But the streets of London, to be beheld in the very height of their
glory, should be seen on a dark, dull, murky winter’s night, when there
is just enough damp gently stealing down to make the pavement greasy,
without cleansing it of any of its impurities; and when the heavy lazy
mist, which hangs over every object, makes the gas-lamps look brighter,
and the brilliantly-lighted shops more splendid, from the contrast they
present to the darkness around. All the people who are at home on such
a night as this, seem disposed to make themselves as snug and
comfortable as possible; and the passengers in the streets have
excellent reason to envy the fortunate individuals who are seated by
their own firesides.
In the larger and better kind of streets, dining parlour curtains are
closely drawn, kitchen fires blaze brightly up, and savoury steams of
hot dinners salute the nostrils of the hungry wayfarer, as he plods
wearily by the area railings. In the suburbs, the muffin boy rings his
way down the little street, much more slowly than he is wont to do; for
Mrs. Macklin, of No. 4, has no sooner opened her little street-door,
and screamed out ‘Muffins!’ with all her might, than Mrs. Walker, at
No. 5, puts her head out of the parlour-window, and screams ‘Muffins!’
too; and Mrs. Walker has scarcely got the words out of her lips, than
Mrs. Peplow, over the way, lets loose Master Peplow, who darts down the
street, with a velocity which nothing but buttered muffins in
perspective could possibly inspire, and drags the boy back by main
force, whereupon Mrs. Macklin and Mrs. Walker, just to save the boy
trouble, and to say a few neighbourly words to Mrs. Peplow at the same
time, run over the way and buy their muffins at Mrs. Peplow’s door,
when it appears from the voluntary statement of Mrs. Walker, that her
‘kittle’s jist a-biling, and the cups and sarsers ready laid,’ and
that, as it was such a wretched night out o’ doors, she’d made up her
mind to have a nice, hot, comfortable cup o’ tea—a determination at
which, by the most singular coincidence, the other two ladies had
simultaneously arrived.
After a little conversation about the wretchedness of the weather and
the merits of tea, with a digression relative to the viciousness of
boys as a rule, and the amiability of Master Peplow as an exception,
Mrs. Walker sees her husband coming down the street; and as he must
want his tea, poor man, after his dirty walk from the Docks, she
instantly runs across, muffins in hand, and Mrs. Macklin does the same,
and after a few words to Mrs. Walker, they all pop into their little
houses, and slam their little street-doors, which are not opened again
for the remainder of the evening, except to the nine o’clock ‘beer,’
who comes round with a lantern in front of his tray, and says, as he
lends Mrs. Walker ‘Yesterday’s ‘Tiser,’ that he’s blessed if he can
hardly hold the pot, much less feel the paper, for it’s one of the
bitterest nights he ever felt, ’cept the night when the man was frozen
to death in the Brick-field.
After a little prophetic conversation with the policeman at the
street-corner, touching a probable change in the weather, and the
setting-in of a hard frost, the nine o’clock beer returns to his
master’s house, and employs himself for the remainder of the evening,
in assiduously stirring the tap-room fire, and deferentially taking
part in the conversation of the worthies assembled round it.
The streets in the vicinity of the Marsh-gate and Victoria Theatre
present an appearance of dirt and discomfort on such a night, which the
groups who lounge about them in no degree tend to diminish. Even the
little block-tin temple sacred to baked potatoes, surmounted by a
splendid design in variegated lamps, looks less gay than usual, and as
to the kidney-pie stand, its glory has quite departed. The candle in
the transparent lamp, manufactured of oil-paper, embellished with
‘characters,’ has been blown out fifty times, so the kidney-pie
merchant, tired with running backwards and forwards to the next
wine-vaults, to get a light, has given up the idea of illumination in
despair, and the only signs of his ‘whereabout,’ are the bright sparks,
of which a long irregular train is whirled down the street every time
he opens his portable oven to hand a hot kidney-pie to a customer.
Flat-fish, oyster, and fruit vendors linger hopelessly in the kennel,
in vain endeavouring to attract customers; and the ragged boys who
usually disport themselves about the streets, stand crouched in little
knots in some projecting doorway, or under the canvas blind of a
cheesemonger’s, where great flaring gas-lights, unshaded by any glass,
display huge piles of blight red and pale yellow cheeses, mingled with
little fivepenny dabs of dingy bacon, various tubs of weekly Dorset,
and cloudy rolls of ‘best fresh.’
Here they amuse themselves with theatrical converse, arising out of
their last half-price visit to the Victoria gallery, admire the
terrific combat, which is nightly encored, and expatiate on the
inimitable manner in which Bill Thompson can ‘come the double monkey,’
or go through the mysterious involutions of a sailor’s hornpipe.
It is nearly eleven o’clock, and the cold thin rain which has been
drizzling so long, is beginning to pour down in good earnest; the
baked-potato man has departed—the kidney-pie man has just walked away
with his warehouse on his arm—the cheesemonger has drawn in his blind,
and the boys have dispersed. The constant clicking of pattens on the
slippy and uneven pavement, and the rustling of umbrellas, as the wind
blows against the shop-windows, bear testimony to the inclemency of the
night; and the policeman, with his oilskin cape buttoned closely round
him, seems as he holds his hat on his head, and turns round to avoid
the gust of wind and rain which drives against him at the
street-corner, to be very far from congratulating himself on the
prospect before him.
