of
course, disarmed, and being placed on a horse, was galloped off by his
guards. He slept one night in the kitchen of a small inn; conversation
flowed on very glibly, and as he appeared a stupid Englishman, who
could not understand a word of French or of Spanish, he was allowed
to listen, and thus obtained precisely the intelligence he was in
search of. The following morning, being again mounted, he overheard a
conversation between his guards, who deliberately agreed to rob him,
and shoot him at a mill where they were to stop, and to report to their
officer that they had been compelled to fire at him in consequence of
his attempt to escape.
Shortly before their arrival at the mill, the dragoons took from their
prisoner his watch and his purse, lest they might meet with some one
who would insist on having a portion of the spoil. On reaching the
mill, they dismounted, and to give appearance of truth to their story,
they went into the house, leaving their prisoner outside, in the hope
that he would make some attempt to escape. In an instant, Waters threw
his cloak upon a neighbouring olive-bush, and mounted his cocked hat on
the top. Some empty flour sacks lay upon the ground, and a horse laden
with well-filled flour-sacks stood at the door. Sir John contrived to
enter one of the empty sacks, and throw himself across the horse. When
the soldiers came out of the house, they fired their carbines at the
supposed prisoner, and galloped off.
A short time after, the miller came out, and mounted his steed. Waters
contrived to rid himself of the encumbrance of the sack, and sat up
behind the man, who, suddenly turning round, saw a ghost, as he
believed, for the flour that still remained in the sack had whitened
his fellow-traveller and given him a ghostly appearance. A push sent
the frightened miller to the ground, when away rode Waters with his
sacks of flour, which at length bursting, made a ludicrous spectacle of
man and horse.
On reaching the English camp, where Lord Wellington was anxiously
deploring his fate, a sudden shout from the soldiers made his lordship
turn round, when a figure resembling the statue in _Don Juan_, galloped
up to him. Wellington, affectionately shaking him by the hand, said,
"Waters, you never yet deceived me; and though you have come in a most
questionable shape, I must congratulate you and myself." This is one of
the many capital stories in Captain Gronow's First Series of Anecdotes.
Colonel Mackinnon's Practical Joking.
Colonel Mackinnon, commonly called "Dan," was famous for practical
jokes. Before landing at St. Andero's, with some other officers who had
been on leave in England, he agreed to personate the Duke of York, and
make the Spaniards believe that his Royal Highness was amongst them.
On nearing the shore, a Royal standard was hoisted at the masthead,
and Mackinnon disembarked, wearing the star of his shako on his left
breast, and accompanied by his friends, who agreed to play the part of
_aides-de-camp_ to royalty. The Spanish authorities were soon informed
of the arrival of the Royal Commander-in-Chief of the British army; so
they received Mackinnon with the usual pomp and circumstance. The Mayor
of the place, in honour of the arrival, gave a grand banquet, which
terminated with the appearance of a huge bowl of punch, whereupon Dan,
thinking that the joke had gone far enough, suddenly dived his head
into the china bowl, and threw his heels into the air. The surprise
and indignation of the solemn Spaniards was such that they made a
most intemperate report of the hoax that had been played on them to
Lord Wellington. Dan, however, was ultimately forgiven, after a severe
reprimand.
Another of his freaks was the following:--Lord Wellington was
curious about visiting a convent near Lisbon, and the Abbess made no
difficulty. Mackinnon, hearing this, contrived to get clandestinely
within the walls, and it was generally supposed it was neither his
first nor his second visit. When Lord Wellington arrived, Dan Mackinnon
was to be seen among the nuns, draped in their sacred costume, with his
head and whiskers shaved, and as he possessed good features, he was
declared to be one of the best-looking among those chaste dames. This
adventure is supposed to have been known to Lord Byron, and to have
suggested a similar episode in _Don Juan_, the scene being laid in the
East.--_Captain Gronow._
A Gourmand Physician.
Dr. George Fordyce, the anatomist and chemical lecturer, was accustomed
to dine every day, for more than twenty years, at Dolly's chop-house,
in Queen's Head Passage, Paternoster Row. His researches in comparative
anatomy had led him to conclude that man, through custom, eats oftener
than nature requires, one meal a day being sufficient for that noble
animal, the lion. He made the experiment on himself at his favourite
dining-house, and, finding it successful, he continued the following
regimen for the above term of years.
At four o'clock, his accustomed dinner hour, he entered Dolly's
chop-house, and took his seat at a table always reserved for him,
on which were instantly placed a silver tankard full of strong ale,
a bottle of port-wine, and a measure containing a quarter of a pint
of brandy. The moment the waiter announced him, the cook put a
pound-and-a-half of rump-steak on the gridiron; and on the table some
delicate trifle, as a _bonne bouche_, to serve until the steak was
ready. This delicacy was sometimes half a broiled chicken, sometimes a
plate of fish; when he had eaten this, he took a glass of his brandy,
and then proceeded to devour his steak. We say devour, because he
always ate as rapidly as if eating for a wager. When he had finished
his meat, he took the remainder of his brandy, having, during his
dinner, drunk the tankard of ale, and afterwards the bottle of port.
