by Rule, Fiona
The landlords who had done so much to help their tenants, were finally coming to the end of their resources and, fearing another blight the following year, searched for a solution. It came in the form of passenger ships bound for the New World and the British mainland.
In a bid to literally save the lives of their countrymen, many Irish landowners offered to pay their tenants’ passage on ships bound for America, the British mainland and other English-speaking countries. Their offer was accepted by thousands, who felt that they simply had no other choice. The prospect of a new life in the New World appealed greatly, but the ships used to flee the island carried dangers of their own. Disease was often rife on board and once the ship arrived at its destination, passengers were forced to stay in infected, low boarding houses while waiting to be naturalised.
In the first six months of 1847, 567 people died on the passage from Great Britain to New York. Conditions on ships working the passage between Ireland and Canada were even worse. It was not uncommon for half of passengers to die before reaching the Canadian ports. Newspapers in Quebec carried eyewitness reports of the terminally sick being thrown from vessels onto the beach, where they were left to die. Emigration carried an immense degree of risk, but for many, it appealed more than remaining in the wasteland that had once been their home.
By the time the famine finally began to subside in 1849, up to 1.5 million Irish families had fled their homeland. During that period, it is estimated that 46,000 Irish arrived in London and by 1851, the census recorded that 109,000 Londoners had been born in Ireland. Due the circumstances surrounding their arrival in the Capital, the vast majority of Irish immigrants had virtually no money at their disposal and so settled in areas where work could be found quickly and housing was cheap. According to the contemporary writer John Garwood, the most popular parts of London for the Irish immigrants to settle were St Giles, Field Lane, Westminster, parts of Marylebone, Drury Lane, Seven Dials, East Smithfield, Wapping, Ratcliff, The Mint in Southwark and the ‘crowded lanes and courts between Houndsditch and the new street in Whitechapel’. However, virtually any area that possessed a rookery became home to impoverished Irish families.
London became home to many of the poorest families simply because they couldn’t afford to escape anywhere further afield. The opportunities in the new world of North America made it the preferred destination for most displaced Irish. Even those who came to London initially hoped that they would eventually be able to afford the passage across the Atlantic. John Garwood noted ‘they do not regard England with any fondness, excepting that they generally consider the English as honest, although heretics, who will keep their word and pay them what they agree for. They generally simply desire to come, in order to obtain money to get over to America.’ In the cases of the poorest families, it was common for one or two of the fittest men to travel from Ireland to the British mainland or North America.
Once they had secured some reasonably-paid work, they began either sending money home or purchased sea passage on behalf of other family members. This method of gradually evacuating entire families from Ireland became extremely popular: in 1852, the Colonial Land and Emigration Commissioners noted, ‘the misery which the Irish have for many years endured has destroyed the attachment to their native soil, the numbers who have already emigrated and prospered remove the apprehension of going to a strange and untried country, while the want of means is remedied by the liberal contributions of their relations and friends who have preceded them. The contributions so made, either in the form of prepaid passages, or of money sent home, and which are almost exclusively provided by the Irish, were returned to us, as in:
1848, upwards of £460,000
1849, upwards of £540,000
1850, upwards of £957,000
1851, upwards of £990,000.’
The majority of famine refugees who migrated to Spitalfields took up residence in the courts and dilapidated lodging houses in the southernmost part of the district, close to the Whitechapel and Commercial Roads. However, the overcrowded streets that lay closer to Christ Church also provided much-needed accommodation when space allowed. Since the silk-weaving industry had gone into decline, Dorset Street had received a steady stream of Irish settlers, many of whom set up boot and shoe-making workshops in the old weavers’ garrets.
One such immigrant was James Rouse who had lived and worked on the street since at least 1840. Rouse possessed a talent for his trade combined with shrewd business sense. By 1861, he had accrued sufficient savings to relocate to more spacious premises in Lamb Street and described himself in the census of that year as a ‘master boot maker’. Two of his sons are listed as apprentices. The profit made from the business in the following decade allowed him to retire in the 1870s and live a comfortable life in the middle-class suburb of Bromley.
In 1851, there were 50 people living in Dorset Street who had been born in Ireland. Some like James Rouse and his family had lived in London for some time while others almost certainly arrived on the street as a direct result of the famine in their homeland. At number 16, William Keefe and his family shared their home with four women who had almost certainly escaped deprivation in Ireland and were attempting to make new lives for themselves in the British mainland. Three of the women, Margaret Casey, 35, Margaret Lynch, 20, and Mary Ann Doughan, 35, hailed from Cork while their room-mate, Catherine Allen, 27, hailed from Galway. None of the women were married and so it was entirely up to them to ensure the rent was paid on time. The two Margarets and Catherine worked as seed potters (probably for one of the merchants in Spitalfields Market). This type of work was both home-based and seasonal. One can imagine the mess as flowerpots were filled with soil ready for seeds to be planted in the spring and the growing anxiety felt by the women as summer approached and work became increasingly scarce.
