whole of my schoolmates had been met by their respective friends, and my
brother and I alone remained at the inn, when at length my mother
arrived in a hackney-coach to fetch us, and from her we learned that the
streets were so crowded that she could hardly make her way to us. No
time was lost, and we were soon on our way homewards. We passed through
Newgate Street and the Old Bailey without interruption or delay; but
when we came into Ludgate Hill the case was far different; the street
was full and the people noisy, permitting no carriage to pass unless the
coachman took off his hat and acknowledged his respect for them and the
object for which they had congregated. "Hat off, coachee!" was their
cry. Our coachman would not obey their noisy calls, and there we were
fixed. Long might we have remained in that unpleasant predicament had
not my foreseeing parent sagaciously provided herself with a piece of
ribbon of the popular colour, which she used to good effect by making it
up into a bow with a long, streamer and pinning it to a white
handkerchief, which she courageously flourished out of the window of the
hackney-coach. Huzzas {274} and "Go on, coachee!" were shouted from the
crowd and with no other obstruction than the full streets presented, we
reached Beaufort Buildings, in the Strand, the street in which we
resided.

There a new scene presented itself, which was very impressive to our
young minds. The street was full of soldiers, and the coachman said to
my mother, "I cannot go down." A soldier addressed my mother: "No one,
ma'am, can go down this street:" to whom my mother replied, "I live
here, and am going to my own home." An officer then gave permission for
us, and the coachman with our box, to proceed, and we were soon at our
own door. The coachman, ignorant of the passport which the handkerchief
and ribbon had proved, said, on setting the box down, "You see, ma'am,
we got on without my taking off my hat: for who would take off his hat