My grandfather, Basil Edward Pease Gregg, was a quaker, who after retirement following the Second World War volunteered to work for the Prison Aid Committee in London. In the years between the war and his death in 1958, he met with hundreds of prisoners (leaving behind him diaries full of illegible scribbles about each individual he met). Asked by the Portfolio Society to speak about something of interest to him -- it was a Quaker organization, so one spoke about whatever one was moved to talk about -- he decided he would provide his fellow society members with insight into the criminals he encountered. The speech is a lively (and tongue-in-cheek) account from someone who was sympathetic to the pathetic plight of the many people who had been thrust into prison for minor offenses, and who, in many cases, should have been dealt with in other ways. It gives you a flavor of the mindset of the middle class in the 1940s, and some of the changes that were then occurring as London society emerged from the years of rationing and privation brought on by the war.
Here is the speech:
ALL SORTS AND CONDITIONS OF MEN
When I received my invitation card to this meeting of the Portfolio Society & saw that the Secretary had three times underlined the word “Essay”, I realised that this obligation could no longer be evaded & that something would, at last, have to be done about it.
But what to write about? I had not the slightest idea. Like many another victim before me, I spent fruitless hours biting the end of my pen and groping in my mind for incidents in bygone holidays; books I had read; plays I had seen – anything, in fact, around which some sort of essay might be written. But all to no purpose; ideas would not present themselves & I was becoming pretty desperate.
Then, suddenly, I remembered that, as Chairman of a Prison Aid Committee some days previously, a case had come before me of a man who, inadvertently, had found himself in prison on a charge of, “receiving” some paltry article, “knowing it to have been stolen,” as the wording of the charge runs. The man was technically guilty; but obviously a decent if stupid citizen and morally innocent; and it seemed particularly hard lines that he should have his fingerprints taken and be cast into gaol. Yes, I pondered, in these difficult days of multi-regulations any law-abiding citizen, even, yes, even a member of the Portfolio Society, might wake up one morning and find himself in a cell with a number instead of a name.
This of course it was beyond me to prevent: but, at least, it seemed a moral duty to warn Members of the various kinds of fellow travellers with whom they would journey, in case, just in case, the worst happens.
I hasten to say that the foregoing remarks do not of course apply to the lady Members, whom one simply daren’t think of ever being in such a predicament advertently (if there is such a word) or inadvertently.
When this hobby of Prison Visiting intrigued me twelve years ago, it took me some little time to sort out in a rough and ready way the various types of prisoners which the Prison housed. For, during this period, every kind of wrongdoer has come my way – forgers, confidence tricksters, card sharpers, burglars, safe breakers, false pretence specialists, armed gangsters, etc., etc., together with all the less serious offenders such as habitual drunkards, beggars, pickpockets, & so on.
This particular prison is termed a Local Prison & houses all the foregoing if their sentences are for less than three years. Men serving over three years go to a convict establishment.
The largest class is composed of social mis-fits, men who for one reason or another seem unable to lead normal lives & who easily slip into some form of crime, many ending up as habitual criminals. A number in this category are, as may be supposed, not quite mentally stable, although sufficiently so to become a nuisance to Society.
For example there is A, now a man of 55, with some twenty previous convictions, who comes from a good family &, in his day, has held managerial positions in the City. His especial weakness is for what he calls “having a good time” in the West End, although he knows perfectly well that his escapades must inevitably end the same way. When last discharged form prison, he went straight to the Admiralty &, incredible as it may seem, persuaded a clerk to give him an order on a Naval outfitter for a Captain’s uniform, saying he was Captain Blank of HMS Blank. At last, fully rigged out and resplendent with rows of medal ribbons, he drove up to a luxury hotel – all on the small cash allowance which the Aid Committee had granted him – and took a suite for a week. All went well from his point of view and he lived like a lord until the account was presented at the end of the week, when he calmly told the manager he hadn’t a penny, but had had a good time, “Thank you!”
Then there is B, a man of 40, whose relatives are high-ups in the Legal world. His downfall was due to a position he had as Advisor to an Eastern potentate at a princely salary. He told me that his duties were negligible, but drink was plentiful; & the advice he gave to the potentate could therefore not be relied upon. His relatives have spent thousands of pounds in trying to get him on his fee, but he simply refuses to cooperate, and to date has been in & out of prison over thirty times for theft & false pretence offences. Not long ago, two days after his release, he obtained some jewelry by a trick from a Bond Street jeweler, and that same night dined as a guest at an exclusive regimental mess. Next morning he was rounded up as usual. I know this man well and he has charming manners & is an entertaining raconteur; & it is sad to see a man of his ability & education slip steadily down into the abyss of crime. Nothing can be done for him, and he will end up in a convict prison as an incorrigible rogue.
My second class consists of men who have definite criminal instincts resulting, it may be, from hereditary causes, or bad home influence & who deliberately take to crime as affording if a precarious livelihood yet a degree of excitement in pitting their wits against the police.
