The London Fog of January 1880

Ophelia Harris is getting out of London

A London fog is brown, reddish-yellow, or greenish, darkens more than a white fog, has a smoky, or sulphurous smell, is often somewhat dryer than a country fog, and produces, when thick, a choking sensation…some of the most lowering London fogs occur about midday or late in the afternoon. Sometimes the brown masses rise and interpose a thick curtain at a considerable elevation between earth and sky…particles of soot attach themselves to every exposed object.

R. Russell, London Fogs (London: 1880)

January 1880: The dark green fog wrapped London’s buildings against the December cold and blocked her inhabitants from the view of the sky and the warmth of the sun. Hardly anyone noticed, though, as the fog visited London regularly. Unlucky workers resignedly lit their candles and gaslights and prepared for a day of work in the various businesses and offices of London. After all, money is time and time stops for no man. And it definitely was not about to start stopping today.

One of the poor unlucky souls, Ophelia Harris, started her own journey on foot.

Ophelia Harris’s eyes hurt from staring at moldy green nothing for the past few minutes.

The fog seemed more impenetrable than normal this morning. Only small flashes of light grudgingly allowed through kept her from completely losing her way.

Besides that, her teeth would not stop chattering loudly. Her nose had ceased stinging ages ago and simply sat there on her face, growing redder and drippier. Her ears too were numb, in spite of the woolen shawl wrapped unfashionably around her head, squashing her more flattering hat. Not that she cared whether the shawl was fashionable. Fashion (i.e. her hat) could not keep her warm.

Ophelia thought angry thoughts about her brother, who was still on his never-ending visit with one of his many more financially-endowed friends from the Bank.

He was probably riding an omnibus to work, or even taking the underground train from one of the surrounding suburbs of London. All the clerks with enough money and dislike of urban London lived there, away from the crowds and the worst of the fogs. If not for the death of their father about two years ago, Phee (as her friends called her) would not step foot outside the house on a day like this, much less leave their home in Islington to travel further into London.

But her father did die.

While relaxing at his work desk one Monday in 1877, he suffered a massive heart attack. A nearby clerk noticed his obvious pain and rushed over to offer help too late. Afterwards, Phee’s mother shut herself away from people for a whole month, leaving Phee and her brother John to handle the arrangements for a simple funeral. John also managed to procure some insurance money Phee and her mother never even knew about to help pay the costs. His industrious efficiency impressed Phee amidst the bleakness of their situation.

However, this glimpse of a new John literally disappeared soon after their mother returned to society. His friends housed and fed him more than his own family.

But it was just as well.

Their father, a thirty-plus year Bank employee, had brought in an annual salary of over 400 pounds. Without it, the family’s old lifestyle died along with him. The family could not continue living on her brother’s smaller Bank clerk’s salary alone. They could hardly maintain the bare necessities of a lower-middle class lifestyle. The relatives, though kindly, offered little help financially, as they too struggled to live up to their middle-class positions’ expectations.

So Ophelia decided to get a job.

She wrote a letter to the Society for Promoting the Employment of Women explaining her situation, her intellectual abilities, and her wish to get a job.

And she actually received one. Ophelia got a job for three reasons.

One, her impeccable education. She had attended the North London Collegiate School in Camden Town since the age of 8.

Two, her timing. Barely three years ago in 1874, the General Post Office had opened a new office to care for the government’s increasing need for telegraphic services. Previous experience convinced the Telegraph Office that hiring young ladies as operators was more desirable (and more cost-effective). The Society had already placed about 13 girls at the Post Office before the construction of the new Office, and they conducted themselves well enough. There was only one major restriction: no girl older than 18 could enter the telegraph school. Newly 18, Ophelia Harris almost missed her opportunity. A year later and she would have been ineligible.

Three, her family connections (a cousin in the vast offices of the government) helped her obtain a nomination for a position in the Telegraph Office. The government was trying to abandon the practice of patronage in favor of competitive examinations to determine new employees, but the Telegraph Office held onto the old way.

