In Darkest England and the Way Out Part 5

There is no need for me to go into the details of the way in which men and women, whose whole livelihood depends upon their success in disarming the suspicions of their victims and luring them to their doom, contrive to overcome the reluctance of the young girl without parents, friends, or helpers to enter their toils. What fraud fails to accomplish, a little force succeeds in effecting; and a girl who has been guilty of nothing but imprudence finds herself an outcast for life. The very innocence of a girl tells against her. A woman of the world, once entrapped, would have all her wits about her to extricate herself from the position in which she found herself. A perfectly virtuous girl is often so overcome with shame and horror that there seems nothing in life worth struggling for. She accepts her doom without further struggle, and treads the long and torturing path-way of "the streets" to the grave.

"Judge not, that ye be not judged" is a saying that applies most appropriately of all to these unfortunates. Many of them would have escaped their evil fate had they been less innocent. They are where they are because they loved too utterly to calculate consequences, and trusted too absolutely to dare to suspect evil. And others are there because of the false education which confounds ignorance with virtue, and throws our young people into the midst of a great city, with all its excitements and all its temptations, without more preparation or warning than if they were going to live in the Garden of Eden.

Whatever sin they have committed, a terrible penalty is exacted.

While the man who caused their ruin pa.s.ses as a respectable member of society, to whom virtuous matrons gladly marry--if he is rich-- their maiden daughters, they are crushed beneath the millstone of social excommunication. Here let me quote from a report made to me by the head of our Rescue Homes as to the actual life of these unfortunates.

The following hundred cases are taken as they come from our Rescue Register. The statements are those of the girls themselves. They are certainly frank, and it will be noticed that only two out of the hundred allege that they took to the life out of poverty: --

CAUSE OF FALL.

Drink .. .. .. 14 Seduction .. .. 33 Wilful choice .. .. 24 Bad company .. .. 27 Poverty .. .. .. 2 ---- Total 100

CONDITION WHEN APPLYING.

Rags.. .. .. 25 Dest.i.tution .. 27 Decently dressed 48 ---- Total 100

Out of these girls twenty-three have been in prison. The girls suffer so much that the shortness of their miserable life is the only redeeming feature. Whether we look at the wretchedness of the life itself; their perpetual intoxication; the cruel treatment to which they are subjected by their task-masters and mistresses or bullies; the hopelessness, suffering and despair induced by their circ.u.mstances and surroundings; the depths of misery, degradation and poverty to which they eventually descend; or their treatment in sickness, their friendlessness and loneliness in death, it must be admitted that a more dismal lot seldom falls to the fate of a human being. I will take each of these in turn.

HEALTH.--This life induces insanity, rheumatism, consumption, and all forms of syphilis. Rheumatism and gout are the commonest of these evils. Some were quite crippled by both--young though they were.

Consumption sows its seeds broadcast. The life is a hot-bed for the development of any const.i.tutional and hereditary germs of the disease.

We have found girls in Piccadilly at midnight who are continually prostrated by haemorrhage, yet who have no other way of life open, so struggle on in this awful manner between whiles.

DRINK.--This is an inevitable part of the business. All Confess that they could never lead their miserable lives if it were not for its influence.

A girl, who was educated at college, and who had a home in which was every comfort, but who, when ruined, had fallen even to the depth of Woolwich "Dusthole," exclaimed to us indignantly--"Do you think I could ever, ever do this if it weren't for the drink? I always have to be in drink if I want to sin." No girl has ever come into our Homes front street-life but has been more or less a prey to drink.

CRUEL TREATMENT.--The devotion of these women to their bullies is as remarkable as the brutality of their bullies is abominable. Probably the primary cause of the fall of numberless girls of the lower cla.s.s, is their great aspiration to the dignity of wifehood;--they are never "somebody" until they are married, and will link themselves to any creature, no matter how debased, in the hope of being ultimately married by him. This consideration, in addition to their helpless condition when once character has gone, makes them suffer cruelties which they would never otherwise endure from the men with whom large numbers of them live.

