The Worst Street in London: Foreword by Peter Ackroyd by Fiona Rule Page A
Authors: Fiona Rule
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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 lodging 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
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 lodging 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
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