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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
In "Known to the Police," Thomas Holmes intricately weaves a compelling narrative set in the gritty underbelly of urban life. The book employs a first-person perspective, immersing readers in the psyche of its troubled protagonist, whose encounters with law enforcement reveal the deep-seated issues of systemic failure and social injustice. Holmes'Äô use of raw, evocative language and fragmented storytelling mirrors the chaotic nature of street life, making readers confront the realities faced by those marginalized by society. This work not only serves as a riveting crime drama but also as a poignant social commentary, reflecting the broader literary movement addressing the complexities of urban existence in the late 20th century. Thomas Holmes, a seasoned journalist and social activist, draws upon his extensive experience reporting on crime and socio-political issues to lend authenticity to his narrative. His personal encounters with the challenges faced by those living on the margins have shaped his worldview, infusing his writing with empathy and urgency. Holmes' commitment to shedding light on unreported stories is apparent, as he seeks to challenge prevailing stereotypes about crime and its victims. "Known to the Police" is a must-read for anyone interested in contemporary literature that grapples with pressing social issues. Holmes'Äô deft storytelling not only captivates but also compels readers to reconsider their perceptions of justice and community. This book is essential for those seeking to understand the interplay between crime, society, and humanity. In this enriched edition, we have carefully created added value for your reading experience: - Hand‐picked Memorable Quotes shine a spotlight on moments of literary brilliance. - Interactive footnotes clarify unusual references, historical allusions, and archaic phrases for an effortless, more informed read.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
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Known to the Police
Table of Contents
PREFACE
The kind reception accorded to a previous book encourages me to believe that another volume dealing with my experiences in the great under-world of London may not prove unacceptable.
For twenty-five years I have practically lived in this under-world, and the knowledge that I have obtained has been gathered from sad, and often wearying, experience. Yet I have seen so much to encourage and inspire me, that now, in my latter days, I am more hopeful of humanity's ultimate good than ever. Hopeful—nay, I am certain, for I have felt the pulse of humanity, and I know that it throbs with true sympathy. I have listened to its heart-beats, and I know that they tell in no uncertain manner that the heart of humanity is sound and true.
Most gladly do I take this opportunity of proclaiming—and I would that I could proclaim it with a far-reaching voice—that, in spite of all appearances to the contrary, in spite of apparent carelessness, indifference, and selfishness, the rich are not unmindful of the poor; they do not hate the poor, for I know—and no one knows it better—that with many of the rich the present condition of the very poor is a matter of deep and almost heartbreaking concern.
They will be glad—ay, with a great gladness—if some practical way of ameliorating our present conditions can be shown.
But I can speak with more authority for the poor, whom I know, love, and serve. The poor have no ill-feeling toward the rich; they harbour no suspicions; no envy, hatred, or malice dwell in their simple minds. Their goodness astonishes me, and it rebukes me.
Ah, when we get at the heart of things, rich and poor are very close together, and this closeness makes me hopeful; for out of it social salvation will come and the day arrive when experiences like unto mine will be impossible, and mine will have passed away as an evil dream.
Sincerely and devoutly I hope that this simple record of some parts of my life and my work may tend to bind rich and poor still closer.
One result of my former book, "Pictures and Problems from London Police Courts," is to be found at Walton-on-the-Naze—a Home of Rest for London's poorest toilers, which the readers of that book generously gave me the means of establishing. During the present year five hundred poor women have rested in it, some of them never having previously seen the sea. Such profits as accrue to me from the sale of this book will be devoted to the maintenance and development of this Home.
One word more. I want it to be distinctly understood that I am no longer a Police Court Missionary. I resigned that position four years ago that I might be free to devote my life to London's poorest toilers, the home-workers, to whom frequent references are made in my pages, and for whom I hope great things. But I am not free altogether of my old kind of work, for, as secretary of the Howard Association, one half of my life is still devoted to prisons and prisoners.
THOMAS HOLMES.
12, Bedford Road, Tottenham, N.September, 1908.
