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A mildly amusing description of 1893 London "in the small hours," by Fred T. Jane, later to produce the "Fighting Ships" books. I've included the text with some of the pictures. Some of the pictures have a second signature that I'm not certain I can make out. Looks something like "Andre & Siegl."
As found in Google books.
The English illustrated Magazine, Volume 10, Page v
ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. By Fred T. Jane.
With numerous Illustrations by the Writer.
I. London Railway Stations 658
II. In The Small Hours 705
III. Round The Underground On An Engine . . . 737
The English illustrated Magazine, Volume 10, July, 1893, Pages 706-711
The Romance of Modern London
II-In the Small Hours
[by Fred T. jane]
PUBLISHING TIME IN FLEET STREET. ABOUT 4 A.M.
From half-past twelve, when the public-houses shut, till five in the morning, when they open again, London is assumed to be asleep. The sleep is more apparent than real, however, for so varied are the occupations and pleasures of the inhabitants of this modern Babylon, that it is well-nigh impossible to pass through any important thoroughfare, no matter what the hour, without encountering some of one's fellowmen. The ubiquitous policeman, railway servants on night-duty, printers, compositors, firemen, drunkards who cannot find their way home, wretched people who have no homes to find, prowlers, loafers, loungers, and " shady cards" innumerable —these are some of the many who pass along the so-called deserted streets.
Not till the public-houses are closed does the London night really begin; the extinction of the huge moth-attracting lamps of the gin-palaces, and the lowering of the street lights bring a desolation and darkness like to that caused in more open districts by a heavy cloud passing over the moon. With the darkness come forth innumerable cats, fighting over the scraps that get thrown into the streets, prowling and caterwauling without let or hindrance. Cats are not the only food-seekers, for every now and then some slouching half-famished wretch comes along, looking with eager eyes into the doorways where the better class of poor people are apt to put their stale bread and other unneeded food, and many are the hungry ones who have cause to bless this simple act of charity.
About one in the morning is the hour for footpads, garotters, and others of that ilk to get to business; and as the street traffic lessens, from side alleys and courts emerge queer-looking customers who hang singly about in doorways, or stand together under lampposts to consider the plan of campaign. Under a lamp they are more noticeable than in a dark corner, but for that very reason attract less attention from the police. I saw the three men I have attempted to sketch do a bit of business with a householder who was standing in his open doorway about 1.30 one morning. He was the other side of the street to them, so they separated, and one going down the road some distance crossed over and sauntered innocently back again; the other two passed over higher up, one very drunk—for the time being —and then turned to meet their confederate. The three met just outside the quarry's door, and fell against it; but the worthy householder had been one too many for them and slammed the door just in the nick of time to save his household goods from the grasp of the marauder.
SHADY CUSTOMERS
Many and various are the devices employed in the pursuit of wealth in the small hours of the morning. About Christmas time last year a doctor was passing up Holborn shortly after midnight when some one behind him placed his hands over his eyes saying — "Guess who I am." At the same moment the doctor was laid on the ground, guessing and remonstrating with his supposed friend in jocular fashion; nor was it until the quondam jokers had disappeared that he found that his watch and money had gone with them. There were plenty of people about, it was a big public thoroughfare, and the hour was not late, for London; yet the robbery was carried out with perfect impunity.
Another interesting dodge I watched for several nights is that employed by a fatherly old gentleman in the style of cap patented by Mr. Keir Hardy, and a young man who knocks him down, brutally ill-uses him, and makes off with his cash. The benevolent passer-by flies to the old party's assistance and acts the good Samaritan; but no sooner is he out of sight than the drama is repeated with varying success. Bedford Row, Russell Square and thereabouts used to be the usual haunt of these two accomplished actors, but they have passed on elsewhere of late,—perhaps on a provincial tour.
Variations of this trick are plentiful enough: sometimes it is a man and wife dispute—though this is pretty well played out—another time an ill-used cripple who can run like the wind if need be; but whatever means are employed, the aim and object is to get the projected victim to interfere in other people's affairs preparatory to interfering with him.
