Mr. Mayhew, in opening the proceedings, said:--“The object of this
meeting is threefold. In the first place, I wish society to know more
about you as a distinct class; secondly, I wish the world to understand
the working of the ticket-of-leave system; and, thirdly, I want to
induce society to exert itself to assist you, and extricate you from
your difficulties. When I first went among you, it was not very easy
for me to make you comprehend the purpose I had in view. You at first
fancied that I was a Government spy, or a person in some way connected
with the police. I am none of these, nor am I a clergyman wishing
to convert you to his particular creed, nor a teetotaler anxious to
prove the source of all evil to be over-indulgence in intoxicating
drink; but I am simply a literary man, desirous of letting the rich
know something more about the poor. (Applause.) Some persons study
the stars, others study the animal kingdom, others again direct their
researches into the properties of stones, devoting their whole lives
to these particular vocations. I am the first who has endeavoured to
study a class of my fellow-creatures whom Providence has not placed
in so fortunate a position as myself, my desire being to bring the
extremes of society together--the poor to the rich, and the rich to
the poor. (Applause.) I wish to get bodies of men together in a mass,
their influence by that means being more sensibly felt than if they
remain isolated. I know you, perhaps, nearly as well as many of you
know yourselves. I have had many of you in my house with my wife and
children, and to your honour and credit be it said, you never wronged
me of the smallest article, and, moreover, I never heard a coarse word
escape your lips. I have trusted many of you who have been long tried
by want of food. I have given you money to get change for me, and you
never yet took advantage of me. This shows that there is still a spark
of good in each of you. That spark I wish Society to develope, that
you may be made what all must really desire to see you. Some two or
three Sundays ago I was at Pentonville prison during Divine service.
Society believes you to be hardened in heart and unimpressionable.
Well, I saw some four hundred prisoners there weeping like children
at the melting tale which the clergyman told. He spoke of the burial
of a girl by torchlight, at which he officiated, explaining that the
reason why the funeral took place so late was that the father
of the deceased had to come about fifty miles to be present, and
thence the delay. The old man’s tears, he said, fell like rain on the
coffin-lid; and yet, in his anguish, the bereaved parent exclaimed
that he preferred to see his daughter a corpse than for her to live
a life of infamy in the streets. (Sensation.) This sad story could
not fail to touch a chord in each of your breasts. But to come to the
ticket-of-leave system. The public generally believe that it is a most
dangerous thing to set you free under that system. I know this is one
of the most important experiments in connexion with the reformation
of offenders that has ever been tried, and it has worked better than
any other of which I have had experience. In 1853, the old mode of
transportation was changed, and an Act passed directing that no person
should be sentenced to transportation except for fourteen years or
upwards, and that thenceforward sentence of penal servitude should
be substituted for transportation for less than fourteen years. At
the same time, a discretionary power was given to commute sentences
of transportation into terms of penal servitude. Then, for the first
time, was it ordained that it should be lawful for her Majesty, under
the seal of her secretary of state, to grant any convict, now or
hereafter sentenced to transportation, or to the punishment substituted
for it, a license to be at large in the United Kingdom, or such part
thereof as is expressed in the license, during a portion of his term
of imprisonment. The holder of this license is not to be imprisoned
by reason of his previous sentence; but if his license is revoked,
he is to be apprehended and re-committed. Since the passing of that
Act, and between September 1853 and December 31, 1855--a period of
about two years and a quarter--the number of convicts released from
public works and prisons has been 3880. To this number have to be
added juveniles from Parkhurst prison, 297; and convicts from Bermuda
and Gibraltar, 435: making a total of 4612. Of this aggregate, 140
have had their licenses revoked, and 118 have been sentenced to penal
servitude and imprisonment; making together 258 who have had their
licenses cancelled out of the entire 4612. Out of this 258, 27 were
committed for breach of the vagrancy law, 20 for ordinary assaults,
8 for assaults on the police, 6 for breach of the game-laws, 2 for
desertion from the militia, and 20 for misdemeanour; making together
84, and leaving 174 as the exact number who have relapsed into their
former course of life. Thus it appears that only five and a-half per
cent of the whole number of tickets-of-leave granted have been revoked.
Now, considering that the number of re-committals to prison for England
and Wales averages thirty-three in every hundred prisoners; this, I
think, is a very favourable result of the ticket-of-leave experiment.
Looking at the extreme difficulty of a return to an honest life, it
is almost astonishing that so low a per-centage as five and a half of
the licenses in all England should have been revoked. You know that,
during your imprisonment, there are four stages of probation. In
certain prisons you have to do a prescribed amount of work, for which
you receive a certain gratuity. The shoemakers, for instance, get 4_d._
every week if they make two and a-half pairs, 6_d._ for three pairs,
and 8_d._ for four pairs. The tailors get 4_d._ if they make two suits
of prison garments, 6_d._ for three suits, and 8_d._ for four. The
matmakers get 4_d._ for thirty-six square feet of their work, 6_d._ for
forty-five feet, and 8_d._ for fifty-four. The cotton-weavers get 4_d._
for twenty-four yards, 6_d._ for thirty, and 8_d._ for thirty-six. The
cloth-weavers are paid in a similar manner. These sums are entered
to your credit, and pass with you from prison to prison until they
at last accumulate into an amount, which is handed over to you under
certain restrictions on leaving. In the second stage of probation,
you receive 6_d._ in addition to the ordinary weekly gratuity; in the
third stage you receive an addition of 9_d._; and in the fourth stage
one of 1_s._ or 1_s._ 3_d._ This sum--large or small, according to the
term of imprisonment--is placed to your credit on quitting the prison,
and is thus distributed:--5_l._ to be paid immediately on discharge,
or by post-office order on the convict’s arrival at his native place.
