How a Police Court is Worked

A nice Leisure Hour article from 1899, which details, amongst other things, arrest procedure for 1890s police stations in London:

HOW A LONDON POLICE COURT IS WORKED.

THE average Londoner is strangely ignorant of the methods by which the custodians of law and order secure for him his accustomed immunity from the depredations of what are vaguely known as "the criminal classes." One or two of the big police courts dotted here and there about the metropolis are probably known to him by sight, but his acquaintance with them generally ceases at the doorway. Even should he obtain permission from the portly official stationed at the door to penetrate within the court, he will receive but little enlightenment.
     Pushing open the swing-doors he finds himself in an interior which makes up in height for what it lacks in width. At the far end is seated an elderly gentleman, over whose head the royal arms throw a golden nimbus. In a railed-off platform in the middle stands the prisoner, gesticulating energetically, and a harassed clerk beyond him is adjuring the witness to "Please speak up, the prisoner can't hear one word you say, I'm certain." There is an inarticulate murmur from the bench. "'Ow much?" cries a brawny armed, shawl bedizened woman at the visitor's side. " Se'n d'ys; I'll do thet on me 'ead!" returns the prisoner jubilantly, and prisoner and gaoler depart together through a side door.
     The clockwork regularity, the matter-of-fact indifference of the whole procedure, is the very reverse of impressive. There is no break in the general monotony ; everyone present seems bored to the last degree. A baby on the visitor's left sets up an infantile squall ; the magistrate looks up, and the black-robed usher hurriedly conducts mother and baby to the door. A few legal gentlemen are seated at a bench,  each one buried in a newspaper ; in another part two reporters are chatting together in whispers, and the general public on each side of the onlooker lean stolidly against the wooden partition in front, trying to make sense out of the scattered words which are all that they can catch.
     Such are the first impressions of the casual visitor ; but, if he observes more closely, he will perceive that the apparent absence of all haste is really due to the perfect orderliness of the whole procedure. As fast as one prisoner is taken from the dock another is marshalled in; witness follows witness in unbroken succession ; and, as on a well-ordered stage, everyone knows his cue, and there is never the suspicion of a "wait." There is really no time for delay of any kind, for the press of business at many of the courts is enormous; and so perfect is the routine, that as many as forty of the more unimportant cases can be disposed of in a couple of hours.
     Let us then take a glance at the workings of the complicated human machinery by the interaction of which this result is brought about. To do this it will be necessary first to proceed to the police station adjoining, where the processes preliminary to placing the prisoner in the dock are gone through.
     There is little of interest about the room we enter. One or two policemen are writing at desks; one corner is railed off as a dock for the reception of the prisoner, with painted on the wall a measurement table to take his height, and, beyond, the inspectors' room, which is furnished exactly like a merchant's office. A prisoner is brought in and placed in the dock ; the inspector on duty comes forward and hears the story of the prosecutor and his witnesses, and decides whether or no he shall take the charge. If the accusation made be frivolous, or impossible of proof, the prisoner will not have to wait for the decision of the magistrate upon it, but will be at once released, particulars of the charge and the reason for its refusal being first entered in the "Refused Charge Book" for the benefit of the central authority at Scotland Yard, whither reports of all police business have to be sent.
     Should, however, the charge be one of some substance, as is more likely, the inspector takes a long strip of cartridge paper, known as the "charge-sheet," and enters thereon the prisoner's name, age, address, the charge preferred against him, the names and addresses of the prosecutor and his witnesses, and an inventory of all articles found in the prisoner's possession. From this document another similar description is entered in the magistrate's "Charge Book," and this sheet also, once the case is completed, will find its way into the archives of "The Yard," having attached to it a careful abstract of the contents, so -that it may be capable of immediate reference.
