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One or two among them are finely developed young men, but the
great bulk we see are small in stature and weak in body. Some of
them have a hopeless expression of countenance that tells us of
moral and mental weakness.
We note that most of them can have had but little chance in life,
and that their physical or mental infirmities come from no fault
of their own. They have all been to school; they have started in
life, if it can be called starting, as errand boys, paper sellers
in the streets, or as street merchants of some description. They
have grown into early manhood, but they have not increased in
wisdom or stature. They have learned no occupation, trade or
handicraft; they have passed from school age to early manhood
without discipline, decent homes or technical training.
When at liberty their homes are lodging-houses or even less
desirable places. So they pass from the streets to the police,
from police-courts to prison, with positive regularity.
They behave themselves in prison, they obey orders, they do the
bit of work that is required of them, they eat the food, and they
sleep interminable hours away.
At the back of the young men we see row after row of older men,
and their khaki clothing and broad arrows produce a strange
impression upon us; but what impresses us most is the facial and
physical appearance of the prisoners.
Cripples are there, twisted bodies are there, one-armed men are
there, and blind men are there. Here and there we see a healthy
man, with vigour and strength written on his face; but the great
mass of faces strikes us with dismay, and we feel at once that
most of them are handicapped In life, and demand pity rather than
vengeance.
We know that they are not as other men, and we realise that their
afflictions more than their sins are responsible for their
presence in that doleful assembly.
Yet some of them are clever in crime, and many of them persistent
in wrong-doing, but their afflictions were neglected in days when
those afflictions should have been a passport to the pity and
care of the community.
We see men who have grown old in different prisons, and we know
that position in social and industrial life is impossible for
them.
We see a number whom it is evident are not mentally responsible,
for whom there is no place but the workhouse or prison; yet we
realise that, old as they are, the day of liberty must come once
more, and they will be free to starve or steal!
We know that there are some epileptics among them, and that their
dread complaint has caused them to commit acts of violence.
We see among them men of education that have made war upon
society. Drunkards, too, are there, and we know that their
overmastering passion will demand gratification when once again
the opportunity of indulging in its presented to them. So we
look at this strange mass of humanity, and as we look a mist
comes over our eyes, and we feel a choking sensation in our
throats.
But we look again, and see that few throughout this great
assembly show any sense of sorrow or shame. As we speak to them
of hope, gladness, of manliness, and of the dignity of life, we
feel that we are preaching to an east wind. Come round the same
prison with me on a week-day; in one part we find a number of men
seated about six feet from each other making baskets; warders are
placed on pedestals here and there to keep oversight.
We walk past them, and notice their slow movements and see
hopelessness written all over them. They are working "in
association," they are under "observation," which, the governor
tells us, means that they are suspected of either madness or
mental deficiency.
As we look at them we are quite satisfied that this suspicion is
true, and that, if not absolutely mad, they are mentally
deficient.
If absolute madness be detected, they will be sent to asylums.
If feeble-mindedness be proved, they will again be set at
liberty. Their names will be placed on a list, and they will be
declared "unfit for prison discipline," but nothing more will be
done. They will be discharged to prowl about in the underworld,
to commit other criminal acts and to be returned again and again
to prison, to live out hopeless lives.
And there is another cause, almost as prolific in producing a
prison population. For while the State has been, and still is,
ready to thrust afflicted youth into prison, it has been, and
still is, equally ready to thrust into prison the half-educated,
half-fed, and half-employed young people who break its laws or
by-laws. It is true that the State in its irony allows them the
option of a fine; but the law might as well ask the youths of the
underworld to pay ten pounds as ask them to pay ten shillings;
nor can they procure all at once the smaller sum, so to prison
hundreds of lads are sent.
Does it ever occur to our esteemed authorities that this is a
most dangerous procedure! What good can possibly come either to
the State or to the youthful offender?