The little chandler’s shop with the cracked bell behind the door, whose
melancholy tinkling has been regulated by the demand for quarterns of
sugar and half-ounces of coffee, is shutting up. The crowds which have
been passing to and fro during the whole day, are rapidly dwindling
away; and the noise of shouting and quarrelling which issues from the
public-houses, is almost the only sound that breaks the melancholy
stillness of the night.
There was another, but it has ceased. That wretched woman with the
infant in her arms, round whose meagre form the remnant of her own
scanty shawl is carefully wrapped, has been attempting to sing some
popular ballad, in the hope of wringing a few pence from the
compassionate passer-by. A brutal laugh at her weak voice is all she
has gained. The tears fall thick and fast down her own pale face; the
child is cold and hungry, and its low half-stifled wailing adds to the
misery of its wretched mother, as she moans aloud, and sinks
despairingly down, on a cold damp door-step.
Singing! How few of those who pass such a miserable creature as this,
think of the anguish of heart, the sinking of soul and spirit, which
the very effort of singing produces. Bitter mockery! Disease, neglect,
and starvation, faintly articulating the words of the joyous ditty,
that has enlivened your hours of feasting and merriment, God knows how
often! It is no subject of jeering. The weak tremulous voice tells a
fearful tale of want and famishing; and the feeble singer of this
roaring song may turn away, only to die of cold and hunger.
One o’clock! Parties returning from the different theatres foot it
through the muddy streets; cabs, hackney-coaches, carriages, and
theatre omnibuses, roll swiftly by; watermen with dim dirty lanterns in
their hands, and large brass plates upon their breasts, who have been
shouting and rushing about for the last two hours, retire to their
watering-houses, to solace themselves with the creature comforts of
pipes and purl; the half-price pit and box frequenters of the theatres
throng to the different houses of refreshment; and chops, kidneys,
rabbits, oysters, stout, cigars, and ‘goes’ innumerable, are served up
amidst a noise and confusion of smoking, running, knife-clattering, and
waiter-chattering, perfectly indescribable.
The more musical portion of the play-going community betake themselves
to some harmonic meeting. As a matter of curiosity let us follow them
thither for a few moments.
In a lofty room of spacious dimensions, are seated some eighty or a
hundred guests knocking little pewter measures on the tables, and
hammering away, with the handles of their knives, as if they were so
many trunk-makers. They are applauding a glee, which has just been
executed by the three ‘professional gentlemen’ at the top of the centre
table, one of whom is in the chair—the little pompous man with the bald
head just emerging from the collar of his green coat. The others are
seated on either side of him—the stout man with the small voice, and
the thin-faced dark man in black. The little man in the chair is a most
amusing personage,—such condescending grandeur, and _such_ a voice!
‘Bass!’ as the young gentleman near us with the blue stock forcibly
remarks to his companion, ‘bass! I b’lieve you; he can go down lower
than any man: so low sometimes that you can’t hear him.’ And so he
does. To hear him growling away, gradually lower and lower down, till
he can’t get back again, is the most delightful thing in the world, and
it is quite impossible to witness unmoved the impressive solemnity with
which he pours forth his soul in ‘My ’art’s in the ’ighlands,’ or ‘The
brave old Hoak.’ The stout man is also addicted to sentimentality, and
warbles ‘Fly, fly from the world, my Bessy, with me,’ or some such
song, with lady-like sweetness, and in the most seductive tones
imaginable.
‘Pray give your orders, gen’l’m’n—pray give your orders,’—says the
pale-faced man with the red head; and demands for ‘goes’ of gin and
‘goes’ of brandy, and pints of stout, and cigars of peculiar mildness,
are vociferously made from all parts of the room. The ‘professional
gentlemen’ are in the very height of their glory, and bestow
condescending nods, or even a word or two of recognition, on the
better-known frequenters of the room, in the most bland and patronising
manner possible.
The little round-faced man, with the small brown surtout, white
stockings and shoes, is in the comic line; the mixed air of
self-denial, and mental consciousness of his own powers, with which he
acknowledges the call of the chair, is particularly gratifying.
‘Gen’l’men,’ says the little pompous man, accompanying the word with a
knock of the president’s hammer on the table—‘Gen’l’men, allow me to
claim your attention—our friend, Mr. Smuggins, will oblige.’—‘Bravo!’
shout the company; and Smuggins, after a considerable quantity of
coughing by way of symphony, and a most facetious sniff or two, which
afford general delight, sings a comic song, with a
fal-de-ral—tol-de-ral chorus at the end of every verse, much longer
than the verse itself. It is received with unbounded applause, and
after some aspiring genius has volunteered a recitation, and failed
dismally therein, the little pompous man gives another knock, and says
‘Gen’l’men, we will attempt a glee, if you please.’ This announcement
calls forth tumultuous applause, and the more energetic spirits express
the unqualified approbation it affords them, by knocking one or two
stout glasses off their legs—a humorous device; but one which
frequently occasions some slight altercation when the form of paying
the damage is proposed to be gone through by the waiter.
Scenes like these are continued until three or four o’clock in the
morning; and even when they close, fresh ones open to the inquisitive
novice. But as a description of all of them, however slight, would
require a volume, the contents of which, however instructive, would be
by no means pleasing, we make our bow, and drop the curtain.