Terminate--The Dawn of Liberty--The Release--In Retreat at
Truro--I Come to America--My Lost Years, 211
PART TWO
ANALYSIS OF THE MAYBRICK CASE
INTRODUCTION.--Petitions for a Reprieve--Illogical Position of
Home Secretary--New Evidence of My Innocence Ignored--Lord
Russell’s Letter--Efforts for Release--Even New Evidence
Superfluous--The Doctors’ Doubt--Public Surprise at Verdict--
Character of Jury--The “Mad Judge”--Justice Stephen’s Biased
Charge--Lord Russell’s Memorandum Quashed--Repeated Protests
of Lord Russell--The American Official Petition--Secretary
Blaine’s Letter to Minister Lincoln--Henry W. Lucy on Lord
Russell--Lord Russell’s Conviction of Mrs. Maybrick’s
Innocence--Explanation of Attitude of Home Secretaries--
Upholding the Justiciary--Need of Court of Criminal Appeal, 225
THE BRIEF OF MESSRS. LUMLEY & LUMLEY.--Opinion Re F. E.
Maybrick--Justice Stephen’s Misdirections--Misdirections as
to Mr. Maybrick’s Symptoms--Misdirections as to Mrs.
Maybrick’s Access to Poisons--Misdirection as to “Traces”
of Arsenic--Misdirection as to Arsenic in Solution--Mr.
Clayton’s Experiments--Misdirection as to Arsenic in
Glycerin--Misdirection as to Evidence of Physicians--
Misdirection as to Times When Arsenic May Have Been
Administered--Misdirection as to Mrs. Maybrick’s Changing
Medicine Bottles--Misdirection as to Administration with
Intent to Kill--Exclusion of Prisoner’s Testimony--
Misdirection as to Identity of Meat-Juice Bottle--
Misdirection in Excluding Corroboration of Prisoner’s
Statement--Misdirections to Jury to Draw Illegal
Inferences--Misdirections Regarding the Medical Testimony--
Conflict of Medical Opinion--Misdirections as to Cause of
Death--Misdirection to Ignore Medical Testimony--Misreception
of Evidence--Cruel Misstatement by Coroner--Medical Evidence
for the Prosecution--Maybrick Died a Natural Death--The Chief
Witness for the Prosecution--Medical Evidence for Defense--A
Toxicological Study--Medical Weakness of Prosecution--The
Administration of Arsenic--The Fly-paper Episode--How Mrs.
Maybrick Accounts for the Fly-papers--Administration of
Arsenic not Proved--Intent to Murder not Proved--Absence of
Concealment by Prisoner--Some Important Deductions from
Medical Testimony--Symptoms Due to Poisonous Drugs--Death from
Natural Causes--Prosecution’s Deductions from Post-mortem
Analysis Misleading--Recapitulation of Legal Points, 262
MRS. MAYBRICK’S OWN ANALYSIS OF THE MEAT-JUICE INCIDENT, 366
MEMORIALS FOR RESPITE OF SENTENCE.--From the Physicians of
Liverpool--From the Bars of Liverpool and London--From
Citizens of Liverpool, 381
NEW EVIDENCE.--Arsenic Sold to Maybrick by Druggist--Arsenic
Supplied to Maybrick by Manufacturing Chemist--Depositions as
to Mr. Maybrick’s Arsenic Habit--Justice Stephen’s Retirement, 384
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Florence Elizabeth Maybrick, _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
The Late Dr. Helen Densmore, 32
Lord Charles Russell, 48
St. George’s Hall, Liverpool, 52
Justice Fitz-James Stephen, 56
Baroness von Roques, 112
Aylesbury Prison, 128
Miss Mary A. Dodge (“Gail Hamilton”), 144
Right Hon. A. Akers-Douglas, M.P., 216
Hon. James G. Blaine, 248
Hon. Robert T. Lincoln, 256
Hon. John Hay, 288
Hon. Joseph H. Choate, 320
Samuel V. Hayden, 352
Leonidas D. Yarrell, 368
FOREWORD
The writing of this book has been to me no joyful task, as its making
has been at the expense of much-needed rest and peace of mind. In
returning to my dear native land after a long imprisonment, I cherished
the hope that I might as quietly as possible be permitted to take up
the threads of outward existence so cruelly broken, little dreaming
that trials hardly less grievous than those left behind awaited me;
for no sooner had I touched these hospitable shores, when I was met
by the fear-inspiring cry, “You must write a book--you must give the
world an account of your sufferings”--as if one could never suffer
enough. My well-meaning friends could hardly have known what they were
asking in forcing upon me a mental return to the dread past. Solitary
confinement in Woking Prison (as the reader may learn from these pages)
was not such an elysium that one should voluntarily desire to hark back
to it, nor is penal servitude in Aylesbury an Arcadian dream. While
within their grim walls I did my best to exclude from thought the world
without; and now that I am once again in the world (though scarcely of
it), my one desire to shut out all the abhorrent things which so-called
“prison life” stands for has thus far not only failed of realization,
but, under conditions even more trying than the repressive prison
régime (because of the free and happy life all about, which it seemed
to poor me that I had some right to share), I have been compelled by
force of circumstance to return to my cast-off prison shell, and live
all the old heart-and-brain-crushing life over again. However, my
second “trial and imprisonment,” like the first, is at last drawing to
a close; and I devoutly trust that I shall be now permitted to enter
upon a long-coveted rest, and partake as I may of those tempered joys
which my countrymen by their beautiful sympathy have so chivalrously
endeavored to make possible for me.
Theoretically my imprisonment terminated on English soil, but so
relentlessly have the fates pursued me that I have been in nowise free
quite up to the present moment. In Rouen, France, where I sojourned at
my mother’s home for three weeks, I was as much in durance to my genial
enemy, the ubiquitous reporter, as when the English Government held me
in its inexorable grasp. Our cottage was completely invested by him,
and all approaches and exits held with a persistency which, under other
circumstances, might well have extorted my admiration.