     Meanwhile, the prisoner has been searched—a process varying from a mere inspection of the contents of his pockets to the thorough over-hauling of every part of his clothing, according to the nature of the case—and the inspector next busies himself with the compilation of yet another document, containing a description of the prisoner's appearance and clothing, and, most important of all, of any marks upon his body. It is a noticeable fact that quite ninety per cent. of the lower class of criminals are tattooed, generally upon the left arm ; and very inconvenient indeed no they find these indelible marks when for any reason they wish to conceal their identity. Not much originality is shown in the subject of these decorations, which are generally amatory. A heart transfixed by an arrow, or a motto such as : "I love Emma Jones"—alas, poor Emma, discarded ere the scars were healed!—usually entirely satisfies the artistic or amative aspirations of the tattooee.
     These formalities completed, the prisoner is conducted to the station cells, there to await his appearance before the magistrate. All things considered, perhaps a police cell is rather an improvement upon the usual nightly lodging of the average prisoner, and certainly it has the advantage in its spotless cleanliness. It is by no means uncommon for a man to enter the station and demand to be locked up, and the request, if sufficiently persistent, is sure of satisfaction. The only disadvantage about it is that the magistrate is liable to extend the period of detention over a week, in default of a pecuniary penalty, which fact may lead the applicant to revise his views on the merits of a police station in providing free board and lodging.
     The furniture of the cell is of the simplest possible description. A wooden settle, serving as bed or seat, extends round the three walls, and the heavily bolted door, with its little grate, bars all outlook to the incarcerated one. Unless the prisoner is too intoxicated to eat, or is brought in very late at night, he will be supplied with a meal consisting of a pint of either tea or coffee, according to taste, and three thick slices of bread and butter (which is not margarine). As the contract price of this meal is threepence per head, it can easily be seen that the prisoner has no reason to complain of lack of food here. A drink of water can be obtained at any time by application to the constable in charge of the cells. Between 8 and 8.30 the following morning a breakfast, similar in quality and quantity to the meal of the previous night, will he furnished ; and at both these meals it should be stated, the prisoner has the option of obtaining at his own cost any other provisions that he may desire, alcohol and tobacco alone excepted.
     Another wait of an hour and a half ensues, and then at 10 sharp the prisoners are conducted to the court and placed in the Prisoners' Waiting-Room, the constable in charge of each case being left with the prisoner in his custody. At most courts this is a lofty white-tiled room, with a broad bench running right round it, divided by lofty partitions into seats to accommodate two people, the constable and his captive, and so to some extent preventing communication between the prisoners. But the methods by which prisoners converse with one another are far too many and too ingenious to be much interfered with by such a simple precaution. No sound may pass, but a gesture, a facial contortion, will enable any criminal of experience to understand what his neighbour wishes to say. Of course "thieves' patter" and "back slang "—the latter an ingenious inversion of common words—are current coin through all ranks of criminality, but to use such language in the waiting-room is only to risk a quick "Hold your tongue there," frcm the watchful custodian, with the certainty that he has understood all that was said, however cunningly wrapped up in slangy periphrasis.
     On his entry into this room the prisoner passes under the control of the gaoler, and this official is responsible for him frcm the time when he is "sent to court "—to use the language of the charge sheet—until at the end of the day the black van arrives to transfer him to the prison. The duties of a gaoler are many and onerous. At a court with an average amount of work he may have as many as a hundred prisoners passing through his hands in one day, and it will be his task to see that each one, with the constable in charge, appears before the magistrate in the order fixed. He should also have a list of each prisoner's previous convictions, if any, at his finger's ends, and to do this he has to compile a voluminous register of his own. Of course a good memory of faces is a sine qua non, for a criminal of any record may have as many as half a dozen aliases, with a conviction standing to his discredit in each one.
