Known to the Police

by Thomas Holmes

A boy of fourteen who was hawking his father's pictures was arrested and charged. The police had discovered that he did not hold a pedlar's licence. The pictures were quite works of art, done on pieces of cardboard about twelve inches square, some being original sketches; others were copies of famous pictures. They were done in black-and-white, and competent judges declared that the work was exceedingly well done. The boy said his father was ill in bed, and had sent him out to sell the pictures; his mother was dead, and his father and himself lived together in Hackney.

I went with the boy to their one room, and there, in a miserable street and in a still more miserable room, lay the artist in bed. There was nothing of any value in the room, excepting some pictures, and as I entered I found him sitting up in bed at work upon another. They had no money at all, and that morning the boy had been sent out to try and sell the pictures and bring back food and coals. The lad's mother had died some years before, and the father and son were living together.

The father had learned no other business, and at one time there was some demand for his work, so he married. One can easily picture the life they led—the gradual shadows, the disappointments that came upon the wife, the hopeless struggle with poverty, the early death, and the misery of the husband when the partner of his poverty was taken away. Now, partly paralyzed in his legs, some days able to rise and dress himself and pay an occasional call on the "trade," and to return home more hopeless, he was glad to sell a picture for five shillings, unframed, that had cost him much effort and time.

I bought one of his pictures at a fair price, and saw that he had both food and coals, for it was winter-time. I called on him frequently, and did what I could to cheer him, and other friends bought his pictures. But he gradually grew worse in health, until the gates of one of our great infirmaries closed upon him, and the world saw him no more, and it was left to me to make some suitable provision for the boy.

One Christmas Eve some years ago there was a cry of "Police! police!" In a little upper room in North London an elderly man had been found in a pool of blood; his throat had been cut, and as a razor lay beside him, it was evident the injury was self-inflicted. It was a frightful gash, but he was carried to a neighbouring hospital, where all the resources of skill and science were at hand. In three months' time he was able to stand in the dock, and evidence was given against him. He was sixty-three years of age, had on a very old frock-coat that had been originally blue, and an ancient fez that bore traces of silver braid. When the evidence had been taken, and the magistrate was about to commit him for trial, a singular-looking man stepped up, and said he was the prisoner's brother, and that he would take care of him if his Worship would discharge him. He said a friend had given his brother some drink, and it was when under the influence of the drink that the prisoner had tried to cut his own throat; that he himself was a teetotaller—and he pointed triumphantly to a piece of blue ribbon on his very shabby coat—and that he would take care that his brother had no more drink.

The magistrate very kindly accepted him as surety, and asked me to visit them, which I accordingly did, and found myself in very strange company. Three brothers were living together: sixty-five, sixty-three, and sixty were their ages. The one who had been charged was the middle brother, and was an artist; the other two were quaint individuals: they had been brought up in luxury, and now, being reduced to poverty, had not the slightest idea of how to earn a shilling.

The blue-ribbon brother was the youngest member of the family, and though he drank cold water, he appeared to have a strong aversion to its external use. He was of a religious turn of mind, and had he exercised himself one-half as much about work as he did about religious subjects, the catastrophe that had happened might have been avoided.

The elder brother was in weak health, and walked with some difficulty. The artist was certainly by far the best man of the three; still, they all had an air of faded gentility. Briefly, they were the sons of a well-known artist, who, many years ago, was a frequent exhibitor in the Royal Academy, and whose frescoes adorn one of the royal palaces.

After his death the three brothers and a sister lived together. Each was left an income of about twenty-five pounds per annum, and the sister managed their affairs. As long as she lived and the artist brother could sell pictures, all went fairly well; but when she died the brothers were left to struggle for themselves. Gradually their home went down—dirt and discomfort ensued, fewer pictures were sold, and then one Christmas the artist fell into my care. What a room it was, and how hopeless it all seemed! I found the artist himself had exhibited in the Royal Academy, and that he was undoubtedly a talented man. I found him as simple as a child, and his two brothers as innocent as babes.

I sold some of his pictures, and obtained orders for others; but I discovered that, instead of the younger brother looking after the artist, the artist had to look after the younger brother, and I also found, to my cost, that, instead of having one unfortunate man to look after, I had three of them on my hands. The elder brother sat reading goody books hour after hour; the younger one went to his prayer-meetings, but never brought a shilling home; while the artist stuck to his work, when he had any to do, splendidly.