Pictures and Problems from London Police Courts

by Thomas Holmes

PREFACE TO THE NEW EDITION

It would ill become me to allow a new edition of this book to go forth without expressing my grateful thanks to the public for the kind manner in which the book has been received.

Public and Press seem to have vied with each other in showing kindness to me and gentleness to the book, while to its faults they have been more than a little blind. If I judge rightly, this is not because the book has of itself any excellence, but because of the particular work in which I am engaged—a work that appeals to the oneness of the human heart. I have received many letters filled through and through with sympathy; and while I rejoice to know that the book has been of interest, I rejoice still more to know and feel that it has in some degree helped to draw the human family nearer together. This was my hope and my aim; that it may still continue to do so is my heartfelt desire.

I have been compelled to add a new chapter, for so many have written to me on the subject with which the chapter deals that no choice was left to me. By the kindness of the Council of the London Police Court Mission of the Church of England Temperance Society I am henceforward to devote a portion of my time to special work among the poorest of all London’s toilers—the home workers. For them I have hopes and aims. If I can bring some rest and joy into their lives, if in some small degree I can forward the day when a much better state of things shall prevail, then indeed my joy will be great.

Thomas Holmes.

12, Bedford Road, Tottenham,
March, 1902.

PICTURES AND PROBLEMS FROM LONDON POLICE COURTS

CHAPTER I
HOW I BECAME A POLICE COURT MISSIONARY

‘You have missed your vocation in life; you ought to have been an actor, or a writer for the Daily Telegraph,’ so I was assured by an eminent professor of phrenology. The professor had expressed a wish to meet all the London police court missionaries, with a view of ascertaining their fitness or unfitness for the position they hold. Mine was the last head he measured. He had passed all my colleagues, and had found no unfitness among them. Not being sure of my fitness, I waited till last; but when all had been declared good men and true, I submitted myself to his tape and measurements with some confidence. I wished afterwards that I had taken the precedence to which my age and length of service entitled me.

Now, I knew very well that as a missionary I had often made a fool of myself. I knew much better than the professor my unfitness for the work, for, gracious me! it has knocked me out of time too often for me not to have realized it. Still, I was a bit nettled when I found that I was the only one in a wrong place. I had not even the comfort of a partner in distress; but I recovered from the shock, and comforted myself with the thought that they must be a splendid lot of men when I was the worst among them.

Yet it gave me pause. What if he were right? Fifteen years I had been blundering among poor humanity, hoping and fearing, racking my brains, never knowing when to give in, though often lifeless from the expenditure of nervous energy. Fifteen years I had been realizing that I could only move others to the extent I felt for them, and that there is no healing without loss of virtue. What if the professor were right? It troubled me, for I thought of the poor, the unfortunate, the downcast, and the heterogeneous mass of humanity one meets with in our London police courts. Some other fellows might have done them so much more good, might have comforted more broken hearts, and might have ‘rescued’ in a wholesale fashion what time I had been peddling and meddling with solitary individuals.

Still, I felt I had done my best, and I knew that there were eyes that brightened when I looked into them; I knew that I had made some little ones happy, that I had strengthened some despairing wretches, and had helped in some degree to lift the great burden of sorrow that presses upon the human heart; and besides, was there not the delicate compliment conveyed that I might have been an Irving or a Toole, or—ecstatic thought!—a writer for the Daily Telegraph? I began to think the professor was right, and though I had never been in a theatre till I had passed my fortieth birthday, I felt I had dramatic instincts and a relish for comedy.

My mind went back forty-five years, and I remembered that from a poor, starved, and small Sunday-school library I had got Defoe’s ‘History of the Plague.’ How it thrilled and absorbed me! ‘Bring out your dead! Bring out your dead!’ ever rang in my ears, so with a rattle (lads made them in those days) in a little old Staffordshire town I ran about the streets shouting out: ‘Bring out your dead! Bring out your dead!’ I remembered, too, that I emulated the poor half-witted drunken piper in the ‘dead-cart,’ and blew unearthly noises on a tin whistle, innocently asking: ‘I ain’t dead, am I?’

But whatever prospects I may have had of becoming an actor were doomed to early death, and it happened on this wise. A large travelling theatre came often to our town. How well I remember it, with its framework of thin deal painted green, and its patched and torn roof! Every evening on an elevated stage at the front the company in full dress disported themselves, the band played, the whip cracked, and there were pressing invitations to the small crowd to ‘Walk up! Walk up!’ How they responded may be gathered from the fact that one night the master of the ceremonies giving the usual invitation made a slight variation, and it came out as follows: ‘Walk up, walk up, ladies and gentlemen, and see one of Shakespeare’s most beautiful tragedies, entitled——’ Here he became anxious as to the size of the house, and putting his head through the canvas to look, he soon drew it back, and called out to one of the company: ‘Only five in.’

I never got inside this booth, but those who did told fascinating tales. One Shakespearian night ‘Romeo and Juliet’ was to be performed, and as Romeo did not come on, the ‘house’ waited in expectancy the while. The stage manager came to make some explanation, but before he could speak one of the company rushed on to the stage, and called out to him: ‘Romeo’s drunk!’ But the messenger was closely followed by the pot-valiant Romeo, who roared out: ‘’Tis false, you dastard! Romeo is not drunk!’ and promptly knocked the accuser down.

Coppers were scarce in those days; lads, at any rate, did not get many, so we searched the thin boarding for cracks or apertures through which to gain, if not a free pass, at any rate a free look. I had found one, and was with the aid of a pocket-knife improving my opportunity, when something cut short my aspiration for the stage. It was only the butt-end of the horse-whip that had cracked so merrily on the outside stage, but it was quite sufficient to cut short my view of ‘Maria Martin,’ to make me sore for days, and to end my acquaintance with the stage till I saw the ‘Sign of the Cross’ at the new Alexandra Theatre, when, I am sorry to say, I liked Nero best. But I have never been able to command or direct my sympathies, for I well remember when I first read Milton that I had considerable admiration for Satan, and was always anxious to know how he was getting on. My curiosity on that point has been more than satisfied since I have been a police court missionary.

With all respect to the professor of phrenology, it is no fault of mine that I did not figure behind the footlights and ‘tear a passion to tatters.’ I never had the chance. But as to tragedy and comedy—well, I have in London seen plenty of each, though I have never been able yet to tell exactly one from the other. Things are so mixed up in life that sometimes I feel inclined to cry where other people laugh, for I have found that real comedy has too often a sadly pathetic side.

As to my being a writer for the Daily Telegraph, the possibility of it never dawned upon me, and in my most ambitious days I never dreamed of, let alone aspired to, such a giddy height. It is very sad to think how much the public and myself have lost through the proprietors of that paper failing to put me on their brilliant staff. I wish that I had met that professor forty years ago. But I am to make some amends for my mistake, for I find myself writing a book, and I can quite feel with Byron ‘’Tis pleasant sure to see one’s name in print—
A book’s a book, although there’s nothing in’t.’

I cannot promise you flowing periods, for of the rules of composition I know nothing; my grammar is uncertain, and as to spelling, why, I often have to turn to my dear wife and ask, ‘Margaret, how do you spell such and such a word?’ and she always knows; she is ever so much better than a dictionary. But, alas! before twelve years of age I was at work fourteen hours a day in an iron foundry in good old Staffordshire. Three farthings per week my father paid for me during the few years I went to school; it was a penny a week school, but they made a reduction on a quantity: two brothers for three halfpence, three for twopence, and so on. There was a large family of boys at our house, so if I could have gone to school a few more years I should have gone almost for nothing, and dad would have saved something. But he evidently thought I could earn something, and littles were useful then, so at the age stated I found myself in the foundry. It is now the fashion, I know, to make light of the schools of those days, and certainly there was much about them to provoke wonder; but I never hear the pedagogues of those times sneered at without feeling a desire to show fight on their behalf. They had their own way of doing things, but personally I doubt if they are done much better now, with all our resources. Perhaps they could not teach much, but they taught it well, and they had a power of instilling into boys a love of knowledge, which is perhaps even better than knowledge itself; for their boys were not in a great hurry to forget what they had learned, but rather sought to add to it after leaving school. What if they did use the cane freely? I never knew a boy get it but what he richly deserved it, and with it all the schoolmaster and his boys were much better friends, and a much better influence was exercised in those days than I am afraid is the case now.

The schoolmaster knew his boys then, and had a comparatively free hand in teaching them. If he found a boy who learned quickly, he advanced him without waiting for the end of the year, regardless of examination, and this produced a spirit of emulation among the boys. Every Friday afternoon those boys who had worked well during the week were allowed ‘recreation’—in the winter by means of chess and draughts, both of which he taught us; in the summer-time he would take an occasional walk with us.

Ours being a Church school, we had to go to Sunday-school and church twice every Sunday, and woe be to the lad on Monday who had not conducted himself well on Sunday! for he got something that he was not able to rub off in a hurry. The Sunday-school was held in the chancel of an old church, the remaining part of which was a picturesque ruin. Here at nine every Sunday morning all the boys from the day-school assembled, and as many others as could be induced to come. Teaching continued till 10.30; after this came a quarter of an hour’s recess, during which time we were allowed to run riot in the old graveyard. We got a lot of play and not a few fights in that quarter of an hour. I have obtained a nice black eye more than once, and have marched into church thus decorated. Our schoolmaster, who was also superintendent of the Sunday-school, had a short way with the black-eye business. To the lad who obtained that distinction on the Sunday he gave a good caning on the Monday, and as I invariably got a decent thrashing at home under such circumstances a black eye meant something to me; but I never remember receiving chastisement for inflicting black eyes on other lads, a feat that I was sometimes able to accomplish.

The quarter of an hour being up, the master would appear at the chancel-door, and the cry ‘All in! all in!’ would be raised, fights and other sports would be cut short, and away we would all scamper to our different classes, ready for the march to the church, a newer building on the other side of the main road.

Sometimes, I remember, the fights were adjourned. My Sunday-school teacher was for a considerable time a publican. I am afraid he was a sinner, too, for he arranged the adjournment of a fight in which I was one of the principals, and on the following Monday night I sat on his knee between the rounds, and on that occasion, at least, my opponent got the black eye and the caning. Nothing succeeded like success with a pugilistic boy, and the master invariably acted on the principle ‘To him that hath shall be given.’