     A cultivated memory of this kind is capable of many surprising feats. Some years ago a man was charged at Bow Street Police-court with stealing a watch from one of the Judges of the High Courts. Police-sergeant White, who was then chief gaoler at that court, identified the prisoner as having been charged with theft as a ]ad thirteen years before. The man entirely denied this, declaring that he was a native-born American, and had only just come over to this country, but the gaoler supported his accusation by giving the name under which the man had been sentenced, and at this the prisoner admitted the truth, explaining that after serving his sentence he had emigrated to America
     When brought before the magistrate the prisoner will be placed in the "dock "—a small railed platform generally constructed to accommodate four, which is occasionally mistaken by too eager witnesses for the witness-box. If the offence be a simple misdemeanour, however, the prisoner will not be required to enter that place of dishonour, but will take his station in front of it. All evidence must be given in the hearing of the prisoner, being interpreted to him in case of need, or bawled into his ear by the gaoler if he says that he is deaf. On the same principle no statement made about the prisoner to a witness by a third person is admissible in evidence unless the accused himself heard it—a fact which it takes years of drilling to get even a policeman to realise. Police-court sentences vary from a fine of a shilling to a sentence of six months' hard labour. A misdemeanant, however, can only be imprisoned in the event of his having no money and no property whereon to distrain for the amount of the fine. Persons charged with theft have the option, generally speaking, of taking their case before a jury. With respect to the graver offences, such as forgery, the magistrate has no power to convict, and police-court proceedings in such cases are only a necessary preliminary to the trial.
     The case being disposed of, the prisoner is returned into the care of the gaoler, and locked by him in one of the court cells until the prison van (in common slang the " Black Maria ") removes him. A very great amount of watchfulness is needed on the part of the gaolers during this period, both to prevent any forbidden articles being smuggled in by the prisoner's friends, and to anticipate any attempt that he himself may make upon his life. The fact that friends of the imprisoned one are allowed to provide him with food and drink until he is removed, naturally affords opportunity for a good deal of ingenious trickery in the effort to convey to him in addition alcohol and tobacco, to alleviate his first period of incarceration. A favourite plan some years ago was to hollow out a thick slice of bread for the reception of matches and tobacco, masking the fraud with a liberal allowance of butter, whilst the accompanying can of tea or coffee would contain a little bottle of spirits. but all food is carefully inspected before it reaches the prisoner's hands ; the bread and butter, slightly pressed, reveals its secret, and the tea is always poured into another can, so that these tricks have little chance of success.
     Far more serious are the attempts made by the prisoners themselves upon their lives. It is easy to imagine how, in the first shock of despair which ensues when the sentence is pronounced, there should come the insidious temptation "to mend or end it all." Women are most prone to give way to this impulse, and many are the strange and determined efforts made to end a life that has proved but a terror and a shame to its possessor A handkerchief, a garter, or a strip of cloth torn from a petticoat, offers a ready means of strangulation, and instances are not unknown where women have attempted to take their lives by the extraordinary means of thrusting bent hairpins down their throat. A criminal who has been released on bail must often be an object of special suspicion to the gaoler, for when he surrenders he may have hidden in his clothes the poison or the knife by which he intends to cheat the law if he is sentenced. Where any suspicion has been aroused, a strict search will be made through the prisoner's clothing, and if any weapon is discovered— as not infrequently is the case —the governor of the gaol will be made acquainted with it, though it may never reach the public ear. In one instance which has come to the writer's knowledge, a man who had concealed a razor in his boot attempted to commit suicide while the gaoler was in the very act of searching him, and so nearly succeeded that it was six months before he had recovered from the wound.
     But the records of the police-court are not all of this gloomy shade. Many a lad can date his first real start in life on the day when the magistrate handed him over to the representative of the Police-Courts Mission stationed at that court, and many a wandering daughter has been restored to her home by the same kindly aid. A very large amount of work is done, too, by the police in rescuing homeless child-vagrants from the streets, and during the year hundreds of struggling families obtain from the poor-box the temporary relief they need to tide them over some especially bad time.
