“OAKUM” LET US SING.
NEXT morning after breakfast we were drafted to our various localities,
and, incredible as it may appear, and to show how efficient is the
isolation system, men with whom I parted company that morning I never saw
again, though I knew they were in the same building. Our various
destinations were indicated in a somewhat primitive style—a huge
chalk-mark on our backs. As I threaded my way through various wards with
a C scrawled on my back, a smell of tar indicated our approach to what
might under altered circumstances have been presumed to be a
ship-chandler’s; it was, however, only the oakum district. We were here
received by the warder in command, and I was assigned to the fifth
storey. I was further presented with my official number—594, on a brass
plate.
I now discovered the benefit of “light labour and bed.” This particular
ward, together with the two in its immediate vicinity, is principally
devoted to fresh arrivals; bed is the exception and oakum is the rule.
It is absolutely impossible for any accident to exempt you from
commencing your career for one month in these wards; it rests, however,
with yourself whether you pick oakum or find a substitute. I decided on
the latter course. The system of prison life is such a contemptible one,
and the espionage, jealousy, currying favour, and tale-bearing so general
between the officials from the highest to the lowest, that this portion
of my task is a very delicate one. Whatever I write will be carefully
sifted; and if I give the slightest clue capable of being followed up, I
should probably injure some warder, assistant warder, or prisoner who did
me incalculable services at great personal risk; and as this is the last
thing I have the smallest intention of doing, I wish to state, once for
all, that all names and dates I give are intentionally altered, and that
any official who ever befriended me has nothing to fear from my
revelations.
[Picture: A Cell. 8 A.M.]
As I ascended the spiral staircase a shout of “Coming up!” intimated to
the attics that a fresh victim was approaching, and I was formally
received and conducted to my cell. The first impression of my permanent
address was not encouraging. On a shelf was a Bible and prayer-book, a
tin plate, a tin mug, and a tin knife, a wooden spoon, a box of salt, and
a piece of soap, producing a combination such as may be seen in any of
the illustrated papers during a small war, and supposed to illustrate, as
circumstances require, the utensils in daily use amongst Zulus, Ashantis
or whatever savages we may happen to be slaughtering at the time. In
another corner was a diminutive basin the size of a saucepan, a
slop-pail, and a can of water. On a shelf was a rug and two blankets;
bed or bedstead was conspicuous by its absence; and on the table was a
lump of rope. My turnkey, having examined my card, ordered in a bed and
bedstead, and explained that the rope was to be converted into oakum. A
few words and we understood one another; in short, he was a man after my
own heart. I have no scruple in mentioning this, for I regret to say the
man was dismissed shortly after—through no fault of mine, though
indirectly connected with me. I can never forgive myself when I reflect
that I had any share in the transaction, though it is a consolation to
know that, had he been as careful as he ought, nothing could have brought
the offence home to him. In the first instance, he was the victim of as
foul a piece of treachery as ever disgraced humanity, and then he lost
his head, and compromised himself when absolute silence would have
cleared him. I shall narrate the particulars later on. In addition to
the above-named furniture, the walls were decorated with a number of
printed notices describing your duties, diet, &c., and a prayer (!); a
wooden—so much a dozen—effort, supposed to be specially adapted to the
requirements of “awakening burglars.” I learnt all these by heart by way
of amusement, and will give them for the benefit of the reader. I take
especial pleasure in reproducing them, as I believe they’ve never seen
daylight before.
* * * * *
SYSTEM OF PROGRESSIVE STAGES FOR MALE
PRISONERS SENTENCED TO HARD LABOUR.
1. A prisoner shall be able to earn on each weekday 8, 7, or 6
marks, according to the degree of his industry; and on Sunday he
shall be awarded marks according to the degree of his industry during
the previous week.
2. There shall be four stages, and every prisoner shall pass through
them or through so much of them as the term of his imprisonment
admits.
