The usual hour for the jail delivery is 9 A.M., when gangs, varying from ten to a hundred, are daily discharged. As they pass the wicket one by one, each man is presented with a breakfast order, entitling him to an unlimited supply of coffee and bread-and-butter at an adjoining tavern. This kindly act takes its origin from a private source that cannot be too highly commended, and though I failed in discovering its identity, understand it is in no way connected with the “Prisoners’ Aid Society.” Every detail connected with a prisoner on discharge reflects credit on the Government. A vagrant enters prison hungry, filthy, and penniless. He again emerges with his linen washed, his clothes fumigated, money in his pocket, and provided with an ample breakfast. Such treatment has not its parallel in any other country in Europe, and I cannot refrain from offering my testimony in opposition to the usually accepted and erroneous impression, and confidently assert that the British criminal is, if anything, far too generously treated in every respect.
On my way I stopped at a tobacconist’s and bought the biggest cigar I could find. It was, I believe, a good one, though for aught I knew it might have been brown paper. My sense of taste had apparently forsaken me, and it was days before I lost the sensation of having sucked a halfpenny. A friend I met soon after did not at first recognise me. “Good gracious!” he said, as he looked at my diminished circumference, “you’re not half the size you were.” “My dear fellow,” I replied, “you forget I’ve been lately confined.”
The sense of taste that had apparently forsaken me was for a time accompanied by a loss of voice; at least it seemed so, for acting on the force of habit, I could not bring myself to speaking above a whisper; and a waiter at the — Hotel seemed to think he was serving a lunatic as I asked him in a mysterious whisper for a pint of champagne. But the events of the day were too much for my strength, and before 7 that evening I had fainted, and was again in bed, under the care of an eminent physician. A careful examination next day confirmed the opinion of the prison surgeons, and I was ordered forthwith to the South of France, or anywhere from cruel London. Door handles caused me considerable surprise for days: they appeared, indeed, as superfluous additions that I was totally unaccustomed to. A morbid craving for old newspapers now seized me, and I again discovered the importance that seemed to attach itself to my late escapades. I am happily not a vain or unreasonable being: had I been so I might have found ample grounds for either when called upon to pay sixpence for a Daily Telegraph, and one shilling for a Truth at their respective offices, for copies containing references to my case. As it was, I merely concluded that the bump of avarice was equally developed in the Jew and the Gentile newsvendor.
And now the time has come to close my reminiscences. To continue them would be apt to lead me into drivel, an adjunct I have tried to avoid. I make no attempt at justifying my work—though as a literary production it is beneath criticism—being quite aware that many will consider my resuscitating the past an act of bravado. In this I cannot agree with them, for though guilty of a portion of the offence with which I was charged, and which I unhesitatingly admitted, I am happy to know that cruel circumstances prevented my refuting at the time a fraction of the thousand and one lies that were laid to my charge. Not the most trivial incident appears to have passed unnoticed, and the omission to pay for a pennyworth of bloaters has been since transformed into a crime, and carried, as only cowards can, to quarters most likely to injure me. And one scurrilous society journal, notorious for its “enterprise” rather than its “truth,” had the impudence to hint that I had made money at cards by foul play (I who have lost a fortune by gambling); but this I attribute to personal malice, and in return for my once publishing a scheme of a shady nature projected by its owner. This precious prospectus is in my possession, and at the service of any one with a taste for the perusal of rascally documents. I had indeed intended publishing it, but ultimately decided not to add to this volume of horrors, on the principle that “two blacks don’t make a white.” Whether it sees the daylight at the next general election is another affair. The marvel is I have not been associated with the “Clapham Junction Mystery,” or discovered to be the chief of the Russian Nihilists. These remarks are not incapable of corroboration. The link then missing has since been found; and more than one lawyer, and a certain high official, know the truth; and the only deterrent to a very thorough résumé of the case is the pain it would cause to others. For my own part, I should not object, and if any shadow of the “possibility” of the truth lurking in my assertion is to be extracted, it may commend itself by the publicity I have given to my experiences—a frankness not usually associated with unmitigated guilt. But after all, is it worth it? For my part, I value the world’s patronage as much as I do its odium. I’ve tested and accurately appraised both!
