“Peace hath her victories, no less renowned than War.”—
MILTON’S _Sonnet to Cromwell_.
Two hundred years ago,[1] the moon
Shone on a battle plain;
Cold through that glowing night of June
Lay steeds and riders slain;
And daisies, bending ’neath strange dew,
Wept in the silver light;
The very turf a regal hue
Assumed that fatal night.
Time past—but long, to tell the tale,
Some battle-axe or shield,
Or cloven skull, or shattered mail,
Were found upon the field;
The grass grew thickest on the spot
Where high were heaped the dead,
And well it marked, had men forgot,
Where the great charge was made.
To-day—the sun looks laughing down
Upon the harvest plain,
The little gleaners, rosy-brown,
The merry reaper’s train;
The rich sheaves heaped together stand,
And resting in their shade,
A mother, working close at hand,
Her sleeping babe hath laid.
A battle-field it was, and is,
For serried spears are there,
And against mighty foes upreared—
Gaunt hunger, pale despair.
We’ll thank God for the hearts of old,
Their strife our freedom sealed;
We’ll praise Him for the sheaves of gold
Now on the battle-field.
Footnote 1:
Naseby, June 14, 1646.
“THE DEVIL’S ACRE.”
There are multitudes who believe that Westminster is a city of palaces,
of magnificent squares, and regal terraces; that it is the chosen seat
of opulence, grandeur and refinement; and that filth, squalor, and
misery are the denizens of other and less favoured sections of the
metropolis. The error is not in associating with Westminster much of the
grandeur and splendour of the capital, but in entirely dissociating it
in idea from the darker phases of metropolitan life. As the brightest
lights cast the deepest shadows, so are the splendours and luxuries of
the Westend found in juxta-position with the most deplorable
manifestations of human wretchedness and depravity. There is no part of
the metropolis which presents a more chequered aspect, both physical and
moral, than Westminster. The most lordly streets are frequently but a
mask for the squalid districts which lie behind them, whilst spots
consecrated to the most hallowed of purposes are begirt by scenes of
indescribable infamy and pollution; the blackest tide of moral turpitude
that flows in the capital rolls its filthy wavelets up to the very walls
of Westminster Abbey; and the law-makers for one-seventh of the human
race sit, night after night, in deliberation, in the immediate vicinity
of the most notorious haunt of law-breakers in the empire. There is no
district in London more filthy and disgusting, more steeped in villany
and guilt, than that on which every morning’s sun casts the sombre
shadows of the Abbey, mingled, as they soon will be, with those of the
gorgeous towers of the new “Palace at Westminster.”
The “Devil’s Acre,” as it is familiarly known in the neighbourhood, is
the square block comprised between Dean, Peter, and Tothill Streets, and
Strutton Ground. It is permeated by Orchard Street, St. Anne’s Street,
Old and New Pye Streets, Pear Street, Perkins’ Rents, and Duck Lane.
From some of these, narrow covered passage-ways lead into small
quadrangular courts, containing but a few crazy, tumble-down-looking
houses, and inhabited by characters of the most equivocal description.
The district, which is small in area, is one of the most populous in
London, almost every house being crowded with numerous families, and
multitudes of lodgers. There are other parts of the town as filthy,
dingy, and forbidding in appearance as this, but these are generally the
haunts more of poverty than crime. But there are none in which guilt of
all kinds and degrees converges in such volume as on this, the moral
plague-spot not only of the metropolis, but also of the kingdom. And yet
from almost every point of it you can observe the towers of the Abbey
peering down upon you, as if they were curious to observe that to which
they seem to be indifferent.
Such is the spot which true Christian benevolence has, for some time,
marked as a chosen field for its most unostentatious operations. It was
first taken possession of, with a view to its improvement, by the London
City Mission, a body represented in the district by a single missionary,
who has now been for about twelve years labouring—and not without
success—in the arduous work of its purification; and who, by his energy,
tact, and perseverance, has acquired such an influence over its
turbulent and lawless population, as makes him a safer escort to the
stranger desirous of visiting it, than a whole posse of police. By the
aid of several opulent philanthropists whom he has interested in his
labours, he has reared up within the district two schools, which are
numerously attended by the squalid children of the neighbourhood—each
school having an Industrial Department connected with it. An exclusively
Industrial School for boys of more advanced age has also been
established, which has recently been attached to the Ragged School
Union. In addition to these, another institution has been called into
existence, to which and to whose objects the reader’s attention will be
drawn in what follows.
The Pye Street Schools being designed only for children—many of whom, on
admission, manifest an almost incredible precocity in crime—those of a
more advanced age seeking instruction and reformation were not eligible
to admission. In an applicant of this class, a lad about sixteen, the
master of one of the schools took a deep interest from the earnestness
with which he sought for an opportunity of retrieving himself. He was
invited to attend the school, that he might receive instruction. He was
grateful for the offer, but expressed a doubt of its being sufficient to
rescue him from his criminal and degraded course of life.