One case in ill.u.s.tration of this is that of a girl who was once a respectable servant, the daughter of a police sergeant. She was ruined, and shame led her to leave home. At length she drifted to Woolwich, where she came across a man who persuaded her to live with him, and for a considerable length of time she kept him, although his conduct to her was brutal in the extreme.

The girl living in the next room to her has frequently heard him knock her head against the wall, and pound it, when he was out of temper, through her gains of prost.i.tution being less than usual. He lavished upon her every sort of cruelty and abuse, and at length she grew so wretched, and was reduced to so dreadful a plight, that she ceased to attract. At this he became furious, and p.a.w.ned all her clothing but one thin garment of rags. The week before her first confinement he kicked her black and blue from neck to knees, and she was carried to the police station in a pool of blood, but; she was so loyal to the wretch that she refused to appear against him.

She was going to drown herself in desperation, when our Rescue Officers spoke to her, wrapped their own shawl around her s.h.i.+vering shoulders, took her home with them, and cared for her. The baby was born dead-- a tiny, shapeless ma.s.s. This state of things is all too common.

HOPELESSNESS--SURROUNDINGS.--The state of hopelessness and despair in which these girls live continually, makes them reckless of consequences, and large numbers commit suicide who are never heard of.

A West End policeman a.s.sured us that the number of prost.i.tute-suicides was terribly in advance of anything guessed at by the public.

DEPTHS TO WHICH THEY SINK.--There is Scarcely a lower cla.s.s of girls to be found than the girls of Woolwich "Dusthole"--where one of our Rescue Slum Homes is established. The women living and following their dreadful business in this neighbourhood are so degraded that even abandoned men will refuse to accompany them home. Soldiers are forbidden to enter the place, or to go down the street, on pain of twenty-five days' imprisonment; pickets are stationed at either end to prevent this. The streets are much cleaner than many of the rooms we have seen.

One public house there is shut up three or four times in a day sometimes for fear of losing the licence through the terrible brawls which take place within. A policeman never goes down this street alone at night--one having died not long ago from injuries received there --but our two la.s.ses go unharmed and loved at all hours, spending every other night always upon the streets.

The girls sink to the "Dusthole" after coming down several grades.

There is but one on record who came there with beautiful clothes, and this poor girl, when last seen by the officers, was a pauper in the workhouse infirmary in a wretched condition. The lowest cla.s.s of all is the girls who stand at the pier-head--these sell themselves literally for a bare crust of bread and sleep in the streets. Filth and vermin abound to an extent to which no one who has not seen it can have any idea. The "Dusthole" is only one, alas of many similar districts in this highly civilised land.

SICKNESS, FRIENDLESSNESS--DEATH.--In hospitals it is a known fact that these girls are not treated at all like other cases; they inspire disgust, and are most frequently discharged before being really cured.

Scorned by their relations, and ashamed to make their case known even to those who would help them, unable longer to struggle out on the streets to earn the bread of shame, there are girls lying in many a dark hole in this big city positively rotting away, and maintained by their old companions on the streets. Many are totally friendless, utterly cast out and left to perish by relatives and friends. One of this cla.s.s came to us, sickened and died, and we buried her, being her only followers to the grave.

It is a sad story, but one that must not be forgotten, for these women const.i.tute a large standing army whose numbers no one can calculate.

All estimates that I have seem purely imaginary. The ordinary figure given for London is from 60,000 to 80,000. This maybe true if it is meant to include all habitually unchaste women. It is a monstrous exaggeration if it is meant to apply to those who make their living solely and habitually by prost.i.tution. These figures, however, only confuse. We shall have to deal with hundreds every month, whatever estimate we take. How utterly unprepared society is for any such systematic reformation may be seen from the fact that even now at our Homes we are unable to take in all the girls who apply. They cannot escape, even if they would, for want of funds whereby to provide them a way of release.

CHAPTER 7. THE CRIMINALS.

One very important section of the denizens of Darkest England are the criminals and the semi-criminals. They are more or less predatory, and are at present shepherded by the police and punished by the gaoler.