3. He shall commence in the first stage, and shall remain in the
first stage until he has earned 28 × 8, or 224 marks; in the second
stage until he has earned 224 more marks, or 448 in the whole; in the
third stage until he has earned 224 more marks, or 672 in the whole;
in the fourth stage during the remainder of his sentence.
4. A prisoner whose term of imprisonment is twenty-eight days or
less shall serve the whole of his term in the first stage.
5. A prisoner who is idle, or who misconducts himself, or is
inattentive to instruction, shall be liable
(1) To forfeit gratuity earned or to be earned, or
(2) To forfeit any other stage privileges.
(3) To detention in the stage in which he is until he shall have
earned in that stage an additional number of marks.
(4) To degradation to any lower stage (whether such stage is next
below the one in which he is or otherwise) until he has earned in
such lower stage a stated number of marks.
As soon as the prisoner has earned the stated number, then, unless he
has in the meantime incurred further punishment, he shall be restored
to the stage from which he was degraded, and be credited with the
number of marks he had previously earned therein.
6. None of the foregoing punishments shall exempt a prisoner from
any other punishment to which he would be liable for conduct
constituting a breach of prison regulations.
7. A prisoner in the first stage will
(_a_) Be employed ten hours daily in strict separation on first class
hard labour, of which six to eight hours will be on crank,
tread-wheel, or work of a similar nature.
(_b_) Sleep on a plank-bed without a mattress.
(_c_) Earn no gratuity.
8. A prisoner in the second stage will
(_a_) Be employed as in the first stage until he has completed one
month of imprisonment, and afterwards on hard labour of the second
class.
(_b_) Sleep on a plank-bed without a mattress two nights weekly and
have a mattress on the other nights.
(_c_) Receive school instruction.
(_d_) Have school books in his cell.
(_e_) Have exercise on Sunday.
(_f_) Be able to earn a gratuity not exceeding 1s.
(_g_) The gratuity to a prisoner in this stage, whose sentence is not
long enough for him to earn 224 marks in it, may be calculated at 1d.
for every 20 marks earned.
9. A prisoner in the third stage will—
(_a_) Be employed on second class hard labour.
(_b_) Sleep on a plank-bed without a mattress one night weekly, and
have a mattress on other nights.
(_c_) Receive school instruction.
(_d_) Have school books in his cell.
(_e_) Have library books in his cell.
(_f_) Have exercise on Sunday.
(_g_) Be able to earn a gratuity not exceeding 1s. 6d.
(_h_) The gratuity to a prisoner in this stage, whose sentence is not
long enough for him to earn 224 marks in it, may be calculated at 1d.
for every 12 marks earned.
10. A prisoner in the fourth stage will—
(_a_) Be eligible for employment of trust in the service of the
prison.
(_b_) Sleep on a Mattress every night.
(_c_) Receive school instruction.
(_d_) Have school books in his cell.
(_e_) Have library books in his cell.
(_f_) Have exercise on Sunday.
(_g_) Be allowed to receive and write a letter and receive a visit of
twenty minutes; and in every three months afterwards to receive and
write a letter, and receive a visit of half-an-hour.
(_h_) Be able to earn a gratuity not exceeding 2s.
(_i_) The gratuity to a prisoner in this stage, whose sentence is not
long enough for him to earn 224 marks in it, may be calculated at 1d.
for every 10 marks earned.
(_j_) The gratuity to a prisoner in this stage, whose sentence is
long enough to enable him to earn more than 896 marks, may be
calculated at the same rate, provided that it shall not in any case
exceed 10s.
* * * * *
_Printed at H.M. Convict Prison_, _Millbank_.
* * * * *
The composition of this abstract, alternating as it does between threats
of punishment and hopes of “employments of trust,” clearly stamps it as
intended to appeal to the feelings and adapt itself to the capacities of
the lowest classes. That any man of education could be roused to any
degree of ambition by such “trust” as would be likely to be placed in
him, is to suppose an impossible absurdity. The “system” throttles any
such contingency, and leads—as all short-sighted policies do—to men
believing in no such thing as good faith, and having no inward
restraining motive for abstaining from deception. Why will not the Chief
Commissioner of Prisons see that the brute power at their disposal is
wholly inadequate to prevent a man with a modicum of brains and a few
sovereigns from doing as he pleases? Let them try the “confidence trick”
in a modified form with the better class of prisoners, and if it is found
to fail, revert to the hard and fast rule. A discretionary power in the
hands of such a man as the Governor of Coldbath Fields would thoroughly
test the experiment.
