The Modern Babylon, so great in other things, has a giant’s appetite for
mortality. On an average, a thousand persons die in London weekly, and
are, as a rule, buried under the ground on which they fall. In old days
there was no general record of the character and locality of this great
concentrated mortality; but since the establishment of our present
system of registration of births, marriages, and deaths, we are able to
test not only how many people die, but where they die and what they die
of; and are able to tell moreover, to a considerable extent, how far the
mortality may be ascribed to inevitable and how far to removable causes.
We can now, in fact, almost say, how many die by the folly of man and
how many by the law of nature.
The volumes in which this information is given are by no means
attractive at a first glance. They appear under the authority of a
government office, and contain column after column and page after page
of forbidding-looking figures, printed in the smallest and closest of
type. Yet these account-books, in which the business done by the great
destroyer is posted up from day to day, and year to year, contain some
highly curious and important facts.
The average of a thousand deaths a week in London is by no means evenly
distributed over the year, or over all parts of the metropolis. Each
season and each parish has its peculiarities. Nor is mortality spread
evenly over the various years of life, for the grim tyrant has a special
appetite for humanity at particular ages.
We have already, in some words about weather wisdom, spoken of certain
diagrams in which the changes of our English seasons have been
delineated, and in which the characteristics of succeeding years are
shown by curved lines. At the Registrar-General’s sanctum—a quiet office
in the quietest part of Somerset House—Mr. Farr has reduced those curves
to circles, and the results display themselves in the shape of coloured
diagrams, showing the varying temperature of years, and the degree in
which temperature influences mortality. The mean temperature of the year
arrives in spring about the 115th day, and in autumn about the 293rd day
of the year. The coldest period is the first three weeks in January, the
hottest days being from about the 200th to the 220th of the year. In the
diagrams that exhibit these facts, certain spaces represent each one
hundred deaths, and we soon see how much more favourable to life in
England warm weather is than cold. In hot countries the reverse is the
rule, hot seasons being fatal seasons, because excess at either end of
the scale it is which does the mischief. In England the plague and other
epidemics, which made such havoc amongst our forefathers were brought to
killing intensity, in unusually hot seasons. But deficient as our
sanitary regulations now are, they have been so greatly improved within
the last century or two, that summer is no longer our period of greatest
average mortality, unless we suffer from some terrible visitant like
cholera, and then, of course, all ordinary calculations are set at
nought. Moderation suits all human beings. Our excess of heat or of cold
raises the mortality; moderate warmth being more favourable, however,
than moderate cold.
Mortality in the Metropolis seems regulated by a variety of
circumstances, the principal being the elevation of each district above
the level of the river Thames; the number of persons who live in the
same house; the size and character of the house as regards ventilation
and cleanliness; the state of the sewerage; the number of paupers in the
neighbourhood; and the abundant and good, or scanty and bad, supply of
water. Each London parish has its rank and value in the registrar’s
records of health and death; and the figures are so exact, that there is
no evading the verdict they pronounce. At first thought, one might be
inclined to expect that all the health would be found where all the
wealth and fashion are congregated. But it is not so. As a rule, those
districts stand well whose inhabitants are most blessed with the good
things of this life, but, running through the catalogue as arranged in
the order of their salubrity, we find some localities above the average
of health—nay, one at the very top—which fashion knows nothing of.
In these statements of the registrar, the different districts of the
Metropolis are placed in a list according to their healthiness, those in
which the fewest persons die in a year out of a given equal number,
standing first, followed by those next in sanitary order, until we come
down to those which are but just above the average for all London.
Passing that Rubicon, we see the names of those parishes in which death
gets more than his proper proportion of victims every year; and then,
one after another, down, down the list, until we reach its lowest
depths, in those places where filth and fever reign paramount, and where
such a destroyer as Cholera finds hundreds of victims already weakened
by previous unhealthy influences, and ready to fall a rapid and easy
prey.
Let us go through this graduated scale, that shows how health and
disease struggle for the mastery, and how death turns the balance.
First on the list stands Lewisham, a large parish stretching from
Blackheath across the open hilly fields towards Norwood, and including
the hamlet of Sydenham. Its rural character, scattered population, and
good water, explain its pre-eminence on the sanitary scale. The second
name on the list carries us at once from a green suburban parish to one
of the centres of fashion and aristocracy,—to St. George, Hanover
Square. The presence of this parish, so high up on the scale, is due to
several circumstances; and its claims to such prominence are more
artificial than those of its rural competitor for the palm of
healthfulness. The scale is made out from the census of 1841, which was
taken during the height of the London season, when St. George’s was of
course much fuller than it is on the general average of the year. Its
population, too, is to a great extent composed of servants “in place,”
and, therefore, generally young and in good health, and who, when
dangerously sick, are sent to the hospitals, or to the country to die.