Once nominated and referred to the appropriate persons in authority, she easily took and passed the Civil Commission’s examination, a fussy test over arithmetic, reading, and writing and submitted to the Telegraph Office’s medical examination; the doctor declared her a healthy female specimen. She also provided three references to people who could swear to the Atlantic and back on the goodness of Phee’s character And so she found herself with a position in the Telegraph Office along with many other respectable middle class girls.

Working was a necessity, a task she fulfilled as a responsible, sacrificing member of the family. Her income helped her mother pay for basic household expenses, such as food. Although she had never cared too much about the latest fashions from Paris, Phee missed acquiring a newly sewn dress to parade around the city as she formally visited the homes of acquaintances.

In fact, there were hardly any more visits like that. Most of her time went to her work.

She did manage to enjoy herself, though. On her days off, she and another telegraph operator Helene enjoyed a theatre show about every few weeks or so, followed by a walk around the city. And one could sense echoes of the latest styles in her outfits after her Collegiate school-trained sewing skills remade old dresses.

Even after that, her and her brother’s earnings combined hardly equaled half their father’s salary. So they scrimped and pinched and saved to keep anyone from finding out their situation. And potentially scaring away any suitable suitors.

Phee knew her mom hoped to remarry soon (the lady couldn’t bear being alone), but this was an impossible hope until Phee herself was married off to a sedate older gentleman who would keep her close to home and give her mother adorable grandchildren to drool over.

Lovely situation…for her mother.

Secretly, though, Phee wanted to leave London, and its fog, behind and go explore.

Only knowing London for her entire life frightened her; there were so many more experiences available to anyone with the nerve and verve to go find them.

She had attended school and excelled at learning all society allowed her to learn (imagine parents being nervous about teaching their daughters how to add, for heaven’s sake). She had worked hard and finished at the top of her class thinking she’d need those skills to get herself out of the city. She especially enjoyed geography and the gymnastics exercises the headmistress, Miss Buss, required the girls to do. The exercise thrilled her muscles and cleared her mind for pondering over her dilemma.

She itched to keep on learning more more more. If this was the way people thought and acted in London, maybe they acted differently in other places.

But she’d never know until she left.

It wasn’t fair: If her brother wanted to travel, all he had to do was bum a trip from one of his clerk chums. He could barely work figures, much less the newly taught mathematical algebra that Phee had patiently drilled into his mind. Yet, everyone assumed he would journey and taste life one country at a time while she moldered in London, using her learning to decide how much to pay for a day gown.

She had to leave.

But how would she leave?

That was the golden question. Yet, no matter how long she wrestled with it, an answer never came.

And so it was the case today. Phee pulled the shawl tighter around her head.

The dripping mucus got worse. She swiped at her nose with her hand guiltily, then wondered what she felt guilty for; no one could see her social gaffe through this terrible fog. And no one could see how high she raised her skirts to avoid the mess she could clearly smell on the ground.

The smell reminded her of the horror stories her father used to tell about the Great Stink of 1858. Then, the sewage in the Thames amassed to such dangerous proportions that all of London reeked. Phee suspected many of the stories involving a giant rat were false, an invented character meant to frighten a little girl. She laughed to herself, fending off the ominous lump in her throat. Despite that silliness, her father had been quite serious about reforms and improvement.

Funny, though, how he always seemed reluctant to allow her to go to school. Surprisingly, Mother, a meek, submissive woman, the epitome of docility, was the one who insisted on her going. She had pointed out quite logically that every respectable middle-class girl went to school.

“Where they learn to make water-tight arguments,” Father would grunt, not completely displeased.

Phee shook her head at the memory, half-amused and half-saddened.

Nearly every gaslight on the streets made small green haloes in the dark, directing the foundering pedestrians to their destinations. The more fortunate people left at home heaped coal upon the fire to battle the coldness. The smoke from the extra fires exited the chimneys and joined the party in the sky, dutifully insulating the city even more from the sun. Chilled, Ophelia arrived at work without a picked pocket or broken bone and, eventually, arrived in time for her regular workday to begin at 8 am.

