THE CHURCH MILITANT IN PRISON.
RELIGIOUS ceremonial plays an important part at Coldbath Fields. The
quantity, indeed, is lamentably in excess of the quality, and leavened
with a degree of barbaric hypocrisy incapable of engendering any feeling
but that of nausea. Language fails me in trying to describe it in its
proper light; and though reluctant to appear as scoffing at
religion—which I emphatically repudiate—what I saw and heard makes it a
hopeless task to allude to the subject and yet divest it of its component
parts. This cure of some 1400 (criminal) souls was vested in two
chaplains, of whom one had the misfortune to be a gentleman. I say
“misfortune” advisedly, for unless incapable of contamination the most
charitably inclined and refined is bound to deteriorate. Their duties,
in addition to those usually associated with clergymen, embraced a
_soupçon_ of the schoolmaster with a dash of the district visitor, and if
they were disposed (which all were not) to throw in a slice of detective
work, it was not considered a disqualification for further preferment.
The spiritual welfare of the Protestant portion of the prisoners was
divided between them, all fresh arrivals during this month being
specially assigned to the one, and all coming in the next devolving on
the other. The etiquette and punctilio that regulated this division when
once made, was as marked as that usually found amongst country medical
practitioners. Thus, if Sykes the burglar, who happened to be one of the
Rev. Smith’s lambs, unfortunately cracked his skull, and was in immediate
want of spiritual consolation, he would in all probability be requested
to defer his departure till the arrival of the Rev. Robinson. I mention
this in regard to the system, and not as referring to anyone in
particular, although the way I was ignored (very much to my delight) some
weeks later, when my particular pastor was on leave, fortifies me in the
conviction that my theory is correct.
A portion of the prisoners are visited daily by their respective
chaplains, and day after day, between ten and twelve, is devoted to this
solemn pilgrimage. That religion may be administered in various forms
was apparent from the method pursued respectively by the two chaplains.
The one seemed to think that a kind word and a pleasant smile might
safely be addressed to the vilest criminal without detracting from his
spiritual dignity; the other relied implicitly on scowls and frowns, and
a recitation of the terrors of judgment and hell as the proper
ministration for miserable sinners.
I have special cause to be grateful for the accident that assigned me to
whom it did, as, being a Presbyterian, and never having benefited to the
extent of “confirmation,” I should most assuredly have found my spiritual
lines cast in harder places under an uncompromising bigot of Episcopacy,
than under one who was willing to admit, that the kingdom of Heaven was
not specially reserved for members of the Church of England. The
multifarious calls on his time prevented my chaplain from seeing me more
frequently than once or sometimes twice in a fortnight; but even these
occasional visits did not pass unnoticed, and I gleaned, from a casual
remark he once made, that his spiritual superior considered a visit every
two months ample for the requirements of the most depraved outcasts. I
can only attribute this conclusion to the potency of his peculiar
ministration, which, unless taken in homoeopathic doses, might possibly
have been injurious to both body and soul.
I never came much in contact with the chief pillar of the chapel, though
I was made acquainted with his usual routine by many of his flock:—“What
are you here for? Do you say your prayers?” were the soothing conundrums
he rapped out on his periodical visits; and if the answer was in the
negative, it was followed by “D’you know where you’re going to?” and then
the door was slammed with a reverence suitable to the occasion. The
relief that followed his exodus was, however, only momentary; and again
the key rattled in the door, and a head, with eyes flashing, was once
more thrust in, and yelled out, “To hell!” For of such is the kingdom of
Heaven!
Chapel was an infliction one was subjected to four times a week. The
service in its entirety was conducted with a strict regard to official
etiquette, and the degrees of relative rank were as clearly defined by
the Bibles and prayer-books as by the seats, hassocks, reading desks,
etc., allotted to the officials. Thus, the Governor’s Bibles and
prayer-books were gilt-bound, with gilt clasps; the deputy Governor’s,
Scripture-reader’s, and schoolmaster’s, gilt bindings without the clasps;
the principal warders’, clasps without the gilt binding; and those of the
rank-and-file of warders destitute of either gilt binding or clasps.
Prisoners had to content themselves with thumbed, dog-eared, leafless
specimens, and so the united hallelujahs ascended to Heaven—let us hope
equally acceptable, whether dog-eared or gilded. The interior of this
sacred edifice resembled a barn, the nave being fitted up with rows of
backless benches capable of accommodating some 600 knaves, a yard apart.
A bird’s-eye view of this congregation was one that challenged
reflection, comprising as it did young men and old, dark and fair, short
and stout, tall and thin, lads with fluff, and hoary-headed sinners, all
stamped with the same mark of Cain—hang-dog faces and protruding jowls,
conical heads with hair extending down the nape, bullet pates and
cadaverous faces, cripples and blind men, one-legged and one-armed, yet
all, with few exceptions, marked with the same indescribable jail-bird
brand never to be mistaken, and once seen never to be forgotten.
