“Mr Harry, Mr Harry
Peeping through the window
Mr Harry, Mr Harry
Sneaking through the door
Mr Harry, Mr Harry
Whispers in your ears
Mr Harry, Mr Harry
Blood upon the floor.
Mr Harry, Mr Harry
Running ‘cross the rooftops.
Mr Harry, Mr Harry,
Wants to see some more.”
- Excerpt from a children’s nursery rhyme, popular among working-class youths in Britain’s Victorian Slums.
-—-
This history of nursery rhymes is a fascinating thing. ‘Ring a Ring o’ Roses’ allegedly comes from outbreaks of plague in 17th Century Europe, ‘Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary’ is meant to describe the violence against Protestants by Queen Mary Tudor, ‘Oranges and Lemons’ is said to follow a condemned unfortunate to the place of execution, ending with the infamous lines: “here comes the candle to light you to bed/ here comes the chopper to chop off your head.”
The nursery rhyme “Mr Harry” is of a more uncertain origin. Certainly it was well known amongst the poorer children of 19th Century London, who would gather in circles around an unfortunate pair of children and chant it, often for some time, until those in the centre fell to the floor signalling that the game was over.
On the face of it, the story appears to be that of a character who peeks in windows, breaks into houses and commits acts of violence, before stealing away across rooftops and into the night. Possibly the same basis as Spring-heeled Jack, or any other number of urban bogeymen.
But I’ve been digging a little deeper.
It seems to be that there is something far more malicious at work here; something that I can’t explain.
In the mid-Victorian period, a couple was living around Queen’s Road in Croydon, near the then-newly built Workhouse. This couple, a Mr Alfred and a Miss Abigail - possibly his wife – were very unusual. They were unusual because both Alfred and Abigail were able to read and write. This is exceptionally fortunate for us, because both also left diaries. In these diaries, events are described which should bare a strong impact on our reading of the Mr Harry song.
What follows are selected excerpts from the diaries of Mr Thomas and Miss Abigail:
Diary of Mr Alfred.
14th September 1867
I was woken this morning at two o’clock by an awful screaming. I hastily donned my overcoat and rushed out into the street towards the origin of the noise, worried that a fire may have taken hold somewhere which could threaten mine and Abigail’s room. Upon exiting the house and feeling the bracing air upon my face, I looked up and down the street and saw signs of neither flame nor smoke. This caused great relief in me and I meant to return to bed. However, at that moment, I saw a clump of what appeared to be clothing across the road and down aways. This pile of rags was illuminated in the moonlight, and something in me felt that it warranted further investigation; it most certainly had not been there when I went to bed.
I approached the clothes, to see why they had been discarded or if I could ascertain the owner, when a most dreadful sight presented itself to me. Mrs Thomas, a stout and formidable woman who has lived in this part of the country for the better part of her 60 years lay at my feet, undeniably dead. Her pale face was clearly visible in the moon, and her pale eyes gazed up at me. I am sure I saw fear written on her face.
I could not look for long, but turned away to compose myself after this ghastly image. It was then that a second course of screaming was taken up, this time from above me. The young Mr Thomas – much more feeble an individual than his mother – was staring at the corpse from an upper window, shrieking with a mania induced by grief. Others had begun to emerge from their homes at this time, and as the crowd gathered and several ran to find a constable, I retreated back into my home. There I found Abigail, lying up in bed, staring at the window which hung wide open. The chill wind blew in.
I rushed to shut the thing and asked Abigail why on earth she would have opened it on a night like this. As I pushed the window closed, a wild cat skittered across the rooftop in the distance, sudden movement giving me a fright. Abigail answered that she had not opened the window; she had awoken because of the chill air blowing in. I do hope it is not broken, for it can be hard enough to get warm at this time of year anyway.
16th September 1867
Constables arrived today at about noon and loaded young Mr Thomas into a cart. It seems from chatter on the street that he was behind his mother’s death all along, his shrieking that night bought on not by grief but rather guilt. Rumours say that he will face trial soon, but many here believe he will be hanged before the month is out.
The window still will not remain closed, and Abigail appears to have caught a chill. She is weakening and struggles to eat. I tell her she must, but she only whines in misery and pain.
19th September 1867
Young Mr Thomas was hanged today. Abigail’s illness worsens. She has taken to lying awake in the night, crying. When she sleeps she has the most terrible dreams and wakes herself screaming. She still eats poorly, only doing so when I sit with her and refuse to leave until she has eaten.
Diary of Miss Abigail:
19th September 1867
They say that Mr Thomas has been hanged for murder. Such a sweet boy. He did not deserve such an end.
I continue to feel most dreadful. My appetite is robbed from me. I have barely the strength to rise. Alfred says the window lets in a chill air and this has caused me to become unwell, but he is wrong. I cannot tell him of the dreams I have, for if I did he would think me mad. I know the window lets in something far worse than the cold.
21st September 1867
I have not slept for two nights and my body grows weaker. The effort to lift myself from my bed now proves too much. Alfred brings me meals and tries to make me eat, but I cannot. I know he grows impatient with me. Our conversations are short and terse. I am lonely.
This window still will not close.
22nd September 1867
I gave in to sleep last night. I wish I had not. The horror which streams in from the open window was still there. It refuses to leave me alone for even a moment. It now has a voice and whispers to me. The things it says are most terrible. I do not think I shall ever find peace.
The Diary of Mr Alfred
23rd September 1867
Things have become far worse for Abigail recently. She is dreadfully ill and her face has become pale as fresh cotton. I begin to worry that she will not survive this illness. She screams and weeps all night, unable to sleep longer than a few moments at a time. When she wakes, there is such terror written on her face that I dread to imagine the awful things she must see as she dreams.
