NEWGATE.
SO much has been written about this national Bastille, and so many have
gone over the building, that one feels as if writing about “a tale that
is told.” Nevertheless, I trust my narrative may describe things never
before alluded to, and be found to contain matters of interest that came
under my personal observation. The first thing at Newgate that a fresh
arrival has to submit to is the indispensable bath, accompanied by a very
minute and simultaneous search. I was at once ushered downstairs and
into a very roomy and luxurious bath room, quite as good as any supplied
for eighteenpence at West End establishments, and being invited to
undress and get into the bath, had the gratification of observing my
clothes undergo, one by one, a very thorough overhauling. Each item was
severally manipulated, and I am convinced not a pin could have escaped
detection. Meanwhile I was splashing and thoroughly enjoying myself,
much as one has seen a duck that has been cooped up for a week when
suddenly turned into a pond. I had not had such a revel for ten days,
and in the ecstasy of the moment I felt as if it was almost worth the
journey to Newgate for such a luxury. This periodical bath is one of the
greatest “inflictions” the average prisoner has to submit to, and
numerous instances came under my observation at a later period, of
ingenuity displayed by frowzy malefactors to evade this regulation.
Twenty minutes found me again “clothed and in my right mind,” and I was
ushered into a cell on the same subterraneous floor. This cell was
certainly the most empty I had ever seen; its entire furniture literally
consisted of a camp stool and a thermometer, and this latter instrument
caused me considerable annoyance, for I am not exaggerating when I assert
that an absurd make-believe display of anxiety for one’s welfare involved
a visit and calculation of the temperature every half-hour through the
night. I utterly failed to fathom this custom, the more so as the
turnkey who made the calculation probably understood as much about it as
he did of astronomy, and can only attribute it to the inherent politeness
developed in the officials who periodically have lodgers whom they begin
by feeding up, and eventually end by launching into eternity with a hand
shake, if we are to believe the papers. This idea is not my own, but was
suggested to me by a terrible scamp and fellow lodger whom I shall
presently introduce to the reader. An absurd habit that prevailed at
Newgate, and which contrasted strangely with the other customs, was that
of the chief warder as he finally counted us at night. This official,
having glared at you with an expression such as the rattlesnake may be
presumed to give the guinea-pig just before dinner, invariably said “Good
night!” I was so struck by this unique and time-honoured custom that I
asked my friend and valet—for he cleaned out my cell and did other jobs
for me—Mr. Mike Rose what it meant. “Well,” he said, “they gets into a
sort of perlite way like, ’cos whenever a cove swings they nigh allus
shakes hands with ’im, and maybe this is ’ow they gits perlite like.”
There was something so original in this logic that I could not but be
impressed by it, and though I failed to discover the connection between
the two circumstances, still I had realized that Mr. Mike Rose was a bit
of a character and worth cultivation. Very shortly after my
incarceration in the thermometer-furnished cell I was visited by the
surgeon, and having obtained his permission to have a bed instead of a
hammock, a wooden tressel was brought in with sheets, bolster, and
blankets. I at once proceeded to make my couch, deeming bed the best
place on such a cold and cheerless afternoon; and 6 o’clock P.M. found me
in bed, vainly endeavouring to get warm, with my eye fixed on the
thermometer, and muffled up to the chin with sheets and blankets, all of
which were stamped in letters three inches long with the ominous words
“NEWGATE PRISON.” I really believed that my first night’s experience at
the “House of Detention” was sufficiently awful, but it was nothing to my
sensations here. The associations of the place, the idea that many a
murderer had probably occupied this very cell, and possibly slept in
these identical bed-coverings, all forced themselves upon me. The bells
of the numerous churches which abound round Newgate also seemed desirous
of adding to one’s misery by joyful peals; they were practising their
weekly bell-ringing, and one chime was repeating over and over again—in
mockery of me, as it were—Haydn’s “Hymn of the Creation,” and “The
Heavens are telling” kept floating into my ears through granite walls and
iron bars; and though I tried very hard to stifle sound by burying myself
under the “broad-arrowed” bed-clothing, all my efforts were futile, till
sleep, kind sleep, took pity on me, and I wandered in my dreams far away
from my dreadful abode, only to be recalled to the hideous reality by the
mournful prison bell, and—
“Sorrow returned with the light of the morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.”
