Transcribed from the 1901 The Press Printers edition by David Price,
email ccx074@pglaf.org. Many thanks to Kensington Local Studies Library
for allowing the use of their copy in making this transcription.
[Picture: The "Old Swan," Chelsea]
Rambling Recollections
of Chelsea and the
surrounding District
as a Village in the early
part of the past century
BY AN OLD INHABITANT
[Picture: Decorative design]
LONDON: The Press Printers,
142 Strand
[Picture: Picture of the author]
INTRODUCTION.
[Picture: Decorative divider]
_In offering my early recollections of Chelsea and surrounding
neighbourhood_, _I thought they might be interesting to many of my old
friends and neighbours_, _and while away pleasantly some of their leisure
moments_. _The idea of compiling them from a diary_, _spasmodically
kept_, _only occurred to me when confined to my room_, _to pass away some
of the weary hours_, _and I certainly found the task extremely
advantageous_. _Accordingly_, _I have had them printed_, _for
presentation to my friends_, _as a souvenir of our old friendship_.
_Highfield Lodge_,
_Wandsworth Common_.
_June_, 1901.
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.
I well recollect the first policeman coming on duty in Chelsea. Nearly
all the school boys, nurse girls, and children turned out to see him.
His beat when I saw him was along Green's Row by the dead wall of
Burton's Court. He was a tall, ungainly-looking countryman, dressed in a
blue bobtailed coat with white metal buttons, white duck trousers, heavy
blucher boots, and a top hat and white gloves. For several days an
admiring crowd persistently followed him up and down his beat, a little
way behind like the tail of a comet, the crowd in the road and he on the
path, but the novelty wore off after a time.
At that time the Swan brewery stood at the bottom of Swan Walk on the
River, and between that and the Botanical Gardens was the Skinner's
Company's Dock and barge wharf, where the state barge was kept. Old
Captain May had charge of her, a worthy old man and quite an important
character among the riverside people, as he had the engaging of the
watermen to row the barge on Lord Mayor's Day and other state occasions,
and when they went swan-upping. As they were well fed and well paid it
was considered a desirable appointment. It took eighteen watermen to row
the barge, and I think they were paid one guinea each for the day. We
used to think it a grand sight to see them in their scarlet coats and
badges, breeches, low shoes and silk stockings. It used to be almost a
holiday when they went out, as nobody could stick to his work. The land
between the barge house and the brewery was a rare place to catch eels,
and a favourite place for us boys to lay night lines, as it was always
well ground-baited by the refuse from the brewery. I have taken
twenty-four eels off twenty-five hooks on a night line. There used to be
a grand day's sport for us boys once a year at the brewery, on Good
Friday. The drains from the brewery at their outlet on the river were
stopped up by ramming bags of sand in them when the tide was down, and
every boy or man that had a dog (and there were but few who had not)
would arrive as the tide served inside the yard gates in readiness, and
at a given signal the hot liquor from the coppers would be let down the
drains, and in a few minutes out rushed the rats by the score. Away went
the dogs, and as all the outlets were stopped there was a nice scrimmage,
and there being a large number of barrels in the yard that the rats could
get between and the dogs could not, it would last some time, for we had
to move the barrels, and a good many of the rats would get away. I have
seen them run up a barrel and get in the bung hole. They were quite safe
then, and it would drive the dogs almost mad, and we had a job to get
them away.
There were several notable characters along the waterside. One
hard-featured, powerful old man, named Jamie Cator, had the reputation of
being a remnant of the old press gang--and he looked it every bit. He
was morose, dark-featured, heavily marked with the small-pox, and had a
deep scar from the comer of his mouth to the back of his jaw, which did
not add to his beauty. He was dressed in oiled canvas trousers, a shiny
black sailor's hat, and an old pensioner's undress blue short coat, and
was not looked upon with respect. He had a small pension of some sort
from the navy, and used to eke out his living by bringing down the floats
of timber from the docks to the different timber yards, and at other
times to work on the sand-barges dredging in the river.
There was another well-known character, a half-witted fellow, who got his
living by collecting corks and drift wood that was washed in by the
eddies at high tide. He had an old boat that had been mended by tacking
bits of old floor cloth over the holes in her, and when afloat had always
to have someone baling out the water to keep her so. The Thames in those
days was considerably more of a highway than at present. There were two
watermen who went regularly up to Thames Street every day as a sort of
carriers, and would fetch or take anything from a message to a house of
furniture. They would frequently bring a barrel of herrings, or two or
three sacks of potatoes, or anything they could buy cheap, and would go
round themselves with a bell and announce that they would sell in the
boat at the drawdock, at six in the evening, and in the winter they would
have one or two flaring lights and sell by Dutch auction. Of course, we
boys always attended these sales.
