BURGLARS “I HAVE MET.”
THE number of admissions into hospital about this time necessitated my
having a companion billeted on me, an unfortunate Frenchman, utterly
oblivious of any language but his own; and as it turned out that his
attainments in English were exactly of the same extent as that of the
warders in French, there seemed to be an impassable gulf fixed between
all communication of ideas, if either party had happened to possess any.
He was complaining to me one day of the disadvantage he laboured under,
and described the usual conversation that took place daily between
himself and the hospital warder.
“Well, are you better?”
“No, sare.”
“O, all right.”
“_Voilà mon ami_. What do you tink?”
My companion, I was gratified to observe, was gradually mastering some of
the idioms of our language.
Not long after, an extraordinary creature was admitted as a patient, and
I cannot to this day say what his nationality was, although I am inclined
to believe his language was some kind of Russian _patois_. Nobody could
make head or tail of him, and a distracted warder, in this dilemma
recollecting my success with the “other foreigner” and doubtless giving
me credit for a knowledge of every language of the earth besides a few of
the lunar ones, came and asked me to try and understand him. My
knowledge of outlandish languages is not remarkably extensive (it is
confined, I may state, to the Hottentot word for “rice” and the Chinese
for “smoke”), and as no one appeared to have a Russian dictionary, I
addressed him in Hindustani, considering that in point of longitude it
came geographically nearest the Russian. He at once replied in a
rambling speech, throwing his arms about and beating his chest; and
though I am convinced he understood no more of my speech than I had of
his, my reputation was established, the more so as he had no means of
betraying my secret. Having then explained to the warder that he
complained of pains in the chest, and would prefer an egg beaten in his
tea instead of boiled (a change I considered unlikely to materially
affect his complaint), I retired to my apartment.
I now for the first time came into personal collision with the chaplain.
For weeks and months circumstances, and possibly choice, had kept us
apart, nor had we exchanged a word since the eventful day when he
discovered that an “unconfirmed” sinner stood before him. It was during
prayers (a movable feast indulged in three mornings a week at the
chaplain’s convenience) that I was referring to a book on the table in
hopes of finding the particular extract he was reading. Failing in that
I replaced the book, and resumed my hypocritical solemnity, in blissful
ignorance of any impropriety. The holy man, however, thought otherwise,
and hissed out at me—
“I consider your behaviour impertinent to me, and disrespectful to God.”
At first I retained my equanimity, for he was incapable of raising my
ire; and I assured him what my object had been, and reminded him I was a
Presbyterian. At this his rage knew no bounds, and sneering in a manner
unworthy of a clergyman (I won’t say a gentleman), he said—
“A Presbyterian, are you? Ah, I thought you didn’t belong to the Church
of England!”
I soon got the unhappy man’s back up. I assured him I was indifferent to
his opinion, and added I was proud to belong to a Church where such
intolerant views were not expressed by its ministers. This undignified
scene was heartily enjoyed by twenty prisoners and warders, all of whom
assured me I had had considerably the best of it. I intended to have
paraded him before the visiting Justices, but common sense prevailed, and
I should have ignored his further existence had it not been for a petty
spite he indulged in shortly after. As I have before stated, the library
books are under his special care. During my long illness I had waded
through this “special” catalogue till I had reached number 21, and in the
course of events might naturally hope to receive number 22 next. In
this, however, I had made a miscalculation, and his Reverence decided
that a school edition (the eighth I had read) of the History of England
was a more wholesome dietary for a bumptious Presbyterian. I was
convinced the mistake was not unintentional, but, anxious to give him an
opportunity of gracefully retracting a contemptible action, I sent the
following day to point out his oversight. The reply was, as I expected,
“If he does not choose to have it let him go without.” I reported the
matter to the Governor, who at once offered to place the matter before
the visiting Justices, as he had no jurisdiction in the matter; but I
decided that the man and his book were neither worth it. I should now,
under ordinary circumstances, have been left entirely bookless—a
contingency in my case that did not occur. It also gave me the
opportunity of reading “The General History of the Church,” a
well-written and exhaustive work by the Abbé Daras, supplied for the use
of Roman Catholics. The superiority of the literature—religious and
profane—selected and supplied by the Roman Catholic chaplain, together
with his personal merit and gentlemanly bearing, makes Romanism a
formidable rival to the “Established” Religion as dispensed at Coldbath.
