“PRISON FARE.”
A GREASY cold chop, smelling as if it had been cooked in “Benzine
collas,” and with about as much warmth as would be imparted to it by a
flat iron, a slice of bread that had evidently been cut in the early part
of the day, with salt, mustard, a lump of cheese, and a potato piled up
beside it, and a pint of the flattest, blackest, nastiest ale in a yellow
jug without a spout, with my name pasted on it and the plate, constituted
my meal, and nothing but philosophy and a certain amount of hunger could
have induced me to attempt to tackle it. I did, however, and bolted the
food and gulped down the liquid, and continued the contemplation of my
cell. A few minutes later my warder again appeared with the “special”
and removed my “tray;” and the ringing of the most melancholy-toned bell
I had ever heard up to then warned me that bed-time had arrived, and I
proceeded to turn in for my first night under lock and key. Believe me,
reader, there is more in this than my words can convey. Writing as I now
am, in a comfortable bed at six in the morning (for my past experience
has instilled very early habits into me), with the window open, and the
sea within a few yards of me, surrounded by every luxury and comfort that
an affectionate mother can think of, and in a genial climate in the South
of France, I cannot even now look back without a shudder to that fearful
first night of less than a year ago; and the chop and the hammock, and
the key turning, and the “settling down” appear as vividly before me as
the most hideous nightmare of an hour’s previous occurrence.
At 6 A.M.—and in November this means in the pitch dark—a bell rings; not
a heavy tolling bell, but a shrill, sharp hand bell, wrung with all the
vigour that a prison warder can impart to it. He walks up and down the
long and dreary passages, the noise rising and falling as he approaches
and recedes. I sat up on my pallet of horsehair, and took it for granted
I had better get up. By the considerate thoughtfulness of our free and
enlightened Government every requisite for a (hurried) toilet is here
provided, obviating the very slightest necessity for ever leaving one’s
apartments. A tap and diminutive brass basin, a water-closet
(guaranteed, I should say, to produce typhoid in a marvellously short
space of time), a piece of yellow soap the size of a postage stamp, and a
towel of the solidity of the main sheet of an ironclad, and bearing
unmistakable “marks of the beasts” that had been my immediate
predecessors, were all at hand, leaving no excuse for the most whimsical
for abstaining from a thorough good (official) wash. I found, as my
experience increased, that the two things most neglected in Her Majesty’s
prisons are cleanliness and godliness. A terrible make-believe
distinguishes them both; but if you only burnish up the outside of the
cup and the platter, the inside may, figuratively speaking, be full of
dead men’s bones. I shall adduce very good reasons for these assertions
when time and my destiny have “settled me down” in Coldbath Fields.
After a delay of half-an-hour the counting process began, which consisted
of a whole cloud of turnkeys passing rapidly in front of the various cell
doors. A little further delay, and I was invited to “exercise.” I went
out once and only once, for as a philosopher one must pocket one’s
foolish likes and dislikes, and endeavour to see everything; but the
penance was so fearful that I had a word with the doctor, and obtained
exemption from that date. Conceive, then, a large and bleak courtyard,
flagged and partially gravelled, bounded on three sides by the prison
walls, and on the fourth by high railings and a still higher wall beyond
it; conceive, too, a couple of hundred of the scum of London, the halt
and the lame, the black chutnee seller and the mendicant newsvendor, with
here and there some unfortunate devil like myself in the garb of a
gentleman; add to this a warder standing on a pedestal at each corner,
and another roaming round in the centre, and then cap this awful picture
by watching this frowsy tag-rag mass walking round in a circle about a
yard apart, and you may possibly form some slight notion of my feelings.
When I got to the outer door that led into the yard, I hesitated for a
moment, and I told a warder that I really did not think I could face the
ordeal; but he advised me, in what was kindly meant, to have a try, and
that if I walked round no one would take a bit of notice of me. I found
this assurance was hardly strictly correct, for my huge size and evident
superiority (in clothes if not in morals) drew notice on me; and many a
scoundrel as he limped by asked me, in a gin-and-water voice, what I was
“in for,” and whether it was the “first” time. I, however, ignored their
delicate overtures towards sociability, and longed for daylight and its
accompanying breakfast. The hour’s exercise eventually passed by, and I
returned to my den, where shortly afterwards my breakfast appeared. This
came from the eating-house over the way, and a nastier, colder, or more
revolting conglomeration of roll sliced and buttered, a fried egg, and a
piece of bacon that must have spent the night in a rat-trap, and a pint
of chicory in a yellow jug, I never saw. I ventured to draw the warder’s
attention to the proximity that existed between these various delicacies,
but he explained that mine was only one of some seventy other breakfasts
of “privileged” prisoners, and that they had been in the passage for over
an hour. Assuming, therefore, that my _déjeûner_ had probably been
sandwiched between a burglar’s tripe and onions and some other brother
malefactor’s tea and shrimps, I held my breath and “laid on,” and was
surprised what a hole I had made in all the good things in an incredibly
short period. But time (especially in Houses of Detention) waits for no
man, and in a twinkling my breakfast things were removed, and a bell
summoned us to chapel. I now found myself in church, and after a ten
minutes’ farce, which embraced every modern religious improvement—such as
singing, a sermon, and a chaplain in a white surplice—we were again
escorted back, and awaited the visit of the Governor.