“It will be of little use to me,” said he, “to attend school in the
daytime, if I have to take to the streets again at night, and live, as I
am now living, by thieving.”
The master saw the difficulty, and determined on trying the experiment
of taking him entirely off the streets. He accordingly paid for a
lodging for him, and secured him bread to eat. For four months the lad
lived contentedly and happily on “bread and dripping,” during which time
he proved his aptitude for instruction by learning to read, to write
tolerably well, and to master all the more useful rules in arithmetic.
He was shortly afterwards sent to Australia, through the kindness of
some individuals who furnished the means. He is now doing well in the
new field thus opportunely opened up to him, and the experiment of which
he was the subject laid the germ of the Institution in question.
In St. Anne Street, one of the worst and filthiest purlieus of the
district, stands a house somewhat larger and cleaner than the miserable,
rickety, and greasy-looking tenements around it. Over the door are
painted, in large legible characters, the following words: “The Ragged
Dormitory and Colonial Training School of Industry.” On one of the
shutters it is indicated, in similar characters, that the house is a
refuge for “Youths who wish to Reform.” None are admitted under sixteen,
as those under that age can get admission to one or other of the
schools. Those eligible are such vagrants and thieves as are between
sixteen and twenty-two, and desire to abandon their present mode of
life, and lead honest and industrious courses for the future.
It is obvious that such an institution, if not carefully watched, would
be liable to being greatly abused. The pinching wants of the moment
would drive many into it, whose sole object was to meet there, instead
of to subject themselves to the reformatory discipline of the
establishment. Many would press into it whose love of idleness had
hitherto been their greatest vice. As it is, this latter class is
deterred, to a great extent, from applying, by the Institution confining
its operations to the thief and the vagrant. Each applicant, by applying
for admission, confesses himself to belong to one or other of these
classes, or to both. If he is found to be a subject coming within the
scope of the establishment, he is at once admitted, and subjected to its
discipline. The natural inference would be, that the avowed object of it
would turn applicants from its doors. But this is far from being the
case; upwards of two hundred having applied during the past year, the
second of its existence.
To distinguish those who are sincere in their application from those who
merely wish to make a convenience, for the time being, of the
establishment, each applicant, on admission, is subjected to a rigid
test. In the attic story of the building is a small room, the walls and
ceiling of which are painted with yellow ochre. Last year, for it is
only recently that the house has been applied to its present purpose,
this room was occupied by a numerous and squalid family, some of whose
members were the first victims of cholera, in Westminster. The massive
chimney-stack projects far into the room, and in the deep recesses
between it and the low walls on either side are two beds formed of
straw, with a coarse counterpane for a covering. Beyond this there is
not a vestige of furniture in the apartment. This is the Probation-room,
the ordeal of which every applicant must pass ere he is fully received
into the Institution. But he must pass a whole fortnight, generally
alone, his fare being bread and water. His allowance of bread is a pound
a-day, which he may dispose of as he pleases, either at a meal or at
several. He does not pass the entire day in solitude, for during
class-hours he is taken down to the school-room, where he is taught with
the rest. But, with that exception, he is not allowed to mingle with the
rest of the inmates, being separated from them for the remainder of the
day, and left to his own reflections in his lonely cell.
A man, compulsorily subjected to solitude and short commons, may make up
his mind to it, and resign himself to his fate. But no one will
voluntarily subject himself to such a test who is not tired of a
dishonest life, and anxious to reform. In nearly nine cases out of ten
it unmasks the impostor. Many shrink at once from the ordeal, and
retire. Others undergo it for a day or two, and then leave; for, as
there was no compulsion on them to enter, they are at all times at
liberty to depart. Some stay for a week, and then withdraw, whilst
instances have been known of their giving up after ten or twelve days’
endurance. The few that remain are readily accepted as objects worthy
the best efforts of the establishment.
The applicants, particularly the vagrants, are generally in the worst
possible condition, as regards clothing. In many cases they are
half-naked, like the wretched objects who make themselves up for charity
in the streets. Their probation over, they are clad in comparatively
decent attire, consisting chiefly of cast-off clothing, furnished by the
contributors to the institution. They are then released from their
solitary dormitory, and admitted to all the privileges of the house.
The tried and accepted inmates of the Institution have, for the two past
years, averaged about thirty each year. They get up at an early hour,
their first business being to clean out the establishment from top to
bottom. They afterwards assemble at breakfast, which consists of cocoa
and bread, of which they make a hearty meal. The business of instruction
then commences, there being two school-rooms on the first floor, into
one of which the more advanced pupils are put by themselves, the other
being reserved for those that are more backward and for the new comers.
