The female cormorant was administering some light stimulant, for Georgina is subject to fits of nervousness, incredible as this may appear. The emaciated one was in front assisting in looking after the money-taker; and I feel thankful to Providence on his account, if not on my own, that this was far from an arduous task, for the poor fellow was evidently delicate and physically incapable of lifting a heavy cash-box, and so, with all my faults, blood-guiltiness cannot be laid to my charge. Time meanwhile was rapidly passing, and a huge clock pointed to three minutes to eight, then two minutes, then one, and then eight o’clock struck, and, oh horror of horrors! the sole occupant of the enormous building was the critic of the local paper. Decency forbade our opening the concert to this solitary unhappy man; it appeared to me to be cowardly to attack him alone, and to pit him single-handed against the invincible Georgina, who had demolished a conductor and his manager a week previously, and who now showed symptoms of “annoyance” that nothing but my soothing powers prevented bursting into a flame. My plan of action was immediately taken; to hesitate a moment was to be lost. I at once sent for the “secretary,” and first thought of telling him to make a short speech from the stage to our solitary audience; but reflection decided me in approaching him myself. I apologised for the unusual occurrence (it had in reality happened wherever we had been, though not to the extent of less than seven or eight); I offered to return him his money, for I was well aware his was a complimentary ticket, and verily believe that the united purses of the entire company could not have scraped together five shillings. He muttered something I tried not to hear, and next day repaid my intended courtesy by a flaming smashing article that would effectually have ruined us had we moved elsewhere. But events were occurring at the same time which put it out of my power to continue this disastrous tour. About eleven o’clock the landlord of the hotel presented himself at my room, said the lady and her friends had left, and politely but firmly intimated that he could not permit me to remove my luggage till a little bill of £8 was settled. The rest is soon told. I hurried back to London, remitted the £8, and abandoned the tour. I had not, however, heard the last of my musical bête noire; she and the “secretary” both dunned me for their railway fares, which I of course ignored, and I heard no more of her till she dug me out at the House of Detention, when she threatened me with legal proceedings for detaining, as she alleged, her photographs—the real fact being that, after our last stampede, her photographs that were displayed were seized by some indignant creditor in expectation of a ransom. For my part I hope I have really heard the last of this irrepressible creature.
CHAPTER VI.
BOW STREET.
An eventful day was now approaching, and on the morrow I was to appear at Bow Street for the first time after my formal remand of the previous Friday. I felt an instinctive conviction that my appearance (even though it had not appeared up to that time in the newspapers) would be generally known, and draw together a crowd actuated by motives either of like, dislike, or curiosity; nor was I wrong in my surmise. An official at the police court informed me that numbers of inquiries had been made as to the time of my probable appearance; and as the appointed hour drew near fresh arrivals and those that had been waiting since 10 A.M. combined in making up a crowd that literally crammed the court. It was, I admit, a very trying ordeal, for I had been pretty accurately informed what persons were in the court and waiting to see the “fun.” I did, however, the best (though, I fear, a very foolish) thing under the circumstances, and primed myself with liquor, which certain friends, by dint of great ingenuity, managed to convey to me, for the gaoler, though a most civil and obliging man, was a terrible disciplinarian, and one that was not to be “squared.” Had I not taken these repeated nips—and I’m afraid to say how much I imbibed—I firmly believe I could never have gone through the examination with the sang froid I displayed.
About 12 o’clock a hurrying of feet approaching my cell announced to me that my turn was come; and after a momentary pause in the passage I found myself escorted by a constable and in the dock. I can never forget that terrible moment. In front, on each side, and behind me was a dense throng, representing every class of persons I had ever had dealings with. One expected a certain amount of hostility from the side of the prosecution, but the array of faces I then saw opened up in me a new train of thoughts. Here was a room thronged with people I had befriended and people I had never injured; men I had stood dinners to when their funds were lower than mine; lodging-house keepers that had fleeced me, and waiters I had tipped beyond their deserts; nameless attorneys from the slums of the City, courting daylight and publicity in the hopeless endeavour to get their names into print by the gratuitous offer of their valuable but hitherto unappreciated services—all craning their necks to stare at and exult over a poor devil, who, whatever his faults, was now at a disadvantage. It was the old adage of “hitting a man when he is down;” and I’m thankful for the experience that has enabled me to form a just estimate of the worthlessness of such professions of friendship. On the other hand, I heard of many persons—to their honour, be it said—who abstained from being present through feelings of generous consideration. My quasi-friend Georgina occupied a conspicuous place in the front row. I verily believe she never took her eyes off me, but her offensive stare had no charm for me; I had more serious matters to occupy my mind. A mountain of flesh that I was once on terms of intimacy with was also present, panting with excitement, but, like the Levite of old, “he passed over on the other side.” I will not weary the reader with details that repeat themselves almost daily in the police reports; suffice it to say that I was again remanded for another week, and then formally committed for trial at the next sessions of the Central Criminal Court.
