by Rule, Fiona
Until 1851, there were virtually no regulations regarding the running of common lodging houses. Anyone could run one, so long as they could pay the rent on the property. Consequently, conditions in common lodging houses could be horrendous. An inquest into the death of James Parkinson, aged 36, was printed in the Morning Herald newspaper in 1836. It gives a shocking depiction of day-to-day life in one of these establishments: Parkinson, a dealer in cats’ meat, had apparently arrived at a ‘low lodging house for travellers’ in Saffron Hill (an area well known for this type of establishment), paid for his bed and promptly retired for the night. At some stage during the night, the poor man died in his sleep. Incredibly, the landlady did not realise that he was dead for several days, despite seeing his body in the bed on several occasions. Perhaps even more incomprehensible is the fact that none of the other lodgers reported anything odd about their room-mate and seemed oblivious to the terrible smell brought on by decomposition of the corpse. By the time Parkinson’s death was recorded, his face had turned black. When questioned about the incredible lack of perception demonstrated by her and the other lodgers, the landlady shrugged ‘they go in and out without seeming to care for each other.’
Although the above report is an extreme example of disregard for fellow human beings, inmates from the lowest type of common lodging house could ill afford to be too concerned about their fellow man. During the peak winter season, up to three people could be forced to share a bed. Possessions had to be kept about one’s person for fear of theft while asleep and it truly was a situation of ‘every man for himself.’ It seems remarkable that houses offering such terrible conditions remained in business. However, it must be remembered that the lodgers were almost always poor and desperate for somewhere to sleep for the night. Unable to afford a more salubrious establishment, they were forced to resort to the common lodging houses.
Lousy surroundings and the prospect of another day’s hard graft in front of them made the lodgers yearn for home comforts and in particular, female company. Consequently, the second scourge of Spitalfields arrived – prostitution. At first, the Spitalfields prostitutes were just another part of life for a busy market area with a highly transient population. However, by the middle of the 19th century, Spitalfields was undergoing a period of damaging social change that would transform the area for nearly 150 years.
In 1826, the remaining Spitalfields silk weavers were dealt a devastating setback when, in the spirit of free trade, the Government finally allowed French silk to be imported to the UK. Although a 30% tariff was levied on the imports, the market was flooded and in consequence, the weavers’ wages were halved virtually overnight. Had this state of affairs occurred 50 years previously, the weavers may have had the energy and resources to protest and halt the trade, but by the 1820s, the departure of most of the master weavers from Spitalfields had left their erstwhile workers barely able to scratch a living. The fact that their already insufficient wages were now halved made their position impossible. The vast majority of the firms that had stayed in Spitalfields either packed up shop or moved out to the country, where at least their overheads would be lower.
The journeymen weavers and throwsters were left with the option of either deserting the area in search of work elsewhere or staying put and finding a way to supplement their wages. Crime increased as impoverished weavers were compelled to steal food for their families and some of their womenfolk were forced into the ultimate indignity of prostitution. Families were forced to move to cheaper lodgings and some even had to resort to the foul common lodging houses.
In 1846, the Spitalfields silk weaving industry received its final, fatal blow when the duty on French silk was halved. This time, the impoverished weavers resigned themselves to the fact that the good times were never coming back and didn’t even bother to register much of a protest. The devastating blow suffered by Spitalfields as a result of the demise of the silk weaving industry is clearly shown in statistics from the period. In 1831, (when it must be remembered that many weaving firms had already left the area) there were up to 17,000 looms in Spitalfields and 50,000 residents were dependent on the silk weaving industry. By 1851, just 21,000 individuals were employed in the silk industry in the whole of London.
The Huguenot families who had made their fortunes in Spitalfields tried their best to help their impoverished ex-employees. For example, in 1834, George Fournier left a large bequest to the Spitalfields poor in his will. His generosity was remembered by renaming the road that ran along the side of Christ Church, Fournier Street. However, the silk industry was by this stage terminally sick and nothing could be done to prevent its ultimate demise.
Chapter 8
Serious Overcrowding
By the 1830s, the plight of the silk weavers had created a problem the parish couldn’t ignore. As Spitalfields’ fortunes faded, local properties, particularly those around Christ Church, became ridiculously overcrowded as residents attempted to reduce individual rent bills. In addition, the buildings into which the poor families were crammed were very old and had been neglected for so many years that they were beginning to fall apart at the seams. These rookeries posed two problems for the Parish Council and local members of Parliament.
Firstly, the old and dilapidated houses had not only become home to hundreds of Spitalfields poor, but their maze of ancient alleyways and courts also attracted felons who found them perfect hideouts and meeting places. In addition to this, Spitalfields market had become so successful that traders were finding it increasingly difficult to gain access to it via the ancient, narrow streets that led from Whitechapel and the City. In order to solve both problems in one fell swoop, a new road was proposed that would connect the market with Whitechapel. This road was to be aptly named Commercial Street and its construction would necessitate the demolition of the rookeries that so troubled the local Councillors.
