The Portland daily press. [volume] (Portland, Me.) 1862-1921, 1888-10-29
WHITEcHAPEL AFTER DARK.
The Slums In Which London's
Woman-kilIer Operates.

Woman-kllIer Operates.
While an immense amount Of matter has
been eabled over concerning the Whitechapel
atrocities, there has been a curious poverty
of detail, says a correspondent Of the Balti-
more Sun. The CHASTITY diablerie Of these
crimes and the grotesque horrors of their
execution has confounded the solemn re-
spectabillty of the British reporter, and he
has not been equal to the occasion. II
race of devils exist, the public want to know
their street and number. and, as far as de-
scriptive details are concerned, the murders
might as well have occurred In Belgravia's
Hotel.
As matter of fact they were committed
within twenty minutes walk OF the Bank of
England.
When one passes this celebrated institu
tion he has on his left the historic Mansion
House, and on his right the Corinthlan col
onnade Of the Royal Exchange. He stands
In a square, and hack of him debouch dozen
thoroughfares, for this is the heart of London
from which radiate the pulsing arteries that
minister TO the vitality Of the metropolis
''The strategic centre Of the universe" Mr.
Robert Louis Stevenson quantity calls 1t,
within earshot of the most continuous cbink
OF money on the face Of the earth.'
Within twenty minutes walk Of this Ifocus
OF civilization six women were disembOweled
1t is huge tract, about a third Of a mile
each way, and the approaches to It are streets
ments, flush with the pavement, and iu vari-
Gus stages of decay. This is as far as the
average curiosity seeker engaged in "slum-
ming" penetrates. The fetid heart Of the
place, down the labyrinthine alley ways and
gloomy passages, is region scarce safe for
ears polite. The ways that lead to 1t contin-
ually at length descend until one finds him
self In low-lying jumble of narrow streets,
winding among huge, dilapidated houses, and
leading here and there TO squalid courts, full
of wan-faced, ragged children.
The sky is seen through mesh OF clothes
lines fiuttering with tatters, and frequently
beams have been thrown across from the
houses to prop them at .the tops and keep
them from tumbling together. This Is White
chapel, the Whitechapel OF Dickens, where
the Artful Dodger found safe retreat, and
the theatre Of more accumulated misery than
any other spot on the sad old earth.
The people who live here are women who
have already died the first death OF courte-
sans-that Is to say, who have become old or
| frightful-and men whom poverty, degrade
tion or crime have driven from every other
nook and corner in London. Very few have
fallen from any high estate: that sort prefer
to jump off of London bridge and have done
with it; these are the offscourings. However
there are some exceptions. L asked the way
on one occasion OF a man who had a profile
like statue and was dressed like ragpicker
His face wore scared, questioning, bewild-
cred look that was haunting, and have new
er forgotten 1t, and be answered very gently
like child. He had been a gentleman, then
an absinthe drinker. and was an imbecile.
Whitechapel does not really wake up until
after dark. The denizens. like rats, prefer
their holes by day, but when the lamps are
lit they come swarming out, throng the mar
row passages and blockade the corners,
There Is a community of suffering among
them; they all know one another. and women
wander up and down by twos and threes
begging for drinks and singing ribald songs.
At intervals Of half an hour or so. a police
officer looms into view, and passes by with
slow, solemn tread.
He looks neither to the right nor left, and
realizes that he is there solely as matter Of
form, although at the sight Of him any fight
that may be in progress momantarily stops,
and men and women, by force Of habit, stink
into Railways and are silent. The strangers
who occasionally put IN appearance are, In
the main, drunken sailors out to spend in a
night the wages Of the last voyage. Instant
ly they are seized upon by dozen women,
who fight like catamounts for the privilege
of plucking the pigeon.
The typical Whitechapel dive where these
scenes are enacted every night in the year is
basement of one of the huge tenements and
entered by flight of steps. In the front part
Is big counter doing duty as bar, and back
of 1t Is heaped kegs Of beer and bottles.
Beer, rum and whiskey are the three things
on SALE, ,and the Granny, ,broken-nosed, sinister
faced man who dispenses them would be as
much surprised at request for a mixed
drink as he would be If one of his customers
asked him to change twenty pound note
Cut that chatting" he would say" an tell
me wot ye' want"
Nearly everybody wants bucket Of beer,
and as half the people also want credit, there
is haggling and disputing without end. Now
and then then the bartender jumps over the
counter and settles some dispute by striking
cut right and left On one occasion, in the
midst Of such a crowd in a Whitechapel
| dive, saw witch-like old crone totter up
| to the bar, hand tin pail to one of the brutes
who was pumping beer, and say something
| to him in an undertone.
He turned, looked at her fxedly for an
instant, and then without a word, dashed
| the bucket twice into her face. When she
picked herself up he threw the bucket after
her and bade her begone. IL may be inter-
esting to note in passing that the
man who did this abominable thing was,
afterward ascertained, not an Englishman,
but an American, who had obtained his early
education tending bar in lake front saloon
at Chicago.
rooms are usually boarded off, where men
are robbed at leisure. II they could talk they
could tell queer tales. In 1884 Whitechapel
saloon, known as "The Cat and Bell" was
| destroyed by fire, and when debris was
| cleared away two walled rooms, the exist.
| ence Of which no one had dreamed Of, were
| discovered in the cellar. 1t had been an
| Immensely old house, and these were proba-
| bly, at one tine used as wine bins.
| Against the door frightful something that
| still preserved some Of the semblance Of a
human body was found. But In the damp
| and endless midnight of this cavernous hole
1t had passed so thoroughly from flesh to
| decay, and from decay TO mold, that they
were not sure. and thought 1t a pile Of wei
| ashes until they moved It aud a skull rolled
| out, Some metal buttons and a corroded
knife found in the mass identified II as the
| remains Of a sailor called French Bob" anc
| then IL was remembered how be had wan
dered into Whitechapel one night about
| year before and was last seen carousing with
some women, How he got into the horrible
/ crypt from which his body was taken Is easy
| guessing. He was doubtless robbed, throt-
tied ard thrown there for dead, but from the
/ position Of the remains 1t Is only too probable
that he revived in the living tomb, crawled
70 the door, and died In last effort to escape.
The record of the London police trace nearly
one-forth Of the disappearances to the White
chapel district, and considering the enormous
size Of the city, these figures need no COM
ment.
All of the six victims of the recent White
| chapel murders we're found in the doorways,
halls or landings Of tenement houses. The
average Whitechapel tenement Is four or hve
stories high, and from top to bottom II
swarms hideously with life. Its sixty OF
eighty rooms are never empty, and the more
fortunate ones rent sleeping space to others
so there is nothing remarkable in the state.
| ment OF one man to the Scotland Yard detec.
tives that he had lived In the district for Six
| months and never slept twice in the same
J place. Even the women who ply the trade
of shame huddle together like rabbits 10 1
warren.