It is into this latter room that the probationers are admitted during
school-hours. During school-hours they are instructed in the fundamental
doctrines of religion, and in the elements of education, including
geography—particularly the geography of the colonies. The master
exercises a general control over the whole establishment. The upper
class is taught by a young man, who was himself one of the earliest
inmates of the Institution, and who is now being trained for becoming a
regular teacher. The other class is usually presided over by a monitor,
also an inmate—but one who is in advance of his fellows. Most of those
now in the house are able to read, and many to read well. Such as have
been thieves are generally able to read when they enter, having been
taught to do so in the prisons; those who cannot read being generally
vagrants, or such as have been thieves without having been apprehended
and convicted. They present a curious spectacle in their class-rooms.
Their ages vary from twenty-one to sixteen, there being two in at
present under sixteen, but they were admitted under special
circumstances. With the exception of the probationers, they are all
dressed comfortably, but in different styles, according to the character
and fashion of the clothing at the command of the establishment. Some
wear the surtout, others the dress-coat; some the short jacket, and
others again the paletot. They are all provided with shoes and
stockings, each being obliged to keep his own shoes scrupulously clean.
Indeed, they are under very wholesome regulations as to their ablutions,
and the general cleanliness of their persons. As they stand ranged in
their classes, the diversity of countenances which they exhibit is as
striking as are the contrasts presented by their raiment. In some faces
you can still trace the brutal expression which they wore on entering.
In others, the low cunning, begotten by their mode of life, was more or
less distinguishable. You could readily point to those who had been
longest in the establishment, from the humanising influences which their
treatment had had upon their looks and expressions. The faces of most of
them were lit up with new-born intelligence, whilst it was painful to
witness the vacant and stolid looks of two of them, who had but recently
passed the ordeal of the dormitory. Generally speaking, they are found
to be quick and apt scholars, their mode of life having tended, in most
instances, to quicken their perceptions.
Between the morning and afternoon classes they dine,—their dinner
comprising animal food three times a week, being chiefly confined on
other days to bread and dripping. They sup at an early hour in the
evening, when cocoa and bread form again the staple of their meal. After
supper, they spend an hour or two in the training school, which is a
large room adjoining the probationers’ dormitory, where they are
initiated into the mysteries of the tailors’ and shoemakers’ arts, under
the superintendence of qualified teachers. They afterwards retire to
rest, sleeping on beds laid out upon the floor, each bed containing one.
When the house is full, the two class-rooms are converted at night into
sleeping apartments. They are also compelled to attend some place of
worship on the Sunday, and, in case of sickness, have the advantage of a
medical attendant. During a part of the day they are allowed to walk
out, in different gangs,—each gang under the care of one of their
number. In their walks they are restricted as to time, and are required
to avoid, as much as possible, the low neighbourhoods of the town.
Should any of them desire to learn the business of a carpenter; they
have the means of doing so; and two are now engaged in acquiring a
practical knowledge of this useful trade.
Such is the curriculum which they undergo after being fully admitted
into the house. They are so instructed as to wean them as much as
possible from their former habits, to inspire them with the desire of
living honest lives, and to fit them for becoming useful members of
society, in the different offices for which they are destined. They must
be six months at least in the house before they are deemed ready to
emigrate. Some are kept longer. They are all eager to go,—being, without
exception, sickened at the thought of recurring to their previous habits
of life. From twenty to thirty have already been sent abroad. The
committee who superintend the establishment are anxious to keep forty on
the average in the house throughout the year, in addition to sending
twenty each year abroad. This, however, will require a larger fund than
they have at present at their disposal.
Such is the Institution which, for two years past, has been silently and
unostentatiously working its own quota of good in this little-known and
pestilential region. It is designed for the reclamation of a class on
which society turns its back. Its doors are open alike to the convicted
and the unconvicted offender. Five-sixths of its present inmates have
been the denizens of many jails—and some of them have only emerged from
the neighbouring Penitentiary. It is not easy to calculate the amount of
mature crime which, in the course of a few years, it will avert from
society, by its timely rescue of the precocious delinquent. It is thus
an institution which may appeal to the selfishness, as well as to the
benevolence, of the community for aid: though not very generally known,
it is visited by many influential parties; and some of the greatest
ornaments of Queen Victoria’s Court have not shrunk from crossing its
threshold and contributing to its support.
Curious indeed would be the biographies which such an institution could
furnish. The following, extracted from the Master’s Record, will serve
as a specimen. The name is, for obvious reasons, suppressed.
“John ——, 16 years of age. Admitted June 3rd, 1848. Had slept for four
months previously under the dry arches in West-street. Had made his
livelihood for nearly five years by picking pockets. Was twice in
jail—the last time in Tothill-Fields Prison. The largest sum he ever
stole at a time, was a sovereign and a half. Could read when admitted.
