COLDBATH FIELDS.
AS the key turned in the ponderous door, and I found myself, with sixteen
others, standing on a huge mat in a dismal corridor, I realised that I
had arrived “home,” or at what I might consider as such, for—as I
imagined—the next eighteen months. I had already passed one week in
Newgate, and really thought, in the sanguineness of my heart, that I had
made a considerable hole in my sentence, and that the remaining
seventy-seven weeks would soon slip by. My first intimation that the
place was inhabited, except by mutes, was hearing a metallic voice
saying, _pro bono publico_, “You’ll find that talking is not permitted
here—you mustn’t talk.” By peering into the gloom I discovered that the
voice belonged to a bald head, and the bald head to a venerable head
warder. The poor old man was super-annuated shortly after, and evidently
meant to show the recruits he was not to be trifled with, and that there
was life in the old dog yet. We were next taken through endless
corridors to the “Reception Room.” Can any name be more suggestive of
satire, except perhaps “Mount Pleasant,” the hill so called on which the
prison stands, bounded at each corner by a public-house, and a “pop-shop”
here and there sandwiched in between! The reception we received in the
Reception Room was far from a cordial one; it was, indeed, as cold as the
weather outside. The Reception Room is octagon shape, with benches
arranged over the entire floor; on these we were directed to sit down,
about a yard apart. In front was a large desk and a high stool, on which
a turnkey was perched, whose sole duty was to prevent the least
intercourse between the prisoners; in fact, the entire room and its
fittings conveyed the impression of being connected with a charity school
for mutes. The Reception Room is the first and last place a prisoner
passes through; it is here that, on his arrival, he is transformed into
the Queen’s livery, and again on his departure reverts to citizen’s
clothing—it is, in fact, the filter through which the dregs of London
have to pass before becoming sufficiently purified to be again permitted
to mingle with the pure stream outside. The silence of the grave is its
normal condition, where the novice receives a foretaste of the “silent
system.”
[Picture: The Effects of a Warm Bath at “Coldbath.”]
We must have sat thus silently for at least an hour, when a door from
outside was unlocked, and a warder, accompanied by two prisoners carrying
sacks, made their appearance. The contents of these, being thrown on the
floor, were discovered to be boots, not new ones, or even pairs, but very
old and dirty, mended and patched with lumps of leather on the soles, on
the heels, and, in fact, anywhere. We were now invited to “fit”
ourselves, and a scramble ensued amongst a section of the prisoners. I
selected a nondescript pair, tied by a cord, as unsuited a couple as ever
were united, the right foot of which would have fitted an elephant, and
the left have been tight for a cork leg. With this unsavoury acquisition
on my lap I resumed my seat. It is the custom, as I before hinted, to
show one the worst of everything at first, and the rule that applied to
the cells was clearly in force regarding the boots. I found, however,
that after the general “fit,” and when a comparative lull ensued, that
some of the more fortunate ones had better ones supplied, and I shortly
after received a new pair in exchange for my “fit.” The next thing that
made its appearance was a basket full of caps and stocks. Here I was
less fortunate, and the size of my head precluded the possibility of a
fit. The basket was followed by a bundle of wooden labels, on each of
which our various names were inscribed; with these in our hands, we were
told to “Come along.” My label considerably puzzled me. We now found
ourselves in the corridor devoted to baths, where each man received a
bundle of clothing. The object of the label now manifested itself; it
was to attach to our clothes—not likely to be wanted for some time. The
bundles consisted of a pair of blue worsted socks, a blue striped shirt,
a blue pocket-handkerchief the thickness of a tile, a towel as coarse as
a nutmeg-grater, and a suit of clothes. The clothes, when new, are
really very good, and by no means objectionable. There is nothing of
that conspicuous, degrading appearance about them that distinguishes the
convict dress. On the contrary, the trousers and vest are well cut, and
made of good warm mole-skin; the jacket is a capital material, and were
it not for painful associations, and the possibility of unpleasant
attentions from zealous policemen, I would gladly have a suit of the
jacket material. The otherwise agreeable effect is somewhat marred by
the broad-arrow Government mark, which appears to be applied regardless
of all symmetry and indeed of all expense. No general rule apparently
exists as to the marking of this cloth, which one must conclude is left
entirely to the discretion and good taste of the individual armed with
the paint-pot. This want of uniformity thus lends an agreeable variety
to the different appearances of individuals; for my part, I always felt
that I resembled the “Seven of Spades.” The Baths are, as I found them
at Newgate, in themselves excellent, and if one could forget one’s
probable predecessor, the enjoyment would be considerably enhanced. They
were, I daresay, perfectly clean, though I always fancied I detected a
Seven-Dials mouse-trap flavour in the atmosphere, and in the water. The
bath, as an institution, admirably fulfils its twofold function; it
insures a thorough wash, and removes the last trace of one’s former self.