CHAPTER IMEMORIES AND CONTRASTS
During the summer of 1904 there were in London few men more unsettled in mind and miserable than myself. I had severed my connection with London police-courts—and well I knew it. I was not sure that I had done wisely or well, and was troubled accordingly. I missed more than words can express the miseries that had hitherto been inseparable from the routine of my life. For twenty-one years, day after day at a regular hour, I had turned my steps in one direction, and had gone from home morning by morning with my mind attuned to a certain note. It was not, then, a strange thing to find that mechanical habits had been formed, and that sometimes I found myself on the way to the police-court before I discovered my mistake. Still less was it a marvel to find that my mind refused to accept all at once the fact that I was no longer a Police-Court Missionary. I must in truth confess I felt a bit ashamed that I had given up the work. I felt that I was something of a traitor, who had deserted the poor and the outcast, many of whom had learned to love and trust me.
I am not ashamed to say that I had been somewhat proud of my name and title, for the words "Police-Court Missionary" meant much to me, and I had loved my work and had suffered for it.
It was doubtless in accordance with the fitness of things that I should retire from the work when I did, for I am getting old, and dead officialism might have crept upon me, and whatever power for good I may have might have been atrophied. Of such a fate I always felt afraid; mercifully from such a fate I was prevented or delivered.
Still, I sorrowed till time lightened the sense of loss. By-and-by new interests arose, new duties claimed me, and other phases of life interested me. Four years have now lapsed, a length of time that allows sufficient perspective, and enables me to calmly take stock of the twenty-one years I spent in London police-courts. I do not in this chapter, or in this book, intend to review the whole of those years, but I do hope to make some comparisons of the things of to-day with those of twenty-one years ago.
The comparisons will, I trust, be encouraging, and show that we have progressed in a right direction, and that we are all still progressing. Two days of those years will remain ever with me—the day I entered on my work and the day I gave it up.
Of the latter I will not speak; but as the former opened my eyes to wonders of humanity, and humanity being of all wonders the greatest, I have something to say.
The conditions at London police-courts in those days were bad, past conception. No words of mine can adequately describe them, and only for the sake of comparison and encouragement do I attempt briefly to portray some of the most striking features of those days. Even now I feel faint when I recall the "prisoners' waiting-room," with its dirty floor, its greasy walls, and its vile atmosphere.
The sanitary arrangements were disgusting. There was no female attendant to be found on the premises.
Strong benches attached to the walls provided the only seats; neither was there separation of the sexes. In this room old and young, pure and impure, clean and verminous, sane and insane, awaited their turn to appear before the magistrate; for the insane in those days were brought by local authorities that the magistrate might certify them, and they sat, too, amongst the waiting prisoners.
The sufferings of a decent woman who found herself in such company in such a room may easily be imagined; but the sufferings of a pure-minded girl, who for some trifling offence found herself in like position, cannot be described. The coarse women of Alsatia made jests upon her, and coarse blackguards, though sometimes well dressed, vaunted their obscenity before her. Deformed beggars, old hags from the workhouse—or from worse places—thieves, gamblers, drunkards, and harlots, men and women on the verge of delirium tremens—all these, and others that are unmentionable, combine to make the prisoners' room a horrid memory. Things are far different to-day, for light and cleanliness, fresh air and decency, prevail at police-courts. At every court there is now a female attendant; the sexes are rigidly separated. Children's cases are heard separately; neither are children placed in the cells or prisoners' room.
In those days policemen waited for the men and women who had been in their custody, and against whom they had given evidence, and, after their fines were paid, went to the nearest public-house and drank at their expense. Hundreds of times I have heard prisoners ask the prosecuting policeman to "Make it light for me," and many times I have heard the required promise given and an arrangement made. Sometimes I am glad to think that I have heard policemen give the reply: "I shall speak the truth"; but not often was this straightforward answer given.
In this respect a great change has come about, for policemen do not hold a conference with their prisoners in the waiting-room, and it is now a rare occurrence for a policeman to take a drink at his prisoner's expense.
And this improvement is to be welcomed, for it is typical of the improvement that has been going on all round. Gaolers in those days were "civil servants," and were not under police authority; now they are sergeants of the police, and under police discipline and authority. The old civil servant gaoler looked down from his greater altitude with something like contempt upon the common policemen, and this often led to much friction and unpleasantness. Now things work smoothly and easily, for every police-court official knows his duties and to whom he is responsible.