On my two previous remands to the House of Detention I had always managed to remain at Bow Street till the 5 o’clock van took its load of victims. It was, at all events, a change, and infinitely more agreeable than the depressing atmosphere of Clerkenwell. On the day, however, of my committal to Newgate I was informed that I could not, as before, wait till 5 P.M., but must be ready to start at 2. The rope was clearly getting “tauter”; discipline was gradually assuming its sway, the circles around me smaller and smaller. The other occupants of the “Black Maria” were, like myself, all committed for trial; and as we drove along I was much surprised at the marvellous knowledge they appeared to have gained of me and my affairs. I was, as before, standing in the passage and not in a compartment, and consequently could hear all that passed between the various passengers. My case was the sole subject of conversation; occasionally I was the object of a little mirthful sally. Thus, a man who had been sentenced to three months’ imprisonment in default of paying a fine, said, “Ah, Capting, you might give us two of them quids to pay my fine”—referring to some money that had been alluded to in the court as having been in my possession at the time of my arrest. Another hinted that I “Best take a good look at the streets, ’cos all wud be changed like afore I cum out agin.” Another assured me that the warm baths in Newgate “wus fine but ’ot.” A lady, too, graced our party; she was tawdry, I admit, and lived in the Dials. Her misfortune was that she had mistaken someone’s purse for her own. She was howling over her ill-luck for the first part of the journey, but before we arrived at our destination had quite recovered her usual spirits. She told me she was an actress—an assertion I am not in a position to dispute, though I found her conversation quite as intellectual as that of the usual ballet-girl class; and as she was the last “lady” I was likely to see or hear for some time, I paid great respect to her conversation. All these familiarities were terribly grating to me; they were more difficult to bear than any of my previous humiliations. They were, as it were, the first instalments of being addressed as an equal by inferiors who had hitherto recognised me as a superior; and as we drove along, past objects as familiar to me as my own face, I felt the lump rising in my throat, and I dread to think what weakness I might have been guilty of had not a sharp turn brought us in front of Newgate, and the opening of a huge gate on its creaking hinges recalled me to a sense of my unenviable position. The van, having crossed the courtyard, was backed against the door, where a string of warders formally received us; and after again submitting to the painful ordeal of being catechized, I found myself traversing a dismal and nearly dark corridor; and then the hideous conviction forced itself on me for the first time that I was actually a prisoner and securely lodged in Newgate.
CHAPTER VII.
NEWGATE.
So much has been written about this national Bastille, and so many have gone over the building, that one feels as if writing about “a tale that is told.” Nevertheless, I trust my narrative may describe things never before alluded to, and be found to contain matters of interest that came under my personal observation. The first thing at Newgate that a fresh arrival has to submit to is the indispensable bath, accompanied by a very minute and simultaneous search. I was at once ushered downstairs and into a very roomy and luxurious bath room, quite as good as any supplied for eighteenpence at West End establishments, and being invited to undress and get into the bath, had the gratification of observing my clothes undergo, one by one, a very thorough overhauling. Each item was severally manipulated, and I am convinced not a pin could have escaped detection. Meanwhile I was splashing and thoroughly enjoying myself, much as one has seen a duck that has been cooped up for a week when suddenly turned into a pond. I had not had such a revel for ten days, and in the ecstasy of the moment I felt as if it was almost worth the journey to Newgate for such a luxury. This periodical bath is one of the greatest “inflictions” the average prisoner has to submit to, and numerous instances came under my observation at a later period, of ingenuity displayed by frowzy malefactors to evade this regulation. Twenty minutes found me again “clothed and in my right mind,” and I was ushered into a cell on the same subterraneous floor. This cell was certainly the most empty I had ever seen; its entire furniture literally consisted of a camp stool and a thermometer, and this latter instrument caused me considerable annoyance, for I am not exaggerating when I assert that an absurd make-believe display of anxiety for one’s welfare involved a visit and calculation of the temperature every half-hour through the night. I utterly failed to fathom this custom, the more so as the turnkey who made the calculation probably understood as much about it as he did of astronomy, and can only attribute it to the inherent politeness developed in the officials who periodically have lodgers whom they begin by feeding up, and eventually end by launching into eternity with a hand shake, if we are to believe the papers. This idea is not my own, but was suggested to me by a terrible scamp