Entering the apartment with the bundle under my arm, I proceeded to
divest myself of my clothing. I had not, however, been many seconds
submerged before an eye was applied to the peephole, followed by the
entrance of a turnkey, and all my clothing was carefully removed. The
process of re-dressing was not an easy one; nothing came within a foot of
my size except the socks; the overalls declined to do anything like
meeting, and a piece of twine was pressed into the service. The
waistcoat was another trial, necessitating the turnkey calling for the
“corpulent waistcoat.” Trussed up in this fashion, I patiently awaited
the “corpulent” waistcoat, a marvel of tailoring. The chest measurement
could not have exceeded thirty-six; whilst the waist (?) must have been
one hundred. From the “corpulent” one only reaching half-way down my
chest, I concluded that its original owner must have been about
five-foot-nothing. But the warder very good-naturedly said “he’d make it
all right,” and not long after I was measured, and within twenty-four
hours possessed a brand-new suit. My enormous size also necessitated
special shirts; a couple were made in an incredibly short space of time,
and all through my career I experienced the benefit of wearing linen that
had never been contaminated by contact with “baser metal.” The warder to
whom I was indebted for these delicate attentions was one of the best in
the prison, and though I never came much in contact with him, I
understood he was a great favourite. He was connected with the stores,
and could get more done in an hour than one of the blustering kind in a
week. Before leaving the baths, I would wish to draw attention to a
custom that calls for immediate alteration. The system at present in
vogue is for all prisoners to have a bath immediately on arrival, _after_
which they undergo medical examination. At these examinations, as is
well known, many creatures are found, not only to be alive with vermin,
but suffering from itch. With these facts, that are not to be gainsaid,
common sense surely suggests a medical examination _before_ instead of
_after_ the bath, an arrangement which, however disagreeable to the
surgeons, would be a considerable benefit to the prison inmates
generally. It is a common occurrence for men who have been in prison
three, and even six months, to be found to be suffering from itch, and it
is equally certain that they caught it in these baths, which are _pro
bono publico_ once a fortnight. I thank God I was spared any of these
“plagues,” though I never took my periodical dip without finding my
thoughts wandering to Scotland and the Argyll (not Bignell’s).
Having joined my companions we were reconducted to the reception-room,
which by this time was crowded by contributions from the various
Police-courts. My Newgate friend Mike was now thoroughly in his element;
he appeared to take a pride in showing his intimacy with the etiquette of
the place, and seemed quite hurt if a warder didn’t recognize him as an
old acquaintance. As I looked down the benches now fully occupied, I
fancied I could have distinguished every new comer from the _habitué_ by
the way they wore their caps. The new hands put them on in such a manner
that they resembled a quartern loaf, whilst the more experienced—such as
Mike—cocked them with a jaunty air as if proud of the effect. At a later
period I observed that a great deal of vanity existed on the subject of
toilet amongst the regular jail-birds: they plastered down their hair—as
I know—with the greasy skimmings of their soup, or applications of suet
pudding; and many—incredible as it may appear—shaved regularly with their
tin knives and the back of a plate for a mirror. Hair-cutting now
commenced, and anyone whose hair was too long was effectually operated
on. It is a mistake to suppose that prisoners’ hair is cut in the
barbarous manner that is applied to convicts; nothing is done to them
beyond what a soldier has to submit to—namely, having his hair and beard
of moderate length. As I have all through life kept what I have as close
as possible, the hair-cutting in my case was dispensed with, and through
the subsequent few months I had always to ask for the services of the
barber, and invariably received the same reply—“Surely, yours is short
enough!” There was one item in the crop I was never subjected
to—probably because my moustache was small—but which I certainly should
not have liked; it was the habit of clipping the ends square to the lip.