But a great change has also come over the magistrates—perhaps the greatest change of all. Doubtless the magistrates of those days were excellent men, but they were not only officials, but official also.
It was their business to mete out punishment, and they did it. Some were old—too old for the office. I have seen one sleeping on the bench frequently, and only waking up to give sentence. Once while the justice nodded his false teeth fell on his desk; he awoke with a start, and made a frantic effort to recover them. No doubt these men were sound lawyers, but they were representatives of the community as it then existed; there was no sentimentality about them, but they were rarely vindictive.
The legal profession, too, has changed. Where are the greasy, drunken old solicitors that haunted the precincts of police-courts twenty-five years ago? Gone. But they were common enough in those days, and touted for five-shilling jobs, money down, or higher prices when payment was deferred. With droughty throats and trembling limbs, they hastened to the nearest public-house to spend what payment had been given in advance. Here they would remain till their clients were before the magistrate, and would then appear just in time to say: "I appear for the prisoner, your Worship." Horrid old men they were, the fronts of their coats and vests all stained and shiny with the droppings of beer. Frequently the magistrate, unable to tolerate their drunken or half-drunken maunderings, would order them out of court; but even this drastic treatment had little effect upon them, for the next day, or even on the latter part of the same day, they, apparently without shame or humiliation, would inform his Worship that they were in So-and-so's case, and ask at what time it would be taken—as if, forsooth, their engagements were numerous and important.
The bullying solicitor, too, has disappeared or mended his ways. No longer is he allowed to bully and insult witnesses or prosecutors, and cast scurrilous and unclean imputations on the lives and characters of those opposed to him. Generally these fellows were engaged for the "defence."
They one and all acted on the principle that to attack was the best defence. I once heard an athletic young doctor ask a solicitor of this kind, who had been unusually insulting, to meet him when the case was over, assuring him also that he would receive his deserts—a good thrashing. The pompous, ignorant solicitor, with neither wit, words, action, utterance, nor the power of speech—he, too, has gone. One wondered at the strange fate that made solicitors of such men; wondered, too, how they passed the necessary examinations; but wondered most of all why people paid money for such fellows to defend them. Invariably they made their client's case much worse; they always declined to let "sleeping dogs lie," and were positively certain to reveal something or discover something to the disadvantage of the person whose interests they were supposed to be upholding. I remember one magistrate, sitting impatient and fidgety while the weary drip of words went on, calling out suddenly: "Three months' hard labour, during which you can ruminate on the brilliant defence made by your solicitor!"
All these have passed, and police-courts have been civilized; for law is more dignified, and its administration more refined. Magistrates are up-to-date, too, and quite in touch with the new order of things and with the aspirations of the community.
Bullying, drunken, and stupid solicitors have no chance to-day. In all these directions great changes have come about, and great progress has been made.
But the greatest change of all is that which has taken place in the appearance of the prisoners and of police-court humanity generally.
Where are the "blue-bottle" noses now? Twenty-five years ago they were numerous, but now London police-courts know them not.
Where are the reddened faces that told of protracted debauch? They are seldom to be met with. Hundreds of times in the years gone by, in the prisoners' waiting-room, I have heard the expression, "He's got them on"; and I have seen poor wretches trembling violently with terror in their faces, seeking to avoid some imaginary horror. But delirium tremens seems to have vanished from London police-courts.
Do people drink less? is a question often asked. If I may be permitted to reply, I would say they do, and very much less; but whether they are more sober is another question.
Of one thing I am perfectly certain, and it is this: people are more susceptible to the effects of drink than they were twenty-five years ago.
Whether this susceptibility is due to some change in the drink or to physiological causes in the drinkers I do not know, but of the result I am, as I have said, quite sure.