What trash “employment of trust” sounds to a man who knows that from
first to last—however exemplary his behaviour—he is suspected, and never
supposed to be lost sight of!
Personally, I felt I’d as lief be in the punishment cells as in any
“employment of trust”; they are both birds of the same feather,
recognizing no code but brute force, distrust, and degrees of punishment.
I can only compare the prison system to a huge machine, capable of
crushing a man body and soul, or handling him so lightly that nothing but
the “idea” and its moral obligations remain to remind him of its hideous
proximity. If any further proof is required of the truth of my
deductions, my personal experience will amply provide it.
SHORT PRAYERS FOR MORNING AND EVENING.
_Morning_.
O GOD and Holy Father, Thou hast in mercy watched over me through the
night; in Thy tender love keep me this day from evil. I have greatly
sinned against Thee. Do Thou turn me from all my evil ways; wash me
in the blood of Jesus, and let Thy Spirit lead me that I may hate sin
and love what is right. Let Thy grace preserve me amidst all trials,
that I may be made truly a servant of Jesus Christ and ever love and
serve my God and Saviour. Amen.
_Evening_.
O GOD, Thou hast safely brought me to the close of another day. May
Thy goodness lead me to repentance that I may give Thee my heart.
Forgive all my evil thoughts, and words, and deeds. What good
thoughts I have had from Thee do Thou strengthen, that I may love
Thee more and serve Thee better. Keep me, O God, and all whom I
love, from danger or sin this night, and so preserve us by Thy grace
that at last we may sleep in Jesus and be for ever with the Lord.
Amen.
This hypocritical effusion hangs over one’s table, and is supposed to be
admirably adapted for “awakening” burglars, and turning pickpockets from
the error of their ways. As a literary composition it is beneath
criticism, and would disgrace a “National School” boy in a proclaimed
district. I don’t know who is the inspired author, nor how they are sold
by the dozen.
NOTICE.
“Prisoners who desire assistance from the agent of the Discharged
Prisoners’ Relief Committee, in finding employment on discharge,
should apply to the Governor fourteen days before they go out, when
their cases will be investigated. Wilfully false statements as to
antecedents, &c., will disqualify a prisoner from assistance, as will
also misconduct in prison.”
There is no institution I heard so much abused as the above, and although
I cannot speak from personal knowledge, I should say that a thorough
enquiry into its working (not its profession) might possibly be attended
with benefit. Beyond seeing a fly-blown old man waddling about the
prison, who, I was informed, was the agent, I know nothing, and care
less, about this doubtless admirable institution.
* * * * *
DIETARY FOR CONVICTED PRISONERS.
No. 1.
MEN, WOMEN, AND BOYS UNDER SIXTEEN YEARS OF AGE, WITH AND WITHOUT
HARD LABOUR.
Breakfast Daily 8 ounces bread.
Dinner Daily 1½ pint _stirabout_
(containing 3 ounces
Indian meal and 3
ounces oatmeal).
Supper Daily 8 ounces bread.
No. 2.
MEN WITH HARD LABOUR.
Breakfast Daily 6 ounces bread, 1
pint gruel.
Dinner Sunday and Wednesday 6 ounces bread, 8
ounces suet pudding.
Monday and Friday 6 ounces bread, 8
ounces potatoes.
Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday 6 ounces bread, ½
pint soup.
Supper Daily 6 ounces bread, 1
pint gruel.
MEN WITHOUT HARD LABOUR, WOMEN, AND BOYS UNDER SIXTEEN YEARS OF AGE.
Breakfast Daily 5 ounces bread, 1
pint gruel.
