A beer shop owner’s gamble fails to pay off

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Just this week, in the wake of the professional footballer Joey Barton being banned for placing bets on his own team, the Arsenal manager Arsene Wenger, declared that he thought there was too much gambling in modern society. He told the press:

‘It is a little bit I must say the general problem in our society. You you have everywhere, on every advert, bet … bet on Sky … bet on here and there, so you have not to be surprised when people get addicted to betting’.

Gambling and indeed, concerns about gambling are nothing new. There were worries about the effects of the lottery in eighteenth-century London, and plenty of pamphlets and tracts were written condemning games of chance such as cards or dice. It was especially concerning when apprentices or other young people were involved.

Georgian worries turned into Regency ones, and then into Victorian ones; what we see today is perhaps only the inevitable slide towards everyday betting on anything, that all those previous commentators had warned us about.

Nineteenth-century critics of gambling condemned the practice for the same reasons they (for it was often the same people) attacked the consumption of alcohol – at least to excess. Gambling, like the ‘demon drink’, drained the pockets of the poor and brought destitution and moral collapse. As a result most gambling was highly regulated, just like the sale of alcohol.

Which is why James Knott found himself in front of the police magistrate at Worship Street in late April 1857.

Knott ran a beer shop in Shoreditch which had aroused the suspicions of the police. Inspector Cole thought Knott was engaged in an illegal betting operation and had the shop watched. Having assured himself that the shop keeper was up to mischief he called on him one afternoon to ask some questions.

Inspector Cole wanted to look inside a desk which was nailed to the floor but Mrs Knott was reluctant. She told him that ‘the key had been taken away by her husband’ and she couldn’t open it. Cole’s response was to say he was quite happy to break it open.

Knott then appeared and miraculously produced the key and opened the desk. Inside (to Knott’s apparent ‘surprise’) the inspector found what he was looking for: ‘various documents relating to races, amongst which were telegraphic messages from York and Doncaster, and numerous betting cards and books’, with details of races run since September 1856.

Knott had explained when questioned by Cole that a man known only as ‘Jemmy’ ran the betting organization, but so far the police had been unable to apprehend him. Knott had a lawyer to speak for him in court who told the sitting magistrate, Mr D’Eyncourt, that his client was innocent, that at worst he had acted in ignorance of the law, and since he was ‘impoverished’ he hoped the justice would be lenient with him.

Mr D’Eyncourt wasn’t inclined to leniency however, and fined him the full amount – £25 (or nearly £1,500 in today’s money) – warning him that failure to pay would earn him three months in the house of correction. At first the ‘impoverished’ beer shop owner looked destined for a spell of hard labour but then, as miraculously as he had found the key to a desk the contents of which he claimed to be entirely ignorant of, he paid his fine and left.

[from The Morning Chronicle, Thursday, April 30, 1857]

A serial abuser gets his just desserts at the Guildhall

Maria Caddick was a tolerant woman who seems (like many victims of domestic abuse in the 1800s) to have put up with a lot before she sought the protection of the law. But in March 1859 her husband went too far and the couple ended up in the Guildhall Police Court.

It could have been worse for Mr Caddick because while he had often beaten his wife, this time he took a knife to her. Had she not been able to escape him the 60 year-old man might have found himself on a murder charge.

Maria told Alderman Salomens that her husband had come back late to their home in Field Lane, quite drunk (as he often was). The couple exchanged words (probably about Caddick’s frequent drinking) and the old man went for his wife. When he used language ‘unfit to be repeated’ she struck out with her fists, knocking him on the head.

He retaliated with blows of his own and she picked up a saucepan lid and threw it at him. Enraged, her husband now grabbed a knife and stabbed her in the forehead and then in arm.

Maria told the court: ‘I ran downstairs for a policeman, but before I could find one I fell down and became insensible. I afterwards went to the hospital.’

Caddick tried to deny he had done anything at first, and then blamed his wife. Finally, when this tactic was exposed for the falsehood it was he tried to dismiss his actions as the result of having had ‘a drop’ (of alcohol).

Mrs Caddick said the problem was that ‘he took those “drops” so often that one day he might kill her’.

She then admitted to the magistrate that she had brought her husband to court before when he had beaten her, but had forgiven him and pleaded for him to released without punishment. Mr Salomens was in no mood to be as lenient on this occasion and threw the book at him.

Mr Caddick, an old man with a serious drink problem, was sent to prison for six months at hard labour and told to find sureties of £20 (a considerable sum) for his good behaviour towards his wife on his release.