In this class you have the extremely clever professional burglar who raids West End flats & country houses. He lays his plans with the utmost care & exhaustive preparation & is rarely caught, although Scotland Yard’s latest counter measures are making life more difficult for him. I have only met one of these aristocrats of crime;m & it was interesting to see how the smaller fry of the burglar fraternity looked up to him. It is unlikely therefore that Members of the Society will have the honour of meeting him.
I think that the most un-moral man I ever met – who should also be included in this class – was both a confidence trickster & also an expert card sharper, despite a semi-paralysed right hand. One quickly sensed that he was utterly merciless & quite without a vestige of conscience for his victims. His method was to work the Atlantic liners with a confederate; & his plans would be made & his intending victims marked down perhaps months before he got to work. Happily, however, this form of crime is now dying out, as criminals of to-day prefer quicker, if smaller, returns.
The exciting side of crime, which I mentioned just now, is well typified by another friend of mine who, with his wife (who always works with him) are a pair of expert burglars. Some months ago they burgled a West End flat & got away with some thousands of pounds worth of valuables. Next day, in the early editions of the evening papers, was printed, with an account of the burglary, an interview with the victim – a titled lady. In telling her story, she foolishly mentioned that, fortunately, the burglars overlooked the most valuable pieces of jewellery in the wardrobe of an adjoining room. That very night the couple returned to the flat & tookethat also!
Or take the bravado of a man in the less skilled class who stole books from the outside of a bookshop in Charing Cross Road & then sold them to the proprietor of the same shop inside.
Since the war a dangerous type of young criminal has emerged in the shape of the deserter on the run. He has no ration book & has thus to thieve to live, & many of them are armed. Last year, one of these lads was caught within a quarter of a mile of this house, having shot a policemen in trying to escape. He & I got to know one another well & I found that his widowed mother was a Quaker; & before the war he himself sometimes attended Meeting at his home in the Midlands.
I put the sexual offender in my third classification. He forms a big percentage of the inmates of this prison & is a source of frustration to me. One need be no psychologist to realize that the majority of these cases at any rate should never come to prison at all but be treated in some institution specially designed for them. As it is, the same men return to prison month after month & year after year; & prison life and discipline have no deterrent effect on them whatever. On the contrary, it is definitely harmful bot the themselves & their fellow prisoners, especially in these days of overcrowding in prisons. The problem is an urgent one, but hedged around with difficulties. But so far as I can see no real attempt is being made to solve it.
I am coming to the end of my paper & thus cannot tell you of several other interesting inmates, some of whom you might well be fortunate enough to meet.
Old K, for instance, who has some 120 convictions to his debit, all for travelling on the railway without paying his fare. He is no criminal, but has all the Englishman’s passion for adventure & discovery. He knows his England better than any one of us here; & every time he returns for a spell of rest from his wanderings, it is always a matter of eager speculation what part of the British Isles he has been to this time. The stories he can tell you!
Then ther is old Bill Sykes, a superannuated burglar, whose hand has lost its cunning & who cannot keep pace with modern methods of burglary, getting caught almost before he brings out his j[e]mmy. No, the days when the burglar literally banged his way into a house are gone. Instead, you have the silent thief, armed with little more than a piece of celluloid to force back your Yale lock. He is always full of grumbles, this old lag. Some other prisoner will slip into his cell in his absence & borrow his Library book. “Disgraceful,” he grumbles, “stealing me books. I don’t know what this place is coming to.”
In the next cell is young R an expert safe breaker who is reputed to be able to open any make of sage inside 20 minutes. He specialises in hotels on the South coast & the police give a sigh of relief when he is safely under lock & key. He has brains & education which would earn him a good living; but that way of life would be too humdrum for him & he seems to prefer something which will bring more excitement. However, I still have hope that some day he will realise the folly of it all & try to run level, especially as I gather that there is a decent girl to whom he seems devoted & who has promised to marry him when he turns over a new leaf.
There is just this little story & I have finished. By dint of much patience & by picking up bits of wire & empty tobacco tin when the warders weren’t looking, a somewhat tough friend of mine ingeniously constructed a miniature wireless receiver. It all had to be done very secretly & took him several weeks to complete. At last the great day came & he got into bed early & buried the receiver under his blankets from the prying eyes of the patrolling warder. Would it work? A moment of agonizing suspense! Yes, it actually did; but instead of the robust humour of Tommy Handley, “Much Binding In the Marsh,” & all the variety of favourites for whom his soul yearned, all he could get was a thin rendering of a symphony of Shostakovic, from the 3rd Programme! His disgust was complete!
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Many members probably had the good fortune to see a remarkable sunset in the latter part of September, one of the most beautiful I can ever remember. It happened that I had gone up to the Prison to say goodbye to a lad of 24, who was to be removed next day to a convict prison to serve a sentence of 15 years for an abominable crime. As we were talking the cell became illumined by the marvelous mixture of saffron, pink & dark blue; & despite prison regulations, we climbed up to the narrow barred window the better to see it. In silent awe we gazed at this beautiful phenomenon until it gradually faded out.
Then he turned to me & said quietly, “That was beautiful. I have never seen anything like it before.” Then, after a pause, he added, “You know I think the trouble with us chaps inside is that we have never learnt to look up.”
Yes, I thought, you are probably right; & that goes for a lot of us chaps, as well.