In church a steep gallery in one corner on the left-hand side of the door downstairs was reserved for us, there being the usual gallery for the congregation upstairs. Here in front of us, a little oak desk before him, and a white rod about 12 feet long and 1 inch in diameter beside him, sat the master for two mortal hours. I fancy I can see him now—a tall man, with spectacles, collar and stock, sitting bolt upright, grasping with one hand his white pole and with the other his Prayer-Book. Always intent on his devotions, he nevertheless seemed to have half a dozen eyes; for though we were rude enough to call him ‘Four eyes’ (behind his back), we really had reason to believe him possessed of a much larger number. For with his white pole he could reach every boy on the gallery, and though he never struck us with it, he did worse, for he prodded us. When he saw any boy inattentive, sleeping, or in mischief, he would put down his books, make a rest of his left hand, and prod with his right. It was not pleasant—in fact, it hurt very much—when one received in quick succession several prods on the chest or in the ribs, where they generally got home. I used to get into mischief on that gallery on which I sat four hours every Sunday for many years. But I got afraid of the long pole, with the cane to follow on the Monday. So I determined to be a good boy.

If boys did not buy their Bibles, Prayer-Books, and hymn-books, they had to go without them excepting in school. There were no penny ones in those days, and I wish there were none now. A Prayer-Book cost sixpence at the lowest, and we used to pay the master a halfpenny a time, which he duly placed to our credit. When a boy had paid his last halfpenny, he became the proud owner of a new black and shining Prayer-Book, and he thought something of it. Proudly and promptly his name was written in it, coupled with a warning to thieves; neatly was it covered in brown paper or calico; jealously was it guarded and treasured, for it had cost something: it had been worked for, hoped for, and waited for. Things had for nothing are lightly esteemed; the value of anything equals its cost. Nothing is more sad—I think I ought to say disgusting—than to see the way in which at all Sunday-schools (church or chapel) the hymn-books, Prayer-Books, and Bibles are used. Cheap and nasty in their printing and paper, shoddy altogether in the putting together, which cannot be called binding, they cost nothing, they are worth nothing, they are valued at nothing, and the dust-heap becomes the receptacle of the bulk of them.

But we thought something of ours, and I, who had never seen any book in my father’s house but the old family Bible with the Apocrypha and family register in, learned my Prayer-Book off by heart as I sat for four hours a Sunday on the gallery. It kept me out of mischief, and it strengthened or trained my memory, but it also—and this was the chief glory—allowed me more time to play during the week. Sunday by Sunday, year in and year out, in the old chancel for Sunday-school, we had to repeat aloud individually the Collect, Gospel, and the Epistle for the day. They were supposed to be learned during the week. On the gallery, white pole in front of me, during those interminable sermons mornings and afternoons, I committed to memory the whole of them, and so had nothing to learn during the week—and the master thought I was a devout boy.

When I became possessed of a Bible of my own, I went for the poetry of Isaiah and the Psalms. At the Sunday-school, morning and afternoon, they gave us tickets, which were saved up and counted at the end of the year. They were little bits of cardboard, marked ‘A.’ for attendance, ‘L.’ for lessons, ‘C.’ for conduct. In addition, if boys committed to memory and recited on Sunday extra chapters, they were credited with the number of verses repeated. I used to get all possible tickets, and a large credit of extra verses.

What an event the prize-giving day was in that old chancel! The boys all there, scrupulously clean, nearly all clad alike, for choice of clothing was limited; corduroy trousers, a Holland tunic with leathern belt, home-made linen collars, and Scotch caps made out of a sound piece of some disused garment was the general rule. The vicar and his curate, the master in his collar and stock, the clergy from neighbouring villages, and various ladies and gentlemen were gathered there. Then the prizes—what a heap of them, to be sure! I wonder what the boys of to-day would think of them—few or no books, no toys, no cricket-bats or footballs, but yards of calico, flannel, or cotton goods! Many a time I have staggered home with a big parcel of such ‘prizes’; but how well I remember that mothers were very glad of them! Very few books were given, and those were of the old-fashioned ‘goody’ sort, in which a bad boy came to a bad end, and a good boy died young, and which made it appear that there was a very bad look-out for lads either way.

There was one particular Sunday in the year in which the boys had to uphold their superiority over girls, and the next Sunday girls tried their best to prove themselves better than boys. Both boys and girls became excited about it, so much so that I have seen them fight over the matter. This was Catechism Sunday, for which boys and girls would train and practise for weeks beforehand, both at school and at home. If the boys did well, a half-day’s holiday at the Sunday-school was given them, with full marks and tickets. But if the girls did best, they got the tickets and the half-holiday.

On the Sunday afternoon appointed the boys, with clean collars and tunics, would be arranged by the master along the aisles of the church—a double row—facing each other. The clergyman in the three-decker pulpit would be interrogator, and put the question of the Catechism, and each boy in his turn would answer the question put to him. The schoolmaster would arrange the boys, and from their lessons in the day-school would know how to place them so that the longer and harder answers would fall to boys who were good at repetition. Every mistake was noted down by the clergyman and schoolmaster, and by the girls, who were eager listeners. The girls had their turn the following Sunday, with the boys for listeners. The side that made the fewest mistakes were champions for the year. If any boy or girl made a comical mistake, or mispronounced a word, he or she would be known by the mispronounced word for many a day. We got a lot of fun and many quarrels out of the Catechism, and though it generally fell to me to tell the clergyman what was the duty I owed to my neighbour, and though my knowledge was perfect, I am much afraid that I never attained to its performance. So Sunday and week-day boys were under the watchful eye of the schoolmaster, and though in trying to get the better of him we sometimes dropped in for the worst (for he was a big man with a strong arm), we loved him, and he loved us, rascals though we were.

In those days boys went to work at a very early age; many lads that I knew went to work in the pits before they were ten years old, and started from home before five o’clock in the morning in order to be at the pit’s mouth before six, that they might descend to earn sixpence by twelve hours’ labour plus a two-mile walk. Holidays were never heard of unless there was some accident to the engine or machinery. Times were hard and wages were low; food was very dear. Bread was a shilling per loaf, and bad at that, sugar sixpence per pound, dirty and adulterated. Tea was about six shillings per pound, and in those days much of it was not tea. So before I was twelve I found myself in the iron foundry, working fourteen hours a day, getting three shillings per week, and thinking I was a man.

But before I left this school, a dark, bronzed, and severe-looking man came in one day, and I was called out of class to work a problem on the blackboard for him. I suppose it was done fairly, for I went back to the class thrilling with the touch of Dr. Livingstone. He had said something to me, and placed his hand on my head. I never knew what he said, but I felt his hand, and my heart and pulses beat the faster. Now, if I had been a good boy, I should have been inspired by that touch, and have decided then and there to become a missionary, but truth compels me to say that I was not a good boy, and did not feel called to the missionary field; but I did feel inspired—I felt certain that I could kill lions. But after all, you see, I am in the direct line of succession. A great missionary’s hand has been laid upon my head, and not ‘all the water in the rough, rude sea can wash away the balm.’

But that was not the reason why I became a missionary; in fact, there was no particular reason why I should, but there was a long chain of circumstances, a series of events looking small enough in themselves at the time, but, seen in the light of experience, to me large and important events. But who shall say what is great or small in our lives’ history? It was a small thing that led me to a night-school, and to teach there for years after a hard, long day’s work, but I did it. Temperance societies, literary societies, mutual improvement societies are small things, but I worked hard for them all; and if I did not do a lot of good to others, I did some good to myself; if I could not teach much, I could learn a lot. It was a small thing that led me to take a men’s Bible class in a purely Welsh-speaking district on Sunday afternoons, but it altered the course of my life, made a missionary of me against my will, and brought me to London to write this book.

The Divinity that shapes our ends shaped mine in a painful manner. Let me tell you how. It was a beautiful Sunday morning in early June, and I had gone with my boy and my Bible into the grounds of an old Welsh castle for the purpose of quietly preparing my afternoon lesson. It was a beautiful spot; the old ivy-covered castle behind me, a lovely valley in front, beyond which rose the Welsh mountains, while the sheen of the sea was visible some miles to the right. As I lay prone with my Bible before me, I forgot in the enjoyment of the morning all about the afternoon, for I had to learn another lesson. I knew the poetry of Isaiah, and I called out: ‘“He weighs the hills in a balance, He measures the water in the hollow of His hand”; “He spreadeth out the heavens as a curtain.”’ I was full of oxygen and ecstasy. Immediately below me was a plain famous in Welsh history, for great battles had been fought there. So by one of those tricks of the mind—my mind, at any rate—I found myself at home, not with Isaiah, but Ingoldsby. ‘And I thought upon Wales and her glories, and all I’d been told of her heroes of old.’ I was just reeling it off when——‘See me roll, papa!’ I looked at my boy as he rolled about, and instead of laughing, I began to feel pathetic, with a sort of lump in my throat. I don’t know whether other folk are the same, but the sight of a happy child brings to me thoughts too deep for tears. Alone on a mountain-top, in the solitude of woods, or alone by the sea-shore, I experience the same feelings. I could not talk to my boy, so he spoke to me. ‘You roll, papa!’ and he pushed at me. I rolled. I heard his merry laugh. I rolled again, and then—chaos. Some time after I heard a little voice say, ‘Have you woke up, papa?’ I stared stupidly. I could see the sky above, and that was all; at length I realized that I was in the castle moat, and I remembered rolling. ‘I am only sick and giddy,’ I said to myself. But the feeling did not pass off, so I managed to crawl home, for I lived close by. I did not leave my bed for some months, for I had broken blood vessels, and streams of blood ran from my mouth. Thus I became a missionary, though suffering and pain and poverty for dark days and anxious years followed that Sunday morning—years in which I was learning my lesson. Slow years they were, not of sorrow, nay, nay, but years of grinding anxiety. I could not dig, to beg I was ashamed, and no man gave unto us. Several times I tried the iron foundry again, but I was weak and ill, hæmorrhage still threatened me, and having made up my mind not to die, I had to find some way to live.

