Mrs. Maybrick’s Own Story

FLORENCE ELIZABETH MAYBRICK

MRS. MAYBRICK’S
OWN STORY

MY FIFTEEN LOST YEARS

FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY
NEW YORK and LONDON
1905

Copyright, 1904,
By FLORENCE ELIZABETH MAYBRICK

[Printed in the United States of America]

Published December, 1904

To

ALL THOSE FRIENDS IN AMERICA AND ENGLAND

WHO, WITH UNWAVERING FAITH IN MY
INNOCENCE, WORKED STEADFASTLY FOR MY FREEDOM,
THIS BOOK IS GRATEFULLY DEDICATED

FLORENCE ELIZABETH MAYBRICK.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

FOREWORD

The writing of this book has been to me no joyful task, as its making has been at the expense of much-needed rest and peace of mind. In returning to my dear native land after a long imprisonment, I cherished the hope that I might as quietly as possible be permitted to take up the threads of outward existence so cruelly broken, little dreaming that trials hardly less grievous than those left behind awaited me; for no sooner had I touched these hospitable shores, when I was met by the fear-inspiring cry, “You must write a book—you must give the world an account of your sufferings”—as if one could never suffer enough. My well-meaning friends could hardly have known what they were asking in forcing upon me a mental return to the dread past. Solitary confinement in Woking Prison (as the reader may learn from these pages) was not such an elysium that one should voluntarily desire to hark back to it, nor is penal servitude in Aylesbury an Arcadian dream. While within their grim walls I did my best to exclude from thought the world without; and now that I am once again in the world (though scarcely of it), my one desire to shut out all the abhorrent things which so-called “prison life” stands for has thus far not only failed of realization, but, under conditions even more trying than the repressive prison régime (because of the free and happy life all about, which it seemed to poor me that I had some right to share), I have been compelled by force of circumstance to return to my cast-off prison shell, and live all the old heart-and-brain-crushing life over again. However, my second “trial and imprisonment,” like the first, is at last drawing to a close; and I devoutly trust that I shall be now permitted to enter upon a long-coveted rest, and partake as I may of those tempered joys which my countrymen by their beautiful sympathy have so chivalrously endeavored to make possible for me.

Theoretically my imprisonment terminated on English soil, but so relentlessly have the fates pursued me that I have been in nowise free quite up to the present moment. In Rouen, France, where I sojourned at my mother’s home for three weeks, I was as much in durance to my genial enemy, the ubiquitous reporter, as when the English Government held me in its inexorable grasp. Our cottage was completely invested by him, and all approaches and exits held with a persistency which, under other circumstances, might well have extorted my admiration.

Then came the ever-to-be-remembered sea voyage. I am a good sailor, and so the physical discomforts that beset so many were agreeably minimized; but I could not throw off the feeling that I was not yet free—the limits of the ship were still all too suggestive of the narrow exercise grounds of Aylesbury prison; and, while the eye could roam without hindrance, there came upon me again and again an irresistible desire, which the rolling billows strenuously gainsaid, to make a dash for liberty.

Thereupon followed a couple of days at the Holland House, New York, with the same persistent reporter never absent. After this experience, I was taken by the kindest of friends to where nature is at her loveliest and human hearts beat in unison with their uplifting surroundings. Beautiful Cragsmoor, with its wide reaches of inspiring scenery, most appropriately the summer home of an artistic colony, is not too easy of access to mar a desire for seclusion, and a greater antithesis to prison walls than is afforded by this aerie can hardly be imagined.

Here all things that on lower planes so cruelly vex the spirit seem far away and beneath. If only no publishers—however benevolent—had entered this Eden, what a paradise it could have been to me! However, in spite of these dread taskmasters, my soul drank deeply of the elixir so bountifully held to my lips; and when in the golden autumn all the noble woods about robed themselves in such glory as may be seen nowhere outside my beloved native land—and perchance nowhere here more ravishingly than in these Hudson Valley uplands—the rapture of my heart, so long starved within the narrowest and cruelest of confines, turned adoringly to Him who has made this world so beautiful for His children’s eyes.

I need hardly be at pains to say to my readers, that lessons in literary composition form no part of the disciplinary curriculum of Aylesbury; nay, the art of writing is distinctly discouraged there, as interfering with the prescribed parliamentary régime. Accordingly, when I set out to tell my pitiful little story, I was told to look at myself objectively; then to pry into myself subjectively; then to regard both in their relation to the outside world—to describe how this, that, or the other affected me; in short, as one of them, more deep in science than others, expressed it, “We want as much as possible of the psychology of your prison life.”

I surreptitiously looked up that awe-inspiring word in a dictionary, and found that it refers to the soul, and that it was my soul they wanted me to lay bare. I vehemently protested that that belonged to my God, and I had no right to expose it for daws to peck at. But the publishers, with the aid of my friends, persuaded me that the public would give me their tenderest regard, and that possibly the humanities might be furthered a bit if the story of a woman—whatever might be her failings in other directions—wholly guiltless of the terrible charge of wilful murder, and for which in her innocence she was made to suffer so cruelly, be given in fullest heart detail to a sympathetic world. So I have done what I trust is best for all—spared myself as little as possible, lest the picture fail from suppression—and my dearest heart-hope is that somewhat of good may come of it, especially in behalf of those whom a dire fate shall compel to follow in my steps, with bruised spirits and bleeding feet.

Sketch of My Ancestry

I was born at Mobile, Ala., September 3, 1862. In searching for some account of my genealogy, I found a published letter of Gail Hamilton’s, who was ever one of my most eloquent and steadfast champions, and to whom I owe a debt of gratitude I can never adequately express. From this it appears that I am the great-great-granddaughter of Rev. Benjamin Thurston, a graduate of Harvard College, who settled at North Hampton, N. H., and of his wife, Sarah Phillips, who was the sister of John Phillips, who founded Phillips’ Academy in Exeter, endowed a professorship in Dartmouth, and contributed funds to Princeton; and who was the aunt of Samuel Phillips, who founded Phillips’s Academy at Andover.

The mother of Sarah Phillips was Elizabeth Green, and from her the name of Elizabeth has come down in regular descent to myself.

Elizabeth, daughter of Benjamin Thurston and Sarah Phillips, married James Milk Ingraham. Joseph H. Ingraham, of this family, gave to Portland, Me., for its improvement, property now amounting in value to millions—beautiful State Street, the market, the property of the High School, and much more. One of the Ingrahams was the wife of Philander Chase, the first Bishop of Illinois, uncle of Salmon P. Chase, who was Secretary of the Treasury under Lincoln and Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States. Of the Ingraham family was that Commodore Ingraham who won laurels for his country and himself by rescuing Martin Koszata from the clutch of Austria. Connected with the Ingrahams was that Edward Preble, born at Falmouth Neck, whose father served under Wolfe and was wounded at Quebec; also that Commander Preble whose achievement before Tripoli was rewarded with a gold medal and the thanks of Congress. Rev. John Phillips and Thurston Ingraham, author of “Why We Believe the Bible,” both rectors in the Protestant Episcopal Church, were sons of James Milk Ingraham and Elizabeth Thurston Ingraham. John Ingraham, son of the preceding, is rector of Grace Church, St. Louis, Mo. His sister, Elizabeth Thurston Ingraham, married Darius Blake Holbrook, who was born in Dorchester, Mass. His mother was a Ridgeway. Her sister married a Quincy, and was aunt to John Quincy Adams. Mr. Holbrook was an originator of the land grant for the Illinois Central Railroad and its first president. He owned Cairo, at the mouth of the Ohio, and was associated with Cyrus Field in laying the first Atlantic cable. Caroline Elizabeth was the only child of Darius Blake Holbrook and Elizabeth Thurston Holbrook. She married William G. Chandler, of the banking house of St. John Powers & Co., Mobile, Ala. William G. Chandler’s father was Daniel Chandler, a lawyer of high standing in Georgia; his mother was Sarah Campbell, a sister of John A. Campbell, at one time Assistant Secretary of State for the Confederacy, and previously judge of the Supreme Court of the United States. Judge L. Q. C. Lamar, long a United States Senator, and afterward a justice of the Supreme Court, was near of kin.

To William G. Chandler and Caroline Elizabeth Holbrook Chandler two children were born—Holbrook St. John and Florence Elizabeth. Their father died in 1863, and their mother, on account of the war, took the children abroad to be educated. The son died while pursuing his medical studies.

As will be seen from the above summary of Gail Hamilton’s statement, I am descended, on both my paternal and my maternal side for generations, from good American stock. I was educated partly in Europe and partly in America, under the instruction of masters and governesses. I was too delicate for college life. I lived partly with my maternal grandmother, Elizabeth Holbrook, of New York, and partly with my mother, the Baroness von Roques, whose home was abroad. When not with them I was visiting or traveling with friends. My life was much the same as that of any other girl who enjoyed the pleasures of youth with a happy heart. I was very fond of tracing intricate designs and copying the old-time churches and cathedrals. My special pastime, however, was riding, and this I could indulge in to my heart’s content when residing with my stepfather, Baron Adolph von Roques, who, now retired, was at that time a cavalry officer in the Eighth Cuirassier Regiment of the German army and stationed at Cologne.