The floor was tesselated (of the alms-house period), and one of the
hardest floors with which I had ever come in contact. I realized this
from a regulation that necessitated one’s grovelling on the slightest
provocation. The walls of this portion of the building were of a
bilious-official mud colour, the monotony of which was occasionally
relieved by scrolls and texts of a personal nature. Beyond were a few
steps leading to the pulpits and pews for the higher officials; here the
mural decorations assumed a brighter form—indeed, paint seemed to have
been laid on regardless of expense, and with a degree of vulgarity I had
never seen equalled, except perhaps in Albert Grant’s lately pulled-down
house at South Kensington. The mania for smearing the walls with texts
was by no means confined to the chapel, but was to be found everywhere
that propriety and extreme religious fervour seemed to suggest. Thus
over the surgery, as a reminder to possible schemers, “lying lips” were
very properly condemned; near the stores advice as to “picking and
stealing” was conspicuously displayed, with about as much effect as if it
had been placed in the oakum-picking wards; and everywhere, conspicuous
_by its absence_, was the wholesome admonition, “If any man among you
seem to be religious, and bridleth not his tongue, this man’s religion is
vain.”
The chapel, moreover, boasted of an organ—a serious infliction, involving
a temptation for the encouragement of singing; and nobody that has not
heard 600 malefactors without an “h” in their composition bellowing
“’Oly, ’oly, ’oly,” can sympathize to the extent the occasion merits. I
was peculiarly unfortunate in my usual seat, which happened to be amongst
the trades, and was flanked by the blacksmiths. I never heard them
yelling without thinking that Handel’s “Harmonious Blacksmith” must have
been a different sort, which in its turn gave way to the “four-and-twenty
blackbirds that were baked in a pie,” and then I was recalled to the
proximity of the four-and-twenty blacksmiths by “’Oly, ’oly, ’oly.” I
could have wept from sheer sympathy when I heard that glorious “Te Deum”
so brutally massacred, and pitied the organist—an excellent musician—for
having to play on such an instrument to such an accompaniment.
The entrance of the prisoners was not conducted on the principle
customary in places of worship (though I suppose no one really associated
this specimen with any attributes of the kind), but was accompanied by
the blowing of whistles, and shouts of “Move higher up!” “Come on,
there!” “D’you know where you are?” “This ain’t a music-hall!” and
such-like appropriate exclamations. Music-hall indeed! The Middlesex
magistrates would never licence such an exhibition; indeed, it only
required a few handfuls of orange-peel to have made it a formidable rival
of “The Vic.” in its palmiest days.
The chief cause of most of this indecent behaviour was one of the head
warders, and when this man superintended the chapel parade the scene was
disgraceful; and “Take that man’s name down!” “I’ll send you to your
cell, sir!” and bully, bully, bully, was the preparation for the service.
This is no exaggeration, and hundreds of officials and prisoners will
recognize the description. At the same time it is only right to add that
the Governor and chaplains have no means of knowing of these daily
outrages, for custom regulates their entrance after the chapel is full,
and when a toadying, eye-serving, make-believe reverence has succeeded
the state of things I have described. The service was happily not a long
one, and twenty minutes was the average duration from find to finish. It
was conducted, I should say, with a tendency to High Church formula on
the part of the clergy and a portion of the congregation. Thus, the
ministers, the laundrymen, and the blacksmiths invariably turned to the
east during certain portions of the service, whilst the Governor (an old
man-of-war’s man, who could box the compass as well as ever), myself (I
could see the weathercock from my window), the needle-men, who followed
me to a man, and here and there a tailor, as persistently faced due
north.
The habit of trying to sing “second” was a very severe trial to listen
to, and I remonstrated with one old man that I looked on as a kind of
ringleader, at the pain his efforts caused me. His voice was by way of
being a tenor, and his disregard of all harmony induced me to christen
him “Wagner.” One day poor old Wagner appeared with his neck painted
with iodine, and the feeble croaks that he emitted, however painful to
himself, were a considerable relief to me. Remembering, too, that when
the Devil is sick he is supposed to be most susceptible of good
impressions, and not wishing to lose the opportunity of working on his
feelings, I determined to let him have it. I impressed on him the
brittleness of tenor voices in general; how susceptible their
metempsychosis was to disorganisation; how the epidermis of the carotid
artery was peculiarly sensitive; and, with a casual glance at his neck,
implored him for his own sake, if not for mine, to give his voice a rest.
With beads of perspiration and iodine trickling down his back, he gasped
compliance; and thus I reduced my “crosses” by one. Another horrid old
man never failed to irritate me. He was undergoing twelve months’
imprisonment for inciting little boys to steal, but was now on the
religious tack. So religious, indeed, had he become, that in a portion
of “The Creed” he could not say “hell,” but invariably substituted “the
grave.” I had never heard this impertinent innovation before, and could
have kicked him and his hypocrisy into Wagner’s lap. Instantaneous
conversions, such as took place years ago during the so-called Revivals,
were of occasional occurrence, brought about, as I take it, by the
thrilling discourses we were sometimes treated to, and the “awakened one”
would stand up and hold forth. But very short work was made of these
converts, and a couple of matter-of-fact warders soon trundled them out,
to be brought up later on and punished for disturbing the service. I
made a careful study of the two chaplains and their respective
peculiarities in conducting the service. With the one I never had cause
for annoyance, and though his sermons could not be said to bristle with
eloquence, he was evidently in earnest, and mindful of the fact that the
word Protestant embraced more denominations than one, and seemed
particularly careful not to outrage the feelings of the many
Presbyterians, Wesleyans, and other Nonconformists that formed a portion
of the congregation. The other reverend individual had a partiality for
the declamatory style, and whenever circumstances, or the calendar, gave
him the option of selecting a psalm, never failed to declaim how “Moab is
my washpot, over Edom will I cast out my shoe” (Ps. cviii.). I verily
believe he used to think he was talking of his own household effects, and
the expressions of admiration on the faces of the blacksmiths generally
leave little or no doubt in my mind that they were thoroughly convinced
he was appraising the contents of his charming little suburban retreat.