     The element of humour, too, is not entirely lacking in the proceedings, although it is hardly of the nature depicted by some imaginative writers for the evening press. A naive rejoinder, or an unlooked-for explanation by the prisoner, will always provoke a laugh, and even the magistrate condescends to crack a little joke at times. The quarrelsome neighbours who seem to choose their lodgings close to a police-court for convenience in getting summonses are often amusing enough in the extraordinary and vehement denunciations which they throw at one another's heads, and the wild and frothy flow of verbiage which constitutes their evidence, whilst the complainant will generally conclude her string of accusations by producing from her pocket a piece of newspaper containing hair which she will take "her dyin' oath " was torn from her head by the righteously indignant defendant, utterly ignoring the fact that this hair is black, while her own is of the brightest shade of "carrots."
     To the popular imagination also a magistrate not merely possesses absolute power in every branch of the law, but is the rectifier of all grievances, real or imaginary. Hence the police-court is the happy hunting-ground of cranks of all descriptions. One of the metropolitan courts was haunted for years by a little old lady who might have served as the model for Dickens's sketch of Miss Flite, who was for ever seeking to bring to justice the criminals who, by her account, had poisoned her husband, and buried his remains in her back garden seventeen years before. Another applicant will ask the magistrate's advice as to how he can establish his claim to an earldom which has been extinct for the last hundred years ; and he may be followed by a young girl who wishes the magistrate to mediate between her and "her young man." All meet with an attentive hearing, and to each is given the advice they need ; but, to judge by their faces as they leave the court, the result is seldom as satisfactory as they anticipated.
     But these are only stray items in the day's work, and meanwhile the gloomy progress of prisoners from cell to dock, from dock to gaol, has recommenced, and, as we step from the grim building to the street, it is with a sense of relief that we feel once more a breath of fresh air upon our cheeks.
HOWARD H. BIRT.

Leisure Hour, 1899

A Police Court

A marvellous piece from All the Year Round of 1890 ... a police-court (the magistrate's court) in all its glory ...

A LONDON POLICE-COURT.

To make the acquaintance of a police-court is, at some time or other, the common lot of most of those who bear the burden of life within the limits of the great metropolis. It is not necessary to belong to the criminal classes, whose knowledge of the subject—like Mr. Sam Weller's of London in general—is extensive and peculiar; nor either to be a victim of the predatory race, although, in that case, the experience is likely to be remembered. For there are many other ways in which the jurisdiction of the police-court may be brought; home to you.
    Have you left home on some wintry morning without providing for the clearance of snow from the strip of pavement in front of your dwelling? Has your chimney caught fire, and have the services of the fire brigade been zealously administered to put it out? Has your little dog run out unmuzzled into the street, and been run in by the active officer on the beat? Have you, in fine, offended in any way, knowingly or unknowingly, against the written or unwritten law, whether civil, municipal, or criminal, you have a fair chance of enjoying an evil quarter of an hour about the precincts of a London police-court.
    The police-court is not usually to be sought in busy thoroughfares and well-frequented streets. It is, in most cases, rather difficult to find, and boasts of little outward embellishment. In a quiet, dowdy street, the plain, inconspicuous building may be passed without any particular notice. Sometimes, indeed, the quietude may be broken by the loud, passionate cries of some female, furious at being temporarily deprived of her mate :
    "What, my Bill to 'ave three months' hard for mugging that wretched scoundrel Joe! Oh, let me get at him!"
    And Joe stands a chance of putting in a bad time, if he should encounter wild-eyed Bess in her present mood. But these clamours soon die away in the distance, as discreet friends hurry the girl away from the dangerous neighbourhood, where her riotous demeanour might involve her in the same fate as the beloved one. And the street resumes its accustomed quiet, people slipping in and out of the portals of the police-court in a quiet, undemonstrative way.
    Yet, if some case is going on which excites public interest—such as a prize-fighting prosecution, or the sequel of a gambling club raid—then there will be a rush and a crowd that will startle the neighbourhood from its propriety, and task all the energies of the burly constables on duty to prevent the whole court being carried by a rush.