Then came the ever-to-be-remembered sea voyage. I am a good sailor,
and so the physical discomforts that beset so many were agreeably
minimized; but I could not throw off the feeling that I was not yet
free--the limits of the ship were still all too suggestive of the
narrow exercise grounds of Aylesbury prison; and, while the eye
could roam without hindrance, there came upon me again and again an
irresistible desire, which the rolling billows strenuously gainsaid, to
make a dash for liberty.
Thereupon followed a couple of days at the Holland House, New York,
with the same persistent reporter never absent. After this experience,
I was taken by the kindest of friends to where nature is at her
loveliest and human hearts beat in unison with their uplifting
surroundings. Beautiful Cragsmoor, with its wide reaches of inspiring
scenery, most appropriately the summer home of an artistic colony, is
not too easy of access to mar a desire for seclusion, and a greater
antithesis to prison walls than is afforded by this aerie can hardly be
imagined.
Here all things that on lower planes so cruelly vex the spirit seem
far away and beneath. If only no publishers--however benevolent--had
entered this Eden, what a paradise it could have been to me! However,
in spite of these dread taskmasters, my soul drank deeply of the elixir
so bountifully held to my lips; and when in the golden autumn all
the noble woods about robed themselves in such glory as may be seen
nowhere outside my beloved native land--and perchance nowhere here more
ravishingly than in these Hudson Valley uplands--the rapture of my
heart, so long starved within the narrowest and cruelest of confines,
turned adoringly to Him who has made this world so beautiful for His
children’s eyes.
I need hardly be at pains to say to my readers, that lessons in
literary composition form no part of the disciplinary curriculum of
Aylesbury; nay, the art of writing is distinctly discouraged there, as
interfering with the prescribed parliamentary régime. Accordingly, when
I set out to tell my pitiful little story, I was told to look at myself
objectively; then to pry into myself subjectively; then to regard
both in their relation to the outside world--to describe how this,
that, or the other affected me; in short, as one of them, more deep in
science than others, expressed it, “We want as much as possible of the
psychology of your prison life.”
I surreptitiously looked up that awe-inspiring word in a dictionary,
and found that it refers to the soul, and that it was my soul they
wanted me to lay bare. I vehemently protested that that belonged to
my God, and I had no right to expose it for daws to peck at. But the
publishers, with the aid of my friends, persuaded me that the public
would give me their tenderest regard, and that possibly the humanities
might be furthered a bit if the story of a woman--whatever might be her
failings in other directions--wholly guiltless of the terrible charge
of wilful murder, and for which in her innocence she was made to suffer
so cruelly, be given in fullest heart detail to a sympathetic world.
So I have done what I trust is best for all--spared myself as little
as possible, lest the picture fail from suppression--and my dearest
heart-hope is that somewhat of good may come of it, especially in
behalf of those whom a dire fate shall compel to follow in my steps,
with bruised spirits and bleeding feet.
SKETCH OF MY ANCESTRY
I was born at Mobile, Ala., September 3, 1862. In searching for
some account of my genealogy, I found a published letter of Gail
Hamilton’s, who was ever one of my most eloquent and steadfast
champions, and to whom I owe a debt of gratitude I can never adequately
express. From this it appears that I am the great-great-granddaughter
of Rev. Benjamin Thurston, a graduate of Harvard College, who settled
at North Hampton, N. H., and of his wife, Sarah Phillips, who was
the sister of John Phillips, who founded Phillips’ Academy in
Exeter, endowed a professorship in Dartmouth, and contributed funds
to Princeton; and who was the aunt of Samuel Phillips, who founded
Phillips’s Academy at Andover.
The mother of Sarah Phillips was Elizabeth Green, and from her the name
of Elizabeth has come down in regular descent to myself.
Elizabeth, daughter of Benjamin Thurston and Sarah Phillips, married
James Milk Ingraham. Joseph H. Ingraham, of this family, gave to
Portland, Me., for its improvement, property now amounting in value to
millions--beautiful State Street, the market, the property of the High
School, and much more. One of the Ingrahams was the wife of Philander
Chase, the first Bishop of Illinois, uncle of Salmon P. Chase, who
was Secretary of the Treasury under Lincoln and Chief Justice of the
Supreme Court of the United States. Of the Ingraham family was that
Commodore Ingraham who won laurels for his country and himself by
rescuing Martin Koszata from the clutch of Austria. Connected with the
Ingrahams was that Edward Preble, born at Falmouth Neck, whose father
served under Wolfe and was wounded at Quebec; also that Commander
Preble whose achievement before Tripoli was rewarded with a gold medal
and the thanks of Congress. Rev. John Phillips and Thurston Ingraham,
author of “Why We Believe the Bible,” both rectors in the Protestant
Episcopal Church, were sons of James Milk Ingraham and Elizabeth
Thurston Ingraham. John Ingraham, son of the preceding, is rector of
Grace Church, St. Louis, Mo. His sister, Elizabeth Thurston Ingraham,
married Darius Blake Holbrook, who was born in Dorchester, Mass. His
mother was a Ridgeway. Her sister married a Quincy, and was aunt to
John Quincy Adams. Mr. Holbrook was an originator of the land grant
for the Illinois Central Railroad and its first president. He owned
Cairo, at the mouth of the Ohio, and was associated with Cyrus Field
in laying the first Atlantic cable. Caroline Elizabeth was the only
child of Darius Blake Holbrook and Elizabeth Thurston Holbrook. She
married William G. Chandler, of the banking house of St. John Powers &
Co., Mobile, Ala. William G. Chandler’s father was Daniel Chandler, a
lawyer of high standing in Georgia; his mother was Sarah Campbell, a
sister of John A. Campbell, at one time Assistant Secretary of State
for the Confederacy, and previously judge of the Supreme Court of the
United States. Judge L. Q. C. Lamar, long a United States Senator, and
afterward a justice of the Supreme Court, was near of kin.