Learnt to write and cipher. Remained for eight months in the house.
Behaved well. Emigrated to Australia. Doing well.”
It is encouraging to know that the most favourable accounts have been
received both of and from those who have been sent out as emigrants, not
only from this, but also from the Pear Street School. It is now some
time since a lad, who, although only fourteen, was taken into the
latter, was sent to Australia. He had been badly brought up; his mother,
during his boyhood, having frequently sent him out, either to beg or to
steal. About a year after her son’s departure, she called, in a state of
deep distress, upon the missionary of the district, and informed him
that her scanty furniture was about to be seized for rent, asking him at
the same time for advice. He told her that he had none to give her but
to go and pay the rent, at the same time handing her a sovereign. She
received it hesitatingly, doubting, for a moment, the evidence of her
senses. She went and paid the rent, which was eighteen shillings, and
afterwards returned with the change, which she tendered to the
missionary with her heartfelt thanks. He told her to keep the balance,
as the sovereign was her own—informing her, at the same time, that it
had been sent her by her son, and had that very morning so opportunely
come to hand, together with a letter, which he afterwards read to her.
The poor woman for a moment or two looked stupified and incredulous,
after which she sank upon a chair, and wept long and bitterly. The
contrast between her son’s behaviour and her own conduct towards him,
filled her with shame and remorse. She is now preparing to follow him to
Australia.
Another case was that of a young man, over twenty years of age, who had
likewise been admitted, under special circumstances, to the same
Institution. He had been abandoned by his parents in his early youth,
and had taken to the streets to avert the miseries of destitution. He
soon became expert in the art of picking pockets, on one occasion
depriving a person in Cornhill of no less than a hundred and fifty
pounds in Bank notes. With this, the largest booty he had ever made, he
repaired to a house in the neighbourhood, where stolen property was
received. Into the room into which he was shown, a gloved hand was
projected, through an aperture in the wall, from an adjoining room, into
which he placed the notes. The hand was then withdrawn, and immediately
afterwards projected again with twenty sovereigns, which was the amount
he received for the notes. He immediately repaired to Westminster, and
invested ten pounds of this sum in counterfeit money, at a house not a
stone’s throw from the Institution.
For the ten pounds he received, in bad money, what represented fifty.
With this he sallied forth into the country with the design of passing
it off—a process known amongst the craft as “shuffle-pitching.” The
first place he went to was Northampton, and the means he generally
adopted for passing off the base coin was this:—Having first buried in
the neighbourhood of the town all the good and bad money in his
possession, with the exception of a sovereign of each, so that, if
detected in passing a bad one, no more bad money would be found upon his
person; he would enter a retail shop, say a draper’s, at a late hour of
the evening, and say that his master had sent him for some article of
small value, such as a handkerchief. On its being shown him, he would
demand the price of it, and make up his mind to take it; whereupon he
would lay down a good sovereign, which the shopkeeper would take up,
but, as he was about to give him change, a doubt would suddenly arise in
his mind as to whether his master would give the price asked for the
article. He would then demand the sovereign back, with a view to going
and consulting his master, promising, at the same time, to be back again
in a few minutes. Back again he would come, and say that his master was
willing to give the price, or that he wished the article at a lower
figure. He took care, however, that a bargain was concluded between him
and the shopkeeper; whereupon he would again lay down the sovereign,
which, however, on this occasion, was the bad and not the good one. The
unsuspecting shopkeeper would give him the change, and he would leave
with the property and the good money. Such is the process of
“shuffle-pitching.” In the majority of instances he succeeded, but was
sometimes detected. In this way he took the circuit twice of Great
Britain and Ireland; stealing as he went along, and passing off the bad
money, which he received, for good. There are few jails in the United
Kingdom of which he has not been a denizen. His two circuits took him
nine years to perform, his progress being frequently arrested by the
interposition of justice. It was at the end of his second journey that
he applied for admission to the Pear Street School. He had been too
often in jail not to be able to read; but he could neither write nor
cipher when he was taken in. He soon learnt, however, to do both; and,
after about seven months’ probation, emigrated to America from his own
choice. The missionary of the district accompanied him on board as he
was about to sail. The poor lad wept like a child when he took leave of
his benefactor, assuring him that he never knew the comforts of a home
until he entered the Pear Street School. Several letters have been
received from him since his landing, and he is now busily employed,
and—doing well!
Instances of this kind might be multiplied, if necessary, of what is
thus being done daily and unostentatiously for the reclamation of the
penitent offender, not only after conviction, but also before he
undergoes the terrible ordeal of correction and a jail.
“PRESS ON.”