The daily routine is somewhat different to that of the “House of
Detention.” One official only counts the prisoners of a morning, and
asks you at the time if you wish to see the doctor during the day. I was
once tempted to express this wish with a view of procuring a sleeping
draught. He questioned me as to my symptoms in an apparently interested
manner, and eventually ordered me a dose of “No. 2.” No. 2, I may here
state, is a ready-made article, and is baled out of a huge jar into a
dirty tin cup. I took my dose, and, without further detailing the
result, am extremely grateful I had not been prescribed No. 1. If I had,
it is very doubtful whether this narrative would ever have been written.
The first day is occupied with details to which considerable importance
appear to be attached—namely, your description—every particular of which
is carefully booked by the head of each department, and a more senseless,
harassing ordeal can hardly be conceived. Surely one inspection and
general description (this was my third within ten days) ought to suffice,
and might without much trouble be forwarded from one prison to another.
It is idle to deny that half the questions put to you are absolutely
unnecessary, and the conviction is forced on you that you are being
pumped from sheer curiosity. Thus the Chaplain, in the blandest manner,
only to be acquired by constant attendance on murderers previous to
execution, asked me questions that appeared most impertinent—as to where
I lived, and if I had any relatives, and where they lived. I at once
told him I considered all this quite unnecessary, and declined to
enlighten him. Immediately after breakfast on the first morning the
prisoners are taken in packs of about twenty before the Governor. This
man is what is known in the army as a “Ranker”—that is, one who by merit
has raised himself from the rank and file to his present position—and had
apparently brought with him many of those habits which, however
commendable in a turnkey, are beneath the dignity of a Governor and lower
the position he ought to occupy. Acting on the habits associated with
his youth, this Governor commenced a minute examination of one’s
physiognomy. Seizing you by the nose or ear (I forget which), and
scowling hard, he began, “Eyes grey, complexion fresh, mole on neck,
&c.;” and having further personally superintended your being measured and
weighed, you were filtered through, as it were, into the presence of the
Chaplain, who tried to pump you as before described, and who, in his
turn, passed you on to the doctor, who appeared to have a kind of roving
commission to endeavour to extract any crumbs of information omitted by
his two _confrères_.
[Picture: A Cheerful Group]
The whole style and system at Newgate was excessively low. I was
moreover very much struck by the resemblance that appeared to exist
between the officials from the highest to the lowest. Every one had the
same unpleasant expression that suggested the idea that they lived in
gloomy streets, where the drainage was bad. I attribute this in a
measure to a commendable desire on the part of the subordinates to
imitate their chief, who had not a pleasant expression, and shows how
necessary it is that Government should select a gentleman by birth and
manners—irrespective of every other recommendation—for a position of such
delicacy as that of a prison Governor. The next ordeal one had to submit
to was “Chapel,” and, barring the novelty of the scene, I can hardly
conceive a more absurd farce. The pumping Chaplain was here
metamorphosed into the surpliced cleric, and it is difficult to decide in
which character he was most objectionable. In justice I must commend him
for the brevity of his remarks, for from find to finish—from “When the
wicked man” to the end of the sermon—was all compressed into fifteen
minutes, and away we again trudged, like Alice in Wonderland, in search
of further novelty. The Chapel of Newgate is a very awful place;
anything more calculated to banish reverential feeling and inspire horror
can hardly be conceived. On each side is a huge cage, different from
anything I had ever seen, except, perhaps, the elephant house at the
Zoological. In these, prisoners convicted and prisoners awaiting trial
are severally placed, thus effectually dividing the Scotland Yard sheep
from the Scotland Yard goats. Above, protected by small red curtains,
were diminutive balconies, capable of holding three persons at most;
these were for the accommodation of murderers, from whence they receive
the consolations of religion (official) whilst awaiting strangulation.