I am inclined to believe that we possess less power to withstand the effects of alcohol than formerly. We seem to arrive at the varying stages of drunkenness with very much less trouble, and at very much less cost. The reverse process, too, is equally rapid. Formerly there was not much doubt about the guilt of a man or woman who was charged with being drunk. If the policeman's word was not quite sufficient, the appearance of the prisoner completed the evidence. But now men and women are mad drunk one hour and practically sober the next. Red noses and inflamed faces cannot be developed under these conditions. I have seen in later years a long array of prisoners charged with being drunk, and no evidence of tarrying long at wine upon any one of them, and no evidence of drinking either, excepting the bruises or injuries received.
This ability to get drunk quickly and to recover quickly leads sometimes to unexpected results; for some men, when released on bail, rush promptly to their own doctor and get a certificate of sobriety, and then bring the doctor as a witness.
His Worship is in a dilemma when the case is brought before him, for the police state that the man was mad drunk at 1 a.m., while, on the other hand, medical testimony is forthcoming that at 2 a.m. he was perfectly sober.
Other men, when detained in the cells, get quickly sober. Nor can they believe they have been drunk; indignantly they demand an examination by the police divisional doctor, and willingly pay the necessary bill of seven and sixpence for his attendance. This time it is the doctor who is in a dilemma; he knows in his heart that the man has been drunk; he also naturally wishes to confirm the police evidence; still, he cannot conscientiously say that the man is drunk. "He appears to be recovering from the effects of drink," is the testimony that he gives, and his opinion is attached to the charge-sheet for the magistrate's guidance. "No," says the prisoner, "I was not drunk; neither had I been drunk; but I was excited at being detained in the cells on a false charge." And he will call as witnesses friends who were in his company during the evening, and from whom he had parted only a few minutes previous to arrest. They declare that the prisoner was perfectly sober; that he could not possibly have been drunk; that they had only a limited number of drinks; that he was as sober as they were—the latter statement being probably true!
What can the magistrate do under such circumstances but discharge the prisoner?—and "Another unfounded charge by the police" is duly advertised by the Press.
I believe this to be the secret of so much contradictory evidence, and this new physiological factor must be taken into account when weighing evidence, or much discredit will fall upon the police, when they have but honestly done their duty. It ought no longer to avail a prisoner who proves sobriety at one o'clock, sobriety at three o'clock, to contend that he could not possibly have been drunk at two o'clock. I have seen so much of drunkenness that I believe two hours a sufficient length of time to allow many men to get drunk and to get sober too.
I must not enter on an inquiry as to why this change has come about; I merely content myself with stating a fact, that must be recognized, and which is as worthy of consideration by sociologists and politicians as it is by judges and magistrates.
This facility of getting drunk means danger, for passions are readily excited, and delusions readily arise, and are most tenaciously held in brains so easily disturbed by drink. All sorts of things are possible, from silly antics to frenzy and murder; but, as I have said, the varying stages pass so quickly that only onlookers can realize the truth: for the victim of this facility is nearly always sure that the evidence given against him is absolutely false.
But prisoners generally have changed: I am not sure that the change is for the better. Time was when prisoners had character, grit, pluck, and personality, but now these qualities are not often met with. Formerly a good number of the vagabonds were interesting vagabonds, and were possessed of some redeeming features: they seemed to have a keen sense of humour; but to-day this feature cannot often be seen.
Prisoners have put on a kind of veneer, for both youthful offenders and offenders of older growth are better dressed.
They are cleaner, too, in person, for which I suppose one ought to be thankful—even though, to a large extent, rags and tatters were picturesque compared with the styles of dress now too often seen. Loss of the picturesque has, I am afraid, been accompanied by loss of individuality, and the processions that pass through London police-courts now are not so striking as formerly. They are devoid of strong personality, and the mass of people in many respects resembles a flock of sheep. They have no desire to do wrong, but they constantly go wrong; they have no particular wish to do evil, but they have little inclination for good. In a word, weakness, not wickedness, is their great characteristic.
But weakness is often more mischievous and disastrous in its consequences than wickedness.
In the young offenders this lack of grit is combined with an absence of moral principles, and though the majority of them appear to know right from wrong, they certainly act as if they possess little moral consciousness.
Again I content myself with merely stating a fact, for I must not be led into philosophic inquiry or speculation as to the causes of this loss of grit, though I hope to say something upon the subject later on.
