The Criminal & the Community

by James Devon

Most slum-dwellers are not there because they prefer slum life, but because they are unable to pay for better accommodation. The smallness of their dwellings makes healthy home-life difficult and in some cases impossible. Having no room in the house for the recreation required after work, the man goes out to seek change. The opportunities offered to him are few, except those provided by private enterprise. There are the parks, and great advantage is taken of them; but in Glasgow they are nearly all at considerable distances from the most crowded districts. The public bowling-greens are used to the utmost in the evenings, but are only available for a part of the year. The libraries attract comparatively few of those whose labour has entailed much physical strain on them; and picture-galleries and museums appeal to only a very limited number of our fellow-citizens, working-class or otherwise.

It was once the idea of those who pleaded for the public provision of means of recreation that these should be of such a character as would “improve” the working classes. The intention was excellent, but the people themselves were left out of consideration, as is usual when efforts are made to recreate men instead of providing opportunity for them to amuse themselves. Perhaps they do not believe that it would be an improvement to conform to our ideals; at any rate, the great majority have not shown any eagerness to take advantage of the means for studying science and art which we have placed within their reach; and they remain as regardless of the worship of these deities as the great mass of the richer people who quite honestly have sought to elevate them. The private caterer has found a way to interest them, for if he failed to do so he would lose his means of livelihood, and that fact may have helped to sharpen his powers of perception. He has to amuse men as they are, not as he thinks they ought to be; and our regulations quite properly debar him from doing so in an objectionable way. The entertainments provided may not be of a very high order, but the purpose of recreating thousands is served. If we regret that they do not seek something better, let us remember the monotony of their lives, the numbing effect of the conditions to which they are subject, and be thankful they do not seek worse.

The small house of one or two rooms in a tenement is what the majority have for a home, and when there is a family it is insufficient to enable them to evolve a complete and healthy home-life in it. Social intercourse is of necessity restricted, for there is no room for the gathering of friends; and though public entertainments, while valuable adjuncts, are poor substitutes for social intercourse, they are better than nothing. The public-house is almost the only place where the mass of town-dwellers can meet in a social way with their friends, and the perils attendant on such meetings are evident to all men. The effort to provide some substitute for it has taxed the ingenuity and baffled the attempts of many temperance advocates and social reformers. Much as they have been criticised, the music-halls and such places have been a powerful counter-attraction, but any means of public entertainment cannot in the end supply the need for social intercourse between kindred spirits. Some day the fact will have to be faced that the only real substitute for the public-house is the private house; and when that is fully realised the slums will go.

Many have to migrate from one district to another because of the nature of their work. They have not “steady jobs,” and though they may not suffer from unemployment, they may be engaged now in one part of the city and now in another. The result is that they have no abiding dwelling-place, and as a rule have only the barest acquaintance with their neighbours; for when people are moving about in this way they have neither the same opportunity nor the same desire to form friendships with those around them. Improvement in the means of locomotion has contributed to send employers and well-to-do people out of the crowded areas of the city and away from the parts wherein their employees reside. They see less of their workmen than did a former generation, and their wives and families know nothing about the men whose co-operation is required to secure their comfort. There is less of personal contact than there was and more chance of mutual misunderstanding. The bond between employer and employed becomes more and more a mere money bond; each seeks to get as much as he can out of the other; and with it all there arises a general feeling of instability and insecurity, the necessary result of the absence of a spirit of fellowship such as can only spring from the existence of a personal as distinct from a pecuniary interest between man and man.

Where people are crowded together regulations are required for their health and comfort, and the liberty of each has to be restricted in the interest of the community. The more closely they are packed the more interference is required. Practices which in the country might be harmless or even laudable would be intolerable if permitted in the town. To make our rules operative we enact penalties against offenders—and sometimes enforce them. There are so many now that it is questionable if there is anybody in Glasgow who has not at one time or another been a transgressor. The man from whose chimney black smoke has issued, or who has obstructed the footpath by leaving goods outside his shop-door, does not worry over, because he is not seriously worried by, such laws. He may swear a little when summoned, and say evil things about the officiousness of the authorities, but it is a small matter to him even though he is fined. The man who finds himself in court for using strange oaths in public or for spitting in or upon a tramcar has more worry over the business. Even a small fine makes a serious inroad in his day’s earnings, and the loss of time attending the court docks him of the pay by which he might discharge the fine. However much it may be required, every extension of the police regulations for the government of a city implies an increase in the number of offences and offenders dealt with; and while it is necessary that transgressors should be made to cease to do the things the law condemns, it does not follow that the wisest means are always taken to secure this object.

A crusade against consumption will meet with hearty approval everywhere; but if the crusaders allow their zeal to direct their energies wrongly their good intentions cannot be held as an excuse for the harm they do. In a city that is ordinarily covered with a haze, and sometimes with a cloud, of smoke; where the inhabitants for the most part live in tenement houses that by no stretch of fancy could be called spacious; where the workers are in many cases subjected to severe physical strain by the nature of their work; and where the weather is variable and trying; it is not surprising that many should suffer from “colds.” They are under the necessity of spitting, and they spit not out of joy of spitting, but because they have to. The practice is filthy—it is all the evil things that can be said of it; and it should be discouraged. The best way would be to alter the conditions that occasion it; the worst way is to make the spitter a comrade of the criminal before the bar of a police court.

