Exercise at Coldbath was an important institution, and considering it was the only fresh air I at first experienced in the day, I always looked forward to it. An hour is the regulation time, but seldom is the boon of that duration; and if the warder is otherwise engaged, the exercise has to give way, and thus the prisoner is deprived of a healthy occupation to meet the convenience of a selfish turnkey. Overlooking the exercise-yard attached to C ward were a row of houses, and I often wondered what the lookers-on thought of the moving mass of misery that circled round below them. To me, with my limited facilities, there was ample room for reflection; and I often marvelled how such various types of humanity could have been collected, or indeed that they ever existed.
One feeble old man particularly attracted my notice. He was almost unable to walk round from sheer old age, and appeared altogether incapable of having qualified in any way for lodgings at Coldbath. I asked a warder what on earth he had done.
“Well,” he said, “they say he’s a bad ’un. He’s here for violently assaulting the police, and got six months.”
“But,” I added, “he don’t look as if he would last so long; he must be at least a hundred!”
“Very likely,” was the reply. “The fact is, a new rule has come in lately, and pauper prisoners are buried in the prison; so they sent him here in hopes of starting our new cemetery.”
Another peculiarity that struck me forcibly was the apparently universal obstruction that appeared to exist in the criminal throat. It was absolutely epidemic, and the sounds—such as are made by an over-wound moderator lamp—that accompanied their fruitless endeavours to obtain relief were excessively revolting. This and the like are the worst features of coming in contact with these dirty wretches. Many habits usually looked upon as filthy were freely indulged in, and anyone who instinctively abstained from participating was looked upon as an outsider. A foolish habit I had contracted in my youth of applying my pocket-handkerchief to its natural use was, I fancy, specially resented. I could never shake off these feelings, and though with them, was never “one of them.” I always kept them at arms’ length, and invariably received some implied recognition of my superiority. The better class of prisoners for the most part addressed me as “Capting,” or “Sir”; and even the lowest, if they spoke—which I never encouraged—did so with some small degree of reserve. The neighbourhood abounds with street-organs; indeed, it is the head-quarters where the instrumentalists for the most part live, the consequence being that, like the lady of Bambury Cross, we had music wherever we “goed.” About this time a certain popular air was much in vogue, and evidently much admired by the criminal classes. I enquired the name of this vile music-hall ditty, but without effect; and can only describe it by the fact that no sooner did it commence than the whole mob appeared to cheer up, and took up a sort of gin-and-water refrain which they buzzed out—“Ho moy littul tarling, ’ow are yew?” The wretch who composed it deserves a month. It is impossible to describe the monotony of these days without occupation—for my deputy did my task—and without books. The religious tract, as a leaflet was officially styled, had to last a fortnight; and I knew by heart all about “The Sweet Recollections of a Sweep,” and “The Converted Charwoman of Goswell Road.” “What Pickest Thou, you Wretch?” and “How are your Poor Fingers, you Blackguard?” were also works contained in this religious repertoire, and altogether of a more thrilling description. They were generally understood to have been the work of a local divine, as indeed their style suggested. The library books are a very sorry lot, though probably well adapted to the capacities of their readers. The rule, too, that permits their change only once a fortnight is in itself a species of torture unworthy of the system that sanctions them at all. The type for the most part is large, and such as an educated man can read in a day. Why, then, spoil a gracious act by limiting its very innocent scope. Such, too, is the reckless supervision of these literary treasures that I received no less than seven school histories of England during my career. I felt this as almost a reflection on the Dean of W— and my classical education generally.
There was, however, a reserve library for the special benefit of the “serious” minded, and men of education with strict Episcopalian proclivities. This issue, and its attendant patronage, is vested entirely in the hands of the chaplain—a custom it is high time to alter—and considering I had never been confirmed, it is a marvel how I was ever included in its favoured ranks. The blessing was not, however, an entirely unmitigated one; and “Locke’s Essay on the Mind,” “The Theory of Sturm,” and such light reading usually fell to my share. Happily I was independent of it all, although an amusing and undignified squabble some months later deprived me of even this modified clerical patronage.
I must mention one incident connected with my “three card” acquaintance before leaving the oakum district. It was after chapel, and he was in my cell, when, after sundry enquiries as to how I liked the service, etc., he said—
“I calls it bad, very bad taste, the way they goes on, even in chapel, at a chap about his work. Didn’t you hear this morning about the oakum?”
“Oakum,” I said; “I don’t remember any allusion to it.”