I’ve often seen men in London and elsewhere with this distinctive crop,
which I should now invariably associate with prison life; and if I met a
Bishop who affected this style it would be difficult to convince me that
I had not met him “elsewhere.” The next person that intruded himself
was—as I was informed—a chaplain. His attire was far from clerical, and
consisted of a billycock hat—not a good, honest, disreputable one, but
one of your shabby-genteels, so infinitely more fatal—a coat that
suggested Crosse and Blackwell’s cut, and boots suspiciously resembling
the prison make. He interrogated me in my turn, though I fear his
curiosity was far from satisfied. His mania was the ceremony of
“confirmation,” and when he discovered I had omitted that essential form,
I at once passed into his black books. Happily, I was perfectly
indifferent to his displeasure or his patronage—indeed the latter would
have been the most unbearable. He never forgave me, however, as a
discreditable tiff we had long after conclusively proved. As I got to
see more of this shining light I began to suspect that he must have been
a Jesuit, he did so much to make Protestantism obnoxious.
I was next passed on to a schoolmaster—a gradual improvement in
accordance with the system is here apparent—who amused me by inquiring if
I could read, how I spelt “oxen,” if I could write, and if I thought I
could “write a letter?” This latter question was very conclusively set
at rest a week later by an incident that occurred in which I was the
chief culprit, and which necessitated the collective wisdom of the Home
Office and a full bench of the Visiting Justices to adjudicate upon.
Meanwhile, I had “passed” this scorching examination, and had to sit
quietly by and listen to illiterate costermongers and rascally
pickpockets being severally questioned. It had its amusing features,
although I felt how degrading it was for a public school-boy and a
gentleman by birth and education to be compelled under any combination of
circumstances to submit to be catechized by such a trio. The next person
to appear was the doctor—the dearest, kindest old gentleman I ever met.
His manner to all was alike considerate and kind; one, moreover, who
seemed to be aware that the position of a gentleman (unless usurped by a
cad) loses nothing of its dignity by a courteous bearing towards
inferiors or men placed in a painful position—a manner that inspired
respect and yet precluded the possibility of a liberty, a refreshing
contrast to a nondescript that had preceded him, and the beau idéal of a
fine old English gentleman. Stripped to the waist and behind a screen,
we were one by one subjected to a minute examination. A schemer had a
very sorry look-out with this eminent physician; no dodge could possibly
avail, for he was intimate with every “ailment” that criminal flesh is
heir to. It was amusing, after hearing some rascal relate the numerous
complaints from which he was suffering, to hear the surgeon quietly say
with a smile, “Oh, you’ll soon be all right,” and to see the hospital
warder write down, “Fit, hard labour.” This short and apparently
informal ceremony is the most momentous in one’s future career, and
though unaware of it at the time, I was not surprised later on at the
importance attached to it by the experienced criminal. By it one’s
future treatment is entirely guided, and the class of labour is carefully
selected in accordance with its decision. A card, then and there signed
by the surgeon, and which is always fixed on one’s cell door, decides
one’s future vocation; and “Hard labour,” or “Light labour and bed,” bear
a significance incredible to the uninitiated. As I stood before the kind
old man stripped to the waist (or rather to where my waist now is) I was
amused by his astonishment at my enormous proportions. I satisfied him I
was not deceiving him by a reference to an operation I had once
undergone; and this, coupled with my unnatural size, decided him I was
incapable of hard labour, and the words, “Light labour and bed,” were
recorded on my card. Before many hours had passed I realized the benefit
of those magic words. These preliminaries, as is always the case in
well-constructed dramas or farces, only led up to the event of the
day—the inspection by the Governor. In Her Majesty’s prisons these
individuals are clothed in attributes something more than mortal, and
receive an amount of homage sufficient to turn the head of a fool or a
snob. In this instance the Governor was neither, and though a strict
disciplinarian, was the justest and “straightest” man I ever met.
