If you want to form some idea of the South London folk, go stand inside Cannon Street Station and watch the trains come in, each with its freight of those who earn their daily bread within the City. See them pass out—by the hundred—by the thousand—by the fifty thousand. The brain reels at the mere contemplation of this mighty multitude which comes in every morning and goes out every afternoon. As they hurry past you observe on each the same expression, the same set eagerness, with which the day's work is approached. Employer or employé, principal or clerk, it matters nothing. The clerk, who will get none of the thousands he is helping to secure, comes in to town as eager for the fray as his master; the fighting instinct is in the man; his face means battle, daily battle, in which the weapons are superior knowledge, earlier knowledge, keen sight, readiness, ruthlessness, while there is as much need, for success, or courage tenacity, and bluff as in any battle between contending armies. The many twinkling feet pass out of the station by the hundred thousand, every morning, to the field of battle. The English are a warlike people; they enjoy the field of battle; the City is like that state of beatitude which the pious Dane desired, in which there would be fighting every day, and all day, and for ever.
Below Cherry Garden Pier
In South London there are two millions of people. It is therefore one of the great cities of the world. It stands upon an area about twelve miles long and five or six broad—but its limits cannot be laid down even approximately. It is a city without a municipality, without a centre, without a civic history; it has no newspapers, magazines, or journals; it has no university; it has no colleges, apart from medicine; it has no intellectual, artistic, scientific, musical, literary centre—unless the Crystal Palace can be considered a centre; its residents have no local patriotism or enthusiasm—one cannot imagine a man proud of New Cross; it has no theatres, except of a very popular or humble kind; it has no clubs, it has no public buildings, it has no West End. It is argued that although it has none of these things, yet it has them all by right of being a part of London. That is, in a sense, true. The theatres, concerts, picture galleries of the West End are accessible to the South. Far be it from me to deny the culture of Sydenham and the artistic elevation of Tooting. Yet one feels there must surely be some disadvantage in being separated from the literary and artistic circles whose members, it must be confessed, reside for the most part in North London. It must surely, one thinks, be a disadvantage for a young man who would pursue a career in art not to live among people who habitually talk of art and think of art. It must surely be some disadvantage to live in a place where the people, when they are gathered together, mostly allow the conversation to turn upon things connected with the City.
How are these two millions distributed?
There are, in fact, four layers. First, there is the 'submerged' element, the people of the slums of which mention has been made. Their numbers and their proportion to the whole I know not. Next, there are the working people, those for whom the long lines, the endless lines, of barracks called model lodging-houses, have been built. Here they live by the hundred thousand—by the million: there are more than a million working men in South London. For their use are the shops of the Borough, chiefly provision shops, and the public houses. The third layer is found on a slip of ground, of which Newington and Kennington may be taken as representative: it consists principally of lodging-houses for clerks. The fourth layer is that of the suburban villa, from the little semi-detached cottage to the stately mansion. The 'High Street,' filled with shops, is for the villas.
The George Inn
Little Dorrit's Window in the Marshalsea