To judge by the jealousy that exists in a certain quarter, it is evident
this superiority is realized elsewhere. But the circumstance was not
unnoticed by my lynx-eyed, ghostly comforter. On many occasions I have
seen him watching, as if he would have liked—had he dared—to ask me what
I was reading; but he confined himself to discussing me with the warders,
with such remarks as, “I see he’s got hold of something,” or “What’s that
he’s reading?” all of which was duly reported to me. I feel I have given
undue importance to this contemptible squabble; but I look on it as a
tilt between sects, a tussle between an Episcopalian divine, armed with
authority, and a Nonconformist, placed at a considerable disadvantage,
and where—had I been in a position to do so—I should have left the
room—as the Governor once did the Chapel when unmeasured and ill-advised
criticism was being lavished on Dissenters. The guilt of schism lay
heavily on this orthodox Churchman’s heart. I say schism, for I call it
such of the most culpable type that ignores the insignia of Divine
sanction accorded to the Ministry and people of Nonconformity. I would
ask this bigoted Episcopalian what he thinks of Richard Baxter,
Livingston, John Horne, Wesley, Whitfield, Chalmers, Candlish, Caird,
Guthrie, McLeod, names only to be mentioned to inspire veneration, and
yet these were all Nonconformists of one denomination or another.
Surely, if Divine grace finds and fashions such men, they may be
considered as entitled to at least respect from clergymen and gentlemen,
who, if they do not agree in their respective tenets, may at least
abstain from unmeasured abuse of them and their followers! Arrogance
anywhere is bad, but is doubly so when men who claim to be disciples of
the meek and lowly Jesus set such an example by their narrow-minded
remarks about Nonconformity. The Church of England is a venerable and
illustrious section of the true Church, and unlikely to have its fair
fame sullied by the ravings of a nameless ranter. But it becomes a
question, is a chaplain with such extreme views, so uncompromising in his
denunciations, so unguarded in his language, so ungovernable in his
temper, the sort of person for a prison chaplain, or one likely to
convert sinners from the error of their ways? God forbid that my remarks
should be mistaken. I do not aspire to be considered either a ranter or
a hypocrite, but I respect and never fail to detect religion, and despise
its base counterfeit wherever and in whomsoever I find it; and if I can
hear the “old story” ungarnished by rhetoric, I care not whether it
emanates from Episcopalian, Presbyterian, or Nonconformist of whatever
denomination.
That this is a very small world was demonstrated to me during a
conversation I once had with a fellow prisoner. He was a decent,
educated man, and had been in a pawnbroker’s establishment. Our
conversation one night turned on things theatrical, and he was giving me
some interesting experiences of the “ladies” he had met at various times
on business. He asked me if I knew Mrs. —, and I said I had spoken to
the old hag. He then proceeded to tell me what a constant customer she
had been in former days, and how her contributions had varied from
woollen rags one week to valuable jewellery another. It was then that a
circumstance was brought to my mind—told me some three years ago by a
lovely and accomplished actress, since retired from the stage—of how a
popular burlesque artiste in the same theatre had once lost a valuable
jewel, and how suspicion pointed at this identical old woman, who had a
girl at the theatre. I asked him if he recollected anything about it,
and he at once proceeded to give me details that convinced me that the
pendant he referred to was one and the same as that which had
mysteriously disappeared, and that the suspicions formed a few years ago
might have been very fully confirmed had a visit been paid to an
establishment not a hundred miles from Tottenham Court Road.
During my illness I had at different times the services of the various
cleaners in making my bed, brushing the floor, and bringing in my meals,
and I invariably extracted anything of interest about their previous
careers. My first was an unmitigated young “till thief.” This is a
special branch of the profession, requiring assurance rather than
dexterity, and consists in watching your opportunity when the shop is
empty, and then making a dash for the till or cash-box. My valet had
apparently been eminently fortunate, and although he had undergone a
previous twelve months, had escaped detection a score of times. He was
then undergoing a lengthened seclusion for an unforeseen occurrence,
which he in no way considered as a reflection on his prowess. He had, it
appears, entered a confiding lamp-dealer’s, and finding the shop
conveniently empty, and the cashbox conspicuously displayed, had done his
business, and proceeded to leave the premises. A swinging glass door,
however, unfortunately intervened between the shop and the street, which
in the excitement he pushed the wrong way, and in some way jammed. This
little delay made a difference in his and the shopman’s respective
accounts of about £45. On another occasion he found himself in a
corn-chandler’s—a class that is proverbially considerate in avoiding
superfluous obstacles to a hurried exit,—and whilst helping himself to
the till, a customer came in, who, seeing him engaged, asked for a
pennyworth of barley; to this he obligingly served her, added the
cumbrous coin to his other findings, and then complacently left the shop.
This individual was a special pet with the turnkeys, and as such—combined
with his trustworthy reputation—was invariably selected for expeditions
to the various stores. His special talent here stood him in good stead,
and he never returned without having stolen three or four eggs, a handful
of flour, or a lump of soap. Indeed, so inherent was the spirit for
thieving, that if all else failed, he would annex physic, and I have
often seen him with bottles of quinine and iron mixture. This latter
forms a considerable article of commerce, and is much sought after and
bartered (never mind how or where) for advantages of a more palatable
type. A short time before his discharge I advised him to drop the
cash-box game, and he assured me he had quite determined to “turn it up.”