Thank God, my wife never went out to work or took in washing, nor yet plain sewing—hand in hand we faced it. I look back into those years, and see our little home in a colliery district of Shropshire. I see that little home every evening turned into a night-school. I see my gentle wife leaning over big-fisted colliers and teaching them to write: I see myself leaning over one and teaching him cube root, over another and teaching him simple addition. I see those colliers paying their sixpences. I see the rent put ready for Monday, and I remember how little there was left for Saturday night marketing. Those old days come back to me, and not for one moment do I wish them blotted out; nay, nay, I feel some pride in them. But I take another backward look, and we are in Staffordshire again, and my boys are going to the same old school that I went to. But times have altered at that school, for I see my boys winning scholarships and going to a grammar school, and started on an educational course that led one at least to a distinguished University career; but still hard times, hard times, for wife and me. We lived at an institute—library, reading-room, billiard-rooms, refreshment-rooms, skittle alleys, dispensary, club-rooms, gymnasium, all combined, and all to look after and keep clean. Wife and I had no finger-nails in those days; we wore them away scrubbing floors, for there was no one to help in any department. But here, also, was a night-school, which I had to teach; a literary society, that I had to conduct; and a mutual improvement society, also for me to fill up my spare time with. Hard work and poor pay was the rule in those days.

But one day a saint of God and king of men came in, as indeed he often did, for it was my privilege and joy to know and love him, my proudest boast to call him friend. Only a country parson, who laid down his life for his flock; but it was an inspiration to know him, with his strength and meekness, brave and fearless as any hero that ever trod this earth, gentle, loving, and sympathetic as any woman. How often have I wished him back with us!

‘Thomas, you are not doing very well here.’

‘No, Vicar, I am not.’

‘This place is not good enough for you.’

‘I don’t know about that, but it is not good enough for my wife.’

‘I am sure of that; but why don’t you apply for this?’

‘This’ was an advertisement for a police court missionary at Lambeth Police Court. I laughed, and said I had never been in a police court but once in my life, and that was for thrashing a big lad who had been ill-using a lesser one. He, however, strongly advised me to apply for the post, and to please him I did so. It turned out that the Bishop of Rochester and his Council, not having the guidance of a phrenological professor, selected me out of a dozen candidates. I don’t know why to this day, but I suspect it was owing to my dear old Vicar. And so I became a police court missionary, and came to London.

CHAPTER II
IN LAMBETH POLICE COURT

It was one Monday morning in May that I first saw the inside of a London police court. It is fifteen years ago, but that day is still fresh in my memory; nay, rather, it is burned into my very consciousness. There was I, up from the country, with great hopes of doing good, and not altogether ignorant of the world or the vices and sorrows of our large cities; but a revelation awaited me. I spent that day in a horrible wonderland, and although dazed and afraid to speak to anyone, I noticed everything and everybody, and I have a mental photograph of it all now.

Even as I sit and write, it is all before me and around. I hear again the horrible speech and diverse tongues. I hear the accents of sorrow and the burst of angry sound. I hear the devil-may-care laugh and the contemptuous expression. I hear the sighs and groans and bitter plaints. I see men shorn of all glory. I see womanhood clothed in shame. I see Vice rampant. I see Misery crawling. I see the long procession of the drink- or vice-stricken as they tramped down to the place of wrecked lives and slain souls. I see some going cursing to destruction. I see some going jesting to destruction. I see some going down with open eyes and passive will. I see some that long to be delivered from their body of death. I hear the unuttered cry, ‘The waters have gone over me! The waters have gone over me! Out of the black depths do I cry to be delivered.’ And I was there to deliver them!

But I see and hear more. I see women with bruised and battered faces, I see their cuts and wounds and putrefying sores, I hear stories of devilish cruelty, and I hear the poor bruised women pleading that their husbands may not be punished for their cruelty. ‘Don’t send him to prison! Don’t send him to prison! He is a good husband when he is sober!’ I hear the words again and again. I see more women with poor, thin clothing. I look into their faces, and I see sorrow writ large and rings of care around their eyes, and in their hearts a weight of agony that makes them ready to curse God and die. My God! and I was there to comfort them.

I see more. I see the children old before their time, looking up with pale and piteous faces. I see some with blighted bodies, and I know that rounded limbs and happy hearts are not for them. Still more do I see: matronly women, charged with being drunk, holding in their arms little bits of mortality. Puling cries are heard, but soon hushed, for I see the little ones draw from their mothers that leprous distilment that shall blast their lives and wither their bodies. I see more: young men to whom obscenity is the breath of life and immorality the highest good. I see some young in years who have already come to the wayside of life, for their bones are full of their sin. I see young women, sometimes fair and sometimes foul to look upon, but whether fair or foul, half beast and half human. I hear stories of lust, drunkenness, and theft. I see the smartly-dressed harpies who farm them waiting to pay their fines. I see the most despicable of all mankind, the fellows who live upon them, hovering by like beasts of prey. I see old men of threescore and ten and old women of equal age, whose tottering limbs have borne them from the workhouse to the public-house, that they might drink and forget their misery once more before they die.

I see them all; they are around me now. I breathe again the sickening whiff of stale debauch; I am faint with the unspeakable atmosphere; the chloride of lime is again in my throat, and my nostrils tingle with it. But I see more: I see the matter-of-fact way in which all this was received. I see that no one wonders at it. I see that all this is looked upon as perfectly natural, for I see no look of wonder, no divine pity, no burning indignation—all, all received as a perfect matter of course, and all, all quite as it should be.

Now, what I saw, dear reader, on that particular Monday in that particular court you may see on any Monday in any of our Metropolitan police courts, and on any other day, only in a less degree. Year in and year out the procession of the sinning and sorrowing passes through all our courts. Prison and death thin the ranks of the procession; but the public-house is a grand recruiting agency, and neither police nor magistrates are likely to be idle, neither is the procession likely to dwindle, or the ‘yell of the trampled wife’ to cease, while the public-house holds its triumphant sway.

But while you may see what I have described almost any day, there is much that you cannot see, and which, please God, I shall never see again. So come with me in imagination into the prisoners’ waiting-room on that particular Monday morning, for it is well you should know that some changes for the better have taken place in London police courts. Out of a long corridor thronged with policemen we turn into the waiting-room, where the prisoners, excepting some few who are in the cells, wait for their turn to appear before the magistrate. There is a long list on the wall, with the name of each prisoner and number of the officer who has charge of each case, and showing the order in which they will have to appear. Scan the list, and you will see the part drink plays in it. ‘Drunk and disorderly,’ or drunk and something else, is appended to fifty out of the sixty names on the list.

Is it a lazar-house we are in? Oh no; it is part of an English court of justice in the Metropolis of all civilization. Never mind the sickening atmosphere, heavily laden as it is with the fumes of beer and spirits. Look around you. You feel sick and faint? You must bear up, for we want to see the prisoners. What is that lying on the floor? That is a woman; she has had a fit, and there she lies with a bag of straw under her head, and not a single woman in the place whose duty it is to attend to her. What is that cowering in the corner? Well, that has been a woman, driven years ago by the devil of sensuality into the wilderness of sin, where she took to herself other devils. But only one has her in his grip now, and he will not let her go. ‘Drink! drink! drink!’ the devil says to her, and she is a dying piece of flesh whose only capability is the absorption of alcohol. That in the other corner is reported to be a woman. She has got men’s boots on, no hat or bonnet, no jacket or mantle; her arms are bare; her dress, what there is of it, is short; her forehead is low, her broad face is cut and bruised, her eyes are inflamed, and her hair hangs loosely down. Twenty-four years of age, they say, and she has been in that corner one hundred and fifty times, and there’s another hundred to follow. Poor Kate Henessey! an Irish girl of the slum, a mother at fifteen; an Ishmaelite indeed, every man’s hand is against her, and verily hers is against every man.

But we hear voices all around us. Listen! Fast young men are exchanging coarse obscenities with that group of ‘unfortunates,’ and no one says them nay; Listen! Business men are cursing the delay of the magistrate and the impertinence of the police, for they want to pay their fines and be gone. Listen! You hear a girl of tender years bitterly crying; you hear a doddering old woman talking to herself; you hear knowing men proclaiming the iniquities of the police; you hear the loud laugh that tells the life-history of the laugher. You hear someone faintly ask for water. Look at him, a well-dressed, middle-aged man, shaking in every limb as with palsy; he is nearly in delirium tremens. How the water gurgles down his hot throat! He does not know his name, he cannot tell whence he comes, and when put into the cells the furies will be with him and upon him.

You hear someone crooning snatches of good music. She has been here fifty times, a woman from a home of culture. She is half drunk now, and the old songs come back to her, although she has got to the lowest depth and rolls with pleasure in her sensual sty.

‘Anybody got a smelling bottle?’ They might as well ask for the moon, and so the decent-looking woman faints, and well she may. It is her first appearance here. She has been picked up drunk. Shame and fear, horror and sickness, take hold of her. No female attendant, so the unfortunates take off her bonnet, unfasten the front of her dress, and rub her hands till she slowly recovers her dreadful consciousness.

Here is a group of boys charged with gambling; here a couple of fourteen-year-old girls with being disorderly; here a mother and her babe; here a young clerk charged with embezzlement; here the old couple from the workhouse whose every returning holiday from ‘the house’ finds them in the public-house.

Mix them up, old and young, pure and impure, male and female, drunk and sober, cleanly and verminous. Dante ought to have seen that room, have tasted that atmosphere, have listened to the various sounds in major and in minor keys. All the social problems of the day were in that room, all the vices and sorrows of life were personified in it.

This is no exaggerated picture, not in the least is it overdrawn; I do not wish to give fuller particulars, I dare not if I would. No publisher would publish, no printer would print, an exactly faithful account of a prisoners’ waiting-room of even twelve years ago. ‘Rescue them,’ said my employers, ‘and the last day of every month a small cheque shall be your reward.’ ‘How am I to do it?’ ‘Here’s a temperance pledge-book; take pledges.’ ‘But there are others.’ ‘Give them tracts.’ ‘But there are the hungry and homeless to feed.’ ‘Give them tracts.’ ‘There are the poor wantons.’ ‘Take them to rescue homes, and let them work out their own salvation at the wash-tubs.’

Verily, if temperance pledges, tracts, and wash-tubs could save humanity, we had had the millennium long ago. Good, religious and well-meaning people talk very serenely, and with rare unction, about engaging in ‘rescue work.’ I doubt much if they know what they talk about. Have they ever thrown themselves into the very existence of a drink or vice-possessed man or woman? Have they ever stood in front of such a one, and said, ‘Hold! You shall not go to destruction’? Have they ever taken women possessed of an unclean spirit into their own homes to try what human sympathy and timely help would do for such? If not, let them do it, and I venture to say they will hold their peace or speak with less assurance. I was afraid of my work that first day; neither did I require the phrenologist to tell me that I had made a mistake.

