Eighteen Months' Imprisonment
by late captain Donald Shaw · English · Gutenberg #44755 · 444,233 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Eighteen Months' Imprisonment
Author: late captain Donald Shaw
Illustrator: Wallis Mackay
Release date: January 26, 2014 [eBook #44755]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/44755
Credits: This ebook was transcribed by Les Bowler
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EIGHTEEN MONTHS' IMPRISONMENT ***
This ebook was transcribed by Les Bowler
[Picture: Volume Cover]
* * * * *
[Picture: Crowd scene—Horse-drawn Prison Van]
EIGHTEEN MONTHS’
IMPRISONMENT
(WITH A REMISSION)
* * * * *
BY
D— S—
LATE CAPTAIN — REGT.
* * * * *
_ILLUSTRATED BY WALLIS MACKAY_
* * * * *
LONDON
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS
BROADWAY, LUDGATE HILL
NEW YORK: 9 LAFAYETTE PLACE
1883
* * * * *
LONDON
BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.
* * * * *
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
PAGE
MY ARREST 1
CHAPTER II
THE HOUSE OF DETENTION 12
CHAPTER III
“SETTLING DOWN” 20
CHAPTER IV
“PRISON FARE” 31
CHAPTER V
GEORGINA 41
CHAPTER VI
BOW STREET 48
CHAPTER VII
NEWGATE 54
CHAPTER VIII
THE SCAFFOLD 67
CHAPTER IX
A PRIVATE EXECUTION 75
CHAPTER X
“NEWGATE ETIQUETTE” 88
CHAPTER XI
THE TITLED CONVICT 98
CHAPTER XII
THE CENTRAL CRIMINAL COURT 113
CHAPTER XIII
“CORPULENCY” 122
CHAPTER XIV
COLDBATH FIELDS 138
CHAPTER XV
“OAKUM” LET US SING 159
CHAPTER XVI
THE VISITING JUSTICES 191
CHAPTER XVII
PRISON TRADES 203
CHAPTER XVIII
THE OUTER WORLD 218
CHAPTER XIX
THE CONVALESCENT WARD 228
CHAPTER XX
CRIMINAL LUNATICS 248
CHAPTER XXI
PRISON CELEBRITIES 256
CHAPTER XXII
THE TREAD-WHEEL 270
CHAPTER XXIII
GARDENING 282
CHAPTER XXIV
THE CHURCH MILITANT IN PRISON 293
CHAPTER XXV
THE HOSPITAL DEAD-HOUSE 310
CHAPTER XXVI
BURGLARS “I HAVE MET” 335
CHAPTER XXVII
“JUSTICE TEMPERED WITH MERCY” 351
CHAPTER XXVIII
RETROSPECT 361
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
1.—“BLACK MARIA” _Frontispiece_.
2.—A CHEERFUL GROUP 60
3.—“SHOULD OLD ACQUAINTANCE BE FORGOT?” 63
4.—THE EFFECTS OF A WARM BATH AT “COLDBATH” 141
5.—A CELL, 8 A.M. 161
6.—A CELL, 8 P.M. 178
7. —A TYPICAL TURNKEY 205
(_a_) _Its Normal Expression_.
(_b_) _Corroborative Evidence_.
8.—COUNTING 241
9.—“NEGATIVES KEPT” 271
10.—GARDENING—“SOMETHING APPROACHING” 282
11.—GARDENING—“THE LINE CLEAR” 287
12.—WHENCE COMEST THOU, GEHAZI? (AN EXHORTATION TO REPENTANCE) 333
CHAPTER I.
“MY ARREST.”
ON a dreary afternoon in November, cheerless and foggy as befitted the
occasion, and accompanied by that gentle rain which we are told “falleth
on the just and on the unjust,” I suddenly, though hardly unexpectedly,
found myself in the hands of the law, as represented by a burly policeman
in a waterproof cape and a strong Somersetshire accent. The
circumstances that led up to this momentous change can be briefly
described. I had gone to the office of a solicitor—one White, with whom
I had had previous monetary transactions—with reference to a new loan on
a bill of exchange; and it must be distinctly understood that any
allusions I may make to this individual’s vocations are not to be
misinterpreted, for I have the highest respect for his integrity and
aptitude for business, legal or otherwise, and cannot but admire (as I’m
sure every honest reader will) the horror with which any dishonest act
inspired him, which, though it did not deter him from conscientiously
completing the transaction as a matter of business, was equally swift in
retributive justice, and condemnatory (to use his own expression) of
compounding a felony. Mr. White, in short, is a money-lender, who, in
addition to the advantages derivable from his legal assistance, is always
prepared on undoubted security—such as a bill of sale or a promissory
note—to make cash advances at the rate of 240 per cent. I am justified
in quoting this as the gentleman’s rate of interest, for I paid him £5
for a loan of £45 for fourteen days, a transaction that his cheque on a
Holborn bank will testify. The only marvel that suggests itself to my
mind is, that a person who is so scrupulous in refusing to “compound a
felony,” as he termed it when he assisted in involving me in the meshes
of the law, should retain the ill-gotten and usurious sum of £5 one
moment after he was aware (as he has been for a year) that it was the
proceeds of a forgery. But perhaps I am wronging the worthy man; he may
have subscribed it towards the Hunt he honours with his patronage, or
have paid it as his subscription to the London and Discounty Club, to
which, I presume, he belongs.
At first sight this rate of interest may appear somewhat high, but a
moment’s reflection will dispel the idea. Here was a gentleman, a member
of the honourable profession of the law—one who (as he told me) actually
hunted with Her Majesty’s hounds, and, for aught I know, may have been
honoured with a nod from the Master of the Buckhounds—one, moreover, who
occasionally dined with impecunious Irish lords, with whom he had
transacted business, and talked of such aristocratic clubs as the
“Wanderers’” and the “Beaconsfield” with as much _sang-froid_ and a
degree of familiarity such as you and I, gentle reader, might refer to
the “Magpie and Stump” at Holloway, and which to me at the time was truly
appalling; here, I say, was a gentleman endowed with all these
recommendations actually condescending to minister to one’s pecuniary
wants; and one would indeed have been unworthy of such advantages had one
carped or squabbled over such vulgar trifles as a paltry 240 per cent.
There is certainly another point of view from which this “financial”
business may be regarded; but if the Master of the Rolls and the
“Incorporated Law Society” take no exception to this occupation of one of
their members, it is clearly no business of ours to find fault with a
gentleman who materially adds to his income by combining the profitable
trade of usury with the profitless profession of the law.
It is a prevalent and very erroneous impression to associate voracity and
sharp dealings with the Hebrew race, for I’ve found from experience (and
I’m admittedly an authority) that for meanness, haggling, and exorbitant
terms, with a cloak of hypocrisy to cover this multitude of sins, the
Hebrew is considerably out-distanced by his Christian _confrère_. I
might indeed go a step further, and add, that, barring a repellent manner
during the preliminaries of a transaction, but which is purely
superficial, the dealings of the children of Israel are based on strictly
honourable and considerate grounds. No one has ever heard of a Jew
robbing you first and then prosecuting you; they are invariably satisfied
with one course or the other. (I may here be permitted a slight
digression to note that I intend ere long to publish a list of usurers
never before attempted, based on my personal experience of them,
including members of almost every trade and profession, and which for
completeness and accuracy of detail will put to the blush the hitherto
feeble attempts of such society journals as _Town Talk_, _Truth_, &c.)
At about four o’clock, then, on this dreary November afternoon I found
myself with three or four others in Mr. White’s waiting-room. I verily
believe one of my companions was a detective, a suspicion that subsequent
events tend to confirm. In the frowzy room I found myself waiting for
more than an hour, during which time my naturally ’cute disposition,
coupled with a consciousness of guilt, convinced me with a “suspeeciun”
similar to that of the old lady at the subscription ball at Peebles,
“amoonting to a positive ceertainty” that something was up. This
apprehension was by no means allayed by my distinctly seeing the shadow
of the burly policeman, in cape and helmet, on the frosted window, as he
ascended the stairs; and had I been so inclined, there was nothing to
have prevented me from at once burning the damning document then in my
pocket and walking down-stairs. But I was perfectly callous and
indifferent to the result; indeed, I can only attribute my feelings at
the time to those of a madman who hailed with delight any change that
substituted incarceration and an unburthened mind for liberty and an
uneasy conscience. The rest of the incidents in this prologue are easily
told, and the next ten minutes (which abounded with sayings and doings,
however commendable from a moral point of view, sadly out of place in a
usurer’s parlour) found me in a cab, in company with a policeman, with
Mr. White, money-lender, solicitor, and commissioner to administer oaths,
on the box, his ‘fishy’ partner inside, and driving at the rapid rate
habitual to the fleetest four-wheelers of three miles an hour en route to
Bow Street. Luck now favoured me, and I was fortunate enough to obtain
an interview with Mr. Vaughan, who was on the eve of departure, and who,
in a few hurried and well-chosen words, and in a metallic tone of voice
that I can only, with all respect, compare to the vibrations of the
telephone, which I heard some years ago in its infancy, conveyed to me
the momentous intelligence that I was _remanded_ till Tuesday. This was
by no means my first appearance at Bow Street Police Court, for though
not on so serious a charge as the present, I had on a former occasion
made the acquaintance (officially) of the worthy magistrate. The
circumstances are briefly these, and though in no way bearing on my
present narrative, may be reasonably introduced, as a combination of
sweets and bitters, such as one gleans by the advertisements, are to be
associated with “chow-chow,” “nabob pickles,” &c., &c. Some four years
ago I had the honour of accompanying a well-known but not equally
appreciated young baronet, and High Sheriff of an Irish county, notorious
for his “Orange” (and orange-bitters with a dash of gin) proclivities, to
a low music-hall. The weather was hot, and the evening an exceptionally
warm one in June, such an one, indeed, that the most abstemious might
have been pardoned for exceeding the bounds of moderation. About
midnight we presented ourselves at the portals of that virtuous but
defunct institution, and were refused a box on the plea of inebriation.
So indignant, however, were both myself and my blue-blooded if not
blue-ribboned companion at this monstrous insinuation that we at once
proceeded to Bow Street, and laid a formal complaint with the inspector
on night duty. The books, and probably that official’s marginal notes,
would doubtless place facts and our respective intellectual conditions at
the time beyond the shadow of a doubt. For my own part, I confess (with
that frankness that has always been my ruin) that if I was not absolutely
inebriated, I was decidedly “fresh.” As regards my companion, however, I
will not presume to venture an opinion, although High Sheriffs admittedly
never get drunk;—is it likely, then, that this one, the pride of his
county and an ornament to its Bench, could so far forget himself?
Absurd! The sequel, however, has yet to be told; and a few nights
afterwards, about 9 P.M., alone, and disguised as a gentleman in evening
clothes, I went to the Night House and requested to see the proprietor.
A bilious individual hereupon came into the passage, and, supported by a
crowd of “chuckers out,” hurled me on to the verandah, where luck and my
proximity to the worthy publican enabled me to deal one blow on a face,
which eventually turned out to be that of Barnabas Amos; but a member of
“the force” happened to be passing, and the gentle Amos, not content with
having previously taken the law into his own hands with questionable
success, now appealed to the constable, and, in short, gave me in charge
for an assault. I will not weary the reader by a description of my
detention for twenty minutes in the police station, till I was bailed out
by a householder; nor of the proceedings next morning before the
magistrate. Suffice it to say that the case was dismissed; that the
daily papers honoured me by devoting half a column to a report of the
case; that six months after, alone and unaided, I opposed the renewal of
the licence for the night-house; that my thirst for revenge was
thoroughly satiated; and that I had the gratification of depriving the
Amos of a weekly profit of £300, besides about £500 for legal expenses;
and that the Middlesex magistrates did their duty and proved themselves
worthy of their responsible position by almost unanimously refusing the
licence, despite the fervid and well fee’d eloquence of Solicitor-General
and voracious barristers, and thus stamped out about as festering a heap
of filth and garbage as any that had ever infested this modern Babylon.
Mr. Barnabas Amos and I were thenceforth quits, and, barring a chuckle he
no doubt had at my subsequent troubles (such as a less magnanimous person
than myself might have had at his eventual bankruptcy), I may fairly
congratulate myself on having had the best of the little encounter. But
another feature of this case suggests itself, and I cannot dismiss this
long digression without a few words in conclusion. My quasi friend, the
High Sheriff, did not come well out of this matter. We had, as it were,
rowed in the same boat on this eventful night, we had both been refused a
box on the same grounds, and yet he left me to bear, not only the brunt
of the police-court row, but, by a judicious silence, got me the credit
of having tried but signally failed to lead him from the paths of
rectitude and virtue. I am prepared to make every allowance for a man in
his position, lately married to a young and innocent wife, whose ears it
was only right should not be polluted with such revelations as a
night-house would naturally suggest if associated with her husband’s
name; and I was perfectly alive to the necessity of screening him, and
willing that my name only (as it did) should appear in the proceedings;
nevertheless, there is a right and a wrong way of attaining such an end,
and the High Sheriff will, I am convinced, on reflection, admit that he
might have attained the same result in a more straightforward manner, and
have spared the feelings of his bride and possibly her younger sisters
equally as well without leaving a “pal”—to use a vulgar expression—in the
lurch without an apology. With this digression I will return (in the
spirit) to Bow Street, and close the chapter with a bang such as
accompanied the closing of my cell door, and await the arrival of “Black
Maria.”
CHAPTER II.
THE HOUSE OF DETENTION.
AFTER a delay of about twenty minutes—when for the first time I found
myself an inmate of a police cell—a very civil gaoler (with the relative
rank of a Police Sergeant) announced to me, with a “Now, Captain,” the
arrival of one of Her Majesty’s carriages. One has frequently heard of
the Queen’s carriages meeting, and not meeting, distinguished personages,
such as Mr. Gladstone, Sir Garnet Wolseley, the King of the Zulus, and
German princelings; but the carriage I refer to must not be confused with
this type. They are far from comfortable, the accommodation is limited,
and the society questionable; and had it not been for the courteous
consideration of the conductor (a Police Sergeant) I should have been
considerably puzzled in attempting to squeeze my huge bulk of 19 stone 13
lbs. (as verified a few minutes later in Her Majesty’s scales) into a
compartment about 16 inches in breadth. As a fact, however, I remained
in the passage, and thus obtained a view of streets and well-known haunts
under very novel and degrading conditions. Everyone appeared to stare at
this van, and everyone seemed to me to particularly catch my eye; but
this, of course, was pure fancy, resulting, I presume, from a guilty
conscience—for within the dark tunnel of this centre passage it was
impossible that anyone in the streets could see, much less distinguish,
anyone inside. I discovered a few weeks later that these uncomfortable
police vans were infinitely superior and more roomy than those attached
to Her Majesty’s prisons; in fact, I should say they were the only
attempt (as far as I could discover) at making a distinction between an
untried, and consequently innocent (vaunted English law—twaddle) person,
and a convicted prisoner.
My experiences at the “House of Detention” and subsequently at “Newgate”
convince me that justice demands a great alteration in the rules
regarding untried prisoners, who are allowed and disallowed certain
newspapers at the caprice of the chaplain, and actually restricted as to
the class of eatables their friends may send them. An instance of this
occurred in my case. A kind friend one day brought me a hamper
containing, as I was informed, a roast fowl and a tongue; the warder at
the entrance-gate, however, told him that these were luxuries in the
estimation of the Home-office, and therefore less suited to the palate of
an untried (and consequently innocent) man than a chop or steak fried in
tallow and procured from the usual eating-house; and as my friend had
dragged this white elephant of a parcel about with him for some time, he
gave it bodily to the turnkey, who consequently reaped the advantage of
the intended kindness to me. Next morning I complained to the Governor,
who assured me he should have made no objection to the “luxury” of a
fowl; in short, I had been the victim of the zeal of an illiterate and
astute official, who, putting two and two together, and weighing the
probable effect of his veto on an inexperienced inhabitant of the outer
world, had arrived at a very happy arrangement whereby I was deprived and
he benefited to the extent of a well-selected hamper. I found the
Governor a very good sort. His suit of dittos was a little of the
“thunder and lightning” pattern; but if his clothes were loud, his
manners were not—in short, he was essentially a gentleman, both in
appearance and manners, a beau ideal of the heavy dragoon that existed
before the Cardwellite era. I purposely refer to his manners being those
of a gentleman because it does not always occur that those situated in a
similar position possess the higher recommendation.
The “House of Detention” appeared to me the most awfully depressing place
to which my erring footsteps had ever led me. The darkness, the
stillness, the novelty of the situation, all tended to this conclusion;
and I cannot do better than describe what occurred, and leave the verdict
in the hands of the reader. Conceive then a man, who an hour previously
was a free citizen, suddenly finding himself stepping out of a police van
into a gloomy, white-washed passage, and being inspected and counted with
a dozen others by a bumptious turnkey, puffed out with his own
importance, addicted, as I have previously mentioned, to cold fowl and
tongue, but otherwise oblivious to the veriest rudiments of civilization.
Conceive, then, the sensations of a man such as I, finding himself
suddenly confronted by such a biped, who, scanning first a paper and then
you, begins to drawl out, “What’s your name? Your age? Married or
single? Protestant or Romanist?” and a volley of such like rubbish,
which only tends to exasperate one, and which might well be dispensed
with, seeing that all the desired information is on the paper, and,
having been supplied by one’s self not an hour before, is sure to be
corroborated, whether correct or not, and considering, too, that this
farce is repeated every time you enter and leave the place, and which in
a case of frequent remands might occur twice a day. One can hardly
narrate a single item regarding the treatment of an untried prisoner that
does not call for redress, _i.e._, if the absurd theory is still
persisted in that an untried man is an innocent one. What right has an
innocent man to be debarred the privilege of seeing friends (under
reasonable restrictions) as often as he pleases, instead of being limited
to one visit of fifteen minutes a day? Why should one be allowed to
purchase _Town Talk_ and not _Truth_? Why should the _Graphic_ be
permitted and not the _Dramatic News_? These are anomalies no logic can
explain away, and have no right to be left to the caprice of a prison
official. The food supply as at present arranged is a cruel system; a
prisoner under remand is gratified at hearing that he may procure his own
food, and naturally shrinks at the idea of subsisting on prison fare till
absolutely compelled. No greater mistake ever was made—the latter is
good, clean, and supplied gratis; the former is nasty in the extreme, and
scandalously dear. If the doubtful “privilege” is to be continued, it is
time the government, in common fairness, controlled the tariff; at
present a prisoner is at the mercy of the eating-house keeper, and liable
to any charge he may choose to make. I must admit that the caterers for
the “House of Detention” were civil and comparatively reasonable, whereas
those at Newgate were exactly the opposite. I shall give a detailed
account later on of how I was fleeced at the Old Bailey, and I would
earnestly warn all prisoners awaiting trial to stick to the prison fare,
and carefully to avoid the refreshments supplied from the cat’s meat
houses in the neighbourhood. With these slight digressions I shall
proceed to a description of the routine at the “House of Detention,” with
its rules and regulations and privileges, and the impressions they
conveyed to me; and I cannot do better than impress on the reader that
this book makes no pretensions to literary merit, but must be regarded
rather as a journal of facts, whose principle claim is based on their
having been written by a man who is probably as well known as any in
England. I ask no praise, I’m equally oblivious to abuse; criticism I’m
absolutely indifferent to, being convinced that either my notoriety, my
popularity, my identity, or unpopularity, will procure me readers far in
excess of any book of greater merit; and it is a consolation to feel that
my friends will be glad that I got through some months with a degree of
comfort never before paralleled, and my enemies (male and especially
female) will be chagrined at discovering that “Imprisonment with Hard
Labour” in my case meant kindness from first to last hardly credible,
absolutely devoid of any labour at all, and accompanied with luxuries as
regards eating and drinking that could not have been surpassed had I been
stopping at a first-class hotel and paying thirty shillings a day for
board and lodging. Many apparent contradictions may moreover suggest
themselves, but taken in the light of a diary, these contradictory views
must be regarded as reflecting circumstances as they appeared to me from
time to time under various phases. Suffice it to say that I have
carefully avoided exaggeration, that everything I narrate can be fully
substantiated, and may be unhesitatingly accepted as the experiences of a
man endowed with an average amount of brains, who kept his eyes wide
open, and who had opportunities given him that no man ever had before,
whether higher or lower in the social or criminal scale, of seeing a vast
amount of the “dark side of nature.” In my innocence I once fancied I
had seen a good deal, and knew a lot; but the following narrative will
prove that I was a very babe and suckling, before I became a “Government
ward.” Heaven forbid that anyone should purchase his experience at such
a price; nevertheless, on the principle that has guided me through life
of trying to see everything and do everything, I can only attempt to
justify my escapades by endorsing the theory (slightly altered) of the
immortal Voltaire, that a man who would go through what I have is “_un
fois un philosophe_, _mais deux fois un criminel déterminé_.”