The Telegraph Office was located on the street of St. Martin’s-le-Grand. The old London Wall was north of the place, with Christopher Wrens’ St. Paul’s Cathedral located farther south. Although not as old or historical as these buildings, the Office was a rather grand building. It sat on one side of the street, facing its older counterpart on the other side of the street, the General Post Office. The thick fog wreathed the tall Ionic pillars and coated them in the filth of industrialization.

Her telegraph department was located on the fourth floor. Phee entered the door and swept up the stairs quickly. If she didn’t get there fast enough, her name in a little black book would receive a mark by it, indicating her tardiness. Too much tardiness could result in more work without pay, something Phee definitely did not want.

Panting quietly with her mouth closed (mostly), she swished past the doorkeeper and into the telegraph department. She paused to shove loose tendrils of hair behind her ears and let the blood in her veins slow down. It was quite an exercise to practically run up four floors while trying to appear like she was doing otherwise. Her brother would laugh at her for running and condescendingly explain to her that women shouldn’t be exerting themselves anyway.

Phee inhaled and exhaled deeply, reminding herself that her brother had needed her help to pass his school exams. What did he really know? The tension in her body loosened and she smiled.

Calm, Phee entered a large room with long rows of tables crossing it from end to end. Telegraph machines sat atop the tables in front of the girls, carrying messages to and from the area of London itself or the further away land of India. Phee received messages from the disappointingly domestic region of Liverpool, as she was still too inexperienced to handle foreign messages. The other employees already sat at their places, receiving, translating, and transmitting from their various telegraphs, producing a fantastic sound of breathing, bell-like tinkling, tapping, and muttered curses.

Amidst all this, the Office’s female employees perched daintily atop their skirts, fingers and eyes and ears busily attuned to the telegraph - or so it would seem to the less diligent observer. However, a more careful scrutiny of the girls revealed another focus of their attention: the male workers scattered among them. All the girls knew the obvious, silent warning against conversing intimately with them. However, to some of the girls, telegraph work was simply a short stop on the way to marriage, so they carefully disregarded the warning.

Carefully so, because any male showing a propensity for talking to the females received a quiet transfer to the night shift. No women worked after eight pm, to that man’s disappointment. And the lady lost easy access to her lad, ruining her marriage plans. So carefully, covertly, these girls invited the men to court them.

Phee accidentally intercepted one of the many personal nonverbal exchanges on the way to her spot. She hurriedly walked past Angela, a statuesque brunette with an unfortunately large nose. Apparently, her hurry was not fast enough.

“Ophelia.”

Was Angela hissing at her?

Phee turned quickly around to see Angela’s eyes carving tiny little holes in her stomach. Angela’s hand twitched slightly to her right repeatedly in an unmistakable signal. Phee stumbled to the side as fast as she could in her skirts, and then glanced back once more to give Angela her best indignantly confused look. Whether that was her best look remains undetermined, since Angela’s eyes immediately dropped the warrior act and shyly hid behind their lashes. They peeked out from time to time at a watching young man sitting at a table halfway across the room. Phee stifled a derisive laugh at the ridiculous flirtation and continued the walk to her own table.

Most of the young men at the Telegraph Office reminded Phee of her irresponsible, fun-loving brother, so she had not yet been tempted to strike up a conversation with one, much less contemplate marriage with one.

Neither was she tempted to initiate conversation with the two girls, Diana and Beth, who worked on either side of her. During quiet times of inactivity, the two immediately leaned behind Phee and carried on an animated dialogue about what So-and-So did yesterday with Such-and-Such. As far as Phee could tell, the conversation had no beginning without any end in hearing, even after two years.

Her geography teacher at the Collegiate School liked to lament that men expected girls not to learn how to think and then complained about the tendency for gossip such an education produced. Idle minds made busy tongues, after all.

Phee would very much like to force one of those men to listen to Diana and Beth. He would reform girls’ education with haste.

The day, like their conversations, wore on. The air in the unventilated room became uncomfortably warm and stuffy from the heat of eight hundred plus bodies. Phee discreetly fanned herself with a bit of discarded paper from an old message. Then, the incoming telegraph messages slowed. Diana, the one to her right, suddenly leaned backwards. The force of her push nearly toppled her from the chair.