But there are other parts of the police court to explore. Come to the cells. Down the corridor, past the gaoler’s office, turn to the right. There they are, all in a row. It is afternoon, and they are pretty full. The prisoners have been reeled off by the magistrate, and some are going to prison and some are hoping for the coming of friends to bring the money for their fines. The prisoners’ van has not yet arrived, so we have time to see the prisoners. Come along. Do you feel bad already? You see the little trap-doors about 9 inches square in the doors of the cells; they are open, lying at a right angle outward. Put your face to one and look in. Ah! now you have got the full flavour of a London police court. One gulp is enough. How would you like to swallow some of that every day? You shudder. What! not for a small cheque once a month?

Look again; it won’t be so bad next time. You look and hold your breath; while you gaze you get used to the semi-darkness and find you are looking into a woman’s cell, for they do divide the sexes after they have been before the magistrate. There is Kate in the corner, but her blucher boots are gone; the gaoler has taken them away because of her persistent kicking at the door. There is the festering piece of humanity in the other corner. There is the young girl who has stolen. There is the mother with her babe, for her fine has not yet been paid; and there are others in that low, square, dark cell, with its sanitary arrangements in the corner, and no female attendant on the premises. Shall we look into the men’s cells? No? You have had enough? So have I. And here comes ‘Black Maria.’ A door at the bottom of the cell-passage is opened, and there stands the prisoners’ van with its steps let down, its back-door open, and its cupboards unfastened, yawning like the grave for their prey. The gaoler hands a list of prisoners to the sergeant in charge of the van, the cell doors one by one are unlocked, from their cells to their cupboards the prisoners go, the cupboard-doors are fastened, the back-door is locked, the whip cracks, and away with its human freight of vice, misery and despair goes the prisoners’ van. And I was there to save them! I went into Kennington Park, sat down, and cried like a child. Thus ended my first day in a London police court.

Kind reader, do not say I am talking cant; strictly religious friend, do not say I am impious: but that night I was ‘a man of sorrow, and acquainted with grief’—ay, and for days and months afterwards, for my sleep broke from me; and I wonder how many times in the small hours of the morning my wife has said to me: ‘Now, you are not asleep. You are bothering your head again.’ Why, they were looking at me, mowing and gibing at me, mocking at me, with outstretched hands appealing to me—the people whom I was paid to save and didn’t! If I dozed a little, I then began to talk nonsense, and my wife declares that I repeated ‘Hosey-tosey! Hosey-tosey!’ hundreds of times. I wouldn’t like to go again through my first year’s experience.

What a pitiful position mine was! No friends in London; to go day after day to meet with abject poverty, hopeless misery, and unspeakable sorrows; to have a full heart and empty hands. I have said many a time to myself: ‘Thou hast nothing to draw with, and the well is deep.’ It was deep—too deep. I wonder how it is that folk undoubtedly good think that poor humanity can be warmed, fed, and comforted with tracts, or be saved with goody stories. Poor humanity doesn’t much care for advice gratis, though some folk seem sent into the world on purpose to bestow it. Just about my darkest days in my police court experience a well-known lady invited me to her house to meet a famous religious philanthropist. She wished me to tell him about my work. This gentleman gave very large sums in aid of revivals, etc. I could not tell him of the souls I had saved, or of very much good I had done. But I told him of my opportunities, of the humanity that I loved, of the wants of the poor, of their temptations and sufferings, and of their patience and self-denial. I think I was just getting a bit eloquent, when he burst in, and, in a knockdown manner, said: ‘Do you give them Christ?’ I am afraid that I was vexed, for I replied: ‘Sir, I cannot carry Christ in parcels and distribute Him. I can only do as I think He would have done.’ ‘How’s that?’ ‘I give them myself.’ That closed the interview, for neither lady nor gentleman wanted to hear more. I am sure they would agree with the phrenologist.

Yes, I had to give them myself, for I had nothing else to give them in those days. And no one can say that I spared myself; but it meant something, for it nearly proved too much for me.

CHAPTER III
A CHANGE FOR THE BETTER

But a great change came over London police courts about eleven years ago. The description I have given of one court held true of them all at that particular time. If my memory serves me correctly, to Mr. Justice Wills belongs the credit of applying in the House of Lords for a Commission to inquire into the condition of things in London police courts. This brought about a blessed result, for everything that can be done for the comfort, refinement, and decency of the prisoners is now done at all our courts.

The moral atmosphere is vastly improved, but the physical is improved beyond knowledge. A matron to attend to the girls and women is now appointed, and paid by the State, at every court. Not only are there separate prisoners’ waiting-rooms for the sexes, but each prisoner, male or female, has a separate compartment if they like to avail themselves of it. Young girls are no longer placed among the older and gross women, and, beyond having to stand in the dock to answer the charge, make but little acquaintance with the police court proper unless they are of that age, and the charge is of such description, that their detention in the cells is absolutely necessary. Male prisoners can no longer bandy words and exchange obscenities with female prisoners. The cell-walls can no longer be covered with ribald or filthy writing, for the walls are built of white glazed tiles, on which writing is impossible. No longer do the prisoners sit in darkness and stew in filthy air, for the cells are lofty, light, and well ventilated. No longer are seven or eight prisoners crowded into one cell, for the number of cells is largely increased, while the size of each cell is lessened. There is no longer any necessity for the prisoners to be continually shouting for the gaoler, or to hammer their cell-door with their boots, for an electric bell in each cell gives them all the opportunity of communicating directly and at once with him. The tone of the police, too, is wonderfully raised, whilst the magistrates are not only humane, but also human, and in touch with the various agencies for the assistance of prisoners.

Everything is changed for the better as far as police court arrangements are concerned—everything but the prisoners’ van, for ‘Black Maria’ still remains the same, and the little cupboards still gape for their prey. This ride in the van to prison or from prison is to many people—especially to a refined man or a delicate woman—a frightful ordeal and punishment. Again and again I have been told by such prisoners that their sufferings whilst barred in their cupboard and locked in the van for one hour have been far worse than any punishment received during their imprisonment. Prisoners must, I know, be conveyed in a closed van; neither will it do to allow them whilst on their journey to have free access to each other; but the cupboards might be larger and more comfortable, for it is the horrible choking sensation the prisoners experience that constitutes the punishment. The worst feature of it is that a prisoner may, whilst on remand, be conveyed to and from prison any number of times, and be then discharged, presumably innocent.

With this exception everything is changed, everything but the humanity that stands in the dock or sits in the cells, and that continues ever the same—the same old sins and the same old sorrows, the same old difficulties and worries for individuals, and the same everlasting problems for the State. Tramp! tramp! tramp! goes this procession of humanity through our police courts. Tramp! tramp! tramp! goes the army of the dead. Tramp! tramp! tramp! go the thoughtless ones or vicious ones with eager feet hastening to join that army. Tramp! tramp! goes poverty with whining voice and suppliant look. Tramp! tramp! go the bewildered ones, the victims of circumstance. Tramp! tramp! go the afflicted ones. Day after day, year after year, a never-ceasing tramp of the wronging or the wronged.

In time the repulsiveness of the procession wears away, the evil smells do not so much offend, and one is able to make a close acquaintance with the procession. Then a field for the study of human nature is opened up, and nowhere in the wide world is there a field equal to it. Does anyone want to study the drink question?—here’s the chance; the social evil?—here’s the opportunity; causes of crime?—here they may be found. Every vice and every virtue, and every source of strength and every cause of weakness incidental to humanity are found here. Every phase of every social problem has its place here. The joys and pleasures of life, the sorrows and difficulties of life, the comedy and fun of life, the tragedy and despair of life, are illustrated here. Rich and poor, old and young, bond and free, refined and coarse, intellectual and idiotic, unite in this procession, strange specimens of humanity, provoking wonder, disgust, or mirth; pathetic bits of humanity, provoking sympathy and deepest pity; good and evil jumbled up; love and cruelty side by side. The ‘devil’s own’ and the ‘children of God’ blend in this procession. A tangled mass of humanity, a glorious hugger-mugger of confusion, goes tramping, ever tramping, through our London police courts.

Clergymen and ministers of religion might do well if sometimes they forsook the study, put away their books of theology, and as followers of the Son of Man came into our courts to learn from the sons of men. Here would they find texts for many a sermon, illustrations to give point to many an appeal. Members of Parliament might sometimes come here to learn their country’s wrongs and wounds, and, inspired by the knowledge, voice those wrongs and wounds at proper time and place. Students of men, lovers of their kind, specialists in reform, experts in every subject, might learn much and unlearn more from a close acquaintance with police court humanity and police court problems.

For let no one say he knows all about these persons or things; such knowledge cannot be obtained, not even by a lifetime of patient observation. Many men, many minds; rather is it true: one man, one woman, many minds. One individual’s moods and changes, vices and virtues, strength and weakness, the mind acting on the body and the body on the mind, now striving after good, now going headlong into evil—one individual alone presents an unsolved problem. But much worth the knowing and better worth the doing may be learned; yet it were well, perhaps, not to learn too much.

A short time ago I was listening to a very notable lady, who probably had never been in a police court. She was arguing that women were much better adapted for ‘rescue work’ than men. She may have been right, but I do not think she was; at any rate, her reason was quite wrong—‘women can see through people better than men.’ If this is true, the measure of their knowledge is the measure of their unfitness. Men may be the more credulous; if so, they have more faith and hope. I can see through no one. I do not want to. I am not worse than the average male, but I would not like anyone to see through me; and quite certain am I that I would not like to rake anyone fore and aft with mental rays. Many a time I have shut my eyes that I might not see, for I have learned to be pitiful. And this is the great lesson to be learned in a London police court. Wonder may be felt, resentment may be raised, but pity, deep and abiding, is the feeling that is bound to fill the heart of any lover of men that attends a police court regularly.

The public generally do not know the various uses to which a court is put; the poor and the unfortunate do know, for it is the rendezvous of the distressed. Let me give an idea of a day’s routine, not as regards the duties of the different officials, but merely as the day’s work reflects the outside world.