Their numbers cannot be ascertained with very great precision, but the following figures are taken from the prison returns of 1889: --

The criminal cla.s.ses of Great Britain, in round figures, sum up a total of no less than 90,000 persons, made up as follows: --

Convict prisons contain.. .. .. .. .. .. 11,660 persons Local prisons contain.. .. .. .. .. .. 20,883 ,, Reformatories for children convicted of crime .. 1,270 ,, Industrial schools for vagrant and refractory children .. .. .. .. .. 21,413 ,, Criminal lunatics under restraint.. .. .. .. 910 ,, Known thieves at large .. .. .. .. .. .. 14,747 ,, Known receivers of stolen goods .. .. .. .. 1,121 ,, Suspected persons .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 17,042 ,, ------- Total 89,046 -------

The above does not include the great army of known prost.i.tutes, nor the keepers and owners of brothels and disorderly houses, as to whose numbers Government is rigidly silent. These figures are, however, misleading. They only represent the criminals actually in gaol on a given day. The average gaol population in England and Wales, excluding the convict establishments, was, in 1889, 15,119 but the total number actually sentenced and imprisoned in local prisons was 153,000, of whom 25,000 only came on first term sentences; 76,300 of them had been convicted at least 10 times. But even if we suppose that the criminal cla.s.s numbers no more than 90,000, of whom only 35,000 persons are at large, it is still a large enough section of humanity to compel attention. 90,000 criminals represents a wreckage whose cost to the community is very imperfectly estimated when we add up the cost of the prisons, even if we add to them the whole cost of the police.

The police have so many other duties besides the shepherding of criminals that it is unfair to saddle the latter with the whole of the cost of the constabulary. The cost of prosecution and maintenance of criminals, and the expense of the police involves an annual outlay of #4,437,000. This, however, is small compared with the tax and toll which this predatory horde inflicts upon the community on which it is quartered. To the loss caused by the actual picking and stealing must be added that of the unproductive labour of nearly 65,000 adults.

Dependent upon these criminal adults must be at least twice as many women and children, so that it is probably an under-estimate to say that this list of criminals and semi-criminals represents a population of at least 200,000, who all live more or less at the expense of society.

Every year, in the Metropolitan district alone, 66,100 persons are arrested, of whom 444 are arrested for trying to commit suicide--life having become too unbearable a burden. This immense population is partially, no doubt, bred to prison, the same as other people are bred to the army and to the bar. The hereditary criminal is by no means confined to India, although it is only in that country that they have the engaging simplicity to describe themselves frankly in the census returns. But it is recruited constantly from the outside. In many cases this is due to sheer starvation. Fathers of the Church have laid down the law that a man who is in peril of death from hunger is ent.i.tled to take bread wherever he can find it to keep body and soul together. That proposition is not embodied in our jurisprudence.

Absolute despair drives many a man into the ranks of the criminal cla.s.s, who would never have fallen into the category of criminal convicts if adequate provision had been made for the rescue of those drifting to doom. When once he has fallen, circ.u.mstances seem to combine to keep him there. As wounded and sickly stags are gored to death by their fellows, so the unfortunate who bears the prison brand is hunted from pillar to post, until he despairs of ever regaining his position, and oscillates between one prison and another for the rest of his days. I gave in a preceding page an account of how a man, after trying in vain to get work, fell before the temptation to steal in order to escape starvation. Here is the sequel of that man's story.

After he had stolen he ran away, and thus describes his experiences: --

"To fly was easy. To get away from the scene required very little ingenuity, but the getting away from one suffering brought another.

A straight look from a stranger; a quick step behind me, sent a chill through every nerve. The cravings of hunger had been satisfied, but it was the cravings of conscience that were clamorous now. It was easy to get away from the earthly consequences of sin, but from the fact-- never. And yet it was the compulsion of circ.u.mstances that made me a criminal. It was neither from inward viciousness or choice, and how bitterly did I cast reproach on society for allowing such an alternative to offer itself--'to Steal or Starve,' but there was another alternative that here offered itself--either give myself up, or go on with the life of crime. I chose the former. I had travelled over 100 miles to get away from the scene of my theft, and I now find myself outside the station house at a place where I had put in my boyhood days.