Prisoners and warders were equally amenable to his discipline, and the
slightest dereliction of duty brought him down on you like a load of
bricks. There was no abuse or verbosity accompanying this discipline,
and though he was feared, I believe he was equally liked and respected by
every man in the prison. The advent of such a personage naturally
involved a proportionate amount of preparation, and everything received
an overhaul. Men who wore Her Majesty’s livery for the first time, and
were mere babes in the mysteries of its graceful adjustment, were told to
put their stocks “square on,” or button this button and not that of their
vests and jackets; lumps of coal that had burned crooked were carefully
straightened, and even the coal-box got a lick of whitewash at the last
moment. We were then rehearsed in a sort of drill: every man was
informed that when “attention” was called he was at once to “spring” up
smartly and remain standing—an old vagrant, aged 100 to judge by his
appearance, “sprang” with so much zeal that I really thought he had
cricked his neck. When all the preparations were considered complete,
and we had attained an efficiency worthy the reputation of the “North
Corks,” and as some minutes had yet to elapse before the great man’s
arrival, it was deemed advisable to fix our thoughts in the same
reverential groove by reading certain rules for our future guidance. The
following notice is one of the half-dozen that hang up in every cell—all
of which I shall produce hereafter. They can hardly be considered as
light reading, or such as one would select unless absolutely compelled;
nevertheless, they afforded me a certain amount of occupation by learning
them by heart during the many solitary hours I spent hereafter:—
ABSTRACT OF THE REGULATIONS
RELATING TO THE
TREATMENT AND CONDUCT OF CONVICTED
CRIMINAL PRISONERS.
1. Prisoners shall not disobey the orders of the Governor or of any
officer of the prison, nor treat them with disrespect.
2. They shall preserve silence, and are not to cause annoyance or
disturbance by making unnecessary noise.
3. They shall not communicate or attempt to do so with one another,
or with any strangers or others who may visit the prison.
4. They shall not disfigure any part of their cells or damage any
property, or deface, erase, destroy, or pull down any rules or other
papers hung up therein, or commit any nuisance, or have in their
cells or possession any article not sanctioned by the orders and
regulations.
5. They shall not be idle, nor feign sickness to evade their work.
6. They shall not be guilty of profane language, of indecent or
irreverent conduct, nor shall they use threats towards or commit
assaults upon officers or one another.
7. They shall obey such regulations as regards washing, bathing,
hair-cutting, and shaving as may from time to time be established,
with a view to the proper maintenance of health and cleanliness.
8. They shall keep their cells, utensils, clothing, and bedding
clean and neatly arranged, and shall when required clean and sweep
the yards, passages, and other parts of the prison.
9. If any prisoner has any complaint to make regarding the diet, it
must be made immediately after a meal is served and before any
portion of it is eaten. Frivolous and groundless complaints,
repeatedly made, will be dealt with as a breach of prison discipline.
10. A prisoner may, if required for the purposes of justice, be
photographed.
11. Prisoners shall attend divine service on Sundays, and on other
days when such service is performed, unless they receive permission
to be absent. No prisoner shall be compelled to attend the religious
service of a church to which he does not belong.
12. The following offences committed by male prisoners convicted of
felony or sentenced to hard labour will render them liable to
corporal punishment:—
1st. Mutiny or open incitement to mutiny in the prison, personal
violence to any officer of the prison, aggravated or repeated
assaults on a fellow-prisoner, repetition of insulting or threatening
language to any officer or prisoner.
2nd. Wilfully and maliciously breaking the prison windows, or
otherwise destroying the prison property.