It is half-past ten a.m., and the worthy magistrate, accompanied by his clerk, has just taken his seat. The body of the court is already half full of people who have been admitted, after close questioning, by the official at the door. The general public are not yet admitted, for it is ‘application time,’ and the proceedings are in camera. Thirty applicants are seated quietly waiting for their turn to go into the witness-box and explain to his worship the nature of their trouble. Those thirty applicants are worth looking at and listening to, for they voice the difficulties, sorrows, and nuisances of life. It is, too, a comforting thought that at every London police court every morning the magistrate listens patiently and courteously to the different people who come and make known their wants to him. Of course, where summonses are asked for, it is the magistrate’s duty to listen and grant the summons, if he considers the grounds sufficient; but where legal or friendly advice is sought, it is a different matter, for then he departs from his mere duty, and, out of kindness, performs a great work, which the law and State do not demand of him. Day by day, year in and year out, men and women unburden their minds and expose their difficulties and sorrows to the magistrate; and though many of them know before they come that the magistrate cannot solve their difficulties or remove their sorrows, still they come, well knowing that they will be patiently listened to, and that kind words will be spoken to them. And scores of them go away comforted with the thought that they have been listened to, and in their turn have heard kind words spoken to them.

The hard-working father, husband of a drunken wife, comes and tells of the hell in which he lives, and though the magistrate has no help to give, and tells him plainly that the law provides for him no remedy, and offers no hope of release, yet even he goes away strengthened in some degree to bear his heavy burden, for has he not been spoken to kindly by the magistrate? The poor, battered wife comes and tells the story of her sufferings, is listened to, garrulous though she sometimes be, and is advised either to take out a summons or to ‘look over it this time.’ Mothers come about erring daughters, fathers about idle, dishonest, or dissolute sons. Married sons or daughters come to ask advice about and relief from drunken parents. Old and tottering men and women come because grown-up sons, upon whom they had lavished all their love and substance, refused to help them in their poverty and distress. A father or mother has died, there are household goods and some little money left; how shall these be divided and the difficulty settled?—by consulting the magistrate. The landlord has distrained, legally or illegally; how shall the truth be known?—by consulting the magistrate.

Every kind of domestic difficulty is laid before him. An unwelcome but persistent suitor for a daughter haunts the mother’s house; she seeks relief from the magistrate. The father and mother interfere with the course of true love, and a girl of sixteen seeks advice from the magistrate. An ardent lover has made his sweetheart presents, which she refuses to return now that the engagement is ‘off’; he applies to the magistrate. An expected husband does not return home on the Saturday or Sunday; on Monday the wife consults the magistrate.

Lodgers with bad landlords and landlords with bad lodgers consult the magistrate; people with bad neighbours consult the magistrate; the watchful housedog barks at night; the neighbouring cock proclaims too early the dawn; the next door neighbour has a daughter who gives lessons on the piano; a strong-lunged youth practises the cornet on Sunday afternoons—these are some of the smaller troubles laid before the magistrate.

But deep and hopeless sorrows are never wanting; and in despair and perplexity not a few seek comfort from the magistrate. Poor old women, whom no one in the world cares for, and for whom the workhouse waits—a place of which they are mortally afraid—seek help from the magistrate. Rosy-faced young women fresh from the country to some place of service in London, finding their mistresses to be of doubtful character, fly in terror to seek the help of the magistrate. And he sits and listens, and advises. A great organization some years ago in their appeal for funds spoke as if they were the lawyers of the poor. For years, without any appeal, any advertisement, or any reward, the magistrates of London have been and are still the legal advisers of the poor.

The ever-increasing army of the demented ones also apply in their hopeless conditions and with their inexplicable delusions to the magistrate. One is persecuted by the police; another is shadowed by an assassin; another someone is trying to poison. A poor woman wants the telephone-wire removed—‘it talks to her.’ An equally poor man complains of the telegraph. So they come and go away with their scrap of comfort. Much patience, kindness, sympathy, and wisdom do our magistrates exhibit in dealing with those who seek their advice on every conceivable and inconceivable subject.

But while the applicants have been making, or trying to make, their wants known, the prisoners have arrived. Those admitted to bail have surrendered; others have been brought in the various cupboards of the prisoners’ van; others by different constables. The last ‘small tenement case’ has been disposed of; the inspector on duty for the day has applied for the police summonses; the doors are opened to the public, and No. 1 prisoner is announced. ‘Drunks’ first, with precedence for ladies, is the order.

There is a great deal that is monotonous and disgusting about a long procession of ‘drunk and disorderlies,’ and anyone is bound to be sickened at the repetition. The same evidence in almost the same words is given by constable after constable. Moving among men and women, one cannot be ignorant of the stupidly obscene language that prevails among labouring men, loafers, and immoral women. But one scarcely expects to hear all sorts of men and women credited with the use of this particular kind of language. It may be, and doubtless is, true with regard to some apparently respectable folk, but, on the other hand, I am afraid that some officers adopt a kind of ‘formula.’ Certainly the similarity of language credited to different kinds of people is striking. Another noticeable thing is that men, as a rule, admit the justice of the charge, while women, as a rule, deny its truth point-blank and absolutely, and as often as not bring some counter-charge against the constable, and were they to be believed, we have few honest or decent men among the Metropolitan police.

It is interesting, too, to notice the many and different reasons that are given to the magistrate as excuses for being drunk. Joy or sorrow, ill-health or good health, poverty or prosperity, heat or cold, life or death, friendship or enmity—anything serves, for all the opposing emotions and conditions of life are given as sufficient reasons for getting drunk. Another thing is noticeable with regard to the list of ‘drunks’; on Monday the charge-list is three times the size of any other day, but few women are charged, while on other days they often predominate; on some days the whole of them are women. I have a list before me now of twelve charges, all of them women, and all of them charged with being drunk. Taking one year as a guide, a recent one, when I kept a record of the whole of the charges, I find that about one-third of the charges are women, and two-thirds men; but, judging from my own observation, the women charged on the Monday do not constitute more than one-eighth of that day’s total. I cannot explain why this is; I have conferred with experienced police officers, and they agree that it is so, but, like myself, they fail to find any reasonable explanation of the fact. Although one case of drunkenness closely resembles another, the individuals differ widely, for though the poor in their dirt and misery predominate, yet well-dressed men and women who live in comfort and cleanliness are by no means absent. Ages differ even more widely than circumstances, for it is no uncommon thing to find a youth or girl of sixteen followed by an old man or woman verging on fourscore.

Appearances differ even more widely than circumstances or ages, for while a great number of ordinary-looking individuals are charged, a great number of the most extraordinary-looking men and women stand before our magistrates. Snap-shots of all prisoners at any court for one year would form an interesting collection, and be quite a revelation. The simple ‘drunks’ are soon disposed of by the magistrate, and follow each other in and out of the dock with great rapidity. A stiff fine for the old offenders, a lighter one for the comparatively unknown, and a discharge for those who make their first appearance is the general rule, though some magistrates adopt exactly opposite rules with regard to some first offenders.

A well-dressed man is charged. ‘You are in good circumstances and ought to know better; there is less excuse for you than for the poor and wretched. We look to such as you to set a better example. You must pay ten shillings.’ Thus one magistrate, and it seems right. But another will say: ‘You seem a decent, respectable man; this is the first time you have been locked up and detained. I shall discharge you. Don’t come here again.’ This also seems right, though both cannot be right.

It takes much longer to settle the ‘drunk and disorderly’ charges, for most people who will readily admit the charge of drunkenness will deny the disorderly conduct, especially as the use of bad language generally forms part of the charge. The constable then has to give details, and call witnesses. The prisoner will cross-examine, and in doing so nine times out of ten will manage to corroborate the police, and convict himself or herself. ‘Drunk and assault’ charges take longer still, for no two witnesses give the same account of a scrimmage. It generally happens that no one sees every item from start to finish; but, as a rule, when some blackguard is in the hands of the police, there is no lack of ‘witnesses’ who are ready to perjure themselves in order to get the prisoner off. When one civilian charges another with assault it not infrequently happens that there are accommodating witnesses on each side, and the magistrate has to decide between conflicting perjuries. Common-sense and experience then come to his worship’s aid.

Numbers of lads from twelve to eighteen are charged with playing ‘pitch-and-toss’ or ‘banker’ in the streets. Up till quite recently it took a good time to dispose of such, for they were all innocent, or said they were, for the number of innocent boys charged with gambling is only equalled by the number of innocent women charged with being drunk. One day about eight decent-looking lads were charged. I was speaking to them in the prisoners’ room before they went into court, and gave them a word of good advice. I thought I had made some impression on them, and finally advised them to admit their guilt to the magistrate, and tell him that they would not do it again. To the magistrates’ surprise they all pleaded guilty and expressed penitence but one, who stoutly protested his innocence, when several constables were called to prove the charge. The magistrate told the boys that he was pleased with their honesty, candour, and penitence, and should deal very leniently with them, and, hoping they would keep the promise they had given, discharged them all excepting the ‘innocent’ one. He was fined ten shillings. So lads charged with gambling in the streets pleaded ‘guilty’ at North London till the plea no longer availed.

The more serious charges, as a rule, are held back till the ‘drunks,’ etc., are all disposed of. This is wise, for it allows the majority of the police-officers to go to their duties or rest, and it also allows the majority of prisoners to pay their fines, and go home or to work as the case may be. Then come the charges of felony, embezzlement, burglary, etc. Upon these charges a great deal more time and care are expended, and depositions taken, a task that devolves on the magistrate’s clerk; and a heavy task it is, for some witnesses are supremely stupid, others too clever by far, and very many are so talkative that it is almost impossible to keep them to strict evidence. But whether stupid, clever, or talkative, every bit of evidence is taken down in an accurate, but concise way; indeed, nothing is more remarkable in police court proceedings than the unerring manner in which the clerks note at once every word of the evidence that is germane to the charge. Rarely, very rarely, does it happen that when the clerk reads over the deposition before the witness signs it, he is asked to alter some part of it on the ground that it is not quite correct, and when this does happen it is invariably the fault of the witness. Such charges make a great demand upon the magistrate, and an absolute concentration of mind and memory are required.

