BEFORE quitting the subject of Metropolitan Gypsies there is another
place to which it will be necessary to devote a few words, though it is
less entitled to the appelation of Gypsyry than rookery. It is situated
in the East of London, a region far more interesting to the ethnologist
and the philologist than the West, for there he will find people of all
kinds of strange races,—the wildest Irish; Greeks, both Orthodox and
Papistical; Jews, not only Ashkenazim and Sephardim, but even Karaite;
the worst, and consequently the most interesting, description of Germans,
the sugar-bakers; lots of Malays; plenty of Chinamen; two or three dozen
Hottentots, and about the same number of Gypsies, reckoning men, women,
and children. Of the latter, and their place of abode, we have now only
to do, leaving the other strange, odd people to be disposed of on some
other occasion.
Not far from Shoreditch Church, and at a short distance from the street
called Church Street, on the left hand, is a locality called Friars’
Mount, but generally for shortness called The Mount. It derives its name
from a friary built upon a small hillock in the time of Popery, where a
set of fellows lived in laziness and luxury on the offerings of foolish
and superstitious people, who resorted thither to kiss and worship an
ugly wooden image of the Virgin, said to be a first-rate stick at
performing miraculous cures. The neighbourhood, of course, soon became a
resort for vagabonds of every description, for wherever friars are found
rogues and thieves are sure to abound; and about Friars’ Mount,
highwaymen, coiners, and Gypsies dwelt in safety under the protection of
the ministers of the miraculous image. The friary has long since
disappeared, the Mount has been levelled, and the locality built over.
The vice and villainy, however, which the friary called forth still cling
to the district. It is one of the vilest dens of London, a grand resort
for housebreakers, garotters, passers of bad money, and other
disreputable people, though not for Gypsies; for however favourite a
place it may have been for the Romany in the old time, it no longer finds
much favour in their sight, from its not affording open spaces where they
can pitch their tents. One very small street, however, is certainly
entitled to the name of a Gypsy street, in which a few Gypsy families
have always found it convenient to reside, and who are in the habit of
receiving and lodging their brethren passing through London to and from
Essex and other counties east of the metropolis. There is something
peculiar in the aspect of this street, not observable in that of any of
the others, which one who visits it, should he have been in Triana of
Seville, would at once recognise as having seen in the aspect of the
lanes and courts of that grand location of the Gypsies of the Andalusian
capital.
The Gypsies of the Mount live much in the same manner as their brethren
in the other Gypsyries of London. They _chin the cost_, make skewers,
baskets, and let out donkeys for hire. The chief difference consists in
their living in squalid houses, whilst the others inhabit dirty tents and
caravans. The last Gypsy of any note who resided in this quarter was
Joseph Lee; here he lived for a great many years, and here he died,
having attained the age of ninety. During his latter years he was
generally called Old Joe Lee, from his great age. His wife or partner,
who was also exceedingly old, only survived him a few days. They were
buried in the same grave, with much Gypsy pomp, in the neighbouring
churchyard. They were both of pure Gypsy blood, and were generally known
as the Gypsy king and queen of Shoreditch. They left a numerous family
of children and grandchildren, some of whom are still to be found at the
Mount. This old Joe Lee in his day was a celebrated horse and donkey
witch—that is, he professed secrets which enabled him to make any
wretched animal of either species exhibit for a little time the spirit
and speed of “a flying drummedary.” He was illustriously related, and
was very proud on that account, especially in being the brother’s son of
old James, the _cauring mush_, whose exploits in the filching line will
be remembered as long as the venerable tribe of Purrum, or Lee, continues
in existence.