If you imagine 19th Century Whitechapel you will probably picture this district of
East End London in your mind as a dark abyss of Victorian slums and,
more probably, for the notorious murders attributed to the infamous ‘Jack the Ripper’.
What was, in the 16th Century, a rural suburb with coaching inns thronging the
road out of the city began to attract undesirable tanneries, breweries and
foundries seeking freedom from official controls on their activities.
As provincials flocked into London seeking employment through the 17th to 19th
Centuries, it was here, in what was to become the ‘East End,’ that the population
boomed around these industries and Docklands. Destitute immigrants
found accommodation and jobs in the factories and wharfs and so Whitechapel
became synonymous with the working classes. These socio-economic factors
influenced the character of ‘Dickensian’ overcrowded East End housing;
the poor labourers and their families suffering to live in districts
that were often no more than rookeries of vice and crime.
Most struggled daily to earn an honest wage to pay for bread and board;
as well as drink! And, in Whitechapel, demand for beer was met in the numerous
inns and taverns that thronged the road out of the city.
It is here that we meet our protagonist ‘Hookey Alf.’ The life story of this hard
working but luckless East End labourer and his descent into poverty is told in a
genuine account from 'Street Life in London', 1877, by John Thomson and
Adolphe Smith and is narrated in the words of Smith. Thompson was a talented
and influential photographer who joined with Smith, a journalist, in a project
to photograph the street life of London’s poor. The authors were careful
not to varnish their words for an audience, what they saw and heard accurately reflects
their interactions with everyday people and genuinely immerses
you in authentic Victorian street life.
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On the 25th of October, 1693, Lady Wentworth sold a waste piece of ground,
situated out in the fields to the east of London, on which a tavern or inn was
forthwith built, and there it stands to this day, obtruding itself in a most remarkable
manner in the very centre of the Whitechapel Road. Like an island in that
great stream of human activity, the artery which stretches from east to west through
the metropolis, this old inn has withstood all alterations, and remained un-moved by the
huge suburb which has sprung into existence around. The road, the broadest
road in London, had perforce to be narrowed here; for the sacred rights of
property could not be menaced, and the inn was allowed to remain blocking the very
middle of the thoroughfare. Nor has age and the conversion of the neighbouring
fields into a crowded portion of the metropolis entirely deprived the inn of its
former rural aspect. There are still tables and benches placed outside,
as if to entice Londoners to sit and enjoy the country air, though they are no longer
planted on the green sward, but stand on the hard and smooth pavement stone.
Even new paint and a new roof have failed to destroy the quaint look of this inn,
while the groups generally seated outside contemplating the broad, busy road before
them, add to the interest of this resort. No public-house could have a better claim to be
included within the scope of this book. It is essentially a street public-house,
for it stands in the middle and not on the side of the street.
Here the customers are allowed to drink in the open air, and a large proportion of the
persons who profit by this opportunity are themselves dependent on the streets for
their livelihood. The groups, however, that may thus be observed seated outside the
inn are not always picturesque or pleasing, though generally interesting.
There is a metropolitan mixture of good and evil in the countenances that may here be
studied, which will supply food for thought, if the thought be not always cheerful.
Thus in the photograph before us we have the calm undisturbed face of the skilled
artisan, who has spent a life of tranquil, useful labour, and can enjoy his pipe in
peace, while under him sits a woman whose painful expression seems to indicate a
troubled existence, and a past which even drink cannot obliterate.
By her side, a brawny, healthy ‘woman of the people,’ is not to be disturbed from her
enjoyment of a 'drop of beer' by domestic cares; and early acclimatizes her infant
to the fumes of tobacco and alcohol. But in the fore-ground the camera
has chronicled the most touching episode. A little girl, not too young, however, to ignore
the fatal consequences of drink, has penetrated boldly into the group,
as if about to reclaim some relation in danger, and drag him away from evil
companionship. There is no sight to be seen in the streets of London more pathetic
than this oft-repeated story – the little child leading home a drunken parent.
Well may those little faces early bear the stamp of the anxiety that destroys their
youthfulness, and saddens all who have the heart to study such scenes.
Inured to a life crowded with episodes of this description, the pot-boy stands in the
back-ground with immoveable countenance, while at his side a well-to-do tradesman
has an expression of sleek contentment, which renders him superior to the misery
around. The most remarkable figure in this group is that of ‘Ted Coally,’ or ‘Hookey Alf,’
as he is called according to circumstances. His story is a simple illustration of the
accidents that may bring a man into the streets, though born of respectable parents,
well trained and of steady disposition. This man's father worked in a brewery,
earned large wages, married, kept a comfortable home, and apprenticed his son
to the trunk-making and packing trade. The boy frequently helped to affix heavy cases
to a crane, so that they might be lowered from the upper story of a warehouse
into the street. As the boxes were lined with tin it required considerable
strength to push them out of the loop-hole over into the street, and, the young
apprentice having inherited his father's stalwart form, was selected for this work.
