Let us glance, superficially and cursorily, at the industry of a London twenty-four hours. Towards midnight ... two or three thousands of your fellow creatures have been snatching hours from rest, to cart and pack the vegetables that will form a portion of your principal meal; and, if you are wakeful, the ponderous rumbling of waggon wheels over the rocky pavement, apprize you of this transit to the vast emporium of Covent Garden ... From the north, droves of sheep, oxen and swine, directed by the steady herdsman and the sagacious dog, thread their way to Smithfield, where, long before dawn, they are safely penned, awaiting the purchase of the salesmen of Leadenhall and Newgate markets.
The river, in the dead hour of night, is alive with boats, conveying every variety of the finny tribe to Billingsgate; now are the early breakfast houses reaping their harvest, the bustling host, in his shirt sleeves, conveying refreshment to his numerous customers; here, the shut out sot, and belated debauchee, are compelled to resort in conversation with the unfortunate and degraded of the other sex, to await the re-opening of their customary haunts of dissipation; now the footstep of the policeman, as he tramps slowly over his beat, awakes the slumbering echoes; every house is shrouded in repose, and the city seems a city of the dead. All, soon again, is noise, bustle and confusion; the carts of thousands of fishmongers, green-grocers, and victuallers, rattle along the streets, taking up their stands in orderly array in the immediate vicinity of the respective markets ... In a little while, however, they have completed their cargo for the day, and drive off; the waggons disappear, the markets are swept clean, and no trace remains ...
    Five o'clock gives some little signs of life in the vicinity of the hotels and coach-offices; a two-horse stage, or railway "bus" rumbles off to catch the early trains; the street-retailers of fish, vegetables and fruit may be encountered, bearing on their heads their respective stocks in trade ... the nocturnal venders of "saloop" are busy dispensing their penny cups at the corners ...
Six o'clock announces the beginning of the working day, by the ringing of the bells of various manufactories. Now is the street crowded with the fustian-coated artizan, his basket of tools in his hand; and the stalwart Irish labourer, his short black pipe scenting the morning air with odours far different from those of Araby the Blest; the newspaper offices, busy during the night, now "let off" their gas - the sub-editors and compositors go home to bed, leaving the pressmen to complete the labour of the night ...
    There is an interregnum until eight; the shopkeeper then begins his day, the porter taking down the shutters, the boy sweeping out the shop and the slipshod prentice lounging about the door; the principal comes in from his country box about nine; the assistants have then breakfasted and dressed; and at ten the real business of the day begins.
At ten, too, the stream of life begins to set in city-ways; the rich merchant from Hampstead and Camberwell dashes along in his well-appointed curricle; the cashier, managing director, and principal accountant, reaches his place of business comfortably seated in his gig; clerks of all denominations foot it from Hackney, Islington and Peckham Rye; the "busses" are filled with a motley crew of all descriptions, from Paddington, Piccadilly, Elephant and Castle, and Mile-End.
    From eleven till two the tide of population sets in strongly city-ways; then, when the greater part of the business in that quarter has been transaction, the West End tradesmen begin to open their eyes and look about them; although in Regent Street business is not at its maximum until four or five o'clock, and soon after the city is almost deserted. About two, all over London there is a lull; important business, that brooks no delay, must then be transacted - the vital business of dinner; for an hour little or nothing is done and no sound man of business expects to do any thing ... Dinner over, business recommences with the energy of giants refreshed ... About six o'clock the great business of the city is totally at an end; the tide is then a tide of ebb setting out through all the avenues of town to the westward and to the suburbs ... Now eating begins in West End, and drinking in city taverns; now the coffeehouses fill and crowds gather round the doors of the theatres, patiently awaiting for an hour or more the opening of the doors; Hyde Park is now (if it be the fashionable season) in its glory; the eye is dazzled with the display of opulence, beauty and fashion more prominently abroad. Nine o'clock and the shops begin to close, save those of the cigar dealers and gin-spinners, whose business is now only about to begin; the streets swarm with young men about town, and loose characters of all descriptions issue from their hiding-places ... now the shellfish shops set forth their crustaceous treasures in battle array, fancifully disposing their prawns and lobsters in concentrical rows; the supper houses display their niceties in their windows ...
About midnight the continuous roll of carriages indicates the breaking up of the theatrical auditories, while the streets are crowded with respectable persons hastening to their houses; one o'clock and all is shut up, save the watering-houses opposite the hackney coach and cab stands, the subterranean singing rooms, the a la mode beef houses, lobster taverns and ham shops at two the day may be said to end ...

The World of London, by John Murray, in Blackwoods Magazine, August 1841