CHAPTER III.
“SETTLING DOWN.”
FRESH arrivals appear to come to this awful place at every hour of the
day and night. The police courts belch forth their motley loads on an
average about twice a day, and when the Sessions are “on,” prisoners
arrive as late as nine and ten of a night, and the rumbling of “Black
Marias,” the shouting of warders, the turning of keys, the slamming of
doors, and a hundred other “regulations” that make night hideous, lead
one to imagine oneself in a third-class hostelry alongside a railway
station. The absence of clocks, too, that strike (for even they are on
the silent system), combined with the primitive hour of retiring to rest,
bewilders one in arriving at anything like an approximate idea of time
between the bell at night and the bell at 6 A.M. After my first
interview with Mr. Vaughan, and with the sound of his melodious voice
still ringing in my ears, I found myself about 6 P.M. alighting from the
police van inside a dismal courtyard. We had just passed through a
massive gate, and had been “backed” on to the entrance of a long and
uninviting-looking corridor, but beyond that I had not the faintest idea
of where I was; and if I had been told that the House of Detention was
situated in the centre aisle of the British Museum, I should not have
been in a position to dispute it. As we stepped out, carefully assisted
by an official actuated apparently rather by precaution than courtesy,
and carefully scanned and counted, I found myself with eight or nine
others standing in a row on a huge mat. There was an entire absence of
“dressing” in this ragged line, and thus destiny placed me between a
ragamuffin with a wooden leg and an urchin of about twelve. My bulk,
sandwiched between them, formed a charming picture, and filled up the
mat, if not the “background.” My friend, the police sergeant, with a
courtesy that officialism failed to rob him of, handed us over to the
“Detentionite” barbarian, who, first inspecting us, and then “righting”
us, went through the offensive and unnecessary formula of catechizing
us—such as “What is your name?” “Who ga”—I mean, “Your age,” &c., &c.
This to me was the first and greatest humiliation; the iron entered my
very soul, and I realized how awful it all was. Implacable enemies,
vindictive tradesmen, revengeful women, chuckle and shout; but time is
short, and seventeen days will find me in clover, surrounded by every
consideration that is possible, and as happy as circumstances will
permit. When we had all been counted and booked, we were escorted
downstairs and thrust into very small and separate cells. These cells
were literally not more than three feet square, and their only furniture
consisted of a block of stone intended for a seat. The turnkey, who
showed and carefully locked me in, explained that I should only be there
a few minutes, as we were merely awaiting the arrival of the chief
warder. After the lapse of a few minutes, we were taken one by one into
the office, where a further scrutiny “inside and out” took place. Here,
at a desk, sat a warder in front of a ledger; there was, moreover, a
weighing-machine and a couple of turnkeys. This constituted the entire
furniture! The chief warder, blazing in gold lace and pegtop trousers
that filled me with admiration at the time, now appeared, and having come
to the conclusion that I was not one of the “unwashed” division, kindly
exempted me from the usual bath, the preliminary and very necessary step
on these occasions. The chief warder was a very decent and unaffected
little man, and comparatively free from the penny-halfpenny bounce that
characterizes the chief warder species in general. I here underwent, for
the second time, the catechizing process, which being again carefully
booked, I was invited in the most dulcet tones to unrobe to the extent of
everything except my socks and trousers. With my thoughts wandering to
the weighing-machine, “how careful,” thought I, “they must be in
accurately weighing one;” and my conjecture was in a measure correct, but
my inexperience did not prepare me for the accompanying formula that took
place. As I divested myself one by one of my coat, hat, boots, vest,
shirt, &c., a pair of nimble hands ran over them with lightning rapidity,
which in their turn passed them on to another pair of equally nimble or
nimbler hands. In the twinkling of an eye, the contents of my pockets
were laid on the table—the modest quill toothpick was not even exempted;
fingers passed over every seam and lining of my clothes, and then the
same “delicate touch” was applied to my loins and ankles. I was then
requested to get on the machine, and the astounding fact recorded that a
mountain of humanity in his shirt and socks weighed 19 stone 13 lbs. I
have been particular in accurately relating this fact, for later on I
treat on the subject of obesity; and the remarks I there make, and the
hints I offer, based on very careful observation and experience, will, I
am confident, commend themselves to the corpulent, and, IF ACTED ON, will
prove very beneficial to those who really desire to reduce themselves.
Every article found on me—money, toothpicks, pocket-book, watch, studs,
sleeve-links, &c.—were then carefully booked and neatly tied up, and
having resumed my clothing, I proceeded upstairs to my future abode.
I cannot allow this opportunity to pass without noting the consideration
that prompted the warder to give me a couple of bone studs to replace my
own, without which I could not have kept my shirt closed. It was a
kindly act, and tends to show that, as a rule and with very few
exceptions, prison warders are a well-disposed race if properly treated,
and desirous of rendering any civility to men of my class. If a prisoner
is fool enough to stand on his dignity, he must not be surprised if his
conduct is resented. Another peculiarity I observed here for the first
time, but which I found to be the invariable rule at “Newgate” and
“Coldbath,” was, that on arrival one was always placed in a most
uncomfortable cell in the basement or even below, and gradually promoted
upwards. I can only suppose it was intended as a kind of purgatory, with
the idea of giving one a bird’s-eye view of what might be expected should
one’s behaviour make him ineligible for the greater luxuries associated
with “apartments on the drawing-room floor.”
Having dressed, I accompanied a turnkey through innumerable passages
abounding in steel gates, which snapped like rat traps as we passed
through, till we emerged into what appeared the main passage of the
prison. My conductor here handed me over to another warder with a “Here
you are; here’s another one;” and I again, and for the third time, had to
undergo the “abridged catechism.”
I found this warder a capital fellow. He tried to put matters as
cheerfully as he could; and when ushering me into my cell, and noting my
horror at its bleak appearance, said in a manner that was kindly meant,
“Oh! you’ll be all right when you’ve settled down a bit.”
“Settled down a bit!” As well ask the guinea-pig that is put into the
rattlesnake’s cage to settle down, as to expect a man suddenly deprived
of liberty to settle down in such a place. If I had not been of a very
sanguine disposition, and one that can nerve himself to submit to
anything, I should certainly have broken down, as I verily believe many
do. On the contrary, I began to examine the uncomfortable place, read
the notices for one’s guidance, and entered into a conversation with my
guide and gaoler. He began by telling me that if I wanted supper I must
order it sharp; and when I expressed a wish to have something, he kindly
promised to order in a chop and a pint of beer. The next thing that
attracted my attention was the hammock; and as my only experience of
these uncomfortable substitutes for French bedsteads was from a distant
view on a troopship, and as the idea of 20 stone suspended in mid air was
out of the question, and as the tesselated floor appeared excessively
hard, I determined not to risk a fall, for the fall of that house would
certainly have been great. I discovered, however, that routine and
prison discipline made it absolutely impossible for any exception to be
made unless specially granted, and as none but the highest official, such
as the Governor (or even the Home Secretary, as I presumed, or perhaps
the Queen), could sanction a change of such importance as substituting a
cot for a hammock, no time was to be lost in ferreting out some one of
sufficient authority to assume the responsibility. At length the doctor
was found, and after seeing me and hearing my weight, gave the necessary
order, subject to the Governor’s approval in the morning.
I have often wondered in how many quires of foolscap this humane act
involved the little man. I only hope he got no wigging from the Home
Office for this assumption of responsibility, for I found him most kind
and courteous, and in return I fear I worried him out of his life by
applications for sleeping draughts, which he invariably let me have
without a murmur. I took this opportunity also of getting his permission
to keep my gas burning all night, for I felt that sleep was out of the
question; and as I had asked for and been promised the special
_Standard_, which invariably contains some paragraphs of interest of a
world-renowned General’s, I began to hope that I might “settle down,” as
my friend the warder had suggested. But settling down in theory and
settling down in practice, especially in the “House of Detention,” are
two distinct things. The privilege of keeping my gas burning, too,
involved a most unpleasant consequence, diametrically opposed to
“settling down.” Anyone whose light is left burning is supposed to be
concocting some hideous treachery, and has to be “seen” every fifteen
minutes; and thus through this long dreary winter night and every
subsequent ten nights of my stay found me being taken stock of every
quarter of an hour. I must—without being aware of it—about this time
have commenced the “settling down” process, for I could actually bring
myself to uttering the feeblest jokes, such as “Ah! how are you, old
cockie? Just in time; another minute and I should have burrowed through
the ventilator.” These little sallies, I am bound to admit, did not
always meet with the reception their pungency merited. Occasionally they
extracted a grin or a chaffy reply; at others a grunt and a bang of the
trap-door. But I have again wandered from my first entrance into my
cell, and demonstrating (what I honestly pleaded) my utter amateurishness
in the writing of a book. I must only hope that the tale it unfolds will
make up for this defect. A rattle of a tin knife on a pewter vessel,
followed by the turning of the key, announced the arrival of my supper;
and, oh, shades of Romano, how “my heart beat for thee!”
CHAPTER IV.
“PRISON FARE.”
A GREASY cold chop, smelling as if it had been cooked in “Benzine
collas,” and with about as much warmth as would be imparted to it by a
flat iron, a slice of bread that had evidently been cut in the early part
of the day, with salt, mustard, a lump of cheese, and a potato piled up
beside it, and a pint of the flattest, blackest, nastiest ale in a yellow
jug without a spout, with my name pasted on it and the plate, constituted
my meal, and nothing but philosophy and a certain amount of hunger could
have induced me to attempt to tackle it. I did, however, and bolted the
food and gulped down the liquid, and continued the contemplation of my
cell. A few minutes later my warder again appeared with the “special”
and removed my “tray;” and the ringing of the most melancholy-toned bell
I had ever heard up to then warned me that bed-time had arrived, and I
proceeded to turn in for my first night under lock and key. Believe me,
reader, there is more in this than my words can convey. Writing as I now
am, in a comfortable bed at six in the morning (for my past experience
has instilled very early habits into me), with the window open, and the
sea within a few yards of me, surrounded by every luxury and comfort that
an affectionate mother can think of, and in a genial climate in the South
of France, I cannot even now look back without a shudder to that fearful
first night of less than a year ago; and the chop and the hammock, and
the key turning, and the “settling down” appear as vividly before me as
the most hideous nightmare of an hour’s previous occurrence.
At 6 A.M.—and in November this means in the pitch dark—a bell rings; not
a heavy tolling bell, but a shrill, sharp hand bell, wrung with all the
vigour that a prison warder can impart to it. He walks up and down the
long and dreary passages, the noise rising and falling as he approaches
and recedes. I sat up on my pallet of horsehair, and took it for granted
I had better get up. By the considerate thoughtfulness of our free and
enlightened Government every requisite for a (hurried) toilet is here
provided, obviating the very slightest necessity for ever leaving one’s
apartments. A tap and diminutive brass basin, a water-closet
(guaranteed, I should say, to produce typhoid in a marvellously short
space of time), a piece of yellow soap the size of a postage stamp, and a
towel of the solidity of the main sheet of an ironclad, and bearing
unmistakable “marks of the beasts” that had been my immediate
predecessors, were all at hand, leaving no excuse for the most whimsical
for abstaining from a thorough good (official) wash. I found, as my
experience increased, that the two things most neglected in Her Majesty’s
prisons are cleanliness and godliness. A terrible make-believe
distinguishes them both; but if you only burnish up the outside of the
cup and the platter, the inside may, figuratively speaking, be full of
dead men’s bones. I shall adduce very good reasons for these assertions
when time and my destiny have “settled me down” in Coldbath Fields.
After a delay of half-an-hour the counting process began, which consisted
of a whole cloud of turnkeys passing rapidly in front of the various cell
doors. A little further delay, and I was invited to “exercise.” I went
out once and only once, for as a philosopher one must pocket one’s
foolish likes and dislikes, and endeavour to see everything; but the
penance was so fearful that I had a word with the doctor, and obtained
exemption from that date. Conceive, then, a large and bleak courtyard,
flagged and partially gravelled, bounded on three sides by the prison
walls, and on the fourth by high railings and a still higher wall beyond
it; conceive, too, a couple of hundred of the scum of London, the halt
and the lame, the black chutnee seller and the mendicant newsvendor, with
here and there some unfortunate devil like myself in the garb of a
gentleman; add to this a warder standing on a pedestal at each corner,
and another roaming round in the centre, and then cap this awful picture
by watching this frowsy tag-rag mass walking round in a circle about a
yard apart, and you may possibly form some slight notion of my feelings.
When I got to the outer door that led into the yard, I hesitated for a
moment, and I told a warder that I really did not think I could face the
ordeal; but he advised me, in what was kindly meant, to have a try, and
that if I walked round no one would take a bit of notice of me. I found
this assurance was hardly strictly correct, for my huge size and evident
superiority (in clothes if not in morals) drew notice on me; and many a
scoundrel as he limped by asked me, in a gin-and-water voice, what I was
“in for,” and whether it was the “first” time. I, however, ignored their
delicate overtures towards sociability, and longed for daylight and its
accompanying breakfast. The hour’s exercise eventually passed by, and I
returned to my den, where shortly afterwards my breakfast appeared. This
came from the eating-house over the way, and a nastier, colder, or more
revolting conglomeration of roll sliced and buttered, a fried egg, and a
piece of bacon that must have spent the night in a rat-trap, and a pint
of chicory in a yellow jug, I never saw. I ventured to draw the warder’s
attention to the proximity that existed between these various delicacies,
but he explained that mine was only one of some seventy other breakfasts
of “privileged” prisoners, and that they had been in the passage for over
an hour. Assuming, therefore, that my _déjeûner_ had probably been
sandwiched between a burglar’s tripe and onions and some other brother
malefactor’s tea and shrimps, I held my breath and “laid on,” and was
surprised what a hole I had made in all the good things in an incredibly
short period. But time (especially in Houses of Detention) waits for no
man, and in a twinkling my breakfast things were removed, and a bell
summoned us to chapel. I now found myself in church, and after a ten
minutes’ farce, which embraced every modern religious improvement—such as
singing, a sermon, and a chaplain in a white surplice—we were again
escorted back, and awaited the visit of the Governor.
The chaplain at the “House of Detention” was, I should say, rather a good
sort; he and I had frequent conversations, and as he was the man who had
once put a spoke into Bignell’s “Argyll” wheel, and as I was the humble
instrument that had “smashed, defeated, and utterly pulverized” Barnabas
Amos and his night-house, a bond of mutual interest at once sprang up
between us as enemies of immorality in general, and Bignell and Amos in
particular. This reverend gentleman was, I should say, decidedly High
Church; he wore all day (and for aught I know all night) a black
skull-cap and gown, and possessing an enormous red beard, that came down
to his waist, he invariably inspired me with much the same amount and
sort of reverence that I entertain when contemplating stained-glass
likenesses of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. His manner at first was a
little pompous, especially when he was telling me of the sort of books he
would permit and not permit me to order in; he was, however, despite
these peculiarities, unmistakably a gentleman, both in manner and
appearance—two qualifications I subsequently discovered were sadly
deficient in more than one of his species. And now the door was opened
with a terrific bang, and I was told by a turnkey with bated breath and
evidently suffering from excessive mental excitement, that “the Governor”
was coming round, and before I had time to shake myself together, and
rise to receive him, the great man was in my cell. Captain — was the
beau ideal of a plunger, and had served many years in the K.D.G.’s. He
eventually exchanged from soldiering to “prisoning,” and had served his
time as “Deputy” of Exeter and Cold Bath Fields prisons. I was told at
this latter retreat that he was in those days excessively zealous in the
matter of dust, and that his great height enabled him to extract
infinitesimal atoms of this irrepressible commodity from shelves and
ventilators that men more of the “Zachæus” type would never have noticed.
Like most men, however, time had blunted his zeal for these trifles, and
when I saw him he had grown out of these absurdities of his novitiate,
and appeared as one who had an unpleasant duty to perform, and who was
anxious to do it as pleasantly as possible. He accosted me as one might
expect a gentleman would, and asked me if there was anything he could do
to ameliorate my condition? I mentioned certain things, and he at once
gave the necessary orders for my being permitted newspapers, pen, ink,
and paper, my gas at night, and exemption from chapel and exercise. All
this brought it to near twelve o’clock, when dinners commenced being
“served;” and without detailing all the horrors I ate, suffice it to say
that another plateful of offal, such as a hyæna would jib at, duly made
its appearance, and was as duly demolished, more or less. The first day
in this terrible place is perhaps more awful than any subsequent one;
for, irrespective of the novelty of the situation and not having “settled
down,” it must be taken into consideration that one has barely had time
to communicate with friends and solicitors, and thus the day passes
wearily away, affording ample time for reflection and the realisation of
the fact that one may be in the heart of London and yet as far away from
friends and relatives as if in the middle of the Desert of Sahara. The
above sketch will pretty accurately convey an idea of a day’s routine in
the House of Detention, excepting perhaps a visit from a friend daily, a
restriction that is as iniquitous as it is illogical, and which I trust
the authorities will consider worthy of alteration. Visits from
solicitors constitute another feature of this existence. Visits from
friends are made as uncomfortable as can well be conceived; the drop
window in the cell door, 12 inches by 8, and carefully covered with zinc
netting, is opened, and with the visitor on the one side in the cold and
dark passage, and the prisoner on the other in his cell, it is really
difficult to hear all that is said, for the echo and shouting that is
going on throughout requires a very practised ear to catch the muffled
sounds. If any reader has ever put his head into a sack (which I
haven’t) and tried to talk, or heard the ghost speak at a transpontine
theatre, some idea of the extraordinary hollow change in the voice may be
imagined. A more inconsiderate system could hardly be adopted, and
absolutely debars respectable persons from submitting to the ordeal
entailed by such visits. The visits of solicitors are, however, far
better managed, and permitted with a degree of comfort that quite
surprised me. A private room is placed at your disposal, where you can
say (and, as I found, do) pretty much what you please without let or
hindrance; and beyond having a badge temporarily placed on your arm to
indicate the number of your cell, and having the door carefully locked,
you might fancy yourself having a _tête-à-tête_ on a rainy day in the
second class refreshment-room of the Crystal Palace. Only two unusual
circumstances occurred to vary the monotony of my daily life; the one was
the being served with a writ by a foolish tailor in Pall Mall, or rather
his executors, for poor old Morris had long since paid the penalty of
affluence and good feeding. That any men of the world, such as I
supposed them to be, should have lent themselves to anything so childish
as to serve a man with a “writ” who was awaiting his trial on a charge
that might involve a seclusion “for years or may be for ever” passes my
comprehension. I often felt I owed an apology to the unhappy deputy of
these irrepressible snips, for he must have found it cold and very
miserable whilst awaiting my arrival in that cheerless corridor, and I
registered a vow, when the opportunity occurred, to express my regret for
the scant comfort and apparent want of courtesy he received at my hands;
but I was the victim of cruel circumstances over which I had no control.
Another event that intruded itself on the even tenor of my ways was a
letter from “Georgina”; and as the narration will involve a certain
essential digression to make matters clear, I must again ask the reader’s
indulgence.
CHAPTER V.
GEORGINA.
WHO has not heard of Georgina? Ask Gounod, ask Monsieur Riviere, ask Mr.