Crime, too, has changed in some respects. There are fewer crimes of violence; there is less brutality, less debauchery, less drinking; but—and I would like to write it very large—there is more dishonesty, which is a more insidious evil.
Here again I am tempted to philosophic inquiry, or to engage in some attempt to answer the question—Are we as a nation becoming more dishonest? I answer at once, We are.
For twenty-five years I have watched the trend of crime, for the past ten years I have closely studied our criminal statistics, and I can say that personal experience and a close study of our annual criminal statistics confirm me in this matter.
Some explanation of the growth of dishonesty may be found in the social changes that have been going on. As education advanced the number of men and women employed as clerks, salesmen, and business assistants multiplied, and it follows that the temptations to, and opportunities for, dishonesty multiplied also. For years a large transference of boys and young men from the labouring and artisan life to the clerk's desk or to the shop-counter has been going on. The growth in the number of persons employed as distributors of the necessaries of life, who day after day receive, on behalf of their employers, payments for bread, milk, meat, coal, etc., multiplies enormously the facilities for dishonest actions.
Most of those engaged in this class of work come from the homes of the poor, and in too many cases receive insufficient payment for arduous and responsible services. Still, I am sure that we must not look for the reason of this growing dishonesty in the multiplication of the opportunities, or to sudden temptations caused by the stress of poverty.
To what, then, shall it be attributed? I do not hesitate to answer this question, by replying at once: To that lack of moral backbone and grit to which I have alluded; to the absence of direct principles; to the desire of enjoying pleasures that cannot be afforded, and of spending money not honestly acquired. Some people to whom I have spoken on this subject have said to me: "But these are the faults of the rich; surely they are not the sins of the poor." And I have said: "Well, you know more of the rich than I do, so maybe they are characteristic of both." Though I do not believe them to be national characteristics, sorrowfully I say the trend is in that direction. I know perfectly well that some people will say that this is the croaking of one who is growing old, and that old men always did, and always will, believe in the decadence of the present age.
But this is not so. I am a born optimist. I believe in the ultimate triumph of good. I believe that humanity has within itself a sufficiency of good qualities to effect its social salvation. Nevertheless, I am afraid of this growing dishonesty, for I have seen something of its consequences. Sneaking peculations, small acts of dishonesty, miserable embezzlements, falsified accounts, and contemptible frauds, have damned the lives of thousands, and the strands of life are covered by human wrecks, whose anchorage has been so weak that the veriest puff of wind has driven them to destruction.
I know something of the evils of drink; I have seen much of the blighting influence of gambling; but dishonesty is more certain and deadly in its effects among educated and ignorant alike: for it begins in secrecy, it is continued in duplicity, it destroys the moral fibre, and it ends with death.
I have said that the police-court processions are not so interesting as in years gone by: probably that is a superficial view, for humanity is, and must be always, equally interesting. It may not be as picturesque, but that is a surface view only, and we really want to know what is beneath. But the underneath takes some discovering, and when we get there it is only to find that there is still something lower still.
Much has been said of late years about the increase of insanity. Whether this increase is more apparent than real is a debatable point. I am glad to know that more people are certified than formerly, and that greater care is taken of them. This undoubtedly prolongs their existence, and consequently adds to their number. But whatever doubt I may have about the actually insane, I have no doubt whatever about the increase in the number of those who live on the borderland between sanity and insanity, and whose case is far more pitiful than that of the altogether mad.
Poor wretches! who are banged from pillar to post, helpless and hopeless, they are the sport of circumstances; they are an eyesore to humanity, a danger to the community, and a puzzle to themselves. For such neither the State nor local authorities have anything to offer. If committed to prison, they are certified as "unfit for prison discipline." If they enter the workhouse, they are encouraged to take their discharge at the earliest moment. They cannot work, but they can steal, and they can beg. They have animal passions, but they have less than animal control. They can perpetuate their species, and pile up burdens for other generations to bear. Nothing in all my experiences astonishes me so much as the continued neglect of these unfortunate people. Prisons have been revolutionized; dealing with young offenders has developed into a cult; prisoners' aid societies abound; the care, the feeding, the education, the health, and the play of children have become national or municipal business: but the nation still shirks its responsibility to those who have the greatest claim upon its care; for these people are still in as parlous condition as the lepers of old. My memory recalls many of them, and profoundly do I hope that in the great changes that are impending, and in the great improvements that are taking place, consideration of the poor, smitten, unfortunate half-mad will not be wanting.
