“NEWGATE ETIQUETTE.”
VISITS at Newgate are made under great disadvantage, and have not even
the recommendation of privacy. A few of the more respectable (as regards
clothes) prisoners, such as myself, were allowed to see our daily
visitors in a portion of the enclosure a little removed, but still so
near the regular place that it was almost impossible to hear what was
said on account of the terrible roar made by the united lungs of a
hundred malefactors and their demonstrative friends. Visits are only
permitted between two and four o’clock, and as everybody comes about the
same hour, the babel that ensues may be readily conceived. As, moreover,
we are untried, and consequently innocent, people, these restrictions as
to time and numbers are clearly unjust, and merit alteration. Solicitors
are permitted to consult with their clients in glass boxes, where all can
be seen but nothing heard. These cases are situated in the direct route
through which sight-seers are conducted. An amusing incident occurred to
me on one occasion. I was in deep consultation with an eminent solicitor
of Gray’s Inn Square, as a herd of some ten country bumpkins, male and
female, were being piloted about, and I distinctly saw their conductor
make a motion that evidently referred to me. I cannot, of course, say
what that communication was, but it was evidently enough to raise the
desire on the part of one of the females to have a closer inspection of
me. With a light step, such as a sack of coals might make on a skating
rink, the biped cautiously stalked me, and deliberately flattened her
“tip-tilted,” turn-up nose against the window. Without a moment’s
warning, I bounded from my chair and shouted out, “Sixpence extra for the
chamber of horrors.” The fair creature jumped as if shot from a
catapult, and I fancy I can now see her black stockings and frowzy
petticoat as she flew towards her party. Hemma Hann had been taught a
lesson!
There are certain abuses that call for immediate and rigorous suppression
at Newgate, the more so as it is a place where prisoners are, as it were,
in transit, and thus many things that might be made real advantages are
(or were a year ago) gross injustices. I refer specially to the
“privilege” of procuring your own food. Men awaiting trial are naturally
ignorant of the system and its details, and I cannot do better than state
what occurred to me, and the absolute injustice I was subject to; for my
case is only similar to that of many others, who have not perhaps the
same advantage as I have of ventilating the grievance.
I was asked on the first day what I would like to order, and deeming it
safest to avoid mistakes I gave one order to hold good daily. I ordered
a pint of milk and a plate of bread and butter for breakfast; a plate of
meat and a pint of ale for dinner; and for supper a pint of milk and a
plate of bread and butter. Now I ask any unprejudiced reader what ought
such food to have cost, supplied to a prisoner from a common coffee-house
in such a district?
I have been at the trouble of enquiring at this and similar
eating-houses, and find that their prices for the above articles are, for
a pint of milk, 4d.; bread and butter, 3d.; a plate of meat and
vegetables, 8d.; bread, 1d.; and a pint of ale, 4d.; total, 2s. 3d. But
a free citizen and a caged prisoner are two different things, for which
there are two different prices. For the above homely fare I was charged
3s. 6d. a day, and as my money was in the hands of the prison
authorities, I had absolutely no redress. No notice was ever taken of a
complaint, though I made a dozen. Often my beer did not come, but I was
charged all the same; my milk was frequently forgotten, and eventually
appeared an hour after in a boiled state—and yet this scandalous charge
was paid daily. I ask any humane government, is not this a shame? What
is the only inference that can possibly be drawn? Surely it is within
the bounds of possibility that these officials, badly paid and half fed,
supplement their day’s food at the expense of the prisoner; if they do
not, would they permit the coffee-house keeper to reap such profits?
Common sense suggests there must be collusion. I am fortified in this
opinion by what I’ve lately seen. During the past few weeks I’ve been
round this grimy district, and seen the turnkeys running in and out from
the wicket opposite into certain of these houses that I could indicate,
and the honorary membership that appears to exist leaves no room for any
interpretation but the one suggested. I sincerely hope this matter may
not be deemed too trivial to be looked into, and that it will be the
means of introducing an improvement of the system, whereby a prisoner can
procure articles at fixed prices, and that this tariff is hung up in
every cell. My treatment was so glaringly unjust that I cannot lose the
opportunity of giving publicity to the sequel. On the eve of my
departure to “Cold Bath Fields,” I was asked to sign the usual paper
which purported to show how my money, £1 5s. 4d., had been expended, and
as a proof of my being satisfied with it. This I distinctly declined to
do; and one would have supposed that in an establishment where “justice”
plays so prominent a part, my refusal would at least have elicited an
enquiry. On the contrary, however, pressure was actually brought to bear
on me, and even the Governor lowered himself by making it a personal
matter. The man, as I said before, was not a gentleman by birth, but I
was hardly prepared for such violent partizanship on his part. “So I
hear you decline to sign the receipt for your money. Very well; I shall
retain the money, and report your conduct to the Governor of Cold Bath
Fields.” This was the dignified speech that greeted me next morning. In
reply, I assured him that I certainly should not sign, and he might
report me to whomsoever he pleased. Thus ended our squabble; and it
might as well have been spared, for I found on my arrival at Cold Bath
Fields that only 4s. 5½d. had been sent with me, and that consequently
the eating-house man had been paid £1 0s. 10½d. by his patron the
Governor on my behalf, and despite my protest. With the abolition of
Newgate as a prison, except during the sessions, it is sincerely to be
hoped that these crying scandals have been abolished too.