To William G. Chandler and Caroline Elizabeth Holbrook Chandler two
children were born--Holbrook St. John and Florence Elizabeth. Their
father died in 1863, and their mother, on account of the war, took the
children abroad to be educated. The son died while pursuing his medical
studies.
As will be seen from the above summary of Gail Hamilton’s statement, I
am descended, on both my paternal and my maternal side for generations,
from good American stock. I was educated partly in Europe and partly
in America, under the instruction of masters and governesses. I was too
delicate for college life. I lived partly with my maternal grandmother,
Elizabeth Holbrook, of New York, and partly with my mother, the
Baroness von Roques, whose home was abroad. When not with them I was
visiting or traveling with friends. My life was much the same as that
of any other girl who enjoyed the pleasures of youth with a happy
heart. I was very fond of tracing intricate designs and copying the
old-time churches and cathedrals. My special pastime, however, was
riding, and this I could indulge in to my heart’s content when residing
with my stepfather, Baron Adolph von Roques, who, now retired, was at
that time a cavalry officer in the Eighth Cuirassier Regiment of the
German army and stationed at Cologne.
At the age of eighteen I married James Maybrick, on the 27th of July,
1881, at St. James Church, Piccadilly, London, and returned to America,
where we made our home at Norfolk, Va. For business reasons we settled
in a suburb of Liverpool called Aigworth. A son was born to us on the
24th of March, 1882, and a daughter on June 20, 1886.
FLORENCE ELIZABETH MAYBRICK.
CHAPTER ONE
Before the Trial
MY ARREST
Slowly consciousness returned. I opened my eyes. The room was in
darkness. All was still. Suddenly the silence was broken by the bang of
a closing door which startled me out of my stupor. Where was I? Why was
I alone? What awful thing had happened? A flash of memory! My husband
was dead! I drifted once more away from the things of sense. Then a
voice, as if a long way off, spoke. A feeling of pain and distress shot
through my body. I opened my eyes in terror. Edwin Maybrick was bending
over me as I lay upon my bed. He had my arms tightly gripped, and was
shaking me violently. “I want your keys--do you hear? Where are your
keys?” he exclaimed harshly. I tried to form a reply, but the words
choked me, and once more I passed into unconsciousness.
It is the dawn of a Sabbath day.[1] I am still lying in my clothes,
neglected and uncared for; without food since the morning of the day
before. Consciousness came and went. During one of these interludes
Michael Maybrick entered.
“Nurse,” he said, “I am going up to London. Mrs. Maybrick is no longer
mistress of this house. As one of the executors I forbid you to allow
her to leave this room. I hold you responsible in my absence.”
He then left the room. What did he mean? How dare he humble me thus in
the presence of a stranger?
Toward the night of the same day I said to the nurse, “I wish to see
my children.” She took no notice. My voice was weak, and I thought
perhaps she had not heard. “Nurse,” I repeated, “I want to see my
children.” She walked up to my bed, and in a cold, deliberate voice
replied: “You can not see Master James and Miss Gladys. Mr. Michael
Maybrick gave orders that they were to leave the house without seeing
you.” I fell back upon my pillow, dazed and stricken, weak, helpless,
and impotent. Why was I treated thus? My brain reeled in seeking a
reply to this query. At last I could bear it no longer, and my soul
cried out to God to let me die. A third dreary night, and the day broke
once again. I was still prostrate. The dull pain at my heart, the
yearning for my little children, was becoming unbearable, but I was
dumb.
Suddenly the door opened and Dr. Humphreys entered. He walked silently
to my bedside, felt my pulse, and without a word left the room. A few
minutes later I heard the tramp of many feet coming up-stairs. They
stopped at the door. The nurse advanced, and a crowd of men entered.
One of them stepped to the foot of the bed and addressed me as follows:
“Mrs. Maybrick, I am superintendent of the police, and I am about to
say something to you. After I have said what I intend to say, if you
reply be careful how you reply, because whatever you say may be used as
evidence against you. Mrs. Maybrick, you are in custody on suspicion of
causing the death of your late husband, James Maybrick, on the eleventh
instant.” I made no reply, and the crowd passed out.
A PRISONER IN MY OWN HOUSE
Was I going mad? Did I hear myself accused of poisoning my husband? Why
did not his brothers, who said they had his confidence, tell the police
what all his intimate friends knew, that he was an arsenic eater? Why
was I accused--I, who had nursed him assiduously day and night until
my strength gave out, who had engaged trained nurses, and advised a
consultation of physicians, and had done all that lay in my power to
aid in his recovery? To whom could I appeal in my extreme distress? I
lay ill and confined to my bed, with two professional nurses attending
me, and with a policeman stationed in my room, although there was not
and could not be the slightest chance of my escaping. The officer would
not permit the door to be closed day or night, and I was denied in my
own house, even before the inquest, the privacy accorded to a convicted
prisoner. I asked that a cablegram be sent to my lawyers in New York.
Inspector Baxendale read it, and then said he did not consider it of
importance and should not send it. I then implored Dr. Humphreys to ask
a friendly lawyer, Mr. R. S. Cleaver, of Liverpool, to come out to see
me. After some delay Mr. Cleaver obtained a permit to enter the house
and undertook to represent me.
The fourth day came and went. On the fifth day, May 16, the stillness
of the house was broken by the sound of hushed voices and hurrying
footsteps. “Nurse,” I exclaimed, when I could no longer bear the
feeling of oppression that possessed me, “is anything the matter?” She
turned, and in a cold, harsh voice replied, “The funeral starts in an
hour.” “Whose funeral?” I asked. “Your husband’s,” the nurse exclaimed;
“but for you he would have been buried on Tuesday.” I stared at her for
a moment, and then, trembling from head to foot, got out of bed and
commenced with weak hands to dress myself. The nurse looked alarmed,
and came forward. “Stand back!” I cried. “I will see my husband before
he is taken away.” She placed herself in front of me; I pushed her
aside and confronted the policeman at the door. “I demand to see my
husband,” I exclaimed. “The law does not permit a person to be treated
as guilty until she is proven so.”
