Mr.Trapp and I were by the door one evening, measuring out the soot, when a man came panting up the alley and rushed past us into the back kitchen without so much as "by your leave." Half a minute later up came the press, and the young officer at the head of them was for pushing past and into the house; but Mr.Trapp blocked the doorway, with Mrs.Trapp full of fight in the rear.
"Stand by!" says the officer to his men.

"And you, sir, what the devil do you mean by setting yourself in the way of his Majesty's Service ?" "An Englishman's house," said Mr.Trapp, "is his castle." "D'ye hear that ?" screamed Mrs.Trapp.
"An Englishman's house," repeated Mr.Trapp slowly, "is his castle.
The storms may assail it, and the winds whistle round it, but the King himself cannot do so." The officer knew the law and called off his gang.

When the coast was clear we went to search for the man, and found he had vanished, taking half a flitch of bacon with him off the kitchen-rack.
All those days, too, throb in my head to the tramp of soldiers in the streets, and ring with bugles blown almost incessantly from the ramparts high above my garret.

On Sundays Mr.Trapp and I used to take our walk together around the ramparts, between church and dinner-time, after listening to the Royal Marine Band as it played up George Street and Bedford Street on the way from service in St.
Andrew's Church.

If we met a soldier we had to stand aside; indeed, even common privates in those days (so proudly the Army bore itself, though its triumphs were to come) would take the wall of a woman--a greater insult then than now, or at least a more unusual one.
A young officer of the '-- 'th Regiment once put this indignity upon Mrs.Trapp, in Southside Street.