Vaughan, ask me, ask yourself, indulgent reader. I made this lady’s
acquaintance some five years ago, about eleven P.M., outside Covent
Garden Theatre, when she was apparently being supported by her seconds
and spongeholders, after her third or fourth round (I forget which) with
the “Leicester Square Pet” or the “Regent Street Chicken,” or both. I
was not an eye-witness of this revival of the good old days of the ring,
so my statement as to details must not be implicitly accepted. I,
however, made one of an excited and surging mob, and gleaned that the
cause was the fair Georgina, who had lately been “removed” from inside
the theatre. In a thoughtless moment, and with an eye to business, and
with the hope of turning an honest penny by taking this amiable creature
into the provinces (for I dabbled in things theatrical in those days) I
entered into conversation with one of her satellites, which ripened into
an intimacy of the most deplorable and expensive nature, and ended in the
climax that procured me a most abusive and threatening letter whilst in
the House of Detention, and subsequently a visit from her on my second
appearance at Bow-street, where she occupied a prominent position in the
front row. Immediately, then, after this lady’s notoriety connected with
the above _contretemps_, it struck me that she could not fail to “draw”
in the provinces, if not on her merits as a vocalist, at least on account
of her other amiable accomplishments. A series of visits to her
residence ended in my securing the professional services of this
inestimable treasure; and though the terms and conditions with which she
hampered her agreement to accompany me on a six weeks’ tour were
sufficient to have made a more experienced man hesitate, I at length
consented to all she proposed, and our agreement was virtually completed.
Georgina is, I should say, an implacable foe; she is also, I should
fancy, a good friend until a row—an inevitable consequence—takes place.
This latter characteristic showed itself on this occasion; she made it a
_sine quâ non_, and refused to budge an inch unless I agreed to permit
her to be accompanied by a huge French woman whom she called her
companion, and a sickly youth whom she designated her secretary. I was
not only to cart this worthy couple about first-class, but to pay for
their board and lodgings. As the French person was as voracious as a
cormorant, and as the secretary was apparently suffering from some
complaint that impelled him to eat inordinately three or four times a
day, and as provincial hotels are proverbially expensive when the
ordinary routine is in the least deviated from, and as nothing but the
best and most _récherché menu_ was considered good enough for this worthy
trio, my bill and my feelings after a three days’ experience may be
easier imagined than described; added to all this, Georgina’s delicate
health precluded her from abstaining from food for any length of time,
and thus when we journeyed from one town to another a hamper of prog had
to be invariably made up for sustaining nature in the transit. Good
heavens! such appetites would have eaten one out of house and home, even
if any profits had been made; but when the takings were absolutely “nil,”
and the working expenses about £100 a week, it will not surprise the
reader to learn that I lost £400 in less than a fortnight, and returned
to London a sadder and a wiser man. I cannot omit one absurd feature in
this “starring” tour which occurred in a town very far north, and which
happily brought my disastrous tour to an abrupt and unexpected
conclusion. The hour that the concert was to commence was eight; the
audience had been respectfully solicited to be in their places by that
hour—a request, I am bound to admit, the entire audience present
considerately complied with—everything, in short, was done by visiting,
puffing, advertising, and personally canvassing, that ingenuity and
activity on my part could suggest; and at a quarter before eight I
awaited behind the curtain (seeing, but unseen), with throbbing heart,
the arrival of the vast crowds that I confidently expected. The fair and
amiable one was seated on a fauteuil, radiant with smiles, and attired in
a matchless robe of white water silk and ruffles—a kind of mixture
between the “Marie Antoinette” and the “Gorgonzola” styles, or what the
cross would be, if such styles do or ever have existed—(should any lady
read this description she will, I trust, pardon any imperfections of
detail.)
The female cormorant was administering some light stimulant, for Georgina
is subject to fits of nervousness, incredible as this may appear. The
emaciated one was in front assisting in looking after the money-taker;
and I feel thankful to Providence on his account, if not on my own, that
this was far from an arduous task, for the poor fellow was evidently
delicate and physically incapable of lifting a heavy cash-box, and so,
with all my faults, blood-guiltiness cannot be laid to my charge. Time
meanwhile was rapidly passing, and a huge clock pointed to three minutes
to eight, then two minutes, then one, and then eight o’clock struck, and,
oh horror of horrors! the _sole_ occupant of the enormous building was
the critic of the local paper. Decency forbade our opening the concert
to this solitary unhappy man; it appeared to me to be cowardly to attack
him alone, and to pit him single-handed against the invincible Georgina,
who had demolished a conductor and his manager a week previously, and who
now showed symptoms of “annoyance” that nothing but my soothing powers
prevented bursting into a flame. My plan of action was immediately
taken; to hesitate a moment was to be lost. I at once sent for the
“secretary,” and first thought of telling him to make a short speech from
the stage to our solitary audience; but reflection decided me in
approaching him myself. I apologised for the unusual occurrence (it had
in reality happened wherever we had been, though not to the extent of
less than seven or eight); I offered to return him his money, for I was
well aware his was a complimentary ticket, and verily believe that the
united purses of the entire company could not have scraped together five
shillings. He muttered something I tried not to hear, and next day
repaid my intended courtesy by a flaming smashing article that would
effectually have ruined us had we moved elsewhere. But events were
occurring at the same time which put it out of my power to continue this
disastrous tour. About eleven o’clock the landlord of the hotel
presented himself at my room, said the lady and her friends had left, and
politely but firmly intimated that he could not permit me to remove my
luggage till a little bill of £8 was settled. The rest is soon told. I
hurried back to London, remitted the £8, and abandoned the tour. I had
not, however, heard the last of my musical _bête noire_; she and the
“secretary” both dunned me for their railway fares, which I of course
ignored, and I heard no more of her till she dug me out at the House of
Detention, when she threatened me with legal proceedings for detaining,
as she alleged, her photographs—the real fact being that, after our last
stampede, her photographs that were displayed were seized by some
indignant creditor in expectation of a ransom. For my part I hope I have
really heard the last of this irrepressible creature.
CHAPTER VI.
BOW STREET.
AN eventful day was now approaching, and on the morrow I was to appear at
Bow Street for the first time after my formal remand of the previous
Friday. I felt an instinctive conviction that my appearance (even though
it had not appeared up to that time in the newspapers) would be generally
known, and draw together a crowd actuated by motives either of like,
dislike, or curiosity; nor was I wrong in my surmise. An official at the
police court informed me that numbers of inquiries had been made as to
the time of my probable appearance; and as the appointed hour drew near
fresh arrivals and those that had been waiting since 10 A.M. combined in
making up a crowd that literally crammed the court. It was, I admit, a
very trying ordeal, for I had been pretty accurately informed what
persons were in the court and waiting to see the “fun.” I did, however,
the best (though, I fear, a very foolish) thing under the circumstances,
and primed myself with liquor, which certain friends, by dint of great
ingenuity, managed to convey to me, for the gaoler, though a most civil
and obliging man, was a terrible disciplinarian, and one that was not to
be “squared.” Had I not taken these repeated nips—and I’m afraid to say
how much I imbibed—I firmly believe I could never have gone through the
examination with the _sang froid_ I displayed.
About 12 o’clock a hurrying of feet approaching my cell announced to me
that my turn was come; and after a momentary pause in the passage I found
myself escorted by a constable and in the dock. I can never forget that
terrible moment. In front, on each side, and behind me was a dense
throng, representing every class of persons I had ever had dealings with.
One expected a certain amount of hostility from the side of the
prosecution, but the array of faces I then saw opened up in me a new
train of thoughts. Here was a room thronged with people I had befriended
and people I had never injured; men I had stood dinners to when their
funds were lower than mine; lodging-house keepers that had fleeced me,
and waiters I had tipped beyond their deserts; nameless attorneys from
the slums of the City, courting daylight and publicity in the hopeless
endeavour to get their names into print by the gratuitous offer of their
valuable but hitherto unappreciated services—all craning their necks to
stare at and exult over a poor devil, who, whatever his faults, was now
at a disadvantage. It was the old adage of “hitting a man when he is
down;” and I’m thankful for the experience that has enabled me to form a
just estimate of the worthlessness of such professions of friendship. On
the other hand, I heard of many persons—to their honour, be it said—who
abstained from being present through feelings of generous consideration.
My _quasi_-friend Georgina occupied a conspicuous place in the front row.
I verily believe she never took her eyes off me, but her offensive stare
had no charm for me; I had more serious matters to occupy my mind. A
mountain of flesh that I was once on terms of intimacy with was also
present, panting with excitement, but, like the Levite of old, “he passed
over on the other side.” I will not weary the reader with details that
repeat themselves almost daily in the police reports; suffice it to say
that I was again remanded for another week, and then formally committed
for trial at the next sessions of the Central Criminal Court.
On my two previous remands to the House of Detention I had always managed
to remain at Bow Street till the 5 o’clock van took its load of victims.
It was, at all events, a change, and infinitely more agreeable than the
depressing atmosphere of Clerkenwell. On the day, however, of my
committal to Newgate I was informed that I could not, as before, wait
till 5 P.M., but must be ready to start at 2. The rope was clearly
getting “tauter”; discipline was gradually assuming its sway, the circles
around me smaller and smaller. The other occupants of the “Black Maria”
were, like myself, all committed for trial; and as we drove along I was
much surprised at the marvellous knowledge they appeared to have gained
of me and my affairs. I was, as before, standing in the passage and not
in a compartment, and consequently could hear all that passed between the
various passengers. My case was the sole subject of conversation;
occasionally I was the object of a little mirthful sally. Thus, a man
who had been sentenced to three months’ imprisonment in default of paying
a fine, said, “Ah, Capting, you might give us two of them quids to pay my
fine”—referring to some money that had been alluded to in the court as
having been in my possession at the time of my arrest. Another hinted
that I “Best take a good look at the streets, ’cos all wud be changed
like afore I cum out agin.” Another assured me that the warm baths in
Newgate “wus fine but ’ot.” A lady, too, graced our party; she was
tawdry, I admit, and lived in the Dials. Her misfortune was that she had
mistaken someone’s purse for her own. She was howling over her ill-luck
for the first part of the journey, but before we arrived at our
destination had quite recovered her usual spirits. She told me she was
an actress—an assertion I am not in a position to dispute, though I found
her conversation quite as intellectual as that of the usual ballet-girl
class; and as she was the last “lady” I was likely to see or hear for
some time, I paid great respect to her conversation. All these
familiarities were terribly grating to me; they were more difficult to
bear than any of my previous humiliations. They were, as it were, the
first instalments of being addressed as an equal by inferiors who had
hitherto recognised me as a superior; and as we drove along, past objects
as familiar to me as my own face, I felt the lump rising in my throat,
and I dread to think what weakness I might have been guilty of had not a
sharp turn brought us in front of Newgate, and the opening of a huge gate
on its creaking hinges recalled me to a sense of my unenviable position.
The van, having crossed the courtyard, was backed against the door, where
a string of warders formally received us; and after again submitting to
the painful ordeal of being catechized, I found myself traversing a
dismal and nearly dark corridor; and then the hideous conviction forced
itself on me for the first time that I was actually a prisoner and
securely lodged in Newgate.
CHAPTER VII.
NEWGATE.
SO much has been written about this national Bastille, and so many have
gone over the building, that one feels as if writing about “a tale that
is told.” Nevertheless, I trust my narrative may describe things never
before alluded to, and be found to contain matters of interest that came
under my personal observation. The first thing at Newgate that a fresh
arrival has to submit to is the indispensable bath, accompanied by a very
minute and simultaneous search. I was at once ushered downstairs and
into a very roomy and luxurious bath room, quite as good as any supplied
for eighteenpence at West End establishments, and being invited to
undress and get into the bath, had the gratification of observing my
clothes undergo, one by one, a very thorough overhauling. Each item was
severally manipulated, and I am convinced not a pin could have escaped
detection. Meanwhile I was splashing and thoroughly enjoying myself,
much as one has seen a duck that has been cooped up for a week when
suddenly turned into a pond. I had not had such a revel for ten days,
and in the ecstasy of the moment I felt as if it was almost worth the
journey to Newgate for such a luxury. This periodical bath is one of the
greatest “inflictions” the average prisoner has to submit to, and
numerous instances came under my observation at a later period, of
ingenuity displayed by frowzy malefactors to evade this regulation.
Twenty minutes found me again “clothed and in my right mind,” and I was
ushered into a cell on the same subterraneous floor. This cell was
certainly the most empty I had ever seen; its entire furniture literally
consisted of a camp stool and a thermometer, and this latter instrument
caused me considerable annoyance, for I am not exaggerating when I assert
that an absurd make-believe display of anxiety for one’s welfare involved
a visit and calculation of the temperature every half-hour through the
night. I utterly failed to fathom this custom, the more so as the
turnkey who made the calculation probably understood as much about it as
he did of astronomy, and can only attribute it to the inherent politeness
developed in the officials who periodically have lodgers whom they begin
by feeding up, and eventually end by launching into eternity with a hand
shake, if we are to believe the papers. This idea is not my own, but was
suggested to me by a terrible scamp and fellow lodger whom I shall
presently introduce to the reader. An absurd habit that prevailed at
Newgate, and which contrasted strangely with the other customs, was that
of the chief warder as he finally counted us at night. This official,
having glared at you with an expression such as the rattlesnake may be
presumed to give the guinea-pig just before dinner, invariably said “Good
night!” I was so struck by this unique and time-honoured custom that I
asked my friend and valet—for he cleaned out my cell and did other jobs
for me—Mr. Mike Rose what it meant. “Well,” he said, “they gets into a
sort of perlite way like, ’cos whenever a cove swings they nigh allus
shakes hands with ’im, and maybe this is ’ow they gits perlite like.”
There was something so original in this logic that I could not but be
impressed by it, and though I failed to discover the connection between
the two circumstances, still I had realized that Mr. Mike Rose was a bit
of a character and worth cultivation. Very shortly after my
incarceration in the thermometer-furnished cell I was visited by the
surgeon, and having obtained his permission to have a bed instead of a
hammock, a wooden tressel was brought in with sheets, bolster, and
blankets. I at once proceeded to make my couch, deeming bed the best
place on such a cold and cheerless afternoon; and 6 o’clock P.M. found me
in bed, vainly endeavouring to get warm, with my eye fixed on the
thermometer, and muffled up to the chin with sheets and blankets, all of
which were stamped in letters three inches long with the ominous words
“NEWGATE PRISON.” I really believed that my first night’s experience at
the “House of Detention” was sufficiently awful, but it was nothing to my
sensations here. The associations of the place, the idea that many a
murderer had probably occupied this very cell, and possibly slept in
these identical bed-coverings, all forced themselves upon me. The bells
of the numerous churches which abound round Newgate also seemed desirous
of adding to one’s misery by joyful peals; they were practising their
weekly bell-ringing, and one chime was repeating over and over again—in
mockery of me, as it were—Haydn’s “Hymn of the Creation,” and “The
Heavens are telling” kept floating into my ears through granite walls and
iron bars; and though I tried very hard to stifle sound by burying myself
under the “broad-arrowed” bed-clothing, all my efforts were futile, till
sleep, kind sleep, took pity on me, and I wandered in my dreams far away
from my dreadful abode, only to be recalled to the hideous reality by the
mournful prison bell, and—
“Sorrow returned with the light of the morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.”
The daily routine is somewhat different to that of the “House of
Detention.” One official only counts the prisoners of a morning, and
asks you at the time if you wish to see the doctor during the day. I was
once tempted to express this wish with a view of procuring a sleeping
draught. He questioned me as to my symptoms in an apparently interested
manner, and eventually ordered me a dose of “No. 2.” No. 2, I may here
state, is a ready-made article, and is baled out of a huge jar into a
dirty tin cup. I took my dose, and, without further detailing the
result, am extremely grateful I had not been prescribed No. 1. If I had,
it is very doubtful whether this narrative would ever have been written.
The first day is occupied with details to which considerable importance
appear to be attached—namely, your description—every particular of which
is carefully booked by the head of each department, and a more senseless,
harassing ordeal can hardly be conceived. Surely one inspection and
general description (this was my third within ten days) ought to suffice,
and might without much trouble be forwarded from one prison to another.
It is idle to deny that half the questions put to you are absolutely
unnecessary, and the conviction is forced on you that you are being
pumped from sheer curiosity. Thus the Chaplain, in the blandest manner,
only to be acquired by constant attendance on murderers previous to
execution, asked me questions that appeared most impertinent—as to where
I lived, and if I had any relatives, and where they lived. I at once
told him I considered all this quite unnecessary, and declined to
enlighten him. Immediately after breakfast on the first morning the
prisoners are taken in packs of about twenty before the Governor. This
man is what is known in the army as a “Ranker”—that is, one who by merit
has raised himself from the rank and file to his present position—and had
apparently brought with him many of those habits which, however
commendable in a turnkey, are beneath the dignity of a Governor and lower
the position he ought to occupy. Acting on the habits associated with
his youth, this Governor commenced a minute examination of one’s
physiognomy. Seizing you by the nose or ear (I forget which), and
scowling hard, he began, “Eyes grey, complexion fresh, mole on neck,
&c.;” and having further personally superintended your being measured and
weighed, you were filtered through, as it were, into the presence of the
Chaplain, who tried to pump you as before described, and who, in his
turn, passed you on to the doctor, who appeared to have a kind of roving
commission to endeavour to extract any crumbs of information omitted by
his two _confrères_.
[Picture: A Cheerful Group]
The whole style and system at Newgate was excessively low. I was
moreover very much struck by the resemblance that appeared to exist
between the officials from the highest to the lowest. Every one had the
same unpleasant expression that suggested the idea that they lived in
gloomy streets, where the drainage was bad. I attribute this in a
measure to a commendable desire on the part of the subordinates to
imitate their chief, who had not a pleasant expression, and shows how
necessary it is that Government should select a gentleman by birth and
manners—irrespective of every other recommendation—for a position of such
delicacy as that of a prison Governor. The next ordeal one had to submit
to was “Chapel,” and, barring the novelty of the scene, I can hardly
conceive a more absurd farce. The pumping Chaplain was here
metamorphosed into the surpliced cleric, and it is difficult to decide in
which character he was most objectionable. In justice I must commend him
for the brevity of his remarks, for from find to finish—from “When the
wicked man” to the end of the sermon—was all compressed into fifteen
minutes, and away we again trudged, like Alice in Wonderland, in search
of further novelty. The Chapel of Newgate is a very awful place;
anything more calculated to banish reverential feeling and inspire horror
can hardly be conceived. On each side is a huge cage, different from
anything I had ever seen, except, perhaps, the elephant house at the
Zoological. In these, prisoners convicted and prisoners awaiting trial
are severally placed, thus effectually dividing the Scotland Yard sheep
from the Scotland Yard goats. Above, protected by small red curtains,
were diminutive balconies, capable of holding three persons at most;
these were for the accommodation of murderers, from whence they receive
the consolations of religion (official) whilst awaiting strangulation.
The vibration of a curtain led me to the conclusion that one of these
mortuaries was daily occupied, a suspicion that was confirmed by events
which I subsequently heard and saw. I discovered, indeed, that a
gentleman who had cut the throats of half his family, and who eventually
benefited by the religious consolation of the Chaplain and the delicate
attentions of Mr. Marwood, was a fellow-lodger at the same time as
myself. I saw the poor wretch every day passing and repassing, and later
on “assisted” at certain preliminaries in his honour. I moreover had a
bird’s-eye view of his last appearance in public, facts that I shall duly
narrate hereafter.
“Exercise” was an indispensable feature of life in Newgate, and nothing,
I believe, could have exempted one from this ordeal. It answered,
indeed, more purposes than one. Health was doubtless essential;
identification, however, was considerably more important. Three times a
week, and before starting on our circus-like walk, all the prisoners
awaiting trial, amounting to over two hundred, were ranged shoulder to
shoulder round the walls, a preliminary that at first puzzled me
considerably. I was not, however, left long in ignorance.
[Picture: “Should old acquaintance be forgot.”]