But what he revelled in were the commandments: “Thou shalt” and “Thou
shalt not” were balm to the holy man, and I was always pleased to see him
enjoying himself. A favourite dodge amongst prisoners, now pretty well
played out, is to petition for a remission of sentence on the plea of
conversion and regeneration. That such a circumstance should be
flattering to the vanity of a man who is morally convinced of his
incapacity for converting anything, is not to be wondered at, but the
marvel is, how men with the varied experience of prison chaplains (I
speak generally) should be gulled by such shallow artifices. That they
are, however, is beyond dispute. I have met and conversed with many of
these brands plucked from the burning, and my experience accords with
that of many capable of forming an opinion, that they are matchless both
in cunning and rascality. They are invariably tale-bearers, or what are
known in the comprehensive criminal vocabulary as “creepers,” for they do
creep up the back of any one foolish enough to confide in them, and as
surely creep down the next official’s who is mean enough to encourage
their tattle. These gentlemen are pretty well labelled, and I made it a
practice to always preface my conversation with any of them by letting
them understand they might tell “Gehazi,” or any one they pleased, all
and everything I might happen to say. One glaring instance of the
converted type that I often led into conversation told me that he was
very sanguine on the subject of a remission of the remainder of his
sentence; that one of the chaplains was “working it” for him; and,
indeed, that he and many other likely to be well informed individuals,
such as assistant-turnkeys and fellow-prisoners may be presumed to be,
had assured him that his success was a foregone conclusion. I asked him
how he succeeded in getting such “powerful” advocacy, and although at
first he assumed the fervent style, he very soon relapsed into his normal
condition on seeing that I looked on him as a humbug. He then proceeded
to explain that he began by expressing a desire to see his chaplain in
private, in hopes of satiating the thirst for peace of mind that gave him
no rest; that this led to salutary advice and a fagot of tracts, and had
ended in his partaking of the Holy Communion—I almost hesitate to repeat
this rank blasphemy, and my only justification is its unexaggerated
truth; indeed, I would not dare to write such horrors unless fortified by
my veracity. He went on to add that it was awfully jolly, and that he
generally received any surplus that might remain of the consecrated bread
or wine.
I am indebted to him for the following details of the custom that
prevailed on these solemn occasions, which, retailed in a bantering
style, may be briefly summed up as follows:—That the ceremony was usually
attended by one official of each grade—such as the deputy governor, one
chief warder, one warder, and a turnkey—to whom it was administered
according to seniority; that the prisoners’ turn came next, and that by a
judicious foresight he usually managed to secure the first place. He
went on to add that he confidently expected some cozy billet in the
prison suitable to his serious tendencies, and that his chaplain had
promised to interest himself in procuring him some situation on
discharge. As we became more intimate, he confided to me that he could
never undergo poverty and privation again, and was determined to attain
affluence, honestly if possible, but otherwise by one bold dash that
should attain his end, or qualify him for penal servitude. This hopeful
convert had been convicted of a till robbery, and had moreover committed
forgery, which had not been preferred against him on condition that he
restored the stolen money. It was this last spontaneous (!) honourable
act that formed the basis of his petition, proving his instantaneous
remorse for the error of a moment—a remorse that had since ripened into
sincere and heartfelt repentance. He concluded by informing me that his
chaplain had led him to understand he should probably give him a few
pounds on his discharge, but that he had been deceived so often by
“converts” he had assisted eventually becoming “convicts,” that he
hesitated to help any of whose sincerity he was not perfectly satisfied.
Let us hope he has not again been a victim of misplaced confidence! I
have on more than one occasion found it difficult to maintain my gravity
when hearing this rogue and his victim discussing Bible questions, and
whining at the ridicule he had to submit to on account of his
convictions, and receiving consolation by the quotation of the case of
Mary Magdalene. I have no scruple in giving this account, as the
principal actor has long since been discharged (but not on his petition,
which was naturally refused), and because it is an ungarnished,
indisputable proof of the deceptions practised by criminals, and goes a
long way to justify the apparently harsh treatment frequently accorded
them. That the chaplains are a conscientiously disposed class may be
gleaned from the circumstance that on one occasion, when a converted
sinner after his discharge sent a _souvenir_ in the shape of an
eighteen-penny _papier mâché_ inkstand, the reverend recipient declined
to accept it till he had first obtained the sanction of the visiting
Justices.
“_Tantum religio potuit suadere_.”