At the beginning of the twelfth century,--whether in the reign of
Henry the First, or Stephen is uncertain,--a fifth gate was added
to the four principal entrances of the city of London; then, it is
almost needless to say, surrounded by ramparts, moats, and other
defences. This gate, called _Newgate_, “as being latelier builded
than the rest,” continued, for upwards of three hundred years, to be
used as a place of imprisonment for felons and trespassers; at
the end of which time, having grown old, ruinous, and “horribly
loathsome,” it was rebuilt and enlarged by the executors of the
renowned Sir Richard Whittington, the Lord Mayor of London: whence
it afterwards obtained amongst a certain class of students, whose
examinations were conducted with some strictness at the Old Bailey,
and their highest degrees taken at Hyde-park-corner, the appellation
of Whittington's College, or, more briefly, the Whit. It may here
be mentioned that this gate, destined to bequeath its name--a
name, which has since acquired a terrible significance,--to every
successive structure erected upon its site, was granted, in 1400, by
charter by Henry the Sixth to the citizens of London, in return for
their royal services, and thenceforth became the common jail to
that city and the county of Middlesex. Nothing material occurred to
Newgate, until the memorable year 1666, when it was utterly destroyed
by the Great Fire. It is with the building raised after this direful
calamity that our history has to deal.
Though by no means so extensive or commodious as the modern prison,
Old Newgate was a large and strongly-built pile. The body of the
edifice stood on the south side of Newgate Street, and projected at
the western extremity far into the area opposite Saint Sepulchre's
Church. One small wing lay at the north of the gate, where Giltspur
Street Compter now stands; and the Press Yard, which was detached
from the main building, was situated at the back of Phoenix Court.
The south or principal front, looking, _down_ the Old Bailey, and not
_upon it_, as is the case of the present structure, with its massive
walls of roughened freestone,--in some places darkened by the smoke,
in others blanched, by exposure to the weather,--its heavy projecting
cornice, its unglazed doubly-grated windows, its gloomy porch
decorated with fetters, and defended by an enormous iron door, had a
stern and striking effect. Over the Lodge, upon a dial was inscribed
the appropriate motto, “_Venio sicut fur_.” The Gate, which crossed
Newgate Street, had a wide arch for carriages, and a postern, on
the north side, for foot-passengers. Its architecture was richly
ornamental, and resembled the style of a triumphal entrance to a
capital, rather than a dungeon having battlements and hexagonal
towers, and being adorned on the western side with a triple range of
pilasters of the Tuscan order, amid the intercolumniations of which
were niches embellished with statues. The chief of these was a figure
of Liberty, with a cat at her feet, in allusion to the supposed
origin of the fortunes of its former founder, Sir Richard
Whittington. On the right of the postern against the wall was affixed
a small grating, sustaining the debtor's box; and any pleasure which
the passer-by might derive from contemplating the splendid structure
above described was damped at beholding the pale faces and squalid
figures of the captives across the bars of its strongly-grated
windows. Some years after the date of this history, an immense
ventilator was placed at the top of the Gate, with the view of
purifying the prison, which, owing to its insufficient space and
constantly-crowded state, was never free from that dreadful and
contagious disorder, now happily unknown, the jail-fever. So
frightful, indeed, were the ravages of this malady, to which debtors
and felons were alike exposed, that its miserable victims were
frequently carried out by cart-loads, and thrown into a pit in the
burial-ground of Christ-church, without ceremony.
Old Newgate was divided into three separate prisons,--the Master's
Side, the Common Side, and the Press Yard. The first of these,
situated a the south of the building, with the exception of one ward
over the gateway, was allotted to the better class of debtors, whose
funds enabled them to defray their chamber-rent, fees, and garnish.
The second, comprising the bulk of the jail, and by many degrees
worse in point of accommodation, having several dismal and noisome
wards under ground, was common both to debtors and malefactors,--an
association little favourable to the morals or comforts of the
former, who, if they were brought there with any notions of honesty,
seldom left with untainted principles. The last,--in all respects the
best and airiest of the three, standing, as has been before observed,
in Phoenix Court, at the rear of the main fabric,--was reserved
for state-offenders, and such persons as chose to submit to the
extortionate demands of the keeper: from twenty to five hundred
pounds premium, according to the rank and means of the applicant, in
addition to a high weekly rent, being required for accommodation in
this quarter. Some excuse for this rapacity may perhaps be found in
the fact, that five thousand pounds was paid for the purchase of the
Press Yard by Mr. Pitt, the then governor of Newgate. This gentleman,
tried for high treason, in 1716, on suspicion of aiding Mr. Forster,
the rebel general's escape, but acquitted, reaped a golden harvest
during the occupation of his premises by the Preston rebels, when a
larger sum was obtained for a single chamber than (in the words of a
sufferer on the occasion) “would have paid the rent of the best house
in Saint James's Square or Piccadilly for several years.”
