The times., 1898-10-30
London never Sleeps
The Active Night Life of the
Great Metropolis.
THE CITY UNDER GASLIGHT
Fleet Street and Its Many Activities
Throughout the NiBht-The Rush
of Newspapers. PostofIicc Fan
pioyes and Market PeOpIc-The
Homeless ..SubmerEed Tenth.n

London, October l5.-London il the
greatest city in the world. though
not the most cosmopolitan. Its
hardest worked thoroughfare. says the
Mail, is Fleet Street. Its bedtime is from
] to ;. These are the hours they seize
upon to wash it. By the time the last
suburban home-goers have got to Lud-
gate Hill the yestrymen are out with their
hose to sluice the poor tired thing down.
1t is almost empty. 4 hanson or two
lays in wait for the infrequent editor.
The policeman stands in reverie to read
the bill of fare of the long, cold restau-
rant, and wonders what "choux fieurs au
gratin'' might be.
Go back at when the rest of London
has got soundly to its nest-and Fleet
Street, hardly dry from its morning tub, is
in the flush of its morning work A dull.
grinding roar runs surf-like along its two
shores-the sound of many printing ma
chimes. Carts are moving through wind
ing alleys out of gas-lit stables. Piles of
newspapers grow up on its pavements,
and presently one by one the carts clat-
ter away. The muffied Shrek of whistles,
and the clang of distant buffers. remind
you that the railway stations, they also.
never sleep.
Clatter and whistle and clank-yet with
it all Fleet Street is unearthly still. You
miss the background-the roar, that or
chestration of the London streets which
in the daytime accompanies and harmo-
nizes all the leading notes. At night the
roar is gone; cart comes round a cor
ner with n crash that almost startles.
1t is the same with sight as with sound.
1t seems a paradox. but the night is the
only time when you can see London.
In the daytime II you tried to look up you
would be knocked down. Moreover. il
never occurs to you: the ever-driving
torrent of traffic keeps the eyes down,
and you forget that the buildings are
anything more than the frontiers of the
. roadway.
Go down to the embankment, for ex-
ample. and you can see the Thames
Blackfriars and Waterloo bridges are
coronets of lamps; between them the
venerable river is half seen, half OWNED
through this mantle of mist. He is dark
ly turbid in the yellow gaslight and you
can smell his nakedness; yet he is very
great and deep, and strong, bearing up
the heavy barges lightly running up and
down powerfully yet not violently
through the heart of the city, reminding
us that We are of the sea.
A barge drifts past like a phantom. TIE
clink of the windlass on another irSists
on making itself known more intimately
sleeps; but. ever carrying. scavenging.
seething, inspiring, the most wakeful of
all Londoners is the Thames
Whispering terrible things and dear
to all of us-whispering of trade and en-
pire to some but whispering perhaps
something else, not less terrible and dear,
to those shadow-shapes on the embank-
ment benches. They, too, are part of
sleepIess London-because they must. The
,-Ifla iS IA ma sit ON he lTlly-
ment seats but you mustn't doze there;
and that rule the police enforce. So you
see dim forms rise up at the reyeille of
the poIiceman's boot, and walk them
selves awake again. passing on to the
next seat But that is full-three old men
and an old young woman, their clothes
swaddled round them far as they will
go.
A boy-thank heaven for boys,-has had
the idea of hiding himself behind one of
the parapets near the river police sta
tion. and sleeps profoundly. So does
gentleman with white tie showing over
his coat sitting with his head swinging
outboard. as if it would break off and
tumble into the tall hat which rolls at
his side. Snoring richly. he is-for the
moment-the happiest man on the en-
bankment- For the rest of them. they
are London's bad dreams.
There are three things. you soon per-
ceive for which London will not wait
food, letters and newspapers. The paper
carts are still Gathering toward the sta
tions. and there is nothing in compete
with them but the four-horse parcel post
vans and the market wains. They both
breathe of the country. and altogether at
night London is very much nearer to the
fields outside than she is by day. The
post vans have come up by road from
anywhere within fifty miles, for all the
world like stage-coaches; they are a sug-
gestive comment on our loose control over
our railways.
The big draught horses and big wag-
ons have not come so far: but they have
come far enough to give you a smell of
apples and turnips almost as sweet as
hay. At Covent Garden you find them
slowly choking up the maze of little
streets. Porters pass slowly up and down.
work is in full swing; but again it Is
curiousiy silent The men are too sleepy
to give you the full benefit of their mix
ture of country and Cockney: there is
no sound but the scrunch of heavy
wheels. backing to their unloading places.
and the s,ithering OF heavy iron-shod feet
on the sticky cobb!es as the luckier horses
file off TO their stables The bait-stabIe
might come straight from a farm-just a
big whitewashed blank with a manger
along one end; the smell of this too. has
stolen some sweetness from the fields.
Covent Gardens is half lit and half
asleep; Smthfield. on the other hand,
flares with light and echoes with strong
voices. Through the broad streets you
are guided by meat wagons of form sell
dom seen by daylight-a sort of railway
horse-box on wheels. onIy with open
Sides which shows you half-oXen hang
ing. each in its own compartment from
the roof Through the alleys about Lit
tie Britain you may follow a steady |
stream of statesmen. brisker than the veg |
etable Teople of Covent Garden
And the big market is a blaze of light !
color: 1t might be a scene from an Empire |
ballet Corridors of shining meat-with |
crimson lean and dazzling yellow fat: |
among them porters with whole sides of |
beef. whole sheep. whole pigs with shut |
eye-slits and fore-trotters crossed in an |
attitude of prayer. In long white mack |
intosh coat each salesman stands before |
his meat-row on row of it. street on |
street van on van outside. little city of |
gas Jets and raw meat.
But London is not all belly; the general |
postoffice also is an island of gaslight, |
and the red mail-carts are numbering off |
after the newspapers toward the early |
trains. But go on 10 Cheapside. and at |
last you come to what you sought-Lon-
don asleep. Here. indeed the city is paved |
with silence. The very policeman hardly
breaks 1t. for most of his time he is bend |
ing down over locks to see II ANYBODY is
out a-burgling. You can look down
glades Of houses. all asleep. and see not a
single living thing. And all the time dim
as the light is. you find yourself discover
ing beauties and interests passed hun
dred times unsupported in the broad |