Within a week he had been re-convicted, and is at present undergoing
seven years’ penal servitude. In my next valet I was considerably
disappointed. Although an unmitigated thief, I fancied I detected some
redeeming features. I talked to him frequently, and treated him with as
much kindness as a man with my circumscribed means had probably ever been
able to. In return he assisted to rob me of contraband things, of which
he always had a liberal share. He had been a lieutenant (in burglary) of
the late Mr. Peace, and often discussed that eminent man with evident
regret. He had been with him in various minor affairs, and through his
entire career had never been “nabbed.” His present incarceration was the
result of treachery, where a less fortunate associate had rounded on him,
and he was arrested a week after. He often hoped to meet him outside,
though an incident that occurred will necessitate a postponement of the
pleasure. A batch of convicts, _en route_ to penal servitude, were one
day being medically examined by the surgeon (a new regulation lately come
into force), amongst whom my valet recognised his _quasi_ friend, the
informer. The interview took place near the kitchen, where my man was
cooking a chop, the surgery being next door, at which the convicts were
ranged. “And what did you say?” I enquired. “Say!” he replied, “I
slapped my stomach to show ’im I was all right, and then I says, ‘You
looks ’orrid ill, you —; you’ll never do it; thank God, ’twill kill
yer.’”
A pleasant prelude to ten years’ penal servitude.
I am indebted to this noble-minded creature for many hints as to how
burglaries are concocted and how best guarded against, and I am of
opinion that attention to them will do more to obviate their frequency
than all the absurd warnings as to window shutters and area gates, that
periodically emanate from Scotland Yard. No burglary is ever attempted
on chance; in fact, no house is ever entered except on exact and reliable
information. This is usually obtained through a frivolous maidservant
(in which case a delay of weeks may be necessary for love-making), a
rascally butler, or the local chimney-sweep. The information chiefly
sought after is the strength of the garrison (whether males or females),
the class of valuables (whether plate or jewellery), their usual
locality, and the habits of the occupants. With this as a basis, the
house is watched for days and weeks, in order that a confirmation of the
information may be obtained. The time preferred is when the night police
are in the act of relieving the day men, and if that should be
inconvenient (to the burglar), between the night patrols. All this may
appear ridiculous, but I give it as the testimony of a notorious burglar,
imparted to me in good faith, under exceptionally favourable
circumstances for hearing the truth, and if acted on will materially
increase the security of householders.
I asked my mentor his opinion about window shutters and door bolts, at
which he absolutely laughed. No burglary is ever attempted through a
window unless considerately left open. The front door is the invariable
point of attack, as most favourable for ingress and a precipitate
retreat, and under occasional circumstances the area. The operation
never takes more than twenty minutes, as is erroneously supposed, the
object being to be in and out again between the periodical promenade of
the policeman. These nocturnal strolls are accurately calculated, and
the precision with which they are performed, however admirable from a
disciplinary point of view, are totally inappropriate as deterrents to
burglaries.
“But suppose,” I asked, “a person said to you, ‘I’ve only got so-and-so
in the house—you can have that’: would you be satisfied?”
“Satisfied?” he replied. “No, we knows jolly well what there is afore we
comes; and, for the matter of that, there’s no time for talk. We goes
straight for the swag, and if anyone tries to ’inder us, we’re bound to
let ’im ’ave the jemmy right across the face. That’s ’ow poor Peace got
’imself into trouble fust.” He then went on to tell me that he had a
lovely (!) little jemmy about eighteen inches long and tipped with the
finest tempered steel, capable of being carried up the sleeve, and so
fine that it could be inserted into the smallest crack or hinge; “And,”
he added, “once let me get ’is nose in, and make no mistake, I walks in
very soon arter.”
This gentleman’s testimony is worthy of consideration. He was
associated, as he informed me, with the butler in a well-known burglary
of plate somewhere in Kensington, and where the butler, being knave
enough to rob his master, was fool enough to entrust a large portion of
the proceeds to his confederate to melt down and divide. As I understood
him, half only of this bargain was carried out in its integrity.
The secrecy with which foolish women fancy they put away their jewels in
secure safes let into the wall is a labour lost in vain. Their
hiding-place is thoroughly well known, and probably its value, and other
useful particulars. That they have hitherto escaped is merely an
accident of time and opportunity; that they will ultimately be victimized
is a foregone conclusion. The moral to be gleaned from this is, to be
sure of your servants, a fool being almost as dangerous as a knave, and
to abstain from flashing your jewellery before eager eyes, only too ready
for a clue to its whereabouts.
If after this disinterested advice unprotected women are fools enough to
barricade themselves and their treasures in defenceless houses, they have
only themselves to thank. They should be careful, however, not to waste
their visitor’s time when confronted by his “bull’s-eye,” as burglars are
proverbially children of impulse. Houses containing little or nothing of
value are never burglariously entered. Men won’t risk penal servitude on
a chance; the prize and its price have been carefully calculated.