24th September 1867
More dread news. Mr Doubtlett was found in his room by young Master Whishawn. The poor boy seemed to be struck dumb by the event. Others have told me that Mr Doubtlett was still in his bed. It seemed he had been strangled. The constables have arrested the dead man’s father. I watched as they dragged the man from his house. He was raving and waving his arms in the air. The man had lost his wits but was adamant that he was innocent.
Abigail can now barely move. Truly, nothing is more distressing to me than to see her lying in bed, gazing at the open window. I do my best to shield her from the cold air coming in, but it has no effect. She mutters constantly to herself but spent last night in horrible silence. I know she was awake, but she merely sat, eyes fixed upon the window and the night sky beyond.
I do hope she recovers soon. This is becoming too much to bear.
Diary of Miss Abigail
27th September 1867
Alfred tells me that old Mrs Doubleduke was stabbed last night. It seems that her daughter finally got sickened by the old woman’s acid tongue. She took a knife and did for her. The old bat was nobody’s friend. The police have taken young Miss Doubleduke away.
I begin to feel better. I slept well last night. Alfred is still distant, but I have now a new friend.
Diary of Mr Alfred
28th September 1867
I worry more and more about Abigail. She says to me that she feels better, but she still refuses to rise from the bed. All night and all day she mutters to herself, gibberish and nonsense about her new friends. It is clear now that if she continues on this path she will be bound for Bethlem.
Diary of Miss Abigail
29th September 1867
My new friend is so good to me. He comes now every night, while Alfred sleeps. He says that he can’t meet Alfred though. Alfred won’t like him. I know he’s right. Alfred wouldn’t understand. He’s so good to me, my new friend. He takes care of me. He’s helping me to get better.
He won’t show me his face yet. He says he’s ashamed. That I would reject him. I try to tell him that he could show me, that I wouldn’t be afraid or angry, but my new friend says that it’s too soon. I asked him to tell me his name; since he has known mine it’s only fair. He said I could call him Mr Harry. It’s a lovely name. I will see him again tonight.
30th September 1867
Mr Harry came and sat with me yesterday. He looked away from me, out the window, so that I couldn’t see his face. He told me of all the wonderful things he has seen. He loves to watch people dance. He says that one day he will watch me dance with Alfred. I hope it is soon.
Diary of Mr Alfred
30th September 1867
I am wracked with a sadness for Abigail. Physically, she is much improved. She rises from bed, early each morning and returns to it early each night. She walks about the room, and yesterday evening I saw her dancing to herself.
But the poor creature danced to music that was only in her head. She speaks to friends that do not exist. She cries and laughs and sings gaily for nothing. The chill she caught from that open window has ruined utterly her wits. I know now that she will have to be moved to Bethlem, where the Doctors can take care of her.
Diary of Miss Abigail
1st October 1867
I saw Mr Harry last night. For the first time, completely. He was wonderful. He sat on the edge of my bed. His black and battered top hat sat atop his head. He carried with him a candle. The flame blazed so intensely. I barely wanted to take my eyes from it. He held it up, and showed me his face.
O! What a face. Old, it was the face of a man who has lived and lived and lived. A long life and full. Lines raked the skin, moving and twisting as he smiled. His eyes, tiny and shrewd, sparkled with intense and inescapable light. As he smiled I saw his teeth. Yellowed and crooked. Happy teeth.
When he spoke I could smell his breath. Like stale coffee and blood. Like old meat left out in the sun. Like the grave. It filled me. It comforted me.
Mr Harry told me that Alfred is worried. That he has seen me dancing and is frightened I’ve lost my wits. I wish I could explain to Alfred that I’m just practising for when we dance together. So that Mr Harry can watch us. Mr Harry loves to watch people dance.
3rd October 1867
Mr Harry has been telling me all about Alfred’s plans. Alfred wants me to go to Bethlem. I cannot go. I mustn’t. Mr Harry tells me that he knows a way to get me out of Bethlem. That I must dance with Alfred and then all will be better. He says that Alfred needs to be made to dance and when he dances we will be happy again.
I will make Alfred dance.
4th October 1867
Alfred does not want to dance. I have to find a way to make him dance before he sends me away. Mr Harry says that he has an idea.
5th October 1867
Mr Harry told me how to make Alfred dance. He said it will be spectacular. The movement, the sound, the colour. He told me about it and I could not help but laugh and sing. I think I woke Alfred with my singing. I will make myself ready for our dance. Mr Harry tells me that it must be tomorrow.
Diary of Mr Alfred
5th October 1867
Abigail must be sent to Bethlem. There is no other choice. It must happen soon. I have put it off for too long and it has caused too much damage. She began singing in the dead of night yesterday. Singing and laughing. A song about dancing, which she had come up with in her head. I am ashamed to say that I am becoming afraid for myself. I will make her comfortable tonight, and see to it that she gets a nice sleep before I contact the authorities tomorrow and get her moved to a better place.
Diary of Miss Abigail
6th October 1867
I danced with Alfred tonight. Mr Harry watched, from the window. His eyes were fixed. He said this is what he lives for. That he loves to see people dance. That making people dance is what he does. What he needs. That as soon as he saw Alfred and me he knew we needed to dance.
Alfred did not want to, but once I had the knife he could not help but join in. He screamed and he shouted and I laughed and I sang. Colour filled the air and we danced all around the room. When we finished and Alfred lay upon the bed, I turned to Mr Harry. He said that there were other people who needed to dance. He had to go and help them. He said that Alfred and I would be happy now.
We will be happy. Won’t we?