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