Dinner Sunday and Wednesday 5 ounces bread, 6
ounces suet pudding.
Monday and Friday 5 ounces bread, 8
ounces potatoes.
Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday 5 ounces bread, ½
pint soup.
Supper Daily 5 ounces bread, 1
pint gruel.
No. 3.
MEN WITH HARD LABOUR.
Breakfast Daily 8 ounces bread, 1
pint gruel.
Dinner Sunday and Wednesday 4 ounces bread, 8
ounces potatoes, 8
ounces suet pudding.
Monday and Friday 8 ounces bread, 8
ounces potatoes, 3
ounces cooked beef
(without bone).
Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday 8 ounces bread, 8
ounces potatoes, ¾
pint soup.
Supper Daily 6 ounces bread, 1
pint gruel.
MEN WITHOUT HARD LABOUR, WOMEN, AND BOYS UNDER SIXTEEN YEARS OF AGE.
Breakfast Daily 6 ounces bread, 1
pint gruel.
Dinner Sunday and Wednesday 4 ounces bread, 6
ounces potatoes, 6
ounces suet pudding.
Monday and Friday 6 ounces bread, 8
ounces potatoes, 3
ounces cooked beef
(without bone).
Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday 6 ounces bread, 6
ounces potatoes, ¾
pint soup.
Supper Daily 6 ounces bread, 1
pint gruel.
No. 4.
MEN WITH HARD LABOUR.
Breakfast. Daily 8 ounces bread, 1
pint porridge.
Dinner Sunday and Wednesday 6 ounces bread, 8
ounces potatoes, 12
ounces suet pudding.
Monday and Friday 8 ounces bread, 12
ounces potatoes, 4
ounces cooked beef
(without bone).
Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday 8 ounces bread, 8
ounces potatoes, 1
pint soup.
Supper Daily 8 ounces bread, 1
pint porridge.
MEN WITHOUT HARD LABOUR, WOMEN, AND BOYS UNDER SIXTEEN YEARS OF AGE.
Breakfast Daily 6 ounces bread, 1
pint gruel.
Dinner Sunday and Wednesday 4 ounces bread, 8
ounces potatoes, 10
ounces suet pudding.
Monday and Friday 6 ounces bread, 10
ounces potatoes, 3
ounces cooked beef
(without bone).
Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday 6 ounces bread, 8
ounces potatoes, 1
pint soup.
Supper Daily 6 ounces bread, 1
pint gruel.
On Mondays beans and fat bacon may be substituted for beef. At the
expiration of nine months one pint of cocoa, with two ounces extra bread,
may be given at breakfast three days in the week, in lieu of one pint of
porridge, or gruel, if preferred.
The following will be the terms to which the above diets will be
applied:—
Prisoners sentenced to seven days and under, No. 1 diet for the whole
time.
Prisoners sentenced to more than seven days, and not more than one month,
No. 1 diet for seven days, and No. 2 diet for remainder of term.
Prisoners sentenced to more than one month, and not more than four
months, No. 2 diet for one month, and No. 3 diet for remainder of term.
Prisoners sentenced to more than four months, No. 3 diet for four months,
and No. 4 diet for remainder of term.
TABLE OF SUBSTITUTES
For cooked English beef or potatoes, which may be issued, if deemed
necessary, by the authorities.
In lieu of four ounces cooked English beef:
Five ounces Colonial beef or mutton, preserved by heat (served cold);
nine ounces beans, one ounce fat bacon, four ounces American or other
foreign beef, preserved by cold (weighed after cooking), eight ounces
cooked fresh fish; six ounces cooked salt meat; twelve ounces cooked
salt fish.
In lieu of three ounces cooked English beef:
Three-and-three-quarter ounces Colonial beef or mutton, preserved by
heat (served cold); seven ounces beans, three-quarters of an ounce
fat bacon; three ounces American or other foreign beef, preserved by
cold (weighed after cooking); six ounces cooked fresh fish;
four-and-a-half ounces cooked salt meat; nine ounces cooked salt
fish.
