was very poor, as there was no room or place for the purpose.  The only one I can recollect was when a professor of mesmerism and clairvoyance came down and took the skittle ground at the back of the “George and Dragon.”  He was a thin, shabby old man, dressed in black with very dirty linen.  With him were his wife, and two girls—his daughters, he informed us—one about twelve and the other about fourteen, with ringlets, shabbily dressed and closely covered up in old cloaks.  They did all the advertising and canvassing themselves, by taking round the bills and trying to sell tickets at sixpence each.  The sides of the skittle ground were decorated by the hanging of table covers, curtains, pieces of carpet, sheets, or anything else that would cover over the walls.  The platform at the end was composed of the taproom tables with some boards across, an old square piano belonging to the house stood on the floor; the lighting was effected by double tin sconces hung on the wall with two tallow dips in each.  The seating accommodation for the ticket

holders consisted of chairs; those who paid threepence at the doors had forms or planks to sit on with a gangway down the middle.  The performance commenced about seven by one of the young ladies playing the piano, and the other a triangle, the old lady being engaged in taking the money at the entrance.  The professor mounted the platform and addressed his audience, commenting upon the wonderful and mysterious scene he was about to enact.  He commenced with the usual conjuring tricks of borrowing a hat and making a pudding in it and bringing a live pigeon and a large cabbage out of it, and then returning the hat undamaged to its owner, which to us children was a great wonder.  Then came the card tricks, and the ventriloquial dialogue with the puppets, with a handkerchief over each hand to form the figures, and then the grand event of the evening.  The table was removed from the platform and replaced by two chairs, and the two girls, dressed in white frocks and yellow sashes, came on.  After addressing the audience, he proceeded to throw the elder one into a trance, which he appeared to succeed in doing, for she stood perfectly upright and still.  He then placed the two chairs a certain distance apart, back to back, and taking the girl up in his arms, laid her on her back with her head resting on the back of one chair and her

feet on the other, and she remained so for some minutes.  Next he lifted up the other girl and placed her standing with one foot on her sister’s chest, and the other at her knees, and she remained so for some minutes, when she was taken down and placed with her back to the company for the usual thought-reading performance.  At the end, as an extra, a pale, sickly youth was introduced, and sang “Wapping Old Stairs,” and “Sally in our Alley,” the young lady playing the accompaniment, much to the satisfaction of the company.  At the conclusion a plate was sent round to collect for the benefit of the artist.

Chelsea Regatta was a grand day, usually about Whitsuntide, when rowing took place for various prizes, subscribed for by the inhabitants, the publicans being the most active promoters, and the leading gentry patrons and liberal subscribers; first among them the Bayfords and the Owens, great rowing men and very liberal to the watermen.  I think one of the Bayfords was the first winner of the silver sculls.  The amount collected at a time would be as much as fifty or sixty pounds.  There was a grand prize, a boat to cost twenty pounds, and various money prizes.  The limit of entries was twelve, to be drawn by lot by Chelsea watermen, with certain restrictions.  The race was in two

heats, six in a heat, the first and second in the two heats to row in the final; the course from a point opposite the “Yorkshire Grey” stairs, round a boat moored opposite the “Adam and Eve,” back and round a boat moored opposite the Brunswick Tea Gardens at Nine Elms, and back to the starting point.  The waterside on a regatta day was like a fair, as there were always two or three mountebanks, a circus and a dancing booth on the various pieces of vacant ground in the neighbourhood of the river.  Some of the performers, dressed as clowns, played a kind of river tournament, sitting straddle-legged on beer barrels afloat, tilting at each other with long poles; the fun was to see them tumble each other into the water.  Then there was the old woman drawn in a washing tub by four geese.  After each display the performers would march with a band to their different places of entertainment.  From out of the fund provided, there were prizes given for running in sacks, and climbing the greasy pole for a leg of mutton fixed at the top, and a prize for running along a greased pole placed horizontally from the stem of a coal barge, and extending over the water some twenty feet.  On a barge moored opposite the end of the pole were four spars radiating with a basket at the end of each from a capstan that revolved, containing a prize, and just

within reach of the end of the greased pole.  One was usually a small live pig, others a fat goose or a live duck with its wings cut.  The “running the pole” was most difficult, for as soon as you got near the prize at the end of the pole it would be dipped by the weight and slip you off into the water; while if you got to the end of the pole and touched the basket as it revolved it would fly away from you.  The live prize was the most difficult to contend with, for you had to fight with it to get it on shore.  The proceedings all finished up with a grand display of fireworks.  On the following day the boat decked with flags, in a van, would be drawn round the principal streets with the watermen who had been engaged in the contest, singing some doggerel verses composed for the occasion, and thanking the people for their liberal subscriptions.

CHAPTER 4.—Chelsea Notabilities.

There were some notable people living in Cheyne Walk in those days.  At number three lived Mr. Goss, organist at St. Luke’s, afterwards at St. Paul’s Cathedral, who was subsequently knighted.  At number five lived Justice Neild, an eccentric old bachelor, who left half a million of money to the Queen, and next door lived Doctor Butler, curator of the British Museum, and at Gothic House lived Mr. Moore, a man seven feet high, and stout in proportion, dressed in a long drab coat, breeches and Hessian boots with large tassels.  He had been a contractor for the stores and accoutrements for Wellington’s army in the Peninsular campaign.  A constant visitor was the Countess of Harrington, in a splendid carriage with two tall footmen behind in a quaint brown livery trimmed with gold lace, breeches and silk stockings.  Then there were the Owens and the Bayfords, very charitable people.  Then there was “Don Saltero’s” tavern, kept by a tall Scotchman and his factotum, a little short fat man, a sort of “Joe Willett of the Maypole,” who was barman, cellarman, and waiter in one.  There

used to be a goodly company of an evening in the coffee room of retired officers and well-to-do people in the neighbourhood, to play whist and chess, and sometimes all-fours.  There was an ordinary on Sunday at two o’clock, when they gave you a rare good dinner for two-and-sixpence, including beer.

I well recollect the Kingsleys coming to Chelsea, I think it was about the year 1832.  I know it was near about the “cholera year.”  The