“Beth!” she whispered loudly.

“Yes Diana?” Beth replied in a low voice, looking around nervously, like she did every day.

Phee held in an impolite snort. The superintendent hardly cared whether they chatted with each other at these times, a fact that did not seem able to penetrate Beth’s mind.

Diana patted her carefully arranged, limp blonde hair smugly. “I found out from...” And thus their conversation began again.

Phee blocked out the noise by observing the other girls at work. Helene, another blonde (but with more robust hair and a more palatable personality) sat at another end of the room, listening hard to the telegraph messages that came in the form of musical “tinkling” sounds Helene promised to teach her how to decipher. (Those skilled at this work earned more money since it required less time to decipher the message.)

She could neither talk to Helene nor read. Books were not allowed until after six, after the busiest hours for messages passed. Phee sighed restlessly, dead bored.

Her telegraph started spitting out paper marked with the familiar dots and dashes. Eagerly, Phee turned to work.

***********

Precisely at four, Phee vacated her chair and machine. She gathered her shawl, her hat, and her lethargic body and trundled them downstairs and out the door. She usually enjoyed the walk home as a chance to force feeling into her heavy legs and to rest her achy arms.

Usually.

As soon as she reached the threshold of the open door, the thick fog smothered her face in a smutty welcome.

Phee inhaled slowly and sighed. “I almost forgot about you.” Then she coughed raspily for several torturous seconds.

This London particular was particularly persistent. The pea soup grew more brown and black and thick and perilous. The genes of Ophelia Harris granted her healthy lungs that only caused her a small irritation, but others were not so well.

Phee heard an echo.

Long after she stopped coughing, coughs continued to bounce in the dark air nearby.

She squinted through the mess. A pickpocket or a murderer would not be foolish enough to stand around coughing like that and risk capture. And a tuberculosis sufferer would not even be left alive breathing in this thick air.

So who was it?

The sounds reached her left ear first. She raised her skirts and crept sideways, following the noise, thinking that maybe she could help in some way.

The outlines of a person-shaped shadow became visible to her, so she continued forward, hoping to more clearly see any facial features.

She saw a top hat, a coat, but hands hid the face.

Phee’s creeping foot inelegantly connected quite hard with the cougher’s ankle.

“Sorry!” She winced and cursed that clumsy foot of hers.

“No..bother,” he (as his voice indicated) haltingly assured her, before succumbing to a more violent cough. Phee’s throat tickled in sympathy. After one last weak inhale-exhale, the cough subsided.

Reprovingly, Phee informed him: “You shouldn’t be outside.”

“Thanks for telling me,” he responded dryly. “I was just on my way home.”

“Why are you not home to begin with?”

“I didn’t want to skip work at the Post Office. But my coughing was making everyone nervous and annoyed, so they politely insisted that I go home.” He spoke slowly to ward off another coughing attack.

Phee laughed shortly, careful not to take in any more air than necessary. “I can imagine Mr…” She trailed off uncertainly.

Smiling, he introduced himself as Henry Crawford. Phee missed the smile (terrible fog!), but she heard it in his voice. She suppressed one of her own and coolly gave him her own name, hoping to appear more sophisticated than her earlier kick in the ankle signaled.

She hoped in vain.

“Are you offended?” he asked worriedly. The worry: good sign. The question: not so much.

She suppressed a huff. “No. Merely out of breath from this wretched fog.” She forced two small coughs to demonstrate.

“Ah, I see…” The frown in his voice indicated otherwise.

“It is wretched!” she insisted, getting into the spirit of her excuse. “The foreigners can have these fogs since they like rhapsodizing about their ‘romantic greenness’ and ‘awe-full thickness.’”

“You must admit, they are awful,” Henry commented, amused at her vehemence.

A giggle slipped out before Phee could stop it. “Well, yes.” She swallowed back another one. Giggling with strangers in the fog- her mother would smother her if the fog didn’t do it first! “Seriously though, it would be wonderful to not ever see again.”

Henry gruffly assented. “It would be wonderful never to breathe one for as long as I live. If all my plans go right, I won’t have to.”