What are the offences of these boys? Disorder in the streets,
loitering at railway stations, playing a game of chance called
"pitch and toss," of which I have something to say in another
chapter, gambling with a penny pack of cards, playing tip-cat,
kicking a football, made of old newspapers maybe, playing
cricket, throwing stones, using a catapult, bathing in a canal,
and a hundred similar things are all deemed worthy of
imprisonment, if committed by the youngsters of the world below
the line.
Thousands of lads have had their first experience of prison for
trumpery offences that are natural to the boys of the poor. But
a first experience of prison is to them a pleasant surprise.
They are astonished to find that prison is not "half a bad
place." They do not object to going there again, not they! Why?
Because the conditions of prison life are better, as they need to
be, than the conditions of their own homes. The food is better,
the lodging is better, the bed is decidedly better, and as to the
work, why, they have none worthy of the name to do. They lose
nothing but their liberty, and they can stand that for a week or
two, what matters!
Well, something does matter, for they lose three other things of
great moment to them if they only knew; but they don't know, and
our authorities evidently consider these three things of no
moment. What do they lose? First, their fear of prison;
secondly, their little bit of character; thirdly, their work, if
they have any. What eventuates? Idleness, hooliganism and
repeated imprisonments for petty crime, until something more
serious happens, and then longer sentences. Such is the progress
of hundreds whom statisticians love to call "recidivists."
Am I wrong when I say that the State has been too ready, too
prompt in sending the youths of the ignorant poor to prison? Am
I wrong in saying that the State has been playing its "trump ace"
too soon, and that it ought to have kept imprisonment up its
sleeve a little longer? These lads, having been in prison, know,
and their companions know, too, the worst that can happen to them
when they commit real crime. Prison has done its worst, and it
cannot hurt them.
If prisons there must be, am I wrong in contending that they
should be reserved for the perpetrators of real and serious
crime; and that the punishment, if there is to be punishment,
should be certain, dignified and severe, educational and
reformative? At present it includes none of these qualities.
To such a length has the imprisonment of youths for trumpery
offences gone, not only in London, but throughout the country,
that visiting justices of my acquaintance have spent a great deal
of money in part paying the fines of youths imprisoned under such
conditions, that they might be released at once. Here we have a
curious state of affairs, magistrates generally committing youths
to prison in default for trumpery offences, and other magistrates
searching prisons for imprisoned youths, paying their fines,
setting them free, and sending on full details to the Home
Secretary.
It would be interesting to know how many "cases" of this kind
have been reported to the Home Secretary during the last few
years. Time after time the governors of our prisons have called
attention to this evil in their annual reports. They know
perfectly well the disaster that attends the needless
imprisonment of boys, and it worries them. They treat the boys
very kindly, all honour to them! But even kindness to young
prisoners has its dangers, and every governor is able to tell of
the constant return of youthful prisoners.
I do not like the "birch" or corporal punishment at all. I do
not advocate it, but I am certain that the demoralising effect of
a few' days' imprisonment is far in excess of the demoralisation
that follows a reasonable application of the birch.
But the birch cannot be applied to lads over fourteen years of
age, so it would be well to abolish it altogether, except in
special cases, and for these the age might with advantage be
extended. And, after all, imprisonment itself is physical
punishment and a continued assault upon the body. But why
imprison at all for such cases? We talk about imprisonment for
debt; this is imprisonment for debt with a vengeance. Look! two
lads are charged with one offence or two similar offences; one
boy is from the upperworld, the other from below the line. The
same magistrate fines the two boys an equal amount; the one boy
pays, or his friends pay; but the other goes of a certainty to
prison. Is it not absurd! rather, is it not unjust?
But whether it is absurd or unjust the result is certain
--mathematically certain--in the development of a prison
population.
During my police-court days I have seen hundreds of youths
sitting crying in their cells consumed with fear, waiting their
first experience of prison; I have seen their terror when first
entering the prison van, and I know that when entering the prison
portals their terror increased. But it soon vanished, for I have
never seen boys cry, or show any signs of fear when going to
prison for the second time. The reason for this I have already
given: "fear of the unknown" has been removed. This fear may
not be a very noble characteristic, but it is part of us, and it
has a useful place, especially where penalties are likely to be
incurred.