The masters and mistresses of St. George’s, also, are so circumstanced,
that when in bad health they can try the sea-air, or retire to country
seats. All these facts tend to lessen the mortality of the district, and
thus tend to place it high up on the sanitary scale. Its advantages are,
an average elevation of forty-nine feet above the high water mark of the
Thames; its neighbourhood to the parks; its wide open streets; a supply
of water drawn from a Company whose system of filtration is very good; a
comparatively thin population, compared with its extent, there being, in
this parish, only sixty-six persons to an acre; and the size and
character of its houses, which return an average rental of 153_l._ a
year.
From the fashionable “west end” we have to travel to a suburban spot for
the third place in rank on the health-scale. It is the sub-district of
Hampstead. All who have been upon its breezy heath, with its elevation
three or four hundred feet above the river, and its open view of the
surrounding country, will readily understand why Hampstead should rank
high in salubrity—though its average of rental may be low, and though
more persons (as they do) live in each house than in the houses of
Bermondsey and Rotherhithe.
Fourth on the list comes Hackney, which has only thirteen persons to an
acre. This advantage will be seen more strongly, when we know that
Hampstead has but six, and Lewisham, but two; whilst East London has two
hundred and eighty, and Southwark, one hundred and sixty-five persons
per acre. Hackney also has water from the New River, a comparatively
pure source; and, though its houses are small, with a rental of but
35_l._, the number of occupants to each is but seven.
For the fifth in order of salubrity we have again to cross the Thames.
It is Camberwell. This parish lies very low, being only four feet above
the water mark; but, then, it is fringed on one side by the open
country; is sheltered from cold winds; is thinly peopled, having only
twelve persons to an acre, and only six occupants to a house. Its
drainage is, almost necessarily, bad, but its neighbourhood to the green
fields compensates for many sanitary evils.
Wandsworth, with a burden of poor rates almost equal in poundage to that
inflicted upon Southwark and Lambeth comes next. The recommendations of
Wandsworth are, a population of only four to an acre. This indication of
ample open spaces explains the general healthiness of the parish. Its
position and bad drainage have rendered it liable to very heavy loss
from epidemics. Cholera found a larger proportion of victims in
Wandsworth than in the densest peopled parish on the north of the river.
“Merry Islington” ranks only seventh in spite of its high and dry
position, and its New River water, and its neighbouring fields. Its
elevation is eighty-eight feet above the river; its density of
population, twenty-five to an acre; its average rental 35_l._; its
annual deaths, one in fifty.
Kensington and Chelsea follow next, and with them are included Brompton,
Hammersmith, and Fulham. They all lie low, but are in pleasant company
with fields and open spaces; their people are well to do in the world,
and a large portion drink good water.
The City of London district—that is, the portion of the city round about
the Mansion House, and including the houses and warehouses of the rich
traders, who cluster near the Lord Mayor’s chosen dwelling-place—comes
next in order. This is explained by the elevation of the ground, which
is thirty-eight feet above the river; by the value of the property
(average rental 117_l._) which excludes the poor; by the fact that the
Lord Mayor and his neighbours do not drink Thames water; and that their
wealth enables them to live well, and to obtain the best medical
aid,—both for rich and poor. The most affluent also reside out of town,
and many of their old people are drafted off in their old age to
alms-houses, and to country unions. The mortality of this part of the
city is two hundred and fourteen a year out of ten thousand living.
Next after the neighbourhood of the civic ruler, we have the locality
which has been chosen for the palace of the sovereign—St. James’s. The
population of this parish is dense,—being two hundred and nine to an
acre, though its rentals are high. The palace stands in by no means the
best portion of the district, but the saving points are the parks and
the absence of Thames water.
St. Pancras follows St. James’s, its recommendations being an elevation
of eighty feet above the river, and a population not one-third so
closely packed as that of the parish occupied by the palace. Its density
is sixty persons to an acre. Pancras, however, has many poor, and
consequently heavy rates.
Marylebone, its neighbour, claims to follow Pancras, with a greater
elevation and a better class of houses, yet with bad drainage and a
heavier mortality. In Marylebone two hundred and twenty-two persons die
in a year out of ten thousand. The population is more dense than in the
poorer district of Pancras, but the near neighbourhood of Regent’s Park
and open country about Primrose Hill has, of course, a favourable
influence.
We have now to re-cross the river for the thirteenth place upon this
London Sanitary Scale. It is Newington, a suburban parish, with a level
two feet below the water mark, and with bad water, yet having fewer
deaths than more noted and more wealthy quarters. Like Wandsworth,
however, it suffered severely from Cholera, as its swampy position would
lead one to expect.
