“SETTLING DOWN.”
FRESH arrivals appear to come to this awful place at every hour of the
day and night. The police courts belch forth their motley loads on an
average about twice a day, and when the Sessions are “on,” prisoners
arrive as late as nine and ten of a night, and the rumbling of “Black
Marias,” the shouting of warders, the turning of keys, the slamming of
doors, and a hundred other “regulations” that make night hideous, lead
one to imagine oneself in a third-class hostelry alongside a railway
station. The absence of clocks, too, that strike (for even they are on
the silent system), combined with the primitive hour of retiring to rest,
bewilders one in arriving at anything like an approximate idea of time
between the bell at night and the bell at 6 A.M. After my first
interview with Mr. Vaughan, and with the sound of his melodious voice
still ringing in my ears, I found myself about 6 P.M. alighting from the
police van inside a dismal courtyard. We had just passed through a
massive gate, and had been “backed” on to the entrance of a long and
uninviting-looking corridor, but beyond that I had not the faintest idea
of where I was; and if I had been told that the House of Detention was
situated in the centre aisle of the British Museum, I should not have
been in a position to dispute it. As we stepped out, carefully assisted
by an official actuated apparently rather by precaution than courtesy,
and carefully scanned and counted, I found myself with eight or nine
others standing in a row on a huge mat. There was an entire absence of
“dressing” in this ragged line, and thus destiny placed me between a
ragamuffin with a wooden leg and an urchin of about twelve. My bulk,
sandwiched between them, formed a charming picture, and filled up the
mat, if not the “background.” My friend, the police sergeant, with a
courtesy that officialism failed to rob him of, handed us over to the
“Detentionite” barbarian, who, first inspecting us, and then “righting”
us, went through the offensive and unnecessary formula of catechizing
us—such as “What is your name?” “Who ga”—I mean, “Your age,” &c., &c.
This to me was the first and greatest humiliation; the iron entered my
very soul, and I realized how awful it all was. Implacable enemies,
vindictive tradesmen, revengeful women, chuckle and shout; but time is
short, and seventeen days will find me in clover, surrounded by every
consideration that is possible, and as happy as circumstances will
permit. When we had all been counted and booked, we were escorted
downstairs and thrust into very small and separate cells. These cells
were literally not more than three feet square, and their only furniture
consisted of a block of stone intended for a seat. The turnkey, who
showed and carefully locked me in, explained that I should only be there
a few minutes, as we were merely awaiting the arrival of the chief
warder. After the lapse of a few minutes, we were taken one by one into
the office, where a further scrutiny “inside and out” took place. Here,
at a desk, sat a warder in front of a ledger; there was, moreover, a
weighing-machine and a couple of turnkeys. This constituted the entire
furniture! The chief warder, blazing in gold lace and pegtop trousers
that filled me with admiration at the time, now appeared, and having come
to the conclusion that I was not one of the “unwashed” division, kindly
exempted me from the usual bath, the preliminary and very necessary step
on these occasions. The chief warder was a very decent and unaffected
little man, and comparatively free from the penny-halfpenny bounce that
characterizes the chief warder species in general. I here underwent, for
the second time, the catechizing process, which being again carefully
booked, I was invited in the most dulcet tones to unrobe to the extent of
everything except my socks and trousers. With my thoughts wandering to
the weighing-machine, “how careful,” thought I, “they must be in
accurately weighing one;” and my conjecture was in a measure correct, but
my inexperience did not prepare me for the accompanying formula that took
place. As I divested myself one by one of my coat, hat, boots, vest,
shirt, &c., a pair of nimble hands ran over them with lightning rapidity,
which in their turn passed them on to another pair of equally nimble or
nimbler hands. In the twinkling of an eye, the contents of my pockets
were laid on the table—the modest quill toothpick was not even exempted;
fingers passed over every seam and lining of my clothes, and then the
same “delicate touch” was applied to my loins and ankles. I was then
requested to get on the machine, and the astounding fact recorded that a
mountain of humanity in his shirt and socks weighed 19 stone 13 lbs. I
have been particular in accurately relating this fact, for later on I
treat on the subject of obesity; and the remarks I there make, and the
hints I offer, based on very careful observation and experience, will, I
am confident, commend themselves to the corpulent, and, IF ACTED ON, will
prove very beneficial to those who really desire to reduce themselves.
Every article found on me—money, toothpicks, pocket-book, watch, studs,
sleeve-links, &c.—were then carefully booked and neatly tied up, and
having resumed my clothing, I proceeded upstairs to my future abode.