A little way off, and apparently approaching, I heard the measured tramp
of an advancing crowd, and suddenly there appeared a long string of men
in single file; these were the detectives, some seventy or eighty in
number, bent on a mission of recognition. Slowly they passed before us,
each one staring and occasionally stopping and addressing a prisoner, or
whispering to one of their companions. These preliminary enquiries often
led to minuter inspections; and if they expressed the wish, a prisoner
was afterwards honoured by a private view, and carefully compared with
photographs and police descriptions. This, no doubt, is a very essential
proceeding, and many a man “wanted” for an undiscovered crime in another
part of the kingdom, and committed months or years previously, is
recognized by this salutary custom. As may be supposed, this inspection
had absolutely no personal interest to me. Still the ordeal, degrading
in the extreme, never failed to inspire me with horror; and I dreaded the
mornings when the “detecs,” as they were lovingly termed, made their
appearance. There was something so weird and uncanny in the whole
thing—the distant tramp, the solemn march past, the offensive leer, the
familiar stare, all combined to make a horrible impression. A more
repulsive body of men than these “detecs” can hardly be conceived, got up
as they were in every kind of costume—men in pot hats and slap-bang
coats, others in shabby-genteel frock coats and tall hats; some in
fustians and others in waterproofs and leggings, but all with the same
unmistakable expression. I hope the authorities are not under the
impression that these individuals are unknown to the law-breaking
community, for no greater fallacy can possibly exist. I never missed an
opportunity hereafter of asking habitual criminals this question, and am
satisfied that their appearances, their beats, and their daily routine
are known to every habitual criminal in London. I’ll prove this
hereafter. Meanwhile, one has only to look about in the streets, and he
cannot fail to observe a civilian frequently talking to a policeman.
This man is not asking his way, but is in nineteen cases out of twenty a
“recogniser”; nor can it be wondered at if their foolish actions and
evident unwillingness to conceal their vocation makes them as
distinguishable as they are. I will confidently assert that every
pickpocket and every “unfortunate” knows each and every one of these
detectives; and as they invariably frequent the same beat, and pursue the
same tactics at the same time every day, it can hardly be wondered at. I
know—and it will hardly be asserted that I could know it except by having
heard it from others—that a detective is “due” daily at King’s Cross
Metropolitan Station about two P.M., and remains about an hour, and that
on race-days he is there before the return from the meeting. If this is
true—as I believe it to be—it is natural to suppose that other facts are
equally well known. I could adduce a hundred instances of this sort, for
I made burglars my particular study, and will disclose hereafter my ideas
of the many fallacies that at present exist on this subject, and the
causes that lead to burglaries, and how they are easiest avoided. I
never lost the opportunity of questioning a burglar or a pickpocket, and
during the next few months I saw some very fair specimens of these
respective species. My remarks must not be taken as referring to the
higher Scotland-yard detectives, than whom no cleverer body exists, but
to these trumpery plainclothes men, or “recognisers,” that may be seen at
every corner, and who, I verily believe, do more to impede than further
justice.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE SCAFFOLD.
IN the corner of the yard where I daily exercised stood an unpretending
looking shed, with slate roof and large folding doors, and resembling a
coach-house more than anything I can compare it to. This building always
puzzled me, and I enquired of my friend and fellow-lodger, Mr. Mike Rose,
what it was. I then discovered it was the scaffold, that grim limb of
the law on which so many wretches have periodically suffered within three
weeks of their sentence at the Old Bailey Sessions, or, as they are
familiarly known, “The C. C. C.” I was most anxious to have a minute
examination of this masterpiece of Marwood’s, for it is admitted that
that eminent manipulator of the carotid artery has brought his genius to
bear on the grim subject with such success that drop, knot, and platform
have all arrived at the highest possible degree of perfection. It was
the custom to utilise the services of certain prisoners every day in
general cleaning and helping about the prison, and as I was convinced
that “the scaffold” would, like every other prison institution, require a
periodical clean up, I suggested to my turnkey that if the chance
occurred he should select me to assist in this cheerful and instructive
duty. He laughed at the idea of _my_ doing such work, and added that
they only selected men whose antecedents had habituated them to scrubbing
and cleaning; but I explained to him that if Mike and I were selected,
that Mike would do all the washing, and that I would exercise a sort of
moral effect and general supervision that could not possibly make the
slightest difference to him, and was based on an agreement between Mike
and myself, whereby for a consideration of bread and butter, and my
leavings generally, he was to clean out my cell daily and make himself
useful to me, and on my behalf. This warder was a very good sort—indeed,
about the only one that had not that offensive “bad drainage” expression
I had noticed in the others. So he promised compliance, and one day
after dinner I found myself in company with Mike, crossing the yard—I
with a duster and he with a mop and pail _en route_ to the scaffold.
There is something horrible in this idea, and many readers will probably
consider my act and desire to participate in such a task as in the worst
possible taste, but I felt I should _never_ have such a chance again, and
being, moreover, a philosopher, and actuated, even at that early stage,
with a determination of some day writing my experiences, I lost no
opportunity from the first day of my incarceration to the last to see
_everything_ by hook or by crook. I can fairly say I attained my object,
and saw _more_ than any other man has ever done before, and that too
under such favourable circumstances as something more than chance enabled
me to. It may not here be out of place to say that I have read every
book, sensational or realistic, that purports to describe prison life,
and have invariably come to the conclusion that the writers never really
wrote from personal observation, or, if they did, had failed signally in
giving a correct description of what actually exists. Many were
well-written books, but they were NOT prison life. This narrative (to
use an advertising phrase) supplies a want long felt, and if it abounds
with faults of composition—as I readily confess it does—it compensates in
a measure for its shortcomings by the accuracy of its details. It is
written in a vein, moreover, more likely—as I hope—to meet public
approval than that snivelling, sanctimonious style adopted by its
predecessors, and which, even if sincere, would nevertheless be palling,
but where indulged in by some scheming, anonymous, rascally jail-bird, is
as impertinent as it is nauseous. I have no faith in converted burglars.
The entire scaffold is a most unpretending construction, and situated in
any other yard but Old Bailey might pass observation as a highly-polished
and tidy out-house. The floor is level with the outer yard, so that the
chief actor is spared the painful necessity of trying to ascend a flight
of steps with quaking knees and an air of assumed levity. A few steps,
quite unobservable whilst standing on the “drop,” lead down from the back
of the flooring into a bricked pit below, and a long bolt, worked by a
wheel, enables this apparently solid flooring to split from the centre
and to launch the victim in mid-air into the centre of this truly
“bottomless pit.” I minutely examined all this, and (as its thorough
dusting necessitated) rubbed and burnished every portion I could think
of. My _confrère_, meanwhile, was on his hands and knees, scrubbing away
like grim death, and preparing the floor for the ceremony that was to
take place a few days hence. Mike all this time was giving me the
benefit of his vast experience; and as he appeared to hear everything
that was going on, he led me to understand that eight A.M. on Monday next
would witness one of those dreadful private executions that periodically
take place, witnessed by none but prison officials, and associated, I
verily believe, in many instances by circumstances of brutality that
would not admit of publicity. He added that we might by luck get a view
of the procession, or at least hear a little, for, as he considerately
pointed out, our cells actually overlooked the yard. I was most anxious
to hear how we might attain to this unusual excitement, and listened
attentively whilst Mike enlightened me in something of the following
style:—“Yer see, they’ll begin to fake the cove about eight—ah, afore
that, and none of us, see, will be allowed out that morning, you bet; so
if we can get a bit of glass out of the windey—see—and plug it round wi’
bread, why none on ’em wud be none the wiser, and we might see a rare
lot; never you mind, leave it to me, and to-morrow when I cleans your
cell, I’ll fix it for yer.” This was indeed something to look forward
to, and next morning when Mike appeared he led me to understand, by the
most hideous grimaces, that he had succeeded on his own window, and
prepared to do the same by mine; so leaving him to himself, I withdrew
into another cell, for it is a peculiarity of prison system that if two
men are together, or even near one another, they are invariably watched,
but if alone they are comparatively unobserved, and free to prosecute any
undertaking without the least risk of detection. Mike’s gestures,
accompanied by a rolling of his eyes in the direction of the window,
convinced me on my return that he had succeeded in his undertaking, and
having the highest opinion of his constructive and destructive
capabilities, I determined not to approach the window nor to test his
work till the supreme moment arrived. Mike was one of those individuals
who undergo imprisonment as a matter of course, and with considerably
greater advantage than most men. I do not here include myself, for mine
was an exceptional case; he had benefited by the experience of years, and
though only a young man, appeared to be intimate with every prison in the
kingdom; he was, moreover, a most willing and respectful man and a
capital worker, and, as such, a favourite with the warders, who knew they
could always depend on a job being well done by him; he was,
consequently, all day employed on odd jobs, which carried with them
privileges that enabled him to roam about and give the uninitiated—such
as myself—the benefit of his profound and varied experience. Mike, I
fear, was a terrible ruffian; he was now awaiting his trial for burglary
and personal violence, and though he assured me it was a mere nothing,
and a grossly exaggerated and trumped-up charge, I gleaned from the facts
that came out at his trial that he had rifled the contents of a small
shop in the City Road, and that when the old woman who lived on the
premises had ventured to remonstrate, that Mike had marked his sense of
such an unjustifiable proceeding by half throttling her, and eventually
making away “for a little season.” He assured me, however, it was
“nothing,” adding, however, that as it was his fourth conviction, he
quite expected penal servitude. He informed me also that he had written
an elaborate defence, which he proposed reading to the judge and jury.
This defence he insisted on showing me, and I am bound to say that a more
damning document, or one more capable of hanging a man, I never saw; but
luck and circumstances happily (for him) prevented him carrying out his
intention of reading it, and Mike by the omission got off with two years’
hard labour. Mr. Rose, who was about four-feet-four in his stockings,
communicated to me, amongst other interesting facts, that he was a
volunteer, and I could not help realising on various occasions after he
had been performing violent exercise in my cell, that there was some
truth in the adage that “a Rose by any name would smell as sweet.” Mike,
in short, was a character, and whether in chapel, where he apparently led
the choir and knew every response by heart, or in the prison, where he
appeared _au courant_ with everything and everybody, I found him a most
useful neighbour, invariably obliging and respectful, and willing to turn
his hand to anything.
CHAPTER IX.
A PRIVATE EXECUTION.
THE eventful day at length dawned when the scaffold was to be brought
into requisition. “The condemned sermon” of the day before, to say
nothing of the evident bustle that was going on, had sufficiently
prepared our minds for what was about to happen; and the getting our
breakfasts half an hour earlier, and the omission of the usual passage
cleaning, all clearly pointed to some unusual occurrence. My friend the
warder, too, kept me thoroughly _au courant_ with what was passing, and
when giving me my breakfast added, “Well, I sha’n’t be back just yet, as
I’ve got to assist at a little business down below that will take about
an hour.” After, therefore, he had left me, I mounted my stool, and
having contemplated Mike’s handiwork with considerable satisfaction,
removed the pane of glass and awaited the procession with very much the
same sensation that I have looked out for the passing of the Lord Mayor’s
Show or Mr. Hengler’s circus. The view I anticipated can hardly be said
to have been obtained under the most favourable circumstances. Perched
on a stool, and liable, if detected, of getting into a very serious
scrape, was in itself sufficient to infuse a certain amount of alloy into
the transaction; but when to all this must be added my own feelings—that
here was I, ONE prisoner actually confined within the same walls, and
watching the execution of ANOTHER prisoner—it will readily be conceived
that a piquancy was introduced into the proceeding such as seldom or ever
has fallen to the lot of an individual in my position. I could not have
had long to wait, though the discomfort of my position and the anxiety
attending it made it appear a matter of hours; and no twenty stone of
humanity ever suffered more torture than I did whilst with craned neck
and squinting through a crevice I awaited the advent of this hideous
procession. The dismal toll of St. Sepulchre’s bell and the distant
tramp of advancing footsteps, however, announced that the “time had
come.” I could distinctly hear the “Ordinary” repeating in very ordinary
tones portions of the Burial Service as the weird procession passed below
me; a dense fog made it very indistinct, but there it was almost beneath
me—the warders first, then the Governor, and then the condemned man
trussed like a turkey, supported by Marwood, and immediately preceded by
the chaplain. I could have dropped a biscuit amongst the party, so near
were they, as they passed through a wicket and were lost to sight. A
solemn silence now ensued, followed after a few moments that appeared
like hours by a terrible thud; and I pictured to myself the lately
scrubbed floor giving way, and my fellow-prisoner suspended mid-air in
that dark and bottomless pit. The closing of the outer shed doors
recalled me to my senses, and the approaching sound of footsteps, as the
“small and early party” dispersed, some to breakfast and some to the
morning paper, but all to reassemble an hour hence for the inquest, the
quicklime, the thrusting into a hole, and the general obliteration of the
morning’s work, suggested to me the advisability of at once restoring my
apartment to its normal condition. So with one piece of bread jammed
into the window, and another jammed into my mouth, I resumed my breakfast
as if perfectly oblivious of the terrible drama that had just taken
place. A few hours later we were exercising in the identical yard, and
the modest coach-house with its closed doors looked as disused as the
portals of a swimming-bath on Christmas Day.
The scene just enacted and the _débris_ of my breakfast forcibly recalled
to my mind an execution I witnessed many years ago from, as I believe,
the identical eating-house that had just supplied me with my breakfast.
It was in ’65, as near as I can recollect, that myself and three or four
others engaged a room on the first floor with two windows to witness the
execution of Müller for the murder of Mr. Briggs. A public hanging has
been so often and so graphically described that I hesitate to attempt to
add anything that is not already known. On the night before (Sunday) we
agreed to rendezvous at 10 o’clock at the Raleigh Club. It was raining
in torrents, and it was a question in our minds whether or no we should
brave the elements; but an empty four-wheeler standing outside settled
the point, and we proceeded on our ghastly journey. As it turned out,
the deluge was all in our favour, for had it been fine we should never
have got near the place, and would assuredly have shared the fate of a
cab-load of young Guardsmen who had preceded us about an hour, and who
unluckily arrived between the showers and never got beyond Newgate Lane;
at this point they were politely but firmly invited to descend, stripped
to their shirts, and then asked where the cabman should drive them to.
We, however, were more fortunate. In a sheet of water that even the
stoutest burglar found to be irresistible, we alighted in a comparatively
deserted street in front of our unpretending coffee-house; and a few
minutes found us in a cosy room with a blazing fire, and a servant who
had preceded us laying out the contents of a hamper of prog. The scene
on the night previous to a public execution afforded a study of the dark
side of nature, not to be obtained under any other conditions. The
lowest scum of London appeared to be here collected in dense masses,
which, as the hour of execution approached, amounted, according to the
_Times_, to at least 100,000 people. The front of Newgate was strongly
barricaded, huge barriers of stout beams traversing the street in all
directions; they were intended as a precaution against the pressure of
the crowd; they, however, answered another purpose, not wholly
anticipated by the authorities. As the crowd increased, so wholesale
highway robberies were of momentary occurrence; and victims in the hands
of some two or three desperate ruffians were as far from help as though
divided by a continent from the battalions of police that surrounded the
scaffold.
The scene that met our view as we pulled up the windows and looked out on
the black night and its still blacker accompanyists baffles description.
A surging mass, with here and there a flickering torch, rolled and roared
before us; above this weird scene arose the voices of men and women
shouting, singing, blaspheming; and as night advanced, and the liquor
gained firmer mastery, it seemed as if hell had delivered up its victims.
To approach the window was a matter of danger; volleys of mud immediately
saluted us, accompanied by more blasphemy and shouts of defiance. It was
difficult to believe we were in the centre of a civilised capital that
vaunted its religion and yet meted out justice in such a form.
The first step towards the morning’s work was the appearance of workmen
about 4 A.M.; this was immediately followed by a rumbling sound, and we
realized that the scaffold was being dragged round. A grim, square,
box-like apparatus was now indistinctly visible, as it was slowly backed
against the “debtors’ door.” Lights now flickered about the scaffold; it
was the workmen fixing the crossbeams and uprights. Every stroke of the
hammer must have vibrated through the condemned cells, and warned the
wakeful occupant that his time was nearly come. These cells are situated
at the corner nearest Holborn, and passed by thousands daily who little
know how much misery that bleak white wall divides them from. Gradually
as day dawned the scene became more animated, and battalions of police
marched down and surrounded the scaffold. Meanwhile a little
unpretending door was gently opened; this is the “debtors’ door,” and
leads direct through the kitchen on to the scaffold. The kitchen on
these occasions is turned into a temporary mausoleum, and draped with
tawdry black hangings, which conceal the pots and pans, and produce an
effect supposed to be more in keeping with the solemn occasion. From our
standpoint everything was visible inside the kitchen and on the scaffold;
to the surging mass in the streets below this bird’s-eye view was,
however, denied. Presently an old and decrepit man made his appearance,
and cautiously “tested” the drop; but a foolish impulse of curiosity led
him to peep over the drapery, and a yell of execration saluted him. This
was Calcraft, the hangman, hoary-headed and tottering and utterly past
his work.
The tolling of St. Sepulchre’s about 7.30 A.M. announced the approach of
the hour of execution; meanwhile a steady rain was falling, which,
however, in no way decreased the ever-increasing crowd. As far as the
eye could reach was a sea of human faces. Roofs, windows, church rails,
and empty vans—all were pressed into the service, and tightly packed with
human beings eager to catch a glimpse of a fellow-creature on the last
stage of life’s journey. The rain by this time had made the drop
slippery, and necessitated precautions on behalf of the living if not on
those appointed to die; so sand was thrown over a portion (not of the
drop—that would have been superfluous), but on the side, the only portion
that was not to give way. It was suggestive of the pitfalls used for
trapping wild beasts—a few twigs and a handful of earth, and below a
gaping chasm. Here, however, all was reversed; there was no need to
deceive the chief actor by resorting to such a subterfuge: he was to
expiate his crime with all the publicity a humane government could
devise. The sand was for the benefit of the “ordinary,” the minister of
religion, who was to offer dying consolation at 8 and breakfast at 9 A.M.
The procession now appeared, winding its way through the kitchen, and in
the centre of the group walked Müller, a sickly, delicate-looking lad,
securely pinioned and literally as white as marble. As he reached the
platform, he looked up, and placed himself immediately under the hanging
chain. At the end of this chain was a hook, which was eventually
attached to the hemp round the poor wretch’s neck. The concluding
ceremonies did not take long, considering how feeble the aged hangman
was. A white cap was first placed over his face, then his ankles were
strapped together, and finally the fatal noose was put round his neck,
the end of which was then attached to the hook. I fancy I can see
Calcraft now, laying the “slack” of the rope that was to give the fall
lightly on the doomed man’s shoulder, so as to preclude the possibility
of a hitch, and then stepping on tiptoe down the steps and disappearing
below. The silence now was truly awful. I felt my heart in my mouth; it
was the most terrific suspense I had ever realized. I felt myself
involuntarily saying, “He could be saved YET, YET, YET;” and then a thud,
that vibrated through the street, announced that Müller was launched into
eternity. My eyes were literally glued to the spot. I was fascinated by
the awful sight; not a detail escaped me. Calcraft meanwhile, apparently
not satisfied with his handiwork, seized hold of the wretch’s feet and
pressed on them for some seconds with all his weight, and with a last
approving look shambled back into the prison. Meanwhile the white cap
was getting tighter and tighter, until it looked ready to burst; and a
faint blue speck that had almost immediately appeared on the carotid
artery after the drop fell gradually became more livid till it assumed
the appearance of a huge black bruise. Death, I should say, must have
been instantaneous, for he never stirred a muscle, and the only movement
that was visible was that from the gradually stretching rope as the body
kept slowly swinging round and round. The hanging of the body for an
hour constituted part of the sentence, an interval that was not lost upon
the multitude below. The drunken again took up their ribald songs,
conspicuous amongst which was one that had done duty pretty well through
the night, and ended with, “Müller, Müller, he’s the man”; but the
pickpockets and the highwaymen reaped the greatest benefit. It can
hardly be credited that respectable old City men on their way to
business, with watch-chains and scarf-pins, in clean white shirt-fronts,
and with unmistakable signs of having spent the night in bed, should have
had the foolhardiness to venture into such a crowd, but there they were
in dozens. They had not long to wait for the reward of their temerity.