He hesitated, and then said, “Follow me.” With tottering steps,
supported by the nurse, I was led into the adjoining room. Upon the
bed stood the coffin, covered with white flowers. It was already
closed. I turned to the policeman and the nurse. “Leave me alone with
the dead.” They refused. I then knelt down at the bedside, and God in
His mercy spared my reason by granting me, there and then, the first
tears which many days of suffering had failed to bring. Death had wiped
out the memory of many things. I was thankful to remember that I had
stopped divorce proceedings, and that we had become reconciled for
the children’s sake. Calmed, I arose and returned to my room. I sat
down near a window, still weeping. Suddenly the harsh voice of a nurse
broke on my ears: “If you wish to see the last of the husband you have
poisoned you had better stand up. The funeral has started.” I stumbled
to my feet and clutched at the window-sill, where I stood rigid and
tearless until the hearse had passed, and was out of sight, and then I
fainted.
When I recovered consciousness I asked why my mother had not been sent
for. No answer was made, but a tardy summons was sent to her at Paris.
When she arrived she came to me at once. What a meeting! She kissed
me, and was speaking a few loving words in French, when the nurse
interposed and said, “You must speak in English,” and the policeman
joined in with “I warn you, madam, that I will write down all you
say,” and he produced paper and pencil. I then begged my mother to go
into Liverpool to see the Messrs. Cleaver, who represented me, as they
would give her all the information she required; and then I cried out
in the bitterness of my heart, “Mother, they all believe me guilty,
but I swear to you I am innocent.” That night I had a violent attack
of hysteria. Two nurses and the policeman held me down, and when my
mother, outraged by his presence, wished to take his place and send
him from the room, Nurse Wilson became insolent and turned her out.
AT WALTON JAIL
The next morning, Saturday, the 18th of May, Dr. Hopper and Dr.
Humphreys visited me, to ascertain whether I was in a condition to
permit of formal proceedings taking place in my bedroom. In a few
minutes they gave their consent. The magistrates and others then came
up-stairs.
There were present Colonel Bidwell, Mr. Swift (clerk), Superintendent
Bryning, and my lawyers, the Messrs. Cleaver, Dr. Hopper, and Dr.
Humphreys. I was fully conscious, but too prostrate to make any
movement. Besides those in the room, there were seated outside the
policeman and the nurse. Superintendent Bryning, who had taken up his
position at the foot of the bed, said: “This person is Mrs. Maybrick,
charged with causing the death of the late James Maybrick. She is
charged with causing his death by administering poison to him. I
understand that her consent is given to a remand, and therefore I need
not introduce nor give evidence.”
Mr. Swift: “You ask for a remand for eight days?”
Mr. Arnold Cleaver: “I appear for the prisoner.”
Colonel Bidwell: “Very well; I consent to a remand. That is all.”
These gentlemen then departed. The police were in such a hurry to
prefer the formal charge, they could not wait until the doctors
should certify that I was in a fit state to be taken to the court in
the ordinary way. The nurse then told me I must get up and dress. I
prayed that my children might be sent for to bid me good-by--but I
was peremptorily refused. I begged to gather together some necessary
personal apparel, only to meet with another refusal. I was hurried
away with such unseemly haste, that even my hand-bag with my toilet
articles was left behind. My mother implored to be allowed to say
good-by, but was denied. She had gone up to her bedroom, so she tells
me, which looked out on the front, to try and see my face as they put
me in the carriage, when they turned the key and locked her in. After I
had gone a policeman unlocked the door.
[Illustration: THE LATE DR. HELEN DENSMORE, An American advocate of
Mrs. Maybrick’s innocence.]
After a two hours’ drive we arrived at Walton Jail, in the suburbs of
Liverpool. I shuddered as I looked at the tall, gloomy building. A
bell was ringing, and the big iron gates swung back and allowed us to
pass in. I was received by the governor and immediately led away by
a female warder. We crossed a small courtyard and stopped at a door
which she unlocked and relocked. Then we passed down a narrow passage
to a door that led into a dark, gloomy room termed the “Reception.” A
bench ran along each side, a bare wooden table stood in the middle,
a weighing-machine by the door, with a foot measure beside it. A
female warder asked me to give up any valuables in my possession.
These consisted of a watch, two diamond rings, and a brooch. They were
entered in a book. Then I was asked to stand upon the weighing-machine,
and my weight was duly noted. These formalities completed, I was led
through a building into a cell especially set apart for sick prisoners.
The escort locked me in, and, utterly exhausted, stricken with a sense
of horror and degradation, I sank upon the stone floor, reiterating,
until consciousness left me, “Oh, my God, help me--help me!”
ALONE
When I opened my eyes I was in bed and alone. I gazed around. At the
bedside was a chair with a china cup containing milk, and a plate
of bread upon it. The cell was bare. The light struggled in dimly
through a dirty, barred window. The stillness was appalling, and I felt
benumbed--a sense of terrible oppression weighed me down. If only I
could hear once more the sound of a friendly voice! If only some one
would tell whose diabolical mind had conceived and directed suspicion
against me!
I remained in the cell three days, when my lawyer visited me. He
arranged that I was to have a room especially set apart for prisoners
awaiting trial who can afford to pay five shillings ($1.25) weekly, for
the additional comfort of a table, an arm-chair, and a wash-stand. Had
I not been able to do so I should have been consigned to an ordinary
prison cell, and my diet would have been the same as that of convicted
prisoners. Instead, my food was sent from a hotel outside. I was locked
in this room for twenty-two hours out of the twenty-four. The only time
I was permitted to leave it was for chapel in the morning and an hour’s
exercise in the afternoon in the prison yard. The stillness, unbroken
by any sound from the outside world, got on my nerves, and I wanted
to scream, if only to hear my own voice. The unnatural confinement,
without any one to speak to, was torture. The governor, the doctor, and
the chaplain, it is true, came around every morning, but their visits
were of such short duration, and so formal in their nature, that it was
impossible to derive much relief from conversation with them.