A HEART-RENDING DRAMA
All the fights one chances on are by no means artificial, however, and when a real one is on the tapis it is wonderful how quickly a crowd fills the previously almost empty street. The passing cabman reins up and watches with keen interest; to him there is always the off chance of securing a hospital job. Some of the "fares" cabbies get in the small hours are quaint indeed and often enough troublesome; but on the other hand the remuneration is generally far above that to be obtained in the daytime, though they frequently experience much bother in getting it. One night not long ago I saw a man, not over sober, get out of a hansom outside his door and promptly go to sleep on the pavement. On the cabman waking him and demanding his fare, the gentleman, after much fumbling, pulled out a small pocket looking-glass, and handing it to the driver told him to give him half-a-crown change. The cabby, waxing wroth, gave vent to the time-honoured "Wot's this?" The man promptly got into the cab again and ordered the driver to take him to the nearest police-station, where he intended to give the cabman in charge for demanding more than his legal fare. Often the frequenter of the tap-room, hopelessly trying to find his way home, concludes that the roadway is his bed, and peacefully slumbers there till, with a clatter and a shower of sparks, a hansom is pulled up just clear of him; he indignantly rebukes the cabman, but in spite of his remonstrances is likely to finish his night's slumber on one of the couches provided by his country for the puzzled wanderer.
A HOSPITAL JOB
But gradually the less sober wanderers disappear, either with the assistance of policemen, or with the kindly aid of watchful loafers, who help them into dark corners or blind alleys where they remove their valuables; and, if their clothes are worth taking, assist them to undress, soon as the public-houses shut the all-night coffee-stall opens, and here for a modest sum one can purchase coffee, whelks, or 'ot taters—good stuff too— and the stall-keepers drive a brisk trade, especially in the early morning. The Prince of Wales is said to have eaten a 'ot tater at one of the stalls, and the owner thereof ever after labelled himself—
HOT POTATER PURVEYOR TO THE ROYAL FAMILY.
But though I have hunted for him long we have never met; and I fear he must be relegated to the same bourne as the "Pawnbroker to Her Majesty."
THE ALL-NIGHT COFFEE-STALL
By 2.30 the streets are silent save for the heavy thud of an occasional policeman trying the doors on his beat, moving along with a peculiar swing common to the Force. Resting on the foot nearer the wall he bends down that side, the other leg swinging in the air, which fashion of walk enables him to inspect the door fastenings without stopping in his stride.
THE POLICEMAN'S SWING
Occasionally one passes an enterprising cabman remaining all night on the stand, and every here and there the men on duty at the fire-stations are to be seen leaning against the escapes—and queer are the tales they can tell of what they see during the night-watches. Under lamp-posts and round corners one comes now and again upon fellows watching the "copper" out of sight; and once I saw a dim form crawling across the leads of a roof—presumably Bill Sykes professionally engaged.
Another night, while wandering round, one sees lodgers "doing a moonlight flit," shifting out their furniture in the dead of night in preference to having it seized for arrears of rent; and when the landlord happens to come upon the scene the play becomes lively. More often than not, however, the landlord anticipates this move, and in the streets where cheap unfurnished lodgings abound it is no uncommon thing to see locked-out tenants hammering away at a door, while from an upper window the landlord looks out and threatens fearful things in the way of upsetting bucketfuls of dirty water on them, calling the police, and invoking the aid of stipendiary magistrates.
About two o'clock along any tram route one is apt to encounter an immense cloud of dust that grows larger the faster one hurries on. Some few minutes later the inquiring pedestrian discovers its raison d'etre when he overtakes a huge contrivance of brushes, drawn by a single horse, which clears the dust out of the tramway lines, and drives all save the most hardy and persevering out of the street in its wake.
SWEEPING THE TRAMWAY LINES.
There is one eminent characteristic of the small hours in London; the deep suspicion with which an ordinary wayfarer looks on whoever he may meet. I remember losing myself late one night in the mazes around Russell Square; in my wanderings I met a policeman and asked him how to get out. "Out where?" he inquired with the surprise of one familiar to the district.
"Holborn, Oxford Street, anywhere!" I replied.
"Now look here," said the guardian of the peace, "first you wants Oxford Street, which is second right, third left, first right; and then you sez Holborn, which is t'other way entirely. Take care you don't get run in afore you're done!" This was not hopeful, so I hastened to follow the t'other way, soon got lost again, and finally ran into the same policeman again. He looked at me very suspiciously and remarked, as I hastily passed him, that he'd got his eye on me. Finally, I encountered a sailor who, in answer to my query, said he was going into Holborn, and that I might "sail in company with him if I kept the other side of the street." We kept up a sort of conversation at this distance, but on his finding out that I knew something of his ship he gradually decreased it, and on our reaching Holborn tenderly advised me to repent and give up the footpad business! It seems to be an axiom that any one wandering about in the small hours is a footpad, unless wearing the top hat of respectability. In such a case the wearer walks rapidly down the middle of the street, for in doorways and corners lurk many ready enough to pounce on the unprepared. They have their decoy ducks out likely enough, and are awaiting their prey, but they never neglect a good chance that comes by accident. Many and terrible are the stories of men decoyed at night into strange deathtraps, but the majority of them are too well known to be worth repeating here.