In Paradise Row, were Harrison's, the tallow melters and candle makers,
who used to do the work under the shop in a cellar, reached by a flap
from the outside. Charlie, the candle maker, was quite a favourite with
us boys, for he would occasionally invite two or three of us to supper in
the cellar. It was an understood thing that we should bring some
potatoes and enough money for a pot of four half and half. We assembled
as soon as the shop was closed and the master gone, about half-past six;
and then such glorious suppers! I do not think I ever had such before or
since. Our first operation was to wash the potatoes, place them in the
furnace hole and cover them up with the ashes, and rake out some more
ashes and pat them well down. Next, Charlie would go to a special
fat-bin and bring forth five or six lumps of fat, each containing a
kidney, which by some mistake had been left in. These were dexterously
taken out, tied up separately in a piece of thin lining kept for the
purpose, leaving a long loop. He would then string them on a dipping
rod, used for dipping the candles, place the rod across the coppers and
plunge them in the boiling fat. In about twenty minutes they were done,
and taken out, and the potatoes, beautifully baked, divided between us.
At times we were short of plates, but that did not trouble us, for an
inverted saucepan lid answered every purpose. We would then sit and tell
stories till we were obliged to go home. Charlie used to work all night
Tuesday and Friday, as on those days they got the fresh fat in from the
butchers.
In the summer there was the grass-boat, owned by an old man and his wife
and a grown-up daughter. It had been an old ship's jolly-boat, and had a
roughly-built half deck cabin about the size of a four-wheeled cab. The
three of them lived in it, and came twice a week to the draw-dock with
bundles of coarse rush grass cut in the marshes on the river's bank, to
sell to the local tradesmen to feed their horses, at three half-pence a
bundle; and all they had left was taken by the cowkeepers at a penny a
bundle. When there was no grass they would go sand-dredging, getting the
sand by a pole with a leather bag on an iron frame at the end, with a
rope to a block rigged up and attached to a windlass. The old man would
let down gradually the pole, and the wife and daughter would wind it up.
They were a terribly drunken lot; but the temptation to drink in those
days in Chelsea was very much greater than at present, for since I can
recollect, in that one road not much over a mile, from Battersea Bridge
to Ebury Bridge on the canal, there have been eighteen public houses
closed, and only one new license granted, and that is to the "Chelsea
Pensioner." The names of the thirteen houses that I alluded to were the
"Green Man" at the bottom of Beaufort Street, at the back of Luke Flood's
house, the "Adam and Eve," the "Cricketers," the "Magpie and Stump," the
"Don Saltero," the "Yorkshire Grey," the "King's Head," the "Old Swan,"
the "Fox and Hounds," the "Snow Shoes," the "General Elliott," the "Duke
of York" (that was the house in Wilkie's picture of the reading of the
news of the Battle of Waterloo), the "Rose and Crown," the "Cheshire
Cheese," the "Nell Gwynn," the "Marquess of Granby," and the
"Waterworks," and several beerhouses. All of these houses have been
closed or pulled down.
At the corner of Smith Street was the house where Tommy Faulkner, who
wrote the history of Chelsea, carried on his business of bookseller,
library keeper, stationer and printer. There were some rich people at
that end of Paradise Row, several of them Quaker families, keeping two or
three servants. Near the corner of the alley leading into Durham Mews,
lived a doctor, a celebrated anatomist, and at the bottom of his garden
in the Mews stood a building with no window that could be seen. That had
the reputation of being the dissecting room. None of us boys would pass
it after dark, as it was reported that the body snatchers who robbed the
grave yards, would bring the bodies in a sack to sell to the doctor.
The present Children's Hospital was Miss Pemberton's ladies' school,
Gough House, with a lozenge-shaped grass plot and a carriage drive; an
avenue of elm trees led on each side to the house from the iron entrance
gates, by the side of which stood the coachhouse and stables.
A trip to Clapham was quite an undertaking, as there were no means of
getting there but by walking. Once a year I used to go with the mother
to pay the ground rent. We had to start after an early dinner and walk
over Battersea Bridge along the road, with fields on each side to the top
of Surrey Lane, pass Weller's Farm, and strike off to the left by a
pathway through cornfields to Long Hedge Farm--where the Chatham and
Dover works now stand--and pass through some water meadows with bridges
of planks across the dikes and penstocks, and up the hill by the side of
some old cottages that brought you out in the Wandsworth Road; across a
narrow footpath, a steep hill with steps cut in the gravel, called
Matrimony Hill, and through the old churchyard. A few doors to the left
was a ladies' school,--our destination. The lady we were to see was a
Miss Hart, a parlour boarder there. We were regaled with biscuits and a
glass of currant wine, which we quite appreciated, to help us on our way
home.