THE CORONER’S INQUEST
On the 28th of May the Coroner’s inquest was held, but I was not well
enough to attend. I was represented by my legal advisers. On the 3d of
June I was still too ill to appear before the court. Mr. W. S. Barrett,
as magistrate, accompanied by Mr. Swift, the clerk, held a Magisterial
Court at Walton Jail. Mr. R. S. Cleaver did not attend, having
consented to the police obtaining another remand for a week. Only one
newspaper reporter was allowed to be present. I was accompanied to the
visitors’ room by a female warder, and silently took a seat at the
foot of a long table. I was quite composed. Superintendent Bryning rose
from his seat at the end of the room and said:
“This person, sir, is Mrs. Maybrick, who is charged with the murder of
her husband, at Aigburth, on the 11th of last month. I have to ask that
you remand her until Wednesday next.”
Mr. Swift: “Mr. Cleaver, her solicitor, has sent me a note in which he
consents to a remand until Wednesday.”
Mr. Barrett: “If there is no objection she will be remanded until
Wednesday morning.”
A PLANK FOR A BED
The magistrate then signed the document authorizing the remand, and I
withdrew. On the 5th of June the adjourned inquest was held, and I was
taken from jail at half-past eight in the morning to the Coroner’s
Court in a cab, accompanied by Dr. O’Hagan, a female attendant, and
a policeman. I was taken into the ante-room for the purpose of being
identified by the witnesses for the prosecution. I was not taken
into court, but at three o’clock Mr. Holbrook Gaskell, a magistrate,
attended for the purpose of granting another remand, pending the result
of the inquest, and again no evidence was given in my presence. I was
taken to the county police station, Lark Lane. I passed the night in a
cell which contained only a plank board as a bed. It was dark, damp,
dirty, and horrible. A policeman, taking pity on me, brought me a
blanket to lie on. In the adjoining cell, in a state of intoxication,
two men were raving and cursing throughout the night. I had no
light--there was no one to speak to. I was kept there three days, until
the coroner’s jury had returned their verdict. A greengrocer near by,
named Mrs. Pretty, to whom I had occasionally given orders for fruit,
sent me in a daily gift of her best with a note of sympathy--a deed
all the more striking in its generosity and nobleness, since the
charity of none other of my own sex had reached to that degree of
justice to regard me as innocent until proven guilty.
THE VERDICT OF THE CORONER’S JURY
On the 6th of June I was again driven to Garston to hear the coroner’s
verdict. There was an elaborate array of lawyers, reporters, and
witnesses, as well as many spectators.
I waited in the ante-room until the coroner’s jury had summed up. The
jury consisted mostly of gentlemen who at one time had been guests in
my own house. Of all former friends present, there was only one who had
the moral courage to approach me and shake my hand. Throughout the time
I sat awaiting the call to appear before the coroner he remained beside
me, speaking words of encouragement. But the others, who, without
a word of evidence in my defense, had already judged and condemned
me, passed by on the other side, for had they not already judged and
condemned me?
When my name was called a dead hush pervaded the court, and the coroner
said:
“Have you agreed upon your verdict, gentlemen?”
The Foreman: “We have.”
Q. “Do you find that death resulted from the administration of an
irritant poison?”
A. “Unanimously.”
Q. “Do you say by whom that poison was administered?”
A. “By twelve to one we decide that the poison was administered by Mrs.
Maybrick.”
Q. “Do you find that the poison was administered with the intent of
taking life?”
A. “Twelve of us have come to that conclusion.”
The Coroner: “That amounts to a verdict of murder.”
Then the requisition was made out in the following terms:
“That James Maybrick, on the 11th of May, 1889, in the township of
Garston, died from the effects of an irritant poison administered to
him by Florence Elizabeth Maybrick, and so the jurors say: that the
said Florence Elizabeth Maybrick did wilfully, feloniously, and of
malice aforethought kill and murder the said James Maybrick.”
I was then driven back to the Lark Lane Police Station, locked up, and
remained the night. The next day I was returned to Walton Jail. How
shall I describe my feelings? Mere words are utterly inadequate to do
so. Not only was my sense of justice and fair play outraged, but it
seemed to me a frightful danger to personal safety if the police, on
the mere gossip of servants, and where a doctor had been unable to
assign the cause of death, could go into a home and take an inmate
into custody in the way I have shown.
On the 13th of June I was brought before the magistrates, and for the
first time evidence was given in my presence. I had been driven over to
the court-house the evening before, and had passed the night there in
charge of a policeman’s daughter, who remained in the room with me. Her
father kept watch on the other side of the door. That night, on going
to bed, as I knelt weary and lonely to say my prayers, I felt a hand on
my shoulder and a tearful voice said, softly, “Let me hold your hand,
Mrs. Maybrick, and let me say my prayers with you.” A simple expression
of sympathy, but it meant so much to me at such a time.
THE DOCTORS DISAGREE
At half-past eight I was taken to a room adjoining the court, where, in
charge of a female warder and a policeman, I awaited my call. I then
passed into the court, where two magistrates, Sir William B. Forwood
and Mr. W. S. Barrett, sat officially to hear the evidence. When the
testimony had been given the court adjourned.
When I rose to leave the court, in order to reach the door, I had
to meet face to face well-dressed women spectators at the back, and
the moment I turned around these started hissing me. The presiding
justice immediately shouted to the officer on duty to shut the door,
while the burly figures of several policemen, who moved toward the
hostile spectators, effectually put an end to the outburst. It was amid
such scenes, and this sort of preparation for my ordeal, that on the
following day, the 14th of June, the Magisterial Inquiry was resumed,
and the evidence connected with the charge of murder gone into. On
conclusion of the testimony the magistrates retired, and after a brief
consultation returned into court.