Surely I am not wrong in affirming that, when the State finds in its prisons a number of people who are constantly committing offences, who are helpless and penniless, and whose mental condition is so low that they are not fit to be detained even in prison, provision should be made for their being permanently detained and controlled in institutions or colonies, with no opportunity for perpetuating their kind. In our dealings with the "unfit" we have, then, made no progress, and we are still waiting and hoping for a solution of this distressing evil. To show how this evil grows by neglect, I offer the following instance:
I happen to be a churchwarden, and when leaving church one Sunday morning I was asked by the verger to speak to a man and woman who sat by the door. They had come in during the service, and asked for the Vicar, in the hope of obtaining relief.
The man was wretched in appearance—much below the usual size—and was more than half blind; the woman was equally wretched in appearance, and not far removed from imbecility. I knew the man at once, and had known him for twenty years. I had met him scores of times at London police-courts, where he had been invariably committed to prison, although certified as "unfit." He had been in the workhouse many times. In the workhouse he had met with the poor wretch that sat by his side. They were legally and lawfully married, and were possessed of three children—or, rather, they were the parents of three children, for other folk possessed them; but doubtless they would make their losses good in due time, the couple being by no means old.
The number of women charged with drunkenness has increased largely during late years, and the list of those constantly charged has grown considerably.
From this it would appear safe to conclude that female intemperance generally has largely increased.
Many people have come to this conclusion, and are very apt with figures which seem to prove their case.
But even figures can lie, for a woman who has been convicted ten or twelve times in the year has furnished ten or twelve examples of female inebriety; but, after all, she is but one individual. And to get at approximate truth, we must ascertain the number of separate individuals who have been charged. Nor will this give us the whole truth, for it must also be ascertained who are the women that are constantly charged. To what class do they belong? What is the matter with them? Why are they different from women generally? Such inquiries as these have been conveniently avoided.
I will endeavour to supply the missing answers.
Eighty per cent. of the women charged repeatedly with drunkenness belong to one class, and may be described as "unfortunates." The number of these women has increased tremendously during the last twenty years. The growth of London accounts partly for this increase in the number of "unfortunates," and the growth of provincial towns supplements the growth of London. In all our large centres we have, then, a large army of women whose lives are beyond description, whose vocation renders drinking compulsory, and whose habits bring them into conflict with the police. Their convictions, which number many thousands, should be charged to another evil.
Of the remaining twenty per cent. I must also give some description. Ten per cent. of them are demented old women, who spend their lives in workhouses or prisons, upon whom a small amount of drink takes great effect.
The remaining ten per cent. may be considered more or less respectable, but my experience has led me to believe that less rather than more would be a fitting description. I want it to be clearly understood that I am now speaking of women "repeaters," not of women who are occasionally charged with drunkenness.
In considering female intemperance, the above must be eliminated, and when this is done I think it will be found that the alleged increase of drunkenness among women is not proved. At any rate, it is not proved by criminal statistics. But a great change has come over women: they are no longer ashamed of being seen in public-houses, for respectable women are by no means careful about the company they meet and associate with in the public-houses. In police-courts I have noticed this growing change. Time was when few or no women were found among the audiences that assembled day by day in the courts. It is not the case now. Formerly, if women had any connection with cases that were coming on, they discreetly waited in the precincts of the court till they were called by the police or the usher.
It is very different now, for there is no scarcity of women, ready to listen to all repulsive details of police-court charges. Sometimes, when the order is given for women to leave the court, some women are ready to argue the matter with the usher; and when ultimately compelled to leave, it is evident they do so under protest, and with a sense of personal grievance.
Perhaps it may be natural for police-courts to supply to the poor and the tradesman class that excitement and relish the higher courts and divorce courts furnish to those better off.
