Whitechapel – Spitalfields
On the final day of our trip, we were due to fly home from Heathrow 9.30 pm. We had a whole day to fill before then, but of course had to check out of our accommodation first, and store our bags, before setting out to trace the final day of my 4 x great-grandfather Eleazer Hart, but in reverse.
From where were staying in Praed Street it was just a short walk to Edgeware Road Station, where we caught the tube to travel the six miles across to Whitechapel Station on the Hammersmith line. I had found using the tube in London was a great way to get around, although by the time we arrived at Whitechapel it was no longer the ‘underground’. Having experienced earthquakes in New Zealand the constant rumbles and vibrations of passing trains, even three floors up where we stayed was quite disconcerting. Another thing I wasn’t quite prepared for was trying to find your sense of direction after emerging from the underground. Not to be recommended in the dark as we found out too late in Madrid, but that is another story.
So when we emerged into the early morning autumn sunshine I headed confidently across the Whitechapel Road and then realised we actually should have stayed on the north side. There were stalls and awnings set up the length of Whitechapel Road, selling clothes, fruit and knickknacks, by this time we were by the Royal London Hospital. We had to risk our necks and dash across the road, then figure how to get through the stalls to the footpath beyond again.
We quickly realised that the area was now a Muslim neighborhood, women pushing prams wore headscarves and long skirts or traditional kabuli trousers; one or two in full burka. There seemed to be every skin-colour from milky coffee to ebony, representing a range of countries of origin for the forebears of these people: Morocco, Algeria, Nigeria, Egypt just some of the diversity. This was of course a transformation from what had once been the Jewish quarter, 150 years ago, full of long-established families and new immigrants, from across Europe: Germany, Poland (Prussia) Russia, Spain and Portugal. As Kiwis from a provincial town we felt just a tiny bit out-of-place; some people seemed to stare, but maybe they just thought we were lost tourists.
We were headed to Brady Street, where we had arranged to meet the caretaker of the cemetery where Eleazer Hart was buried. Brady Street was called North Street in the 1850s and before that Ducking Pond Lane. Goodness knows what sort of things used to go on in this area when it was just fields, lanes and trees in the Middlesex countryside; the original name hints of superstition and witchcraft.
Brady Street is a tiny, narrow street, the entrance from Whitechapel Road on one side is marked by a gleaming green glass multi-storied Idea store, and behind that, a Sainsburys supermarket, so incongruous to everything I had read about the historic Whitechapel. As we passed down the narrow street opposite the supermarket came the sounds of laughter as teenagers gathered at Swanlea Secondary School, girls giggling in headscarves and boys racing their friends into the glassed foyer of the school, tucking away their cell phones, late for classes. This link to another blog about Brady Street shows an old map of Whitechapel with a coal depot where the school now stands, another shows a manure works on the site.
The narrow street widens a little, and gives way to brick buildings; lovely old Victorian almshouses and more recent brick apartments overlook the quiet street lined with leafy trees. A high brick wall, with more green trees beyond, is the only sign of the cemetery, passing a more recently built brick apartment building, the passerby will see a driveway and metal gate (NO PARKING) beyond which are tall timber gates. A single gnarled and broken, but well-pruned oak tree has been allowed to remain at the kerb, neatly surrounded with a wooden planter, probably one of the original trees in the area.
A small plaque discreetly shows that this cemetery is still revered in the Jewish community. It has been a constant for over 250 years, unlike some of London’s other burial grounds that have been quietly reclaimed as prime building land. The cemetery here was originally supposed to close about the time of Eleazer’s death in 1857, but was given a royal reprieve from the Queen. Because of recent burials in the late 20 century the site is guaranteed to be preserved for at least another 100 years. The cemetery has some important graves including Nathan Mayer Rothschild (1771 – 1836) and his wife Hannah. Nathan Myer founded the British branch of the Rothschild banking dynasty. A list of internments can be found at Cemetery Scribes.
Stepping through the gates we were suddenly surrounded by hush: school was in and the shrieks and laughter subsided. Leaves were beginning to fall, but there were still shade cast by the trees. Blackbirds were singing high in the trees. Just inside the gate a low wall illustrates how in the mid-1850s an extra layer of earth was mounded in the centre of the burial ground, to allow more burials and raising the ground level by a metre or more.
I quickly found Eleazer’s grave – the cemetery was not large, but somehow I was drawn to the southern side and of course I had already seen photographs of the stone. I was startled to realise that Eleazer’s grave, dug when the extra mound had been added in the centre of the burial ground was actual on the lower, outer area. Was this because he was buried with his wife Sarah, who had died 17 years earlier?