Gangs of ruffians at once surrounded them; and whilst one held them by
each arm, another was rifling their pockets. Watches, chains, and
scarf-pins passed from hand to hand with the rapidity of an eel;
meanwhile their piteous shouts of “Murder!” “Help!” “Police!” were
utterly unavailing. The barriers were doing their duty too well, and the
hundreds of constables within a few yards were perfectly powerless to get
through the living rampart.
From our window I saw an interesting case of mistaken identity, and I was
glad to have the opportunity of saving an innocent man from arrest. The
incident was referred to in the next day’s papers, and was briefly this.
A well-dressed old man had had his scarf-pin pulled out, and a policeman
by this time being luckily near, a lad standing by was taxed with the
theft. We, however, from our vantage ground had seen the whole affair,
and recognized the real culprit, who was standing coolly by whilst the
innocent man was being marched off. By shouting and hammering with our
sticks, we eventually succeeded in attracting the notice of the
constable, and pointed out the real culprit, and the pin was then and
there found on him.
Whilst these incidents were going on, 9 o’clock was gradually
approaching, the hour when the body was to be cut down. A few minutes
previously two prisoners had brought out the shell—a common deal one,
perforated with holes. I remember remarking at the time how small it
looked; and my conjecture proved correct, for it was with difficulty that
the body could be squeezed in. It showed with what consummate skill and
regard to economy the exact size of the body must have been calculated.
With its clothes on, the corpse was too big for the shell; divested of
them, however, there was doubtless ample room, not only for it, but for
the layers of quicklime that enveloped it. And now Calcraft again
appeared, and producing a clasp-knife, with one arm he hugged the body
and with the other severed the rope. It required two slashes of the
feeble old arm to complete this final ceremony, and then the head fell
with a flop on the old man’s breast, who, staggering under the weight,
jammed it into the shell. The two prisoners then carried it into the
prison, the debtors’ door closed till again required to open for a
similar tragedy, and the crowd meanwhile having sufficiently decreased,
enabled us to go home to bed, and to dream of the horrors of the past
twelve hours.
CHAPTER X.
“NEWGATE ETIQUETTE.”
VISITS at Newgate are made under great disadvantage, and have not even
the recommendation of privacy. A few of the more respectable (as regards
clothes) prisoners, such as myself, were allowed to see our daily
visitors in a portion of the enclosure a little removed, but still so
near the regular place that it was almost impossible to hear what was
said on account of the terrible roar made by the united lungs of a
hundred malefactors and their demonstrative friends. Visits are only
permitted between two and four o’clock, and as everybody comes about the
same hour, the babel that ensues may be readily conceived. As, moreover,
we are untried, and consequently innocent, people, these restrictions as
to time and numbers are clearly unjust, and merit alteration. Solicitors
are permitted to consult with their clients in glass boxes, where all can
be seen but nothing heard. These cases are situated in the direct route
through which sight-seers are conducted. An amusing incident occurred to
me on one occasion. I was in deep consultation with an eminent solicitor
of Gray’s Inn Square, as a herd of some ten country bumpkins, male and
female, were being piloted about, and I distinctly saw their conductor
make a motion that evidently referred to me. I cannot, of course, say
what that communication was, but it was evidently enough to raise the
desire on the part of one of the females to have a closer inspection of
me. With a light step, such as a sack of coals might make on a skating
rink, the biped cautiously stalked me, and deliberately flattened her
“tip-tilted,” turn-up nose against the window. Without a moment’s
warning, I bounded from my chair and shouted out, “Sixpence extra for the
chamber of horrors.” The fair creature jumped as if shot from a
catapult, and I fancy I can now see her black stockings and frowzy
petticoat as she flew towards her party. Hemma Hann had been taught a
lesson!
There are certain abuses that call for immediate and rigorous suppression
at Newgate, the more so as it is a place where prisoners are, as it were,
in transit, and thus many things that might be made real advantages are
(or were a year ago) gross injustices. I refer specially to the
“privilege” of procuring your own food. Men awaiting trial are naturally
ignorant of the system and its details, and I cannot do better than state
what occurred to me, and the absolute injustice I was subject to; for my
case is only similar to that of many others, who have not perhaps the
same advantage as I have of ventilating the grievance.
I was asked on the first day what I would like to order, and deeming it
safest to avoid mistakes I gave one order to hold good daily. I ordered
a pint of milk and a plate of bread and butter for breakfast; a plate of
meat and a pint of ale for dinner; and for supper a pint of milk and a
plate of bread and butter. Now I ask any unprejudiced reader what ought
such food to have cost, supplied to a prisoner from a common coffee-house
in such a district?
I have been at the trouble of enquiring at this and similar
eating-houses, and find that their prices for the above articles are, for
a pint of milk, 4d.; bread and butter, 3d.; a plate of meat and
vegetables, 8d.; bread, 1d.; and a pint of ale, 4d.; total, 2s. 3d. But
a free citizen and a caged prisoner are two different things, for which
there are two different prices. For the above homely fare I was charged
3s. 6d. a day, and as my money was in the hands of the prison
authorities, I had absolutely no redress. No notice was ever taken of a
complaint, though I made a dozen. Often my beer did not come, but I was
charged all the same; my milk was frequently forgotten, and eventually
appeared an hour after in a boiled state—and yet this scandalous charge
was paid daily. I ask any humane government, is not this a shame? What
is the only inference that can possibly be drawn? Surely it is within
the bounds of possibility that these officials, badly paid and half fed,
supplement their day’s food at the expense of the prisoner; if they do
not, would they permit the coffee-house keeper to reap such profits?
Common sense suggests there must be collusion. I am fortified in this
opinion by what I’ve lately seen. During the past few weeks I’ve been
round this grimy district, and seen the turnkeys running in and out from
the wicket opposite into certain of these houses that I could indicate,
and the honorary membership that appears to exist leaves no room for any
interpretation but the one suggested. I sincerely hope this matter may
not be deemed too trivial to be looked into, and that it will be the
means of introducing an improvement of the system, whereby a prisoner can
procure articles at fixed prices, and that this tariff is hung up in
every cell. My treatment was so glaringly unjust that I cannot lose the
opportunity of giving publicity to the sequel. On the eve of my
departure to “Cold Bath Fields,” I was asked to sign the usual paper
which purported to show how my money, £1 5s. 4d., had been expended, and
as a proof of my being satisfied with it. This I distinctly declined to
do; and one would have supposed that in an establishment where “justice”
plays so prominent a part, my refusal would at least have elicited an
enquiry. On the contrary, however, pressure was actually brought to bear
on me, and even the Governor lowered himself by making it a personal
matter. The man, as I said before, was not a gentleman by birth, but I
was hardly prepared for such violent partizanship on his part. “So I
hear you decline to sign the receipt for your money. Very well; I shall
retain the money, and report your conduct to the Governor of Cold Bath
Fields.” This was the dignified speech that greeted me next morning. In
reply, I assured him that I certainly should not sign, and he might
report me to whomsoever he pleased. Thus ended our squabble; and it
might as well have been spared, for I found on my arrival at Cold Bath
Fields that only 4s. 5½d. had been sent with me, and that consequently
the eating-house man had been paid £1 0s. 10½d. by his patron the
Governor on my behalf, and despite my protest. With the abolition of
Newgate as a prison, except during the sessions, it is sincerely to be
hoped that these crying scandals have been abolished too.
One thing that struck me particularly was the small number of warders in
comparison to the prisoners. Seven or eight, from the Governor to the
lowest turnkey, comprised the entire staff, and were responsible for the
safety of some two hundred prisoners. Such a number was clearly
inadequate, and the risk they ran, however remote, was forcibly brought
to my notice by a conversation I once overheard. Amongst others awaiting
trial was a desperate-looking ruffian of low stature, with bull head and
black shaggy eyebrows—a man who had undergone more than one sentence of
penal servitude, and who, to judge by his appearance, was capable of any
atrocity. This ruffian was pointing out one morning how easy it would be
to make a dash at the warders, and then, without the possibility of
opposition, simply to walk out. The plan certainly seems feasible,
especially during chapel, where four or five warders are absolutely at
the mercy of two hundred prisoners. One can only suppose that a moral
restraint exists, and on which the authorities rely, that would prevent
many from joining in such a mutiny, and who, if a choice had to be made,
would prefer to join issue with the warders rather than with their
unsavoury opponents. During the sessions the regular staff is augmented
by five or six additional hands, for the most part feeble old men,
suggestive of sandwich men out of employment. I was much amused by one
of these patriarchs who was left in absolute and sole charge, and daily
superintended the exercise of some fifty or sixty prisoners. I never
lost an opportunity of having a chat with him, as he stood shivering in a
threadbare ulster, with a dew-drop on his nose, a ragged comforter round
his neck, and his poor old gums rattling in the drafty yard. I found,
however, that he was not devoid of official dignity, and had a very high
conception of the position and importance of “officers,” as every turnkey
likes to be styled. I remember saying to the poor old chap one day, “You
officers must have a very difficult duty to perform, what between
maintaining your dignity and doing your duty strictly.” A leer, such as
one might associate with a magpie looking down a marrow-bone, was all he
vouchsafed in reply for a moment, and I feared he suspected I was pulling
his leg; but I was eventually reassured by his replying, “Yis, there’s no
responsibler dooty than an officer’s.” “Yes,” I replied, “but I’ve
always heard that you officers are sad dogs;” and as I moved away I heard
the old gums clatter as if pleased at the compliment, and if I had had a
shilling in my pocket I should certainly have given it to the old
“officer.” The first day of the sessions had now arrived, and I rose
with mingled feelings of anxiety and pleasure; anxiety for what the day
might bring forth, and pleasure at the thought that anything was better
than the uncertainty that at present involved my future, and hailing with
delight the prospect of knowing the worst. I never expected, however,
that my case would be tried on the first day, and was therefore
considerably taken back when, about 3 P.M., my door was suddenly opened,
and with a “Come along, you’re wanted in the Court,” a warder made his
appearance. The awful reality now burst on me for the first time that I
was on the point of appearing in a criminal dock to answer a charge of
forgery, and uttering forged bills. I won’t weary the reader by saying
more than that I pleaded guilty to the uttering, but denied the forging,
as I still do, and ever shall; but being informed that the two acts were
considered synonymous, my plea was registered as “guilty,” and I was
sentenced to eighteen months imprisonment with hard labour. I am now
entering on a phase of my career which may be considered as the
commencement proper of my narrative, and one that I expected, from the
steps that led up to it, would consist of harshness and brutality, such
as one reads of in stories of the Bastile and other prisons; whereas, on
the contrary, I was leaving all that behind, and about to experience a
kindness and consideration I can never adequately describe or be
sufficiently grateful for. But a word or two is necessary before we
leave Newgate to enable me to describe the Old Bailey Court House and its
sombre approaches, its subterraneous passages, and dingy cells. I must
also make a digression to narrate the heart-breaking story of a poor
wretch which he himself told me, and which I’ve reason to believe is
strictly true, and to which his position as a man of title—I shall
refrain from giving his name—imparts a considerable degree of interest.
It is a tale which demonstrates to what a contemptible state a man can
bring himself by the excessive use of stimulants, and how that
degradation is augmented when wedded to immorality, culminating in the
inevitable shipwreck that waits on bright prospects and a long rent roll
when drink and prostitution appear at the altar, only to be divorced, as
in the present case, by a term of penal servitude.
CHAPTER XI.
THE TITLED CONVICT.
ON the morning after my arrival at Newgate it was with considerable
surprise that I saw a man in convict dress, who was apparently the object
of special watch and guard. My curiosity was considerably increased from
the circumstance of his being the only individual out of some two hundred
in this conspicuous attire; he was moreover clearly not a novice, but
wore the dreadful suit with the apparent ease of a man to whom it was by
no means a novelty. He looked horribly ill, and a terrible eruption that
showed itself on his neck, face, and hands gave unmistakable evidence
that the unhappy wretch was literally rotten; added to this, however,
there was a something about him, a “_je ne sais quoi_,” that marked the
gentleman and asserted the blue blood, despite the convict dress, the
loathsome disease, and the degrading surroundings. A fixed melancholy
seemed never to desert him. When he moved, it was with eyes cast down,
and nothing appeared to interest him; it was the motions of a human
machine, bowed down with grief or shame, or meditating some awful
vengeance. I was so struck with all this that I determined to lose no
opportunity of scraping an acquaintance with the mysterious stranger. I
enquired of a warder, but all he knew or pretended to know was that he
was undergoing a sentence of 20 years’ penal servitude, and had lately
been drafted there from a convict prison; that he had only been there a
few days, and would in all probability be moved elsewhere very shortly.
Chance favoured my desire to make his acquaintance. It was on a Saturday
afternoon, a time devoted to a very general and extra clean up, and when
almost everyone is put on a job. My warder—like a brick—had put me, at
my urgent request, to “dusting” the rails, a duty, I had observed, at
which the convict was frequently employed. I got as near as discretion
would permit, and ventured to ask him who and what he was. He looked at
me at first with a mingled expression of surprise and distrust, but being
apparently reassured by either my manner or my dress, began in short,
jerky sentences in something of the following style: “You ask me who I
am. That’s a question I haven’t heard for six long years. Since that
time I’ve been an unit, 4016 of Portland, and praying night and day that
death would release me.” I was alarmed at his excited manner; his eyes
flashed, he quivered like a maniac, and I begged him to be calm. This
appeal seemed to touch some long dried-up spring; kind words evidently
sounded strange to him, and a tear trickled down his seamed and hollow
cheeks. The weakness, however, was but momentary, and wiping his eyes
with his coarse blue handkerchief, he began in a melancholy voice the
following sad story:—
“You ask me who I am, or rather who I was. Know, then, that six years
ago I was known as —.” I started at the name, for it was a well-known
and titled one. “At an early age my parents died, leaving me the
possessor (under guardians) of £20,000 a year, an estate in England, and
another in Ireland, a house in London, and an ancient title. My uncle
and guardian, alas! was actuated by no affection for me, but considered
that if he placed me under a good tutor, insured me a liberal education,
and sent me to see the world, he was fairly earning the handsome salary
allowed him by the Court of Chancery, whose ward I was. At the age of 18
I started with my tutor on a three years’ tour, it having been decided
that I should thus have seen everything, and made a fitting termination
to the education of a man with the bright prospects I so confidently
considered were in store for me. Would to God I had been born a navvy; I
should never then have become what you now see me. The eventful era in
my life at length arrived. After seeing everything and going half over
the world, I found myself in England again, and on the eve of being
invested with the absolute control of my huge estates. I will not insult
you, nor deceive myself, by concealing any of my blemishes. Know, then,
I was a drunkard, a confirmed sot at 21, too weak to resist the dram
bottle, and capable of every folly, every crime, when under the influence
of its fatal spell. I moreover hated the society of gentlemen, and was
never happy except in low company. In London, whither I came after
taking possession of my estates, I did not know a soul; the few
respectable friends or relatives of my father I studiously avoided.
Pleasure for me was only to be attained by herding with cads and
prostitutes. My position, my title, my wealth, made this an easy task,
and I soon became acquainted with a number of that voracious, threadbare
class. My most intimate friends were broken-down gentlemen and
spendthrifts of shady reputation; fighting men and banjo men, and
blood-suckers of every type, who flattered my vanity, and led me as it
were, with the one hand, whilst they rifled my pockets with the other.
They ate at my expense, they drank at my expense; I paid their debts in
many instances, and any rascal had only to recount to me a tissue of lies
for me to at once offer him consolation by the ‘loan’ of a cheque. ‘What
matters it,’ thought I; ‘was I not —, and had I not more money than I
could possibly spend in a century?’ I was passionately fond of theatres,
not respectable ones where I should have had to behave decently, but low
East-end and transpontine ones, where I was a very swan amongst the
geese, and where my title and wealth obtained me the inestimable
privilege of going behind the scenes, and throwing money about in
handfuls. On these almost nightly visits I was invariably dunned and
asked for aid by every designing knave; they saw I was a fool, and
usually drunk, and what I mistook for homage was in reality the treatment
that only a contemptible drunkard with money, such as I, ever gets.
Every scene-shifter had a harrowing tale, or an imaginary subscription
list, to all of whom I administered bounteous monetary consolation; and
any varlet with a whole hand, and a greasy rag round it, at once received
a ‘fiver’ as a mark of sympathy for his painful accident. In short, I
was a fool, looked on as only fit to be fleeced, and simply tolerated for
the sake of my money. Would to God I had confined myself to these
contemptible but otherwise harmless follies!
“It was on a dull foggy night—a night I can never forget—that some
half-dozen of my boon companions had been dining with me at a celebrated
restaurant. The _débris_ of the dessert had not been removed, and they
were sipping their coffee whilst I was settling the bill, when a
suggestion was made that we should go to the ‘Sussex.’ The ‘Sussex’ was
a very disreputable theatre, situated somewhere over the water, and
supported entirely by the lowest classes and a few golden calves, such as
myself, who were serving their apprenticeship, and who were permitted the
inestimable privilege of going behind the scenes—entering the green-room,
or indeed any room, and paying ten shillings a bottle for as much fluid
of an effervescent nature in champagne bottles as anybody and everybody
chose to call for. On these occasions we were ushered into the sacred
precincts, with a certain amount of implied caution similar to and about
as necessary as that assumed by a ragamuffin in the streets when asking
you to buy a spurious edition of the _Fruits of Philosophy_. This,
however, in my ignorance, only enhanced the pleasure. We were, as I
believed, participating in some illegal transaction, permitted only to
the most fortunate. As a fact, we were violating no law; and if the Lord
Chamberlain did not object, Scotland Yard certainly didn’t. Etiquette on
these occasions demanded that we should be formally introduced to the
various ‘ladies’ that frequented the green-room—a custom I considered
highly commendable, for in my ignorance I believed that not the slightest
difference existed between the highest exponent of tragedy and the
frowsiest ballet-girl in worsted tights and spangles.
“On this particular night, as I was watching the transformation scene
being ‘set,’ and listening to the sallies of the tawdry ‘fairies’ that
crowded the wings, my attention was attracted by a tall woman, who was
gnawing a bone with a gusto that conveyed to me the impression she hadn’t
eaten for a month. I felt for the poor creature, and went and stood near
her. I thought at the time (for I was very drunk) that she was the most
beautiful being I had ever seen; her pink-and-white complexion (it was in
reality dabs of paint) appeared to me to be comparable only to a
beautiful shell. I was spellbound by the sight, and instantaneously and
hopelessly in love. It would have been a mercy—may God forgive me!—if
that bone had choked her. That woman eventually became ‘her ladyship.’
But I’m anticipating.”
The poor fellow here became so affected that I begged him to pause; it
was, however, useless.
“The sight of her in a measure sobered me, and I asked her who and what
she was. She told me a harrowing tale of how she was the eldest of seven
children; that her mother was bed-ridden and her father blind; and how
she toiled at a sewing-machine all day and at the theatre all night, and
then only earned a miserable pittance, barely sufficient to keep a roof
over their heads. The recital affected me considerably (drunken people
are easily moved to tears), as she went on to tell me how she had been in
the theatre since 11 that morning (for it was the pantomime season, and
there had been a morning performance), and how she had not tasted food
until a carpenter had kindly given her the remains of his supper. I lost
no time in procuring a bottle of champagne, and felt happier than I had
for years as she placed a tumblerful to her parched lips and drank it off
at a gulp. A few moments later I saw ‘little Rosie’ (for so she told me
her blind parent loved to call her) being lashed to an ‘iron,’ and posing
as an angel for the great transformation scene in course of preparation.
I subsequently discovered—though, alas! too late—that ‘little Rosie’ was
nightly to be seen outside the ‘Criterion’ and in front of the ‘Raleigh,’
and was known as ‘big Rose.’ But my mind has again got in advance of my
story. Oh, dear! oh, dear! where am I?”
At this stage I really got alarmed, far his excitement was evidently
increasing. Happily, however, a passing official necessitated silence,
and he eventually resumed with comparative composure.
