Rambling Recollections of Chelsea and the Surrounding District as a Village in the Early Part of the Past Century / By an Old Inhabitant

by J. B. Ellenor

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.