THE ORIGINAL CHELSEA BUNHOUSE.
Chelsea was famous for its buns from the commencement of the last century. Swift, who lodged in Church Lane (street), and used to walk to and from town, “two good miles, and just 5748 steps,” writes to Stella, in 1712, “Pray, are not they fine buns sold here in our town? * * * Was it not r-r-r-r-r-r rare Chelsea buns? I bought one in my walk.” This old bunhouse was a rather long building of one storey, with a colonnade in front, projecting over the pavement, the dwelling-house attached to it standing in the rear, with a large and well-kept garden behind it. It was situated in what was called Grosvenor Row, known as such at the time the bunhouse was pulled down, the site of which is a little eastward beyond the boundary line of this parish, and not far distant from Chelsea Hospital. George II. and Queen Caroline, and the princesses, bought buns here; as did George III. and Queen Charlotte, who presented to the proprietor a silver half gallon mug, and five guineas in it. Here, on Good Friday morning, £250 has been taken for buns; and so lately as 1839 no less than 240,000 buns were sold here on Good Friday. This may appear to many an incredulous number; but few persons at the present time can form an adequate idea of the immense demand for them.
The Rev. J. B. Owen, of St. Jude’s, Chelsea, in one of his admirable lectures, delivered in 1860, humourously observed, “There is no poetry more delicate, nor was street music more popular, than the old bellman’s cry—‘Smoking hot, piping hot, Chelsea buns!’ Picture the enthusiasm of a local rhymer thus immortalising the article:—
O flour of the ovens! a zephyr in paste!
Fragrant as honey, and sweeter in taste!
Hail to the bellman, who sings as he runs,
‘Smoking hot, piping hot, Chelsea buns!’As flaky and white as if baked by the light,
As the flesh of an infant, soft, doughy, and slight;
The public devour thee like Goths and Huns,
‘Smoking hot, piping hot, Chelsea buns!’Prelates, and princes, and lieges, and kings,
Hail for the bellman, who tinkles and sings,
Bouche of the highest and lowliest ones,
‘Smoking hot, piping hot, Chelsea buns!’Like the home of your birth, or the scent of a flower,
Or the blush of the morning on field or bower,
There’s a charm in the sound which nobody shuns,
Of ‘Smoking hot, piping hot, Chelsea buns!’
This bunhouse had become so famous, not only throughout London, but for several miles round it, that not to visit Chelsea on Good Friday, and purchase some of the “rare buns,” was considered as unaccountable amongst a certain class—such as the servants of the nobility and gentry, shopmen, mechanics, and apprentices—as it would have been for them to acknowledge that they had never heard of Greenwich Fair. But this part of Chelsea, and the adjoining “Five Fields,” now Eaton and Belgrave Squares, actually did represent a minor Greenwich Fair. From my own personal observation I should say, provided the weather was favourable, there were generally on Good Fridays nearly 200,000 persons collected in the immediate neighbourhood. It was a fair to all intents and purposes. In the “Five Fields” there were drinking booths, swings, gingerbread stalls, nine-pins being played, gaming, and all the other vicious “entertainments” which annually disgraced the metropolis in former times. Such was the pressure of the immense crowd at the bunhouse, from about three o’clock in the morning till five in the afternoon, that the only mode of supplying the demand for buns was by obtaining them through apertures in the shutters. The bunhouse, however, was very respectably conducted, and such scenes as I have described were only to be witnessed on the day previously named—a day set apart to commemorate the most momentous event, as regards its consequences, in the history of the world.
There were many things very attractive at the original bunhouse. In it was a collection of pictures, models, grotesque, figures, and modern antiques. In a conspicuous position were two leaden figures of grenadiers of 1745; a plaster figure of William, Duke of Cumberland; a painting of the King and Queen seated; a model of the bunhouse, and of the exploits of a bottle conjurer. This celebrated building was pulled down some years since, and with it the olden charm fled.
Having thus arrived at the eastern boundary of the parish, I trace my steps through Queen’s Road East, formerly called Jews’ Row. Many years ago this road, for scenes of depravity, was as bad as any part of the East end of London; but it happily was confined to this limited locality, and arose from the circumstance that the Out-Pensioners from nearly all parts of the country had to come to Chelsea Hospital to receive their pensions, and disabled soldiers to pass the Board, &c., previously to being discharged from the army. The Government at length wisely altered the arrangement for paying the Out-Pensioners, and they now receive their pensions in districts nearer to where they dwell, which prevents their being put to the expense of coming to London, being robbed by “sharpers,” or beset by prostitution. Jews’ Row, and its former scenes, comparatively speaking, have passed away, and what remains of vice and crime, in some of the crammed courts leading from it to Turks’ Row, is gradually disappearing, through the exertions of the Rev. J. B. Owen, M.A., of St. Jude’s Church, the District Visitors, and other agencies. These courts will probably be cleared away before many years have elapsed, and Queen’s Road East will then become one of the leading and most attractive thoroughfares in the parish of Chelsea.
One very great improvement took place some few years since. The Burial Ground was enclosed by a high dismal-looking old wall, which was pulled down, and a new one built, not more than three feet high, on which a neat iron-railing is placed, thus removing much vice and preventing many robberies, and rendering the road perfectly safe.
In the year 1793 a horrible murder was committed in a house fronting the North Court of the Royal Hospital. The victims were Mr. Silva and Mary Williams, his servant. It appears to have been perpetrated in the morning, between half-past eight and twelve o’clock.
George Saunders, at the inquest, stated that when the alarm was given he entered the house, and, on lifting up the servant, Mary Williams, there were signs of life, but she expired in two or three minutes. Mr. Silva was alive, but speechless, and died shortly afterwards. He found in a closet in the kitchen two iron chests, unlocked, and empty. In the front room, one pair of stairs, a bureau open, with the drawers out, and the papers in confusion, and on the floor a quantity of bedding, folded up.
Mr. North, surgeon, gave a fearful account of the wounds received, and the jury, after a lengthened investigation, found a verdict of wilful murder by persons unknown.
A nephew of Mr. Silva was taken up on suspicion, and examined at Bow Street. He shewed, by respectable evidence, that he was at home when the murder was committed, and was discharged. This person, however, afterwards committed suicide, and he was buried in the highway at Chelsea, leaving great doubts of his innocency of the crime.