bouts 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 boot