The vibration of a curtain led me to the conclusion that one of these
mortuaries was daily occupied, a suspicion that was confirmed by events
which I subsequently heard and saw. I discovered, indeed, that a
gentleman who had cut the throats of half his family, and who eventually
benefited by the religious consolation of the Chaplain and the delicate
attentions of Mr. Marwood, was a fellow-lodger at the same time as
myself. I saw the poor wretch every day passing and repassing, and later
on “assisted” at certain preliminaries in his honour. I moreover had a
bird’s-eye view of his last appearance in public, facts that I shall duly
narrate hereafter.
“Exercise” was an indispensable feature of life in Newgate, and nothing,
I believe, could have exempted one from this ordeal. It answered,
indeed, more purposes than one. Health was doubtless essential;
identification, however, was considerably more important. Three times a
week, and before starting on our circus-like walk, all the prisoners
awaiting trial, amounting to over two hundred, were ranged shoulder to
shoulder round the walls, a preliminary that at first puzzled me
considerably. I was not, however, left long in ignorance.
[Picture: “Should old acquaintance be forgot.”]
A little way off, and apparently approaching, I heard the measured tramp
of an advancing crowd, and suddenly there appeared a long string of men
in single file; these were the detectives, some seventy or eighty in
number, bent on a mission of recognition. Slowly they passed before us,
each one staring and occasionally stopping and addressing a prisoner, or
whispering to one of their companions. These preliminary enquiries often
led to minuter inspections; and if they expressed the wish, a prisoner
was afterwards honoured by a private view, and carefully compared with
photographs and police descriptions. This, no doubt, is a very essential
proceeding, and many a man “wanted” for an undiscovered crime in another
part of the kingdom, and committed months or years previously, is
recognized by this salutary custom. As may be supposed, this inspection
had absolutely no personal interest to me. Still the ordeal, degrading
in the extreme, never failed to inspire me with horror; and I dreaded the
mornings when the “detecs,” as they were lovingly termed, made their
appearance. There was something so weird and uncanny in the whole
thing—the distant tramp, the solemn march past, the offensive leer, the
familiar stare, all combined to make a horrible impression. A more
repulsive body of men than these “detecs” can hardly be conceived, got up
as they were in every kind of costume—men in pot hats and slap-bang
coats, others in shabby-genteel frock coats and tall hats; some in
fustians and others in waterproofs and leggings, but all with the same
unmistakable expression. I hope the authorities are not under the
impression that these individuals are unknown to the law-breaking
community, for no greater fallacy can possibly exist. I never missed an
opportunity hereafter of asking habitual criminals this question, and am
satisfied that their appearances, their beats, and their daily routine
are known to every habitual criminal in London. I’ll prove this
hereafter. Meanwhile, one has only to look about in the streets, and he
cannot fail to observe a civilian frequently talking to a policeman.
This man is not asking his way, but is in nineteen cases out of twenty a
“recogniser”; nor can it be wondered at if their foolish actions and
evident unwillingness to conceal their vocation makes them as
distinguishable as they are. I will confidently assert that every
pickpocket and every “unfortunate” knows each and every one of these
detectives; and as they invariably frequent the same beat, and pursue the
same tactics at the same time every day, it can hardly be wondered at. I
know—and it will hardly be asserted that I could know it except by having
heard it from others—that a detective is “due” daily at King’s Cross
Metropolitan Station about two P.M., and remains about an hour, and that
on race-days he is there before the return from the meeting. If this is
true—as I believe it to be—it is natural to suppose that other facts are
equally well known. I could adduce a hundred instances of this sort, for
I made burglars my particular study, and will disclose hereafter my ideas
of the many fallacies that at present exist on this subject, and the
causes that lead to burglaries, and how they are easiest avoided. I
never lost the opportunity of questioning a burglar or a pickpocket, and
during the next few months I saw some very fair specimens of these
respective species. My remarks must not be taken as referring to the
higher Scotland-yard detectives, than whom no cleverer body exists, but
to these trumpery plainclothes men, or “recognisers,” that may be seen at
every corner, and who, I verily believe, do more to impede than further
justice.