My motive, too, has been to present prison life in a truer light than I have hitherto seen described, and, with a few trifling exceptions, and a necessary transposition of names and places, to give the outer world an insight into that mysterious community that lives and moves and has its being in their very midst. The erroneous impression that exists as to the harsh treatment of prisoners has, I trust, in a measure been removed. To represent a prison as an elysium would be absurd. It is intended as a deterrent, though considering the wild beasts it has to deal with, it may be questioned whether it is not far too considerate in the matter of food. Nor can it be denied that the rules are framed, and their execution carried out by officials actuated as a body by humane and honourable principles. That there are black sheep in every grade must also be conceded, and if their responsibilities were curtailed, and in some cases transferred, considerable advantage would, I think, ensue. A man of education and worldly experience, circumstanced as I was, is probably capable of forming a juster estimate of things as they really exist than a Governor or any otherwise well-informed individual: and as my remarks have been suggested in no spirit of acrimony, but, on the contrary, under a sense of obligation, it is to be hoped that the seed sown in Clerkenwell may bring forth fruit in Whitehall. That my remarks are disinterested nobody will be foolish enough to deny, and whether acted on or not is a matter of perfect indifference to me. At the same time, a probe here and an inquiry there will manifest the weak points of the “system,” and convince the highest in authority that there are more things in a prison than are dreamt of in their philosophy. My conclusions have been drawn in a great measure from the treatment of others. For my own part, I often fancy my past experiences are a dream, so difficult is it to believe that the treatment I received, and immunity from degrading employment except in name, are compatible with “imprisonment with hard labour.” And if even one of the many objects I have aspired to is attained, the blank that divides the past from the future will not have been endured in vain.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
A RETROSPECT.
I cannot conclude my story without asking, What constitutes honesty? and if anybody can give a really logical and satisfactory reply, I would ask him, Has he ever met a really honest man?
In the conviction of being credited with a reprobate mind, I freely admit my inability to answer either question satisfactorily. It is my experience, indeed, that no such thing as honesty—as at present understood—exists, and that it is simply a question of time, circumstance, or opportunity, although I have met many rich men who are credited with this undefinable attribute. That men of means are proverbially the best of fellows (I was once a “best fellow” myself) need not be repeated, nor will I insult your common sense, virtuous reader, who never did a shady thing in your life, by telling you what everybody knows—that their goodness increases in proportion to their wealth. Whether they are really honest is another question, and though no one would credit them with theft, would they be equally exemplary in regard to filthier and more nameless crimes? Why should a rich man steal? As a class they are proverbially mean and selfish. Why, then, should they worry themselves with such unnecessary consequences? That the highest of the so-called aristocracy are not above suspicion may be remembered, when some well-known names were once associated with a nasty scandal not entirely composed of strawberry leaves; and if their better halves were like Cæsar’s wife, the immunity did not extend to themselves. And a comparison of the men undergoing penal servitude for huge commercial swindles, bogus “cab companies,” and rascally prospectuses, with others at large, less fortunate in finding dupes, only proves that detection and want of opportunity have been left out of the calculation; that “not proven” and “guilty” are synonymous terms; and that at heart prince and peasant, duke and dustman, are alike desperately wicked. It was said, with a great deal of truth, that when a certain projector contemplated another gigantic fraud on the public it was his invariable custom to preface the robbery by building a church—a hint that was not lost on the observant speculator. In the same way, when a person thrusts himself into prominence as the self-constituted scourge of erring humanity, and is offensively blatant in his denunciations of fraud, it may be reasonably assumed in nine cases out of ten that the man is an undiscovered rogue, and fairly qualified for “Eighteen months’ imprisonment.”
THE END.
BRADBURY, AGNEW, AND CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.