Irish refugees with families in tow found emigration to London particularly challenging, both emotionally and financially. Back in Ireland, even the largest cities such as Dublin were nowhere near as noisy, dirty and frenetic as mid-19th century London. In order to lessen the inevitable homesickness and to keep a rein on rental expenditure, many set up home with members of their extended kin. The Keating family arrived in Dorset Street in the late 1840s. Like so many other Irish immigrants to the East End the head of the family, John Keating, was a boot maker who brought not only his young wife and child with him but also his mother-in-law, brother-in-law, niece and an apprentice. Although the family comprised six adults and a seven-year-old, they all lived in one room at number 25 Dorset Street while John attempted to make a go of his business.
The arrival of famine refugees on the streets of Spitalfields was not well received by the locals, including other Irishmen. The migrants soon gained a reputation for attempting to fit far too many members of their family into one room in order to save money (see the Keatings above). The resulting noise and constant comings and goings irritated their neighbours who did not understand that the extreme overcrowding was due to poverty rather than choice. In 1853, John Garwood unkindly noted ‘in the days of Queen Elizabeth, it was customary to divide the Irish in to three classes: the Irish, the wild Irish and the extreme wild Irish... The same divisions may be made in the days of Queen Victoria... And the class of Irish with which we are most familiar in the courts and alleys of London, are by no means the most favourable specimens of the nation.’
Many Londoners resented the fact that the majority of refugees used their city as a stepping-stone to their goal of reaching America. This even caused divisions between the immigrants and their own countrymen. Garwood explained, ‘of the Irish immigrants who remain in London, few have any such intention at first. But they gradually become accustomed to the place and its habits, and at length settle down in it. Their descendants are called “Irish Cockneys,” and the new-comers are called “Grecians.’ By these names they are generally distinguished among themselves. And the two divisions of this class are most distinct. The animosity which subsists between t
hem is very bitter, far beyond that which often unhappily exists between the Irish and the English. The Cockneys regard the Grecians as coming to take the bread out of their own mouths, and consider their extensive immigration as tending to lower their own wages. Having also succeeded in raising themselves, at least some steps, from that abject poverty and nakedness which distinguished them on their first arrival, they now look on the Grecians as bringing a discredit on their country by their appearance and necessities. There are constant quarrels between the two, and they are so estranged that they will not live even in the same parts of the town, after the first flow of generous hospitality has passed over.’
To the immense relief of all concerned, the 1850 Irish potato crop finally survived. However, it did not yield as much as it had done before the outbreak of the fungal virus and many communities continued to exist in great hardship. By this time, over one million people had died as a result of the worst famine to occur in Europe in the 19th century. As the statistics on page 63 show, the amount of contributions towards passages out of the country steadily increased into the 1850s and, although the worst of the famine was over, the Irish continued their exodus in the hope that a better life could be found elsewhere. Their migration was helped immeasurably by competition between the steam-boat companies who slashed their prices in order to attract more custom. Passage from Cork to London, which normally cost around 10 shillings, could be obtained for as little as one shilling. There were even reports of some companies bringing passengers over to the British mainland for no charge whatsoever.
Chapter 10
The McCarthy Family
One Irish family that took advantage of the new, rock-bottom prices were destined to become Dorset Street’s most influential residents. In 1848, Daniel McCarthy and his pregnant wife Margaret, boarded a ship sailing from Cork harbour and left their homeland behind them. After a brief stay in Dieppe (where it is likely Daniel sought work in the Docks), the McCarthys, who by now had a baby son named John, arrived in England.
Daniel had previously been used to agricultural work so the family initially made for Hertfordshire, where it was hoped that permanent farm work could be secured. However, this was not to be and for the next five or so years, the family travelled across London and the home counties, picking up menial jobs wherever they could. However, like so many of their countrymen before them, they were eventually forced into the metropolis permanently, where work, however demeaning and badly paid, was in greater supply.
The McCarthys settled in Red Cross Court, in Southwark. This mean yard was a typical London address for impoverished Irishfolk fleeing the famine in their homeland. It had originally been the back yard of the Red Cross Inn – a hostelry on Borough High Street. However, as the population of The Borough exploded in the early 19th century, the yard was built over. Two-storey cottages lined its perimeter and a row of dilapidated stables ran down the centre. By the 1860s, the occupants of Red Cross Court were far too poor to keep horses so the stables served as stockrooms for oranges that were bought at Borough Market and sold cheaply on the streets by the Court’s inhabitants.
By the time Daniel and Margaret McCarthy arrived in Red Cross Court, their family had increased significantly. Joining John were four brothers: Denis, Jeremiah, Timothy and Daniel. In 1865, a daughter named Annie was born. During the following years, Red Cross Court became something of a Mecca for members of the McCarthy clan. By 1881, there were McCarthys living at numbers 1, 4, 9, 10 and 12 plus two more McCarthy families living at number 2 and 24 May Pole Alley, which was situated next door. By this time Daniel and Margaret had moved across the river to Whitechapel where they lived out the rest of their lives in quiet obscurity. However, their eldest son John harboured grand ideas about his future and set about laying plans to escape the grinding poverty of London’s slums – plans that were to be more successful than probably even he would have imagined.
