identity was later confirmed by Mary Ann Monk form the Lambeth Workhouse, where Polly had spent time in the recent past. Mary Ann Nicholls had been married to William Nichols, a printer, and had borne him five children. Following frequent and often violent quarrels, mostly caused by Mary's propensity for drink the couple separated and, as was so often the case amongst the poor of Victorian London, she took to prostitution in an attempt to keep body and soul together. It was an old story and one repeated all too often amongst the decay and squalor that the poorest inhabitants were forced to endure on a daily basis. There were no welfare benefits, no handouts and no pity to be spared for those who made up the sad underclass without whom the vast engine of the British Empire would in all probability have ground to a halt. These were the souls whose sweat and hard labour fuelled the vast factories that had spring up during the industrial revolution, who worked long and hard hours on the docks, in the markets and on the streets of London in order to eke out the barest of livings. The hours were long and the work mostly soul destroying and back-breaking in its physical intensity.
Their homes were for the most part dark and dirty hovels, with often more then one family sharing not a whole house, but a pitiful room, perhaps without furniture, beds, or decent food. Windows were often bare of glass and were stuffed with old newspapers or sacking, anything to keep out the cold of night. Degradation and squalor were the order of the day and nowhere was perhaps as severely affected as the Whitechapel district, where crime, disease and apathy of soul became bywords for those who eventually sought to attempt to improve the lot of those who were forced to endure the privations of life on the fringes of so-called civilised society.
Such was the way of life endured by Polly Nichols and those like her, the poor 'unfortunates' who plied their pitiful trade selling their bodies for a few pence at a time in a pitiful attempt to raise enough money to find a bed for the night in one of the many 'doss' houses that sprang up around the East end to cater for those with no home to call their own. Of course, the handmaiden of the prostitutes of Whitechapel was so often the gin that flowed in the many ale houses and pubs that lined the district's streets, and the temptation was always there to spend whatever meagre earnings they'd obtained in attaining the oblivion of drunkenness in preference to finding that bed for the night. It was certainly the case for Polly Nichols. A woman by the name of Ellen Holland had been the last person to see her alive, reporting her as having been 'drunk and staggering' when she saw her on the corner of Osborn Street and Whitechapel High Street at around two thirty a.m. Perhaps we may hope that her state of drunkenness protected her from the full horrors of what was about to befall her.
Mary Ann 'Polly' Nichols had received such a wound to her throat that the incision completely severed the tissues down to the vertebrae. The lower part of her abdomen had been subjected to a number of wounds, deep and violent in their execution. In addition, bruising was apparent on her face and jaw, as though caused by a blow or blows, and possibly by pressure from fingers on the side of her face. Though not as grotesque as some of the wounds inflicted on later victims in the killing spree that had begun in Whitechapel, they were sufficient to raise the spectre of horror and fear that was soon to engulf the whole of London, and capture the attention of the nation as a whole. The infamy of the killer's reputation would soon spread abroad, far and wide, though as yet, the killer was unknown, nameless and little more than a shadowy figure in the night, unseen and unheard as he went about his grisly work.
With no progress made in the hunt for killer, Mary Ann Nichols was buried in the cemetery at Little Ilford on 6th September
Their homes were for the most part dark and dirty hovels, with often more then one family sharing not a whole house, but a pitiful room, perhaps without furniture, beds, or decent food. Windows were often bare of glass and were stuffed with old newspapers or sacking, anything to keep out the cold of night. Degradation and squalor were the order of the day and nowhere was perhaps as severely affected as the Whitechapel district, where crime, disease and apathy of soul became bywords for those who eventually sought to attempt to improve the lot of those who were forced to endure the privations of life on the fringes of so-called civilised society.
Such was the way of life endured by Polly Nichols and those like her, the poor 'unfortunates' who plied their pitiful trade selling their bodies for a few pence at a time in a pitiful attempt to raise enough money to find a bed for the night in one of the many 'doss' houses that sprang up around the East end to cater for those with no home to call their own. Of course, the handmaiden of the prostitutes of Whitechapel was so often the gin that flowed in the many ale houses and pubs that lined the district's streets, and the temptation was always there to spend whatever meagre earnings they'd obtained in attaining the oblivion of drunkenness in preference to finding that bed for the night. It was certainly the case for Polly Nichols. A woman by the name of Ellen Holland had been the last person to see her alive, reporting her as having been 'drunk and staggering' when she saw her on the corner of Osborn Street and Whitechapel High Street at around two thirty a.m. Perhaps we may hope that her state of drunkenness protected her from the full horrors of what was about to befall her.
Mary Ann 'Polly' Nichols had received such a wound to her throat that the incision completely severed the tissues down to the vertebrae. The lower part of her abdomen had been subjected to a number of wounds, deep and violent in their execution. In addition, bruising was apparent on her face and jaw, as though caused by a blow or blows, and possibly by pressure from fingers on the side of her face. Though not as grotesque as some of the wounds inflicted on later victims in the killing spree that had begun in Whitechapel, they were sufficient to raise the spectre of horror and fear that was soon to engulf the whole of London, and capture the attention of the nation as a whole. The infamy of the killer's reputation would soon spread abroad, far and wide, though as yet, the killer was unknown, nameless and little more than a shadowy figure in the night, unseen and unheard as he went about his grisly work.
With no progress made in the hunt for killer, Mary Ann Nichols was buried in the cemetery at Little Ilford on 6th September
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