and fellow lodger whom I shall presently introduce to the reader. An absurd habit that prevailed at Newgate, and which contrasted strangely with the other customs, was that of the chief warder as he finally counted us at night. This official, having glared at you with an expression such as the rattlesnake may be presumed to give the guinea-pig just before dinner, invariably said “Good night!” I was so struck by this unique and time-honoured custom that I asked my friend and valet—for he cleaned out my cell and did other jobs for me—Mr. Mike Rose what it meant. “Well,” he said, “they gets into a sort of perlite way like, ’cos whenever a cove swings they nigh allus shakes hands with ’im, and maybe this is ’ow they gits perlite like.” There was something so original in this logic that I could not but be impressed by it, and though I failed to discover the connection between the two circumstances, still I had realized that Mr. Mike Rose was a bit of a character and worth cultivation. Very shortly after my incarceration in the thermometer-furnished cell I was visited by the surgeon, and having obtained his permission to have a bed instead of a hammock, a wooden tressel was brought in with sheets, bolster, and blankets. I at once proceeded to make my couch, deeming bed the best place on such a cold and cheerless afternoon; and 6 o’clock P.M. found me in bed, vainly endeavouring to get warm, with my eye fixed on the thermometer, and muffled up to the chin with sheets and blankets, all of which were stamped in letters three inches long with the ominous words “Newgate Prison.” I really believed that my first night’s experience at the “House of Detention” was sufficiently awful, but it was nothing to my sensations here. The associations of the place, the idea that many a murderer had probably occupied this very cell, and possibly slept in these identical bed-coverings, all forced themselves upon me. The bells of the numerous churches which abound round Newgate also seemed desirous of adding to one’s misery by joyful peals; they were practising their weekly bell-ringing, and one chime was repeating over and over again—in mockery of me, as it were—Haydn’s “Hymn of the Creation,” and “The Heavens are telling” kept floating into my ears through granite walls and iron bars; and though I tried very hard to stifle sound by burying myself under the “broad-arrowed” bed-clothing, all my efforts were futile, till sleep, kind sleep, took pity on me, and I wandered in my dreams far away from my dreadful abode, only to be recalled to the hideous reality by the mournful prison bell, and—
“Sorrow returned with the light of the morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.”
The daily routine is somewhat different to that of the “House of Detention.” One official only counts the prisoners of a morning, and asks you at the time if you wish to see the doctor during the day. I was once tempted to express this wish with a view of procuring a sleeping draught. He questioned me as to my symptoms in an apparently interested manner, and eventually ordered me a dose of “No. 2.” No. 2, I may here state, is a ready-made article, and is baled out of a huge jar into a dirty tin cup. I took my dose, and, without further detailing the result, am extremely grateful I had not been prescribed No. 1. If I had, it is very doubtful whether this narrative would ever have been written. The first day is occupied with details to which considerable importance appear to be attached—namely, your description—every particular of which is carefully booked by the head of each department, and a more senseless, harassing ordeal can hardly be conceived. Surely one inspection and general description (this was my third within ten days) ought to suffice, and might without much trouble be forwarded from one prison to another. It is idle to deny that half the questions put to you are absolutely unnecessary, and the conviction is forced on you that you are being pumped from sheer curiosity. Thus the Chaplain, in the blandest manner, only to be acquired by constant attendance on murderers previous to execution, asked me questions that appeared most impertinent—as to where I lived, and if I had any relatives, and where they lived. I at once told him I considered all this quite unnecessary, and declined to enlighten him. Immediately after breakfast on the first morning the prisoners are taken in packs of about twenty before the Governor. This man is what is known in the army as a “Ranker”—that is, one who by merit has raised himself from the rank and file to his present position—and had apparently brought with him many of those habits which, however commendable in a turnkey, are beneath the dignity of a Governor and lower the position he ought to occupy. Acting on the habits associated with his youth, this Governor commenced a minute examination of one’s physiognomy. Seizing you by the nose or ear (I forget which), and scowling hard, he began, “Eyes grey, complexion fresh, mole on neck, &c.;” and having further personally superintended your being measured and weighed, you were filtered through, as it were, into the presence of the Chaplain, who tried to pump you as before described, and who, in his turn, passed you on to the doctor, who appeared to have a kind of roving commission to endeavour to extract any crumbs of information omitted by his two confrères.
