An “honourable and reverend” gentleman, who was convicted of forgery, and sentenced to transportation for life, became almost imbecile and useless in confinement; he, too, went to the colonies, where he “was last heard of performing divine service at an out-station at the rate of a shilling a service.”
A military man, of good family, who had become a gambler, and was convicted of enormous swindling transactions, proved in detention an idle, good-for-nothing rascal, who would do no work, and expected to be waited on.
Another ex-military officer was sentenced to seven years for striking the Queen. No motive could be found for the act, but in prison he declared that his sole object was to bring disgrace on his family, as his father had offended him. He was leniently treated, was popular with the officers, and eventually went to Australia.
These glimpses which the records of such a prison as Millbank give of men who have disappeared from the world are like scenes from Dante.
All hope, however, is not abandoned even when the gates of Millbank close behind a criminal. He still belongs to the world he has left.
A way back is kept open for him; and, though his old friends may know him no more, he has usually a chance of redeeming his position, perhaps under another name, in another land.
Upon Peace and his companions in crime arriving at Millbank, the first thing that was done on entering was to take the handcuffs off each convict; they were then told to seat themselves on a long bench in the passage.
Presently two chief warders arrived, accompanied by a medical officer and a clerk.
On their appearance the prisoners were told to rise and stand to attention. One of the chief warders walked along one line, and claimed more than one of the party.
By the time that certain preliminary preparations had been gone through, and the name, case, and crime of each prisoner had been entered into a book in the office, it was twelve o’clock, and dinner time.