At the age of eighteen I married James Maybrick, on the 27th of July, 1881, at St. James Church, Piccadilly, London, and returned to America, where we made our home at Norfolk, Va. For business reasons we settled in a suburb of Liverpool called Aigworth. A son was born to us on the 24th of March, 1882, and a daughter on June 20, 1886.

Florence Elizabeth Maybrick.

CHAPTER ONE
Before the Trial

My Arrest

Slowly consciousness returned. I opened my eyes. The room was in darkness. All was still. Suddenly the silence was broken by the bang of a closing door which startled me out of my stupor. Where was I? Why was I alone? What awful thing had happened? A flash of memory! My husband was dead! I drifted once more away from the things of sense. Then a voice, as if a long way off, spoke. A feeling of pain and distress shot through my body. I opened my eyes in terror. Edwin Maybrick was bending over me as I lay upon my bed. He had my arms tightly gripped, and was shaking me violently. “I want your keys—do you hear? Where are your keys?” he exclaimed harshly. I tried to form a reply, but the words choked me, and once more I passed into unconsciousness.

It is the dawn of a Sabbath day.[1] I am still lying in my clothes, neglected and uncared for; without food since the morning of the day before. Consciousness came and went. During one of these interludes Michael Maybrick entered.

“Nurse,” he said, “I am going up to London. Mrs. Maybrick is no longer mistress of this house. As one of the executors I forbid you to allow her to leave this room. I hold you responsible in my absence.”

He then left the room. What did he mean? How dare he humble me thus in the presence of a stranger?

Toward the night of the same day I said to the nurse, “I wish to see my children.” She took no notice. My voice was weak, and I thought perhaps she had not heard. “Nurse,” I repeated, “I want to see my children.” She walked up to my bed, and in a cold, deliberate voice replied: “You can not see Master James and Miss Gladys. Mr. Michael Maybrick gave orders that they were to leave the house without seeing you.” I fell back upon my pillow, dazed and stricken, weak, helpless, and impotent. Why was I treated thus? My brain reeled in seeking a reply to this query. At last I could bear it no longer, and my soul cried out to God to let me die. A third dreary night, and the day broke once again. I was still prostrate. The dull pain at my heart, the yearning for my little children, was becoming unbearable, but I was dumb.

Suddenly the door opened and Dr. Humphreys entered. He walked silently to my bedside, felt my pulse, and without a word left the room. A few minutes later I heard the tramp of many feet coming up-stairs. They stopped at the door. The nurse advanced, and a crowd of men entered. One of them stepped to the foot of the bed and addressed me as follows:

“Mrs. Maybrick, I am superintendent of the police, and I am about to say something to you. After I have said what I intend to say, if you reply be careful how you reply, because whatever you say may be used as evidence against you. Mrs. Maybrick, you are in custody on suspicion of causing the death of your late husband, James Maybrick, on the eleventh instant.” I made no reply, and the crowd passed out.

A Prisoner in My Own House

Was I going mad? Did I hear myself accused of poisoning my husband? Why did not his brothers, who said they had his confidence, tell the police what all his intimate friends knew, that he was an arsenic eater? Why was I accused—I, who had nursed him assiduously day and night until my strength gave out, who had engaged trained nurses, and advised a consultation of physicians, and had done all that lay in my power to aid in his recovery? To whom could I appeal in my extreme distress? I lay ill and confined to my bed, with two professional nurses attending me, and with a policeman stationed in my room, although there was not and could not be the slightest chance of my escaping. The officer would not permit the door to be closed day or night, and I was denied in my own house, even before the inquest, the privacy accorded to a convicted prisoner. I asked that a cablegram be sent to my lawyers in New York. Inspector Baxendale read it, and then said he did not consider it of importance and should not send it. I then implored Dr. Humphreys to ask a friendly lawyer, Mr. R. S. Cleaver, of Liverpool, to come out to see me. After some delay Mr. Cleaver obtained a permit to enter the house and undertook to represent me.

The fourth day came and went. On the fifth day, May 16, the stillness of the house was broken by the sound of hushed voices and hurrying footsteps. “Nurse,” I exclaimed, when I could no longer bear the feeling of oppression that possessed me, “is anything the matter?” She turned, and in a cold, harsh voice replied, “The funeral starts in an hour.” “Whose funeral?” I asked. “Your husband’s,” the nurse exclaimed; “but for you he would have been buried on Tuesday.” I stared at her for a moment, and then, trembling from head to foot, got out of bed and commenced with weak hands to dress myself. The nurse looked alarmed, and came forward. “Stand back!” I cried. “I will see my husband before he is taken away.” She placed herself in front of me; I pushed her aside and confronted the policeman at the door. “I demand to see my husband,” I exclaimed. “The law does not permit a person to be treated as guilty until she is proven so.”

He hesitated, and then said, “Follow me.” With tottering steps, supported by the nurse, I was led into the adjoining room. Upon the bed stood the coffin, covered with white flowers. It was already closed. I turned to the policeman and the nurse. “Leave me alone with the dead.” They refused. I then knelt down at the bedside, and God in His mercy spared my reason by granting me, there and then, the first tears which many days of suffering had failed to bring. Death had wiped out the memory of many things. I was thankful to remember that I had stopped divorce proceedings, and that we had become reconciled for the children’s sake. Calmed, I arose and returned to my room. I sat down near a window, still weeping. Suddenly the harsh voice of a nurse broke on my ears: “If you wish to see the last of the husband you have poisoned you had better stand up. The funeral has started.” I stumbled to my feet and clutched at the window-sill, where I stood rigid and tearless until the hearse had passed, and was out of sight, and then I fainted.

When I recovered consciousness I asked why my mother had not been sent for. No answer was made, but a tardy summons was sent to her at Paris. When she arrived she came to me at once. What a meeting! She kissed me, and was speaking a few loving words in French, when the nurse interposed and said, “You must speak in English,” and the policeman joined in with “I warn you, madam, that I will write down all you say,” and he produced paper and pencil. I then begged my mother to go into Liverpool to see the Messrs. Cleaver, who represented me, as they would give her all the information she required; and then I cried out in the bitterness of my heart, “Mother, they all believe me guilty, but I swear to you I am innocent.” That night I had a violent attack of hysteria. Two nurses and the policeman held me down, and when my mother, outraged by his presence, wished to take his place and send him from the room, Nurse Wilson became insolent and turned her out.

At Walton Jail

The next morning, Saturday, the 18th of May, Dr. Hopper and Dr. Humphreys visited me, to ascertain whether I was in a condition to permit of formal proceedings taking place in my bedroom. In a few minutes they gave their consent. The magistrates and others then came up-stairs.

There were present Colonel Bidwell, Mr. Swift (clerk), Superintendent Bryning, and my lawyers, the Messrs. Cleaver, Dr. Hopper, and Dr. Humphreys. I was fully conscious, but too prostrate to make any movement. Besides those in the room, there were seated outside the policeman and the nurse. Superintendent Bryning, who had taken up his position at the foot of the bed, said: “This person is Mrs. Maybrick, charged with causing the death of the late James Maybrick. She is charged with causing his death by administering poison to him. I understand that her consent is given to a remand, and therefore I need not introduce nor give evidence.”

Mr. Swift: “You ask for a remand for eight days?”

Mr. Arnold Cleaver: “I appear for the prisoner.”

Colonel Bidwell: “Very well; I consent to a remand. That is all.”

These gentlemen then departed. The police were in such a hurry to prefer the formal charge, they could not wait until the doctors should certify that I was in a fit state to be taken to the court in the ordinary way. The nurse then told me I must get up and dress. I prayed that my children might be sent for to bid me good-by—but I was peremptorily refused. I begged to gather together some necessary personal apparel, only to meet with another refusal. I was hurried away with such unseemly haste, that even my hand-bag with my toilet articles was left behind. My mother implored to be allowed to say good-by, but was denied. She had gone up to her bedroom, so she tells me, which looked out on the front, to try and see my face as they put me in the carriage, when they turned the key and locked her in. After I had gone a policeman unlocked the door.

THE LATE DR. HELEN DENSMORE,
An American advocate of Mrs. Maybrick’s innocence.

After a two hours’ drive we arrived at Walton Jail, in the suburbs of Liverpool. I shuddered as I looked at the tall, gloomy building. A bell was ringing, and the big iron gates swung back and allowed us to pass in. I was received by the governor and immediately led away by a female warder. We crossed a small courtyard and stopped at a door which she unlocked and relocked. Then we passed down a narrow passage to a door that led into a dark, gloomy room termed the “Reception.” A bench ran along each side, a bare wooden table stood in the middle, a weighing-machine by the door, with a foot measure beside it. A female warder asked me to give up any valuables in my possession. These consisted of a watch, two diamond rings, and a brooch. They were entered in a book. Then I was asked to stand upon the weighing-machine, and my weight was duly noted. These formalities completed, I was led through a building into a cell especially set apart for sick prisoners. The escort locked me in, and, utterly exhausted, stricken with a sense of horror and degradation, I sank upon the stone floor, reiterating, until consciousness left me, “Oh, my God, help me—help me!”