A beautiful, peaceful place, a little oasis of nature in the midst of one of the largest cities in the world, yet it was just us and the long-dead there. As I contemplated the headstone, I noticed a ladybird had alighted and trundled industriously across the pitted surface. ‘Fly away home’ I thought as she raised her scarlet wing-covers and extended her shiny black wings before zooming away – soon we would be flying home too. I felt a little sad remembering how Eleazer had been on his way home too when he died. A new book has just been published featuring beautiful images across the seasons of Brady Street cemetery and another old Jewish cemetery; Alderney Road: make sure you check out Louis Berk’s blog.
We then retraced our steps to Whitechapel Road and made our way through the quiet back streets towards the city, to find the former White Lion Street, now Folgate Street. This is about a mile away, an easy twenty-minute walk. As ever on this trip, I was astounded by how close everything was – somehow living in the Antipodes so far away from these historic places I have a sense of smallness – that somehow all these great places will be great in size as well – but they are quite compact, and the locals stroll about seemingly oblivious to the immense numbers of people in history that has passed the same way. The back streets are full of surprising and impressive street art, something that would have bemused the Victorians in their grimy, smog-laden slums.
It was from Wheeler Street that Eleazer Hart had an entrance to his Rag Merchant business, with warehouses, access for horse and wagons and to the rear of his house which was at 20 White Lion Street. Folgate Street now has different numbers, so the Hart home was situated at about where 44 Folgate Street is today.
This was a strange experience, walking on the street where Eleazer and Sarah Hart had their family, where my great, great, great-grandfather, the elusive and enigmatic Nathaniel Hart had likely played as a child with his siblings, and where their mother Sarah had died.
Their house has gone, replaced with a brick and white plastered building, now probably exclusive and expensive apartments. But further down this little, very short street there are buildings that were there a hundred years before the Harts moved in: part of Spital Square, where Huguenot weavers plied their trade in silks and satins, including weaving of Queen Victoria’s coronation robes.
The little pub once called the Pewter Platter (now the Water Poet) played host to rousing addresses given by Chartists: men who hoped to inspire the hundreds of workers who laboured in the Spitalfields to demand the right to vote, it also fed and ‘watered’ people tired and thirsty after a hard days work. It was scarcely lunchtime, but we were tired and thirsty so went in and availed ourselves of their custom, managing to knock back some good ale and good British pub grub: Steve had bangers and mash, and I finished with a Eton Mess.
Towards London Town
Replete from our repast, we staggered onwards. At the end of Folgate Street you are confronted with vast towers of glass and steel, now standing in the place where Eleazer Hart first started his Rag Merchant business along with Joseph Lee in Primrose Street. Modern commerce and history clash. Turn left and walk down Norton Folgate (the A10) and the architecture is amazing; ‘the Gherkin’ (30 St Mary Axe) gleamed in the sun like a fabulous Arabian jewel. It was just another mile (1.6 km) to our destination. I was astonished to realise the heart of the City of London was closer than the distance of my home to downtown Timaru, an easy Saturday morning stroll for coffee.
Further on down Bishopsgate we saw other distinctive buildings such as the ‘Cheesegrater’ and the ‘Walkie Talkie’ both designed with sloping faces to give unobstructed views to St Pauls Cathedral. I couldn’t help thinking what the former inhabitants of the area would have thought of these astounding constructions, the sheer enormity of them makes you feel very, very small.
Once upon a time the spires and domes of the churches were landmarks from which Londoners took their bearings, the chimes of their bells marking the passage of the day. Now these massive glass and concrete buildings dwarf and hem in the modest stone and brick churches, their spires diminished in grandeur and their walls squeezed so close it seems sacreligious. We reached Gracechurch Street and a few steps later could see down Fish Street Hill to the monument to the Great Fire of London, once another tall landmark almost buried amidst the higher buildings that have sprung around it.
Crossing Eastcheap we walked past the monument towards the Thames. It surprised me how high we had been, and that the descent was steep – to our right the approach to London Bridge was higher so that when we came out at Lower Thames Street you could see that we would need to climb higher to cross the bridge. Ahead of us was the church of St Magnus the Martyr, with its arched porch and clock. This small street was once large and the direct approach to the bridge. Pedestrians crossing the bridge passed through the archway on the church porch, avoiding the wheeled traffic grinding past. It was here that Eleazer’s body was laid and his inquest was held on the afternoon of his death.