If the sum is over 5_l._ and under 8_l._ he receives 4_l._ on his
discharge, and the balance at the end of two months; if over 8_l._ and
under 12_l._, half is paid on his discharge and the balance at the end
of three months; if over 12_l._ and under 20_l._, 5_l._ is paid on his
discharge, half the balance in two months, and the remainder in three
months. In order, however, to obtain this balance, it is necessary
for you to be provided with certificates as to character, either from
a clergyman, a magistrate, or the employer with whom the holder of
the license is then at work. The applicants for these balances have
been 1242 in number up to the 31st December last. Of these, 1225 have
sent in certificates of a satisfactory nature, only 17 having been
sent in of a contrary character--851 certificates were furnished by
clergymen, 214 by magistrates, and 177 by employers under whom the
persons liberated were engaged. In the 1225 cases above-mentioned,
after the expiration of the prescribed number of months, the money was
paid to the applicants. Considering the difficulty these persons must
experience in obtaining the certificates required of them, the figures
I have stated are highly satisfactory as to the working of the system;
and I cannot, therefore, understand how society should have gone so
far astray on this point as it has done. The public, however, believe
ticket-of-leave men to be very dangerous characters--it does not know
the training they undergo while in prison. A high authority tells me,
that it is impossible for a gentleman’s son to be trained with greater
care at Eton or at any of the other public schools than each of you
have been. When, however, Society sees two or three, or even some
half-dozen of you relapse into your former practices, they jump to the
conclusion that the same is the case with you all. They, in fact, think
that relapses are the rule and amendment the exception, instead of the
fact being quite the other way. This is like the self-delusion of the
London apprentices, who fancy there are more wet Sundays in a year
than rainy week-days, simply because they want to get out on Sundays,
and are particularly vexed when the bad weather keeps them at home.
(Laughter.) Now I have tried many experiments at the reformation of
criminals, and one-half of them have failed. Yet I am not discouraged;
for I know how difficult it is for men to lay aside their past habits.
Every allowance ought, therefore, to be made, because they cannot be
expected to become angels in a moment. The vice of the present system,
in fact, is, that unless a criminal suddenly becomes a pattern man, and
at once forgets all his old associates, Society will have none of you,
and, as a certain gentleman has expressed it, ‘you must all be shot
down, and thrown into Society’s dust-bin.’ (Applause.) A well-known
literary gentleman, who had moved in good society, had a daughter, with
whom he lived at the east end of London. He was rather lax, perhaps, in
the rearing of his child, allowing her to do pretty much as she liked.
She once went to a concert, and got acquainted with a ‘mobsman,’ who
accompanied her home, and at last introduced himself to her father
as his daughter’s suitor. Being a well-dressed, respectable-looking
person, the father--good, easy man!--took a liking for him, and not
being particular in his inquiries as to the lover’s course of life,
allowed them to marry. After their marriage, however, the daughter
discovered what her husband’s pursuits really were. She, of course,
acquainted her father with the fact, who, in great distress of mind,
called his son-in-law to him, and telling him that he had never had a
stain upon his name or character, implored him by every argument he
could urge to lead an honest life. The mobsman promised to comply.
His father-in-law removed him from the neighbourhood in which he was
staying, and placed him in the service of a large railway carrier. In
this employ, having one day to take a parcel to a gentleman’s house,
up-stairs on the mantelpiece he saw a gold watch. This temptation was
too much for him, and he seized the article and put it into his pocket.
The theft was discovered before the offender had gone any distance;
the man was soon arrested, but the father, by dint of great exertion,
got him off, on returning the watch and communicating with its owner
before the complaint was made at the police-office. The father again
entreated his son-in-law to abandon his evil courses, but the latter
said his old associations were too strong for him, and that he saw no
other resource open for him than to leave London altogether. The old
man accordingly took him with him to a residence on the banks of the
Thames, where, at length, some of his old companions unfortunately met
him, and told him of a ‘crib’ they were going to ‘crack,’ and of the
heavy ‘swag’ they were likely to get. The prodigal’s old habits were
again too much for him. He accompanied his former associates in their
criminal enterprise, was captured, and thrown again into prison--his
father-in-law died in a mad-house, and his wife committed suicide. Thus
fearful, then, are the effects of criminal associations, and therefore
I am only surprised that so small a per-centage of the ticket-of-leave
men have yielded to a relapse. Successful, however, as the system has
thus far proved, I yet see a considerable amount of evil in connexion
with it; and this is the reason why I have called you together, hoping
that some of the tales you have to relate will serve to rouse the
public to a sense of your real position, and induce them to stretch
forth a hand to save you from the ruin that on every hand threatens
you. When you come out of prison, destitute as you are of character,
there are only two or three kinds of employment open to you, and I
therefore wish Society to institute some association to watch over
you, to give you every possible advice, to lead you to good courses,
and, moreover, to provide you with the means of getting some honest
livelihood. (Applause.) I know that as a class you are distinguished
mainly by your love of a roving life, and that at the bottom of all
your criminal practices lies your indisposition to follow any settled
occupation. Continuous employment of a monotonous nature is so irksome
to you, that immediately you engage in it you long to break away from
it. This, I believe, after long observation of your character, to be
true of the majority of you; and you are able to judge if I am right
in this conclusion. Society, however, expects, that if you wish to
better yourselves, you will at once settle down as steadily as it
does, and immediately conform to all its notions; but I am satisfied
that if anything effectual is to be done in the way of reforming you,
Society must work in consonance and not in antagonism with your nature.