Sir William Forwood: “Our opinion is that this is a case which ought to
be decided by jury.”
Mr. Pickford (my counsel): “If that is clearly the opinion of the Bench
I shall not occupy their time by going into the defense now, because I
understand, whatever defense may be put forward, the Bench may think it
right for a jury to decide.”
The Chairman: “Yes, we think so.”
I was then ordered to stand up and was formally charged in the usual
manner.
I replied: “I reserve my defense.”
Sir William Forwood made answer: “Florence Elizabeth Maybrick, it is
our duty to commit you to take your trial at the ensuing Assizes for
wilful murder of the late James Maybrick.”
I was then remanded into custody.
I found it difficult to understand why these magistrates committed
me to trial for murder on that evidence. There was certainly not
sufficient evidence that the cause of death was arsenic. The doctors
could not say so. No arsenic had been found by the analyst in the
stomach, the appearance of which at the _post-mortem_, Dr. Humphreys
said, was “consistent” with either poisoning or ordinary congestion
of the stomach; but, after examination, a minute quantity of arsenic,
certainly not enough to cause death, was detected in the liver, the
appearance of which, Dr. Humphreys said, showed no evidence of any
irritant poison. On this point Dr. Carter agreed with Dr. Humphreys,
“but in a more positive manner,” while Dr. Barron did not exactly agree
with Dr. Carter.
The analyst had found both arsenic and “traces” of arsenic, in some
bottles and things which had been found in the house after death, as
to which, where they came from, or who had put them there, no one
had any knowledge. This is the evidence upon which I was committed.
Justice Stephen, in addressing the grand jury, even thus early showed
a predisposition against me, due at this time, no doubt, to the
sensational reports in the press. A true bill was found, and I was
brought to trial before him on the 31st of July.
LETTERS FROM WALTON JAIL
The six weeks intervening before my trial were very terrible. The
mental strain was incessant, and I suffered much from insomnia. The
stress and confinement were telling on my health, as was the separation
from my children. I insert here two extracts from letters, written by
me, from Walton Jail. One is to my mother, dated the 21st of July,
1889, a few days before my trial:
“I am not feeling very well. This fearful strain and the necessity for
continued self-control is beginning to tell upon me. But I am not in
the least afraid. I shall show composure, dignity and fortitude to the
last.”
The following is an extract from a letter I wrote to a friend on June
27, before my trial on July 31:
“I have made my peace with God. I have forgiven unreservedly all those
who have ruined and forsaken me. To-morrow I partake of the Holy
Communion with a clear conscience, and I place my faith in God’s
mercy.
“God give me strength is my constant prayer. I feel so lonely--as
if every hand were against me. To think that for three or four days
I must be unveiled before all those uncharitable eyes. You can not
think how awful it appears to me. So far the ordeal has been all
anticipation; then it will be stern reality--which always braces the
nerves and courage.
“I have seen in the Liverpool _Post_ the judge’s address on the
prosecution to the jury, and it is enough to appal the stoutest heart.
I hear the police are untiring and getting up the case against me
regardless of expense.
“Pray for me, my friend, for the darkest days of my life are now to
be lived through. I trust in God’s justice, whatever I may be in the
sight of man.”
LORD RUSSELL’S OPINION
I received many visits from my lawyers, the Messrs. Cleaver, and just
before the trial one from my leading counsel, Sir Charles Russell,
later Lord Russell of Killowen, Lord Chief Justice of England. The
following statement made by him relative to this visit may interest my
readers:
“I will make no public statement of what my personal belief is as to
Mrs. Maybrick’s guilt or innocence, but I will tell you, who have
stood by her all these years, that, perplexed with the instructions
in the brief, I took what was an unusual step: I went to see her in
prison before her trial, and questioned her there to the best of
my ability for the purpose of getting the truth out of her. During
the whole seven days of her trial I made careful observation of her
demeanor, and since her imprisonment I have availed myself of my
judicial right to visit her at Aylesbury Prison; and, making the best
use of such opportunities of arriving at a just conclusion about her
own self-consciousness, I decided in my own mind that it never for a
moment entered her mind to do any bodily injury to her husband. On the
last occasion that I saw her I told her so, as I felt it would and did
give the poor woman some comfort.”
[Illustration:
Copyright by W. & D. Downey, London
LORD CHARLES RUSSELL, Q.C., Late Lord Chief Justice of England, Mrs.
Maybrick’s counsel.]
THE PUBLIC CONDEMNS ME UNHEARD
The day preceding my trial found me calm in spirit, and in a measure
prepared for the awful ordeal before me. Up to that time I had shown
a composure that astonished every one. Indeed, some went so far as to
say I was without feeling. Perhaps I was toward their kind. I would
have responded to sympathy, but never to distrust. At that time I was
suspected by all--or, rather, people were not sufficiently just to
content themselves with suspicions; they condemned me outright, and,
unheard, struck at a weak, defenseless woman; and this upon what is now
generally admitted to have been insufficient evidence to sustain the
indictment.
FOOTNOTE:
[1] May 12, 1889.
CHAPTER TWO
The Trial
THE INJUSTICE OF TRYING THE CASE AT LIVERPOOL
My trial was set for the 31st of July in St. George’s Hall, Liverpool.
Immediately after nine o’clock on that day, the part of the building
which is open to the general public was filled by a well-dressed
audience, including many of my one-time friends. During all the days
of my trial, I am told, Liverpool society fought for tickets. Ladies
were attired as for a matinée, and some brought their luncheons that
they might retain their seats. Many of them carried opera-glasses,
which they did not hesitate to level at me. The Earl of Sefton occupied
a seat on the bench with the judge, and among the audience were many
public and city men and judicial officers. The press had for two
months supplied nourishment in the form of the most sensational stories
about me, to feed the morbid appetite of the public. The excitement
ran so high that the Liverpool crowds even hissed me as I was driven
through the streets. It was a mockery of justice to hold such a trial
in such a place as Liverpool, at such a time, by a common jury; and it
was a mockery of common sense to expect that any Liverpool common jury
could, when they got into the jury-box, dismiss from their minds all
they had heard and seen. In a letter which I wrote to my mother, when
in Walton Jail, on the 28th of June, about a month before the trial, I
said: “I sincerely hope Messrs. Cleaver will arrange for my trial to
take place in London. I shall receive an impartial verdict there, which
I can not expect from a jury in Liverpool, whose minds will virtually
be made up before any evidence is heard.” Owing, however, to a lack of
funds this hope was not realized.