A fire at night is the great chance which the restless wanderer dreams of. A grand thing indeed it is to look upon. A small thing at the beginning, just a little wreath of smoke, a policeman kicking at a door, terrified people helped out of windows, a few flames and a cloud of smoke; then flames bursting out of windows writhing and twisting, a great snake of fire shooting upwards into a cloud of sparks, engine after engine thundering up in a mad gallop scattering the bystanders right and left, a crowd of riff-raff following in the train of each, black figures prancing like demons in the fierce golden glare, and overhead the heavy crimson pall. Policemen rapidly collect, force back the onlookers, and make a clear space around the engines—a charmed circle into which none save members of the press may enter :—nominally, at least, for in practice pretty well anybody can pass the cordon by saying "Press;" though of late the inquiries of suspicious policemen have rendered it necessary to give such answers as, Isle of Dogs Times, Harrow Road Mirror, Walham Green Gazette. But it is worth a harmless momentary deviation from truth to get a good view of a London fire.
FIRE!
By three o'clock the great city is at its quietest and pedestrians few and very far between. Along the big thoroughfares one sees crouching figures moving along in the gutters, grubbing for anything of value that may have been lost during the past twenty-four hours—these are the first heralds of the coming day. Instinct seems to guide them, for they move very quickly and yet leave nothing of any value whatsoever in their tracks. Later on they may be seen again, this time hunting in the dust-boxes that are put out the first thing in the morning.
Very solemn and still do the bridges look, deserted save for some homeless wretch crouched on the stone seats or wearily gazing down on the dark water which reflects his life in its turbid current. It is in the. darkness of the night that we pierce behind the veil, and see the price that has to be paid for the day time's glitter and show; the sorrow and suffering, and all the things best left hidden in the darkness since they cannot be told. Let any one, in guise that will not attract attention, wander through the great city in the small hours of the morning for a week or two, and he will learn how very little civilization has done to make the world better, he will see the eddies of the stream of progress.
But the market carts are rolling in from the country-sides; gradually the streets fill again. Fleet Street is the first to wake up. Here one sees crowds of newsagents’ men in front of the offices of the daily papers – men whose day’s work is practically over by 9 A.M.
With the cold morning light, which sets forth London in a purity to be found at no other hour, a whole series of fresh actors come upon the stage, and the darker side is hidden for a while beneath the brighter raiment of the day.
As found in Google books.
The English illustrated Magazine, Volume 10, Page v
ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. By Fred T. Jane.
With numerous Illustrations by the Writer.
I. London Railway Stations 658
II. In The Small Hours 705
III. Round The Underground On An Engine . . . 737
The English illustrated Magazine, Volume 10, July, 1893, Pages 706-711
The Romance of Modern London
II-In the Small Hours
[by Fred T. jane]
PUBLISHING TIME IN FLEET STREET. ABOUT 4 A.M.
From half-past twelve, when the public-houses shut, till five in the morning, when they open again, London is assumed to be asleep. The sleep is more apparent than real, however, for so varied are the occupations and pleasures of the inhabitants of this modern Babylon, that it is well-nigh impossible to pass through any important thoroughfare, no matter what the hour, without encountering some of one's fellowmen. The ubiquitous policeman, railway servants on night-duty, printers, compositors, firemen, drunkards who cannot find their way home, wretched people who have no homes to find, prowlers, loafers, loungers, and " shady cards" innumerable —these are some of the many who pass along the so-called deserted streets.
Not till the public-houses are closed does the London night really begin; the extinction of the huge moth-attracting lamps of the gin-palaces, and the lowering of the street lights bring a desolation and darkness like to that caused in more open districts by a heavy cloud passing over the moon. With the darkness come forth innumerable cats, fighting over the scraps that get thrown into the streets, prowling and caterwauling without let or hindrance. Cats are not the only food-seekers, for every now and then some slouching half-famished wretch comes along, looking with eager eyes into the doorways where the better class of poor people are apt to put their stale bread and other unneeded food, and many are the hungry ones who have cause to bless this simple act of charity.
About one in the morning is the hour for footpads, garotters, and others of that ilk to get to business; and as the street traffic lessens, from side alleys and courts emerge queer-looking customers who hang singly about in doorways, or stand together under lampposts to consider the plan of campaign. Under a lamp they are more noticeable than in a dark corner, but for that very reason attract less attention from the police. I saw the three men I have attempted to sketch do a bit of business with a householder who was standing in his open doorway about 1.30 one morning. He was the other side of the street to them, so they separated, and one going down the road some distance crossed over and sauntered innocently back again; the other two passed over higher up, one very drunk—for the time being —and then turned to meet their confederate. The three met just outside the quarry's door, and fell against it; but the worthy householder had been one too many for them and slammed the door just in the nick of time to save his household goods from the grasp of the marauder.