Nor was this all. Other, and more serious impositions, inasmuch
as they affected a poorer class of persons, were practised by the
underlings of the jail. On his first entrance, a prisoner, if unable
or unwilling to comply with the exactions of the turnkeys, was thrust
into the Condemned Hold with the worst description of criminals, and
terrified by threats into submission. By the old regulations, the
free use of strong liquors not being interdicted, a tap-house was
kept in the Lodge, and also in a cellar on the Common Side,--under
the superintendence of Mrs. Spurling, formerly, it may be remembered,
the hostess of the Dark House at Queenhithe,--whence wine, ale, and
brandy of inferior quality were dispensed, in false measures, and
at high prices, throughout the prison, which in noise and debauchery
rivalled, if it did not surpass, the lowest tavern.
The chief scene of these disgusting orgies,--the cellar, just
referred to,--was a large low-roofed vault, about four feet below
the level of the street, perfectly dark, unless when illumined by a
roaring fire, and candles stuck in pyramidal lumps of clay, with a
range of butts and barrels at one end, and benches and tables at the
other, where the prisoners, debtors, and malefactors male and female,
assembled as long as their money lasted, and consumed the time
in drinking, smoking, and gaming with cards and dice. Above was a
spacious hall, connected with it by a flight of stone steps, at the
further end of which stood an immense grated door, called in the
slang of the place “The Jigger,” through the bars of which the felons
in the upper wards were allowed to converse with their friends, or if
they wished to enter the room, or join the revellers below, they
were at liberty to do so, on payment of a small fine. Thus, the same
system of plunder was everywhere carried on. The jailers robbed the
prisoners: the prisoners robbed one another.
Two large wards were situated in the Gate; one of which, the Stone
Ward, appropriated to the master debtors, looked towards Holborn; the
other called the Stone Hall, from a huge stone standing in the middle
of it, upon which the irons of criminals under sentence of death
were knocked off previously to their being taken to the place of
execution, faced Newgate Street. Here the prisoners took exercise;
and a quaint, but striking picture has been left of their appearance
when so engaged, by the author of the English Rogue. “At my first
being acquainted with the place,” says this writer, in the 'Miseries
of a Prison,' “the prisoners, methought, walking up and down the
Stone Hall, looked like so many wrecks upon the sea. Here the ribs of
a thousand pounds beating against the Needles--those dangerous rocks,
credulity here floated, to and fro, silks, stuffs, camlets, and
velvet, without giving place to each other, according to their
dignity; here rolled so many pipes of canary, whose bungholes lying
open, were so damaged that the merchant may go hoop for his money,” A
less picturesque, but more truthful, and, therefore, more melancholy
description of the same scene, is furnished by the shrewd and
satirical Ned Ward, who informs us, in the “Delectable History of
Whittington's College,” that “When the prisoners are disposed to
recreate themselves with walking, they go up into a spacious room,
called the Stone Hall; where, when you see them taking a turn
together, it would puzzle one to know which is the gentleman, which
the mechanic, and which the beggar, for they are all suited in the
same garb of squalid poverty, making a spectacle of more pity than
executions; only to be out at the elbows is in fashion here, and a
great indecorum not to be threadbare.”
In an angle of the Stone Hall was the Iron Hold, a chamber containing
a vast assortment of fetters and handcuffs of all weights and sizes.
Four prisoners, termed “The Partners,” had charge of this hold. Their
duty was to see who came in, or went out; to lock up, and open the
different wards; to fetter such prisoners as were ordered to be
placed in irons; to distribute the allowances of provision; and to
maintain some show of decorum; for which latter purpose they were
allowed to carry whips and truncheons. When any violent outrage
was committed,--and such matters were of daily, sometimes hourly,
occurrence,--a bell, the rope of which descended into the hall,
brought the whole of the turnkeys to their assistance. A narrow
passage at the north of the Stone Hall led to the Bluebeard's room of
this enchanted castle, a place shunned even by the reckless crew who
were compelled to pass it. It was a sort of cooking-room, with an
immense fire-place flanked by a couple of cauldrons, and was called
Jack Ketch's Kitchen, because the quarters of persons executed for
treason were there boiled by the hangman in oil, pitch, and tar,
before they were affixed on the city gates, or on London Bridge.