To get onto London Bridge we had to back-track past the monument, and soon found ourselves gazing into the river. The present-day London Bridge was built during the 1970s. The previous one was sold and shipped to America (they probably thought they had bought Tower Bridge). The stone-arched bridge that was there when Eleazer died had been built in 1825, and the remnants of the ‘original’ London bridge were still visible for some time.
Access from the riverbank to the bridge was through three flights of steps, still in place for many years as can be seen in old photographs.
The steps were to be the death of Eleazer. Rushing to catch his train back to Portsea on the far side of the bridge, the climb up was too much, and he collapsed and died.
Details of his last moments were recorded by the coroner, with witness statements written in a form of shorthand. Luckily these documents are from just a handful of reports that survive today in the London Metropolitan Archives. These were kindly photographed for me in 2013 by a kind member of the online forum, British Jewry.
It took me a couple of weeks to transcribe the coroner’s shorthand:
Henry Huttle City Police Officer 577: about 5 minutes to 6 this morning I was in King William Station and I saw the deceased just by the top of the steps leading down to King Station on the lower side of the bridge. It appeared as if he had come to the top of the steps and he fell forward immediately. I saw 2 men lift him up and I went up to them they left him in my hands and I got a cab and took him to Dr Smiths in Fenchurch [?] Street he pronounced him dead. I saw him fall. No-one pushed him or knocked him down. I brought him for S Turks[?] of the church. When he was dis(covered?) he had 2 books on eating fish, and the basket a whiting [cod], he was carrying them
Henry Balls 26 George St, Kent. The cabman: I saw the deceased in the station and saw one person with him. I thought he was in a fit I took him to the doctors in my cab I then got him to the church entrance[?] I did not see him fall
Michael Hart, 112 Middlesex St, Whitechapel, Islington: The deceased was my brother. His name is Eleazer Hart. His age [ is] about 70. He was a gentleman. He lived at 47 St George Square, Portsea. He left me at 10 minutes upon 6 this morning at St-Mary-at Hill.I gave him one fish: his basket. He was in a great hurry to get to the 6 o’clock train at London Bridge to get him to Portsea. His health was good before this but he was taken occasionally with palpitations of the heart and gout.
[coroner?] The running up the steps caused apoplexy him. I have seen him. This is my [observation?] sub[sequent?] of struck first on his cheek bone from the fall. I show by this his death was probably natural [added note in pencil: he has been in town for the week.]
Sworn before H Payne coroner
So now I stood and looked at my feet as I stood on London Bridge and thought of Eleazer’s cheek meeting the ground as his breath left his body for the last time, and how he, a Jewish gentleman, was gathered up and laid out in a Christian church while the coroner recorded his final moments from the witnesses, including his brother Michael Hart. I thought too, how I had written about the end of Eleazer’s life in To Live a Long and Prosperous Life (p96-97) and had wanted to see for myself where he died alone, yet surrounded by hundreds of strangers on one of the busiest thoroughfares of London – and now I was finally here and it all seemed surreal.
I was too late to walk the old stairs, demolished just a few months earlier. They suffered from ‘a poor environment which can cause which can cause antisocial behaviour issues’ according to a report of the opening and the actual river bank can no longer be reached either.
Just a bit further along the bank, the old Billingsgate Fish Market, which once reeked of fish guts and blood, was now reincarnated as an elegant fish restaurant. In the outside eating area waiters in long black aprons were clearing away tables from the lunchtime service with crisp white tablecloths flapping in the breeze and seagulls hovering expectantly for scraps. This was where Eleazer had met his brother Michael that morning, to get a fish to take home for his supper.
What would they have made of the transformation of this area into genteel fine-dining and ambient strolling? The only thing unchanged (apart from the gulls) was the massive grey, oily Thames, silently roiling past us towards the sea, turning and glistening undercurrents gave an impression of animal strength – a living thing. The same river that had carried Eleazer’s son and daughter-in-law Nathaniel and Dinah and their young family when they sailed to New Zealand 152 years earlier, full of excitement for their new life – or aching for those familiar faces and places they were leaving behind. Their voyage took three months. We, too, were setting off to New Zealand later that night: it would take us less than thirty hours to complete our journey. My journey to walk in their footsteps had come to an end. Time to fly away home.
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Many of my mtDNA ‘matches’ are from descendants of immigrants to the USA, some relatively recently. At some stage there must have been a woman of this line who moved away from her sisters and settled in western Europe or England, and her direct female descendant was Dinah’s mother.
Written in Ink and Stone 