SHADY CUSTOMERS
Many and various are the devices employed in the pursuit of wealth in the small hours of the morning. About Christmas time last year a doctor was passing up Holborn shortly after midnight when some one behind him placed his hands over his eyes saying — "Guess who I am." At the same moment the doctor was laid on the ground, guessing and remonstrating with his supposed friend in jocular fashion; nor was it until the quondam jokers had disappeared that he found that his watch and money had gone with them. There were plenty of people about, it was a big public thoroughfare, and the hour was not late, for London; yet the robbery was carried out with perfect impunity.
Another interesting dodge I watched for several nights is that employed by a fatherly old gentleman in the style of cap patented by Mr. Keir Hardy, and a young man who knocks him down, brutally ill-uses him, and makes off with his cash. The benevolent passer-by flies to the old party's assistance and acts the good Samaritan; but no sooner is he out of sight than the drama is repeated with varying success. Bedford Row, Russell Square and thereabouts used to be the usual haunt of these two accomplished actors, but they have passed on elsewhere of late,—perhaps on a provincial tour.
Variations of this trick are plentiful enough: sometimes it is a man and wife dispute—though this is pretty well played out—another time an ill-used cripple who can run like the wind if need be; but whatever means are employed, the aim and object is to get the projected victim to interfere in other people's affairs preparatory to interfering with him.
A HEART-RENDING DRAMA
All the fights one chances on are by no means artificial, however, and when a real one is on the tapis it is wonderful how quickly a crowd fills the previously almost empty street. The passing cabman reins up and watches with keen interest; to him there is always the off chance of securing a hospital job. Some of the "fares" cabbies get in the small hours are quaint indeed and often enough troublesome; but on the other hand the remuneration is generally far above that to be obtained in the daytime, though they frequently experience much bother in getting it. One night not long ago I saw a man, not over sober, get out of a hansom outside his door and promptly go to sleep on the pavement. On the cabman waking him and demanding his fare, the gentleman, after much fumbling, pulled out a small pocket looking-glass, and handing it to the driver told him to give him half-a-crown change. The cabby, waxing wroth, gave vent to the time-honoured "Wot's this?" The man promptly got into the cab again and ordered the driver to take him to the nearest police-station, where he intended to give the cabman in charge for demanding more than his legal fare. Often the frequenter of the tap-room, hopelessly trying to find his way home, concludes that the roadway is his bed, and peacefully slumbers there till, with a clatter and a shower of sparks, a hansom is pulled up just clear of him; he indignantly rebukes the cabman, but in spite of his remonstrances is likely to finish his night's slumber on one of the couches provided by his country for the puzzled wanderer.
A HOSPITAL JOB
But gradually the less sober wanderers disappear, either with the assistance of policemen, or with the kindly aid of watchful loafers, who help them into dark corners or blind alleys where they remove their valuables; and, if their clothes are worth taking, assist them to undress, soon as the public-houses shut the all-night coffee-stall opens, and here for a modest sum one can purchase coffee, whelks, or 'ot taters—good stuff too— and the stall-keepers drive a brisk trade, especially in the early morning. The Prince of Wales is said to have eaten a 'ot tater at one of the stalls, and the owner thereof ever after labelled himself—
HOT POTATER PURVEYOR TO THE ROYAL FAMILY.
But though I have hunted for him long we have never met; and I fear he must be relegated to the same bourne as the "Pawnbroker to Her Majesty."
THE ALL-NIGHT COFFEE-STALL
By 2.30 the streets are silent save for the heavy thud of an occasional policeman trying the doors on his beat, moving along with a peculiar swing common to the Force. Resting on the foot nearer the wall he bends down that side, the other leg swinging in the air, which fashion of walk enables him to inspect the door fastenings without stopping in his stride.
THE POLICEMAN'S SWING
Occasionally one passes an enterprising cabman remaining all night on the stand, and every here and there the men on duty at the fire-stations are to be seen leaning against the escapes—and queer are the tales they can tell of what they see during the night-watches. Under lamp-posts and round corners one comes now and again upon fellows watching the "copper" out of sight; and once I saw a dim form crawling across the leads of a roof—presumably Bill Sykes professionally engaged.