In lieu of twelve ounces potatoes:
Eight ounces cabbage or turnip-tops; twelve ounces parsnips, turnips,
or carrots; twelve ounces preserved (dried) potatoes; eight ounces
leeks; twelve ounces rice (steamed till tender).
In lieu of ten ounces potatoes:
Seven ounces cabbage or turnip-tops; ten ounces parsnips, turnips, or
carrots; ten ounces preserved (dried) potatoes; seven ounces leeks;
ten ounces rice (steamed till tender).
In lieu of eight ounces potatoes:
Six ounces cabbage or turnip-tops; eight ounces parsnips, turnips, or
carrots; eight ounces preserved (dried) potatoes; six ounces leeks;
eight ounces rice (steamed till tender).
In lieu of six ounces potatoes:
Four ounces cabbage or turnip-tops; six ounces parsnips, turnips, or
carrots; six ounces preserved (dried) potatoes; four ounces leeks;
six ounces rice (steamed till tender).
All the meats to be weighed without bone.
All vegetables to be weighed after cooking.
* * * * *
_Printed at H.M. Convict Prison_, _Millbank_.
A careful perusal of Dietary 4 will convince the reader that it is
sufficiently generous to obviate any loss of weight, and yet, as a rule,
prisoners fall away on it, (There are some extraordinary exceptions to
this rule, and one man, a gentleman by birth, and an ex-officer in the
army, increased two stone in a few months; the absolute half-starved
vagrant also, of course, fattens on it.) I can only attribute it to the
voracious way they bolt their food. It is stated of that eminent
projector, the late Mr. Rumford, that he once submitted to the then
Elector of Saxony a scheme whereby he might reduce the expense of
maintaining his army, without impairing its efficiency, by a very simple
method, namely, to reduce the amount, but compel his soldiers to
masticate their food. I cannot say if the suggestion was acted on, but I
am thoroughly convinced that if prisoners received less, and were
compelled to eat slower, a considerable saving to the state and an
improvement in the appearance of the men would be effected. Personally I
found during the very few weeks I subsisted on this diet that it was more
than I could possibly eat, and withal good. The gruel, I confess, is an
acquired taste, and I was almost immediately permitted to substitute
cocoa. The porridge was also a sad disappointment. I innocently hoped
to have found the delicious composition associated with the land of cakes
and immortal Burns, and could have burst into tears in recognising it as
intensified gruel. Its nourishing powers, however, are not to be
gainsaid; and to see malefactors shovelling it away, as I have, one would
suppose they enjoyed it. The recitation of the substitutes for cooked
beef I am compelled to characterise an official quibble. During the few
months I spent at Coldbath I never heard—as I certainly should—of any
beef being issued at all, the invariable substitute being Colonial meat
served cold, except on one occasion, when salt fish was supplied. On the
merits of this last item I cannot speak personally, for long before that
I was on a daily diet of mutton and mutton broth, as I describe
hereafter. For the preserved Colonial meat, however, I have nothing but
praise. “Served,” as it was, under every disadvantage, I found it
excellent; and as it can be purchased for seven-pence a pound, the marvel
is that the poorer classes, who seldom or never taste butcher’s meat, do
not patronise it more largely. I can only suppose its merits are
unknown.
The bedstead, or “plank-bed,” as it is termed, is the hardest couch I
ever felt; with a mattress on it I could feel every grain in the wood,
and shuddered to think of my companions, all of whom had to submit for a
month to the board “pure and simple.” It is only raised three inches
from the floor, and is two feet in breadth—a tight fit for twenty stone.
I had now fairly settled down in my final destination for a month, and
will describe the routine of the day:—
6 A.M. —Rise.
6.30 „ —Breakfast.
7 „ —Take down the day’s work, and receive a fresh supply.
8 to 9 „ —Exercise.
9 „ —Chapel (three times a week).
12 noon —Dinner.
5 P.M. —Supper.
8 „ —Bed.
8.30 „ —Lights out.
