London's Underworld

Thomas Holmes

Description

Though London has an international reputation of being the bastion of prim decorum and highly formal social mores, the city has long been a hub for nefarious criminals, as well. Thomas Holmes provides a fascinating glimpse into the teeming underbelly of London in this comprehensive look at the mobsters, murderers, and assorted ne'er-do-wells who have walked the city's streets.

Sujets

• True crime

Informations

• Publié par: The Floating Press
• Date de parution: 01 février 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781776530397
• Langue: English

Extrait

LONDON'S UNDERWORLD
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THOMAS HOLMES
 
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London's Underworld First published in 1912 Epub ISBN 978-1-77653-039-7 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77653-040-3 © 2013 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Preface Chapter I - My Friends and Acquaintances Chapter II - London's Underworld Chapter III - The Nomads Chapter IV - Lodging-Houses Chapter V - Furnished Apartments Chapter VI - The Disabled Chapter VII - Women in the Underworld Chapter VIII - Marriage in the Underworld Chapter IX - Brains in the Underworld Chapter X - Play in the Underworld Chapter XI - On the Verge of the Underworld Chapter XII - In Prisons Oft Chapter XIII - Unemployed and Unemployable Chapter XIV - Suggestions
Preface
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I am hopeful that some of the experiences given in the followingchapters may throw a little light upon some curious but very serioussocial problems. Corporate humanity always has had, and always willhave, serious problems to consider.
The more civilised we become the more complex and serious will be ourproblems—unless sensible and merciful yet thorough methods are adoptedfor dealing with the evils. I think that my pages will show that themethods now in use for coping with some of our great evils do notlessen, but considerably increase the evils they seek to cure.
With great diffidence I venture to point out what I conceive to bereasons for failure, and also to offer some suggestions that, ifadopted, will, I believe, greatly minimise, if not remove, certainevils.
I make no claim to prophetic wisdom; I know no royal road to socialsalvation, nor of any specific to cure all human sorrow and smart.
But I have had a lengthened and unique experience. I have closelyobserved, and I have deeply pondered. I have seen, therefore I ask thatthe experiences narrated, the statements made, and the views expressedin this book may receive earnest consideration, not only from those whohave the temerity to read it, but serious consideration also from ourStatesmen and local authorities, from our Churches and philanthropists,from our men of business and from men of the world.
For truly we are all deeply concerned in the various matters which aredealt with in "London's Underworld."
THOMAS HOLMES.12, Bedford Road,
Tottenham, N.
Chapter I - My Friends and Acquaintances
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The odds and ends of humanity, so plentiful in London's great city,have for many years largely constituted my circle of friends andacquaintances.
They are strange people, for each of them is, or was, possessed of somedominating vice, passion, whim or weakness which made him incapable offulfilling the ordinary duties of respectable citizenship.
They had all descended from the Upper World, to live out strange lives,or die early deaths in the mysterious but all pervading world below theline.
Some of them I saw, as it were, for a moment only; suddenly out of thedarkness they burst upon me; suddenly the darkness again received themout of my sight.
But our acquaintance was of sufficient duration to allow me to acquiresome knowledge, and to gain some experience of lives more than strange,and of characters far removed from the ordinary.
But with others I spent many hours, months, or years as circumstanceswarranted, or as opportunities permitted. Some of them became myintimates; and though seven long years have passed since I gave uppolice-court duties, our friendship bears the test of time, for theyremain my friends and acquaintances still.
But some have passed away, and others are passing; one by one my listof friends grows less, and were it not that I, even now, pick up a newfriend or two, I should run the risk of being a lonely old man. Let meconfess, however, that my friends have brought me many worries, havecaused me much disappointment, have often made me very angry. Sometimes,I must own, they have caused me real sorrow and occasionally feelingsof utter despair. But I have had my compensations, we have had our happytimes, we have even known our merry moments.
Though pathos has permeated all our intercourse, humour and comedy havenever been far away; though sometimes tragedy has been in waiting.
But over one and all of my friends hung a great mystery, a mystery thatalways puzzled and sometimes paralysed me, a mystery that always set meto thinking.
