he was unable to obtain work of any kind.  Mr. Dickinson had defendant put back for the court missionary to see him.

   Timothy Warner, thirty-two, was remanded for a similar offence.  He
   jumped off Limehouse Pier, and when rescued, said, “I intended to do
   it.”

A decent-looking young woman, named Ellen Gray, was remanded on a charge of attempting to commit suicide.  About half-past eight on Sunday morning Constable 834 K found defendant lying in a doorway in Benworth Street, and she was in a very drowsy condition.  She was holding an empty bottle in one hand, and stated that some two or three hours previously she had swallowed a quantity of laudanum.  As she was evidently very ill, the divisional surgeon was sent for, and having administered some coffee, ordered that she was to be kept awake.  When defendant was charged, she stated that the reason why she attempted to take her life was she had neither home nor friends.

I do not say that all people who commit suicide are sane, no more than I say that all people who do not commit suicide are sane.  Insecurity of food and shelter, by the way, is a great cause of insanity among the living.  Costermongers, hawkers, and pedlars, a class of workers who live from hand to mouth more than those of any other class, form the highest percentage of those in the lunatic asylums.  Among the males each year, 26.9 per 10,000 go insane, and among the women, 36.9.  On the other hand, of soldiers, who are at least sure of food and shelter, 13 per 10,000 go insane; and of farmers and graziers, only 5.1.  So a coster is twice as likely to lose his reason as a soldier, and five times as likely as a farmer.

Misfortune and misery are very potent in turning people’s heads, and drive one person to the lunatic asylum, and another to the morgue or the gallows.  When the thing happens, and the father and husband, for all of his love for wife and children and his willingness to work, can get no work to do, it is a simple matter for his reason to totter and the light within his brain go out.  And it is especially simple when it is taken into consideration that his body is ravaged by innutrition and disease, in addition to his soul being torn by the sight of his suffering wife and little ones.

“He is a good-looking man, with a mass of black hair, dark, expressive eyes, delicately chiselled nose and chin, and wavy, fair moustache.”  This is the reporter’s description of Frank Cavilla as he stood in court, this dreary month of September, “dressed in a much worn grey suit, and wearing no collar.”

Frank Cavilla lived and worked as a house decorator in London.  He is described as a good workman, a steady fellow, and not given to drink, while all his neighbours unite in testifying that he was a gentle and affectionate husband and father.

His wife, Hannah Cavilla, was a big, handsome, light-hearted woman.  She saw to it that his children were sent neat and clean (the neighbours all remarked the fact) to the Childeric Road Board School.  And so, with such a man, so blessed, working steadily and living temperately, all went well, and the goose hung high.