One thing that struck me particularly was the small number of warders in
comparison to the prisoners. Seven or eight, from the Governor to the
lowest turnkey, comprised the entire staff, and were responsible for the
safety of some two hundred prisoners. Such a number was clearly
inadequate, and the risk they ran, however remote, was forcibly brought
to my notice by a conversation I once overheard. Amongst others awaiting
trial was a desperate-looking ruffian of low stature, with bull head and
black shaggy eyebrows—a man who had undergone more than one sentence of
penal servitude, and who, to judge by his appearance, was capable of any
atrocity. This ruffian was pointing out one morning how easy it would be
to make a dash at the warders, and then, without the possibility of
opposition, simply to walk out. The plan certainly seems feasible,
especially during chapel, where four or five warders are absolutely at
the mercy of two hundred prisoners. One can only suppose that a moral
restraint exists, and on which the authorities rely, that would prevent
many from joining in such a mutiny, and who, if a choice had to be made,
would prefer to join issue with the warders rather than with their
unsavoury opponents. During the sessions the regular staff is augmented
by five or six additional hands, for the most part feeble old men,
suggestive of sandwich men out of employment. I was much amused by one
of these patriarchs who was left in absolute and sole charge, and daily
superintended the exercise of some fifty or sixty prisoners. I never
lost an opportunity of having a chat with him, as he stood shivering in a
threadbare ulster, with a dew-drop on his nose, a ragged comforter round
his neck, and his poor old gums rattling in the drafty yard. I found,
however, that he was not devoid of official dignity, and had a very high
conception of the position and importance of “officers,” as every turnkey
likes to be styled. I remember saying to the poor old chap one day, “You
officers must have a very difficult duty to perform, what between
maintaining your dignity and doing your duty strictly.” A leer, such as
one might associate with a magpie looking down a marrow-bone, was all he
vouchsafed in reply for a moment, and I feared he suspected I was pulling
his leg; but I was eventually reassured by his replying, “Yis, there’s no
responsibler dooty than an officer’s.” “Yes,” I replied, “but I’ve
always heard that you officers are sad dogs;” and as I moved away I heard
the old gums clatter as if pleased at the compliment, and if I had had a
shilling in my pocket I should certainly have given it to the old
“officer.” The first day of the sessions had now arrived, and I rose
with mingled feelings of anxiety and pleasure; anxiety for what the day
might bring forth, and pleasure at the thought that anything was better
than the uncertainty that at present involved my future, and hailing with
delight the prospect of knowing the worst. I never expected, however,
that my case would be tried on the first day, and was therefore
considerably taken back when, about 3 P.M., my door was suddenly opened,
and with a “Come along, you’re wanted in the Court,” a warder made his
appearance. The awful reality now burst on me for the first time that I
was on the point of appearing in a criminal dock to answer a charge of
forgery, and uttering forged bills. I won’t weary the reader by saying
more than that I pleaded guilty to the uttering, but denied the forging,
as I still do, and ever shall; but being informed that the two acts were
considered synonymous, my plea was registered as “guilty,” and I was
sentenced to eighteen months imprisonment with hard labour. I am now
entering on a phase of my career which may be considered as the
commencement proper of my narrative, and one that I expected, from the
steps that led up to it, would consist of harshness and brutality, such
as one reads of in stories of the Bastile and other prisons; whereas, on
the contrary, I was leaving all that behind, and about to experience a
kindness and consideration I can never adequately describe or be
sufficiently grateful for. But a word or two is necessary before we
leave Newgate to enable me to describe the Old Bailey Court House and its
sombre approaches, its subterraneous passages, and dingy cells. I must
also make a digression to narrate the heart-breaking story of a poor
wretch which he himself told me, and which I’ve reason to believe is
strictly true, and to which his position as a man of title—I shall
refrain from giving his name—imparts a considerable degree of interest.
It is a tale which demonstrates to what a contemptible state a man can
bring himself by the excessive use of stimulants, and how that
degradation is augmented when wedded to immorality, culminating in the
inevitable shipwreck that waits on bright prospects and a long rent roll
when drink and prostitution appear at the altar, only to be divorced, as
in the present case, by a term of penal servitude.