For many years I have been protesting against this needless
imprisonment of youths, and now it has become part of my duty to
visit prisons and to talk to youthful prisoners, I see the
wholesale evil that attends this method of dealing with youthful
offenders. And the same evils attend, though to perhaps a less
degree, the prompt imprisonment of adults, who are unable to pay
forthwith fines that have been imposed upon them.
It is always the poor, the very poor, the people below the line
that suffer in this direction. Doubtless they merit some
correction, and the magistrates consider that fines of ten
shillings are appropriate, but then they thoughtlessly add "or
seven days."
Think of the folly of it! because a man cannot pay a few
shillings down, the State conveys him to prison and puts the
community to the very considerable expense of keeping him. The
law has fined him, but he cannot pay then, so the law turns round
and fines the community.
What sense, decency, or profit can there possibly be in
committing women to prison, even for drunkenness, for three, five
or seven days? How can it profit either the State or the woman?
It only serves to familiarise her with prison.
I could laugh at it, were it not so serious. Just look at this
absurdity! A woman gets drunk on Thursday, she is charged on
Friday. "Five shillings, or three days!" On Friday afternoon
she enters prison, for the clerk has made out a "commitment," and
the gaoler has handed her into the prison van. Her "commitment"
is handed to the prison authorities; it is tabulated, so is she;
but at nine o'clock next morning she is discharged from prison,
for the law reckons every part of a day to be a complete day; and
the law also says that there must be no discharge from prison on
a Sunday, and to keep her till Monday would be illegal, for it
would be "four days." How small, how disastrous, and how
expensive it is!
If offenders, young or old, must be punished, let them be
punished decently. If they ought to be sent to prison, to prison
send them. But if their petty offences can be expunged by the
payment of a few shillings, why not give them a little time to
pay those fines? Such a course would stop for ever the
miserable, deadly round of short expensive imprisonments. I have
approached succeeding Home Secretaries upon this matter till I am
tired; succeeding Home Secretaries have sent memorandums and
recommendations to courts of summary jurisdiction till, I expect,
they are tired, for generally they have had no effect in
mitigating the evil.
Magistrates have the power to grant time for the payment of
fines, but it is optional, not imperative. It is high time for a
change, and surely it will come, for the absurdity cannot
continue.
Surely every English man and woman who possesses a settled home
ought to have, and must have, the legal right of a few days'
grace in which to pay his or her fine. And every youthful
offender ought to have the same right, also, even if he paid by
instalments.
But at present it is so much easier, and therefore so much
better, to thrust the underworld, youthful and adult, into prison
and have done with them, than it is to pursue a sane but a little
bit troublesome method that would keep thousands of the poor from
ever entering prison.
CHAPTER XIII
UNEMPLOYED AND UNEMPLOYABLE
My life has been one of activity; from an early age I have known
what it was to be constantly at work. To have the certainty of
regular work, and to have the discipline of constant duty, seem
to me an ideal state for mind and body. Labour, we are sometimes
told, is one of God's chastisements upon a fallen race; I believe
it to be one of our choicest blessings. I can conceive only one
greater tragedy than the man who has nothing to do, and that is
the man who, earnestly longing for work, seeks it day by day, and
fails to find it.
Imagine his position, and imagine also, if you possibly can, the
great qualities that are demanded if such a man is to go through
a lengthened period of unemployment without losing his dignity,
his manhood and his desire for work.
I can tell at a glance the man who has had this experience.
There is something about his face that proclaims his
hopelessness, the very poise of his body and his peculiar
measured step tell that his heart is utterly unexpectant. To-
morrow morning, and every morning, thousands of men will rise
early, even before the sun, and set out on their weary tramp and
hopeless search for work. To-morrow morning, and every morning,
thousands of men will be waiting at various dock-gates for a
chance of obtaining a few hours' hard work. And while these
wait, others tramp, seeking and asking for work.