Like the Borough across the river, Spitalfields – and roads such as Dorset Street in particular – became an attractive destination for impoverished Irish immigrants because it offered insalubrious but cheap accommodation and was close to the potential workplaces of the City, the Docks and, of course, the market. Many of the working-class Irish immigrants found work as costermongers, buying fruit and vegetables from the market and taking them round the streets on a barrow to sell to the residents. During his investigation into how London’s poor lived and worked, Henry Mayhew studied the Irish costermongers in depth. At the time, it was officially estimated that there were 10,000 Irish street-sellers in London. However, Mayhew reckoned the figure to be higher. He noted, ‘of this large body, three-fourths sell only fruit, and more specifically nuts and oranges; indeed the orange season is called the “Irishman’s Harvest.” The others deal in fish, fruit and vegetables... some of the most wretched of the street Irish deal in such trifles as Lucifer-matches, water-cresses, etc.’
In addition to street-selling, many Irish immigrants who had previously been employed on farms took to labouring in the building trade. Some took casual labouring work at the docks, while others took on the back-breaking work of excavating and wood chopping. When work was thin on the ground (as it often was), both men and women would take to the streets and beg.
This hand-to-mouth existence meant that accommodation was hard to find. Families barely had enough money to feed themselves, let alone enough to find rent money for a reasonably furnished room. Consequently the common lodging houses that lined Dorset Street (and many other streets in Spitalfields), experienced an unprecedented boom. However, their burgeoning business was soon to come under the scrutiny of social reformers, journalists and ultimately, the Government.
Chapter 11
The Common Lodging House Act
By the beginning of the 1850s, the already pitiful plight of the poor in Spitalfields had been exacerbated to an almost unbearable degree by the arrival of the Irish immigrants. The area was now among the poorest in the whole of London and was beginning to attract the attention of the press. In 1849, the journalist Henry Mayhew visited Spitalfields in search of acute poverty for an article he was writing for the Morning Chronicle newspaper. He was particularly touched by the plight of the old silk weavers, who he found living ‘in a state of gloomy destitution, sitting in their wretched rooms dreaming of the neat houses and roast beef of long ago.’ Mayhew went on to note that the remaining Spitalfields weavers seemed resigned to their reduced circumstances and no longer had the energy to do anything about it: ‘In all there was the same want of hope – the same doggedness and half-indifference as to their fate.’
Spitalfields was not the only area of the metropolis that was experiencing poverty on an unprecedented scale. Across the river, the ancient area of Bermondsey was experiencing similar problems, as this heartbreaking excerpt from a coroner’s report on the death of a poverty-stricken young woman shows: ‘she lay dead beside her son upon a heap of feathers which were scattered over her almost naked body, there being no sheet or coverlet. The feathers stuck so fast over the whole body that the doctor could not examine the corpse until it was cleansed. He then found it starved and scarred from rat bites.’
Similar accounts of abject poverty began appearing regularly in the London press. Under particular scrutiny once again were the already notorious common lodging houses which, according to the journalists who visited them, had plumbed even greater depths. The scathing press reports, combined with the report from the Royal Commission forced Parliament to address the common lodging house problem and an act was passed in 1851 in a bid to improve the situation.
In their wisdom, the politicians responsible for drawing up the act came to the conclusion that the common lodging houses caused problems not because of the wanton lack of facilities and the type of person that frequented them, but because they lacked supervision and clear rules and regulations. The new act stipulated that every common lodging house should have clear signage outside stating what the building was used for. Inside, every sleeping ro
om should be measured. From these measurements, the number of beds allowed in each room would be calculated and a placard hung on the wall stating the allocation. Beds were to have fresh linen once a week and all windows were to be thrown open at 10am each day for ventilation purposes. All lodgers had to leave the lodging house at 10am and would not be allowed back in until late afternoon. These regulations were to be enforced by the local police.
While the regulations imposed by the Common Lodging Houses Act were well meaning, they were at best badly thought out and at worst laughable. Measuring the rooms to allocate beds was all very well and good if only one person was going to sleep in each bed. However, it had been a long-standing practice for people to share beds in order to save money, thus doubling or even tripling the room capacity on particularly cold nights. The fact that each room had a sign stating the number of beds allowed was of virtually no use because few inmates could read and those that could were not about to report their only source of shelter to the authorities. Fresh bed linen once a week would have been a good idea if the act had also made the laundries obliged to take it in. In reality, few self-respecting laundries would touch lodging-house bed linen as it was often riddled with vermin, which infected the whole laundry.
In winter, the throwing open of all windows during the day made the unheated rooms bitterly cold. The fact that lodgers were thrown out on the street at 10 in the morning may have made for a quiet day for the lodging house management, but was cruel to the lodgers, many of whom were sick and malnourished. They had to take all their belongings and walk the streets for up to six hours in search of money for their bed for the next night. In the case of Spitalfields, the police knew only too well what type of characters inhabited the lodging houses and officers were unwilling to walk into the ‘lion’s den’ for fear of being attacked. Consequently, few lodging houses were inspected regularly.
