THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON.

Thames Guardian and Mining Record, Volume I, Issue 165, 19 April 1872, Page 3

THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON.

London by night may be seen in two or throe aspects, with its brilliant and welllighted shops, and its thronged footways ; with the shops closed, and only the publichouses open ; and with the temples of Bacchus enveloped in darknes, and that strange silence in the streets —strange, at least, to a Londoner—which betokens that the metropolis has gone to lied. This last aspect is what we call the night side of London. Such, however arc (lie exigencit s of life in a great city that this period of inactivity does not last long ; indeed, it can scarcely bo saia that the town is ever really quiet. Silence, even in the middlewatch of the night, is occasionally broken by the rattle of a cab, or the dull rumble of a waggon bringing vegetables or meat to one of the great markets. Meat is fre-

qucntly received at the market in Smithfield at two in the morning, and Billingsgate is all alive at three and four. Covent Garden . receives its supplies at all hours of the night, and the people who live in its neighbourhood can scarcely be said to enjoy any quiet at all. But, ordinarily, in the main thoroughfares and bye-streets, there is comparative silence at two o’clo k, which deepens into profound repose at three. Pass along the strand at the last named hour and note how altered is the aspect of the street. You may have seen it on a Sunday, when it looked squalid and miserable, with its closed shops and air Of funeral gloom. You had. _atn| 1 ■ light to notice the wretched architecture of the houses, which does not strike yon when the shops are open ; but at night the gleam of the lamps, while affording sufficient light for locomotion, does not reveal all the secrets of the mean and paltry building’s which line the thoroughfare. You see the general outlines, and nothing more ; and if there is moonlight, the tall spires of the churches look positively beautiful as they stand out clearly against the sky. . . . We know of no sight more beautiful

than the' City by moonlight ; the sky is clear, and the. buildings, in shadow, are of a deep purple tint, and St. Paul’s looms large in the pure air. Passing over London Bridge, and noticing the weird aspect of the shipping, with its tail masts faintly relieved against the sky, }’ou slowly wend your way through the main street of the Borough. Yonder is the Tabard, where Chaucer’s pilgrims gathered; further on is the Nag’s Head, a once famed hostelry, and, still further, the site of the old Marshalsea, now a nest of crowded streets, Lie squalid misery of which is hidden by the tall houses that face the thoroughfare. Wretched women are to be seen in

this locality at all hours, and the coffeeshops open early to supply breakfasts to those whose business takes them to the neighbouring vegetable market. You glance down the Mint, where within living memory, no policeman dared to venture alone ; it is silent enough now, and its denizens are all either away on business, or secretly concocting plans forfresh raids upon society. Lant-street comes next—the classic spot where Boh Sawyer once lived —and as it is rather safer, and certainly more respectable, than the Mint, we pass down it, hut not without some qualms of fear. Two or three garotte robberies of unusual atrocity were perpetrated in this street a few years ago, and, although the inhabitants are generally respectable, the locality, which abuts on the Mint, is regarded as suspicious. On one side of us is a factory, further on is the yard of a great contractor, and nestling close to the mean house is a church, a recent erection, the result of private philanthropy. Entering the Southwark-Bridge road, we pass on until we coinc on to Suffiolk-street, once, in the old days of the Queen’s Bench, a notable neighbourhood, hut now quiet enough. The hand of the improver has been busy here, and one of the worst dens of iniquity in London lias recently been swept away. In the very heart of this grim locality, and under the frowning walls of the prison, was a Sunday-school, where the poor children of the neighbourhood obtained some glimmering of religious instruction. Wo have heard the minister of the church, to whom it was affiliated, tell how grossly his teachers weronnsnlted by the vile women of the neighbourhood in the walks to and from the scene of their labours. But the school and its squalid surroundings have disappeared, and a new street has been struck through the spot. The New Cut at night, or early morning, is less silent than the spot we hare just quitted. The costermonger population, which resides in the bye-streets, is early awake to attend the markets. Here is the Victoria Palace, all dark and silent, and under its towering walls are a few loungers—such worn n and such men I every mark of humanity battered out of them ; and the hoarse voices which reach us are scarcely human. Occasionally, we catch the sound of a shrill scream, or an unearthly laugh, an oath, or a curse, and all is again silent. Here comes the constable, and the first, gleam of his lantern scares the wretches from the dark shadow of the great building, and drives them into the outer darkness of the yawning side streets. Waterloo-road, with its dens of vice and crime, now opens up to view, and here again we meet wretchedness, want, and disease. Women, prematurely old, whose wretched habilamerits will not hear the light of day, stalk past, or crouch in doorways. A quick footfall, the bright glint of flash jewellery, and the glare of ribbons, as a girl passes under the gaslight— some wretched creature who baa

th. thought of tome d.M u.mi.;,, a home in the water beueatn to burry to licr lair in one of the dreadful bye-streets, where all that is evil in this world is to be found. But day is breaking at last, with a faint grey glimmer in the east, .vliieli gradually strengthens as we stand in one of the deep recesses of the bridge to watch its coming. There is no grander sight anywhere than this view in the early morning from the Bridge of Sighs. At any time the scene is worthy of being transferred to the canvas, and many a painter, from the novice to the master, has tried his hand upon it. The Houses of Parliament are deep purple in the gloom which yet rests over them, the peddling details of their ornamentation are hidden,and one sees nothing but the grand outlines of the pile. The Embankment, with its yellow light, abruptly ends where Westminster Bridge strides gracefully over the stream, and on the left arc the tall shot-towers, which make the water-side of Lambeth so picturesque to the eye of the artist. The grey light of morning has now become more intense, and is rapidly deepening into a gorgeous blue. The smoke of yesterday is quite gone, and the buildings stand out sharp and clear in the pure atmosphere. St. Paul’s, with its colossal dome, seems within stone throw, and wo count a score of spires from our noble vantage ground. Here, at last, is the true aspect of a desolate city, for the ethereal air looks as if it had never been polluted by the breath of closely-packed millions. But for the rattle of the cabs, we could fancy that all these countless houses were but empty shells, or that the whole scene was but the effect of a mirage, which must roll away and leave the arid sand of the desert beneath.— Civilian.