Alone

When I opened my eyes I was in bed and alone. I gazed around. At the bedside was a chair with a china cup containing milk, and a plate of bread upon it. The cell was bare. The light struggled in dimly through a dirty, barred window. The stillness was appalling, and I felt benumbed—a sense of terrible oppression weighed me down. If only I could hear once more the sound of a friendly voice! If only some one would tell whose diabolical mind had conceived and directed suspicion against me!

I remained in the cell three days, when my lawyer visited me. He arranged that I was to have a room especially set apart for prisoners awaiting trial who can afford to pay five shillings ($1.25) weekly, for the additional comfort of a table, an arm-chair, and a wash-stand. Had I not been able to do so I should have been consigned to an ordinary prison cell, and my diet would have been the same as that of convicted prisoners. Instead, my food was sent from a hotel outside. I was locked in this room for twenty-two hours out of the twenty-four. The only time I was permitted to leave it was for chapel in the morning and an hour’s exercise in the afternoon in the prison yard. The stillness, unbroken by any sound from the outside world, got on my nerves, and I wanted to scream, if only to hear my own voice. The unnatural confinement, without any one to speak to, was torture. The governor, the doctor, and the chaplain, it is true, came around every morning, but their visits were of such short duration, and so formal in their nature, that it was impossible to derive much relief from conversation with them.

The Coroner’s Inquest

On the 28th of May the Coroner’s inquest was held, but I was not well enough to attend. I was represented by my legal advisers. On the 3d of June I was still too ill to appear before the court. Mr. W. S. Barrett, as magistrate, accompanied by Mr. Swift, the clerk, held a Magisterial Court at Walton Jail. Mr. R. S. Cleaver did not attend, having consented to the police obtaining another remand for a week. Only one newspaper reporter was allowed to be present. I was accompanied to the visitors’ room by a female warder, and silently took a seat at the foot of a long table. I was quite composed. Superintendent Bryning rose from his seat at the end of the room and said:

“This person, sir, is Mrs. Maybrick, who is charged with the murder of her husband, at Aigburth, on the 11th of last month. I have to ask that you remand her until Wednesday next.”

Mr. Swift: “Mr. Cleaver, her solicitor, has sent me a note in which he consents to a remand until Wednesday.”

Mr. Barrett: “If there is no objection she will be remanded until Wednesday morning.”

A Plank for a Bed

The magistrate then signed the document authorizing the remand, and I withdrew. On the 5th of June the adjourned inquest was held, and I was taken from jail at half-past eight in the morning to the Coroner’s Court in a cab, accompanied by Dr. O’Hagan, a female attendant, and a policeman. I was taken into the ante-room for the purpose of being identified by the witnesses for the prosecution. I was not taken into court, but at three o’clock Mr. Holbrook Gaskell, a magistrate, attended for the purpose of granting another remand, pending the result of the inquest, and again no evidence was given in my presence. I was taken to the county police station, Lark Lane. I passed the night in a cell which contained only a plank board as a bed. It was dark, damp, dirty, and horrible. A policeman, taking pity on me, brought me a blanket to lie on. In the adjoining cell, in a state of intoxication, two men were raving and cursing throughout the night. I had no light—there was no one to speak to. I was kept there three days, until the coroner’s jury had returned their verdict. A greengrocer near by, named Mrs. Pretty, to whom I had occasionally given orders for fruit, sent me in a daily gift of her best with a note of sympathy—a deed all the more striking in its generosity and nobleness, since the charity of none other of my own sex had reached to that degree of justice to regard me as innocent until proven guilty.

The Verdict of the Coroner’s Jury

On the 6th of June I was again driven to Garston to hear the coroner’s verdict. There was an elaborate array of lawyers, reporters, and witnesses, as well as many spectators.

I waited in the ante-room until the coroner’s jury had summed up. The jury consisted mostly of gentlemen who at one time had been guests in my own house. Of all former friends present, there was only one who had the moral courage to approach me and shake my hand. Throughout the time I sat awaiting the call to appear before the coroner he remained beside me, speaking words of encouragement. But the others, who, without a word of evidence in my defense, had already judged and condemned me, passed by on the other side, for had they not already judged and condemned me?

When my name was called a dead hush pervaded the court, and the coroner said:

“Have you agreed upon your verdict, gentlemen?”

The Foreman: “We have.”

Q. “Do you find that death resulted from the administration of an irritant poison?”

A. “Unanimously.”

Q. “Do you say by whom that poison was administered?”

A. “By twelve to one we decide that the poison was administered by Mrs. Maybrick.”

Q. “Do you find that the poison was administered with the intent of taking life?”

A. “Twelve of us have come to that conclusion.”

The Coroner: “That amounts to a verdict of murder.”

Then the requisition was made out in the following terms:

“That James Maybrick, on the 11th of May, 1889, in the township of Garston, died from the effects of an irritant poison administered to him by Florence Elizabeth Maybrick, and so the jurors say: that the said Florence Elizabeth Maybrick did wilfully, feloniously, and of malice aforethought kill and murder the said James Maybrick.”

I was then driven back to the Lark Lane Police Station, locked up, and remained the night. The next day I was returned to Walton Jail. How shall I describe my feelings? Mere words are utterly inadequate to do so. Not only was my sense of justice and fair play outraged, but it seemed to me a frightful danger to personal safety if the police, on the mere gossip of servants, and where a doctor had been unable to assign the cause of death, could go into a home and take an inmate into custody in the way I have shown.

On the 13th of June I was brought before the magistrates, and for the first time evidence was given in my presence. I had been driven over to the court-house the evening before, and had passed the night there in charge of a policeman’s daughter, who remained in the room with me. Her father kept watch on the other side of the door. That night, on going to bed, as I knelt weary and lonely to say my prayers, I felt a hand on my shoulder and a tearful voice said, softly, “Let me hold your hand, Mrs. Maybrick, and let me say my prayers with you.” A simple expression of sympathy, but it meant so much to me at such a time.

The Doctors Disagree

At half-past eight I was taken to a room adjoining the court, where, in charge of a female warder and a policeman, I awaited my call. I then passed into the court, where two magistrates, Sir William B. Forwood and Mr. W. S. Barrett, sat officially to hear the evidence. When the testimony had been given the court adjourned.

When I rose to leave the court, in order to reach the door, I had to meet face to face well-dressed women spectators at the back, and the moment I turned around these started hissing me. The presiding justice immediately shouted to the officer on duty to shut the door, while the burly figures of several policemen, who moved toward the hostile spectators, effectually put an end to the outburst. It was amid such scenes, and this sort of preparation for my ordeal, that on the following day, the 14th of June, the Magisterial Inquiry was resumed, and the evidence connected with the charge of murder gone into. On conclusion of the testimony the magistrates retired, and after a brief consultation returned into court.

Sir William Forwood: “Our opinion is that this is a case which ought to be decided by jury.”

Mr. Pickford (my counsel): “If that is clearly the opinion of the Bench I shall not occupy their time by going into the defense now, because I understand, whatever defense may be put forward, the Bench may think it right for a jury to decide.”

The Chairman: “Yes, we think so.”

I was then ordered to stand up and was formally charged in the usual manner.

I replied: “I reserve my defense.”

Sir William Forwood made answer: “Florence Elizabeth Maybrick, it is our duty to commit you to take your trial at the ensuing Assizes for wilful murder of the late James Maybrick.”

I was then remanded into custody.

I found it difficult to understand why these magistrates committed me to trial for murder on that evidence. There was certainly not sufficient evidence that the cause of death was arsenic. The doctors could not say so. No arsenic had been found by the analyst in the stomach, the appearance of which at the post-mortem, Dr. Humphreys said, was “consistent” with either poisoning or ordinary congestion of the stomach; but, after examination, a minute quantity of arsenic, certainly not enough to cause death, was detected in the liver, the appearance of which, Dr. Humphreys said, showed no evidence of any irritant poison. On this point Dr. Carter agreed with Dr. Humphreys, “but in a more positive manner,” while Dr. Barron did not exactly agree with Dr. Carter.

The analyst had found both arsenic and “traces” of arsenic, in some bottles and things which had been found in the house after death, as to which, where they came from, or who had put them there, no one had any knowledge. This is the evidence upon which I was committed. Justice Stephen, in addressing the grand jury, even thus early showed a predisposition against me, due at this time, no doubt, to the sensational reports in the press. A true bill was found, and I was brought to trial before him on the 31st of July.