Frequently solicitors are engaged, one trying to make the case appear black, and one trying to make it appear white. Very often they are able to twist witnesses at their pleasure, their business being not to arrive at the truth in any matter, but to make the opposing side appear in the wrong. To note and sift the evidence, to study the witnesses, and sweep away the sophistries of the defence or prosecution, is not an easy matter, but the London magistrates do it, and do it to perfection. I do not know any magistrate in whose hands the interests of a prisoner, guilty or innocent, are not absolutely safe. It is, in fact, no uncommon thing for a magistrate to protect a prisoner against himself and against his own or the prosecuting solicitor. To hold the balance of justice evenly day after day in all sorts of charges is not an easy task, but it is done; and the fact that very few of their decisions or sentences are annulled or revoked shows that the manner in which justice is administered in our police courts is beyond question.

Yet it is not a hard-and-fast or a cut-and-dried justice that is administered, for the spirit of the law is sometimes only to be kept by breaking the letter. Some people are for ever excited about disproportionate sentences, and are quite wroth when they read that one man has received a much more severe sentence than another, though both have committed the same class of offence. If the same magistrate has awarded both sentences, then the outcry is great. I once met with a gentleman many miles from London who kept a scrap-book for the purpose; in this he had cuttings from the daily police court news, the sentences and decisions of the different London magistrates. He had them arranged in a most systematic way: the court and magistrate, offence and sentence. Contrasts were shown not only by comparing the sentences of different magistrates for similar offences, but also the varying punishments awarded by the same magistrate for one class of offence. He was rather proud of his work, and protested that law and justice was a complete ‘hotch-potch.’ He said he should like to see justice administered in a more logical and scientific way. I suggested that it might be a good thing to have a phonograph instead of a chief clerk, then every word spoken by witnesses, prosecutor, or prisoner might be spoken into it, and said that it would be easy to have an automatic machine for magistrates, so that by a combination of the two scientific justice might be done. The glory of London police court justice is that it is not administered in a scientific way. God forbid it ever should be! for then injustice would be the rule and not the exception.

I hope the day will never come when our magistrates will have to deal out punishment as a shopman deals out goods—so much crime, so much punishment. At present they have hearts and sympathies, they have freedom and latitude—better still, their freedom of action and sympathy of heart make for justice, for ofttimes mercy is the only justice. That mercy may call for a light sentence or a severe one, but whichever it may be it does not call in vain. It is impossible for anyone who does not hear a case tried, see the different actors, and know something of the attendant circumstances to sit (with justice) in judgment on the ‘rightness’ of any sentence that may be given. Until the whole of humanity is cast in one mould, until all environments are alike, until physical, mental, and moral power are equally distributed, until temptations present equal force and the ability to resist is equally distributed, equality of punishment will be either an impossibility or a huge wrong.

The young or middle-aged men charged with embezzlement or fraud are a numerous class, and a sad duty awaits the magistrate when he has to convict and sentence such men. To these men character is everything, and when the brand of conviction is once upon them, their future is dark and doubtful. In sentencing such, the magistrate knows full well that the sentence he imposes is but light compared with the punishment society inflicts upon the wrongdoer. They are therefore leniently dealt with, and where possible are dealt with under the First Offenders Act. The existence and application of this Act are too well known. It is sometimes traded on, and young men (and even boys) who have been pursuing a course of systematic fraud for a long time, and have at length been brought to book, will ask to be dealt with under its provisions. For the man or woman, boy or girl, who has yielded to a sudden impulse, the magistrates require no pressing for leniency; but the prisoner convicted of a series of thefts, though charged for the first time, they do not consider a fitting subject for the application of the Act.

Drink, gambling, and lubricity are the chief factors in the downfall of these men, and it is a peculiar thing that journeymen butchers and assistant milkmen form a large proportion of such prisoners. The two former vices seem to prevail to an enormous extent among them, while the latter vice seems to account for the delinquencies of clerks, drapers’ assistants, etc. The women charged with various acts of dishonesty are a mixed lot, including as they do the unfortunate, the skilful shoplifter, the pickpocket, and the inveterate robber of furnished lodgings. Beyond proof of guilt these do not demand much attention from the magistrate; but with numbers of females the case is very different, for though their guilt may be fully established, the magistrate has much heart-searching before he deals with them, for truly they are pitiful problems. Numbers of girls from fourteen to twenty are charged with stealing; why they have stolen they do not appear to know, what they have done with the articles stolen they cannot sometimes tell; occasionally it appears the goods have been destroyed. Their behaviour in the cells and before the magistrate is strange, for they appear dazed and bewildered, and quite unable to concentrate their minds on what is taking place or what is said to them. They do not profess penitence or sorrow. To a casual observer they appear hardened and indifferent, and while their friends come and plead for them and evince a keen feeling of disgrace, they themselves still appear indifferent, and certainly do not realize the position in which they find themselves placed.

But decently married women, who are beyond doubt respectable, are also charged with theft. Some of these present similar problems to the girls, and there is no doubt that pathological causes lie at the root of the mental condition of both girls and women—at any rate, of many of them. Such offenders, if offenders they can be called, are considerately and even tenderly dealt with, and the First Offenders Act is invariably put in operation with regard to them. A knowledge not only of law and human nature, but also of physiology, is essential for the proper consideration of many cases that come before police court magistrates, and they often remand prisoners for a few days that medical opinion may be obtained.

There are, of course, many charges that need not be enumerated, ranging from frivolous assaults to murder, from stealing a drinking-glass to burglary. After these are all disposed of and the different persons interested in them have left the court, a class of charges are heard which I cannot even hint at except to say that they are sadly too prevalent, and that they demand the closest attention and scrutiny from the magistrate, odious and repulsive as they are.

The charges being disposed of, the summonses follow, and are mostly heard in the afternoon, or when, again, a mixed humanity tramps in and out of the court. The consequences to the persons summoned are not, of course, so serious, as a rule, as the consequences to persons charged, but, still, a great many are sent to prison for short terms, and many serious fines are imposed. Various are the offences for which the police take out summonses; infinite in their variety are the reasons for which private people summon each other. Infringement or wilful violation of the laws and by-laws of the County Council bring a great number into trouble. The Vestries, for a multiplicity of reasons, have to take proceedings against determined offenders. The Excise must look after the revenue, and is never behind in taking out summonses. The School Board claims and monopolizes at least one afternoon per week. So it comes to pass that about ten thousand summonses are adjudged in one year by the magistrates at one court. And they cover a wide area, and make a demand on the magistrate not only for a thorough knowledge of law and of human nature, but also for technical knowledge upon a thousand subjects. Having disposed of the summonses, excepting those adjourned, signed all the commitments and other documents, the magistrate’s work for the day, so far as the court is concerned, is done. But I venture to think that not only many obscure points of law, but also the consideration of many remanded prisoners and adjourned summonses claims his earnest attention when far away from the court.

Ten thousand applicants, eight thousand prisoners, and ten thousand summonses, would probably be a fair average of the humanity that tramps through a London police court in one year. And every social problem, every legal problem, every psychological problem, has its place among that heterogeneous mass. Among this tangled and perplexed humanity I have lived and moved for many years. I have seen it in the prisoners’ rooms, the dock, and the cells. I have seen it at liberty, and have been in touch and communion with it while it has been in prison. In the ten thousand homes of it I have been a constant and not unwelcome visitor, while much of it has visited me in mine. By its dying bed in some great institution, or in some mean room, I have frequently sat. At the mortuary I have been to view some broken remains of it, at the cemetery to see the last of it. So in the remaining chapters of this book I want to tell of humanity, of its good and evil, of its struggles and its failures, of its glory and of its shame—yea, and also of its sufferings and its wrongs. Down, low down, for years I have been groping among it, sometimes blindly, and sometimes with a ray of light, making here and there some rough places plain, and untying now and again some tangled knot; but more often baffled and defeated, yet always learning and ever seeing some new point for good or evil among them. So of this humanity and some of its problems I wish to tell, promising that I shall only speak of ‘that which I know, and testify only to that which I have seen.’

CHAPTER IV
HUSBANDS AND WIVES

‘The sight of this domestic misery completely appals me. I can hear no more.’ Mr. Biron had been listening at application time to a number of women who followed each other in quick succession, each bearing an outward and visible sign of the fact that she had been cruelly ill-used. Each woman was a wife, and each one wanted a ‘protection order’ against her husband, until the experienced magistrate, rising from his seat, declared that he could ‘stand it no longer.’

Every magistrate in London has the same experience. Some few years ago a number of such applicants were in North London Court, and the magistrate, with only half a look, knew what was wanted. ‘Take a summons, take a summons,’ he cried, almost as fast as they came up. A slip of paper was given to each, and away they went to the clerk’s office. At length there came a nicely dressed young woman, evidently a last year’s bride. She held her first babe at her breast. One side of her face bore the blush of early womanhood, the other the marks of a brutal husband’s fist. The magistrate had been signing some documents, and had not seen her as she stood there for a few seconds. He looked up and caught sight of the bruises. At the same time the young woman raised her hand to her face, but could only say, ‘My husband, sir—my husband!’ ‘What! Another of you? Take a summons; If I were to sit here from Monday morning till Saturday to protect women that had got drunken and brutal husbands, I should not get through half of them.’ So said Mr. Montague Williams, and he was not far wrong, for if every magistrate were to devote his time and energies to protecting women and putting right domestic grievances, they would not get through half of them.

A good number of Englishmen seem to think that they have as perfect a right to thrash or kick their wives as the American had to ‘lick his nigger.’ Yes, and some of these fellows are completely astonished when a magistrate ventures to hold a different opinion. I well remember a great hulking fellow, with a leg-of-mutton fist, being charged with assaulting a policeman. After all the evidence had been given, the magistrate inquired whether the prisoner had been previously charged. ‘Yes, your worship, he was here two months ago, charged with assaulting a female.’ As the prisoner declared this was false, and indignantly denied that he had ever assaulted a female, the gaoler brought in his book, and proved the conviction. The prisoner then looked up in astonishment, and said: ‘Oh, why, it was only my own wife!’

Only their wives; but how those wives suffer! Is there any misery equal to theirs, any slavery to compare with theirs? If so, I never heard of it. I have seen thousands of them, and their existence is our shame and degradation. These wives almost invariably have to support the husbands that knock them about; precious little these fellows earn, and what they do earn is spent in the public-house. Their homes—one cannot call them homes—their abodes, often one, or at the most two rooms, are insufferable and indescribable. How can it be otherwise, when the slave-woman, the child-bearing machine, goes out daily to work and wash for others? She has neither strength nor heart, and ultimately no desire, to work, wash, or clean at home, and dirt, unspeakable dirt, is the result. At last they become so perfect in their misery that they never heed their foul disfigurement, but live and stew and breed in their misery and dirt.