Plans for the first phase of Commercial Street were duly approved and by 1845 all the rookeries had been swept away and replaced with the new trade route. Exactly what the Councillors expected to happen to the hundreds of rookery dwellers once they had been made homeless remains a mystery. Perhaps it was assumed that they would simply disappear once their homes were destroyed. Unsurprisingly, they did not disappear. They simply moved to either side of the new road, thus making already congested thoroughfares such as Dorset Street, Whites Row and Fashion Street more crowded than ever.
Canny property owners in the streets affected by the overcrowding problem recognised the extra money that could be made by converting all available space into extra housing. One such property-owner was John Miller. Miller was a butcher by trade, who worked out of his shop at 30 Dorset Street. He and his family had moved to the area in the 1830s, just as many older residents associated with the weaving industry were moving out. As a result, properties came up for sale at a regular rate and when funds could be found, John Miller acquired them. In addition to number 30, Miller also owned numbers 26 and 27 Dorset Street.
These two properties were joined together and had sizeable gardens to the rear, which were reached via a covered passage that ran between the ground floors of the houses. Attracted by the prospect of extra rental income, Miller decided to destroy the gardens and in their place threw up three ‘one up, one down’ cottages set around a flagged courtyard. By 1851, the houses were completed and the new development was given the name Miller’s Rents, an apt description of what they were. Over the years, this poorly built little square of slum-dwellings acquired three more mean cottages and its name evolved from Miller’s Rents into Miller’s Court, a name that was to become notorious in 1888 when Jack the Ripper’s final victim was horrifically mutilated in one of its squalid rooms. But more of that story later.
The dispersal of the rookery inhabitants offered more custom for the already busy common lodging houses. Enterprising proprietors eagerly searched for more old houses suitable for conversion. By that time, there were still virtually no regulations attached to running a common lodgi
ng house and setting one up was a reasonably easy exercise. The interiors of countless once-elegant weavers’ homes were ripped out and all dividing walls demolished to create huge, open rooms on each floor. The only room to remain intact was the kitchen, although in some houses that too was ripped out and the tenants expected to share a kitchen with the house next door.
The upper floors were then filled to capacity with cheap beds, often only comprising a rude timber frame and straw-filled sacking that served as mattress. There were rarely any washing facilities, lighting was poor and heat non-existent apart from the fire in the kitchen. The proximity of the beds (and the fact that they were often shared) made disease spread fast. The conditions in the lodging houses were so appalling that by 1844 they had attracted the attention of Parliament and consequently came under the scrutiny of the Royal Commissioners.
Their inspectors were not surprisingly disgusted at what they found and concluded that something had to be done about them. The Commissioners’ subsequent report on the ‘Health of Towns and Other Populous Places’ advised that some enforceable regulations should be placed on the running of common lodging houses, with a view to improving the situation. However, although their advice was acted upon, in the long run it was to have little effect on the terrible evolution of the Spitalfields lodging houses.
Although the common lodging houses were dreadful places for their inhabitants, the owners of these establishments were able to carve out very lucrative careers for themselves. Many of the lodging house keepers at this time were long-term residents of Spitalfields who were fortunate enough to have the resources to buy up suitable property and convert it quickly and cheaply. One such man was John Smith. Smith, who was a greengrocer by trade, was initially attracted to the area by the market, and by the early 1800s, had set up retail premises in Spitalfields with his wife Elinor. As the area declined, Smith noticed the demand for cheap lodgings and gradually acquired property, converting it to house the poor. The business proved to be extremely successful and Smith expanded his property portfolio whenever he could. He concentrated his efforts in and around Brick Lane, an old road that had originally led to fields in which the clay for bricks was dug.
By the 1860s, John Smith’s main business had evolved from greengrocer to lodging house keeper. By this time he and Elinor had seven children, three of whom would go on to continue the business of keeping common lodging houses into the next century. Indeed, his eldest son James (known locally as Jimmy) and daughter Elizabeth would go on to become two of the most influential people on the streets of Spitalfields at the time of Jack the Ripper.
Chapter 9
The Third Wave of Immigrants
(The Irish Famine)
While the Royal Commissioners were busy inspecting the common lodging houses, the overcrowding problem in Spitalfields was about to get worse. Almost as soon as Dorset Street and its surrounds had adjusted to the resettlement of ex-rookery residents, it faced yet another influx of people to the area. This time, the cause was not road building, but a fungus named Phytophthora Infestans.
Early in 1845, an American ship docked in Ireland with a deadly cargo. Some of the produce on board carried the Phytophthora fungus, which was capable of causing devastation to potato crops. At the time, potatoes were big business in Ireland. Almost half the population relied on potatoes to keep from starvation and consumed them in large quantities. Irish potato crops were mainly comprised of two, high-yielding varieties, both of which were affected by the fungus with frightening speed. An unusually cool and wet summer allowed the fungus to thrive and that year’s potato crop was almost a complete failure across the country.
