three o'clock
The coach rattled to Mrs. King 's notorious tavern in Covent Garden , where thieves and scoundrels , the very dregs of London , mingled with their betters ; and amid a bestial uproar , with the assistance of claret and Burgundy , to say nothing of port `` laced '' with brandy on the one hand , and gin and porter on the other , all differences in stations were forgotten and gentlemen and footpads were on a level -- dead drunk . A London night in the first quarter of the eighteenth century had very little rest . Until long past midnight a noisy , lawless , drunken rabble made the streets hideous . It was quite three o'clock , when as physiologists tell us the vital forces are at their lowest , before it could be said that the city was asleep . And that sleep did not last long . Soon the creaking of market cart and waggon wheels , the shouts of drovers and waggoners , tramping horses , bellowing cattle and bleating sheep would dispel the stillness and proclaim the beginning of another day . Business in the approaches to the markets was in full swing before four o'clock .