As with this so with many other offences; they are manufactured without due regard to the injury that may be caused by their enforcement. It is an easy thing to place burdens on the backs of others, but in fairness to them it should first be ascertained whether they can bear them. Many of our laws are transgressed because of ignorance or helplessness; and neither is an excuse. We are all supposed to know the law, and surely no greater irony could there be than such a hypothesis. If everybody knew the laws there would be no need for lawyers; and if the lawyers were agreed as to what is the law at any time there would be little need for judges. So well is it recognised that even the judges differ, that one set is employed to correct another; and a final decision is only arrived at because there is not another set yet provided to differ from them. If a layman does not know the law he may be punished for his ignorance; but if a judge does not know it the person in whose favour he has given a decision may be punished by payment of the costs of appeal. Let us not be too hard then on the ignorance of the man who has transgressed one of our numerous commandments.

In the country, and where people are not crowded together, there are offenders against good government; but there each one knows the other, and when a man commits a petty offence, though the local constable sees it, he may be judiciously blind if in his judgment that is the best course to take. He knows the inhabitants—they are his friends—and he reacts to the opinion of the district. If he makes an arrest the matter is discussed, and when the offender comes before the court, magistrate and prisoner meet as persons who know one another. Judgment is given on a knowledge not only of the offence, but of the offender, and all parties in the case are tried by the public. In the city it is not possible for the policeman to know the people who live in his district, nor for them to know him. This is a great disadvantage to begin with, for he is not able to distinguish between those who may be corrected and restrained by their friends without the need for their being charged and those who cannot be so dealt with. He arrests a person whom he does not know for committing an offence. The prisoner is brought before a judge who knows neither of them, save officially, and judgment is given according to scale. As for informed public opinion directed on the proceedings, there is none. In the city as in the country, however, if an offender is known as being ordinarily a well-behaved man he may not be prosecuted. If he is overcome by drink someone may see him home or send him there. It is not so much a question of his being well-to-do; it is a question of his being known. If not known, no matter what his means he cannot be sent home in a cab; but he may be taken to the police station in a wheelbarrow.

What else can the police do? We take men of good physique and character, many of them country-bred and unacquainted with the complexities of city life. They are paid the wages of a labourer, and with a uniform invested with powers and duties of the most varied kind. They must be able to keep people from offending, or to arrest them if they do offend; they must know the law; they must be prepared to act as doctors on emergency—what must they not be able to do? We multiply our complaints, and cast on their shoulders duties we ought to perform ourselves; blaming them not only for any blunders they may commit, but also for our own. We compel them to make arrests and then lament the result. X 18 is sent to prison in default of paying a fine, on conviction for using obscene language. She is seventeen years of age, but does not look more than fifteen. In years she is a young woman, but in body and in character she is a big girl. She is the eldest of a family, the father of which is a casual labourer. The mother does occasional charing. Both take drink, but neither has ever been convicted or charged. The girl is employed in a factory and earns about enough to support herself. At night she wants some fun after her day’s work, and she does not want to assist all the time in the household. She plays with other and younger girls and is probably their leader. There is no playground for them but the street corner, except they take the “back close,” which is not lit and which might be a source of greater evil than the street. A complaint is made to the police of the bad language used by the girls. It is certainly lurid; but where have they learned it? The decorative expressions complained of are part of the current vocabulary of many in the district, but are used with more restraint by the elders. We have all our pet adjectives, which differ in different localities and are of the nature of slang. In the West End a thing may be “awfully nice,” though nothing can be at once awful and nice; in the East End the adjective may be quite as inappropriate, but everybody knows its signification; and so with other parts of speech. True, their language is filthy, but it does not shock those who use it; and that is perhaps the saddest thing about it. The girls are warned, but they persist in speaking their own language, and in bravado ornament it profusely and shout opprobrious words at the policeman. One is caught. She has not necessarily been worse than the others in her behaviour, but she has either run in the wrong direction or not fast enough to escape. She is taken to the police station and warned. The complaints persist. Again she is arrested. She is the bad one; she was taken before.

On her liberation from prison she had lost her work. She was shunned by the other girls, whose mothers forbade them to associate with one who had been in prison, lest they should be taken in charge also. It is an offence to associate with some classes of offenders and criminals, and the cautious among the dwellers in these districts do not care to take risks, so they try to keep clear of anyone who has been in the hands of the police. The law may be right enough, but you will not get them to believe that the innocent person is safe; not if he is poor. “Keep awa’ frae Jeannie. She’s been in the nick; an’ if they see you wi’ her they’ll maybe think you’re as bad, and land ye there tae.” They would help her if they could, but they fear that association with her would only hurt themselves and do her no good. Those who have been in prison themselves will go with her, and those who are reckless; to their company she is confined, for she will not take to religion and the help of its professors. She is soon back again; as cheerful and as tractable as any girl could be.