Letters from Walton Jail

The six weeks intervening before my trial were very terrible. The mental strain was incessant, and I suffered much from insomnia. The stress and confinement were telling on my health, as was the separation from my children. I insert here two extracts from letters, written by me, from Walton Jail. One is to my mother, dated the 21st of July, 1889, a few days before my trial:

“I am not feeling very well. This fearful strain and the necessity for continued self-control is beginning to tell upon me. But I am not in the least afraid. I shall show composure, dignity and fortitude to the last.”

The following is an extract from a letter I wrote to a friend on June 27, before my trial on July 31:

“I have made my peace with God. I have forgiven unreservedly all those who have ruined and forsaken me. To-morrow I partake of the Holy Communion with a clear conscience, and I place my faith in God’s mercy.

“God give me strength is my constant prayer. I feel so lonely—as if every hand were against me. To think that for three or four days I must be unveiled before all those uncharitable eyes. You can not think how awful it appears to me. So far the ordeal has been all anticipation; then it will be stern reality—which always braces the nerves and courage.

“I have seen in the Liverpool Post the judge’s address on the prosecution to the jury, and it is enough to appal the stoutest heart. I hear the police are untiring and getting up the case against me regardless of expense.

“Pray for me, my friend, for the darkest days of my life are now to be lived through. I trust in God’s justice, whatever I may be in the sight of man.”

Lord Russell’s Opinion

I received many visits from my lawyers, the Messrs. Cleaver, and just before the trial one from my leading counsel, Sir Charles Russell, later Lord Russell of Killowen, Lord Chief Justice of England. The following statement made by him relative to this visit may interest my readers:

“I will make no public statement of what my personal belief is as to Mrs. Maybrick’s guilt or innocence, but I will tell you, who have stood by her all these years, that, perplexed with the instructions in the brief, I took what was an unusual step: I went to see her in prison before her trial, and questioned her there to the best of my ability for the purpose of getting the truth out of her. During the whole seven days of her trial I made careful observation of her demeanor, and since her imprisonment I have availed myself of my judicial right to visit her at Aylesbury Prison; and, making the best use of such opportunities of arriving at a just conclusion about her own self-consciousness, I decided in my own mind that it never for a moment entered her mind to do any bodily injury to her husband. On the last occasion that I saw her I told her so, as I felt it would and did give the poor woman some comfort.”

Copyright by W. & D. Downey, London

LORD CHARLES RUSSELL, Q.C.,
Late Lord Chief Justice of England, Mrs. Maybrick’s counsel.

The Public Condemns Me Unheard

The day preceding my trial found me calm in spirit, and in a measure prepared for the awful ordeal before me. Up to that time I had shown a composure that astonished every one. Indeed, some went so far as to say I was without feeling. Perhaps I was toward their kind. I would have responded to sympathy, but never to distrust. At that time I was suspected by all—or, rather, people were not sufficiently just to content themselves with suspicions; they condemned me outright, and, unheard, struck at a weak, defenseless woman; and this upon what is now generally admitted to have been insufficient evidence to sustain the indictment.

CHAPTER TWO
The Trial

The Injustice of Trying the Case at Liverpool

My trial was set for the 31st of July in St. George’s Hall, Liverpool. Immediately after nine o’clock on that day, the part of the building which is open to the general public was filled by a well-dressed audience, including many of my one-time friends. During all the days of my trial, I am told, Liverpool society fought for tickets. Ladies were attired as for a matinée, and some brought their luncheons that they might retain their seats. Many of them carried opera-glasses, which they did not hesitate to level at me. The Earl of Sefton occupied a seat on the bench with the judge, and among the audience were many public and city men and judicial officers. The press had for two months supplied nourishment in the form of the most sensational stories about me, to feed the morbid appetite of the public. The excitement ran so high that the Liverpool crowds even hissed me as I was driven through the streets. It was a mockery of justice to hold such a trial in such a place as Liverpool, at such a time, by a common jury; and it was a mockery of common sense to expect that any Liverpool common jury could, when they got into the jury-box, dismiss from their minds all they had heard and seen. In a letter which I wrote to my mother, when in Walton Jail, on the 28th of June, about a month before the trial, I said: “I sincerely hope Messrs. Cleaver will arrange for my trial to take place in London. I shall receive an impartial verdict there, which I can not expect from a jury in Liverpool, whose minds will virtually be made up before any evidence is heard.” Owing, however, to a lack of funds this hope was not realized.

I was at this time alone, utterly forsaken, and the only persons to whom I could look for protection and advice were my lawyers, Messrs. Cleaver.

At half-past eight on the morning of my trial, a black van was driven up to the side door, in the fore part of which were already confined the male prisoners awaiting trial. I was placed in the rear, a female warder stepped in, the door was shut, and I felt as if I were already buried. A crowd witnessed my departure from Walton Jail, and a larger one was assembled outside St. George’s Hall. But I was conducted into the building without attracting attention.

At ten o’clock I heard a blast of trumpets that heralded the judge’s entrance into court. Shortly after my name was called, and, accompanied by a male and a female warder, I ascended slowly the stone staircase from the cells leading to the dock. I was calm and collected in manner, although aware of the gravity of my position. But the consciousness of innocence, and a strong faith in Divine support, made me confident that strength would be given to endure the awful ordeal before me.

ST. GEORGE’S HALL, LIVERPOOL,
Where the trial of Mrs Maybrick was held.

In reply to the Clerk of Arraigns, who read the charge against me of “feloniously and wilfully murdering my husband, James Maybrick,” I answered “Not guilty.” It is customary in criminal courts in England to compel a prisoner to stand in the dock during the whole trial, but I was provided with a seat by recommendation of the prison doctor, as I suffered from attacks of faintness, though against this humane departure a great public outcry was raised.

The counsel engaged in the case were Mr. Addison, Q.C., M.P. (now judge at the Southwark County Court), Mr. McConnell, and Mr. Swift, for the prosecution; Sir Charles Russell, assisted by Mr. Pickford and Messrs. Cleaver, for the defense.

An Unexpected Verdict

When the trial began there was a strong feeling against me, but as it proceeded, and the fact was made clear that Mr. Maybrick had long been addicted to taking large quantities of arsenic, coupled with the evidence, to quote Sir Charles Russell, (1) that there was no proof of arsenical poisoning, (2) that there was no proof that arsenic was administered to him by me, the prejudice against me gradually changed, until, at the close of the trial, there was a complete revulsion of sentiment, and my acquittal was confidently expected.

When the jury retired to consider their verdict I was taken below, and here my solicitor came to speak to me; but the tension of mind was so great I do not recall one word that he said.

After what seemed to me an age, but was in reality only thirty-eight minutes, the jury returned into court and took their places in the jury-box. I was recalled to the dock. When I stood up to hear the verdict I had an intuition that it was unfavorable. Every one looked away from me, and there was a stillness in court that could be felt. Then the Clerk of Arraigns arose and said:

“Have you agreed upon the verdict, gentlemen?”

“We have.”

“And do you find the prisoner guilty of the murder of James Maybrick or not guilty?”

The Foreman: “Guilty.”

A prolonged “Ah!” strangely like the sighing of wind through a forest, sounded through the court. I reeled as if struck a blow and sank upon a chair. The Clerk of Arraigns then turned to me and said: “Florence Elizabeth Maybrick, you have been found guilty of wilful murder. Have you anything to say why the court should not pronounce sentence upon you according to the law?”

I arose, and with a prayer for strength, I clasped the rail of the dock in front of me, and said in a low voice, but with firmness: “My lord, everything has been against me; I am not guilty of this crime.”

The Judge’s Sentence

These were the last words which the law permitted me to speak. Mr. Justice Stephen then assumed the full dress of the criminal judge—the black cap—and pronounced the sentence of the court in these words:

“Prisoner at the bar, I am no longer able to treat you as being innocent of the dreadful crime laid to your charge. You have been convicted by a jury of this city, after a lengthy and most painful investigation, followed by a defense which was in every respect worthy of the man. The jury has convicted you, and the law leaves me no discretion, and I must pass the sentence of the law:

“The court doth order you to be taken from hence to the place from whence you came, and from thence to the place of execution, and that you be hanged by the neck until you are dead, and that your body be afterward buried within the precincts of the prison in which you shall be confined after your conviction. And may the Lord have mercy upon your soul!”

Copyright by Bassano, London.

JUSTICE FITZ-JAMES STEPHEN.
Who presided at the trial of Mrs. Maybrick.

Utterly stunned I was removed from the court to Walton Jail, there to be confined until this sentence of the law should be carried into effect.

The mob, as the Liverpool public was styled by the press, before they had heard or read a word of the defense had hissed me when I entered the court; and now, that they had heard or read the evidence, cheered me as I drove away in the prison-van, and hissed and hooted the judge, who with difficulty gained his carriage.

In the Shadow of Death

In all the larger local English prisons there is one room, swept and ready, the sight of which can not fail to stir unwonted thoughts. The room is large, with barred windows, and contains only a bed and a chair. It is the last shelter of those whom the law declares to have forfeited their lives. Near by is a small brick building in the prison-yard, that has apparently nothing to connect it with the room; yet they are joined by a sinister suggestion.