In this connexion it appears to me that the great outlet for you is
street-trading, where you are allowed to roam at will unchafed by
restraints not congenial to your habits and feelings. In such pursuits
a small fund for stock-money suffices, and besides, no character is
required for those who engage in them. From the inquiries made by a
gentleman who lately visited the places in which most of you live,
I find that the great majority of you follow some form or other of
street occupation. Still there is this difficulty in your way. The
public requires its thoroughfares to be kept clear of obstruction,
and I know that the police have been ordered to drive you away--to
make you, as the phrase is, ‘move on.’ You may fancy that the police
act thus of their own accord; but I learn from communication with the
Commissioners, that the police have to receive requisitions from the
shopkeepers and other inhabitants to enforce the Street Act, and are
compelled to comply with them. In one instance a tradesman living in a
street-market, where about five hundred poor persons were obtaining a
livelihood, complained to the police of the obstruction thus occasioned
to his business, which was of a ‘fashionable’ nature. The consequence
was that the thoroughfare had to be cleared, and these five hundred
persons were reduced almost to a state of starvation, and many of them
were forced into the workhouse. Now I don’t believe that this is right;
and I am prepared to say to Society, that no one man in the kingdom
should have the power to deprive so large a body of poor persons of all
means of gaining an honest subsistence. (Loud applause.) At the same
time, certain regulations must be respected; the streets even, you will
allow, must not be blocked--(hear, hear)--there must be a free passage,
and it is necessary to consider whether a plan may not be devised which
will answer both ends. It strikes me that a certain number of poor
men’s markets might be established very advantageously; for the poor
are so linked together that they would rather buy of the poor than the
rich; and it is much to their credit that it is so. If spots of ground
for markets of this kind were bought by benevolent individuals, and
a small toll levied on admission to them, I am sure the speculation
would be profitable to those who embarked in it, as well as beneficial
to the interests--moral as well as pecuniary--of the street traders.
Connected with these establishments there ought to be a school for
the children of the traders, a bank for preserving your money, a
cook-shop to prevent you from being obliged to take your meals at the
public-house, together with many other useful adjuncts which might be
grouped round the market. Such experiments have been tried before now.
There is the old Rag-fair at Houndsditch, where formerly old clothes
were sold in the streets. In that case a Jew bought a piece of land, to
which poor traders were admitted on payment of a halfpenny per head,
and the project succeeded so admirably that the owner of the ground
soon became a rich man. At Paris similar markets have been instituted,
and with success, by M. Delamarre; and in the same city there are also
public kitchens, where cooked meat can be had at a cheap rate, so as
to keep the poor people out of the public-houses. Lodging-houses for
such of the men as choose to come to them would likewise be a valuable
appendage to the suggested street-markets, but they must be free from
the almost tyrannical supervision which prevails in the existing model
lodging-houses in London. Whilst so much vexatious restriction is
put upon men’s liberties, they cannot be expected to frequent these
places in the numbers they otherwise would. Lodging-houses for the
reception of ticket-of-leave men on leaving prison might prevent them
from being thrown loose upon the world until they have some prospect
of a livelihood before them. I wish Society to take these men by
the hand--to be lenient and considerate towards them, and not to be
annoyed if one or two should recede from their good resolutions;
for the experience of the reformatory institutions of London shows
that there are often twenty-five per cent of relapses among their
inmates. Therefore, if only five and a-half per cent of you fail in
your laudable endeavours, as the returns I have quoted show, to be
the whole proportion, then I say that you are a class who ought to be
encouraged. By this means we shall be able to grapple effectually with
this great trouble--viz. how to reform the great bulk of our criminals.
Under these circumstances I have invited you here to-night, to give
you an opportunity of telling Society what are your difficulties.
There is a gentleman present who will publish your grievances all over
the kingdom, and I charge you all to speak only the truth. You cannot
benefit by any other course, and therefore be you a check the one upon
the other; and if any one departs from the strict fact, do you pull him
up. Thus you will show the world that you have met here with an earnest
desire to better yourselves--thus you will present a spectacle that
will go far to convince Society that it runs no risk in giving you your
liberty--and prevail upon it to regard not wholly without compassion
the few members of your class who, yielding in an evil hour to the
trying temptations which beset them, sink unhappily into their former
delinquencies.” (Loud and prolonged applause.)