    But, arriving at the police-court about ten a m., the hour at which business usually commences, there will be found, perhaps, a number of people, chiefly women, clustered about in the lobby, and pressing upon the policeman in charge of the inner door; people of chirpy and chaffy demeanour, and respectable, if homely attire, who seem quite free from the nervous misery which attends an unaccustomed visit to a court of justice, whether as plaintiff or defendant. And these jocular people may prove to be a number of careless matrons and maidens who have lost or mislaid certain valuable securities known as pawn-tickets — a mischance which renders necessary a statutory declaration before a magistrate. And when these are disposed of, a knot of people still remain who are passed into the court one by one, by the attendants. These are applicants for summonses; neighbours, perhaps, who have ceased to be neighbourly, and have come to open warfare; servants who have complaints against former employers ; people who have been beaten, and are not content. With these there may be a few who have come for " advice," it may be upon a matrimonial dispute, or on some knotty question of lodging-house ethics ; while there are, perhaps, one or two females of eccentric costume and deportment who seize every occasion of having a word or two with the magistrate in reference to some treasured grievance.
    When all these applicants have been admitted, and ranged in order, a little time will elapse during which they will have an opportunity of studying the interior aspect of a police-court : the bench, with perhaps a few ornamental festoons of drapery overhead ; but everything else plain and of strictly utilitarian arrangement. The chief clerk is below, arranging his papers and dockets; the solicitors' pew is occupied by a single representative of the profession; while the box reserved for the fourth estate contains a solitary reporter, who seems to be thinking of anything but reporting on his own account, as he sits absorbed in the morning newssheet.
    Indeed, of all that passes in a police-court, a very small portion finds its way to the public press. Only if your case should chance to present anything unusual, grotesque, sentimental, or amusing, it will be picked up as so much treasure-trove by the vigilant reporter, and, multiplied by the ingenious flimsy, will form a paragraph perhaps in every morning paper, and thus disseminate your name and fame to the four quarters of the globe. With all this there is a gentle buzz of conversation ; the public exchange confidences as to the merits of their cases; police officers murmur discreetly to officials; when, suddenly, there is a little stir in the court, the usher calls out "silence!" and the magistrate makes his appearance from his private room, and takes his seat with businesslike alacrity on the bench of justice.
    The police have the first turn, as might be expected; but the list of summonses they require for various infractions of the law is soon gone through, and then the general public has its turn. Each applicant steps up to the witness-box, states his or her case; the magistrate puts a question or two, and then grants a summons or refuses it. If the summons is granted, the applicant passes into an adjoining office, pays two shillings, and, having ascertained on what day the case will come on, has nothing more to do in the matter till then, as the police undertake the duty of serving these summonses. Then follow the applications for advice, and sometimes for relief — for each police-court has a poor-box, which is replenished from time to time by gifts from the charitably-disposed, who have a well-founded confidence that their contributions will be distributed only to deserving and pressing cases.
    When all this light and preliminary business is disposed of, the real, grim, serious work of the police-court begins. The charge-sheet, a document of portentous size, and often containing a formidable catalogue of offenders, is handed in by the police, and the hearing of the night-charges begins.
    And the prisoners—whence come they? Probably from many different quarters, and by various means of transit. Some may have walked, under the charge of police, from a neighbouring police-station ; or a cab may have brought some prisoner of higher pretensions than the ordinary. But the most have arrived some time before the opening of the court, driven up in the spacious, but not individually roomy, police-van. There has been a general gaol delivery of all the police-cells throughout the metropolis—such a delivery as occurs every workaday morning, when omnibuses, trains, and trams are crammed with smart, well-draped, and cheerful-looking young men, and, in these latter days, with a considerable sprinkling of young women, who may answer to the same description, hurrying, with hearts more or less light, to their daily employment. There are not many light hearts in the police-van, probably, although a reckless joviality is often assumed by its more seasoned passengers, and songs and choruses, with a dismal kind of gaiety about them, often enliven the long and dreary passage.