For nearly three terrible weeks I was confined in this cell of the condemned, to taste the bitterness of death under its most appalling and shameful aspect. I was carefully guarded by two female warders, who would gladly have been spared the task. They might not read nor sleep; at my meals, through my prayers, during every moment of agony, they still watched on and rarely spoke. Many have asked me what my feelings were at that awful time. I remember little in the way of details as to my state of mind. I was too overwhelmed for either analytic or collective thought. Conscious of my innocence, I had no fear of physical death, for the love of my Heavenly Father was so enveloping that death seemed to me a blessed escape from a world in which such an unspeakable travesty of justice could take place; while I petitioned for a reconsideration of the verdict, it was wholly for the sake of my mother and my children.

I knew nothing of any public efforts for my relief. I was held fast on the wheels of a slow-moving machine, hypnotized by the striking hours and the flight of my numbered minutes, with the gallows staring me in the face. The date of my execution was not told me at Walton Jail, but I heard afterward that it was to have taken place on the 26th of August. On the 22d, while I was taking my daily exercise in the yard attached to the condemned cell, the governor, Captain Anderson, accompanied by the chief matron, entered. He called me to him, and, with a voice which—all honor to him—trembled with emotion, said:

“Maybrick, no commutation of sentence has come down to-day, and I consider it my duty to tell you to prepare for death.”

“Thank you, governor,” I replied; “my conscience is clear. God’s will be done.”

Commutation of Sentence

He then walked away and I returned to my cell. The female warder was weeping silently, but I was calm and spent the early part of the night in my usual prayers. About midnight exhausted nature could bear no more, and I fainted. I had barely regained consciousness when I heard the shuffle of feet outside, the click of the key in the lock—that warning catch in the slow machinery of my doom. I sprang up, and with one supreme effort of will braced myself for what I believed was the last act of my life. The governor and a chaplain entered, followed by a warder. They read my expectation in my face, and the governor, hastening forward, exclaimed in an agitated voice: “It is well; it is good news!” When I opened my eyes once more I was lying in bed in the hospital, and I remained there until I was taken to Woking Convict Prison.

CHAPTER THREE
In Solitary Confinement

Removal to Woking Prison

On the morning of the 29th of August I was hastily awakened by a female warder, who said that orders had come down from the Home Office for my removal that day to a convict prison.

When I left, the governor was standing at the gate, and, with a kindliness of voice which I deeply appreciated, told me to be brave and good.

A crowd was in waiting at the station. I was roughly hustled through it into a third-class carriage.

The only ray of light that penetrated those dark hours of my journey came from an American woman. God bless her, whoever she is or wherever she is! At every station that the train stopped she got out and came to the carriage door and spoke words of sympathy and comfort. She was the first of my countrywomen to voice to me the protest that swelled into greater volume as the years rolled by.

As the train drew up at Woking station a crowd assembled. Outside stood a cab, to which I was at once conducted, and we drove through lovely woods; the scent of flowers was wafted by the breeze into what seemed to be a hearse that was bearing me on toward my living tomb.

As we approached the prison the great iron gate swung wide, and the cab drove silently into the yard. There I descended. The governor gave an order, and a woman—who I afterward found was assistant superintendent—came forward. Accompanied by her and an officer, I was led across a near-by yard to a building which stood somewhat apart from the others and is known as the infirmary. There a principal matron received me, and the assistant superintendent and the chief matron returned to their quarters.

The Convict Uniform

In the grasp of what seemed to me a horrible nightmare, I found myself in a cell with barred windows, a bed, and a chair. Without, the stillness of death reigned. I remained there perhaps half an hour when the door opened and I was commanded by a female warder to follow her. In a daze I obeyed mechanically. We crossed the same yard again and entered a door that led into a room containing only a fireplace, a table, and a bath. Here I was told to take off my clothes, as those I had traveled in had to be sent back to the prison at Liverpool, where they belonged.

When I was dressed in the uniform to which the greatest stigma and disgrace is attached, I was told to sit down. The warder then stepped quickly forward, and with a pair of scissors cut off my hair to the nape of my neck. This act seemed, above all others, to bring me to a sense of my degradation, my utter helplessness; and the iron of the awful tragedy, of which I was the innocent victim, entered my soul. I was then weighed and my height taken. My weight was one hundred and twelve pounds, and my height five feet three inches.

Once more I was bidden to follow my guide. We recrossed the yard and entered the infirmary. Here I was locked in the cell already mentioned. At last I could be alone after the anguish and torture of the day. I prayed for sleep that I might lose consciousness of my intolerable anguish. But sleep, that gentle nurse of the sad and suffering, came not. What a night! I shudder even now at the memory of it. Physically exhausted, smarting with the thought of the cruel, heartless way in which I had been beaten down and trodden under foot, I felt that mortal death would have been more merciful than the living death to which I was condemned. In the adjoining cell an insane woman was raving and weeping throughout the night, and I wondered whether in the years to come I should become like her.

The next day I was visited by the governor on his official rounds. Then the doctor came and made a medical examination, and ordered me to be detained in the infirmary until further orders. My mind is a blank as to what happened for some time afterward. My next remembrance is being told by a coarse-looking, harsh-spoken female warder to get ready to go into the prison. Once more I was led across the big yard, and then I stood within the walls that were to be for years my tomb. Outside the sun was shining and the birds were singing.

In Solitary Confinement

Without, picture a vast outline of frowning masonry. Within, when I had passed the double outer gates and had been locked out and locked in in succession, I found myself in a central hall, from which ran cage-like galleries divided into tiers and landings, with a row of small cells on either side. The floors are of stone, the landings of slate, the railings of steel, and the stairs of iron. Wire netting is stretched over the lowest tier to prevent prisoners from throwing themselves over in one of those frenzies of rage and despair of which every prison has its record. Within their walls can be found, above all places, that most degrading, heart-breaking product of civilization, a human automaton. All will, all initiative, all individuality, all friendship, all the things that make human beings attractive to one another, are absent. Suffering there is dumb, and when it goes beyond endurance—alas!

I followed the warder to a door, perhaps not more than two feet in width. She unlocked it and said, “Pass in.” I stepped forward, but started back in horror. Through the open door I saw, by the dim light of a small window that was never cleaned, a cell seven feet by four.

“Oh, don’t put me in there!” I cried. “I can not bear it.”

For answer the warder took me roughly by the shoulder, gave me a push, and shut the door. There was nothing to sit upon but the cold slate floor. I sank to my knees. I felt suffocated. It seemed that the walls were drawing nearer and nearer together, and presently the life would be crushed out of me. I sprang to my feet and beat wildly with my hands against the door. “For God’s sake let me out! Let me out!” But my voice could not penetrate that massive barrier, and exhausted I sank once more to the floor. I can not recall those nine months of solitary confinement without a feeling of horror. My cell contained only a hammock rolled up in a corner, and three shelves let into the wall—no table nor stool. For a seat I was compelled to place my bedclothes on the floor.

The Daily Routine

No one can realize the horror of solitary confinement who has not experienced it. Here is one day’s routine: It is six o’clock; I arise and dress in the dark; I put up my hammock and wait for breakfast. I hear the ward officer in the gallery outside. I take a tin plate and a tin mug in my hands and stand before the cell door. Presently the door opens; a brown, whole-meal, six-ounce loaf is placed upon the plate; the tin mug is taken, and three-quarters of a pint of gruel is measured in my presence, when the mug is handed back in silence, and the door is closed and locked. After I have taken a few mouthfuls of bread I begin to scrub my cell. A bell rings and my door is again unlocked. No word is spoken, because I know exactly what to do. I leave my cell and fall into single file, three paces in the rear of my nearest fellow convict. All of us are alike in knowing what we have to do, and we march away silently to Divine service. We are criminals under punishment, and our keepers march us like dumb cattle to the worship of God. To me the twenty minutes of its duration were as an oasis in a weary desert. When it came to an end I felt comforted, and always a little more resigned to my fate. Chapel over, I returned directly to my cell, for I was in solitary confinement, and might not enjoy the privilege of working in company with my prison companions.

Work I must, but I must work alone. Needlework and knitting fall to my lot. My task for the day is handed to me, and I sit in my cell plying my needle, with the consciousness that I must not indulge in an idle moment, for an unaccomplished task means loss of marks, and loss of marks means loss of letters and visits. As chapel begins at 8:30 I am back in my cell soon after nine, and the requirement is that I shall make one shirt a day—certainly not less than five shirts a week. If I am obstinate or indolent, I shall be reported by the ward officer, and be brought to book with punishment—perhaps reduced to a diet of bread and water and total confinement in my cell for twenty-four hours. If I am faint, weak, or unwell, I may be excused the full performance of my task; but there must be no doubt of my inability. In such case it is for me to have my name entered for the prison doctor, and obtain from him the indulgence that will remit a portion of my prescribed work to three or four shirts.