These wives will put up with a lot before they complain to the magistrates, and it is only when the wounds are fresh, and pain and resentment have not yet subsided, that they will give evidence against their husbands. Smarting under their wrongs, they rush to our courts and beg for protection, but when the summons has been granted and a week has elapsed before it is heard, their resentment cools, and very little evidence can be obtained from them; in fact, many wives do not appear, and a great number of those that do appear lie unblushingly to the magistrate in order to save their husbands from prison. Sometimes these fellows have neither the grace nor the sense to see that these poor women are perjuring themselves for their sakes, and so, with that instinctive chivalry so characteristic of them, they proceed to cross-examine in order to show that the blame was the wife’s, and that the punishment she received was but fair and reasonable—in fact, the legitimate outcome of her conduct. This often raises the last bit of spirit the wretched woman has left in her, for even the worm will turn, and then the truth comes out, and the slave-owner goes to prison.

I have again and again in my conversation with these fellows while they were in the cells known them to glory in the fact, and feel considerable consolation for going to prison in the knowledge that they had given their wives a good showing up before the magistrate. One day a great fellow was charged in North London with assaulting his wife. The offence had been committed that morning. The wife had come into the court all bleeding, for her lord and master had chastised her on the head with a jug. The magistrate did not send the usual invitation and give my lord a week’s notice to appear. A warrant was issued, and before the fellow could well realize his position he was in the dock, and his poor little wife in the witness-box. She did not say much, but she was obliged to own that her husband had inflicted the injuries upon her head just as she was going out to work that morning. The fellow cross-examined in the usual manner about his wife’s tongue and temper, and complained that there was but little breakfast for him. The wife took it all quietly, but when the magistrate asked the prisoner for his defence and why he hit his wife with the jug, he coolly said, ‘Well, your worship, if you lived in our house, you’d throw a jug at her.’ ‘Why?’ ‘You send an officer over to see, and he will tell you that he has never seen such a filthy place.’ This was more than the battered drudge could stand, and she fairly screamed out: ‘Yes, and if you would keep out of the public-house and go to work, I could stop at home and clean it.’

The secret is out. Drink and idleness, drink and dirt, drink and misery, drink and cowardly cruelty, are in close alliance. He went to prison for three months, hard labour too, which, as the magistrate said, would be a strange thing to him, for he had done no work since he was last in prison. And the wife went back to the den, to her children four, and to her daily washing. A few days before his sentence expired, one hot afternoon in July, I called at their place, and rapped at the door. A very little voice bade me come in, so I opened the door and walked in.

I shall not easily forget going in. I had first to cross the room and open the window to get some fresh air, and recover a little; then I looked for the owner of the voice that bade me enter. I saw a pitiful sight, but, God help us! a common one, for only too often have I seen such. A girl of fifteen, not so heavy as a child of five ought to be, sat on an old chair, with her feet on a rusty fender—they were on the fender because they did not reach the floor—a poor deformed cripple, the top of her back almost level with the top of her head; poor, thin little legs, fingers almost like doll’s fingers, little bright eyes, and a face as sharp as a hatchet, unable to get out of the room for any purpose, yet left alone day after day.

An old tea-pot, some bread and margarine, some sugar in a paper, were on a very dirty table. The whole place reeked of filth; there was nothing of the slightest value in the place. I asked it where its mother was. It said: ‘Out at work.’ ‘Where are the other children?’ It supposed they were at school. I went out and got a few oranges and some buns, and, leaving the window open, I left the poor child, asking her to tell her mother that I would be round again in the evening.

I called at half-past eight, and found the poor woman had just arrived home. Weary and tired out, soon again to be a mother, there in her misery and dirt she sat. ‘It’ sat there—there on the same chair, in the same position, feet on the fender as I had seen it in the afternoon. The other children, who had been in and had eaten the buns and oranges, were still running the streets. After a while they would come in tired, have some bread and margarine, and then lie in a heap on those rags in the corner.

It was not a nice place, but I had to stop there for a time. I knew the husband was coming out of prison on the following Monday, and I wanted if possible to help the woman. How to do it was a problem. On inquiry I found that she went out to work every day and earned two shillings a day. I told her that I should like her to do some work for me, and that if she would stay at home, I would give her two and sixpence a day for the remainder of the week. She wanted to know what the work was, and I found myself in a delicate position, for I wanted to pay her to clean her own home, and even these people are touchy if you tell them that they are dirty. I rather pride myself on the tact I exhibited, for I got my way. A bit of bribery and a bit of cajolery, and she agreed to stay at home.

I was at the house early next morning, and there was a clearance. Out went the rags and the rubbish; the ceiling was washed and whitened; the walls were stripped and re-papered; soft soap and hot water made the place smell fresher and purer; some linoleum on the floor improved the look of the room. A couple of pounds renovated the whole place, and a friend was good enough to give me some decent crockery, spoons, knives, and forks, etc.; so the rubbish was burned.

On Monday morning I was round again early, taking with me some hot rolls, boiled ham, coffee and butter—in fact, a decent breakfast. I put a clean cloth on the table, a handful of flowers in a vase, saw everything ready, and went outside and watched for him, but did not let him see me. He was soon there, and I have always had a strong belief that he hurried home for a row, for he had not relished his three months. Knowing the man, I had no doubt that he would soon set to work on the breakfast. I had put some tobacco and a pipe ready for him. I waited for the breakfast and pipe to have its effect, and then went in. There sat my lord, monarch of all he surveyed, blowing clouds, with his legs comfortably stretched. He did not seem pleased to see me, and wanted to know what I was after. I told him that I knew he would be discharged that morning, and thought I would like to come round and see him. Might I have a pipe with him? He pushed the tobacco towards me, and I lit up.

The poor drudge, his wife, and his little elfish child did not know what to think of us as we sat there smoking in silence. The fact was, I found myself in a difficulty, for I did not know how much his wife or child had told him about the new home and breakfast. But the brute, having been fed, I ventured at last: ‘What a nice clean little place you have got here!’ He looked round complacently, and said: ‘The showing-up I gave her before the magistrate has done her a lot of good. You should have seen it before!’ I did not know whether to smite him or laugh. He was a big fellow, so I held my peace, for he evidently thought his home, breakfast, etc., were the earnings of his wife. As he clearly counted it to her for righteousness, I played the hypocrite a bit, and to this day the fellow believes it was all his poor wife’s doings, though he takes some credit to himself for showing her up.

What was I to do with this chivalrous gentleman? The misery of that wife and the sufferings of the child appealed strongly to me, so I said at length to him: ‘There’s a friend of mine will be glad if you will work for him, as he wants just such a man as you.’ I put it gently and as a favour, but even then it was a staggerer; it evidently was an eventuality that he had not contemplated. He smoked on and said nothing. I pointed out the condition of his wife, and the impossibility of her continuing to work much longer. I plied him with more tobacco. I told little tales to the little elf, and the little thing first laughed and then cried, but I could not get at him. Presently he turned to his wife and said: ‘Aren’t you going to work to-day?’ She told him it was too late then. He smoked on. I was just thinking of leaving, when he suddenly said: ‘Where is this work?’ I told him. He put on his cap, and said he would go and see what it was. I offered to go with him; but he said he would not have anybody from the police court ‘messing about’ after him, so I gave him a note, and sure enough he went and he worked.

I arranged with his employer not to ‘sub’ him during the week, but every night the brute had a decent supper at my expense. I even prevailed on him to allow me to loan him a few shillings for his current expenses day by day, and so at work he was able to have his pipe and jingle a few coppers in his pocket. He worked all the week, and Saturday (pay-day) came round, about which I was doubtful. I knew what time he would be paid. I had noticed he had some conceit, so I sent up to him at his work a note asking him to see me at his home at half-past two, as I had an important matter on which I wanted his advice. I did not say what it was, but I had saved it up for the purpose.

I found him at home. As the wife let me in at the door, she silently opened her hand and showed me a sovereign in gold and two half-crowns. I could have cried, but I did not: I went in. ‘Here’s the three shillings you lent me.’ I took them as a matter of course, telling him if he wanted to borrow a shilling or two at any time I would lend them to him. He never said that he had given his wife twenty-five shillings, and I never mentioned it. He felt pleased that he did not owe me anything, and I felt pleased that he should think so.

We had a pipe together, and discussed the elf, for I had made arrangements for the little thing to have a few weeks at the seaside, and I thought it better for her to be away during the wife’s coming trouble. We arranged it nicely, and the child heard the voice of the big waters for the first time, and she had another little brother when she came back.

I always had a strong aversion to this man, but I continued to visit the home week by week, for which visits I had always to find some plausible excuse. I could see that he suspected me, and looked at me with a cunning eye. I found afterwards that he thought I was watching him, and believed that I should give evidence against him in case he ill-used his wife again. I encouraged this belief, for it helped to protect the wife, and he kept to his work. He got more comfort and better food, for the way to this man’s brain—I won’t say his heart—was through his stomach. Tracts and good advice, pleading or rebuke, would have been useless with him; I had to take him as he was. He was an animal, as an animal I had to treat him, and, the professor notwithstanding, I did not make a very bad job of him, for he keeps to work and keeps his hands off his wife, for which two things husband and wife are the better.

Such husbands and such wives exist by the thousand. Stand outside our public-houses and take stock. You see a number of men, young and of middle age, loafing about, propping up the outside walls, waiting to be treated. Invariably these have wretched drudges of wives, whose lives and homes cannot be described. Hundreds of such fellows find their way into our courts. In the cells I see and speak to them, and am frequently asked to go to the places where their wives are at work, and get them to raise or borrow enough money to pay their fines. I have some comfort in thinking that I have never helped to shorten by one hour the imprisonment these fellows so richly deserve. This wife-beating among a certain class is so common that I have found plenty of wives who take it as a perfect matter of course, and some do not mind very much unless they are seriously damaged. But there are others with whom it is far different; and this leads me to speak of another class among whom I have found agony and anxiety, suffering and hopelessness, that cannot be imagined.