On one occasion, however, he threw the whole of his weight against a huge case
which, through some mistake, had not been lined with tin; of course the case yielded
at once to such tremendous a shock, it swung out into the street, and the lad,
carried away by his own un-resisted impetus, fell head foremost to the pavement
below. This accident at once put an end to his career in the trunk and packing trade,
and rendered all the expense of his apprenticeship useless. He recovered,
it is true, from the fall, but has ever since been subject to epileptic fits.
Finding that under these circumstances he could no longer attempt complicated and
difficult work, he thought he would seek to make his living in one of those occupations
where mere muscular strength is the chief qualification required. Thus he was able for
some time to earn his living as a coal porter, and most fortunately made himself very
popular among the ‘coal-whippers,’ and company, with whom he associated.
But even in this more humble calling fate still seemed to conspire against him.
While high up on an iron ladder near the canal, at the Whitechapel coal wharfs,
he twisted himself round to speak to someone below, lost his balance and fell
heavily to the ground. Hastily conveyed to the London Hospital, it was discovered
that he had broken his right wrist and his left arm. The latter limb was so seriously
injured that amputation was unavoidable, and when Ted Coally reappeared in
Whitechapel society, a hook had replaced his lost arm. Thus crippled,
he was no longer fit for regular work of any description, and having by that time lost his
father, the family soon found themselves reduced to want. ‘Hookey Alf,’ as he was
now called, did not, however, lose heart; and, pocketing his pride,
he wandered from street to street in search of any sort of work he could find.
Hovering in the vicinity of the coal-yards he often met his old fellow-workers,
and whenever a little extra help was required they gladly offered him a few
pence for what feeble assistance he could render. Gradually he became
accustomed to the use of his hook, and proved himself of more service than might
have been anticipated; but, nevertheless, he has never been able to secure
anything like regular employment. He may often be found waiting about the brewery
in the Whitechapel Road, where ten or twelve tons of coal is frequently taken in
during the course of the day. ‘Hookey’ stands here on guard, in the hope
that when the coal arrives there will be some need of his services to unload.
On these occasions he will earn a meal and a few pence, and with this he returns home
rejoicing. But, if after a long day's patient endeavour he fails to make anything,
the worry and disappointment will probably cause an attack of epilepsy,
and thus add ill-health to poverty. The tender concern of his mother
cannot soothe the wounded feelings of the strong man. The energy and will are still
there, it is the power of action alone that is wanting; and this good-natured, honest
man, feels that he ought to be supporting his mother and sister, while in reality he is
often living on their meagre earnings. The position is certainly trying, and it is difficult
to make poor ‘Hookey’ understand that an epileptic cripple cannot be expected to fulfil
the same duties as a man in sound health. It is some consolation to this worthy
family to know that reliance may be placed on the daughter, whose earnings
as a machinist keep the wolf from the door; but the spectacle of this once fine boy,
the pride of his native street, now helpless in his spoilt manhood, must be a source of
constant grief and disappointment. Perhaps the lowest depths of his misery were
reached when ‘Hookey,’ in despair, slung a little string round his neck to hold in front of
him a box or tray containing Vesuvians, and presented himself at the entrance of a
neighbouring railway station, and sought to sell a few matches.
For a man still young in years, if not in suffering, this must have been a galling trial,
and from my knowledge of the family I feel convinced that they keenly realized all its
bitterness. ‘Hookey's’ misfortunes will, however, serve for one good purpose.
They demonstrate that even those who resort to the humblest methods
of making money in the streets are not always unworthy of respect and sympathy.
Many cases of this description might be found ‘Whitechapel way,’ by those who have
the time, energy, and desire to seek them out; and personal investigation is at once
the truest and most useful form of charity. It will always be found that those who
have the best claim to help and succour are the last to seek out for themselves
the assistance they should receive. It is only by accident that such cases are discovered,
and hence my belief that time spent among the poor themselves is far more productive
of good and permanent results, than liberal subscriptions given to institutions
of which the donor knows no more than can be gleaned from the hurried perusal of an
abbreviated prospectus. In this manner Dickens acquired his marvellous stories
of material and knowledge of the people. Exaggerated as some of his characters may
seem, their prototypes are constantly coming on the scene, and as I talked to
‘Hookey’ it seemed as if the shade of Captain Cuttle
had penetrated the wilds of Whitechapel.