However, as I am well, I work automatically, closely, and with persistence. Then comes ten o’clock, and with it the governor with his escort. He inspects each cell, and if all is not as it should be, the prisoner will hear of it. There is no friendly greeting of “Good-morning” nor parting “Good-night” within those gloomy walls. The tone is formal and the governor says: “How are you, Maybrick? Any complaints? Do you want anything?” and then he passes on. Then I am again alone with my work and my brooding thoughts. I never made complaints. One but adds to one’s burden by finding causes for complaint. With the coming and the going of the governor the monotony returns to stagnation.

The Exercise Hour

Presently, however, the prison bell rings again. I know what the clangor means, and mechanically lay down my work. It is the hour for exercise, and I put on my bonnet and cape. One by one the cell doors of the ward are opened. One by one we come out from our cells and fall into single file. Then, with a ward officer in charge, we march into the exercise yard. We have drawn up in line, three paces apart, and this is the form in which we tramp around the yard and take our exercise. This yard is perhaps forty feet square, and there are thirty-five of us to expand in its “freedom.” The inclosure is oppressively repulsive. Stone-flagged, hemmed within ugly walls, it gives one a hideous feeling of compression. It seems more like a bear-pit than an airing ground for human beings. But I forget that we are not here to have things made easy, comfortable, and pleasant for us. We are here to be punished, to be scourged for our crimes and misdeeds. Can you wonder that human nature sometimes revolts and dares even prison rigor? Human instincts may be suppressed, but not wholly crushed.

There were at Woking two yards in which flowers and green trees were visible, but it was only in after years that I was permitted to take my exercise in these yards, and then only half an hour on Sunday.

When the one hour for exercise is over, in a file as before, we tramp back to our work. Confined as we are for twenty-two hours in our narrow, gloomy cells, the exercise, dull as it is, is our only opportunity for a glimpse of the sky and for a taste of outdoor life, and affords our only relief from an otherwise almost unbearable day.

The Midday Meal

At noon the midday meal. The first sign of its approach is the sound of the fatigue party of prisoners bringing the food from the kitchen into the ward. I hear the ward officer passing with the weary group from cell to cell, and presently she will reach my door. My food is handed to me, then the door is closed and double locked. In the following two hours, having finished my meal, I can work or read. At two o’clock the fatigue party again goes on its mechanical round; the cell door is again unlocked, this time for the collection of dinner-cans. The meal of each prisoner is served out by weight, and the law allows her to claim her full quantity to the uttermost fraction of an ounce. She is even entitled to see it weighed if she fancies it falls short. Work is then resumed until five o’clock, when gruel and bread is again served, as at breakfast, with half an hour for its disposal. From that time on until seven o’clock more work, when again is heard the clang of the prison bell, and with it comes the end of our monotonous day. I take down my hammock, and once more await the opening of the door. We have learned exactly what to do. With the opening of our cells we go forward, and each places her broom outside the door. So shall it be known that we each have been visited in our cells before the locking of our doors and gates for the night. If any of us are taking medicine by the doctor’s orders we now receive it. On through the ten long, weary hours of the night the night officers patrol the wards, keeping watch, and through a glass peep-hole silently inspect us in our beds to see that nothing is amiss.

The Cruelty of Solitary Confinement

Solitary confinement is by far the most cruel feature of English penal servitude. It inflicts upon the prisoner at the commencement of her sentence, when most sensitive to the horrors which prison punishment entails, the voiceless solitude, the hopeless monotony, the long vista of to-morrow, to-morrow, to-morrow stretching before her, all filled with desolation and despair. Once a prisoner has crossed the threshold of a convict prison, not only is she dead to the world, but she is expected in word and deed to lose or forget every vestige of her personality. Verily,

The mills of the gods grind slowly,

But they grind exceeding small,

And woe to the wight unholy

On whom those millstones fall.

So it is with the Penal Code which directs this vast machinery, doing its utmost with tireless, ceaseless revolutions to mold body and soul slowly, remorselessly, into the shape demanded by Act of Parliament.

CHAPTER FOUR
The Period of Probation

A Change of Cell

The day I had completed the nine months of solitary confinement I entered upon a new stage, that of probation for nine months. I was taken from Hall G to Hall A. There were in Woking seven halls, A, B, C, D, E, F, G, separated by two barred doors and a narrow passage. Every hall has three wards. The female warder who accompanied me locked me in my cell. I looked around with a sense of intense relief. The cell was as large again as the one I had left. The floor was of wood instead of slate. It contained a camp bedstead on which was placed a so-called mattress, consisting of a sack the length of the bed, stuffed with coir, the fiber of the coconut. There were also provided two coarse sheets, two blankets, and a red counterpane. In a corner were three iron shelves let in the wall one above the other. On the top shelf was folded a cape, and on top of this there was a small, coarse straw bonnet. The second shelf contained a tin cup, a tin plate, a wooden spoon, and a salt-cellar. The third shelf was given up to a slate, on which might be written complaints or requests to the governor; it is a punishable offense in prison to write with a pencil or on any paper not provided.

There was also a Bible, a prayer-book and hymn-book, and a book from the library. Near the door stood a log of wood upright, fastened to the floor, and this was the only seat in the cell. It was immovable, and so placed that the prisoner might always be in view of the warder. Near it, let into the wall, was a piece of deal board, which answered for a table. Through an almost opaque piece of square glass light glimmered from the hall, the only means of lighting the cell at night; facing this, high up, was a barred window admitting light from the outside.

Evils of the Silent System

The routine of my daily life was the same as during “solitary confinement.” The cell door may be open, but its outer covering or gate is locked, and, although I knew there was a human creature separated from me only by a cell wall and another gate, not a whisper might I breathe. There is no rule of prison discipline so productive of trouble and disaster as the “silent system,” and the tyrannous and rigorous method with which it is enforced is the cause of two-thirds of all the misconduct and disturbance that occurs in prison. The silence rule gives supreme gratification to the tyrannous officer, for on the slightest pretext she can report a woman for talking—a turn of the head, a movement of the lips is enough of an excuse for a report. And there is heavy punishment that can be inflicted for this offense, both in the male and female prisons. An offender may be consigned to solitary confinement, put for three days on bread and water, or suffer the loss of a week’s remission, which means a week added to her term of imprisonment—and all this for incautiously uttering a word.

Unless it be specifically intended as a means of torture, the system of solitary confinement, even for four months, the term to which it has since been reduced, can meet only with condemnation. I am convinced that, within limits, the right of speech and the interchange of thought, at least for two hours daily, even during probation, would insure better discipline than perpetual silence, which can be enforced only by a complete suppression of nature, and must result in consequent weakness of mind and ruin of temper. During the first months of her sentence a prisoner is more frequently in trouble for breach of this one rule than from all other causes. The reduction of the term of probation from nine to four months has been followed by a reduction in mental afflictions, which is proof that nothing wholesome or good can have its growth in unnatural solitude.

The silent system has a weakening effect upon the memory. A prisoner often finds difficulty in deciding upon the pronunciation of words which she has not heard for a considerable period. I often found myself, when desirous of using unusual words, especially in French or German, pronouncing them to myself in order to fix the pronunciation in my memory. It is well to bear in mind what a small number of words the prisoner has an opportunity of using in the monotony of prison life. The same inquiries are made day after day, and the same responses given. A vocabulary of one hundred words will include all that a prisoner habitually uses.

Insanity and Nervous Breakdown of Prisoners

No defender of the silent system pretends that it wholly succeeds in preventing speech among prisoners. But be that as it may, a period of four months’ solitary confinement in the case of a female, and six months’ in the case of a male, and especially of a girl or youth, is surely a crime against civilization and humanity. Such a punishment is inexpressible torture to both mind and body. I speak from experience. The torture of continually enforced silence is known to produce insanity or nervous breakdown more than any other feature connected with prison discipline. Since the passing of the Act of 1898, mitigating this form of punishment, much good has been accomplished, as is proved by the diminution of insanity in prison life, the decreasing scale of prison punishment, and the lessening of the death-rate. By still further reducing this barbarous practise, or, better, by abolishing it entirely, corresponding happy results may confidently be expected. The more the prisoners are placed under conditions and amid surroundings calculated to develop a better life, the greater is the hope that the system will prove curative; but so long as prisoners are subjected to conditions which have a hardening effect at the very beginning of their prison life, there is little chance of ultimate reformation.

Need of Separate Confinement for the Weak-Minded

There are many women who hover about the borderland of insanity for months, possibly for years. They are recognized as weak-minded, and consequently they make capital out of their condition, and by the working of their distorted minds, and petty tempers, and unreasonable jealousy, add immeasurably not only to the ghastliness of the “house of sorrow,” but are a sad clog on the efforts to self-betterment of their level-minded sisters in misery. Of these many try hard to make the best of what has to be gone through. Therefore, is it necessary, is it wise, is it right that such a state of things should be allowed? The weak-minded should be kept in a separate place, with their own officers to attend them. Neither the weak-minded, the epileptic, nor the consumptives were isolated. There is great need of reform wherever this is the case. Prisoners whose behavior is different from the normal should be separated from the other prisoners, and made to serve out their sentences under specially adapted conditions.

I read in the newspapers that insanity is on the increase; this fact is clearly reflected within the prison walls. It is stated that the insane form about three per thousand of the general population. In local English prisons insanity, it is said, even after deducting those who come in insane, is seven times more prevalent than among the general population.

Reading an Insufficient Relaxation

The nervous crises do not now supervene so frequently as formerly in the case of prisoners of a brooding disposition, but the fact remains that, in spite of the slight amelioration, mental light is still excluded—that communion on which rests all human well-being. The vacuity of the solitary system, to some at least, is partially lighted by books. But what of those who can not read, or who have not sufficient concentration of mind to profit by reading as a relaxation? There are many such, in spite of the high standard of free education that prevails at the present day. The shock of the trial, and the uprooting of a woman’s domestic ties, coupled with the additional mental strain of having to start her prison career in solitary confinement, is surely neither humane, nor merciful, nor wise. These months of solitary confinement leave an ineffaceable mark. It is during the first lonely months that the seeds of bitterness and hardness of heart are sown, and it requires more than a passive resistance—nay, nothing short of an unfaltering faith and trust in an overruling Providence—to bring a prisoner safely through the ordeal. Let the sympathetic reader try to realize what it means never to feel the touch of anything soft or warm, never to see anything that is attractive—nothing but stone above, around, and beneath. The deadly chill creeps into one’s bones; the bitter days of winter and the still bitterer nights were torture, for Woking Prison was not heated. My hands and feet were covered with chilblains.

My Sufferings from Cold and Insomnia

Oh, the horrors of insomnia! If one could only forget one’s sufferings in sleep! During all the fifteen years of my imprisonment, insomnia was (and, alas! is still) my constant companion. Little wonder! I might fall asleep, when suddenly the whole prison is awakened by shriek upon shriek, rending the stillness of the night. I am now, perforce, fully awake. Into my ears go tearing all the shrill execrations and blasphemies, all the hideous uproars of an inferno, compounded of bangs, shrieks, and general demoniac ragings. The wild smashing of glass startles the halls. I lie in my darkened cell with palpitating heart. Like a savage beast, the woman of turmoil has torn her clothing and bedding into shreds, and now she is destroying all she can lay hands on. The ward officers are rushing about in slippered feet, the bell rings summoning the warders, who are always needed when such outbursts occur, and the woman, probably in a strait-jacket, is borne to the penal cells. Then stillness returns to the ghastly place, and with quivering nerves I may sleep—if I can.

Medical Attendance

But what if one is ill in the night? The lonely prisoner in her cell may summon aid by ringing the bell. The moment it is set in motion it causes a black iron slab to project from the outer wall of her cell in the gallery. On the slab is the prisoner’s number, and the ward officer, hearing the bell, at once looks for the cell from which the call has been sent. Presently she finds it, then fetches the principal matron, and together they enter the hard, unhomelike place. If the prisoner is ill they call the doctor of the prison, and medicines and aid will be given. But sympathy is no part of their official duty, and be the warder never so tender in her own domestic circle, tenderness must not be shown toward a prisoner. The patient may be removed from her cell to the infirmary, where they will care for her medically, perhaps as well as they would in a hospital; she may even receive a few flowers from an infirmary warder whose heart comes out from its official shell; but through it all, sick though she be, she is still a prisoner under lock and key, a woman under surveillance, a woman denied communion with her kind.

Added Sufferings of the Delicately Nurtured

What words can adequately describe the long years, blank and weary enough for all prisoners, but which are indescribably so to one who has been delicately nurtured! I had enjoyed the refinements of social life; I had pitied, and tried, as far as lay in my power, to help the poor and afflicted, but I had never known anything of the barbarism, the sordid vices of low life. And I was condemned to drag out existence amid such surroundings, because twelve ignorant men had taken upon themselves to decide a question which neither the incompetent judge nor the medical witnesses could themselves determine.

So far as I can learn, there is no other instance of a woman undoubtedly innocent and of gentle birth, confined for a term of nearly fifteen years in an English convict prison. In the nature of things a delicate woman feels more acutely than a robust prisoner the rigors of prolonged captivity.

Neither confidence nor respect can be secured when punishment is excessive, for it then becomes an act of persecution, suitable only for ages of darkness. The supineness of Parliament in not establishing a court of criminal appeal fastens a dark blot upon the judicature of England, and is inconsistent with the innate love of justice and fair play of its people.

How Criminals and Imbeciles are Made

The law in prison is the same for the rich as the poor, the “Star Class” as for the ignorant, brutalized criminal. My register was “L. P. 29.” These letters and numbers were worked in white cotton upon a piece of black cloth. Your sentence is indicated thus: “L” stands for penal servitude for life; “P” for the year of conviction, which in my case was the sixteenth year since the previous lettering. This is done every twenty-five years. The “29” meant that I was the twenty-ninth convict of my year, 1889. In addition to this register I wore a red cloth star placed above it. The “Star Class,” of which I was a member, consisted of women who have been convicted of one crime only, committed in a moment of weakness or despair, or under pressure which they were not strong enough to resist at the time, such as infanticide, forgery, incendiarism; and who, having been educated and respectably brought up, betray otherwise no criminal instincts or inclinations; and who, when in the world, would be distinct in character from the habitual criminal, not only from a social point of view, but in their virtues, faults, and crimes.

There should be separate rules and privileges to meet the case of a prisoner guilty of moral lapses only, as distinguished from the habitual breaker of the laws. At present the former gets the same treatment and discipline as the habitual criminal of several convictions, and can not claim a single privilege that the old offender has not a right to ask—for example, members of both classes are limited to the same number of letters and visits. The “Star Class” is supposed to be kept separate from ordinary prisoners. It was so at Woking Prison. But at Aylesbury Prison, to which I was transferred later, they were sandwiched between two wards of habitual criminals, with whom they came continually in contact, not only in passing to and from the workshops, fetching meals, and going to exercise, but continuously. That contamination should ensue is hardly surprising. It requires a will of iron, and nearly the spirit of a saint, not to be corrupted by the sights and sounds of a prison, even when no word is spoken. It is a serious accusation against any system to say “that it produces the thing it is designed to prevent,” but such, I am convinced, is the fact as regards the manufacture of criminals and imbeciles by the present system of penalism almost the world over.

CHAPTER FIVE
The Period of Hard Labor

Routine

Having passed solitary confinement and probation, I entered upon the third stage, hard labor, when I was permitted to leave my cell to assist in carrying meals from the kitchen, and to sit at my door and converse with the prisoners in the adjoining cells for two hours daily—but always in the presence of an officer who controls and limits the conversation. My daily routine was now also somewhat different from that of solitary confinement and probation.

At six o’clock the bell rings to rise. Half an hour later a second bell signifies to the officers that it is time to come on duty. Each warder in charge of certain wards—there are three wards to each hall—then goes to the chief matron’s office, where she receives a key wherewith to unlock the prisoners’ cells. All keys are given up by the female warder before going off duty, and locked for the night in an iron safe under the charge of a male warder. When again in possession of her key she repairs to her ward, and at the order, “Unlock,” she lets out the prisoners to empty their slops. This done, they are once more locked in, with the exception of three women who go down to the kitchen to fetch the cans of tea and loaves of bread which make up the prisoners’ breakfast. At Woking the breakfast was of cocoa and coarse meal bread, while later, at Aylesbury, it consisted of tea and white bread. I am constrained to remark here that more consideration should be shown by the medical officer toward women who complain of being physically unfit to do heavy lifting and carrying. The can is carried by two women up two or three flights of stairs, according to the location of their ward, and the bread by one woman only. Each can contains fourteen quarts of tea, and the bread-basket holds thirty pounds or more of bread. To a woman with strong muscles it may cause no distress, but in the case of myself and others equally frail, the physical strain was far beyond our strength, and left us utterly exhausted after the task.

The breakfast was served at seven o’clock, when the officers returned to the mess-room to take theirs. At 7:30 a bell rang again, and the officers returned to their respective wards. At ten minutes to eight the order was given, “Unlock.” Once more the doors were opened. Then followed the order, “Chapel,” and each woman stood at her door with Bible, prayer-book, and hymn-book in hand. At the words “Pass on,” they file one behind the other into the chapel, where a warder from each ward sits with her back to the altar that she may be able the better to watch those under her charge and see that they do not speak. After a service of twenty minutes the prisoners file back to their cells, place their books on the lower shelf, and with a drab cape and a white straw hat stand in readiness for the next order, “To your doors.” This given, they descend into the hall and pass out to their respective places of work.

Talk with the Chaplain

Many of these women have their tender, spiritual moments. At such times they will beg for a favorite hymn to be sung at the chapel service on Sunday, and their requests are generally granted by the chaplain. He is the only friend of the prisoner, and his work is arduous and often thankless. He is the only one within the walls to whom she may turn for sympathy and advice. It may not be every woman who gladly avails herself of the enforced privilege of attending daily chapel. “Religion,” as a term, is unpalatable to many. But there are very few who are not better and happier for the few moments’ unofficial talk with her chaplain, be she Protestant or Roman Catholic.

It is to be regretted that his authority is so limited, and his opportunities for brightening the lives of those who walk in dark places so few. Red tape and standing orders confront him at every turn, so that even the religious training is drawn and sucked beneath the mighty wheel of the Penal Code, and there is no time for personal suasion to play more than a minor part in a convict’s life.

My Work in the Kitchen

The work for first offenders, who are called the “Star Class,” consists of labor in the kitchen, the mess, and the officers’ quarters. Six months after I entered upon the third stage I was put to work in the kitchen. My duties were as follows: To wash ten cans, each holding four quarts; to scrub one table, twenty feet in length; two dressers, twelve feet in length; to wash five hundred dinner-tins; to clean knives; to wash a sack of potatoes; to assist in serving the dinners, and to scrub a piece of floor twenty by ten feet. Besides myself there were eight other women on hard labor in the kitchen. Our day commenced at 6 A.M., and continued until 5:30 P.M. A half hour at breakfast time, twenty minutes at chapel, one hour and a half after the midday meal, and half an hour after tea summed up our leisure. The work was hard and rough. The combined heat of the coppers, the stove, and the steamers was overpowering, especially on hot summer days; but I struggled on, doing this work preferably to some other, because the kitchen was the only place where the monotony of prison life was broken. It was the “show place,” and all visitors looked in to see the food.

The Machine-made Menu

What dining in prison means may be judged by a perusal of the schedule as given in the Prison Commission Report:

Diet for Female Convicts

Breakfast

Three-quarters of a pint of cocoa, containing ½ ounce of cocoa, 2 ounces milk, ½ ounce of molasses. Bread.

Dinner

Sunday. 4 ounces tinned pressed beef. Bread.

Monday. Mutton		3 ounces (cooked), with its own liquor, flavored with ½ ounce onions, and thickened with bread and potatoes left on previous days, 1/8 ounce of flour, and for every 100 convicts, ¾ ounce of pepper. ¾ pound potatoes. Bread.
Tuesday. Beef
Wednesday. Mutton
Friday. Beef

Saturday. 1 pint soup, containing 6 ounces of shins of beef (uncooked), 1 ounce pearl barley, 3 ounces of fresh vegetables, including onions, and for every 100 convicts, ¾ ounce pepper. ¾ pound potatoes. Bread.

Thursday. ¾ pound pudding, containing 1 ounce 2 drachms water. ¾ pound potatoes. Bread.

Supper

1 pint gruel, containing 2 ounces oatmeal, ¾ ounce molasses, 2 ounces milk. Bread.

Bread per convict per week, 118 ounces.

Bread per convict each week-day, 16 ounces.

Bread per convict each Sunday, 22 ounces.

Salt per convict per day, ½ ounce.[2]

Visitors to the Kitchen

During the four years I worked in the kitchen I saw many people. The Duke of Connaught, Sir Evelyn Wood and his staff, Lord Alverston, Sir Edward du Cane, the late Lord Rothschild, and Sir Evelyn Ruggles-Brise, besides judges, magistrates, authors, philanthropists and others of an inquiring turn of mind, who had obtained the necessary permit to make the tour of the prison under the escort of the governor or one or two of his satellites. These ladies and gentlemen expressed the most varied and sometimes startling opinions. I recollect on one occasion, when some visitors happened to be inspecting the kitchen during the dishing up of the hospital patients’ dinner, one old gentleman of the party was quite scandalized at the sight of a juicy mutton-chop and a tempting milk pudding. He expostulated in such a way that the governor hastened to explain that it was not the ordinary prison diet, but was intended for a very sick woman. Even then this old gentleman was not satisfied, and stalked out, audibly grumbling about people living on the fat of the land and getting a better dinner than he did. I firmly believe that he left the prison under the impression that its inmates lived like pampered gourmets, and that he no longer marveled there were so many criminals when they were fed on such luxuries.

The “Homelike” Cell

On another occasion a benevolent-looking old lady, having given everything and everybody as minute an inspection as was possible, expressed herself as being charmed, remarking:

“Everything is so nice and homelike!”

I have often wondered what that good lady’s home was like.

A little philosophy is useful, a saving grace, even in prison; but people have such different ways of expressing sympathy. A visitor, who I have no doubt intended to be sympathetic, noticing the letter “L” on my arm, inquired:

“How long a time have you to do?”

“I have just completed ten years,” was my reply.

“Oh, well,” cheerfully responded the sympathetic one, “you have done half your time, haven’t you? The remaining ten years will soon slip by”; and the visitor passed on, blissfully ignorant of the sword she had unwittingly thrust into my aching heart. Even if a prisoner has little or no hope of a mitigation, it is not pleasant to have an old wound ruthlessly handled, and ten years’ imprisonment as lightly spoken of as ten days might be.

The Opiate of Acquiescence

I preferred the kitchen work, although often beyond my strength, to any other that fell to a prisoner’s lot, because of the glimpses into the outside world it occasionally afforded. But I never permitted myself to dwell upon the fact that at one time I had been the social equal of at least the majority of those with whom I thus came into passing contact, since to do so would have made my position by contrast so unbearable that it would have unfitted me to do the work in a spirit of submission, not to speak of the mental suffering which awakened memories would have occasioned. I soon found that both my spiritual and my mental salvation, under the repressive rules in force, depended upon unresisting acquiescence—the keeping of my sensibilities dulled as near as possible to the level of the mere animal state which the Penal Code, whether intentionally or otherwise, inevitably brings about.

I have been frequently asked by friends, since my release, how I could possibly have endured the shut-in life under such soul-depressing influences. I have given here and there in my narrative indications of my feelings under different circumstances. Here I may state in general that I early found that thoughts of without and thoughts of within—those that haunted me of the world and those that were ever present in my surroundings—would not march together. I had to keep step with either the one or the other. The conflict between the two soon became unbearable, and I was compelled to make choice: whether I would live in the past and as much as possible exclude the prison, and take the punishment which would inevitably follow—as it had in so many cases—in an unbalanced mind; or would shut the past out altogether and coerce my thoughts within the limitations of the prison regulations. My safety lay, as I found, in compressing my thoughts to the smallest compass of mental existence, and no sooner did worldly visions or memories intrude themselves, as they necessarily would, than I immediately and resolutely shut them out as one draws the blind to exclude the light. While I thus suppressed all emotions belonging to a natural life, I nevertheless found, whenever I came accidentally in contact with visitors from the outside world, that my inner nature was attuned like the strings of a harp to the least vibration of others’ emotions. The slightest unconscious inflection of the voice, whether sympathetic or otherwise, would call forth either a grateful response or an instant withdrawal into the armor of reserve which I had to adopt for my self-protection. But this exclusion of the world created a dark background which served only to intensify the light that shone upon me from realms unseen of mortal eyes. Lonely I was, yet I was never alone. But, however satisfying the spiritual communion, the human heart is so constituted that it needs must yearn for love and sympathy from its own kind, for recognition of all that is best in us, by something that is like unto it, in its experiences, feelings, emotions, and aspirations.

Visits of Prisoners’ Friends

A prisoner is allowed to receive a visit from her friends at intervals of six, four, and two months, according to her stage of service. There are four stages, each of nine months’ duration: first, solitary confinement; second, probation; while the third and fourth stages are not specially designated. During the first two stages the prisoner is clothed in brown, at the third stage in green, and the fourth in navy blue. Every article worn by the prisoner or in use by her is stamped with a “broad arrow,” the convict’s crest.

A visit may be forfeited by bad conduct or delayed through a loss of marks. When a prisoner is entitled to receive a visitor, she applies to the governor for permission to have the permit sent to the person she names; but if the police report concerning the designated visitor is unfavorable the request is not granted. When a prisoner’s friends—three being the maximum—arrive at the prison gates they ring a bell. The gatekeeper views them through a grille and inquires their business. They show their permit; whereupon he notifies the chief matron, who in turn notifies the officer in charge of the prisoner.

The rule regarding visits precluded any discussion of prison affairs, or anything regarding treatment, or aught that passes within the prison walls. Had I permitted myself to break this rule the visit would have been stopped at once by the matron in charge. Consequently, all the statements on such matters reported from time to time in the press during my imprisonment, and quoted as received from my mother or friends, are shown to be pure fabrications.

My Mother’s Visits

A visit! What joy or what sorrow those words express in the outside world! But in prison—the pain of it is so great that it can hardly be borne.

Whenever my mother’s visit was announced, accompanied by a matron I passed into a small, oblong room. There a grilled screen confronted me; a yard or two beyond was a second barrier identical in structure, and behind it I could see the form of my mother, and sitting in the space between the grilles, thus additionally separating us, was a prison matron. No kiss; not even a clasp of the hand; no privacy sacred to mother and daughter; not a whisper could pass between us. Was not this the very depth of humiliation?