Above this revolting spot was the female debtor's ward; below it a
gloomy cell, called Tangier; and, lower still, the Stone Hold, a most
terrible and noisome dungeon, situated underground, and unvisited by
a single ray of daylight. Built and paved with stone, without beds,
or any other sort of protection from the cold, this dreadful hole,
accounted the most dark and dismal in the prison, was made the
receptacle of such miserable wretches as could not pay the customary
fees. Adjoining it was the Lower Ward,--“Though, in what degree of
latitude it was situated,” observes Ned Ward, “I cannot positively
demonstrate, unless it lay ninety degrees beyond the North Pole; for,
instead of being dark there but half a year, it is dark all the year
round.” It was only a shade better than the Stone Hold. Here
were imprisoned the fines; and, “perhaps,” adds the before-cited
authority, “if he behaved himself, an outlawed person might creep in
among them.” Ascending the gate once more on the way back, we find
over the Stone Hall another large room, called Debtors' Hall, facing
Newgate Street, with “very good air and light.” A little too much
of the former, perhaps; as the windows being unglazed, the prisoners
were subjected to severe annoyance from the weather and easterly
winds.
Of the women felons' rooms nothing has yet been said. There were two.
One called Waterman's Hall, a horrible place adjoining the postern
under the gate, whence, through a small barred aperture, they
solicited alms from the passengers: the other, a large chamber,
denominated My Lady's Hold, was situated in the highest part of the
jail, at the northern extremity. Neither of these wards had beds, and
the unfortunate inmates were obliged to take their rest on the
oaken floor. The condition of the rooms was indescribably filthy and
disgusting; nor were the habits of the occupants much more cleanly.
In other respects, they were equally indecorous and offensive. “It
is with no small concern,” writes an anonymous historian of Newgate,
“that I am obliged to observe that the women in every ward of this
prison are exceedingly worse than the worst of the men not only in
respect to their mode of living, but more especially as to their
conversation, which, to their great shame, is as profane and wicked
as hell itself can possibly be.”
There were two Condemned Holds,--one for each sex. That for the men
lay near the Lodge, with which it was connected by a dark passage. It
was a large room, about twenty feet long and fifteen broad, and had
an arched stone roof. In fact, it had been anciently the right
hand postern under the gate leading towards the city. The floor
was planked with oak, and covered with iron staples, hooks, and
ring-bolts, with heavy chains attached to them. There was only one
small grated window in this hold, which admitted but little light.
Over the gateway towards Snow Hill, were two strong wards, called
the Castle and the Red Room. They will claim particular attention
hereafter.
Many other wards,--especially on the Master Debtor's side,--have been
necessarily omitted in the foregoing hasty enumeration. But there
were two places of punishment which merit some notice from their
peculiarity. The first of these, the Press Room, a dark close
chamber, near Waterman's Hall, obtained its name from an immense
wooden machine kept in it, with which such prisoners as refused
to plead to their indictments were pressed to death--a species of
inquisitorial torture not discontinued until so lately as the early
part of the reign of George the Third, when it was abolished by an
express statute. Into the second, denominated the Bilbowes,--also a
dismal place,--refractory prisoners were thrust, and placed in a kind
of stocks, whence the name.
The Chapel was situated in the south-east angle of the jail; the
ordinary at the time of this history being the Reverend Thomas
Purney; the deputy chaplain, Mr. Wagstaff.
Much has been advanced by modern writers respecting the demoralising
effect of prison society; and it has been asserted, that a youth
once confined in Newgate, is certain to come out a confirmed thief.
However this may be now, it was unquestionably true of old Newgate.
It was the grand nursery of vice.--“A famous university,” observes
Ned Ward, in the London Spy, “where, if a man has a mind to educate
a hopeful child in the daring science of padding; the light-fingered
subtlety of shoplifting: the excellent use of jack and crow; for the
silently drawing bolts, and forcing barricades; with the knack of
sweetening; or the most ingenious dexterity of picking pockets; let
him but enter in this college on the Common Side, and confine him
close to his study but for three months; and if he does not come out
qualified to take any degree of villainy, he must be the most honest
dunce that ever had the advantage of such eminent tutors.”
To bring down this imperfect sketch of Newgate to the present time,
it may be mentioned, that, being found inadequate to the purpose
required, the old jail was pulled down in 1770. Just at the
completion of the new jail, in 1780, it was assailed by the
mob during the Gordon riots, fired, and greatly damaged. The
devastations, however, were speedily made good, and, in two years
more, it was finished.
It is a cheering reflection, that in the present prison, with its
clean, well-whitewashed, and well-ventilated wards, its airy
courts, its infirmary, its improved regulations, and its humane
and intelligent officers, many of the miseries of the old jail are
removed. For these beneficial changes society is mainly indebted to
the unremitting exertions of the philanthropic HOWARD.