[from The Morning Chronicle, Tuesday, March 8, 1859]

When prison is a better option than the Poor law

 

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The City of London workhouse

Ann Weeks and Sarah Hart were poor and they were starving.

They were so desperate  that they queued up to get into the London Union workhouse. Having not eaten for days they were admitted and given a bed for the night. But instead of the hot meal they had hoped for all they were given was ‘a small bit of dry bread’.

Their reaction was extreme and landed them in the Guildhall Police Court on the following day. Having decided that they would be better fed in prison the women started breaking the windows of the workhouse and pulling out the fittings in the hope that they would get convicted of wilful damage and sentenced to gaol.

The women admitted their crime and justified it on the grounds of desperation. The alderman magistrate had some sympathy for their plight and bemoaned the fact that ‘a gaol should be sought after as a superior refuge to the workhouse’.

The overseer admitted conditions were bad in his institution but said they were overwhelmed with paupers seeking shelter at night, since over 50 came to his door every evening.  The alderman said he had no choice but to give the women what they wanted and sent them to the Bridewell house of correction for two months.

[from The Morning Chronicle, Monday, March 8, 1841]

The grass is not always greener on the other side of the Channel

As PC Martin (406B) patrolled his beat in Grosvenor Place he saw a man going from door to door begging for money or food. As each front door turned him away he started to try at the lower, or trade door. The policeman now decided to move in an arrest the beggar, as he was branch of the vagrancy laws.

The man was not English and once an interpreter was found it was discovered that his name was Adophe Blesche and that he came from Austria. Blesche was produce din court at Westminster in early March 1881 charged with begging.

He admitted his offence but said he didn’t know what else to do. He was starving and had nowhere to turn. He told the magistrate that he was a labourer and had been working in Lille in France at a picture frame manufacturers. He had left, he said, ‘because they told him a foreigner could get a living and money in England’. Adoplhe was one of millions of migrants that traveled to Brain and America in the the late 1800s, attracted by the prospect of a better life in a more stable society.

The Westminster magistrate was curious however, as to what had driven him from his native Austria. The chief clerk suggested enquiries should be made with he Austrian authorities in London; he thought Blesche might be an army deserter.

When this was relayed to him by the interpreter Blesche admitted as much; he had served in Bohemia (his birth place) for 12 months but had run away from his unit. Given that the punishment for such an offence was six years’ imprisonment, it was not surprising that he didn’t want to return home.

Mr D’Eyncourt, the sitting justice, remanded him in custody and asked for the Austrian consul to be informed. Sadly for Adolphe he had pinned too many of his hopes on British hospitality. I wonder how many current refugees and economic migrants are similarly regretting their decision to cross the Channel.

[from The Morning Post, Monday, March 07, 1881

A thief opts for the lesser of two evils

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The Criminal Justice Act (1855) allowed defendants in court to have their cases heard by a justice of the peace in a summary court, or elect to go before a judge and jury. This act was intended to speed up the prosecution system by enabling more smaller property crimes (larcenies) to be dealt with by the magistracy. Many of those brought before the ‘beak’ may well have thought it beneficial to give up their ‘right’ to a jury in return for escaping the longer sentence that judges could hand down.

In March 1872 there were a couple of cases before the Guildhall Police Court where defendants chose this option. One of them concerned the theft of a silver watch – a fairly serious crime which in previous years might have attracted a sentence  of death (before the 1820s) or transportation.

Charles Cordell gave a false address in court when he was accused of stealing Joseph Cook’s silver watch on Ludgate Hill on Thanksgiving Day*. Cook and his wife were walking on Ludgate Hill at about 4 o’clock when he saw Cordell  next to him and felt him try to take something from his waistcoat pocket. As he looked he claimed he saw the man steal is pocket watch, and immediately  grabbed hold of  him.

‘You have stolen my watch’, he cried, ‘You are mistaken’ replied Cordell, struggling to get free but the prosecutor and his wife held him tight by the hands. Cook called out for help and a policeman soon arrived on the scene. As Cordell protested his innocence the watch fell from his trousers onto the street.

Mr Cook bent down and retrieved his property and the policeman took Cordell prisoner and marched him to the station house. There he was searched and found to have ‘six handkerchiefs, a breast pin and a knife’ on him.

In court he gave an address in Spitalfields, an area synonymous with crime, and admitted having been charged with felony in the past. He pleaded guilty and waived his rights to a jury trial. The magistrate sentenced him to six months imprisonment, with hard labour.

[from The Morning Post, Tuesday, March 05, 1872]

*If this is the traditional feast day  celebrated by the Americans then this means early November, or it may be what we tend to call the Harvest Festival, but perhaps readers may know of another festival more applicable to late February/early March.