The chaplain at the “House of Detention” was, I should say, rather a good
sort; he and I had frequent conversations, and as he was the man who had
once put a spoke into Bignell’s “Argyll” wheel, and as I was the humble
instrument that had “smashed, defeated, and utterly pulverized” Barnabas
Amos and his night-house, a bond of mutual interest at once sprang up
between us as enemies of immorality in general, and Bignell and Amos in
particular. This reverend gentleman was, I should say, decidedly High
Church; he wore all day (and for aught I know all night) a black
skull-cap and gown, and possessing an enormous red beard, that came down
to his waist, he invariably inspired me with much the same amount and
sort of reverence that I entertain when contemplating stained-glass
likenesses of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. His manner at first was a
little pompous, especially when he was telling me of the sort of books he
would permit and not permit me to order in; he was, however, despite
these peculiarities, unmistakably a gentleman, both in manner and
appearance—two qualifications I subsequently discovered were sadly
deficient in more than one of his species. And now the door was opened
with a terrific bang, and I was told by a turnkey with bated breath and
evidently suffering from excessive mental excitement, that “the Governor”
was coming round, and before I had time to shake myself together, and
rise to receive him, the great man was in my cell. Captain — was the
beau ideal of a plunger, and had served many years in the K.D.G.’s. He
eventually exchanged from soldiering to “prisoning,” and had served his
time as “Deputy” of Exeter and Cold Bath Fields prisons. I was told at
this latter retreat that he was in those days excessively zealous in the
matter of dust, and that his great height enabled him to extract
infinitesimal atoms of this irrepressible commodity from shelves and
ventilators that men more of the “Zachæus” type would never have noticed.
Like most men, however, time had blunted his zeal for these trifles, and
when I saw him he had grown out of these absurdities of his novitiate,
and appeared as one who had an unpleasant duty to perform, and who was
anxious to do it as pleasantly as possible. He accosted me as one might
expect a gentleman would, and asked me if there was anything he could do
to ameliorate my condition? I mentioned certain things, and he at once
gave the necessary orders for my being permitted newspapers, pen, ink,
and paper, my gas at night, and exemption from chapel and exercise. All
this brought it to near twelve o’clock, when dinners commenced being
“served;” and without detailing all the horrors I ate, suffice it to say
that another plateful of offal, such as a hyæna would jib at, duly made
its appearance, and was as duly demolished, more or less. The first day
in this terrible place is perhaps more awful than any subsequent one;
for, irrespective of the novelty of the situation and not having “settled
down,” it must be taken into consideration that one has barely had time
to communicate with friends and solicitors, and thus the day passes
wearily away, affording ample time for reflection and the realisation of
the fact that one may be in the heart of London and yet as far away from
friends and relatives as if in the middle of the Desert of Sahara. The
above sketch will pretty accurately convey an idea of a day’s routine in
the House of Detention, excepting perhaps a visit from a friend daily, a
restriction that is as iniquitous as it is illogical, and which I trust
the authorities will consider worthy of alteration. Visits from
solicitors constitute another feature of this existence. Visits from
friends are made as uncomfortable as can well be conceived; the drop
window in the cell door, 12 inches by 8, and carefully covered with zinc
netting, is opened, and with the visitor on the one side in the cold and
dark passage, and the prisoner on the other in his cell, it is really
difficult to hear all that is said, for the echo and shouting that is
going on throughout requires a very practised ear to catch the muffled
sounds. If any reader has ever put his head into a sack (which I
haven’t) and tried to talk, or heard the ghost speak at a transpontine
theatre, some idea of the extraordinary hollow change in the voice may be
imagined. A more inconsiderate system could hardly be adopted, and
absolutely debars respectable persons from submitting to the ordeal
entailed by such visits. The visits of solicitors are, however, far
better managed, and permitted with a degree of comfort that quite
surprised me. A private room is placed at your disposal, where you can
say (and, as I found, do) pretty much what you please without let or
hindrance; and beyond having a badge temporarily placed on your arm to
indicate the number of your cell, and having the door carefully locked,
you might fancy yourself having a _tête-à-tête_ on a rainy day in the
second class refreshment-room of the Crystal Palace. Only two unusual
circumstances occurred to vary the monotony of my daily life; the one was
the being served with a writ by a foolish tailor in Pall Mall, or rather
his executors, for poor old Morris had long since paid the penalty of
affluence and good feeding. That any men of the world, such as I
supposed them to be, should have lent themselves to anything so childish
as to serve a man with a “writ” who was awaiting his trial on a charge
that might involve a seclusion “for years or may be for ever” passes my
comprehension. I often felt I owed an apology to the unhappy deputy of
these irrepressible snips, for he must have found it cold and very
miserable whilst awaiting my arrival in that cheerless corridor, and I
registered a vow, when the opportunity occurred, to express my regret for
the scant comfort and apparent want of courtesy he received at my hands;
but I was the victim of cruel circumstances over which I had no control.
Another event that intruded itself on the even tenor of my ways was a
letter from “Georgina”; and as the narration will involve a certain
essential digression to make matters clear, I must again ask the reader’s
indulgence.