This ebook was transcribed by Les Bowler
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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 | |
CHAPTER II | |
THE HOUSE OF DETENTION | |
CHAPTER III | |
“SETTLINGDOWN” | |
CHAPTER IV | |
“PRISONFARE” | |
CHAPTER V | |
GEORGINA | |
BOW STREET | |
CHAPTER VII | |
NEWGATE | |
CHAPTER VIII | |
THE SCAFFOLD | |
CHAPTER IX | |
A PRIVATE EXECUTION | |
CHAPTER X | |
“NEWGATEETIQUETTE” | |
CHAPTER XI | |
THE TITLED CONVICT | |
CHAPTER XII | |
THE CENTRAL CRIMINALCOURT | |
“CORPULENCY” | |
CHAPTER XIV | |
COLDBATH FIELDS | |
CHAPTER XV | |
“OAKUM” LET USSING | |
CHAPTER XVI | |
THE VISITING JUSTICES | |
CHAPTER XVII | |
PRISON TRADES | |
CHAPTER XVIII | |
THE OUTER WORLD | |
CHAPTER XIX | |
THE CONVALESCENT WARD | |
CRIMINAL LUNATICS | |
CHAPTER XXI | |
PRISON CELEBRITIES | |
CHAPTER XXII | |
THE TREAD-WHEEL | |
CHAPTER XXIII | |
GARDENING | |
CHAPTER XXIV | |
THE CHURCH MILITANT INPRISON | |
CHAPTER XXV | |
THE HOSPITAL DEAD-HOUSE | |
CHAPTER XXVI | |
BURGLARS “I HAVEMET” | |
“JUSTICE TEMPERED WITHMERCY” | |
CHAPTER XXVIII | |
RETROSPECT | |
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
| Page |
1.—“BlackMaria” | Frontispiece. |
2.—A Cheerful Group | |
3.—“Should oldAcquaintance be Forgot?” | |
4.—The Effects of a Warm Bathat “Coldbath” | |
5.—A Cell, 8 A.M. | |
6.—A Cell, 8 P.M. | |
7. —A Typical Turnkey | |
(a) Its Normal Expression. | |
(b) Corroborative Evidence. | |
8.—Counting | |
9.—“NegativesKept” | |
10.—Gardening—“Something Approaching” | |
11.—Gardening—“The Line Clear” | |
12.—Whence comest thou,Gehazi? (anexhortation to repentance) | |
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.
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.
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.”
High | |||
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.”
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:—