“I will not weary you with unnecessary details; suffice it to say that
within a month we were married, and the vows that were made ’till death
should us part’ were eventually broken by the living death that consigned
me to penal servitude. After our marriage ‘little Rosie’s’ nature
gradually began to change; and the frankness and _naïveté_ that had so
captivated me gradually gave way to habits and sentiments that astonished
and alarmed me. I verily believe that, had I found in her the woman I
hoped and believed her to be, I should truly have reformed, and given up
that vile curse, drink. Instead of that, however, I found at my elbow
one who was always ready to encourage me in the vice. Port was her
favourite tipple, and though my own state seldom permitted me to judge of
her consumption, still in my lucid intervals of sobriety I was astonished
at the amount she consumed. Gradually we began to turn night into day,
and nights of debauch regularly followed the few hours of daylight we
seldom or ever saw. Even yet I had not abandoned all hope of reform. My
conscience smote me when I was sober enough to heed it, and in hopes of
avoiding temptation I hurried with my wife to Ireland; but even here she
could not rest quiet. The cloven foot persisted in showing itself, and
we were tabooed by the whole county. In this I found further cause for
mortification—I who might have been looked up to and sought after. I
tried to spare my wife’s feelings by concealing the real cause of our
existence being ignored; but, fool that I was, I gave way to her
importunings, and actually called on those who had avoided us. The
well-merited reward of my temerity was not long in coming. Some of the
county families returned our cards by post, whilst others sent them back
by a servant; and at a subscription ball that took place not long after
we received the cut dead. This filled up the cup of my humiliation, and
I rushed back to London. I had realised the fact that virtue won’t herd
with vice.
“A cousin about this time made his appearance, and gradually became a
daily visitor; and had my muddled faculties been more capable of forming
an opinion, I might have been puzzled how a well-dressed and apparently
gentlemanly man could be the nephew of either the blind father or the
bed-ridden mother. Gradually, however, my suspicions were aroused, and I
employed a detective to watch them both. He fulfilled his duty, alas!
too well, and I received incontestable proof that my wife was a —, and
that the ‘cousin’ was a man with whom she had lived for years. A sickly
child, too, that frequently came to the house, and whom she often told
me, with tears in her eyes, was her ‘dead sister’s,’ I had reason to
suspect was a much nearer relative. But my feelings outstride my
discretion. I’m again going too fast, and surely you’ve heard enough?”
I begged him to continue, for I was deeply interested in his tale.
“My wife now began to display reckless extravagance; nothing was good
enough for her; the handsome settlement I had made on her failed to meet
a fraction of her expenses, and she became so degraded as to borrow money
of my very servants. Love, they say, is blind, and in my case, I fear,
was frequently blind drunk. On these occasions I would agree to
anything, and gradually signed away first one thing, and then another,
till I found myself divested of house, estates, everything, and a
pensioner on my wife’s bounty. It may seem incredible that anything
should be capable of bringing the blush of shame to such as I—I who for
six long years have worn this dreadful dress—but, believe me, my cheeks
tingle even now when I think of it all. I was at length compelled to
resort to the pawnbroker’s, and watch, chain, ring, everything, found
their way to an establishment in — Road. My credit, once good, was
entirely gone; tradesmen to whom I owed money began to dun me; others
refused me the smallest credit; servants, washerwomen, butchers, and
bakers all were creditors; writs and County Court summonses were of daily
occurrence; and the family mansion that my ancestors had never disgraced
was in the hands of the bailiffs. How I cried out in my anguish will
never be known. Relations I had none to whom I could apply for sympathy
or advice. My only friend was ‘drink,’ and in my misery I turned to it
with redoubled energy. I have not much more to tell; the climax which
brought me here was very near at hand. One afternoon I had returned to
our lodgings (we were then in apartments at 28, — Place) rather sooner
than expected from a fruitless endeavour to borrow a few pounds. I had
stopped at every public-house, and gulped down a dram of cheap spirits,
in hopes of lightening my sorrow; I was, I believe, almost mad with
misery and drink. As I entered the room the first thing that met my gaze
was the hated ‘Cousin.’ To seize a loaded pistol that always hung over
the mantel-piece was the work of a second, and, without aim, without
deliberation, I fired. The report and my wife’s screams alarmed a
policeman who happened to be passing by; he entered and found her
swooning on the ground, but happily uninjured. Thank God! I’m free of
that crime—and the tell-tale bullet lodged in the wall. Concealment was
hopeless. I was there and then arrested, and eventually sentenced, on
the evidence of my wife and her paramour, to ‘twenty years’ penal
servitude.’”
His excited state alarmed me. I feared we should be observed, but it was
hopeless to attempt to check him as, with eyes starting, and the tears
flowing fast, he added, pointing to his seamed and blotchy face: “The
worst has yet to be told; look at these scars that I shall carry with me
to the grave. Can you suspect what they are? My —.”
“Hush!” I said, “they have noticed us.”
I never saw him again, but heard, months after, that the unhappy man had
died, and that the bright expectations accruing from youth, birth, and
fortune, that had been formed six short years ago, lie buried in a
nameless convict’s grave.
Not long ago I walked round to the pawn shop in — Road, with the morbid
desire of testing the truth of some of his assertions, and found that the
watch, chain, and ring were still there. I informed the worthy
pawnbroker of the real name and sad fate of his former customer, and was
almost tempted to purchase the cat’s-eye as a souvenir of my
quasi-friend; but more prudent counsels prevailed, and I relegated them
to the auction-room, to go forth with their crests and monograms, a sad
memento of fallen greatness.
CHAPTER XII.
THE CENTRAL CRIMINAL COURT.
AFTER my sudden summons to attend the Court I found myself in the yard
below, where, in company with some twenty others, I was placed in
rotation according to a list the Governor and chief warder were
“checking.” This formula being completed, we proceeded in single file,
preceded by an “officer” and followed by a patriarch, along the
subterraneous passages that connect the prison with the Old Bailey
Court-house. These passages are the last remnants of the old prison, and
demonstrate the change that has taken place in the accepted notions of
insuring the safety of prisoners. Every few yards a massive iron door
some inches thick, with huge bolts and a ponderous key, bars the passage.
Having passed through all these, we came to a halt in a dark recess,
partially lighted by gas, on each side of which were arched cells,
suggestive of those of the Adelphi. Into each of these five or six of us
were conducted, for by the prison system prisoners before trial may be
herded together; after conviction, however, all that ceases, and one is
“supposed” henceforth to be isolated. After a delay of some twenty
minutes, and during which I was initiated into the style of society I
might expect for the future, my name was called and I was conducted up a
wooden stair. The hum of voices—for I could see nothing—indicated to me
that I was in the vicinity of the Court and on the stair leading into the
dock—one of those mysterious boxes I had often seen from the opposite
side, where criminals popped up and popped down so suddenly and so
mysteriously.
I had seen many murderers sentenced to death from that very dock, and was
often puzzled at the geography of the place; all this, however, was now
made perfectly clear. It was with mingled feelings of astonishment and
bewilderment that I found myself, suddenly and without warning, the
observed of all observers. The crowded Court, the forest of well-known
faces—vindictive prosecutors, reluctant witnesses, quasi-friends come to
gloat over my misfortune, and one or two real sympathisers—all appeared
glued together to my bewildered gaze. Beyond, and seated against the
wall, were innumerable figures robed in flowing scarlet gowns, and
presenting to my senses so ghastly and weird a picture that I can compare
it to nothing but that impressive trial scene in “The Bells,” to which
Mr. Irving imparts such terrible reality. It only required the mesmerist
to complete the resemblance; and he must have been there, although
invisible, for I was mesmerized, or at least completely dazed. By
degrees, however, I recovered my senses, and embracing the whole scene,
summed up the vanity of human sympathy and the value to be attached to
friendship, as it is called. Reader, whoever you are, take the word of a
man who has been rich and surrounded by every luxury. Friends will
cluster round you in your prosperity as they did round me, and when they
have eaten you out of house and home, and robbed you by fair means or
foul, by card playing and racing, you must not be surprised if you
discover that the most vindictive and uncompromising are those you least
expected. “For it was not an enemy that reproached me, then I could have
borne it—neither was it he that hated me, that did magnify himself
against me; but it was a man, mine equal, my guide, and my
acquaintance—yea, mine own familiar friend in whom I trusted, which did
eat of my bread—hath lifted up his heel against me.”
The ordeal at length had been gone through, and I was on my return
journey to the prison as a “convicted prisoner.” A prisoner after
sentence consists of only two classes, the “convict” and the “convicted
prisoner,” and it is marvellous how soon the difference shows itself.
The “convicted prisoner” finds absolutely no change beyond being deprived
of the questionable privilege of procuring his own food at an exorbitant
rate. With the “convict,” however, things are very different.
Immediately after sentence he is stripped of all his clothes, his hair
and beard are cropped as close as scissors can do it, and he is
metamorphosized by the assumption of the coarse brown and black striped
convict dress. The change is so marvellous that it is difficult at first
to recognize a man. One poor fellow I saw, a gentlemanly-looking man
from the Post-office, that I frequently spoke to, was so changed when I
saw him next morning in Chapel that I could not for the moment recognize
the poor wretch who kept grinning at me with an air of levity as assumed
as it was painful. I am not ashamed to admit that I thanked Providence I
had escaped that fearful doom. It is not generally known that two years’
imprisonment is the limit of a sentence of hard labour, after which the
next higher punishment involves five years’ penal servitude. There is a
vast deal of ignorance displayed on this subject, even by those who might
be supposed to know better. It is generally believed that imprisonment
with hard labour is a severer punishment than penal servitude. No
greater fallacy ever existed. I base my assertion, not so much on
personal experience (for I was exceptionally fortunate), as on what I saw
of the treatment of others; and I confidently assert—and my opinion would
be corroborated by every respectable prisoner (if such an anomaly can
exist)—that two years’ “hard labour” is an infinitely lighter punishment
than even two years of penal servitude would be; and I can only attribute
the general acceptation of this error to the fact that convicts get a
little more food than convicted prisoners, and prisoners as a rule will
do anything for “grub.”
I have now brought my experiences of Newgate to a close, and shall
briefly describe our departure to our final and respective destinations.
An unusual bustle one morning indicated that something out of the
ordinary was about to happen, and though we received no actual warning,
it was generally buzzed about that we were to make a start after
breakfast. At breakfast-time the warder told me to put my things
together, and half an hour later found me and sixteen others marshalled
in the corridor, where, being carefully compared with our respective
descriptions, we were formally handed over to a detachment of warders
from Coldbath Fields. Other parties were being simultaneously paraded
for Holloway and Pentonville, the latter all in convict dress and as
pitiable a looking set as can well be conceived. I discovered, both now
and subsequently, that a human being is invariably referred to as if he
were a parcel. Thus, on arrival, one is said to be “received,” and one’s
departure is described as being “sent out.” This is not intended in an
offensive sense, but may be taken rather as a figure of speech. In the
adjoining yard were half a dozen vans—indeed, I had never before seen
such a formidable array, except, perhaps, a meet of the four-in-hand club
on a rainy day—and into one of these I was politely conducted, with a
degree of precaution as unnecessary as it was absurd.
No reader can accuse me of rounding the points of this ungarnished story,
or endeavouring to conceal any incident, however unpleasant. As,
however, my subsequent experiences may discover a treatment so kind and
exceptional as to appear almost incredible, I must only ask the reader to
credit me with the veracity that my previous frankness entitles me to
expect. My anxiety on this point is considerably enhanced by the
contradiction it will bear to other narratives I have read, and which,
purporting to describe prison life, invariably represent it as a hot-bed
of cruelty, where prisoners are starved and otherwise ill-treated, all of
which I emphatically deny, and cause me to doubt whether one single
specimen of these so-called personal narratives is anything else but an
“idle tale,” written with a view of enlisting sympathy, and possibly
turning an honest penny. If these writers and these prisoners had seen
as much as I have (from outside) of prisons on the Continent, in Morocco,
and in China, they would think themselves very fortunate in their present
quarters. I—who have seen prisoners starving in prisons in Morocco, and
absolutely “unfed,” except by the charity of visitors, who usually
scramble a few shillings’ worth of bread amongst them; and who, for a
dollar to the jailor, have seen a Chinaman at Shanghai brought out, made
to kneel down and have his head sliced off like a water-melon—have no
patience with these well-fed, well-clothed, and well-housed rascals. I
would send all these discontented burglars and their “converted”
biographers to China or Morocco, and omit to supply them with return
tickets. I have lately read a book connected with penal servitude, by an
anonymous writer, in which this innocent lamb is whining throughout of
his hardship in being compelled to herd with criminals; and it says a
great deal for his imitative capacity that he should so naturally and so
thoroughly have adopted the almost universal “injured innocence” tactics
of the habitual criminal. One great nuisance at all prisons is the
almost universal habit that prisoners have of protesting their innocence;
they protest it so often to everybody on every possible occasion, that
they eventually begin to believe that they really are innocent. I found
these guileless creatures great bores; indeed I am (I am convinced) well
within the mark when I assert that there were only about three-and-twenty
guilty persons besides myself amongst the fifteen hundred prisoners in
Coldbath Fields. This compulsory herding with innocent burglars is a
great trial, and one that never enters into the calculation of a judge.
A short drive at a good pace on this early December morning brought us to
the gates of Coldbath Fields Prison; and as I stepped out, I could not
help recalling Dante’s famous line—
“All hope abandon ye who enter here.”
It only proves how apt one is to form erroneous ideas from first
impressions. I was never more mistaken in my life.
CHAPTER XIII.
“CORPULENCY.”
From my birth up to within the past twelve months I have had the
misfortune to be afflicted with one of the most dreadful diseases that
flesh is heir to. It is one that entails suffering both to body and
mind, and from which a vast proportion of humanity suffers in a more or
less aggravated form. It is a slow and insidious disease that never
decreases of its own accord, but on the contrary develops itself with
one’s increasing years as surely as the most virulent cancer. It has
this advantage, however, over this latter dreadful complaint—that it
invariably yields to treatment conscientiously applied; but it has also
this disadvantage, that, whereas other afflictions invariably enlist the
sympathy of our fellow-creatures, this one never fails to be jeered and
hooted at and turned into ridicule by the coarse and vulgar of our
species. This complaint, surprising as it may appear, is held in
contempt by most of the faculty, and I doubt whether it has ever received
baptism in the English or any other pharmacopoeia. I will therefore
without further preamble state, for the benefit of afflicted humanity,
that it is called “obesity.” In the course of my remarks I may be led
into the use of what may appear strong expressions; and if I should
unwittingly offend the susceptibilities of any fat reader, he or she
will, I trust, forgive it, as coming from one who has, as it were, gone
through the mill, and been subjected to the like ridicule and the like
temptations as themselves.
For thirty-eight years I’ve been a martyr to obesity. At my birth, as I
am credibly informed, I was enormous—a freak of nature that was clearly
intended for twins. As I developed into boyhood I still maintained the
same pronounced pattern; and when I entered the Army as an ensign, it was
said, with a certain amount of truth, that I was eighteen years of age
and 18 stone in weight. I am particular in giving these otherwise
uninteresting details, for I am aware from experience how fat people
catch at every straw to evade a “regimen,” and invariably say as I did,
“Nothing will make me thin,” “I’ve tried everything,” “It’s natural in
our family,” “My father weighed nineteen stone,” &c., &c. I say to these
people, “This is rubbish. I don’t care if your father weighed forty and
your grandmother fifty stone; I’ll GUARANTEE to REDUCE you perceptibly
and with PERFECT SAFETY if you’ll guarantee to follow my instructions.”
For the past fifteen years I’ve tried every remedy, with, however, the
invariable result—that they did me no good, or at least so little that I
came to the conclusion that the result did not repay the inconvenience.
It must here be understood that when I refer to “remedies,” I do not
speak of some that aspire to that title, which, if they don’t kill, don’t
certainly cure; nor of others which will assuredly first cure and then as
certainly kill—though I confess to have given even these a trial, and
swallowed ingredients that don’t come well out of analysis. I would warn
all zealous fat people to be careful of these concoctions, and at least
consult a physician before saturating their systems with poisons. I do
not even refer to other “remedies,” admittedly and which I have found
safe, though before concluding my hints I shall have a word to say about
them, and give my opinion of their respective titles to merit, on the
principle that “a wink is as good as a nod to a blind horse.” In support
of my claim to credence I may state that my appearance was known to
almost everybody, many of whom have since seen me as I now am; and though
I cannot produce testimonials from a corpulent clergyman in Australia who
weighed 40 stone and now only 14, and never felt better in his life, nor
from the fat Countess del Quackador, of Buenos Ayres, who attributes her
recovery to the sole use of —, still I can produce myself, and seeing is
usually admitted to be half way to believing. My theory is based on that
of that excellent man and apostle of corpulency, the late Mr. Banting—a
theory which, as propounded by him, was in a crude state, but, like all
great discoveries, is capable of improvement based on experience. In
short, I agree with him as a whole, but differ on many essential points.
I felt, whilst practising his treatment, that something was wanting, and
my experience has since discovered what that something is. Others like
myself may have found the Banting theory deficient beyond a certain
point. I would ask these to give mine a fair trial for three months.
Anyone who has waded through my narrative will observe that the dietary I
subsisted on for some months of my life was in itself incapable of
reducing a man; and it was thanks to the liberal margin I had to work
upon, and the facilities I enjoyed for not only weighing myself, but also
my food, that I attribute in a great measure the perfecting of my theory,
and the reliance that may be placed on it. Banting lays down as a
principle that “quantity may fairly be left to the natural appetite,
provided the quality is rigidly adhered to.” In this I disagree with
him, but on the contrary confidently assert that until the subject is
reduced to its proper size, it is absolutely imperative to limit the
quantity as well as the quality. The quantity, however, is a liberal
one, both as regards solid and fluid. At the same time it must be
remembered that great ignorance exists as to the weight of the commonest
articles of dietary, and to form an estimate of their weight by their
appearance can only be attained by experience. One often hears of
persons that “don’t eat more than a bird,” and stout people are
invariably accredited with being small eaters. It would astonish these
persons to find that they consume in blissful ignorance three or four
pounds a day. I would recommend every corpulent person to purchase a set
of cheap scales capable of weighing accurately one, two, four, and eight
ounces (an ounce is a word that conveys a diminutive impression, yet
eight of them constitute half a pound); these can be procured at any
ironmonger’s at a cost of two or three shillings. I would also suggest a
half-pint measure; this involves an outlay of about twopence. Without
these two articles no corpulent person’s house can be considered properly
furnished. Before commencing the experiment it is indispensable to be
accurately weighed, taking care to weigh _all_ you have on (separately
and at another time), so that your exact weight can be arrived at,
whether attired in summer or winter clothing. By degrees this weekly
weighing becomes an amusement, and one that increases as your weight
decreases.
The following table may be accepted as fairly accurate, and shows what
the respective natural weights of persons ought to be. I do not lay down
a hard and fast rule, that in no case ought it to be exceeded. On the
contrary, my theory, based on personal experience, convinces me that
every person has his own peculiar weight and dimensions as intended by
Nature, and when he has found his “bearings”—which he will have no
difficulty in doing, as I shall explain hereafter, by unmistakable
symptoms—any further reduction is attended with difficulty, and is,
indeed, unnecessary. Taken, however, as something to work upon, the
following scale, obtained from a leading insurance company, may be
studied with advantage; and when the corpulent reader has arrived within
half a stone of the specified weight—a generous concession surely—he may
then, but not till then, begin to take occasional liberties, both as
regards quantity and quality. I am offering these remarks to those only
who conscientiously intend to give my theory a fair trial. To those
lukewarm disciples who would like to be thin, without possessing the
self-denial necessary for this most simple remedy, I cannot do better
than apply the views I once heard expressed by a piper to a cockney
officer in a Highland regiment who asked him to play the “Mabel”
valse—that “it would only be making a fool of the tune and a fool of the
pipes.”