Another night, while wandering round, one sees lodgers "doing a moonlight flit," shifting out their furniture in the dead of night in preference to having it seized for arrears of rent; and when the landlord happens to come upon the scene the play becomes lively. More often than not, however, the landlord anticipates this move, and in the streets where cheap unfurnished lodgings abound it is no uncommon thing to see locked-out tenants hammering away at a door, while from an upper window the landlord looks out and threatens fearful things in the way of upsetting bucketfuls of dirty water on them, calling the police, and invoking the aid of stipendiary magistrates.
About two o'clock along any tram route one is apt to encounter an immense cloud of dust that grows larger the faster one hurries on. Some few minutes later the inquiring pedestrian discovers its raison d'etre when he overtakes a huge contrivance of brushes, drawn by a single horse, which clears the dust out of the tramway lines, and drives all save the most hardy and persevering out of the street in its wake.
SWEEPING THE TRAMWAY LINES.
There is one eminent characteristic of the small hours in London; the deep suspicion with which an ordinary wayfarer looks on whoever he may meet. I remember losing myself late one night in the mazes around Russell Square; in my wanderings I met a policeman and asked him how to get out. "Out where?" he inquired with the surprise of one familiar to the district.
"Holborn, Oxford Street, anywhere!" I replied.
"Now look here," said the guardian of the peace, "first you wants Oxford Street, which is second right, third left, first right; and then you sez Holborn, which is t'other way entirely. Take care you don't get run in afore you're done!" This was not hopeful, so I hastened to follow the t'other way, soon got lost again, and finally ran into the same policeman again. He looked at me very suspiciously and remarked, as I hastily passed him, that he'd got his eye on me. Finally, I encountered a sailor who, in answer to my query, said he was going into Holborn, and that I might "sail in company with him if I kept the other side of the street." We kept up a sort of conversation at this distance, but on his finding out that I knew something of his ship he gradually decreased it, and on our reaching Holborn tenderly advised me to repent and give up the footpad business! It seems to be an axiom that any one wandering about in the small hours is a footpad, unless wearing the top hat of respectability. In such a case the wearer walks rapidly down the middle of the street, for in doorways and corners lurk many ready enough to pounce on the unprepared. They have their decoy ducks out likely enough, and are awaiting their prey, but they never neglect a good chance that comes by accident. Many and terrible are the stories of men decoyed at night into strange deathtraps, but the majority of them are too well known to be worth repeating here.
A fire at night is the great chance which the restless wanderer dreams of. A grand thing indeed it is to look upon. A small thing at the beginning, just a little wreath of smoke, a policeman kicking at a door, terrified people helped out of windows, a few flames and a cloud of smoke; then flames bursting out of windows writhing and twisting, a great snake of fire shooting upwards into a cloud of sparks, engine after engine thundering up in a mad gallop scattering the bystanders right and left, a crowd of riff-raff following in the train of each, black figures prancing like demons in the fierce golden glare, and overhead the heavy crimson pall. Policemen rapidly collect, force back the onlookers, and make a clear space around the engines—a charmed circle into which none save members of the press may enter :—nominally, at least, for in practice pretty well anybody can pass the cordon by saying "Press;" though of late the inquiries of suspicious policemen have rendered it necessary to give such answers as, Isle of Dogs Times, Harrow Road Mirror, Walham Green Gazette. But it is worth a harmless momentary deviation from truth to get a good view of a London fire.
FIRE!
By three o'clock the great city is at its quietest and pedestrians few and very far between. Along the big thoroughfares one sees crouching figures moving along in the gutters, grubbing for anything of value that may have been lost during the past twenty-four hours—these are the first heralds of the coming day. Instinct seems to guide them, for they move very quickly and yet leave nothing of any value whatsoever in their tracks. Later on they may be seen again, this time hunting in the dust-boxes that are put out the first thing in the morning.
Very solemn and still do the bridges look, deserted save for some homeless wretch crouched on the stone seats or wearily gazing down on the dark water which reflects his life in its turbid current. It is in the. darkness of the night that we pierce behind the veil, and see the price that has to be paid for the day time's glitter and show; the sorrow and suffering, and all the things best left hidden in the darkness since they cannot be told. Let any one, in guise that will not attract attention, wander through the great city in the small hours of the morning for a week or two, and he will learn how very little civilization has done to make the world better, he will see the eddies of the stream of progress.
But the market carts are rolling in from the country-sides; gradually the streets fill again. Fleet Street is the first to wake up. Here one sees crowds of newsagents’ men in front of the offices of the daily papers – men whose day’s work is practically over by 9 A.M.
With the cold morning light, which sets forth London in a purity to be found at no other hour, a whole series of fresh actors come upon the stage, and the darker side is hidden for a while beneath the brighter raiment of the day.
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