In a glade of Hainhault forest, in Essex, about a mile from Barkinside,
stands an oak, which has been known through many centuries by the name
of Fairlop. The traditions of the country trace it half way up the
Christian era. It is still a noble tree, though it has now suffered
greatly from the depredations of time. About a yard from the ground,
where its rough, fluted stem is thirty-six feet in circumference, it
divides into eleven arms; yet not in the horizontal manner of an oak,
but rather in that of a beech. Beneath its shade, which overspreads an
area of three hundred feet in circuit, an annual fair has long been
held, on the 2d of July; and no booth is suffered to be erected beyond
the extent of its boughs. But as their extremities are now become
sapless, and age is yearly curtailing their length, the liberties of the
fair seem to be in a desponding condition. The honor however is great.
But honors are often accompanied with inconveniences; and Fairlop has
suffered
from its distinctions. In the feasting that attends the fair, fires are
often necessary; and no places seemed so proper to make them in, as the
hollow cavities formed by the heaving roots of the tree. This practice
has brought a speedier decay on Fairlop than it might otherwise have
suffered.