Wives may be ill at home, children may be wanting food and
clothing, but every day thousands of husbands set out on the
interminable search for work, and every day return disappointed.
Small wonder that some of them descend to a lower grade and in
addition to being unemployed, become unemployable.
Look at those thousands of men clamouring daily at our dock-
gates; about one-half of them will obtain a few hours' hard work,
but the other half will go hopeless away. They will gather some
courage during the night, for the next morning they will find
their way to, and be knocking once more at, the same dock-gates.
It takes sterling qualities to endure this life, and there can be
no greater hero than the man who goes through it and still
retains manhood.
But it would be more than a miracle if tens of thousands of men
could live this life without many of them becoming wastrels, for
it is certain that a life of unemployment is dangerous to
manhood, to character and health.
As a matter of fact the ranks of the utterly submerged are being
constantly recruited from the ranks of those who have but casual
work. During winter the existence of the unemployed is more
amply demonstrated, for then we are called upon to witness the
most depressing of all London's sights, a parade of the
unemployed. I never see one without experiencing strange and
mixed emotions. Let me picture a parade, for where I live they
are numerous, and at least once a week one will pass my window.
I hear the doleful strains of a tin whistle accompanied with a
rub-a-dub-dub of a kettledrum that has known its best days, and
whose sound is as doleful as that of the whistle. I know what is
coming, and, though I have seen it many times, it has still a
fascination for me, so I stand at my window and watch. I see two
men carrying a dilapidated banner, on which is inscribed two
words, "The Unemployed." The man with the tin whistle and the
man with the drum follow the banner, and behind them is a company of
men marching four abreast. Two policemen on the pavement keep
pace with the head of the procession, and two others perform a
similar duty at the end of it.
On the pavement are a number of men with collecting boxes, ready
to receive any contribution that charitably inclined people may
bestow. They do not knock at any door, but they stand for a
moment and rattle their boxes in front of every window.
The sound of the whistle and the drum, and the rattle of boxes
is, in all conscience, depressing enough, but one glimpse at the
men is infinitely more so.
Most of them are below the average height and bulk. Their hands
are in their trousers pockets, their shoulders are up, but their
heads are bent downwards as if they were half ashamed of their
job. A peculiar slouching gait is characteristic of the whole
company, and I look in vain for a firm step, an upright carriage,
and for some signs of alert manhood. As they pass slowly by I
see that some are old, but I also see that the majority of them
are comparatively young, and that many of them cannot be more
than thirty years of age. But whether young or old, I am
conscious of the fact that few of them are possessed of strength,
ability and grit. There are no artisans or craftsmen among them,
and stalwart labourers are not in evidence.
Pitiful as the procession is, I know that it does not represent
the genuine and struggling unemployed. They pass slowly by and
go from street to street. So they will parade throughout the
livelong day. The police will accompany them, and will see them
disbanded when the evening closes in. The boxes will be emptied,
the contents tabulated, and a pro rata division will be made,
after which the processionists will go home and remain unemployed
till the next weekly parade comes round.
Unemployable! yes, but so much the greater pity; and so much
more difficult the problem, for they represent a very large
class, and it is to be feared a growing class of the manhood of
London's underworld.
We cannot blame them for their physical inferiority, nor for
their lack of ability and grit. To expect them to exhibit great
qualities would be absurd. They are what they are, and a wise
country would ponder the causes that lead to such decadent
manhood. During my prison lectures I have been frequently struck
with the mean size and appearance of the prisoners under twenty-
two years of age, who are so numerous in our London prisons.
From many conversations with them I have learned that lack of
physical strength means also lack of mental and moral strength,
and lack of honest aspiration, too! I am confirmed in this
judgment by a statement that appeared in the annual report of the
Prison Commissioners, who state that some years ago they adapted
the plan in Pentonville prison of weighing and measuring all the
prisoners under the age of twenty-two.
The result I will tell in their own words: "As a class they are
two-and-a-half inches below the average height of the general
youthful population of the same age, and weigh approximately
fourteen pounds less."