A question formed in her mind that her mouth began to ask. But it didn’t because her brain, with the authority of her common sense, brought all further actions to a halt.

Think of Mother’s terrible disapproval if she found you conversing with a stranger you can hardly see in the middle of the street, it demanded insistently, trying to hold her attention.

Her brain failed. Giving her brain the cold shoulder, she blithely asked her question: “What plans?” Henry began to cough again. “Are you all right?” Alarmed at the unexpected attack, she reached for his arm.

Between coughs, Henry managed only a “Yes”, as he was not about to tell her that her interest to know his plans delightfully surprised him. The episode ended, mercifully short.

Phee forgot to remove her hand from his arm as she waited to hear about his plans. The part of her mind that did not disapprove of her right now thought ahead to the future, to her own wish for leaving London behind.

Maybe Henry was the answer to her question! Maybe she could get her wish and gratify most of her mother’s expectations all at once.

Henry noticed and conveniently neglected to tell her about her hand. He quickly launched into a detailed narrative of his plans.

At 25, Henry was ready to leave the nest. He lived with his mother and father, a Bank clerk like Phee’s late father, but only until he saved enough money to survive on for a few months.

When he was ten, he caught pneumonia, not serious enough to kill him but enough to badly affect the health of his lungs. The worsening fogs didn’t help, either, so he hoped to find work in a warmer, less smoky area outside London.

His father was practically pushing him onto a ship, happy with his plans to leave London and see some of the world. His mother could hardly look at him without sniffling sadly. She wanted little grandchildren, but she doubted any respectable, middle-class woman would be foolish enough to marry a man destined for the economic uncertainty of foreign lands.

(Phee repressed the urge to joyfully shout “I am foolish enough! Take me!”) “Where do you want to go?”

“India and Australia are using telegraphs now, so those places are possible. Even the United States would do.” Phee completely agreed. The States was anywhere but here.

“I wish I could travel,” Phee murmured, presumably to herself (assuming she normally murmured at a high volume level). Then she waited. Henry said nothing, gave no indication of having heard her. Disappointed, she recalled where her hand was and tried to inconspicuously remove it.

The movement unreasonably alarmed Henry. Unreasonably so because she was, after all, still a stranger to him and he to her. Her hand had no business on his arm without an invitation. Yet, her odd behavior was growing on him, though propriety prevented him from saying so.

Dimly, he realized that her last comment was one of those pointed hints women constantly made. His mind processed this realization. As her hand slipped away, an idea manifested itself.

“Maybe you will be able to travel in the future. But right now we must both travel home out of this weather. Which way are you going?” She told him: a part of Islington near Euston road. “I’m headed in that direction too. I live near there. May I lead?”

“Certainly.” Phee placed her hand on his arm, now a legitimate action. They began walking. There was a small silence as Henry paused to gather his thoughts.

“Miss Harris, isn’t your brother James Harris, a clerk at the Bank?” Phee almost choked on her own breaths (and the smelly fog). He knew her brother!

“Yes, that is him. Unfortunately,” she sighed.

She heard his small laugh. “Ah, then I knew your father. I’m sorry that he passed away. He was a very respectable gentleman. My family met him and your brother before, but we didn’t know he had a daughter.” He paused. Then, quickly, he added: “It would please my mother if she could meet you and your mother.”

Phee responded more calmly than she felt. “We’d love to meet your mother.”

R.Russell’s reports states that “in the fogs of January and February [of 1880], not only the aged and feeble, and persons affected with bronchitis and lung disease, but the strongest and healthiest, were literally choked to death. Of three young men who were out together in the evening of the worst fog, two immediately fell ill from its effects, and died, and the third had a sharp attack of illness. Thousands of people were thrown so much out of health that they did not recover for some weeks...”

But among the sicknesses and deaths the fog caused, it did do one good thing: it gave Ophelia Harris her way out. I can assure you that soon Ophelia Harris happily became Mrs. Henry Crawford and eventually saw more of the world than she knew existed…Or so she says. The grandchildren doubt the veracity of the whole story, but who’s going to argue with Grandmother?