The Doctor then adjourned to the Chapter Coffee-house, in Paternoster
Row, and stayed while he sipped a glass of brandy and water. It was
then his habit to take another at the London Coffee-house, and a third
at the Oxford, after which he returned to his house in Essex Street, to
give his lecture on chemistry. He made no other meal till his return
next day, at four o'clock, to Dolly's.
Dr. Fordyce's intemperate habits sometimes placed his reputation, as
well as the lives of his patients, in jeopardy. One evening he was
called away from a drinking-bout, to see a lady of title, who was
supposed to have been taken suddenly ill. Arrived at the apartment of
his patient, the Doctor seated himself by her side, and having listened
to the recital of a train of symptoms, which appeared rather anomalous,
he next proceeded to examine the state of her pulse. He tried to reckon
the number of its beats; the more he endeavoured to do this, the more
his brain whirled, and the less was his self-control. Conscious of the
cause of his difficulty and in a moment of irritation, he inadvertently
blurted out, "Drunk, by Jove!" The lady heard the remark, but remained
silent; and the Doctor having prescribed a mild remedy, one which he
invariably took on such occasions, he shortly afterwards departed.
At an early hour next morning he was roused by a somewhat imperative
message from his patient of the previous evening, to attend her
immediately; and he at once concluded that the object of this summons
was either to inveigh against him for the state in which he had
visited her on the former occasion, or perhaps for having administered
too potent a medicine. Ill at ease from these reflections, he entered
the lady's room, fully prepared for a severe reprimand. The patient,
however, began by thanking him for his immediate attention, and then
proceeded to say how much she had been struck by his discernment on the
previous evening; confessed that she was occasionally addicted to the
error which he had detected; and concluded by saying that her object
in sending for him so early was to obtain a promise that he would hold
inviolably secret the condition in which he found her. "You may depend
upon me, madam," replied Dr. Fordyce, with a countenance which had not
altered since the commencement of the patient's story; "I shall be
silent as the grave."
This story has also been told of Abernethy; but to Dr. Fordyce belongs
the paternity.
Dick England, the Gambler.
Towards the close of the last century among the most noted gamblers
and blacklegs in the metropolis was Dick England, one of whose haunts
was the Golden Cross, Charing Cross, where he was accustomed to look
out for raw Irishmen coming to town by the coaches, whom he almost
invariably plucked. His success soon enabled him to keep an elegant
house in St. Alban's Street, where he engaged masters to teach him
accomplishments to fit him for polite life. In 1779 and 1783, he kept
a good table, sported his _vis-à-vis_, and was remarkably choice in
the hackneys he rode, giving eighty or ninety guineas for a horse, a
sum nearly equal to two hundred guineas in the present day. Another
of his haunts was Munday's Coffee-house in Maiden Lane, where he
generally presided at a _table d'hôte_, and by his finesse and
agreeable conversation won him many friends. Being at times the hero of
his own story, he unguardedly exposed some of his own characteristic
traits, which his self-possession generally enabled him to conceal. His
conduct among men of family was, however, generally guarded; and he was
resolute in enforcing payment of the sums he won.
One evening he met a young tradesman at a house in Leicester Fields to
have an hour's play, for which he gave a banker's draft, but requested
to have his revenge in a few more throws, when he soon regained what
he had lost and as much in addition. It now being past three in the
morning, England proposed that they should retire; but the tradesman,
suspecting himself tricked, refused payment of what he had lost.
England then tripped up his heels, rolled him in the carpet, took
a case-knife from the sideboard, flourished it over the young man,
and at last cut off his long hair close to the scalp. Dreading worse
treatment, he gave a cheque for the amount and wished England good
morning.
England fought a duel at Cranford Bridge in 1784, with Mr. Le Roule, a
brewer, from Kingston: from him England had won a large sum, for which
a bond had been given, and which, not being paid, led to the duel, in
which Le Roule was killed. England fled to Paris and was outlawed;
it is reported that early in the Revolution he furnished some useful
intelligence to our army in the campaign in Flanders, for which he was
remunerated by the British Cabinet. While in France he was several
times imprisoned, and once ordered to the guillotine, but pardoned
through the exertion and influence of one of the Convention, who also
procured for him a passport for home. After an absence of twelve years,
he was tried for the duel, found guilty of manslaughter, fined one
shilling, and sentenced to one year's imprisonment. Subsequent to his
release he passed the remainder of his life at his house in Leicester
Square, where he lived to the age of eighty. His end was an awful one:
on being called to dinner, he was found lying dead on his sofa.
Brighton Races, Thirty Years Since.
Brighton Races, like most other Brighton amusements, took their rise
from the patronage of George IV. Those of Lewes were of earlier origin
and greater pretension, until the Prince began to run his horses and
lose his money on the Brighton course, which then attracted some of the
best horses and some of the most celebrated sportsmen in the kingdom.
Of the races at this period the following sketch is given by Mr. Thomas
Raikes, in his _Diary_:--