[Picture: A Cell. 8 P.M.]
A slight difference existed between the regulation here and at Newgate on
the subject of “lights out.” At Coldbath it was a serious offence to
retire before 8 P.M. At Newgate it was, however, optional, though
hampered with an absurd condition. One evening, at this latter awful
place, I had determined on a comfortable read; with this object I
undressed about 7 P.M., and, pulling my bed under the lamp, abandoned
myself to the perusal of _Chambers’ Magazine_, for 1878. Barely,
however, had I commenced, when “in a moment all was dark.” I ascertained
next morning that it was a rule to put out the gas as soon as a man got
into bed; whether from economical motives or as an extra mode of
annoyance, I never troubled to ask.
The brown bread, which was often warm from the oven, was as good as any I
have ever tasted, and the quantity enough to satisfy anyone; and yet the
ordinary prisoner would devour his and gratefully accept as much as
anyone else would give him. I found that prisoners would do anything for
food, and through my entire career I bartered it in exchange for soap,
etc. Amongst other recipients of my bounty was a German Jew who lived
near me. He spoke very little English, and as I speak German fluently, I
often had a word with him. He told me the usual story about being
sentenced for nothing; and though I did not believe a word of it, it led
to his being put on my free list. A more voracious appetite I never met
with, and the way he bolted half a pound of bread and three or four
potatoes was truly appalling; indeed, so unsatisfactory was it, that I
transferred my patronage after a week; one might as well have tried to
fill Nelson’s monument. Giving away food is strictly prohibited—a
regulation that necessitates certain precautions, commendable for their
suitability rather than their cleanliness. The usual mode is for the
donor to stuff bread, potatoes, or a lump of suet down his stocking or
inside his shirt, and when time and circumstance permit, to transfer it
to the recipient of his bounty, who in his turn first shoves it up his
back or into his cap, to be transferred at leisure into the mouth or
elsewhere. This manipulation never commended itself to me; and my rule,
though not much more refined, had at least the advantage of avoiding any
personal contact with the greasy dainties. I placed all my food in my
pocket-handkerchief, and transferred it bodily in exchange for the
others’. This rule only applied to the clean linen day, when I was
enabled without delay to get rid of my brother-reprobate’s _mouchoir_.
On other occasions I received their pocket-handkerchiefs clean, and
returned them later on full of good things. I let it be understood that
I never took a handkerchief unless it was clean; and so perfect did the
system become, that I had only to say _en passant_, “Your handkerchief
to-morrow,” and it was duly handed to me washed and perfectly clean. I
only once was offered a treat of this kind. It was a poor black man (I
often see him about). I watched him fumbling in his chest and eventually
produce a crust; this he secreted for some minutes in his fist, and then
said, “Here, master,” and held it out to me. I can see his look of
surprise that followed my refusal; but it was kindly meant, and though I
declined the emetic, I wouldn’t have hurt his feelings for the world.
Soup that I didn’t consume I usually placed outside the door, hoping that
my regular “cleaner” would reach it in time. In this, however, I was
often disappointed, for my custom having got known, a raid was frequently
made on it by others—a practice I determined to try and circumvent.
I was suffering at this time from liver complaint, and had on my shelf a
concoction of taraxacum and podophyllin. Of this I poured one day about
two doses into my mutton broth; and as it was somewhat discoloured by the
process, I added half a cup of soapsuds and a handful of salt. Not long
after the two thieves arrived, and I could distinctly hear their long
gulps as they swallowed the savoury concoction. My commendable endeavour
to break them of pilfering was, however, a complete failure; and the only
remark I overheard was, “I say, Bill, it’s damned salt, ain’t it?”
The soap one received had to last a fortnight, and was not sufficient for
a thorough wash daily and the periodical bath, and I experienced great
inconvenience at first by having to economize; but when it had got mooted
about that there “was a swell as was mug enough to swap grub for soap,”
my market became literally glutted, and I was enabled to revel in a bath
every morning.