"How many times when a lad, with wondering eyes, and a heart stirred with childhood's pure sympathy, I had watched the poor waifs from time to time led within its doors. It was my turn now. I entered the charge room, and with business-like precision disclosed my errand, viz.

that I wished to surrender myself for having committed a felony.

My story was doubted. Question followed question, and confirmation must be waited. 'Why had I surrendered?' 'I was a rum'un.' 'Cracked.'

'More fool than rogue.' 'He will be sorry when he mounts the wheel.'

These and such like remarks were handed round concerning me. An hour pa.s.sed by. An inspector enters, and announces the receipt of a telegram. 'It is all right. You can put him down.' And turning to me, he said, 'They will send for you on Monday,' and then I pa.s.sed into the inner ward, and a cell. The door closed with a harsh, grating clang, and I was left to face the most clamorous accuser of all-- my own interior self'

"Monday morning, the door opened, and a complacent detective stood before me. Who can tell the feeling as the handcuffs closed round my wrists, and we started for town. As again the charge was entered, and the pa.s.sing of another night in the cell; then the morning of the day arrived. The gruff, harsh 'Come on' of the gaoler roused me, and the next moment I found myself in the prison van, gazing through the crevices of the floor, watching the stones flying as it were from beneath our feet. Soon the court-house was reached, and hustled into a common cell, I found myself amongst a crowd of boys and men, all bound for the 'dock.' One by one the names are called, and the crowd is gradually thinning down, when the announcement of my own name fell on my startled ear, and I found myself stumbling up the stairs, and finding myself in daylight and the 'dock.' What a terrible ordeal it was. The ceremony was brief enough; 'Have you anything to say?'

'Don't interrupt his Wors.h.i.+p; prisoner!' 'Give over talking!'

'A month's hard labour.' This is about all I heard, or at any rate realised, until a vigorous push landed me into the presence of the officer who booked the sentence, and then off I went to gaol.

I need not linger over the formalities of the reception. A nightmare seemed to have settled upon me as I pa.s.sed into the interior of the correctional.

"I resigned my name, and I seemed to die to myself for henceforth.

332B disclosed my ident.i.ty to myself and others.

"Through all the weeks that followed I was like one in a dream.

Meal times, resting hours, as did every other thing, came with clock-like precision. At times I thought my mind had gone--so dull, so callous, so weary appeared the organs of the brain. The harsh orders of the gaolers; the droning of the chaplain in the chapel; the enquiries of the chief warder or the governor in their periodical visits,--all seemed so meaningless.

"As the day of my liberation drew near, the horrid conviction that circ.u.mstances would perhaps compel me to return to prison haunted me, and so helpless did I feel at the prospects that awaited me outside, that I dreaded release, which seemed but the facing of an unsympathetic world. The day arrived, and, strange as it may sound, it was with regret that I left my cell. It had become my home, and no home waited me outside.

"How utterly crushed I felt; feelings of companions.h.i.+p had gone out to my unfortunate fellow-prisoners, whom I had seen daily, but the sound of whose voices I had never heard, whilst outside friends.h.i.+ps were dead, and companions.h.i.+ps were for ever broken, and I felt as an outcast of society, with the mark of 'gaol bird' upon me, that I must cover my face, and stand aside and cry 'unclean.' Such were my feelings.

"The morning of discharge came, and I am once more on the streets.

My scanty means scarcely sufficient for two days' least needs. Could I brace myself to make another honest endeavour to start afresh?

Try, indeed, I did. I fell back upon my antecedents, and tried to cut the dark pa.s.sage out of my life, but straight came the questions to me at each application for employment, 'What have you been doing lately?'

'Where have you been living?' If I evaded the question it caused doubt; if I answered, the only answer I could give was 'in gaol,' and that settled my chances.

"What a comedy, after all, it appeared. I remember the last words of the chaplain before leaving the prison, cold and precise in their officialism: 'Mind you never come back here again, young man.' And now, as though in response to my earnest effort to keep from going to prison, society, by its actions, cried out, 'Go back to gaol. There are honest men enough to do our work without such as you.' "Imagine, if you can, my condition. At the end of a few days, black despair had wrapt itself around every faculty of mind and body. Then followed several days and nights with scarcely a bit of food or a resting-place.