3rd. When under punishment, wilfully making a disturbance tending to
interrupt the order and discipline of the prison, and any other act
of gross misconduct or insubordination requiring to be suppressed by
extraordinary means.
13. A prisoner committing a breach of any of the regulations is
liable to be sentenced to confinement in a punishment cell, and such
dietary and other punishments as the rules allow.
14. Any gratuity granted to a prisoner may be paid to him through a
Prisoners’ Aid Society, or in such way as the Commissioners may
direct.
15. Prisoners may, if they desire it, have an interview with the
Governor or superior authority to make complaints or prefer requests;
and the Governor shall redress any grievance or take such steps as
may seem necessary.
16. Any prisoner wishing to see a member of the Visiting Committee
shall be allowed to do so on the occasion of his next occurring visit
to the prison.
* * * * *
_Printed at H.M. Convict Prison_, _Millbank_.
* * * * *
A slamming of doors and turning of keys, and a perfect Babel of voices
shouting “Attention!” heralded the Governor’s approach. I can only
compare the discord to that which invariably accompanies the progress of
an African tribe through a friendly village. A few pop-guns and a
tom-tom or two would certainly make the resemblance more complete, though
they would probably be objected to by the Home Office on the plea of want
of precedent.
The halo of veneration that surrounds a prison governor is by no means
confined to himself, but obliquely and in a modified form imparts itself
to the humblest of his followers. A miserable door-slammer that usually
accompanied him, and combined with this important duty the occasional
distribution of letters, amused me on one occasion when I ventured to ask
him if he had a letter for me. Such a liberty “from the likes of me to
the likes of him” was hardly to be tolerated; and he had the cheek to
send me a message that “he objected to be spoken to when accompanying the
Governor.”
The door at length opened, and the great man was in the room.
“Attention!” was shrieked out as only sycophants can do, and duly
responded to; and the halt and the maim, “Old Hundred,” myself, burglars,
and pickpockets, presented one uninterrupted, swerving, rickety line. As
a spectacle, it must have been truly imposing, during which the Governor
sat down. Our names were then respectively called out, and we crossed
from one bench to another to show, as it were, our action. Not a muscle
of the inspecting officer’s face moved during these scenes in the arena;
and it might have been the Sphinx inspecting the army of Pharaoh, so
little attention did he apparently pay to us. Nothing, however, had
escaped him; and I learnt to believe there was some truth in the
assertion that he had eyes in his boots, if not in his pockets also.
As may be supposed, these various inspections took a considerable time,
and the day was drawing in before they were all ended. We were thereupon
informed that we should occupy temporary cells for “this night only,” and
that our final allotment to various parts of the prison would be
postponed till the morrow. The cell I now found myself in was indeed a
small one—evidently only used as a half-way house, and fitted as
sparingly as the thermometer one at Newgate. A notice posted up warned
us not to go to bed till the bell rang at eight; and not wishing to break
a rule before I had been in the place a day, I foolishly complied with
the order.
Meanwhile it was getting dark, and though a gaspipe was fitted into the
wall, there was not the slightest indication of its being likely to be
lit. Mike, who had frequently been here before, intimated his intention
of turning in, and, “order be blowed!” strongly advised us to do the
same. I only regret I was weak enough not to. The gloom gradually
increased till we were left in outer darkness. To find the bed-clothing
would now have been a difficulty; to make any resemblance to a bed an
absolute impossibility. Still, on the strength of the notice, I waited
through many dark and cold hours, until a brute with a human voice
shouted out from somewhere, “You chaps will get no light to-night, so you
can turn in when you please.” I was informed afterwards this was a
favourite and utterly unauthorized assumption of authority on the part of
this bully, and I trust it has only to be noticed to preclude the
possibility of its continuance. It was a barbarous and cowardly act, and
strictly opposed to the usual system of the prison. How I got through
that cold night I cannot tell, for bed, bedding and light were all
strangers to me; but night, more merciful than man, threw its mantle over
me, and I slept as sound as only the weary can.