This was an addition to the coat of his Grace’s ancestor, the Earl of Surrey, who commanded at Flodden Field, in 1513. There are also existing families which have derived their surnames from the names of the different crafts formerly engaged in the manufacture of the bow and its accompaniments; as, for instance, the names of Bowyer, Fletcher, Stringer, Arrowsmith, &c. If we refer to our language, there will be found many phrases and proverbial expressions drawn from or connected with archery; some suggesting forethought and caution, as “Always have two strings to your bow;” it being the custom of military archers to take additional bowstrings with them into the field of battle; “Get the shaft-hand of your adversaries;” “Draw not thy bow before thy arrow be fixed;” “Kill two birds with one shaft.” To make an enemy’s machinations recoil upon himself, they expressed by saying, “To outshoot a man in his own bow.” In reference to a vague, foolish guess, they used to say, “He shoots wide of his mark;” and of unprofitable, silly conversation, “A fool’s bolt is soon shot.” The unready and the unskilful archer did not escape the censure and warning of his fellows, although he might be a great man, and boast that he had “A famous bow—but it was up at the castle.” Of such they satirically remarked that “Many talked of Robin Hood, who never shot in his bow.” Our ancestors also expressed liberality of sentiment, and their opinion that merit belonged exclusively to no particular class or locality, by the following pithy expressions, “Many a good bow besides one
in Chester;” and “An archer is known by his aim, and not by his arrows.”
And what was the result of all this practice with the bow?—why, that we never feared invasion. Those were not times when old ladies were frightened out of their night’s sleep. Every Englishman was a free and fearless soldier; the foe might growl at a distance, but he never dared to touch our shores—to plunder our cities—to massacre our smiling babes—and to do outrage worse than death to our English womanhood; and so it will be seen now that the bow has been superseded by the rifle, when our young lads of public spirit respond to Tennyson’s patriotic appeal, “Form, Riflemen, form!”
CHAPTER XVII.
CRIMINAL LONDON.
A brochure of fifty pages, full of figures and tables, just issued, contains the criminal statistics of the metropolis, as shown by the police returns. It is not very pleasant reading, in any sense, but it no doubt has its value. We learn from it that last year the police took into custody 64,281 persons, of whom 29,863 were discharged by the magistrates, 31,565 summarily disposed of, and 2,853 committed for trial; of the latter number 2,312 were convicted, the rest being either acquitted or not prosecuted, or in their cases true bills were not found. About twenty years ago, in 1839, the number taken into custody rather exceeded that of last year, being 65,965; although since that period 135 parishes, hamlets, and liberties, with, in 1850, a population of 267,267, have been added to the metropolitan district, and although the entire population must have greatly increased in the interval. These returns exhibits strange variations in the activity of the police; while last year the apprehensions were, as stated, 64,281, in 1857 they amounted
to as much as 79,364. The difference is 15,000, and of that number in excess, not one-half were convicted, either summarily or after trial, the rest forming an excess in the whole of those discharged by the magistrates. It is a striking fact that nearly half the number of all whom the police take into custody are discharged, so that the discrimination of the police is far from being on a par with its activity.
Criminal London spends some considerable part of its time at Newgate, Clerkenwell, Wandsworth, Hollowway, and other establishments well-known to fame, and descriptions of which are familiar to the reader, but a favourite resort, also, is Portland Goal, which, by the kindness of Captain Clay, we were permitted, recently, to inspect. Portland Goal is situated on a neck of land near Weymouth.
To reach it, the better way is to take a passage in one of the numerous steamers which ply between Weymouth and Portland. In half an hour you will find yourself at the bottom of the chalk hill on which the prison is built. If you are sound in limb, and not deficient in wind, in another half hour you will find yourself at the principal entrance of the goal. But to get at the Prison is no easy work. The Captain of the steamer will tell you, you must take a trap the moment you get on shore, but Jehu will ask you so long a price as to put all idea of riding quite out of the question. The people on the island will give you but little information, and that of rather a contradictory
character. Undoubtedly the better plan is to trust to your own sense and legs. On our way we met an officer of the Royal Navy—a captain, we imagine. Before us, at a little distance, was what we took to be the prison, but we were not sure of the fact, and accordingly asked the gallant officer. We trust he was not a type of the service. He did not know what that building was before him: he did not know whether there was a prison there; and then he finished by asking us if we were one of the officials. If the French do come, let us hope Her Majesty’s fleet will have more acute officers than our gallant acquaintance! We arrived at the principal entrance, notwithstanding the non-success of our queries with the brave marine, at a quarter to one. Before we enter, let us look around. What a place for a man to get braced up in! What a jolly thing it would be for many a London Alderman could he come here for a few months. Just below is the prison, clean, snug, and warm. At our feet is the stupendous Breakwater, within which lie, as we trust they may ever lie, idle and secure, some of the ships comprising the Channel Fleet. Here, stealing into the bay like a bird with white wings, is a convict ship, coming to bear away to the Bermudas some of the convicts now shut up within those stone walls. If you look well at her through the glass you can see her live freight on board, for she only calls here for some fifty or sixty,—who, however, have no wish to leave Portland for harder work and a less healthy climate. Beyond is
Weymouth, and its comfortable hotels—its agreeable promenade—and with, in summer time, its pleasant bathing. Right across St. Albyn’s Head, and on the other side the Dorset coast, and straight across some eighty miles of the salt sea, is Cherbourg, with a breakwater far more formidable than that above which we stand. It is a clear bright sky above us, and in the light of the sun the scene is beautiful almost as one of fairy land.