Washing one’s cell floor was not an agreeable duty. At first I puffed
and blew like a grampus, but it soon became a very simple affair, and I
became a perfect adept at the charwoman business. I heard whilst here,
from a reliable source, of some man who after leaving the prison was
staying at a West-end hotel, and who, seeing a servant shirking her duty
whilst scrubbing the doorstep, and unable to resist the force of habit,
very kindly gave her the benefit of his experience, and stripping off his
coat, proceeded to lay-to assiduously. I should not hesitate to do the
same under certain circumstances. This “doing” one’s own apartment was
the only derogatory duty I had ever to perform; and as it was a private
show, and clearly for one’s own benefit, I never had the slightest
objection to it; the more so as the taking of my morning bath (the
saucepan on the floor) had half completed the process.
Oakum-picking cannot be called an intellectual employment. I should say,
too, it was decidedly monotonous, though I can hardly speak from personal
experience. I tried the experiment of unravelling the rope, but it was
so intensely provoking that I turned my thoughts to evading the
necessity. My turnkey and I were friends within twenty-four hours, and I
consulted him about getting a substitute. As turnkey and prisoner had
both left before I had, I may say, without injuring anyone, that for a
weekly consideration my task was picked daily. Of a morning a bundle was
mysteriously thrown into my cell, and a few moments later I proudly
descended with “my work,” and dropped the unused rope on the stair. The
usual task that prisoners have to pick is three pounds a day, but being a
light-labour man I was only assigned one pound. I invariably returned a
portion of this modified amount unpicked, thereby lulling the suspicions
of a dense but offensively-inclined taskmaster. Oakum is one of the most
tell-tale commodities I ever came across. If merely unravelled, it
remains black and juicy; but the more it is picked and pulled the paler
it gets, till it is capable of assuming the appearance of Turkish
tobacco. An experienced eye can at once detect the amount of labour
bestowed on it, and some of the huge bundles I saw my _confrères_
carrying down were works of art as regards finish. The man who actually
picked my oakum was the “cleaner,” a privileged individual with a roving
commission. His duties frequently brought him to my cell, and he told me
he was a “racing man.” I discovered, however, as we became better
acquainted, that the designation is capable of considerable expansion,
and that his peculiar talent was the “three-card trick.” He knew every
racecourse in England as well as every prison, and never failed of a
morning to inquire how I had slept, adding, that he always slept badly
the first few nights in a strange prison; and my reply that I was not
affected in a “similar way” appeared to cause him considerable surprise.
In my unravelling process I one day chanced to come across a bit of cane.
It was certainly moist from proximity to the tar, but I carefully dried
and subsequently smoked it. I can hardly say the pleasure was unalloyed,
for it bore such a resemblance to the fragrant British Havanna that I got
alarmed, and put it out. It was the only smoke I had for months.
Exercise at Coldbath was an important institution, and considering it was
the only fresh air I at first experienced in the day, I always looked
forward to it. An hour is the regulation time, but seldom is the boon of
that duration; and if the warder is otherwise engaged, the exercise has
to give way, and thus the prisoner is deprived of a healthy occupation to
meet the convenience of a selfish turnkey. Overlooking the exercise-yard
attached to C ward were a row of houses, and I often wondered what the
lookers-on thought of the moving mass of misery that circled round below
them. To me, with my limited facilities, there was ample room for
reflection; and I often marvelled how such various types of humanity
could have been collected, or indeed that they ever existed.
One feeble old man particularly attracted my notice. He was almost
unable to walk round from sheer old age, and appeared altogether
incapable of having qualified in any way for lodgings at Coldbath. I
asked a warder what on earth he had done.
“Well,” he said, “they say he’s a bad ’un. He’s here for violently
assaulting the police, and got six months.”
“But,” I added, “he don’t look as if he would last so long; he must be at
least a hundred!”
“Very likely,” was the reply. “The fact is, a new rule has come in
lately, and pauper prisoners are buried in the prison; so they sent him
here in hopes of starting our new cemetery.”
