Pictures and Problems from London Police Courts

by Thomas Holmes

There was one who would go for six months and sometimes more, well conducted, scrupulously clean, and well dressed, an ideal picture of a well-to-do, benevolent, elderly man. I have also known him go for six weeks unwashed, and during that time never remove his clothes, change his linen, or take off his boots. He went down into the mud at longer intervals than the others, but when in it he stayed there and rolled much longer, and went lower down. At no stage of his drinking bout did this man become jolly, lively, or in any sense companionable. He wanted no one, he wanted nothing but drink. Quiet, sullen, and determined, he set about his debauch in a business-like way. He had been with his firm for many years, and was a valuable servant who did not mind work. His employers thought much of him, and were willing to overlook his outbreaks provided they were kept within reasonable limits, and that he never appeared at the office with the slightest sign of a debauch, or of recovering from a debauch, upon him. He had a marvellous constitution, and would drink for six weeks at a time, eating little or no food, and would take bottles of spirits to bed with him. If during his outbreak he took off his boots, he would wander from public-house to public-house, winter or summer, wet or dry, without any. If he started his debauch wearing a great ulster-overcoat, no matter how the weather changed or how warm it became, the overcoat he continued to wear. Often he would lose his silk hat, and many a warm day I have discovered him without hat or boots, but wearing this great-coat. He had beautiful silver hair and beard, of which he was proud, and with which he took no end of pains when sober; no matter how long his debauch lasted, his hair would go uncombed, his beard untrimmed, and his face unwashed.

The first time I met him he was in this condition; he had been picked up in the snow about three o’clock one February morning, and was charged at North London Police Court. Without hat or boots, with matted hair and beard, blood-shot eyes and inflamed face, he sat shaking in the prisoners’ room. He was described on the charge-sheet as ‘A man; address not tendered.’ Truth to tell, he was unable to give his own name or to say where he came from. When I spoke to him, he looked up and said, ‘Water!’ I got him a full quart and held it to his mouth, for he trembled too violently to do it for himself. At two draughts he swallowed the lot. I could not get a word from him, neither could the police, and when before the magistrate he was dumb and vacant. The magistrate kindly sent him in a cab to the workhouse infirmary. I promised to go and see him in a few days’ time.

I went, and found him in workhouse clothing; his mental faculties were coming back to him, but he was not fit for removal, being ill and weak. He could, however, tell me where he came from and where he was employed. So I called on his employers, who had seen nothing of him since Christmas Eve. They were pleased to hear of him, and put me in communication with his daughter, a very accomplished young lady who had left her position as governess in the country and had come up to London to seek for him, for nothing had been heard of him for some weeks; in fact, he had disappeared. The daughter went with me to the workhouse to visit her father, and found it a very unpleasant experience. As he was approaching us I said, ‘Here is your father coming, miss.’ In his corduroy trousers, his brown coat with brass buttons, and his brown Scotch cap, she did not recognise him at first; when she did, she nearly fainted, but ultimately had a good cry instead. I got fresh rooms for him, and his daughter consented to live with him, giving up her own prospects in order to do it. His employer paid his debts, advancing a sufficient sum of money to his daughter. In a few days he went back to the office, the same elderly, benevolent-looking gentleman as he had been before his debauch, with not a suspicion of drink upon him.

For three months he worked almost night and day, and then he was at it again. His daughter left him and went I know not whither, for I have never heard of her since. Again he was left lonely in London. I sought him, but could not find him, so I arranged with his landlady to let me know at once if he returned home in the daytime, for his lodgings were handy. At night I waited for him in his own room. He returned one morning about two, when I quickly took possession of him. About four o’clock he insisted on going out, but I had locked his door, so he had to remain. The next day I cut short his debauch by taking him home with me, and putting him under lock and key. This he was most indignant about, and questioned my right to make a prisoner of him. I told him that might was right, and that he had got to remain. In a week’s time he went to his lodgings and his work. For six months this time he worked well and regularly. He was a Roman Catholic, so I insisted on his going to his priest, making a full confession, and signing the pledge. This he did, not that it had much effect, for again, after six months, he was in the mud. I could not find him for a long time, and when I did he was penniless, and had, moreover, pawned everything he possibly could. He lost his employment; his firm would have no more of him. His landlady, too, would have no more of him, and so the door was closed against him. Penniless, homeless, and friendless, I took him in.

He stayed two years with us, regaining his situation and doing so well that the firm substantially increased his salary. He was saving money fast, but he became too grand and important for us, and left us for other lodgings. For a while he kept straight, coming to visit us every Saturday evening. His silvery hair, his deportment, and his irreproachable clothing conferred quite a lustre upon our establishment, and his visits were a pleasure to us; but his holiday-time came round. For this he made great preparations, for he loved to do things in style. He had not had a seaside holiday for years; his frequent lapses prevented the thought of such a thing. He wanted a cab to take him to the station, for his luggage was considerable—a trunk, two portmanteaus, a Gladstone bag, a hand-bag, two hat-boxes, all full. With a gold-mounted Malacca cane, a gold-mounted umbrella, a gold watch and chain, away he went.