In one direction I am able to bear direct testimony to the virtue of women, for they are more honest than men, and their honesty increases rather than diminishes. This is the more remarkable as opportunities for dishonesty have become much more numerous among women. Still, in spite of multiplied opportunities, dishonesty among women seems to be a diminishing quantity. I am glad to find that our annual statistics for some years past confirm me in this experience.
But my experiences do not furnish me with any reason for believing that we have made any progress with the housing of the very poor. The State, municipal authorities, and philanthropists still act upon the principle, "To him that hath it shall be given." Consequently, they continue to provide dwellings for those who can pay good rents. In another chapter some of my experiences with regard to the housing of the very poor will be found, so I content myself here with a few reflections and statements. During the years covered by my experience the rents of the very poor have increased out of all proportion to their earnings. I have taken some trouble to inquire into this question, and when speaking to elderly men and women living in congested streets, I have obtained much information. "How long have you lived in this house?" I asked an elderly widow. "Thirty years. I was here long before my husband died." "What rent do you pay?" "Thirteen shillings per week." "But you can't pay thirteen shillings." "No, I let off every room and live in this kitchen." We were then in the kitchen, which was about nine feet square. The house consisted of four rooms and a back-yard about the same size as the kitchen; there was no forecourt. "What rent did you pay when you first came here?" "Six shillings and sixpence." The rent had doubled in thirty years.
"Who is your landlord?" "I don't know who it is now, but a collector calls every week."
"Why don't you go somewhere else?" "I can't get anything cheaper, and I like the old place, and I don't have to climb a lot of stairs."
This little conversation exactly outlines the lot of the poor, so far as their housing is concerned: they must either take a "little house and let off," or make their homes in one or more of the very little rooms. Let me be explicit. By the very poor I mean families whose income is under twenty-five shillings weekly—women whose husbands have but fitful work; women who have to maintain themselves, their children and sick husbands, when those husbands are not in the infirmary; widows who have to maintain themselves and their children, with or without parish assistance; and elderly widows or spinsters who, by great efforts, maintain themselves.
For these and similar classes no housing accommodation has yet been attempted. Yet for them the need is greatest, and from neglecting them the most disastrous consequences ensue.
The State will lend money to the man who has a fair and regular income; municipal authorities and philanthropic trusts will build for those who can regularly pay high rents; but the very poor are still hidden in prison-houses, and for them no gaol deliverance is proclaimed, so they huddle together, and the more numerous the building improvements, the closer they huddle. The new tenements are not for them, neither is any provision made for them before they are displaced, so a great deal of police-court business arises in consequence, to say nothing of greater and more far-reaching evils. But I deal more fully with housing in my next chapter.
In dealing with child offenders, vast improvements have been made. To-day rarely, indeed, are children sent to prison, and we appear to be on the verge of the time when it will be impossible for anyone under the age of fourteen to receive a sentence of imprisonment. The birch, too, is more sparingly used, and only when there appears to be no other fitting punishment. One magistrate quite recently, in ordering its infliction, declared it was the first time he had done so for twelve years. The courts do not run with the blood of naughty lads, as some suppose; but the birch has not disappeared, and the lusty cries of youthful delinquents are sometimes to be heard.
While I hate cruelty and do not love the birch, I would like to place on record the fact that I have never known it administered too severely, or any serious injury inflicted.
The statement that the most powerful policeman is selected for the duty is fiction pure and simple. In London, at any rate, the sergeant-gaoler or his deputy administers the birch. Whatever else may be charged against the police, cruelty to children cannot be brought against them, for the kindness of the Force to children is proverbial. And this kindness is reflected in police-courts. Nowhere are children more considerately treated. I agree with the movement in favour of separate courts for children, because I would not have children's actions considered as criminal; but, in the light of my experience, I am bound to disagree with many of the statements made by some advocates of the movement. Children are tenderly treated and considered in the London police-courts of to-day.
But I am more concerned for the Toms, Dicks, and Harrys between fourteen and twenty years of age, who, having little or no home accommodation, crowd our streets, especially on Sunday evenings, and make themselves a nuisance to the staid and respectable.