Their homes are clean, nay, often refined, and comfortable; the women do not go out to work, and, unless absolutely in fear of their lives, they do not charge their husbands. But those husbands get charged for other offences, and I have made the acquaintance of numbers whose homes I have visited, and have found the lowest hell of misery, fear, and despair. I now refer to men who have to live by their brains and not by their muscles, but about whose brain there is something wrong—but what, no living man can tell. They can do severe mental work at great pressure; they are valuable servants, and keep their positions for years; but let them have one dose of alcohol, and their brain is completely unhinged; they become transformed into ‘wolf or tiger, hog or bearded goat,’ and all the devilish passions that can inhabit man are roused into active fury. Smash goes the furniture, sewing-machines and everything; away go the little ones to hide themselves. Woe be to the wife if she interferes! and, if she does not, horrible language, filthy accusations, and murderous threats are heard for hours. I have gone into many houses of this description, and have had to pick my way through the ruins of the home. I have seen the wives—educated women—crouching in a corner, and little ones have crept from their hiding-places and sought shelter behind me. I have stood in front of these men, and have been horribly afraid for my own safety, for with a poker or hatchet in his hand, a man of this kind needs wary dealing. I know these men are mad, but I know that no doctor will certify them as such. I know their madness takes one form—jealousy of the innocent wife. So again and again, when I have been called into such homes, have I had to play the hypocrite and humour his delusion; to have done otherwise would have been madness.

Many a time I have said, ‘What! has she been at it again? Tell me all about it. Will you have a cigar?’ Hour after hour I have sat among the débris of the home, hearing, but not listening to, the accusations of the husband, for I have been thinking of the cowering wife in the corner and the terrified children behind me. But to watch the faces of these men, to see the gradations of passion, and the extraordinary change of facial expression, has not been a pleasant task. Yet I have sat on and on, watching for signs of exhausted nature, or hoping and waiting for some sign that alcohol had done its worst. And they come at length, for the physical strain upon such a man is intense. The wife and her children go to one bedroom and fasten the door. I get the poor fellow to another, see him into bed, leave a little light in a safe place, promise to see him on the morrow, and come away with the words, ‘Mr. Holmes, I won’t kill her to-night,’ in my ears and in my mind; for often have these words been said to me as I have left the room of such a man. On the morrow these men know nothing of what transpired the night before. They feel dazed, ill, and miserable, but memory is to them a blank. God help them and their poor wives, for, alas! no one else can help them. Magistrates and police can do nothing for them, human sympathy is helpless before them. Temperance pledges and tracts are worse than useless, for who or what can minister to a mind diseased? Drink in their case is only a symptom of a deeper-seated trouble. Cruelty in their case is not a natural condition but the outcome of their delusions. From these come the reports of many startling tragedies of murder and suicide. Of these I have saved none, but among these I have given myself, and am glad to think that I have often, at any rate, prevented worse happening.

The well-paid artisan class furnish not a few wife-beating cases, caused not by mental disease, nor yet by innate cruelty, but by regular and systematic drunkenness. These men work regularly, or nearly so, during the week, but Saturday brings to their families only added misery and sufferings, and Sunday no peace or rest. The scope for missionary work among such is very great, as one or two examples shall show.

On Easter Sunday six years ago a man lay drunk on his bed. The house in which he lived with his wife and family almost closed up to one of our large and popular churches, for the rolling of the organ and the glad strains of the Te Deum could be heard in their rooms. As the man lay there, his wife, a big-eyed and big-hearted woman, sat on a chair contemplating him. It was the twenty-first anniversary of their wedding. Twenty-one years before she had looked forward to married joys and domestic comforts, but twenty years of sorrow and suffering, unceasing toil, and untold cruelties had been her lot.

Presently there was a loud scream, but the man lay still. A woman, however, from another room ran in, and saw the wife holding a bottle that had evidently contained poison. She ran to the man, shook him violently, and called out: ‘Get up! Get up! Your wife has taken poison’ ‘Let her die, then! Let her die!’ was the only response. A doctor close by was fetched, and he shook the man, but got the same reply: ‘Let her die, then! Let her die!’ Emetics were procured, the stomach-pump applied, and the woman was carried by the police to the nearest infirmary. I heard, of the case, and I knew she would, as soon as possible, be charged with attempted suicide, so I went to see her. As I sat by her bedside in the infirmary, the story of the years came out. Her joy had been all bitterness, for the love she hoped for had turned to cruelty. Children had been born to her, but every child meant extra work and misery.

In a fortnight’s time she stood in the dock, and the evidence of the woman and doctor was taken. The husband was in court, and heard his own words, ‘Let her die! Let her die!’ repeated by both witnesses. There stood the big-eyed woman, silent and sorrowful, for not a word could be got from her. But there was a daughter in court who was not disposed to be silent, and she came forward to tell of her mother’s toil and pains, and of her father’s drunkenness and cruelty. And the big-eyed woman looked pleadingly at her, as if to tell her to hold her peace.

The husband was called up, and asked by the magistrate whether the evidence given by his daughter was true. He replied: ‘Some of it.’ The woman was remanded for a week, and I was asked to make some arrangement for her. I found the husband earned good wages, and the only arrangement I could think of was an agreement between them for a separation, the wife to have a weekly allowance from him. This he agreed to, and was willing that his wife should have the home, he promising also to allow her fifteen shillings per week, to be paid to me. This arrangement met with the approval of the magistrate, who, on the remand, accepted sureties for the wife and let her go.

I got the agreement legally drawn, and wrote for the husband to meet me at the wife’s home to sign it. I took witnesses with me, and none of us are likely to forget what followed. I read the agreement, and the man signed it. I put the pen into the woman’s hand, and tremblingly but silently she signed it. The man put fifteen shillings on the table, saying: ‘Here is your first week’s money.’ Then she stood up and looked him through and through. All the wrongs and disappointments of her married life were concentrated in her eyes, and he quailed before her. For a moment she stood, and then, with a sweep of her hand, she sent the money flying over the room, almost screaming: ‘Take your money! Take your money! Give me back my twenty-one years!’

As the man went down the stairs she stood over him, and the cry followed him—‘Give me back my twenty-one years!’ Week by week I carried the fifteen shillings to her, but no comfort could I give to her. I sent her to the seaside, and she came back none the better. Hope was not for her, and in a few months the gates of a lunatic asylum closed upon her. But that fearful cry for the lost years rang ever in the husband’s ears. His wife being in the asylum, he had to look after the children or go to prison; he had even to contribute to his wife’s support. So he had to drink less, and, drinking less, he became more human and a better parent. Twelve months passed away, and the gates of the asylum were opened to her; and he went to receive her and to take her home. There, with her children about her, she still lives, a great-eyed, sad-faced woman. No thrilling joy is hers; her heart and pulses never bound with it, for the sufferings of those years cannot be forgotten, the effects of them cannot be wiped out, but she has home comfort, if nothing more; for with the absence of drink there is the absence of cruelty. And after the darkness and storms of the mid-day of her life, I humbly hope there may be the quiet after-glow of the evening; and when time has laid its healing touch upon her poor, sore heart, the heart that yearned for love and sympathy may in some measure be compensated, and a chastened happiness be her lot.

A volume itself would fail me to tell half the stories of tragedy and pathos connected with this branch of my work. At many an inquest, if the dead could speak or the suicide come to life, worse tales would be told; for, broken in health of body and mind, with every nerve shattered, with not a spark of hope in their hearts, many women seek to end their sufferings by death. Numbers of such women are rescued from it, and are charged with attempted suicide before our magistrates. Sometimes it has been a half-hearted attempt; at others a determined attempt; sometimes, dazed and half conscious, in a helpless, hopeless kind of way they have sought their doom, at other times with fury and despair, and others still with cool, calculating determination. But, whatever the method or the mode, when the law has released its hold upon them, such poor creatures become a sacred charge upon the police court missionary. There is only one way of ‘giving Christ’ to these, and it means weeks or months of kindly sympathy and the consecration of brain and self. I do not for one moment wish it inferred that most of our female ‘attempted suicides’ are driven to it by their husbands’ drunkenness or cruelty, for this is not so; but quite a number of them are, and a sufficient number to make them an important part of any police court missionary’s work—at any rate, they have been an important part of my work.

The sufferings of married women at length got some attention from the State, and in 1895 a law was passed, or rather an addition was made to an old law, for the purpose of affording them protection and giving them some relief.

As soon as this Act came into force our police courts became thronged with women applying for protection. Briefly the Act provides that any woman having a persistently cruel husband may leave him, and, having left him, may then apply to the magistrate within whose jurisdiction she lives for a summons against her husband for separation and maintenance. These the magistrate is empowered to grant, provided the woman proves her case, that the cruelty has been persistent. An order being made upon the husband, he must pay or go to prison. A large number of women have been protected by this Act; men have learned the power of the Act, and many have found to their cost that cruelty to a wife does not go unpunished. They have found, too, that they must either work or starve, and that, having wives, they must either support them or go to prison, and in some degree, though only a small degree, women have been protected.

But what of the husbands who are possessed of drunken wives? Alas! there is no relief for them; the law moves not its finger to help them. Though their goods and clothes are pawned, though their children be neglected, and though their homes be turned into veritable hells, the law gives them no hope, the State no redress. Again and again strong, honest, industrious men come into our courts seeking the magistrate’s help and counsel, telling the same old tale, exposing the same old sorrow, and the magistrate has no help to give, no counsel to impart. Letter after letter I receive, some badly written, many badly spelt, but letters which for absolute pathos could not be surpassed. Plead with these women, and it is like preaching a sermon to an east wind. Reason with them, and they will make worse appear the better reason, for they lie with impunity, and one and all declare they are the aggrieved and their husbands are the guilty parties. Stupendous are their lies, and yet I feel certain that many believe what they assert.

I have taken much knowledge of these women, and have come to the opinion that drunkenness is often but a symptom of some deeper cause. At one time I had persuaded some half-dozen of such to agree to separate from their husbands, who every week sent to me the sum agreed on for their maintenance. I used to call on these women, give them their week’s money, find them a little work, and do them any kindness I possibly could. I am not likely to repeat that experiment, for I confess myself beaten; they were too much for me, and so far as I know I was powerless to influence them for good. I never could find out whether their peculiar mental condition was due to drink, or their drinking was due to their mental condition, and either way I was helpless. But I have met with some magnificent devotion on the part of husbands, and a love passing even the love of women. I will give but one instance of this, and although it had a sad ending, yet it illustrates my statement.