Rambling Recollections of Chelsea by an old inhabitant

Excerpt

CHAPTER 1.—Early Recollections.

In my early recollection Chelsea had many industries characteristic of the village, which have entirely passed away.  The only conveyance—a two-horse stage coach, called the “Village Clock”—used to run from the Cross Keys, in Lawrence Street, twice a day, for one shilling to Charing Cross, and one-and-six pence to the City.  It would stop to change horses at the “Black Horse,” in Coventry Street.  Time, from Chelsea, ten in the morning and two in the afternoon; supposed to do the journey in an hour—which it never did.  This coach appeared to be as much as was required, as it was seldom full, although it would go round in the morning to pick up its regular passengers.

The roads and streets had a very different appearance at that time, when the King’s Road was like a country road, with a toll gate on the north-east side of Sloane Square.  By the Asylum Wall, as far as Whitelands, there was no path at all.  Where Colville Terrace now stands was Colville’s Nursery, as far as Downing’s Floorcloth Factory, with no path, and on the opposite side from Whitelands to the White Stiles was Siger’s Nursery.  The White Stiles—where is now Avenue Terrace—was an open space with a grand avenue of horse chestnuts and some old-fashioned wood fence with two stone steps and a stile at each end, and where Bywater Street and Markham Square stand was Morr’s Nursery.

The King’s Road only took a second place in Chelsea proper.  Paradise Row and Cheyne Walk were considered the busiest and most thriving parts of the village, as nearly all its industries were located on the river bank, and nearly all the best families lived in Cheyne Walk or Paradise Row, and in the Royal Hospital, where the old soldiers used to pass the board, and pensions were paid.

For a boy in those days there were but few opportunities for amusement and recreation.  The only resources we had were rowing, running, swimming and boxing, to learn which was the proper thing to do and nearly every boy’s ambition.  I know it was mine, and as soon as I could save up two-and-six pence and get a half holiday, I used to go up to Air Street, Piccadilly, to a tavern on the right hand side kept by a retired prize-fighter, there to have a lesson from a professional in the “noble art of self-defence,” as it was then called.  There were always a lot of professionals waiting about who used to take it in turns to give the lessons, and a very shabby, disreputable lot they were.  We had to pay one shilling for the lesson and sixpence for the use of the room, the lesson to last twenty minutes (which was quite long enough.)  You could have a wash and brush up if you knew your way about and were a regular customer, and could always get information of the whereabouts of a fight that was to come off.  After leaving I would walk down St. James’ Street to Charing Cross, to the pastrycook’s shop at the left hand corner of Spring Gardens, and sit down at one of the tables, and, as we then called it, “do the Baron,” by ordering a sixpenny ice, or jelly and two cheese-cakes, and give the pretty waitress the twopence change, and go home proud and happy thinking of my next dissipation.  These expeditions were always taken alone, being too choice to be shared with anyone else.

Downing’s Floorcloth Factory, that I was speaking of, was burnt down about 1829, having been set on fire one Saturday night, and a young man about eighteen, named Butler, was hanged for it.  His father used to be a sort of odd man or jobbing gardener for us, and a committee for his defence sat at our house, mostly people belonging to the chapel that young Butler was connected with.  I used to be taken out to see an old officer from Chelsea Hospital, who used to come in full uniform with cocked hat and white plume of feathers, to be chairman.  I can see him now, going up the stairs with his sword clinking on every stair.  A memorial was sent in, but was not successful.  The evidence of a woman who knew him and lived in one of the cottages at the back, stated that she came home late on the Saturday and forgot to take in her black-bird, and was woke up by its making a noise.  She got up to take it in, and saw young Butler in the factory yard holding the dog by the chain and patting it.  Butler had only recently been discharged for some irregularities.  The place had been robbed as well as set on fire.  It was well known that others were in it, but they escaped and were never taken, as there were no police at that time, only the night watchman—a tall old soldier, who was paid by subscription by the inhabitants, and used to perambulate the streets and call out the hour and state of the weather—such as “Half-past two and a stormy night,” and would eke out his livelihood by calling up the riverside labourers and lightermen at such times as the tide served....