“Shall I wait to bring you back, sir?” said a cabman to me the other
morning, as he landed me at an early hour before the gloomy pile, which
has hitherto been known as the Middlesex House of Correction, placed, as
my readers may know well, on Mount Pleasant, just out of Gray’s Inn Road.
On a dull, dreary morning, it is anything but pleasant, that Mount, in
spite of its name, and yet I dismissed the cabman and got out into the
street, not to enjoy the view, or to inhale the raw fog, which threw a
misty gloom over everything, nor even to admire the architecture of the
substantial plain brick-wall-order of the building, which, erected in
1794, and greatly enlarged since, occupies no less than nine acres, and
was devoted to the maintenance of a thousand male persons belonging to
the small but thickly-inhabited county of Middlesex. Government, in its
wisdom, has altered all that, and it is not exactly clear to what
purposes the Middlesex House of Correction will be applied in the future,
or to whom it will belong. Imperialism requires centralisation, and thus
it is local government gradually disappears.
But I am not standing out here in the raw gloomy November morning to
write a political disquisition which few will read, and which they will
forget the next minute, but I am come to see the prisoners released from
gaol. There is a little mob outside, who stand close, apparently to keep
each other warm, and who regard me evidently with not a little suspicion
as I light up a cigar to keep the cold out and prepare for the worst.
Every now and then a “Favourite” omnibus rumbles past with its load of
clerks and warehousemen to their places of business, while a perpetual
stream of pedestrians, aiming at the same destination, passes on.
Evidently, they regard us with pity, and one sees that in the casual
glance, even if there be no language escaping from the lips. It does not
seem to me that we are a very showy lot. A little way off a dark and
dingy brougham drives up as if it were ashamed of the job and only put in
an appearance under protest, as it were; but all around me are wretchedly
poor, and chiefly of the costermonger class, whose language is more
expressive than refined. There are sorrowful women in the group—mothers
who have come for sons who have been, not to put too fine a point on it,
unfortunate; wives with babies in their arms, perhaps born since the
husband was in “trouble,” and sisters who wait to take their brothers
where they can have something better than prison fare and a lighter life
than that which exists within the four walls of a prison. Some of the
women are to be pitied—one, in a widow’s garb, with a tear-stained face,
particularly attracts my attention. She has brought all her family with
her as she comes to take back from the hands of justice her erring son,
who, let us hope, may yet live to be a comfort to the poor mother, who
evidently needs it so much; and who, perhaps, reproaches herself that she
has been a little to blame in the matter. It is hard work to train up
young ones, whether they be rich or poor; but the children of the latter
in the filthy lodging-houses in low districts have little, alas! to lead
them right, and much in the way of precept and example to lead them
wrong. With Board schools to teach honesty is the best policy, we may
expect better things in the days to come; and, if that be done, I feel
certain the Board will have deserved well of the country; if it fails in
imparting that higher instruction which some of its leading members seem
to think the one thing needful, and to be gained for the poor man’s child
at any cost to the unfortunate ratepayer of the class immediately above.
But this is a digression—and it only helps to pass away the time which
here this cold, raw morning appears to have quite forgotten to fly. It
seems to me an age since I heard the neighbouring chimes indicate that it
was a quarter to nine, and now at length they strike nine, and still the
big gates are closed, and we are silent with expectation—as if, at least,
we expected the arrival of a Lord Mayor or a Prince of Wales. A few
policemen have now come up to keep the crowd back, whilst a quiet,
respectable, unassuming individual comes to the gate, ready to give each
prisoner a ticket to a little breakfast in a Mission Hall close by. Mr.
Wheatley, the individual referred to, has his heart in the work, and I
see he has friends and assistants in the crowd, such as Mr. Hatton, of
the Mission Hall in Wylde Street, and others. In a few minutes they will
be hard at work, for the big gates suddenly are wide apart, and a couple
of lads appear with a smile on their pale countenances, for they are
free. Face to face with the crowd outside they seem a little amazed, and
scarce know which way to turn. Mr. Wheatley gives them a card of
invitation, and Mr. Hatton and his friends outside follow it up with
pressing remarks, which lead them to march off to a neighbouring Mission
Hall. Again the doors are closed, and we are silent. Then the gates fly
apart, and out come two or three more, who seem to wish to slink away
without being remarked by anyone. However, a little pale-faced girl
cries, “Charley!” in a soft trembling voice, and Charley looks, and as
the girl leaves the rank he takes her hand, and goes his way rejoicing.
A big bullet-headed fellow has no cap as he comes out, and a friend in
the crowd chucks him one, which he puts on his head, and is soon lost to
sight. Another one appears at the gate, and a pal comes up to him, and
offers him a pipe, which he straightway begins to smoke, with a gusto
easier imagined than described. One old man as he hobbles out refuses
the proffered card, saying that he was quite wicked enough, and did not
want none of that. Evidently he is a hardened sinner, and I fear the
chaplain has found him rather a bad subject. One man, a bit of a wag,
creates a laugh, as, looking at the women in the crowd, he calls out,
“Come along, my dears,” and away he goes to his own place.
Again there is another pause, and then a respectable-looking man makes
his appearance. Suddenly his wife clasps his hand, and leads him off.
There is irrepressible emotion in her face, though she does not say a
word, nor he either. It does not seem to me that he is a hardened
criminal, and he may yet retrieve the blot on his character. Order again
prevails, and a voice out of the middle of the gate asks if anyone is
waiting for Jones and Robinson. That means Jones and Robinson have
behaved well—have earned a little money, which is to be handed over to
their friends. And thus half an hour passes away, and as I look at the
crowd I see that it has partly changed, and is composed more of casual
street boys and pedestrians who have stopped to look. I miss almost all
the women who were there an hour ago, and most of the costermonger class
have disappeared, though a few still linger on. The voice from the
closed doors says that there are no more to come out to-day, and slowly
the crowd melts away. Some are evidently sad. They had expected a
father, a brother, a husband, and now they have to wait awhile. On our
right, as we make our way to Gray’s Inn Road, there is a little Mission
Hall, and I turn in. Already the place is full, and as the gas falls on
their faces as they devour the morning meal provided for them by Mr.
Hatton and his friends, it seems to me that I never saw a more
ill-favoured lot. There was not a pleasant face among them—not a man or
a lad that I would have cared to set to work in my garden or house; and
as to their poverty, that was indescribable. These are the men whom none
had come to meet—the waifs and strays, without money or friends or work,
with that defiant scowl which denotes how low the man has sunk, and how
little it matters to him whether he spend his days in the workhouse or
the gaol. Mr. Wheatley talks kindly to them, and after singing—not by
them, for they all sit glum and silent—Mr. Hatton prays, and the meeting
is over. A good many then come forward to sign the pledge, and I leave
them as they explain their position and their need. I see Mr. Wheatley
gives a few a trifle; but a trifle, alas! won’t keep a man in London long
out of gaol.