Average weight for a High
person
Stones Pounds Feet Inches
8 2 or 3 5 0
8 8 – 9 5 1
9 1 – 2 5 2
9 8 – 9 5 3
9 11 – 12 5 4
10 3 – 4 5 5
10 6 – 7 5 6
10 9 – 10 5 7
11 2 – 3 5 8
11 9 – 10 5 9
12 4 – 5 5 10
12 10 – 12 5 11
13 0 6 0
When the reader has attained to within half a stone of these figures, he
will have the game in his own hands, and can regulate his system with as
much accuracy as a clock. On November 25th, 1881, I weighed the enormous
weight of 19 stone 13 lbs. On October 1st, 1882, I weighed 12 stone 4
lbs., and with a loss of 18 inches in girth—_i.e._, a reduction of 7
stone 9 lbs.; and as this can be verified, my opinion is at least worthy
of attention. I consider it absolutely necessary that one should at
first limit one’s self to 2 pounds solid and 3 pints fluid daily; and I
cannot do better than give the dietary I have pursued for the past five
or six months in the south of France:—
_At_ 6 A.M.—I take half-a-pint of black coffee and one ounce of coarse
_brown_ bread or biscuit.
_At_ 9 A.M.—I breakfast off four ounces of lean meat, three ounces of
brown bread or biscuit, and half-a-pint of black coffee.
_At_ 2 P.M.—I have six ounces lean meat, three ounces brown bread or
biscuit, six ounces green vegetables, and half-a-pint of any fluid except
ale, effervescing wines, or aërated waters.
_After Dinner_—I take half-a-pint of coffee.
_At_ 6 P.M.—I take half-a-pint of coffee.
_At Supper_—I have two ounces brown bread or biscuit, and a couple of
glasses of sherry or claret.
Independently of this I eat fruit _ad lib._ I find as a broad rule that
all vegetables that grow above ground, such as cauliflower, artichokes,
sprouts, &c. (except peas and rice), are conducive to health; whereas all
that grow underground, such as potatoes, carrots, beet-root, &c., are fat
persons’ poison. It is immaterial what meat one eats, whether fish,
flesh—except pork—or fowl, but it is necessary to avoid the fat. Stout
persons will find, as I did, an inclination to smuggle in a little, but
they must flee from the temptation. A severe trial at first is confining
one’s self to this quantity and quality, whilst others are indulging to a
greater extent at the same table; but the feeling soon wears off, and
must be looked on as the penalty attached to Pharaoh’s fat kine. Fat
people never consider that if they were suffering from a cancer they
would not hesitate to submit to amputation—and amputation is not
unattended with pain—to prolong life; and yet they waver regarding the
treatment of corpulency—an equally certain enemy to life—with a painless
remedy! Do they invariably also, in other paths of life, return good for
evil, and heap coals of fire on an enemy’s head? And yet here is a
hideous, ungainly, deadly foe pampered and fattened at the cost of life,
comfort, and appearance. And then the ridicule! I ask you, amiable fat
reader, is that agreeable? I would, in fact, make obesity penal, as
calling for special legislation, whereby the police would be justified in
arresting oleaginous pedestrians, clapping them into the scales at the
nearest police-station, and if they exceeded a certain number of feet in
circumference, or weight, at once procure their summary imprisonment,
without the option of a fine. The streets would thus be cleared of these
fleshy obstructions; besides which, if the law recognises attempted
suicide as a crime in one way, why not in another? The dietary I have
suggested is conducive to constipation, a result that brown bread
remedies considerably, if not entirely removes. There are brown breads
and brown breads, however, and after trying a good many, I have come to
the conclusion that the “whole meal bread” made by Messrs. Hill and Son,
of 60, Bishopsgate Street Within, and 3, Albert Mansions, Victoria
Street, is admirably adapted to the requirements of the corpulent. It
keeps the bowels open, is delicious in flavour, and entirely free from
the alum that finds its way into many other kinds. Some six months ago I
had an interview with a member of this firm, and explained my views of
the advantages that would attend a biscuit made of the same meal. I have
lately tasted some made by them, that are apparently specially adapted
for the consumption of the corpulent; and as they have agents in every
part of the kingdom, the regular supply is within the reach of all. I
strongly commend these to all my readers. There is one more item to
which I attach great importance, namely, the taking at bed-time of one
teaspoonful of liquorice-powder (German Pharmacopoeia) in half a tumbler
of water. This quantity may be gradually increased, as circumstances
seem to require; and as a good deal depends on the purity and freshness
of this drug, the advisability of going to a good chemist cannot be too
strongly urged. I have often been told that smoking is injurious to the
corpulent, but this I consider sheer nonsense. I smoke from morning to
night, and, on the contrary, believe it makes up for the larger amount of
food one had previously been in the habit of consuming. In America,
where I spent many happy years, I was never without “a smoke,” a habit I
still continue, though with the disadvantage of having to substitute
British for the fragrant Oronoko and Perique tobaccos. This latter is,
in my estimation, whether used as cigar, cigarette, or in a pipe, the
finest tobacco in the world. I have discovered, beyond doubt, that a
person afflicted with obesity is affected by the smallest transgression
of the strict _regimen_. I have for experiment taken one lump of sugar
in my coffee at meals, and found that this single innovation has produced
an increase of a pound in my weight in a week; indeed, a person disposed
to this affliction is as sensitive as an aneroid. It was in May last
that I first determined to reap at least one benefit from my late
incarceration, and, by a careful regard to quantity and quality, to test
effects that my position and the time at my disposal offered great
facilities for, and thus reduce corpulency to a science, and its
reduction to a certainty. A reference to other portions of this
narrative will put it beyond a doubt that the unlimited amount of food at
my disposal made this an easy task. I will not here go into these
particulars, as a detailed account necessary for the unbroken interest in
my narrative will be found elsewhere, but will confine myself to giving a
table of the reduction I made in myself by my own free-will and
determination.
I weighed
1881. stone pounds
November 25th 19 13
December 7th 19 9
,, 19th 18 12
1882.
January 10th 18 1
,, 31st 17 12
March 20th 16 10
May 18th 16 4
June 6th 15 12
,, 20th to July 2nd 15 8
July 15th 15 4
,, 29th 14 10
September 2nd 13 2
,, 9th 12 10
,, 23rd 12 6
October 1st 12 4
Making a total loss of 107 lbs. (7 stone 9 lbs.) in 318 days. This loss
was not obtained without great determination and self denial, but was it
not worth it? If any corpulent reader could see my photograph of
November, 1881, and November, 1882, he would, I think, admit it was, and
receive a stimulus to persevere as I did. A reference to the above table
will show no diminution between June 20th and July 2nd. I attribute this
to my having found what I call my “bearings,” for though continuing in
the same course, I could not get away from 15 stone 8 lbs. I persisted,
however, and eventually succeeded; and the next date shows a steady
decline. I would recommend no experimentalist to transgress this bound,
and when they find that after a fortnight’s continuance of the strict
system they have obtained no perceptible diminution of weight they should
STOP; they have found their “bearings,” and any further perseverance is
attended with unnecessary inconvenience. The time, however, has then
come for most careful watch and guard, and the slightest liberty is
accompanied by a proportionate increase. Yielding to the kindly meant
advice of friends, I some months ago took new milk and other fattening
luxuries, with the result of increasing a stone in six weeks. I had,
however, the remedy in my own hands, and can now play fast and loose with
an amusing degree of certainty. I can, without an effort, reduce or
increase my weight three or four pounds in a week, and having attained
the comfortable weight of 13 stone 10 lbs, I am determined never again to
turn the scale beyond 14 stone. I allow this margin as the legitimate
perquisite of advancing years.
In conclusion, I guarantee reduction with perfect safety to all who will
honestly try the following _regimen_ in its integrity for three months:—
_Breakfast_—Eight ounces coarse brown bread (yesterday’s baking); four
ounces lean meat; one pint coffee or other fluid.
_Dinner_.—Four and a-half ounces brown bread; six ounces any lean meat
(or, if preferred as an occasional substitute, half-pint of soup—ten
ounces); six ounces green vegetables; one pint fluid.
_Tea_.—One and a-half ounces brown bread; half a pint of coffee.
_Supper_.—One or two glasses of wine, or a glass of spirit and water
(except rum); and two ounces biscuit.
_Total_.—Two pounds solid and three pints fluid.
_Bed-time_.—One teaspoonful liquorice powder (German pharmacopoeia) in
half a tumbler of water.
I have parcelled the above out into meals to meet the ordinary taste,
though it is quite immaterial how or when the quantity is taken. It is,
moreover, a matter of perfect indifference whether tea (no sugar or
milk), claret, or, in fact, any other fluid (except ale and aërated or
effervescing drinks), is substituted for coffee.
The principal points on which I differ from the so-called “Banting”
system are:—
(_a_) The limiting of the quantity till a proper reduction has taken
place.
(_b_) The occasional substituting (if desired) of soup for meat, which I
have found attended with no inconvenience.
(_c_) The substitution of brown bread or brown biscuit for toast or
rusk—thereby obviating constipation.
(_d_) The taking of liquorice powder at bed-time in lieu of the alkaline
on rising.
To the uninitiated the above may appear trifles; their advantage can only
be estimated by those who have tried both systems.
CHAPTER XIV.
COLDBATH FIELDS.
AS the key turned in the ponderous door, and I found myself, with sixteen
others, standing on a huge mat in a dismal corridor, I realised that I
had arrived “home,” or at what I might consider as such, for—as I
imagined—the next eighteen months. I had already passed one week in
Newgate, and really thought, in the sanguineness of my heart, that I had
made a considerable hole in my sentence, and that the remaining
seventy-seven weeks would soon slip by. My first intimation that the
place was inhabited, except by mutes, was hearing a metallic voice
saying, _pro bono publico_, “You’ll find that talking is not permitted
here—you mustn’t talk.” By peering into the gloom I discovered that the
voice belonged to a bald head, and the bald head to a venerable head
warder. The poor old man was super-annuated shortly after, and evidently
meant to show the recruits he was not to be trifled with, and that there
was life in the old dog yet. We were next taken through endless
corridors to the “Reception Room.” Can any name be more suggestive of
satire, except perhaps “Mount Pleasant,” the hill so called on which the
prison stands, bounded at each corner by a public-house, and a “pop-shop”
here and there sandwiched in between! The reception we received in the
Reception Room was far from a cordial one; it was, indeed, as cold as the
weather outside. The Reception Room is octagon shape, with benches
arranged over the entire floor; on these we were directed to sit down,
about a yard apart. In front was a large desk and a high stool, on which
a turnkey was perched, whose sole duty was to prevent the least
intercourse between the prisoners; in fact, the entire room and its
fittings conveyed the impression of being connected with a charity school
for mutes. The Reception Room is the first and last place a prisoner
passes through; it is here that, on his arrival, he is transformed into
the Queen’s livery, and again on his departure reverts to citizen’s
clothing—it is, in fact, the filter through which the dregs of London
have to pass before becoming sufficiently purified to be again permitted
to mingle with the pure stream outside. The silence of the grave is its
normal condition, where the novice receives a foretaste of the “silent
system.”
[Picture: The Effects of a Warm Bath at “Coldbath.”]
We must have sat thus silently for at least an hour, when a door from
outside was unlocked, and a warder, accompanied by two prisoners carrying
sacks, made their appearance. The contents of these, being thrown on the
floor, were discovered to be boots, not new ones, or even pairs, but very
old and dirty, mended and patched with lumps of leather on the soles, on
the heels, and, in fact, anywhere. We were now invited to “fit”
ourselves, and a scramble ensued amongst a section of the prisoners. I
selected a nondescript pair, tied by a cord, as unsuited a couple as ever
were united, the right foot of which would have fitted an elephant, and
the left have been tight for a cork leg. With this unsavoury acquisition
on my lap I resumed my seat. It is the custom, as I before hinted, to
show one the worst of everything at first, and the rule that applied to
the cells was clearly in force regarding the boots. I found, however,
that after the general “fit,” and when a comparative lull ensued, that
some of the more fortunate ones had better ones supplied, and I shortly
after received a new pair in exchange for my “fit.” The next thing that
made its appearance was a basket full of caps and stocks. Here I was
less fortunate, and the size of my head precluded the possibility of a
fit. The basket was followed by a bundle of wooden labels, on each of
which our various names were inscribed; with these in our hands, we were
told to “Come along.” My label considerably puzzled me. We now found
ourselves in the corridor devoted to baths, where each man received a
bundle of clothing. The object of the label now manifested itself; it
was to attach to our clothes—not likely to be wanted for some time. The
bundles consisted of a pair of blue worsted socks, a blue striped shirt,
a blue pocket-handkerchief the thickness of a tile, a towel as coarse as
a nutmeg-grater, and a suit of clothes. The clothes, when new, are
really very good, and by no means objectionable. There is nothing of
that conspicuous, degrading appearance about them that distinguishes the
convict dress. On the contrary, the trousers and vest are well cut, and
made of good warm mole-skin; the jacket is a capital material, and were
it not for painful associations, and the possibility of unpleasant
attentions from zealous policemen, I would gladly have a suit of the
jacket material. The otherwise agreeable effect is somewhat marred by
the broad-arrow Government mark, which appears to be applied regardless
of all symmetry and indeed of all expense. No general rule apparently
exists as to the marking of this cloth, which one must conclude is left
entirely to the discretion and good taste of the individual armed with
the paint-pot. This want of uniformity thus lends an agreeable variety
to the different appearances of individuals; for my part, I always felt
that I resembled the “Seven of Spades.” The Baths are, as I found them
at Newgate, in themselves excellent, and if one could forget one’s
probable predecessor, the enjoyment would be considerably enhanced. They
were, I daresay, perfectly clean, though I always fancied I detected a
Seven-Dials mouse-trap flavour in the atmosphere, and in the water. The
bath, as an institution, admirably fulfils its twofold function; it
insures a thorough wash, and removes the last trace of one’s former self.
Entering the apartment with the bundle under my arm, I proceeded to
divest myself of my clothing. I had not, however, been many seconds
submerged before an eye was applied to the peephole, followed by the
entrance of a turnkey, and all my clothing was carefully removed. The
process of re-dressing was not an easy one; nothing came within a foot of
my size except the socks; the overalls declined to do anything like
meeting, and a piece of twine was pressed into the service. The
waistcoat was another trial, necessitating the turnkey calling for the
“corpulent waistcoat.” Trussed up in this fashion, I patiently awaited
the “corpulent” waistcoat, a marvel of tailoring. The chest measurement
could not have exceeded thirty-six; whilst the waist (?) must have been
one hundred. From the “corpulent” one only reaching half-way down my
chest, I concluded that its original owner must have been about
five-foot-nothing. But the warder very good-naturedly said “he’d make it
all right,” and not long after I was measured, and within twenty-four
hours possessed a brand-new suit. My enormous size also necessitated
special shirts; a couple were made in an incredibly short space of time,
and all through my career I experienced the benefit of wearing linen that
had never been contaminated by contact with “baser metal.” The warder to
whom I was indebted for these delicate attentions was one of the best in
the prison, and though I never came much in contact with him, I
understood he was a great favourite. He was connected with the stores,
and could get more done in an hour than one of the blustering kind in a
week. Before leaving the baths, I would wish to draw attention to a
custom that calls for immediate alteration. The system at present in
vogue is for all prisoners to have a bath immediately on arrival, _after_
which they undergo medical examination. At these examinations, as is
well known, many creatures are found, not only to be alive with vermin,
but suffering from itch. With these facts, that are not to be gainsaid,
common sense surely suggests a medical examination _before_ instead of
_after_ the bath, an arrangement which, however disagreeable to the
surgeons, would be a considerable benefit to the prison inmates
generally. It is a common occurrence for men who have been in prison
three, and even six months, to be found to be suffering from itch, and it
is equally certain that they caught it in these baths, which are _pro
bono publico_ once a fortnight. I thank God I was spared any of these
“plagues,” though I never took my periodical dip without finding my
thoughts wandering to Scotland and the Argyll (not Bignell’s).
Having joined my companions we were reconducted to the reception-room,
which by this time was crowded by contributions from the various
Police-courts. My Newgate friend Mike was now thoroughly in his element;
he appeared to take a pride in showing his intimacy with the etiquette of
the place, and seemed quite hurt if a warder didn’t recognize him as an
old acquaintance. As I looked down the benches now fully occupied, I
fancied I could have distinguished every new comer from the _habitué_ by
the way they wore their caps. The new hands put them on in such a manner
that they resembled a quartern loaf, whilst the more experienced—such as
Mike—cocked them with a jaunty air as if proud of the effect. At a later
period I observed that a great deal of vanity existed on the subject of
toilet amongst the regular jail-birds: they plastered down their hair—as
I know—with the greasy skimmings of their soup, or applications of suet
pudding; and many—incredible as it may appear—shaved regularly with their
tin knives and the back of a plate for a mirror. Hair-cutting now
commenced, and anyone whose hair was too long was effectually operated
on. It is a mistake to suppose that prisoners’ hair is cut in the
barbarous manner that is applied to convicts; nothing is done to them
beyond what a soldier has to submit to—namely, having his hair and beard
of moderate length. As I have all through life kept what I have as close
as possible, the hair-cutting in my case was dispensed with, and through
the subsequent few months I had always to ask for the services of the
barber, and invariably received the same reply—“Surely, yours is short
enough!” There was one item in the crop I was never subjected
to—probably because my moustache was small—but which I certainly should
not have liked; it was the habit of clipping the ends square to the lip.
I’ve often seen men in London and elsewhere with this distinctive crop,
which I should now invariably associate with prison life; and if I met a
Bishop who affected this style it would be difficult to convince me that
I had not met him “elsewhere.” The next person that intruded himself
was—as I was informed—a chaplain. His attire was far from clerical, and
consisted of a billycock hat—not a good, honest, disreputable one, but
one of your shabby-genteels, so infinitely more fatal—a coat that
suggested Crosse and Blackwell’s cut, and boots suspiciously resembling
the prison make. He interrogated me in my turn, though I fear his
curiosity was far from satisfied. His mania was the ceremony of
“confirmation,” and when he discovered I had omitted that essential form,
I at once passed into his black books. Happily, I was perfectly
indifferent to his displeasure or his patronage—indeed the latter would
have been the most unbearable. He never forgave me, however, as a
discreditable tiff we had long after conclusively proved. As I got to
see more of this shining light I began to suspect that he must have been
a Jesuit, he did so much to make Protestantism obnoxious.
I was next passed on to a schoolmaster—a gradual improvement in
accordance with the system is here apparent—who amused me by inquiring if
I could read, how I spelt “oxen,” if I could write, and if I thought I
could “write a letter?” This latter question was very conclusively set
at rest a week later by an incident that occurred in which I was the
chief culprit, and which necessitated the collective wisdom of the Home
Office and a full bench of the Visiting Justices to adjudicate upon.
Meanwhile, I had “passed” this scorching examination, and had to sit
quietly by and listen to illiterate costermongers and rascally
pickpockets being severally questioned. It had its amusing features,
although I felt how degrading it was for a public school-boy and a
gentleman by birth and education to be compelled under any combination of
circumstances to submit to be catechized by such a trio. The next person
to appear was the doctor—the dearest, kindest old gentleman I ever met.
His manner to all was alike considerate and kind; one, moreover, who
seemed to be aware that the position of a gentleman (unless usurped by a
cad) loses nothing of its dignity by a courteous bearing towards
inferiors or men placed in a painful position—a manner that inspired
respect and yet precluded the possibility of a liberty, a refreshing
contrast to a nondescript that had preceded him, and the beau idéal of a
fine old English gentleman. Stripped to the waist and behind a screen,
we were one by one subjected to a minute examination. A schemer had a
very sorry look-out with this eminent physician; no dodge could possibly
avail, for he was intimate with every “ailment” that criminal flesh is
heir to. It was amusing, after hearing some rascal relate the numerous
complaints from which he was suffering, to hear the surgeon quietly say
with a smile, “Oh, you’ll soon be all right,” and to see the hospital
warder write down, “Fit, hard labour.” This short and apparently
informal ceremony is the most momentous in one’s future career, and
though unaware of it at the time, I was not surprised later on at the
importance attached to it by the experienced criminal. By it one’s
future treatment is entirely guided, and the class of labour is carefully
selected in accordance with its decision. A card, then and there signed
by the surgeon, and which is always fixed on one’s cell door, decides
one’s future vocation; and “Hard labour,” or “Light labour and bed,” bear
a significance incredible to the uninitiated. As I stood before the kind
old man stripped to the waist (or rather to where my waist now is) I was
amused by his astonishment at my enormous proportions. I satisfied him I
was not deceiving him by a reference to an operation I had once
undergone; and this, coupled with my unnatural size, decided him I was
incapable of hard labour, and the words, “Light labour and bed,” were
recorded on my card. Before many hours had passed I realized the benefit
of those magic words. These preliminaries, as is always the case in
well-constructed dramas or farces, only led up to the event of the
day—the inspection by the Governor. In Her Majesty’s prisons these
individuals are clothed in attributes something more than mortal, and
receive an amount of homage sufficient to turn the head of a fool or a
snob. In this instance the Governor was neither, and though a strict
disciplinarian, was the justest and “straightest” man I ever met.
