House dwellers often have remarked as to the life we lead: many have suggested it to be unhealthy. Now to prove to the contrary, my dear mother died at the age of 75, and my father at the age of 81.
I think, speaking of one family only, this will be a sufficient answer as to whether the life of a gipsy, breathing nature’s own atmosphere, is as good as a dweller in houses or not. My family consists of eight children—four boys and four girls—the eldest whom is now 28, the youngest reaching 16.
As a boy, I travelled the greater part of the United Kingdom, when reaching twelve, my aptitude for trading in horses (thanks to my father’s tuition) began to exhibit itself. My first business transaction consisted of receiving a present of a pony. One day, shortly after the Epping Fair of 1842, I was sent by my parents to the Manor House at Loughton, with some basket-ware. Being some distance from our camp, one of the upper servants very kindly attended to my inward wants, and having packed the silver for the ware, for safety, in a piece of brown paper, in my breeches pocket, I started off for the forest. After leaving the lodge, to my astonishment, I found the lady of the manor which I had just left, coming to grief down the road. Without the slightest idea of fear, young as I was, I stopped the pony—both of us being down. On rising, I found myself unhurt, the only damage done being the fright of the lady and her friend, and one of the shafts of the little carriage broken. My pockets were, as a rule, a general receptacle for everything, so, in a few minutes, by the aid of a piece of string, a couple of nails, and a stone as a hammer, I had repaired the damage, and improvised a curb for the pony, and saw things straight. Prior to the lady leaving me, she desired me to drive the pony home, after doing which she presented me with a crown piece, and seeing me so pleased, she told the stud groom might have the pony, as she would never trust it again—to my great astonishment—and with my new possession, and the addition of many thanks, I rode off again for home, as proud and as happy as any king. The precise spot being, as I remember, the famous old oak, wherein King Charles hid in the Forest of Epping—the tree has long since been a thing of the past. Many a time have I, in my boyhood, heard my great-great-grandmother tell our visitors of the time when the shadow of its branches covered an acre of ground. A chartered fair has for many years been held on the spot, taking place on the first Friday in July, and, even now, Londoners may be seen, on the Sunday after the first Friday, wending their way, thousands in number, some in conveyances of every sort and style, some footing it to Epping from the Mile End Road, Whitechapel, and environs. The Cockneys well attend the one remaining link of the past, “Fairlop Fair.” Some few years since, splendidly built full rigged boats were taken on trollies by the Limehouse block makers to the fair at Fairlop, the boats being drawn by splendid teams of grey horses, beautifully caparisoned, and well decorated with oak leaves, the drivers and artisans wearing the old-fashioned blue coat, white hat, and top boots. Even now, in my ears, I remember the old-fashioned doggrel chorus, sung by them on the spot of the old oak’s resting place—
“The Charter we have got,
We claim this grand old spot,
Old Fairlop, Fairlop Fair,
This be our refrain,
Shall flourish and flourish again and again.”
I need not say Fairlop Fair was a little gold mine to the members of our tribe. The Cockneys to the present day consider the Gipsies to be part and parcel of the festival and annual gathering, none being so happy as the favoured ones who could boast of having had tea in a gipsy’s tent.
My horsedealing propensities grew with me as I grew.
When I arrived at the age of 26, I then took to myself a wife. Long may we both live to be in the future, as in the past, a comfort to each other. Corinda Lee, daughter of the then recognised heads of the Lee tribe of Epping Gipsies, mother of my children and joy of my life, long may we yet travel this journey of life up hill and down hill together. Our marriage in the old village of Waltham Abbey brought together over fifty families of Gipsies for the junketings and sports, so freely indulged in in the old times, lasting as they did over the three days.
I had been married but three months when the first offer of settling down took place. A gentleman named Hewitt, of the firm of Huggins’ Brewery Co., for whom I had purchased many valuable horses, offered to place me in a livery stable then for sale in Clerkenwell parish, the price for the same being £1700. I suggested the acceptance, having the chance on very good terms to pay out of the profits. My wife, however, flatly declined the, to me, favourable opportunity, her objection to living amongst chimneys being too great to combat, like the sailor in the storm pitying the poor landsmen. Unlike many of her sex, to this day she has not changed her mind.
Shortly after this I was appointed the head of ten gipsy families, and I started a tour of the United Kingdom. After a few days a more orderly company could, I think, be scarcely organised. Our tents, caravans, horses, and harness, were greatly admired; trading in our usual form, with baskets of our own make, and selling horses, we caused at times almost too much attention, so much so, even at our meals we could not keep people out of our tents, although located at some distance from the towns and villages, so I determined to rent or hire fields for our camping grounds. Even then it was impossible to keep intruders out; at length a happy idea struck me, viz., to charge a fee for admission to those wishing to gratify their ofttimes intrusive curiosity, in doing which I am pleased to say we were more than successful in a monetary point of view.
Many offers of engagements were made to me; but never liking the idea of being a servant, I refused them, and as I started so have I lived—making a bargain for my requirements, and being satisfied with my returns. The Romany, doubtless, are superstitious—they like to be free. That old customs still adhere to us, I must admit; our language is our own, and a true Gitano is as jealous of its possession as his honour. Nothing can lower one of us more than learning the house-dweller our Romanis. Strange though it is, whilst listening, as I have done lately, to the many words I have heard spoken by the Tamill, Hindoo, and Ceylonese Indians in the Exhibition, we find numerous words similar to our own, and bearing, as I understand, the same meaning.