Nascent trade unionism nipped in the bud at Mansion House

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General Association

Most of us will have experienced,  or have maybe even taken part in some form of industrial action initiated by a trade union. Southern Rail commuters in particular are now very family with an ongoing dispute between the employers and drivers and guards who cannot agree on who should open the doors on their trains. The result has been months of strikes, reduced services and delays. There have been calls for the government to take action and even to prevent strikes from happening. In certain industries (the police and prison service for example) strike action is banned.

It would probably be fair to say that since the Winter of Discontent in 1978-9 there has been a regressive (or progressive, depending on your viewpoint) move towards striking unionism and union action.

We haven’t always had trade unions of course, and history shows us that governments had to be forced to allow them to exists at all, let alone exercise any kind of pressure on employers. The Combination Acts of 1799/1800 aimed to prevent workers combining  to form associations and these were not repealed until the 1820s; thereafter unions began to develop.

In 1833 a ‘general’ union was formed to represent the views and needs of men and women from a variety of trades. In 1834 the government infamously attempted to suppress the GNCTU (Grand National Consolidated Trades Union) by arresting six men from the Dorset village of Tolpuddle and transporting them to Australia.

So in 1834 the embryonic trades union movement was under pressure and we can see the antagonism that these workers’ groups faced in a case that came before the Lord Mayor at Mansion House in March of that year.

A tailor and draper on Cheapside came to the Mansion House Police Court to complain about the behaviour of a group of men who were pressurising his workers to down tools because one of their number had been sacked. Mr Roberts told the Lord Mayor and alderman Anstey who sat together as magistrates that he had been obliged to dismiss one of his men because of his behaviour. This man had ‘been absent eight hours from his work, by which the sale of a suit of clothes had been lost’.

As soon as this became widely known a group of journey tailors came to the place where Roberts’ men were working and told then in no uncertain terms that unless they stopped working ‘they should fare the worse for such a violation of propriety’.

Mr Roberts told the bench that this situation was intolerable and unless the ‘unionists’ were stopped ‘trade could not continue’. As a result he had identified one man (unnamed) who was now in the dock accused of urging others to disrupt his trade.

The Lord Mayor, as a member of the mercantile elite in the City could hardly be expected to side with the journeymen tailors and he didn’t. He was outraged at the man’s behaviour but at the same time he was reluctant to impose the normal sanction – three months’ imprisonment.

He asked the tailor if he would accept an apology and a promise that ‘no action of this kind would occur again’. He said he would but was concerned that there were ‘eight or ten journeymen’ present in court who would ‘deprive him of his men, and he hoped the Lord Mayor would let them know they should not act with impunity’.

The defendant’s lawyer said his client was sorry and had not intended to interrupt Mr Roberts’ business. The Lord Mayor them warned those present against any attempt to tae action in the future and discharged the defendant.

[from The Morning Post, Monday, March 03, 1834]

A smash and grab raid on the Commercial Road

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The Commercial Road, Whitechapel c.1880s

As Charles Wakeman sat in the back room of his jewellers shop at 479 Commercial Road he was probably doing his paperwork or enjoying a late supper. Whatever he was doing it was soon to be rudely interrupted.

At a quarter past nine his assistant rushed in and told him they had been robbed. Wakeman ran through into the shop and saw that his front window had been smashed in. Outside a crowd was gathering – to see what all the fuss was about and, perhaps, to see if any ‘windfalls’ might drop nearby.

Wakeman quickly noted that along with the jewellery that was lying in the street a tray of rings was missing altogether. He picked up two gold bangles and was then approached by a young man. This lad, whose name was Ernest Marks, told the relieved jeweller that he had heard the smash of the window and spotted the thief running away.

Marks, who had been standing on the corner of Jamaica Street,  had sprinted after him and caught him in Bermuda Street. He recovered the tray of ’32 ladies gem rings’ (valued at £129 9s, or over £7,000 pounds in today’s money) and handed the thief over to a nearby policeman.

The suspected jewel thief (William Halbart) who was thought to be in partnership with another man, not yet in custody, was charged at Thames Police Court. The magistrate, Mr Lushington, fully committed him for trial.

Halbart’s case came up very quickly at the Old Bailey; he was tried and convicted of burglary on the 3 March. Despite his protestation that he had only  been a curious onlooker and had picked up some of the jewellery but not stolen it, adding: ‘I am perfectly innocent. I am the victim. I have never been locked up in my life’.

He was sent to prison for a year.

[from Lloyd’s Weekly Newspaper, Sunday, March 2, 1890]