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The "Poor Man's Theatre"
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| The Court House, at north-west corner of the Parade |
Daily Gleaner 1911 October 14 page 4
SCENES
AT OUR
ONLY “THEATRE”
A Racy Story
Described
in
Racing Style.
CAPTURE
OF A
JUMPER.
The lower courts have been
aptly described as the Poor Man’s Theatre, and like the Poor Man’s Club one sees and hears some queer things there
at times.
The man with
the poetic turn of mind that I met at the Poor Man’s Club told me that the Police Court was a place where one often
heard bad law and raw justice administered. And so I strolled in the Court room one day to witness the proceedings.
The building presents an imposing appearance from the outside, but inside! Well, all I will say is that it is a fit
setting for the sordid scenes that are enacted under its roof.
How
those who have to work in the place manage to perform their duties properly is a marvel, and it certainly does not redound
the credit of the Government that the administration of justice, particularly among the humbler classes, should be carried
on, under present conditions.
The Police
Court is held in a dingy little room that is badly ventilated, and totally inadequate for its purpose. The Magistrate
who presides there every day must have a hard time of it, and if, as the leader of the Poor Man’s Club said, bad law
is to be heard there, no wonder. The Resident Magistrate’s Court room is a trifle better, and the apartment assigned
for the use of the Judge of the Kingston Court, is still a little better, but none of the rooms are at all suitable for the
purpose they are used. It certainly is time that something should be done in the way of better housing of these Courts.
But
the purpose of my article is not so much with the building as to describe the performances that are enacted there daily.
At ten o’clock the scene is one
of busy activity. Policemen in spotless white tunics, and highly polished silver-gilt buttons dart to and fro amid a dirty
looking, evil smelling crowd that congregate around the building and its precincts. They are getting the witnesses together,
and preparing for the entry of the Magistrate.
They
have not to wait long, for shortly after ten o’clock he steps in jauntily, sits down in his chair, leans back, heaves
a sigh, and then picks up his pen and is ready to proceed. Meantime the Court Corporal has raced over the opening formula
at a pace that beats all records, and a squalid looking individual is placed within the enclosure to take his trial.
“Are you pleading guilty,” asks the magistrate.
“Oh no,” says the man in the dock, and
right away it can be l seen he is an old hand
- one who would not demean himself by going to prison without pleading his own cause.
The first
witness, a policeman, enters the box. He is sworn. And right away he tells the Court his name, asserts that he is a constable
stationed in Kingston and he is ready to proceed.
THE LEADING MAN.
In this particular case I am describing, the policeman was
one of Mr. McCrae’s smart young men. He stood erect, threw his chest out, and his answers were terse and to the point.
The burden of the story was that patrolling around the Race Course he saw a fellow with some parcels in his hand. “The
moment the man saw me Your Honour,” he said, “he began a gallop. He was just at the three furlong post, sir, and
he went along at a useful pace.”
“Did you time him,” put in the Magistrate,
“or was he going at too fast a clip for you to take the time?”
“He was making the pace hot sir,” said
the policeman.
“I see,” said His Honour. “Where
did the race finish?”
“The fellow went sir, down the straight like
a bird. I was after him hand over hand. Then he got to the fence and he went over in quick time.
“A steeple chaser, eh? “ put in the Judge, whose sporting proclivity was by this time well aroused.
The policeman agreed and continued his narrative.
“Yes sir, he took the fence neatly. I went over after him slam bam. Up he got and on he went. On I followed and then
one of him boots drop off.”
“Indeed,” said the Magistrate, ‘‘he
cast a shoe.”
“He did sir, and I ran up to him and lie down
’pon him.”
The “steeple-chaser” in the dock did
not look very much like a fellow who could put up a race. But he cross-~examined the policeman in a way that showed he fell
into the spirit of the sport.
“Look
here,” he began, “you said you saw me run. Now admitting that I run,
how far off was you from the three furlong post when the race start?”
“I was not in a position to judge,” said
the bobby.
“He was not in the box,” put in the Magistrate.
“Very well,” said the fleet footed gentleman,
“I will ask him no more.”
The case was proved to the hilt.
“What’s his record?” asked his
Honour. “He must have made some good
times?”
I saw he was “in safe hands” and when
the Magistrate said, “twelve months” the fellow felt his race was run, and he bowed himself down the hole.
Next week I will describe another act in the daily
drama that is presented at the “Poor Man’s Theatre”
W.
A. S.
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| The Theatre Royal, before and after the 1907 earthquake |
The headline ' Our Only "Theatre" ' would appear
to be a pointed reference to the fact that Kingston had not yet, in 1911, been able to rebuild the theatre on the north-east
side of the Parade, which had been destroyed by the 1907 earthquake. The Ward Theatre was completed in the following year.
T. Ellis Jackson had opened his theatre, Covent Gardens, at No 1 Sutton Street in the summer of 1911, but apparently that did not count!
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