Eighteenth Century Waifs

by John Ashton

‘“Well, then,” (quoth Jacob), “I’ll tell you what it is, it is the King’s Process against this Gentleman that is going to commit us to Newgate; therefore, in my Execution of it, I require you, as you are a Constable, to keep the Peace.”

‘This turn of the Dice made the Magistrate, the Peace Officer, and all the Rusticks stare at one another as if they were out of their Senses. However, Jacob brought his Prisoner to London, and oblig’d him to make Satisfaction before he got out of his Clutches.’

The above anecdotes illustrate the humorous side of a bailiff’s life, but sometimes they met with very rough treatment, nay, were even killed. On the 4th of August, 1722, a bailiff named Boyce was killed by a blacksmith, who ran a red-hot iron into him; and the book I have quoted from thus speaks of bailiffs as ‘such Villains, whose Clan is suppos’d to descend from the cursed Seed of Ham, and therefore stinks in the Nostrils of all honest Men. Some of them have been paid in their own Coyn, for Captain Bew kill’d a Sergeant of one of the Compters. Shortly after, a Bailiff was kill’d in Grays-Inn Walks; another Bailiff had his Hand chopt off by a Butcher in Hungerford Market, in the Strand, of which Wound he dyed the next Day, and another Man kill’d two Bailiffs at once with a couple of Pistols in Houghton Street, by Clare Market, for which he was touch’d with a cold iron[48] at the Sessions House at the Old Baily, besides several others of that detestable Tribe have deservedly suffer’d the same fate....

‘But, by the way, we must take Notice that a Bailiff is Universally hated by Man, Woman, or Child, who dearly love to see them duckt (Pick-pocket like) in the Muse Pond,[49] or the cleanly Pond of the Horse Guards, at Whitehall, and sometimes well rinsed at the Temple, or Grays-Inn Pump; and if any of these napping Scoundrels is taken within the Liberty of the Mint, the enraged Inhabitants of this Place tye him fast with Ropes in a Wheelbarrow; then they trundle him about the Streets, with great Shouts and Huzzas.... After he is convey’d in the like Order to a stinking Ditch, near St. George’s Fields, where he is plunged over Head and Ears, à la mode de Pickpocket; and then, to finish the Procession, he is solemnly convey’d to a Pump, according to the antient Custom of the Place, where he is sufficiently drench’d for all his dirty Doings.’

This, as I have said, shows the humorous side of imprisonment for debt. An unimpeachable and veracious authority, one who only gave dry statistics, and did not draw upon his imagination for his facts, was John Howard, the philanthropist, who published, in 1777, ‘The State of the Prisons in England and Wales.’ From his report we learn that the allowance to debtors was a penny loaf a day—and when we consider that, during the French war, bread at one time rose to a price equivalent to our half-crown per quartern loaf, it could hardly be called a sufficient diet. But the City of London, generous then, as ever, supplemented this with a daily (? weekly) supply of sixteen stone, or one hundred and twenty-eight pounds, of beef, which, as Howard gives the average of debtors in two years (1775-6) at thirty-eight, would be more than ample for their needs—and there were other charities amounting to fifty or sixty pounds a year—but, before they were discharged, they were compelled to pay the keeper a fee of eight shillings and tenpence.

In the Fleet Prison they had no allowance, but, if they made an affidavit that they were not worth five pounds, and could not subsist without charity, they had divided amongst them the proceeds of the begging-box and grate, and the donations which were sent to the prison. Of these, Howard says, at the time of his visit, there were seventeen. But the other prisoners who had any money had every facility afforded them to spend it. There was a tap, at which they could purchase whatever liquor they required; there was a billiard-table, and, in the yard, they could play at skittles, Mississippi, fives, tennis, &c. On Monday nights there was a wine club, and on Thursday nights a beer club, both of which usually lasted until one or two in the morning; and pretty scenes of riot and drunkenness took place. The prisoners were allowed to have their wives and children to live with them.

Ludgate had ceased to exist, and the debtors were transferred to New Ludgate, in Bishopsgate Street. It was a comparatively aristocratic debtors’ prison, for it was only for debtors who were free of the City, for clergymen, proctors, and attorneys. Here, again, the generosity of the City stepped in; and, for an average number of prisoners of twenty-five, ten stone, or eighty pounds of beef, were given weekly, together with a daily penny loaf for each prisoner. The lord mayor and sheriffs sent them coals, and Messrs. Calvert, the brewers, sent weekly two barrels of small beer, besides which, there were some bequests.

The Poultry Compter was in the hands of a keeper who had bought the place for life, and was so crowded that some of the prisoners had to sleep on shelves over the others, and neither straw nor bedding was allowed them. The City gave a penny loaf daily to the prisoners, and remitted for their benefit the rent of thirty pounds annually; the Calverts also sent them beer. At Howard’s visits, eight men had their wives and children with them.

Wood Street Compter was not a pleasant abode, for Howard says the place swarmed with bugs. There were thirty-nine debtors, and their allowance was a daily penny loaf from the City, two barrels of beer weekly from the Calverts; the sheriffs gave them thirty-two pounds of beef on Saturdays, and for some years a benevolent baker sent them, weekly, a large leg and shin of beef.

At Whitechapel was a prison for debtors, in the liberty and manor of Stepney and Hackney, but it was only for very small debtors, those owing above two pounds, and under five. Howard’s story of this prison is a very sad one, the occupants being so very poor: