* I was imprisoned there for "blasphemy" from February 1883
to February 1884, by sentence of a Roman Catholic judge, Mr.
Justice North.
The dullest Christmas I ever spent was in her Majesty's hotel in North
London. The place was spacious, but not commodious; it was magnificent
in the mass, but very petty in detail; it was designed with extreme
care for the safety of its many guests, but with a complete disregard
of their comfort; and it soon palled upon the taste, despite the
unremitting attentions of a host of liveried servants. How I longed for
a change of scene, if what I constantly gazed upon may be so described;
but I was like a knight in some enchanted castle, surrounded with
attendants, yet not at liberty to walk out. The hospitality of my
residence, however, was by no means sumptuous. The table did not groan
beneath a weight of viands, or gleam with glowing wines. Its poverty was
such that a red-herring would have been a glorious treat, and a dose of
physic an agreeable variety. Why then, you may ask, did I not quit this
inhospitable hotel, and put up at another establishment? Because I was
invited by her Majesty, and her Majesty's invitations are commands.
Speaking by the card, Christmas-day in Holloway was treated as a Sunday.
There was no work and no play then, the dinner was the poorest and
worst cooked in the whole week, and the only diversion was a morning
or afternoon visit to chapel, where we had the satisfaction of learning
that heaven was an eternal Sunday.
The fibre put into my cell to be picked by my industrious fingers had
all been removed the previous evening, lest I should desecrate the
sacred day by pursuing my ordinary avocation. My apartment was therefore
clean and tidy, and by the aid of a bit of dubbin I managed to give
an air of newness to my well-worn shoes. The attendants had, however,
omitted to provide me with a Sunday suit, so I was obliged to don
my working clothes, in which graceless costume I had to perform my
religious devotions in the house of God, where an ill-dressed person is
always regarded as an exceptionally bad sinner, and expected to show
an extraordinary amount of humility and contrition. Linen was never a
burning question in Holloway Hotel, and cuffs and collars were unknown,
except when a short guest wore a long shirt. My toilet was therefore
easily completed; and with a good wash, and the energetic use of a
three-inch comb, I was soon ready for the festivities of the season.
At eight o'clock I received the first instalment of my Christmas fare,
in the shape of three-quarters of a pint of tea and eight ounces of
dry bread. Whether the price of groceries was affected by the Christmas
demand, or whether the kitchen was demoralised by the holiday, I am
unable to decide; but I noticed that the decoction was more innocuous
than usual, although I had thought its customary strength could not be
weakened without a miracle. My breakfast being devised on the plainest
vegetarian principles, there was no occasion for grace before meat, so I
sipped the tea and munched the bread (eight ounces straight off requires
a great deal of mastication) without breathing a word of thanks to the
giver of all good things.
After a remarkably short hour's tramp round the exercise ring in a
thieves' procession, doing the rogue's march without the music, I
returned to my cell, and sitting down on my little three-legged stool, I
was soon lost in thought. I wondered what my wife was doing, how she was
spending the auspicious day. What a "merry Christmas" for a woman with
her husband eating his heart out in gaol! But "that way madness lies,"
and I had fought down the demon too long to give way then. Springing to
my feet, I sped up and down my cell like a caged animal, and after many
maledictions on "the accursed creed," I succeeded in stilling the tumult
of my emotions. A great calm followed this storm, and resuming my seat
and leaning my back against the plank-bed, I took a scornful retrospect
of my prosecution and trial. How insignificant looked the Tylers,
Giffards, Norths and Harcourts! How noble the friends and the party
who had stood by me in the dark hour of defeat! A few short weeks, and I
should be free again to join their ranks and strike hard in the thickest
of the battle, under the grand old flag of Freethought.
The chapel-bell roused me from phantasy. The other half of the prison
disgorged its inmates, and I could hear the sound of their tramping to
the sanctuary. While they were engaged there I read a chapter of Gibbon;
after which I heard the "miserable sinners" return from the chapel to
their cells.
At twelve o'clock came mv second instalment of Christmas fare: six
ounces of potatoes, eight ounces of bread and a mutton chop. Being
on hospital diet, I had this trinity for my dinner every day for nine
months, and words cannot describe the nauseous monotony of the _menu_.
The other prisoners had the regular Sunday's diet: bread, potatoes and
suet-pudding. After dinner I went for another short hour's tramp in the
yard. The officers seemed to relax their usual rigor, and many of the
prisoners exchanged greetings. "How did yer like the figgy duff?" "Did
the beef stick in yer stomach?" Such were the flowers of conversation
that afternoon. From the talk around me, I gathered that under the old
management, before the Government took over the prison, all the inmates
had a "blow out" on Christmas-day, consisting of beef, vegetables,
plum-pudding and a pint of beer. Some of the "old hands" bitterly
bewailed the decadence in prison hospitality. Their lamentations were
worthy of a Conservative orator at a rural meeting. The present was a
poor thing compared with the past, and they sighed for "the tender grace
of a day that is dead."
After exercise I went to chapel. The schoolmaster, who was a very
pleasant gentleman, had drilled the singing class into a fair state
of efficiency, and they sang one or two Christmas hymns in pretty good
style; but the effect of their efforts was considerably marred by the
rest of the congregation, whose unmusical voices, bad sense of time, and
ignorance of the tune, more than once nearly brought the performance
to an untimely end. Parson Playford followed with a seasonable sermon,
which would have been more heartily relished on a fuller stomach. He
told us what a blessed time Christmas was, and how people did well to be
joyous on the anniversary of their Savior's birth; after which I presume
he returned to the bosom of his family, and celebrated the birth of
Christ with liberal doses of turkey, goose, beef, pudding, and communion
wine. Before dismissing us with his blessing to our "little rooms,"
which was his habitual euphemism for our cells, he said that he could
not wish us a happy Christmas in our unhappy condition, but would wish
us a peaceful Christmas; and he ventured to promise us that boon, if
after leaving chapel, we fell on our knees, and besought pardon for our
sins. Most of the prisoners received this advice with a grin, for their
cell-floors were black-leaded, and practising genuflexions in their
"little-rooms" gave too much kneecap to their trousers.
At six o'clock I had my third instalment of Christmas fare, consisting
of another eight ounces of bread and three quarters of a pint of tea.
The last mouthfuls were consumed to the accompaniment of church bells.
The neighboring gospel-shops were announcing their evening performance,
and the sound penetrated into my cell through the open ventilator. The
true believers were wending their way to God's house, and the heretic,
who had dared to deride their creed and denounce their hypocrisy,
was regaling himself on dry bread and warm water in one of their
prison-cells. And the bells rang out against each other from the many
steeples with a wild glee as I paced up and down my narrow dungeon. They
seemed mad with the intoxication of victory; they mocked me with their
bacchanalian frenzy of triumph. But I smiled grimly, for their clamor
was no more than the ancient fool's-shout, "Great is Diana of the
Ephesians." Great Christ has had his day since, but he in turn is dead;
dead in man's intellect, dead in man's heart, dead in man's life; a mere
phantom, flitting about the aisles of churches where priestly mummers go
through the rites of a phantom creed.
I took my Bible and read the story of Christ's birth in Matthew and
Luke. What an incongruous jumble of absurdities! A poor fairy tale
of the world's childhood, utterly insignificant beside the stupendous
wonders which science has revealed to its manhood. From the fanciful
little story of the Magi following a star, to Shelley's "Worlds on
worlds are rolling ever," what an advance! As I retired to sleep upon
my plank-bed my mind was full of these reflections. And when the gas was
turned out, and I was left alone in darkness and silence, I felt serene
and almost happy.