I was at this time alone, utterly forsaken, and the only persons to
whom I could look for protection and advice were my lawyers, Messrs.
Cleaver.
At half-past eight on the morning of my trial, a black van was driven
up to the side door, in the fore part of which were already confined
the male prisoners awaiting trial. I was placed in the rear, a female
warder stepped in, the door was shut, and I felt as if I were already
buried. A crowd witnessed my departure from Walton Jail, and a larger
one was assembled outside St. George’s Hall. But I was conducted into
the building without attracting attention.
At ten o’clock I heard a blast of trumpets that heralded the judge’s
entrance into court. Shortly after my name was called, and, accompanied
by a male and a female warder, I ascended slowly the stone staircase
from the cells leading to the dock. I was calm and collected in manner,
although aware of the gravity of my position. But the consciousness of
innocence, and a strong faith in Divine support, made me confident
that strength would be given to endure the awful ordeal before me.
[Illustration: ST. GEORGE’S HALL, LIVERPOOL, Where the trial of Mrs
Maybrick was held.]
In reply to the Clerk of Arraigns, who read the charge against me of
“feloniously and wilfully murdering my husband, James Maybrick,” I
answered “Not guilty.” It is customary in criminal courts in England
to compel a prisoner to stand in the dock during the whole trial, but
I was provided with a seat by recommendation of the prison doctor,
as I suffered from attacks of faintness, though against this humane
departure a great public outcry was raised.
The counsel engaged in the case were Mr. Addison, Q.C., M.P. (now judge
at the Southwark County Court), Mr. McConnell, and Mr. Swift, for the
prosecution; Sir Charles Russell, assisted by Mr. Pickford and Messrs.
Cleaver, for the defense.
AN UNEXPECTED VERDICT
When the trial began there was a strong feeling against me, but as it
proceeded, and the fact was made clear that Mr. Maybrick had long
been addicted to taking large quantities of arsenic, coupled with the
evidence, to quote Sir Charles Russell, (1) that there was no proof
of arsenical poisoning, (2) that there was no proof that arsenic was
administered to him by me, the prejudice against me gradually changed,
until, at the close of the trial, there was a complete revulsion of
sentiment, and my acquittal was confidently expected.
When the jury retired to consider their verdict I was taken below, and
here my solicitor came to speak to me; but the tension of mind was so
great I do not recall one word that he said.
After what seemed to me an age, but was in reality only thirty-eight
minutes, the jury returned into court and took their places in the
jury-box. I was recalled to the dock. When I stood up to hear the
verdict I had an intuition that it was unfavorable. Every one looked
away from me, and there was a stillness in court that could be felt.
Then the Clerk of Arraigns arose and said:
“Have you agreed upon the verdict, gentlemen?”
“We have.”
“And do you find the prisoner guilty of the murder of James Maybrick or
not guilty?”
The Foreman: “Guilty.”
A prolonged “Ah!” strangely like the sighing of wind through a forest,
sounded through the court. I reeled as if struck a blow and sank upon
a chair. The Clerk of Arraigns then turned to me and said: “Florence
Elizabeth Maybrick, you have been found guilty of wilful murder. Have
you anything to say why the court should not pronounce sentence upon
you according to the law?”
I arose, and with a prayer for strength, I clasped the rail of the dock
in front of me, and said in a low voice, but with firmness: “My lord,
everything has been against me; I am not guilty of this crime.”
THE JUDGE’S SENTENCE
These were the last words which the law permitted me to speak. Mr.
Justice Stephen then assumed the full dress of the criminal judge--the
black cap--and pronounced the sentence of the court in these words:
“Prisoner at the bar, I am no longer able to treat you as being
innocent of the dreadful crime laid to your charge. You have been
convicted by a jury of this city, after a lengthy and most painful
investigation, followed by a defense which was in every respect worthy
of the man. The jury has convicted you, and the law leaves me no
discretion, and I must pass the sentence of the law:
“The court doth order you to be taken from hence to the place from
whence you came, and from thence to the place of execution, and that
you be hanged by the neck until you are dead, and that your body be
afterward buried within the precincts of the prison in which you shall
be confined after your conviction. And may the Lord have mercy upon
your soul!”
[Illustration:
Copyright by Bassano, London.
JUSTICE FITZ-JAMES STEPHEN. Who presided at the trial of Mrs.
Maybrick.]
Utterly stunned I was removed from the court to Walton Jail, there
to be confined until this sentence of the law should be carried into
effect.
The mob, as the Liverpool public was styled by the press, before they
had heard or read a word of the defense had hissed me when I entered
the court; and now, that they had heard or read the evidence, cheered
me as I drove away in the prison-van, and hissed and hooted the judge,
who with difficulty gained his carriage.
IN THE SHADOW OF DEATH
In all the larger local English prisons there is one room, swept and
ready, the sight of which can not fail to stir unwonted thoughts.
The room is large, with barred windows, and contains only a bed and
a chair. It is the last shelter of those whom the law declares to
have forfeited their lives. Near by is a small brick building in the
prison-yard, that has apparently nothing to connect it with the room;
yet they are joined by a sinister suggestion.