I cannot allow this opportunity to pass without noting the consideration
that prompted the warder to give me a couple of bone studs to replace my
own, without which I could not have kept my shirt closed. It was a
kindly act, and tends to show that, as a rule and with very few
exceptions, prison warders are a well-disposed race if properly treated,
and desirous of rendering any civility to men of my class. If a prisoner
is fool enough to stand on his dignity, he must not be surprised if his
conduct is resented. Another peculiarity I observed here for the first
time, but which I found to be the invariable rule at “Newgate” and
“Coldbath,” was, that on arrival one was always placed in a most
uncomfortable cell in the basement or even below, and gradually promoted
upwards. I can only suppose it was intended as a kind of purgatory, with
the idea of giving one a bird’s-eye view of what might be expected should
one’s behaviour make him ineligible for the greater luxuries associated
with “apartments on the drawing-room floor.”
Having dressed, I accompanied a turnkey through innumerable passages
abounding in steel gates, which snapped like rat traps as we passed
through, till we emerged into what appeared the main passage of the
prison. My conductor here handed me over to another warder with a “Here
you are; here’s another one;” and I again, and for the third time, had to
undergo the “abridged catechism.”
I found this warder a capital fellow. He tried to put matters as
cheerfully as he could; and when ushering me into my cell, and noting my
horror at its bleak appearance, said in a manner that was kindly meant,
“Oh! you’ll be all right when you’ve settled down a bit.”
“Settled down a bit!” As well ask the guinea-pig that is put into the
rattlesnake’s cage to settle down, as to expect a man suddenly deprived
of liberty to settle down in such a place. If I had not been of a very
sanguine disposition, and one that can nerve himself to submit to
anything, I should certainly have broken down, as I verily believe many
do. On the contrary, I began to examine the uncomfortable place, read
the notices for one’s guidance, and entered into a conversation with my
guide and gaoler. He began by telling me that if I wanted supper I must
order it sharp; and when I expressed a wish to have something, he kindly
promised to order in a chop and a pint of beer. The next thing that
attracted my attention was the hammock; and as my only experience of
these uncomfortable substitutes for French bedsteads was from a distant
view on a troopship, and as the idea of 20 stone suspended in mid air was
out of the question, and as the tesselated floor appeared excessively
hard, I determined not to risk a fall, for the fall of that house would
certainly have been great. I discovered, however, that routine and
prison discipline made it absolutely impossible for any exception to be
made unless specially granted, and as none but the highest official, such
as the Governor (or even the Home Secretary, as I presumed, or perhaps
the Queen), could sanction a change of such importance as substituting a
cot for a hammock, no time was to be lost in ferreting out some one of
sufficient authority to assume the responsibility. At length the doctor
was found, and after seeing me and hearing my weight, gave the necessary
order, subject to the Governor’s approval in the morning.
I have often wondered in how many quires of foolscap this humane act
involved the little man. I only hope he got no wigging from the Home
Office for this assumption of responsibility, for I found him most kind
and courteous, and in return I fear I worried him out of his life by
applications for sleeping draughts, which he invariably let me have
without a murmur. I took this opportunity also of getting his permission
to keep my gas burning all night, for I felt that sleep was out of the
question; and as I had asked for and been promised the special
_Standard_, which invariably contains some paragraphs of interest of a
world-renowned General’s, I began to hope that I might “settle down,” as
my friend the warder had suggested. But settling down in theory and
settling down in practice, especially in the “House of Detention,” are
two distinct things. The privilege of keeping my gas burning, too,
involved a most unpleasant consequence, diametrically opposed to
“settling down.” Anyone whose light is left burning is supposed to be
concocting some hideous treachery, and has to be “seen” every fifteen
minutes; and thus through this long dreary winter night and every
subsequent ten nights of my stay found me being taken stock of every
quarter of an hour. I must—without being aware of it—about this time
have commenced the “settling down” process, for I could actually bring
myself to uttering the feeblest jokes, such as “Ah! how are you, old
cockie? Just in time; another minute and I should have burrowed through
the ventilator.” These little sallies, I am bound to admit, did not
always meet with the reception their pungency merited. Occasionally they
extracted a grin or a chaffy reply; at others a grunt and a bang of the
trap-door. But I have again wandered from my first entrance into my
cell, and demonstrating (what I honestly pleaded) my utter amateurishness
in the writing of a book. I must only hope that the tale it unfolds will
make up for this defect. A rattle of a tin knife on a pewter vessel,
followed by the turning of the key, announced the arrival of my supper;
and, oh, shades of Romano, how “my heart beat for thee!”