The men were then requested to ascend the platform, and relate their
own experience, as well as to state their views of how their class
could best be assisted. The first to respond to this invitation was a
young man of neat and comparatively respectable appearance, who seemed
to be known to the rest by the name of ‘Peter,’ and who, with great
fluency and considerable propriety of expression, proceeded to narrate
his own past career as follows:--
“Friends, I hope you will excuse any hesitation or stammering on my
part while I stand in this unusual position. All the education I have
received has been picked up in prison--understand that. As to the
difficulties encountered by ticket-of-leave men I know nothing, save
from my own personal experience. You cannot judge properly of the
intentions of the convict, unless you begin with his career from the
first time that he enters prison. Well, you must know, that I was
transported for seven years. I was sent to Millbank, and there put
to the tailoring business. From the outset I had a great partiality
for books, and I then learnt to read and write better than I could
do before. I also acquired a little grammar and arithmetic, simply
to improve my mind; and if mental improvement is any part of moral
improvement, I was, of course, morally improving also. I knew more
arithmetic then than I do now, having lost my knowledge in consequence
of excessive indulgence in intoxicating liquors. In fact, I got as
far as the beginning of algebra--certainly a very abstruse science to
tackle. After spending fourteen months in Millbank I went to Portland,
where I had to wheel barrows from morning to night. I still persevered,
however, with my books; and the great anxiety that constantly weighed
on my mind was, what would become of me when I was liberated. I knew
that the work I was doing would be well done; and I was far happier
then than I am now, because I feel that there is no breakfast for me
to-morrow morning till I go and thieve it; and that is the simple
truth. (Applause.) I supposed that if I went to the Chaplain, who had
delivered several charitable discourses, very much in accordance with
my own feelings, he might assist me. I therefore stated my case to him,
telling him that I really wished to become a better member of society.
He listened to my tale, and wished me to see him once a-week, which
I did. But the Chaplain at this time was the Rev. Mr. Moran (as we
understood), and when I wanted books he would not encourage me, unless
I consented to become a communicant. If I had done that I should have
had more favour shown to me, and been provided with whatever I wished;
but not feeling myself fit for such a thing, I therefore refused. I
then waited till a change took place, and the Rev. Mr. Ubridge, (as we
understood), a lover of science and literature, came--a clergyman whose
system was altogether different, having none of these Roman Catholic
restrictions. We were then allowed to think and do as we liked in
regard to religion, and no man was forced to attend the communion-table
unless he thought himself as fit for it as the Minister. I applied to
the new Chaplain, and told him I considered my mind to have been much
enlightened. I suppose everybody fancies the same, who knows a little,
though not much. When my turn to be liberated approached they came
to me in my separate cell, and I told them there was no chance of my
bettering myself unless I could get an honest living. I said that I
must go back to London, where I had first been transported, and that
the only thing I expected was to be transported again; for my bad
character would be no recommendation to me--the police all knew me,
and wherever they saw me they would point me out as a ticket-of-leave
man. (Applause.) On my release I received 6_l._ 12_s._ I came to
Southampton with one of the officers of the establishment, who was
kind enough to ask me to take a drop of brandy. Not having had any
spirits for four years previous, this little got into my head, and
having drank another glass or two I was intoxicated, and I spent all my
money that night--yes, and got locked up into the bargain. (Laughter.)
If I did not quite spend all my money myself, somebody else helped me
to spend it. I came to London without a farthing. I hadn’t a friend
in the world, and even at present, if I want a meal, I have no one to
say ‘Here it is for you.’ What is a man in such a case, being without
work, to do? Is he to starve? Well, I wore out two pairs of shoes,
walking the streets for three months together, looking for a situation,
but all in vain; and I became as emaciated as this post, (pointing to
the pillar of the lamp on the platform,) having had nothing better
than a bit of bread and a herring to eat, and not one ounce of animal
food during all that period. I had a little pride, which kept me from
begging. All the good feelings engendered in prison passed away. I
returned to my old companions, with whom I went for about two months,
when I was at length caught, and received another twelvemonth’s
imprisonment, which expired only last Monday fortnight. During the two
months I was with my old companions I got a good living--I could always
make my 5_l._ or 6_l._ a-week by practices which I did not like, but
which I was driven to adopt, because the public would not let me earn
1_l._ honestly. Since, however, I received the card of admission to
this meeting, I have not put my hand to a dishonest act, and if the
promise it holds out is fulfilled I never will. I have little more to
say. I attended here to-night in the hope of reaping some permanent
benefit, and also to encourage those who, like myself, wish to become
honest members of society. (Applause.) I trust the benevolent gentleman
who has so humanely interested himself in this cause will be successful
in his exertions on behalf of a body of unfortunate and persecuted
beings, who, I should say, are more knocked about by the police, and
more discouraged by the opinions of the public at large, than any other
class in the United Kingdom. (Applause.) May God and right reason
direct this movement, and bring it to a speedy and prosperous issue.”
(Loud cheers greeted “Peter,” as he descended from the “tribune.”)
The next spokesman was a thin-faced and diminutive, but shrewd-looking
costermonger, of about twenty-five years of age, and tidier in
appearance than many of his class, who said:--“Friends, I am only a
little one, and you can’t expect much from me; indeed, ‘Peter’ hasn’t
left me much to say. I will, however, begin at the beginning. At the
age of ten I was left without father or mother, and others here could
say the same. I was taught to get a living by selling oranges in the
streets, and I kept at that for twelve months. I was afterwards induced
to go along with a few Westminster boys, who went about thieving;
and I had nobody to look after me. Having no friend, I nevertheless
always got a good ‘lift’ from the police. I was soon arrested, and at
Newgate received seven years’ transportation. I spent three years and
seven months at the Isle of Wight, and eleven months at Portsmouth. I
would not have been kept so long at the Isle of Wight if I had been
religious; but as I could not act the hypocrite I was obliged to give
up this religion. During this time I never took the sacrament, as they
wanted me to do. Well, I gets my liberty, and I had several pounds put
into my hands when I left. I came to London-bridge station, and thought
it was the Waterloo station, and fancying I was near Westminster, I
looked about for the Victoria Theatre. A chap then said to me, ‘You
had better not be seen in those clothes.’ I afterwards changed my
dress and sold the other clothes. I soon found myself with only about
three half-crowns in my pocket. My only friend was a cousin, who was
engaged in buying hare-skins and rabbit-skins about the streets, and
he recommended me to do the same. This was in the winter time, and I
hardly knew one kind of skin from another. However, I did pretty well
at this for two or three weeks; when, one day, as I was walking with
a sack of skins upon my back through Tothill-street, Westminster, two
policemen came up to me, and demanded to look into my bag. Rather
than consent to this I went to the Police Court along with them.