About five weeks afterwards, at two o’clock in the morning, he was on my doorstep, rapping and ringing and calling out, ‘For the love of God, let me in!’ I went down to him, and a pretty picture he presented. Unwashed and dirty to a degree, with an old cloth cap on his head, he stood there shaking and trembling again, almost in delirium tremens. Every bit of his luggage and belongings, excepting the clothes he was wearing, had disappeared, and the work of two years was completely undone. He had no claim upon me for lodging, but I took him in, and saw him in bed; there he made such unearthly noises, the neighbours got up, thinking a murder was being committed. They told us about it next day, but never thought the noises proceeded from our house. By the aid of light nourishments, frequent cooling drinks, and medicine, we got him round again, and he went to face his employer. I don’t know what excuses he made, but, contrary to my expectations, he was allowed to commence his work, although he had been absent two months. Again he got straight, paid his debts, and appeared as a philanthropic elderly gentleman, goodly to look upon.

But once more the drink craving came and took him by the throat, and he was helpless in its grip. Warnings were nothing to this man, for when he was sober he never dreamt or thought it possible that he could ever fall again; others might, but himself never. Never could it or should it happen again to him; but it did, and again I brought him home, and locked him up. This time, however, he was too much for me, for he got through the window of the room with nothing on but trousers, shirt, and stockings, and in that condition this nice, elderly, silver-haired gentleman went ‘on the drink.’ I sent out scouts, and he was found in a public-house some distance away. I went for him, and found him with a stiff glass of brandy before him, which I quickly upset. He refused to come with me, and would not budge an inch, so I explained matters to the landlord, who refused to serve him again. Still he would not come with me. Calling for a cigar and a glass of lemonade, I made myself as comfortable as I could, and risked my reputation as a teetotaler by waiting a good hour for him. He must have suffered something in that hour. With drink all round him, the fumes of it increasing his passion, waiting, longing, mad for it, there he sat till he could bear it no longer, so he got up and said he was ready to go. Again I locked him up, took possession of his money and thought I had him safe.

The next day, in my absence, he burst the door of his bedroom, went out and pawned something, came back and went to bed. When I got home, I searched his room, but could find no drink. I made him undress, but he had no drink upon him. I took away all his clothing, and then searched his bed. I found under the mattress a flask of brandy. When I took it away, I noticed a cunning look on his face, which I did not understand at the time, but I thought it strange that he quietly acquiesced in my taking the flask. For several days he stayed in his room, getting more and more drunk. I could not understand it, so determined to make another search, and soon found that he had completely fooled me by placing the small flask where he knew I should find it, but also hiding several large bottles up the chimney. These were now empty, and he was stupidly, insensibly drunk. I came to the conclusion that my wits were not sharp enough to cope with his, so I put his clothing back in his room, determined to let him have his fling. Again with matted beard and hair unwashed for weeks he went in and out; again the workhouse brought him up. This time it was his own seeking; he knew that I had decided to have done with him. He had pawned and parted with everything possible; he wandered about and could get no more drink, so, abject and ill, he went to the workhouse infirmary.

For seven long years I had hoped and struggled for this man. I had fought the drink demon with every resource at my command, and I had to confess defeat. The last thing I did for him was to get a change of clothing out of pawn, take him to Euston Station and pay his fare to a large Northern city. There Nature has had its revenge, for he lies paralyzed in a workhouse infirmary, waiting for the end. There his wife lives in easy circumstances, bringing up her younger children to hate the name of their father. She had property and friends, and years ago she obtained a judicial separation, for when the trial came on he was in the mud. His eldest daughter I have never heard of since the day she disappeared. But about once a year a stalwart sailor comes into London port, and for a few weeks revels in the mud after the fashion of the silver-haired gentleman. Cut and wounded, penniless and shaken, he goes back to his ship, or, should that be gone, seeks for another; for he inherits the same passion, and is slave to the same over-mastering craving, as his father—a passion I have some reason to fear the accomplished daughter is not a stranger to.

God help all such! for who else can understand them, who else can help them? Moral force is of no avail; human sympathy, kindly interest, and earnest solicitations are of no avail with them. Sufferings and remorse, burning shame and hopeless poverty, teach this kind nothing. Though they know that the prison or workhouse waits for them, though they know that the grave is yawning for them—yea, though hell itself stood open for them—into it they would go for the chance of satisfying their all-compelling craving. And it comes upon them like a thief in the night, when it is least expected. To-day they are clean, circumspect, gentlemanly, even religious; to-morrow they are bestial and wallow in the mud. Education is powerless, culture is powerless, refinement is powerless, good desires are powerless, self-respect is powerless, before this omnipotent craving. As I sit writing, all of these men whom I have ever met seem to crowd round me, and they are all educated men—University men and business men, clergymen and ministers of religion, artists and literary men, men of historic family and doctors of repute—I see them all again in their hopeless misery. I listen to their appeals for help, and I feel again the dint of pity as I look into their faces. I know only too well that I cannot and have not helped them. I have but pitied them, and given them such assistance as lay in my power.