    A certain number of police-courts, indeed, are in direct communication with adjacent police-stations—six of them, to be exact, out of a total of sixteen—and in these cases, the prisoners are brought direct from the police-cells to the dock of the court. But when the first batch of prisoners has been delivered, there is still work for "Black Maria "—the half-affectionate sobriquet of the police-omnibus, although she is not exactly black, but as dark a green as can be painted—for the "remands " have to be brought up from the various prisons, from Holloway, Pentonville, or Millbank. And there is a good deal of "remanding" under the police system of prosecution; and an unfortunate prisoner — presumably innocent — may be jolted about for some hours, as his conveyance deposits passengers at one police-court or another, before he arrives at his destination, and may spend a long day in the police-court cells, only to appear for a moment before a magistrate, while some piece of formal evidence is given to justify a " remand." To the seasoned offender this is a rather agreeable diversion of the monotony of prison life, he enjoys the ribald songs of the police-van, the coarse jokes and highly-seasoned language of the police-court cells with the companionship of birds of a congenial feather. But to the prisoner who is as yet not inoculated with the criminal taint, the experience is sad and depressing enough.
    It is now eleven a.m., and the business of the police-court is in full swing. The night charges are on, and on a Monday morning these charges are rather heavy. Saturday night, with wages paid, and drink in plenty to excite the quarrelsome, brings a good many to spend the Sunday in the weary confinement of the police-cells. And the lobby of the police-court is well packed with a miscellaneous crowd—witnesses, friends of prisoners who have come to see how they get out of their scrapes, people who are waiting to surrender to their bail. Here are shabbily-dressed women with babies, wearied and depressed; a coster's bride, in smart hat and ostrich feather, and brilliant shawl; a knot of sturdy but predacious - looking fellows whispering among themselves, well and warmly clad in corduroys and velveteens ; poor starving creatures in rags and tatters, and wild-looking females in silks and satins, all frayed and faded.
    It is a dreary, drizzling day, well suited to the occasion ; the stone-paved passage is damp, and smeared with mud from the trampling, weary feet which have passed to and fro, and the long, wooden bench by the wall is filed from end to end. Halfway up the passage is the entrance to the court, enclosed within a wooden screen, and jealously guarded by a burly constable. The court is nominally a public one, but practical considerations prescribe the rule, "No admittance except on business," At the extreme end of the passage another door opens into the interior regions of the court; and here are gathered a number of women and youths who watch anxiously for the opening of the door, and hold hurried conferences with the warder. These, we are told, are mostly the friends of prisoners on remand, who hope for the opportunity of communicating with them; and some are provided with baskets or basins or pocket-handkerchiefs containing provisions, for an untried prisoner is permitted to have his meals from the outside world if he has money to pay for them, or friends willing to provide them. If he has neither, and is detained in the police-cells till the afternoon, he is entitled to a meal, cost not exceeding fourpence, at the public expense. But the choky feeling of one awaiting examination is generally meal enough for him, and the allowance is seldom claimed.    
    Next to the prisoner's door is the warrant-room, where uniformed policemen transact the business relating to the issue and execution of those peremptory documents. And beyond this there is nothing to be seen of the economy of the police-court by the weary expectants in the lobby. Women huddle together on the benches and try to keep their babies warm in the folds of old worn shawls ; men hunch up their shoulders and stick their hands in their pockets, Now and then a name is called by the usher, and repeated in stentorian tones by the stalwart policeman. The people called are generally those who do not happen to be there. The friend of overnight, who valiantly promised to bear witness on behalf of the prisoner, is generally found wanting in the cold atmosphere of the morning's reflection.