When I got there a policeman said to the inspector, that I was a
‘ticket-of-leave,’ and had something in my sack. I insisted on seeing
the magistrate, and the inspector brought me to him, but instead of
allowing me to speak to his worship, he spoke first, saying that I was
very violent and saucy, and a ‘ticket-of-leave.’ Instead of hearing
what I had to say under these circumstances, the magistrate, too, burst
out, ‘Oh, you are an insolent fellow, and a disgrace to society; if
the Secretary of State knew of your doings, he would banish you.’ And
his worship, also muttering something about sending me to ‘quod’ for
contempt of court, I thought it better to ‘hook it.’ During two years
and a-half of my term at the Isle of Wight, having learnt something
of shoemaking, I now travelled down to Northampton, but could get no
work because I had no tools. Even what I did know of the trade was not
enough to enable me to get a living by it. I then went on to Derby,
and was near starving. I had no lodging. I was not quite so proud as
‘Peter,’ for I went up to a gentleman and told him the strength of it.
I said, I am a ‘ticket-of-leave.’ He hardly understood me, but I tried
to explain it to him, and he gave me a shilling. With this aid I got my
shirt washed, put myself to rights, polished my boots, and up I goes
to a magistrate to see what he would say about it. I told him I wanted
to go to London, and could not walk all the way. This magistrate can
tell whether I am now speaking the truth. I got an interview with him
at Derby, and told him I was a ticket-of-leave man. He would scarcely
believe me, and imagined rather that I was a returned convict. The
police jeering me, said, ‘How well polished his boots are! but we
think him an impostor.’ So, with no other help than the shilling I
had obtained, I trudged along in my misery until, with the worms and
maggots gnawing my belly, I reached London. Here my cousin got me into
the ‘market’ again, and I married last Christmas twelvemonth, and have
one child. I am now just managing to ‘crack an honest crust;’ and while
I can do that I will never thieve more. (Applause.) I am not much of
a talker, therefore I can only hope that the kind gentleman who has
called us together will succeed in his praiseworthy endeavours to
secure fair-play to our ill-used class. I have nothing more to say.”
(Loud cheers.)
The third speaker was a stonemason, of about thirty, and of a honest
and industrious aspect, who said:--“My friends, I have but little
to say regarding myself. I was sent away from Newgate to Wakefield
in 1851, and put to work. As to gratuity money given to convicts,
certainly none was allowed at Wakefield while I was there. As to our
treatment there and at other places, I can say that I never had a bit
of sweet meat all the time I was at Wakefield. I never had anything but
mince-meat chopped up, always green, and others can testify to the same
thing. One man got three days of bread and water for complaining of
this. After staying thirteen months at Wakefield I went to Portsmouth,
where I remained about three years and a half, during which time I
certainly worked hard. There the treatment of the men differs greatly,
according to their conduct. A man who behaves well is treated well; but
those of a volatile spirit are treated badly. For myself I never had
a report made against me all the time I was there, and I obtained my
liberty under ticket-of-leave, although I was sentenced to ten years’
imprisonment, at the end of four years and four months. A few others,
who came later than I did, were fortunate enough to get their freedom
about the same time. I was not jealous about that, but was glad to get
away myself. I had a mother and sister to go to; and though my sister
was in employment, I did not cost them anything. I got work at my own
trade, and experienced few of the hardships which most of my class
do when first liberated. I know one poor man who said this meeting
was the last place that he would come to, as it would expose him. He
has worked five weeks for a person in Gray’s-Inn-lane. He had been in
good circumstances, was a clerk, and under the eye of a minister. He
had to sleep in a place where the vermin crawled over his bed, and he
had to get up in the night and remove his clothes to keep them clean.
For the five weeks he has been at work he has scarcely had the barest
necessaries of subsistence. I have been to see this man every Sunday,
and can safely say that he has not had sixpence in his pocket ever
since he has been out of prison. He was engaged at fire-work making,
but this trade becoming slack after the 5th of November, he was
thrown upon the streets again. I will not say what became of the man
afterwards, because that is not necessary. I will merely mention that
he is now struggling on, depending entirely on the public for a meal of
victuals. I have myself been to work in the city for two months, and
have not been intoxicated once. I am not fond of drink. I am steady and
mean to continue so, and I trust every one here will resolve to do the
same, for you will find it much more to your comfort. I am fortunate
enough to be able to earn a livelihood at my trade as a mason; but
though I am not in want myself, I could not refrain from coming here to
throw what light I could on this subject, and showing my readiness to
help others who are in distress.” (Applause.)