Here, then, we have an official proof of physical decadence, and
of its connection with prison life. For these young men, so
continuously in prison, grow into what should be manhood without
any desire or qualification for robust industrial life.
I never speak to them without feeling a deep pity. But as it is
my business to interest them, I try to learn something from them
in return, as the following illustration will show.
I had been giving a course of lectures on industrial life to the
young prisoners in Wormwood Scrubbs, who numbered over three
hundred. On my last visit I interrogated them as follows--
"Stand up those of you that have had regular or continuous work."
None of them stood up! "Stand up those of you who have been
apprentices." None of them stood up! "Stand up those of you who
sold papers in the street before you left school." Twenty-five
responded! "How many sold other things in the streets before
leaving school?" Thirty! Seventeen others sold papers after
leaving school, and thirty-eight sold various articles.
Altogether I found that nearly two hundred had been in street
occupations.
To my final question: "How many of you have met me in other
prisons?" Thirty-five stood up! I give these particulars
because I think my readers will realise the bearing they have on
unemployment.
Surely it is obvious that if we continue to have a growing number
of physically inferior young men, who acquire no technical skill
and have not the slightest industrial training, that we shall
continue to have an increasing number of unemployed
unemployables.
CHAPTER XIV
SUGGESTIONS
I propose in this last chapter to make some suggestions, which, I
venture to hope, will be found worthy of consideration and
adoption.
The causes of so much misery, suffering and poverty in a rich and
self-governing country are numerous; and every cause needs a
separate consideration and remedy.
There is no royal road by which the underworld people can ascend
to the upperworld; there can be no specific for healing all the
sores from which humanity suffers.
Our complex civilisation, our industrial methods, our strange
social system, combined with the varied characteristics mental
and physical of individuals, make social salvation for the mass
difficult and quite impossible for many.
I shall have written with very little effect if I have not shown
what some of these individual characteristics are. They are
strange, powerful and extraordinary. So very mixed, even in one
individual, that while sometimes they inspire hope, at others
they provoke despair.
If we couple the difficulties of individual character with the
social, industrial and economic difficulties, we see at once how
great the problem is.
We must admit, and we ought frankly to admit the truth, and to
face it, that there exists a very large army of people that
cannot be socially saved. What is more important, they do not
want to be saved, and will not be saved if they can avoid it.
Their great desire is to be left alone, to be allowed to live
where and how they like.
For these people there must be, there will be, and at no far
distant date, detention, segregation and classification. We must
let them quietly die out, for it is not only folly, but suicidal
folly to allow them to continue and to perpetuate.
But we are often told that "Heaven helps those who help
themselves"; in fact, we have been told it so often that we have
come to believe it, and, what is worse, we religiously or
irreligiously act upon it when dealing with those below the line.
If any serious attempt is ever made to lessen the number of the
homeless and destitute, if that attempt is to have any chance of
success, it will, I am sure, be necessary to make an alteration
in the adage and a reversal of our present methods.
If the adage ran, "Heaven helps those who cannot help
themselves," and if we all placed ourselves on the side of
Heaven, the present abominable and distressing state of affairs
would not endure for a month,
Now I charge it upon the State and local authorities that they
avoid their responsibilities to those who most sorely need their
help, and who, too, have the greatest claim upon their pity and
protecting care. Sometimes those claims are dimly recognised,
and half-hearted efforts are made to care for the unfortunate for
a short space of time, and to protect them for a limited period.
But these attempts only serve to show the futility of the
efforts, for the unfortunates are released from protective care
at the very time when care and protection should become more
effectual and permanent.
It is comforting to know that we have in London special schools
for afflicted or defective children. Day by day hundreds of
children are taken to these schools, where genuine efforts are
made to instruct them and to develop their limited powers. But
eight hundred children leave these schools every year; in five
years four thousand afflicted children leave these schools.
Leave the schools to live in the underworld of London, and leave,
too, just at the age when protection is urgently needed. For
adolescence brings new passions that need either control or
prohibition.
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