At first, the Irish people did their best to remain optimistic about the future. On 2 September, the Cork Examiner reported that in at least one other year (1765), the potato crop had been ruined and noted that communities had recovered from that crisis: ‘We have no apprehension that the potato is gone from us. There will be some to make another venture apon it next year and probably, in 1848 there will be such a crop as has not been witnessed within the time of the oldest man living.’ That said, the underlying emotion was that of utter dread and two days later, the Examiner reported that, ‘all is alarm and apprehension. The landlord trembles for the consequences; so does the middleman; so does the tenant farmer.’
Believing the situation to be temporary, many landlords did their best to improve conditions for their tenants. For example, in September 1846, a group of landlords from Fermanagh vowed to employ as many impoverished farm workers as they possibly could to work on their property. They also sought to establish a depot in Enniskillen that would distribute ‘Indian Meal’ (ground corn) to the starving. Similar plans were laid throughout the country. However, the populace found the Indian Meal unpalatable to the point of being inedible and driven by hunger, men resorted to insurrection in order to obtain food for their families.
Workers employed by a Mr Fitzgerald of Rocklodge, near Cloyne, refused to allow their master to send his corn to ships at Cork or to the market, stating that they would give him the price he demanded for it. There were serious riots in Dungarvan and in late September 1846, bakers’ shops in Youghal were raided in an attempt by the starving mob to prevent the export of bread. The mob was eventually dispersed by the military.
By October 1846, vast tracts of land throughout Ireland were home to communities that had become utterly destitute. Father Daly of Kilworth reported in the Cork Examiner that many of his congregation were subsisting purely on cabbage leaves. Given this state of affairs, it is little wonder that the people were growing increasingly angry and frustrated with their remote Government on the British mainland. Sir Robert Peel’s cabinet had provided a modicum of relief during the initial stages of the famine, but when Peel’s party were succeeded by the Whigs (under Lord John Russell) in June 1846, much of the financial burden of providing for the starving Irish workers was passed to the landowners.
However, despite offering precious little assistance, the Government was wary of the increasing insurrection and dispatched army regiments to trouble spots with the intention of stamping out any trouble before it began. The army presence only increased the animosity towards the British Government. On 8 October, ‘A Pauper’ wrote to the Cork Examiner, ‘On yesterday morning the 7th instant, on my way to the Union-house in company with my three destitute children, so as to receive some relief in getting some Indian meal porridge, to our great mortification the two sides of the road were lined with police and infantry – muskets with screwed bayonets and knapsacks filled with powder and ball, ready to slaughter us, hungry victims... If the Devil himself had the reins of Government from her Britannic Majesty he could not give worse food to her subjects, or more pernicious, than powder and ball.’
By the end of 1846, thousands of Irish had become so poor that they could no longer afford to keep their own homes. Although many landlords had done their best to waive as much rent as possible, they had to collect some money in order to pay their own staff. Consequently, the previously loathed Workhouses were becoming ridiculously overcrowded, especially as the fast-approaching winter made sleeping rough too awful to contemplate. On 23 October, the Evening Post reported that the Workhouses of Cork, Waterford and some other towns contained more inmates than they were calculated to accommodate.
Altogether, the increase as compared with the previous October was fifty per cent. The fact that even the Workhouses had reached capacity was, for some, the end of the line, as this sad article from the Tipperary Vindicator illustrates: A coroner’s inquest was held on the lands of Redwood in the Parish of Lorha, on yesterday, the 24th (October) on the body of Daniel Hayes, who for several days subsisted on the refuse of vegetables and went out on Friday morning in a quest of something in the shape of food, but he had not gone far when he was obliged to lie down, and, melancholy to relate, was found dead some time afterward.’
In an attempt to provide the destitute with at least some form of income, the Government-run Boar
d of Works set up ‘task work’. This employment took the form of extremely menial, repetitive jobs such as ditch digging, drain clearing and road laying and workers were treated in a similar manner to that of common criminals. The task work was despised by the Irish and most chose to work for the landowners rather than join the task work gang. However, by the end of 1846, the landowners had problems of their own. Despite their best efforts to provide relief (by December 1846, many landowners had completely waived any yearly rents due), their funds were not limitless and the famine had proved to be a massive drain on their resources. The landowners were gradually running out of money.
By the end of 1846, Ireland was in an unprecedented and truly horrific state of destitution. The once hardy population had withered away to skeletons. Disease was rife, with dropsy, cholera and typhus raging through and destroying entire communities. Coffins were so scarce that most of the dead were buried in the clothes they had died in. Entire fields that had once contained the potato crop became makeshift graveyards. The crisis had become an utter catastrophe.
1847 brought with it yet more problems. Once again, the populace’s worst fears were realised as the potato crop succumbed yet again to the devastating blight and the country was on its knees. The Government-run task work groups ground to a halt as workers became too ill and malnourished to perform any useful jobs and with the wage earner jobless, families literally starved to death. Despite this dreadful state of affairs, the Government still refused to subsidise alternative foodstuffs such as meat and bread. Starving Irish stood on the docks and watched as container-loads of the food they craved disappeared across the sea. The military was required less and less as communities became too apathetic and weak to organise any form of protest. The dead lay undiscovered in deserted villages for days on end.