The next who mounted the platform was an elderly man, evidently much
reduced in circumstances. He stated--“I am a dock-labourer, and in
1848 was convicted, though innocent, at the Old Bailey. I was within
three miles of the place where the robbery of which I was accused was
committed. I was certainly in company with the female who was robbed
three hours before the theft occurred; but I had no hand in it, and
yet I was sentenced to fourteen years’ transportation. I passed my
first eleven months at Millbank; then I went to Woolwich, and next
to Gibraltar. At the latter place Mr. Armstrong is the overseer of
the convicts, and he is the severest man ever known; not a worse
being in the Australian or any penal settlements. Flogging went on
there from before daylight till long after dark. I was six years and
eight months under his system, and I received 4_l._ 14_s._ 6_d._ on
leaving Gibraltar, 2_l._ 10_s._ of which was stopped to pay my passage
to England. When I came home I strived as hard as any man to get an
honest livelihood. I tried every experiment--I went all up and down
Whitechapel, but no, the police would not allow me--they picked me out
as a marked man. Then I worked fifteen or sixteen months at the Docks,
but lately that employment has been very slack, and I have tried all
the offices in vain for the last fortnight. I leave you to consider,
therefore, what a man is to do when he strives to get a living and
can’t. No man in all London has seen more trouble than I have. In 1840
I got three years’ imprisonment. When I came out a man borrowed my
coat to walk through the City with, and next day, as I was going past
Bow Church, I was taken up for a robbery which that man had committed,
my coat being sworn to, as it had a stain on the collar. I was taken
before Alderman Gibbs that morning, and fully committed for trial; and
when I appeared at Newgate I got twelve months in the Compter gaol,
though innocent. I had not been three months out of the Compter before
I was taken up for beating a policeman, who said I threw a stone at
him, but I never did. A fortnight afterwards the man who did it got
fourteen days, and I gets two years for it, though I was not nigh the
place. No man in London has suffered as I have done wrongfully, and
none has been so ‘worked up’ as I am at this moment. For the last
fortnight the winds have been such as to prevent a single ship from
coming up the Channel, and morning after morning between five hundred
and six hundred men regularly wait at the Docks for employment and
cannot get it. When I am employed, it is at the West Quay; but the
permanent labourers are served first. Such men as I have very little
chance, as they bring persons from the other side of the Dock sooner
than engage ‘casualty’ labourers. During the eighteen months that have
elapsed since I came from Gibraltar, I have walked the streets of
London whole days without breaking my fast; and since twelve o’clock
yesterday up to this moment I have not done so. I really wish, sir,
that something could be done for us all.”
Mr. Mayhew asked the men whether they thought the formation of a
society, and a system by which those who were in work could assist
those who were out of it, would benefit them?
To this many voices answered, “Yes! yes!”
Mr. Mayhew continued: “I know that if your stock-money is once gone you
are completely helpless. A man who had been tried for his life and sent
to Australia came to me one day, when let out of prison, with a loaf
under his arm, and said, ‘This is all I have got to keep me, and if I
ask for work there is a policeman at my heels to tell every one that
I am a returned convict.’ His case became desperate, when, about the
time of the Great Exhibition, I offered to give him a little money if
he would pledge me his word to do all that he could to lead an honest
life. He shook hands with me, and promised to do so. He then had cards
printed, and tried to make a living by selling gelatine sweets. After a
little time he took a small huckster’s shop, and subsequently married
a lodging-house keeper, and has since been doing very well. I know
that the period between the ages of twenty-five and fifty is the time
when a roving life has its strongest attractions; but after that, when
a man is hunted like a dog, he gets tired of it. I have seen frequent
examples of this, and known whole families of poor people, with only
sixpence at their command, to invest that small sum in sprats, and live
a month upon it by turning it over and over.
“I once took a poor boy (a young thief) and got him a place at the
_Daily News_ office, when the printer and editor told me he was as good
and as well-behaved as any boy on that establishment. The difficulty,
however, was to separate him from his old ‘pals.’ He got among them on
an Easter Monday, and was found picking pockets at a fair, and taken
to prison; it was ‘all up with him’ till he had seen the misery of his
course of life, but I am sure, if taken by the hand, he will ultimately
become a good member of society. I mention this to show, that if a
little leniency and kindness are evinced towards the men we may beat
down the crime of the country to an enormous extent. But we must
not fancy it possible that such persons can be made model-men in an
instant. Indeed, I believe that the disposition shown to make converts
to religion of you produces a large amount of hypocrisy. (Cries of
Yes! yes!) If this leads you to become better men, in Heaven’s name,
say so; but if it engenders the worst form of evil, let it be exposed.
That there are such things as miracles of instantaneous reformation,
I don’t deny; but the first thing wanted is some society to give men
what will keep them from starving, clothe them, and find them in a
lodging; and when they are thus placed in decent comfort, and made,
as a necessary consequence, more kindly in their nature, other people
may then come to them and try to make them religious. To attempt,
however, to proselytise men who are famishing, appears to me a mockery
and a delusion, and only the most depraved class of criminals would, I
believe, yield to it.” (Applause.)