Another peculiarity that struck me forcibly was the apparently universal
obstruction that appeared to exist in the criminal throat. It was
absolutely epidemic, and the sounds—such as are made by an over-wound
moderator lamp—that accompanied their fruitless endeavours to obtain
relief were excessively revolting. This and the like are the worst
features of coming in contact with these dirty wretches. Many habits
usually looked upon as filthy were freely indulged in, and anyone who
instinctively abstained from participating was looked upon as an
outsider. A foolish habit I had contracted in my youth of applying my
pocket-handkerchief to its natural use was, I fancy, specially resented.
I could never shake off these feelings, and though with them, was never
“one of them.” I always kept them at arms’ length, and invariably
received some implied recognition of my superiority. The better class of
prisoners for the most part addressed me as “Capting,” or “Sir”; and even
the lowest, if they spoke—which I never encouraged—did so with some small
degree of reserve. The neighbourhood abounds with street-organs; indeed,
it is the head-quarters where the instrumentalists for the most part
live, the consequence being that, like the lady of Bambury Cross, we had
music wherever we “goed.” About this time a certain popular air was much
in vogue, and evidently much admired by the criminal classes. I enquired
the name of this vile music-hall ditty, but without effect; and can only
describe it by the fact that no sooner did it commence than the whole mob
appeared to cheer up, and took up a sort of gin-and-water refrain which
they buzzed out—“Ho moy littul tarling, ’ow are yew?” The wretch who
composed it deserves a month. It is impossible to describe the monotony
of these days without occupation—for my deputy did my task—and without
books. The religious tract, as a leaflet was officially styled, had to
last a fortnight; and I knew by heart all about “The Sweet Recollections
of a Sweep,” and “The Converted Charwoman of Goswell Road.” “What
Pickest Thou, you Wretch?” and “How are your Poor Fingers, you
Blackguard?” were also works contained in this religious repertoire, and
altogether of a more thrilling description. They were generally
understood to have been the work of a local divine, as indeed their style
suggested. The library books are a very sorry lot, though probably well
adapted to the capacities of their readers. The rule, too, that permits
their change only once a fortnight is in itself a species of torture
unworthy of the system that sanctions them at all. The type for the most
part is large, and such as an educated man can read in a day. Why, then,
spoil a gracious act by limiting its very innocent scope. Such, too, is
the reckless supervision of these literary treasures that I received no
less than seven school histories of England during my career. I felt
this as almost a reflection on the Dean of W— and my classical education
generally.
There was, however, a reserve library for the special benefit of the
“serious” minded, and men of education with strict Episcopalian
proclivities. This issue, and its attendant patronage, is vested
entirely in the hands of the chaplain—a custom it is high time to
alter—and considering I had never been confirmed, it is a marvel how I
was ever included in its favoured ranks. The blessing was not, however,
an entirely unmitigated one; and “Locke’s Essay on the Mind,” “The Theory
of Sturm,” and such light reading usually fell to my share. Happily I
was independent of it all, although an amusing and undignified squabble
some months later deprived me of even this modified clerical patronage.
I must mention one incident connected with my “three card” acquaintance
before leaving the oakum district. It was after chapel, and he was in my
cell, when, after sundry enquiries as to how I liked the service, etc.,
he said—
“I calls it bad, very bad taste, the way they goes on, even in chapel, at
a chap about his work. Didn’t you hear this morning about the oakum?”
“Oakum,” I said; “I don’t remember any allusion to it.”
“O yes you do,” he replied. “D’you mind my nudging you?” and then I
recollected receiving a dig in the ribs, which I failed to understand at
the time, as they began to sing, “O Come, let us sing,” etc. The racing
man had made a mistake in the spelling, and very properly resented the
allusion.
My transfer from this hateful district was, however, nearer than I
supposed, and an unexpected occurrence a few days after my arrival
brought about this welcome change. My door was one day suddenly opened,
and my friend the turnkey appeared in breathless agitation.
“Summat’s up,” he jerked out; “mind you tells em nothink. You’re going
to be transferred at once.”