    But now the doorkeeper thinks he can find room for one or two more, and the interior of the court is revealed, with the magistrate on the bench, a prisoner in the dock, a witness in the box, and the proceedings going on with a slow deliberation that shows something serious to be in progress. The summary cases are disposed of quickly enough ; but this is an Old Bailey business, and the clerk of the court is getting the evidence into the depositions, that bulky bundle of papers which will accompany the prisoner before the Grand Jury, which will be spread before the Judge as he sits on the awful judgement-bench, and finally endorsed with the finding of the Jury, will be buried for all time in the legal archives of the country. The case, indeed, is serious enough. There has been a fight with knives in the slums, and one of the combatants has been desperately wounded, and is now dying in the hospital. His antagonist is here in the dock, a dark, powerful young fellow, stolid enough, and seemingly almost unmoved, as he listens to the slowly-enunciated evidence that is accumulating against him, "Have you any question to ask this witness?" says the magistrate, as a policeman finishes his story. "We begun with fists and we finished with knives, that's all I got to say," he murmurs, doggedly ; and, in effect, it is all that he has on his mind. And when he is remanded he turns away with a look of relief on his face, and returns with alacrity to his cell.
    The next case is one of picking a pocket. The prisoner, a strong, burly young fellow, not at all of the Artful Dodger class, nor belonging to the sleek, slippery class of thieves who wind in and about a crowd like so many eels. Our prisoner evidently belongs to the heavy-handed, rather than the light-fingered gentry; and such is the prosecutor's experience, a respectable, amiable-looking country manufacturer, who complains of having been unceremoniously hustled as well as robbed. That the hustling profession is a profitable one is shown by the result of the search by the police of the prisoner's pockets, which contained, besides five pounds in gold—which happens, curiously enough, to be the exact sum the prosecutor lost—nearly two pounds' worth of silver and copper.
    While this is going on there is a little stir of interest and expectation among a little knot of young men, who are leaning over the barrier of what is called the public part of the court. They are of the same build and general appearance as the prisoner, and probably belong, not exactly to the criminal class, but to that border region which unhappily seems to be growing more extensive in these latter days, whose denizens turn their hands indifferently to honest labour or to deeds of violence, with a general preference for the latter. The cause of this interest is presently manifest when a prison official comes forward to prove a previous conviction against the honest youth in the dock. Upon this the solicitor, who has been defending the prisoner, holds a hurried conference with his client, and announces that, by his advice, the prisoner will plead guilty, in order that the matter may be settled by the magistrate. " Six months' hard labour," is the result of this advice, which was probably wise enough. For although there might have been a slender chance of acquittal before a Jury, who are not allowed to know anything about "previous convictions," yet the sentence, if found guilty, would have been much heavier for previous convictions — and half-a-dozen more might have turned up at the Sessions — which count for a good deal in the allotment of punishment.
    "And what about the money?" asks the now-convicted prisoner. "Is he to have it all?" indicating the prosecutor, whom he evidently considers to be a very unworthy character. The magistrate orders the gold taken from the prosecutor to be restored to him. The rest, the silver and bronze, is the property of the thief, who leaves the court with a hop, skip, and jump, seemingly consoled by the prospect of starting in business with a little capital at the end of his period of retirement. And yet, perhaps, we do the thief injustice, who may have tender feelings, like anybody else. Possibly one of those patient women with a baby, who waits in the lobby, may be the prisoner's wife, and the money may be meant for her, to keep body and soul together till she can find employment.
    A string of cases follow of no particular interest, and some are dismissed rejoicing, and others go, bewailing fine or imprisonment, back to the cells. Again appears a wild, reckless, passionate girl in tawdry, ragged garments, who bursts into loud lamentations as she stands before the magistrate. She has been "put back " for some petty theft, being young, and hitherto unconvicted, to see if some benevolent lady will take charge of her in a Home. The Home is ready if the girl is willing. But no! she loudly and passionately declares that she will not go to any Home. And then the girl's mother is sent for, who is waiting outside-an eminently respectable woman in appearance, who might be housekeeper in a nobleman's family—and mother and daughter exchange looks with the width of the court between them —the decorous-looking woman in black silk, and the wild, unkempt, and draggled creature in the dock. The mother is for the Home, too—one wonders what sort of a home she made for this wild, erring daughter of hers. But the girl is firm enough, amidst her tears, with a decided negative.