The fifth ticket-of-leave man who addressed the assembly was a man of
middle stature, slightly made, and between twenty-five and thirty. He
said:--
“I was sentenced to seven years’ transportation at the Old Bailey. I
went to Wakefield and can confirm the statement of a previous speaker,
that no gratuities are allowed there. I next went to Portsmouth,
where I remained two years and two months, when I was discharged on
ticket-of-leave. I returned to the neighbourhood from whence I was
committed. A master who promised to give me constant employment had
before this given me a certificate. I was discharged about eighteen
months ago. Whilst I was at work for my master a female came up to me
and asked me if I had seen two other women pass. I answered, ‘No,’ when
she invited me to have something to drink; and knowing the female, I
accepted her offer. While walking with her, only two doors from where
I lived, a policeman came up and took us both into custody. This, I
suppose, was because I was known to be a returned convict. The woman
was charged with being concerned with others of her own sex with
robbing a gentleman, and on being searched a portion of the money was
found on her, but none on me. Moreover, the gentleman stating that
there was no man engaged in the theft, I was discharged. I then resumed
work, but was taken again upon a charge of burglary. Many of you may
have heard of the case. I was in my shirt-sleeves when I was arrested.
The case was tried before Mr. Brenham. I did not deny my name, and
being a ticket-of-leave man I was remanded for a week. I was afterwards
brought up and re-examined, and after a careful investigation I was
discharged. If there had been the slightest suspicion attaching to me,
from my character being known, I must have been either imprisoned for
three months, or committed for trial. I again returned to my work,
but in three weeks afterwards I was dragged out of my bed and locked
up for three hours in the Bagnigge-wells station, whence I was taken
to Bow-street. Three policemen had burst my bedroom-door open before
six o’clock in the morning, and while it was yet dark. They said they
wanted me, because I had been concerned with a female in the robbery
which had occurred two nights previous, on Pentonville-hill. The
inspector told me he had received an order from the Secretary of State
to send me back to Portsmouth prison, my license being revoked. When I
got to Bow-street I was placed before Mr. Hall, not in open court, but
in a private room. That gentleman also told me that my license had been
revoked, on the alleged grounds that I was living by dishonest means.
I was sent back to prison accordingly; but through the intercession
of my brother--a married man, who showed that I had been working for
twelve months--I was again released. There was no just ground whatever
for sending me back to prison. I have only been home a fortnight, and
having no tools I don’t know what to do. The master who employed me
before has got another man.”
MR. MAYHEW here remarked, that it would be a great encouragement to
Society to help them, if those who were doing well assisted those who
were doing badly; whereupon
PETER observed that “it was little help that the one could possibly
give to the other. An Association (he said) was what was wanted,
whereby the men’s present urgent necessities could be relieved
before they fell into mischief. A few days after a man’s liberation
he generally found that he had acted foolishly, and returned to his
senses. If, therefore, a society took him by the hand, and gave him
temporary shelter and counsel, it would be the best thing that could
happen to him.”
Those of the lads and men present who had been left without father or
mother from an early age, were then requested to hold up their hands;
when twenty out of the forty-eight did so.
A lame blacksmith and fitter, of about forty, whose garb and complexion
were in strict keeping with his craft, and who spoke with not a few
grains of stern bitterness in his tone, next mounted the rostrum. He
said: “I have been transported, and am a ‘spotted man,’ with whom the
police can do as they like. I was a long time at Dartmoor, one of the
hardest convict stations a man can go to, and I did the prison work
there. I went there in 1851, when an eminent doctor, Mr. McIntosh,
belonged to the place, but having good health I did not need his
assistance. While in the infirmary on several occasions, but not for
illness, I saw the medicine that was given to the patients. It was
only a large bottle of salts. I have known a man to be cut out of his
hammock, taken down-stairs, and buried, all in three hours; and I have
heard the doctor say of a sick man, ‘Let him drink out of a pail till
he bursts.’ (Some sensation.) I was a privileged man because I was
handy, and fitted up almost the whole iron-work of the place. Once some
books were pilfered; and at dinner-time there was a general turn over
and search at parade. The ‘searcher’ was a very sedate man, at least
in the eyes of the Governor, but he was the most malicious person that
ever stripped. After feeling the pockets of the man next to me, this
person called me out, and, contrary to the rule, took me into the yard
and stripped me naked. I remonstrated, and wished him to choose a place
not in the open air, but for this I was ordered to a cell, and while on
my way there he borrowed a sword from an officer--the foreman of the
smith’s shop--and made a cut at me with the back edge of the weapon,
inflicting a wound of eighteen inches long. I went to my cell, and next
morning I was, to my astonishment, charged with attempting to knock
this very man down with a hammer! The Governor would not hear a word
that I had to say. I was inspected by the doctor, and then put back,
to appear afterwards before the directors. The charge against me was
wholly false. The foreman of the smith’s shop was a straightforward
man, and when applied to about my character, he told the governor that
a quieter man, and one more capable of doing his work than me, he could
not wish to see. The accuser could not look me in the face; but if the
foreman spoke the truth to the directors,--and he was a man who would
speak nothing else,--he would have been sure to have his band removed
from his cap. So, instead of my being taken before the directors, I
was sent to my dinner; and I never received the least redress for the
wrongs I endured.