Prisoners and warders were equally amenable to his discipline, and the
slightest dereliction of duty brought him down on you like a load of
bricks. There was no abuse or verbosity accompanying this discipline,
and though he was feared, I believe he was equally liked and respected by
every man in the prison. The advent of such a personage naturally
involved a proportionate amount of preparation, and everything received
an overhaul. Men who wore Her Majesty’s livery for the first time, and
were mere babes in the mysteries of its graceful adjustment, were told to
put their stocks “square on,” or button this button and not that of their
vests and jackets; lumps of coal that had burned crooked were carefully
straightened, and even the coal-box got a lick of whitewash at the last
moment. We were then rehearsed in a sort of drill: every man was
informed that when “attention” was called he was at once to “spring” up
smartly and remain standing—an old vagrant, aged 100 to judge by his
appearance, “sprang” with so much zeal that I really thought he had
cricked his neck. When all the preparations were considered complete,
and we had attained an efficiency worthy the reputation of the “North
Corks,” and as some minutes had yet to elapse before the great man’s
arrival, it was deemed advisable to fix our thoughts in the same
reverential groove by reading certain rules for our future guidance. The
following notice is one of the half-dozen that hang up in every cell—all
of which I shall produce hereafter. They can hardly be considered as
light reading, or such as one would select unless absolutely compelled;
nevertheless, they afforded me a certain amount of occupation by learning
them by heart during the many solitary hours I spent hereafter:—
ABSTRACT OF THE REGULATIONS
RELATING TO THE
TREATMENT AND CONDUCT OF CONVICTED
CRIMINAL PRISONERS.
1. Prisoners shall not disobey the orders of the Governor or of any
officer of the prison, nor treat them with disrespect.
2. They shall preserve silence, and are not to cause annoyance or
disturbance by making unnecessary noise.
3. They shall not communicate or attempt to do so with one another,
or with any strangers or others who may visit the prison.
4. They shall not disfigure any part of their cells or damage any
property, or deface, erase, destroy, or pull down any rules or other
papers hung up therein, or commit any nuisance, or have in their
cells or possession any article not sanctioned by the orders and
regulations.
5. They shall not be idle, nor feign sickness to evade their work.
6. They shall not be guilty of profane language, of indecent or
irreverent conduct, nor shall they use threats towards or commit
assaults upon officers or one another.
7. They shall obey such regulations as regards washing, bathing,
hair-cutting, and shaving as may from time to time be established,
with a view to the proper maintenance of health and cleanliness.
8. They shall keep their cells, utensils, clothing, and bedding
clean and neatly arranged, and shall when required clean and sweep
the yards, passages, and other parts of the prison.
9. If any prisoner has any complaint to make regarding the diet, it
must be made immediately after a meal is served and before any
portion of it is eaten. Frivolous and groundless complaints,
repeatedly made, will be dealt with as a breach of prison discipline.
10. A prisoner may, if required for the purposes of justice, be
photographed.
11. Prisoners shall attend divine service on Sundays, and on other
days when such service is performed, unless they receive permission
to be absent. No prisoner shall be compelled to attend the religious
service of a church to which he does not belong.
12. The following offences committed by male prisoners convicted of
felony or sentenced to hard labour will render them liable to
corporal punishment:—
1st. Mutiny or open incitement to mutiny in the prison, personal
violence to any officer of the prison, aggravated or repeated
assaults on a fellow-prisoner, repetition of insulting or threatening
language to any officer or prisoner.
2nd. Wilfully and maliciously breaking the prison windows, or
otherwise destroying the prison property.
3rd. When under punishment, wilfully making a disturbance tending to
interrupt the order and discipline of the prison, and any other act
of gross misconduct or insubordination requiring to be suppressed by
extraordinary means.
13. A prisoner committing a breach of any of the regulations is
liable to be sentenced to confinement in a punishment cell, and such
dietary and other punishments as the rules allow.
14. Any gratuity granted to a prisoner may be paid to him through a
Prisoners’ Aid Society, or in such way as the Commissioners may
direct.
15. Prisoners may, if they desire it, have an interview with the
Governor or superior authority to make complaints or prefer requests;
and the Governor shall redress any grievance or take such steps as
may seem necessary.
16. Any prisoner wishing to see a member of the Visiting Committee
shall be allowed to do so on the occasion of his next occurring visit
to the prison.
* * * * *
_Printed at H.M. Convict Prison_, _Millbank_.
* * * * *
A slamming of doors and turning of keys, and a perfect Babel of voices
shouting “Attention!” heralded the Governor’s approach. I can only
compare the discord to that which invariably accompanies the progress of
an African tribe through a friendly village. A few pop-guns and a
tom-tom or two would certainly make the resemblance more complete, though
they would probably be objected to by the Home Office on the plea of want
of precedent.
The halo of veneration that surrounds a prison governor is by no means
confined to himself, but obliquely and in a modified form imparts itself
to the humblest of his followers. A miserable door-slammer that usually
accompanied him, and combined with this important duty the occasional
distribution of letters, amused me on one occasion when I ventured to ask
him if he had a letter for me. Such a liberty “from the likes of me to
the likes of him” was hardly to be tolerated; and he had the cheek to
send me a message that “he objected to be spoken to when accompanying the
Governor.”
The door at length opened, and the great man was in the room.
“Attention!” was shrieked out as only sycophants can do, and duly
responded to; and the halt and the maim, “Old Hundred,” myself, burglars,
and pickpockets, presented one uninterrupted, swerving, rickety line. As
a spectacle, it must have been truly imposing, during which the Governor
sat down. Our names were then respectively called out, and we crossed
from one bench to another to show, as it were, our action. Not a muscle
of the inspecting officer’s face moved during these scenes in the arena;
and it might have been the Sphinx inspecting the army of Pharaoh, so
little attention did he apparently pay to us. Nothing, however, had
escaped him; and I learnt to believe there was some truth in the
assertion that he had eyes in his boots, if not in his pockets also.
As may be supposed, these various inspections took a considerable time,
and the day was drawing in before they were all ended. We were thereupon
informed that we should occupy temporary cells for “this night only,” and
that our final allotment to various parts of the prison would be
postponed till the morrow. The cell I now found myself in was indeed a
small one—evidently only used as a half-way house, and fitted as
sparingly as the thermometer one at Newgate. A notice posted up warned
us not to go to bed till the bell rang at eight; and not wishing to break
a rule before I had been in the place a day, I foolishly complied with
the order.
Meanwhile it was getting dark, and though a gaspipe was fitted into the
wall, there was not the slightest indication of its being likely to be
lit. Mike, who had frequently been here before, intimated his intention
of turning in, and, “order be blowed!” strongly advised us to do the
same. I only regret I was weak enough not to. The gloom gradually
increased till we were left in outer darkness. To find the bed-clothing
would now have been a difficulty; to make any resemblance to a bed an
absolute impossibility. Still, on the strength of the notice, I waited
through many dark and cold hours, until a brute with a human voice
shouted out from somewhere, “You chaps will get no light to-night, so you
can turn in when you please.” I was informed afterwards this was a
favourite and utterly unauthorized assumption of authority on the part of
this bully, and I trust it has only to be noticed to preclude the
possibility of its continuance. It was a barbarous and cowardly act, and
strictly opposed to the usual system of the prison. How I got through
that cold night I cannot tell, for bed, bedding and light were all
strangers to me; but night, more merciful than man, threw its mantle over
me, and I slept as sound as only the weary can.
CHAPTER XV.
“OAKUM” LET US SING.
NEXT morning after breakfast we were drafted to our various localities,
and, incredible as it may appear, and to show how efficient is the
isolation system, men with whom I parted company that morning I never saw
again, though I knew they were in the same building. Our various
destinations were indicated in a somewhat primitive style—a huge
chalk-mark on our backs. As I threaded my way through various wards with
a C scrawled on my back, a smell of tar indicated our approach to what
might under altered circumstances have been presumed to be a
ship-chandler’s; it was, however, only the oakum district. We were here
received by the warder in command, and I was assigned to the fifth
storey. I was further presented with my official number—594, on a brass
plate.
I now discovered the benefit of “light labour and bed.” This particular
ward, together with the two in its immediate vicinity, is principally
devoted to fresh arrivals; bed is the exception and oakum is the rule.
It is absolutely impossible for any accident to exempt you from
commencing your career for one month in these wards; it rests, however,
with yourself whether you pick oakum or find a substitute. I decided on
the latter course. The system of prison life is such a contemptible one,
and the espionage, jealousy, currying favour, and tale-bearing so general
between the officials from the highest to the lowest, that this portion
of my task is a very delicate one. Whatever I write will be carefully
sifted; and if I give the slightest clue capable of being followed up, I
should probably injure some warder, assistant warder, or prisoner who did
me incalculable services at great personal risk; and as this is the last
thing I have the smallest intention of doing, I wish to state, once for
all, that all names and dates I give are intentionally altered, and that
any official who ever befriended me has nothing to fear from my
revelations.
[Picture: A Cell. 8 A.M.]
As I ascended the spiral staircase a shout of “Coming up!” intimated to
the attics that a fresh victim was approaching, and I was formally
received and conducted to my cell. The first impression of my permanent
address was not encouraging. On a shelf was a Bible and prayer-book, a
tin plate, a tin mug, and a tin knife, a wooden spoon, a box of salt, and
a piece of soap, producing a combination such as may be seen in any of
the illustrated papers during a small war, and supposed to illustrate, as
circumstances require, the utensils in daily use amongst Zulus, Ashantis
or whatever savages we may happen to be slaughtering at the time. In
another corner was a diminutive basin the size of a saucepan, a
slop-pail, and a can of water. On a shelf was a rug and two blankets;
bed or bedstead was conspicuous by its absence; and on the table was a
lump of rope. My turnkey, having examined my card, ordered in a bed and
bedstead, and explained that the rope was to be converted into oakum. A
few words and we understood one another; in short, he was a man after my
own heart. I have no scruple in mentioning this, for I regret to say the
man was dismissed shortly after—through no fault of mine, though
indirectly connected with me. I can never forgive myself when I reflect
that I had any share in the transaction, though it is a consolation to
know that, had he been as careful as he ought, nothing could have brought
the offence home to him. In the first instance, he was the victim of as
foul a piece of treachery as ever disgraced humanity, and then he lost
his head, and compromised himself when absolute silence would have
cleared him. I shall narrate the particulars later on. In addition to
the above-named furniture, the walls were decorated with a number of
printed notices describing your duties, diet, &c., and a prayer (!); a
wooden—so much a dozen—effort, supposed to be specially adapted to the
requirements of “awakening burglars.” I learnt all these by heart by way
of amusement, and will give them for the benefit of the reader. I take
especial pleasure in reproducing them, as I believe they’ve never seen
daylight before.
* * * * *
SYSTEM OF PROGRESSIVE STAGES FOR MALE
PRISONERS SENTENCED TO HARD LABOUR.
1. A prisoner shall be able to earn on each weekday 8, 7, or 6
marks, according to the degree of his industry; and on Sunday he
shall be awarded marks according to the degree of his industry during
the previous week.
2. There shall be four stages, and every prisoner shall pass through
them or through so much of them as the term of his imprisonment
admits.
3. He shall commence in the first stage, and shall remain in the
first stage until he has earned 28 × 8, or 224 marks; in the second
stage until he has earned 224 more marks, or 448 in the whole; in the
third stage until he has earned 224 more marks, or 672 in the whole;
in the fourth stage during the remainder of his sentence.
4. A prisoner whose term of imprisonment is twenty-eight days or
less shall serve the whole of his term in the first stage.
5. A prisoner who is idle, or who misconducts himself, or is
inattentive to instruction, shall be liable
(1) To forfeit gratuity earned or to be earned, or
(2) To forfeit any other stage privileges.
(3) To detention in the stage in which he is until he shall have
earned in that stage an additional number of marks.
(4) To degradation to any lower stage (whether such stage is next
below the one in which he is or otherwise) until he has earned in
such lower stage a stated number of marks.
As soon as the prisoner has earned the stated number, then, unless he
has in the meantime incurred further punishment, he shall be restored
to the stage from which he was degraded, and be credited with the
number of marks he had previously earned therein.
6. None of the foregoing punishments shall exempt a prisoner from
any other punishment to which he would be liable for conduct
constituting a breach of prison regulations.
7. A prisoner in the first stage will
(_a_) Be employed ten hours daily in strict separation on first class
hard labour, of which six to eight hours will be on crank,
tread-wheel, or work of a similar nature.
(_b_) Sleep on a plank-bed without a mattress.
(_c_) Earn no gratuity.
8. A prisoner in the second stage will
(_a_) Be employed as in the first stage until he has completed one
month of imprisonment, and afterwards on hard labour of the second
class.
(_b_) Sleep on a plank-bed without a mattress two nights weekly and
have a mattress on the other nights.
(_c_) Receive school instruction.
(_d_) Have school books in his cell.
(_e_) Have exercise on Sunday.
(_f_) Be able to earn a gratuity not exceeding 1s.
(_g_) The gratuity to a prisoner in this stage, whose sentence is not
long enough for him to earn 224 marks in it, may be calculated at 1d.
for every 20 marks earned.
9. A prisoner in the third stage will—
(_a_) Be employed on second class hard labour.
(_b_) Sleep on a plank-bed without a mattress one night weekly, and
have a mattress on other nights.
(_c_) Receive school instruction.
(_d_) Have school books in his cell.
(_e_) Have library books in his cell.
(_f_) Have exercise on Sunday.
(_g_) Be able to earn a gratuity not exceeding 1s. 6d.
(_h_) The gratuity to a prisoner in this stage, whose sentence is not
long enough for him to earn 224 marks in it, may be calculated at 1d.
for every 12 marks earned.
10. A prisoner in the fourth stage will—
(_a_) Be eligible for employment of trust in the service of the
prison.
(_b_) Sleep on a Mattress every night.
(_c_) Receive school instruction.
(_d_) Have school books in his cell.
(_e_) Have library books in his cell.
(_f_) Have exercise on Sunday.
(_g_) Be allowed to receive and write a letter and receive a visit of
twenty minutes; and in every three months afterwards to receive and
write a letter, and receive a visit of half-an-hour.
(_h_) Be able to earn a gratuity not exceeding 2s.
(_i_) The gratuity to a prisoner in this stage, whose sentence is not
long enough for him to earn 224 marks in it, may be calculated at 1d.
for every 10 marks earned.
(_j_) The gratuity to a prisoner in this stage, whose sentence is
long enough to enable him to earn more than 896 marks, may be
calculated at the same rate, provided that it shall not in any case
exceed 10s.
* * * * *
_Printed at H.M. Convict Prison_, _Millbank_.
* * * * *
The composition of this abstract, alternating as it does between threats
of punishment and hopes of “employments of trust,” clearly stamps it as
intended to appeal to the feelings and adapt itself to the capacities of
the lowest classes. That any man of education could be roused to any
degree of ambition by such “trust” as would be likely to be placed in
him, is to suppose an impossible absurdity. The “system” throttles any
such contingency, and leads—as all short-sighted policies do—to men
believing in no such thing as good faith, and having no inward
restraining motive for abstaining from deception. Why will not the Chief
Commissioner of Prisons see that the brute power at their disposal is
wholly inadequate to prevent a man with a modicum of brains and a few
sovereigns from doing as he pleases? Let them try the “confidence trick”
in a modified form with the better class of prisoners, and if it is found
to fail, revert to the hard and fast rule. A discretionary power in the
hands of such a man as the Governor of Coldbath Fields would thoroughly
test the experiment.
What trash “employment of trust” sounds to a man who knows that from
first to last—however exemplary his behaviour—he is suspected, and never
supposed to be lost sight of!
Personally, I felt I’d as lief be in the punishment cells as in any
“employment of trust”; they are both birds of the same feather,
recognizing no code but brute force, distrust, and degrees of punishment.
I can only compare the prison system to a huge machine, capable of
crushing a man body and soul, or handling him so lightly that nothing but
the “idea” and its moral obligations remain to remind him of its hideous
proximity. If any further proof is required of the truth of my
deductions, my personal experience will amply provide it.
SHORT PRAYERS FOR MORNING AND EVENING.
_Morning_.
O GOD and Holy Father, Thou hast in mercy watched over me through the
night; in Thy tender love keep me this day from evil. I have greatly
sinned against Thee. Do Thou turn me from all my evil ways; wash me
in the blood of Jesus, and let Thy Spirit lead me that I may hate sin
and love what is right. Let Thy grace preserve me amidst all trials,
that I may be made truly a servant of Jesus Christ and ever love and
serve my God and Saviour. Amen.
_Evening_.
O GOD, Thou hast safely brought me to the close of another day. May
Thy goodness lead me to repentance that I may give Thee my heart.
Forgive all my evil thoughts, and words, and deeds. What good
thoughts I have had from Thee do Thou strengthen, that I may love
Thee more and serve Thee better. Keep me, O God, and all whom I
love, from danger or sin this night, and so preserve us by Thy grace
that at last we may sleep in Jesus and be for ever with the Lord.
Amen.
This hypocritical effusion hangs over one’s table, and is supposed to be
admirably adapted for “awakening” burglars, and turning pickpockets from
the error of their ways. As a literary composition it is beneath
criticism, and would disgrace a “National School” boy in a proclaimed
district. I don’t know who is the inspired author, nor how they are sold
by the dozen.
NOTICE.
“Prisoners who desire assistance from the agent of the Discharged
Prisoners’ Relief Committee, in finding employment on discharge,
should apply to the Governor fourteen days before they go out, when
their cases will be investigated. Wilfully false statements as to
antecedents, &c., will disqualify a prisoner from assistance, as will
also misconduct in prison.”
There is no institution I heard so much abused as the above, and although
I cannot speak from personal knowledge, I should say that a thorough
enquiry into its working (not its profession) might possibly be attended
with benefit. Beyond seeing a fly-blown old man waddling about the
prison, who, I was informed, was the agent, I know nothing, and care
less, about this doubtless admirable institution.
* * * * *
DIETARY FOR CONVICTED PRISONERS.
No. 1.
MEN, WOMEN, AND BOYS UNDER SIXTEEN YEARS OF AGE, WITH AND WITHOUT
HARD LABOUR.
Breakfast Daily 8 ounces bread.
Dinner Daily 1½ pint _stirabout_
(containing 3 ounces
Indian meal and 3
ounces oatmeal).
Supper Daily 8 ounces bread.
No. 2.
MEN WITH HARD LABOUR.
Breakfast Daily 6 ounces bread, 1
pint gruel.
Dinner Sunday and Wednesday 6 ounces bread, 8
ounces suet pudding.
Monday and Friday 6 ounces bread, 8
ounces potatoes.
Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday 6 ounces bread, ½
pint soup.
Supper Daily 6 ounces bread, 1
pint gruel.
MEN WITHOUT HARD LABOUR, WOMEN, AND BOYS UNDER SIXTEEN YEARS OF AGE.
Breakfast Daily 5 ounces bread, 1
pint gruel.
Dinner Sunday and Wednesday 5 ounces bread, 6
ounces suet pudding.
Monday and Friday 5 ounces bread, 8
ounces potatoes.
Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday 5 ounces bread, ½
pint soup.
Supper Daily 5 ounces bread, 1
pint gruel.
No. 3.
MEN WITH HARD LABOUR.
Breakfast Daily 8 ounces bread, 1
pint gruel.
Dinner Sunday and Wednesday 4 ounces bread, 8
ounces potatoes, 8
ounces suet pudding.
Monday and Frid
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