    "Then there is nothing for it but a prison," says the magistrate, severely.
    And at the prospect, the girl's resolution breaks down. "Oh, I will be good!" she weeps forth like a froward child.
    And so the incident terminates to everybody's satisfaction. And we will hope that the young woman will come under firm and capable hands.
    After this, "remands" come in thick and fast; prisoners appear and disappear. People who have been "put back" are, perhaps, finally discharged with a caution; others get small fines, which they pay, and they, too, go their way rejoicing. At last the charge sheet is disposed of; it flutters from the hands of the magistrate to those of the chief clerk. And that is a sign that the morning's business is finished, and there is a general clearance of the court as the magistrate disappears into his private room. It is only a break in the day's proceedings. The court will sit again at two, and continue till the business then in hand is disposed of : and that will be business of a more private character. Today may be devoted to the School Board ; and parents and children, school visitors and managers will be in the respective positions of defendants and plaintiffs. Another afternoon will be given to private summonses, the squabbles, grievances, and offences which the police have not taken up. Cabmen and omnibus conductors may have a sitting to themselves. And, after the luncheon hour, the lobby will be filled by a more orderly and respectable crowd than that which usually awaits the disposal of the night charges.
    But the luncheon hour may afford us a good opportunity for examining the interior economy of a police-court, which, in this case, happens to be one of modern construction, and among the most convenient of its kind. To the right of the public court is the private room of the magistrate, and the office where the clerical business of the court is conducted. The other side reveals another phase of the police-court ; it is a gaol as well as a court, a gaol in which no prisoners spend the night, but which has its gaoler, who is responsible for the safety of the prisoners while under his care. A long passage is lined with a row of cells, which are mostly occupied at the present time, each cell holding four or five prisoners. It is not a gloomy place by any means, and the prisoners, a presumably innocent crew—although, perhaps, they do not look it—are not altogether silent or brooding, but seem to cultivate a jocose and cheerful spirit. And such cells as are empty are clean and sweet, with sufficient light and ventilation. The walls are done in white glazed bricks, and the cells warmed with hot-water pipes. And there is plenty of work going on in the way of enlarging and beautifying the present accommodation for prisoners. Opposite the cells is the waiting-room, so called, a room divided into compartments like the old-fashioned chop-house. For the ordinary prisoners from the police-courts, are not placed in cells, or put in charge of the gaoler. Each takes his seat in one of the reserved compartment and the constable whose captive he may be takes up his position in the central passage. Then, as the cases are taken, the prisoners are ranged along the passage with their attendant policemen, who see their charges safely into the dock, and then are quit of them altogether, except in so far as they may have to appear as witnesses in the case. From the dock, the choice is, liberty or the police-court cell. Even those who have the option of paying a fine must go to the cells till the fine is paid, unless they can discharge it on the spot.
    On the floor above there is a similar arrangement of cells; passages, and waiting-room, for the use of female prisoners; and here, too, everything is being renovated and improved—the result of a Commission appointed several years ago to enquire into the accommodation provided for untried prisoners at police-courts. Coming downstairs again, the passage from the cells leads into a roomy courtyard, surrounded by high walls, all the windows looking out on which are strongly barred, while a formidable pair of gate, closed by heavy bars, will presently give admittance to the police-van, and will then be carefully closed till the van has taken up its load. In a general way, the van will arrive at about half-past two, and carry off the bulk of the prisoners detained in the cells. But for any who may be expecting release on bail, or on the payment of flue, or who may be subsequently committed, "Black Maria " calls again as late as seven o'clock, after which nothing further goes ; and those who cannot find bail in money must be driven off to prison. And with the clanging of the gate behind the last batch of prisoners, the police-court is free, till next morning, of the labours and responsibilities of its position.

All the Year Round, 1890