“Before returning home I was classed as a permanent invalid, and yet I
was kept at work on iron-work of three tons weight. After acting four
years as a mechanic and a ‘first-rater’ at Dartmoor, I got invalided
pay, and went home with about 7_l._ in my pocket. That is all the
reward given to a good workman and well-conducted man at Dartmoor. I
have heard much of Wakefield, and believe the system there will reform
any man. It has a first-rate character; but as to Dartmoor, a man
leaving it can have no reformation in him. At Dartmoor, when visitors
wish to try the prisoners’ soup, a basin of nice beef tea, standing
smoking on the hob, and fit to show gentlemen, is offered them to
taste. But this is not the soup which is really given to the convicts;
that is merely a little rice and water. In fact, Dartmoor is one of the
most villanous places a man can be put into. You have there to swab up
two or three pails of water before you can rise in the morning. The
brutality practised is terrible; and remember, when a man is prejudiced
against the treatment he receives, no permanent improvement of his
character is possible. Let any Dartmoor man here get up and deny what
I say about the place, if he can. The aristocracy fancy that it is
an excellent convict station, but it is not. I have seen clean and
comfortable-looking men taken off parade, because they would not do an
officer’s dirty work, and conducted to a covered passage, from which
they have not come out again until they did so with faces cut about and
bleeding, and with clothes all torn to pieces. I don’t say that all
the other convict establishments are like Dartmoor. I have seen bodies
of seventy and eighty men come there from Wakefield--good-intentioned
persons, and evidently having undergone religious impressions, to
judge by their regularly kneeling down to prayers; but Dartmoor must
contaminate them, and make them worse than ever before they leave it. I
never had any particular religious feelings myself while at Dartmoor;
but I am sure that a pious life is the most comfortable one under
the canopy of heaven. I was very wrongfully sent away to that penal
establishment. I had never been convicted before; and my only offence
was being concerned in a tap-room drunken fight, for which I was
charged with a misdemeanour. It was stated that I intended to do a man
some grievous bodily harm, but it was proved that I had no weapon at
the time larger than a penny-piece. I only left Dartmoor six or seven
months ago. If I were in work, I should be most happy to give my mite
towards the society that this gentleman (Mr. Mayhew) speaks of, for the
benefit of the poor ticket-of-leave men; but the slackness of trade has
thrown me out for the last month, and I have maintained myself and four
others who are on my hands for half-a-year.”
The concluding speaker was a young and cleanly-looking working man, of
prepossessing address, who stated:--“I have experienced considerable
oppression from the police, who, I think, want as much showing
up as anybody. In January, 1852, I was sentenced to seven years’
transportation. I stopped at the House of Correction for some time,
and then went to Northampton borough gaol, where I lay eleven months.
Thence I was sent to Woolwich, where I stayed about two years and five
months, and was employed in dragging timber from one end of the yard
to the other. However, I did very well there, and I find no fault with
the place. When I got my liberty I returned home, where I had a father
and mother and a sister; but as they were in humble circumstances, I
did not like to throw myself on them for my support, and so I looked
about for something to do. I am now keeping company with a young woman.
One night as I was going home, at half-past twelve, after sitting some
hours with her and her father, a policeman suddenly comes up to me, and
tapping me on the shoulder, says: ‘Holloa, George; so here you are!
Mind I don’t send you somewhere else for twelve months.’ I answered:
‘So you may, when I have given you occasion for it.’ My landlord saw
us, and said that I had done nothing. ‘No,’ said the policeman, ‘or I
would not allow him to go free;’ and he then told me to move on. My
young woman’s father keeps a barber’s shop; and this policeman goes up
to him and acquaints him with my character, asking him whether he is
aware that the young man his daughter keeps company with is a returned
convict. The father tells her of it, at least she gives me broad hints
that imply as much. This man then shows me up, and exposes me several
times to the tradesmen in my neighbourhood. I then see what I can do. I
cannot get a certificate of character, and I try to write one myself.
Then I get several months’ imprisonment, and now I have been out seven
weeks. But I have not done anything dishonest. Still, if it goes on
like this, I am sure I must be compelled to do that. A fortnight ago,
as I was going home, the same policeman again interfered with me,
and I was obliged to put up with his insults. Last week I wrote a
letter to the captain of the hulks at Woolwich, telling him of the
oppression I suffer. I received a letter from the chaplain, of course
containing religious advice, but the answer I obtained from the captain
of the hulks was, that the next time I am insulted I should write to
him again, when he will acquaint the Secretary of State with it, and
put it down, if possible. How can we hope to get employment from any
tradesmen, if the policemen persist in telling who we are? I know that
if I were an independent gentleman myself, I would not trust a man who
had no reference of some kind.”
MR. MAYHEW: “We will now break up this meeting. I will let you know
when to meet again. When I can arrange the formation of a committee of
gentlemen willing to connect themselves with the undertaking I have
sketched out, we can hold another assemblage in public. (Cheers.)
In the meantime, if I can assist any of you with the loan of a few
shillings--but, mind you, come to me gently, and not thick and fast--I
will do what I can to help you. (Hear, hear.) I am a person who work
myself for all I get, and remember I call myself a ‘shilling man,’
and not one of your ‘sovereign people’ (Laughter); and when I say ‘a
loan,’ I want you all to feel that by doing your best to repay me, you
will enable me to extend the same assistance to a greater number of
your class. (Hear, hear.) Colonel Jebb looks on you almost with the
eye of a father, and it touches him to the quick to hear of any of you
relapsing. I trust that we shall prove successful in our object; but
let me in conclusion entreat you all to adhere faithfully to your good
resolves; and I hope you will find far greater happiness in pursuing
honest courses than dishonest ones.” (Cheers.)
The meeting, which lasted from eight o’clock to half-past ten, and was
most orderly throughout, then quietly dispersed.