The district round the palace of the Archbishop—Lambeth—follows next in
order. It is raised but a very few feet above the high water level; its
rents are low, its poor rates high, its nuisances many; and its water
supply bad. But it has the air-draught from the river on one side, and
it is not very far from the fields on the other; and more than all, it
has but thirty-nine persons to an acre, and so it escapes with fewer
deaths in a year than its unfavourable position would lead one to
anticipate. It is, however, another of those spots where Cholera made
great havoc.
From what may be called one river side extremity of South London, we
skip over the central water-side parishes, and go to the opposite
extremity of the metropolis to find at Greenwich our next healthiest
district. Like Lambeth, this place lies low, is badly drained, and has a
poor class of houses, and consequently of people. The secret of its
position on the scale of health is to be found in the fact that the
population is not dense, being only twenty-one to an acre; that it has a
fine park for a playground, and is in near neighbourhood to Blackheath,
and thence to the open and healthy hills and fields of Kent.
Now we must return again to the centre of London for its next most
healthy parish. It is St. Martin’s-in-the-Fields; but having, it is
almost needless to say, no rural character, except by name. Trafalgar
Square, with its fountains, is almost its only enjoyable open space. The
density of population is not over great for such a position; the rental
high; the deaths two hundred and forty to ten thousand living each year.
Away east again for our next and last parish that stands above the
general average of London. Stepney is the place, with its multitude of
small houses at low rentals. It has its water from the river Lea, and
its inhabitants have not very far to go when they wish for a ramble in
the fields. Its yearly contribution to our total mortality is two
hundred and forty-two out of ten thousand souls.
And here a dark line has to be drawn; for Stepney is close down upon the
average mortality of all London. Each parish already named pays less
than the average tribute to death—those presently to be enumerated pay
more. The contributions vary from Clerkenwell, which is the least
unhealthy on the black list to Whitechapel, which is the most unhealthy.
This last parish indeed is the worst in all the metropolis. Between the
two extremes of insalubrity, the districts range in the following order:
Clerkenwell, brought down in the scale by its nests of poverty, and
doubtless, by its huge over-gorged grave-yard. Bethnal Green, with its
host of small houses, and average rental of only 9_l._ The Strand—the
great thoroughfare of fine shops—with a back neighbourhood of filthy
alleys and riverside abominations. Shoreditch, with its stock of poor
people and old clothes. Westminster—regal, historical Westminster—raised
but two feet above the water level, and famous alike for its abbey, its
palace, and its rookeries. Bermondsey, just level with the water line,
and poisoned by open drains and unsavoury factories. Rotherhithe, damp
and foggy. St. Giles’s, another spot renowned for vice, poverty, and
dirt. St. George’s, Southwark, low, poor, and densely crowded. Next come
the two portions of the City of London, technically described as East
London and West London, being in fact those parts beyond the centre
surrounding the Mansion House—the portions indeed especially indulged
with the frowsiness of Cripplegate and the choked-up smells of
Leadenhall; the abominations of Smithfield; the exhalations of the Fleet
ditch; the fever-engendering closeness of the courts off Fleet Street;
and the smoky, ill-smelling sinuosities of Whitefriars. Next below these
“City of London districts” we have Holborn, with a density of two
hundred and thirty-seven to an acre, and a yearly mortality of two
hundred and sixty-six to ten thousand living. Then St. George’s in the
East, with a population far less closely packed than that of Holborn,
yet sending two hundred and eighty-nine souls to judgment every year out
of ten thousand living. Next St. Saviour’s and St. Olave’s, the two
other Southwark parishes who drink Thames water taken from the stream
near their own bridge, and therefore below the Fleet ditch. St. Luke’s,
the locality of another rookery. And, lastly, the zero of this register,
Whitechapel—with its shambles, its poverty, its vice, and its heavy
quota of two hundred and ninety deaths a year out of ten thousand
living.
This glance at the results displayed in the registrar’s thick volume of
figures, published last year, gives us not only an idea of the curious
information to be gleaned from the labours of Mr. Farr and his brother
officers, but shows also how unevenly death visits the different
portions of our huge city. If from our family of two millions the
destroyer takes a thousand souls a week to their final account, the
first and most certain to fall victims are those who, from ignorance, or
recklessness, or poverty, outrage the natural laws by which alone health
and life can be preserved.
A comparison between the chances of death which the Londoner runs as
compared with those suffered by his fellow countrymen in other districts
of England, might be put familiarly somewhat after this fashion. If a
man’s acquaintances were fixed at fifty-two in number, and they lived in
scattered places over England, he would annually lose one by death in
forty-five. If they lived in the southeastern counties, the loss would
be at the lower rate of one in fifty-two. If they all lived in London,
he would lose one out of thirty-nine.
This additional mortality is the penalty now being, day by day,
inflicted upon sinners against sanitary laws in the English metropolis.