Now many of my friends were decent and good-hearted fellows; yet theywere outcasts. Others were intelligent, clever and even industrious,quite capable of holding their own with respectable men, still they werehelpless.
Others were fastidiously honest in some things, yet they were persistentrogues who could not see the wrong or folly of dishonesty; many of themwere clear-headed in ninety-nine directions, but in the hundredth theywere muddled if not mentally blind.
Others had known and appreciated the comforts of refined life, yetthey were happy and content amidst the horror and dirt of a commonlodging-house! Why was it that these fellows failed, and were content tofail in life?
What is that little undiscovered something that determines their livesand drives them from respectable society?
What compensations do they get for all the suffering and privations theyundergo? I don't know! I wish that I did! but these things I have neverbeen able to discover.
Many times I have put the questions to myself; many times I have put thequestions to my friends, who appear to know about as much and just aslittle upon the matter as myself.
They do not realise that in reality they do differ from ordinarycitizens; I realise the difference, but can find no reason for it.
No! it is not drink, although a few of them were dipsomaniacs, forgenerally they were sober men.
I will own my ignorance, and say that I do not know what that littlesomething is that makes a man into a criminal instead of constitutinghim into a hero. This I do know: that but for the possession of alittle something, many of my friends, now homeless save when they arein prison, would be performing life's duties in settled and comfortablehomes, and would be quite as estimable citizens as ordinary people.
Probably they would prove better citizens than the majority of people,for while they possess some inherent weakness, they also possess in agreat degree many estimable qualities which are of little use in theirpresent life.
These friends of mine not only visit my office and invade my home, butthey turn up at all sorts of inconvenient times and places.—There is myfriend the dipsomaniac, the pocket Hercules, the man of brain and ironconstitution.
Year after year he holds on to his own strange course, neither povertynor prison, delirium tremens nor physical injuries serve to alter him.He occupies a front seat at a men's meeting on Sunday afternoon when thebills announce my name. But he comes half drunk and in a talkativemood, sometimes in a contradictory mood, but generally good tempered.He punctuates my speech with a loud and emphatic "Hear! hear!" and ofteninforms the audience that "what Mr. Holmes says is quite true!" Theattendants cannot keep him silent, he tells them that he is my friend;he makes some claim to being my patron.
Poor fellow! I speak to him kindly, but incontinently give him the slip,for I retire by a back way, leaving him to argue my disappearance in nofriendly spirit with the attendants. Yet I have spent many happy hourswith him when, as sometimes happened, he was "in his right mind."
I, would like to dwell on the wonders of this man's strange and fearsomelife, but I hasten on to tell of a contrast, for my friends present manycontrasts.
I was hurrying down crowded Bishopsgate at lunch time, lost in thought,when I felt my hand grasped and a well-known voice say, "Why! Mr.Holmes, don't you know me?"
Know him! I should think I do know him; I am proud to know him, for Ivenerate him. He is only a french polisher and by no means handsome, hisface is furrowed and seamed by care and sorrow, his hands and clothingare stained with varnish. Truly he is not much to look at, but if anyone wants an embodiment of pluck and devotion, of never-failing patienceand magnificent love, in my friend you shall find it!
Born in the slums, he sold matches at seven years of age; at eight hewas in an industrial school; his father was dead, his mother a drunkard;home he had none!
Leaving school at sixteen he became first a gardener's assistant, thena gentleman's servant; in this occupation he saved some money withwhich he apprenticed himself to french polishing. From apprenticeto journeyman, from journeyman to business on his own account, weresuccessive steps; he married, and that brought him among my manyacquaintances.
He had a nice home, and two beautiful children, and then that greatdestroyer of home life, drink! had to be reckoned with. So he came toconsult me. She was a beautiful and cultured woman and full of remorse.
The stained hands of the french polisher trembled as he signeda document by which he agreed to pay £1 per week for his wife'smaintenance in an inebriate home for twelve months where she might haveher babe with her. Bravely he did his part, and at the end of the yearhe brought her back to a new and better home, where the neighbours knewnothing of her past.
For twelve months there was joy in the home, and then a new life cameinto it; but with the babe came a relapse; the varnish-stained man wasagain at his wits' end. Once more she entered a home, for another yearhe worked and toiled to pa