THE REGISTRAR-GENERAL ON “LIFE” IN LONDON.

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 331column 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 332thin 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 153l. 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 35l., 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 35l.; 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 117l.) 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.

333From 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 9l. 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.