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—