For nearly three terrible weeks I was confined in this cell of the
condemned, to taste the bitterness of death under its most appalling
and shameful aspect. I was carefully guarded by two female warders, who
would gladly have been spared the task. They might not read nor sleep;
at my meals, through my prayers, during every moment of agony, they
still watched on and rarely spoke. Many have asked me what my feelings
were at that awful time. I remember little in the way of details
as to my state of mind. I was too overwhelmed for either analytic
or collective thought. Conscious of my innocence, I had no fear of
physical death, for the love of my Heavenly Father was so enveloping
that death seemed to me a blessed escape from a world in which such an
unspeakable travesty of justice could take place; while I petitioned
for a reconsideration of the verdict, it was wholly for the sake of my
mother and my children.
I knew nothing of any public efforts for my relief. I was held fast on
the wheels of a slow-moving machine, hypnotized by the striking hours
and the flight of my numbered minutes, with the gallows staring me in
the face. The date of my execution was not told me at Walton Jail,
but I heard afterward that it was to have taken place on the 26th
of August. On the 22d, while I was taking my daily exercise in the
yard attached to the condemned cell, the governor, Captain Anderson,
accompanied by the chief matron, entered. He called me to him, and,
with a voice which--all honor to him--trembled with emotion, said:
“Maybrick, no commutation of sentence has come down to-day, and I
consider it my duty to tell you to prepare for death.”
“Thank you, governor,” I replied; “my conscience is clear. God’s will
be done.”
COMMUTATION OF SENTENCE
He then walked away and I returned to my cell. The female warder was
weeping silently, but I was calm and spent the early part of the night
in my usual prayers. About midnight exhausted nature could bear no
more, and I fainted. I had barely regained consciousness when I heard
the shuffle of feet outside, the click of the key in the lock--that
warning catch in the slow machinery of my doom. I sprang up, and with
one supreme effort of will braced myself for what I believed was the
last act of my life. The governor and a chaplain entered, followed
by a warder. They read my expectation in my face, and the governor,
hastening forward, exclaimed in an agitated voice: “It is well; it is
good news!” When I opened my eyes once more I was lying in bed in the
hospital, and I remained there until I was taken to Woking Convict
Prison.
CHAPTER THREE
In Solitary Confinement
REMOVAL TO WOKING PRISON
On the morning of the 29th of August I was hastily awakened by a female
warder, who said that orders had come down from the Home Office for my
removal that day to a convict prison.
When I left, the governor was standing at the gate, and, with a
kindliness of voice which I deeply appreciated, told me to be brave and
good.
A crowd was in waiting at the station. I was roughly hustled through it
into a third-class carriage.
The only ray of light that penetrated those dark hours of my journey
came from an American woman. God bless her, whoever she is or wherever
she is! At every station that the train stopped she got out and came to
the carriage door and spoke words of sympathy and comfort. She was the
first of my countrywomen to voice to me the protest that swelled into
greater volume as the years rolled by.
As the train drew up at Woking station a crowd assembled. Outside stood
a cab, to which I was at once conducted, and we drove through lovely
woods; the scent of flowers was wafted by the breeze into what seemed
to be a hearse that was bearing me on toward my living tomb.
As we approached the prison the great iron gate swung wide, and the
cab drove silently into the yard. There I descended. The governor
gave an order, and a woman--who I afterward found was assistant
superintendent--came forward. Accompanied by her and an officer, I was
led across a near-by yard to a building which stood somewhat apart from
the others and is known as the infirmary. There a principal matron
received me, and the assistant superintendent and the chief matron
returned to their quarters.
THE CONVICT UNIFORM
In the grasp of what seemed to me a horrible nightmare, I found
myself in a cell with barred windows, a bed, and a chair. Without,
the stillness of death reigned. I remained there perhaps half an hour
when the door opened and I was commanded by a female warder to follow
her. In a daze I obeyed mechanically. We crossed the same yard again
and entered a door that led into a room containing only a fireplace, a
table, and a bath. Here I was told to take off my clothes, as those I
had traveled in had to be sent back to the prison at Liverpool, where
they belonged.
When I was dressed in the uniform to which the greatest stigma and
disgrace is attached, I was told to sit down. The warder then stepped
quickly forward, and with a pair of scissors cut off my hair to the
nape of my neck. This act seemed, above all others, to bring me to a
sense of my degradation, my utter helplessness; and the iron of the
awful tragedy, of which I was the innocent victim, entered my soul. I
was then weighed and my height taken. My weight was one hundred and
twelve pounds, and my height five feet three inches.
Once more I was bidden to follow my guide. We recrossed the yard and
entered the infirmary. Here I was locked in the cell already mentioned.
At last I could be alone after the anguish and torture of the day. I
prayed for sleep that I might lose consciousness of my intolerable
anguish. But sleep, that gentle nurse of the sad and suffering, came
not. What a night! I shudder even now at the memory of it. Physically
exhausted, smarting with the thought of the cruel, heartless way in
which I had been beaten down and trodden under foot, I felt that mortal
death would have been more merciful than the living death to which I
was condemned. In the adjoining cell an insane woman was raving and
weeping throughout the night, and I wondered whether in the years to
come I should become like her.
The next day I was visited by the governor on his official rounds. Then
the doctor came and made a medical examination, and ordered me to be
detained in the infirmary until further orders. My mind is a blank as
to what happened for some time afterward. My next remembrance is being
told by a coarse-looking, harsh-spoken female warder to get ready to go
into the prison. Once more I was led across the big yard, and then I
stood within the walls that were to be for years my tomb. Outside the
sun was shining and the birds were singing.
IN SOLITARY CONFINEMENT
Without, picture a vast outline of frowning masonry. Within, when I
had passed the double outer gates and had been locked out and locked
in in succession, I found myself in a central hall, from which ran
cage-like galleries divided into tiers and landings, with a row of
small cells on either side. The floors are of stone, the landings of
slate, the railings of steel, and the stairs of iron. Wire netting
is stretched over the lowest tier to prevent prisoners from throwing
themselves over in one of those frenzies of rage and despair of which
every prison has its record. Within their walls can be found, above all
places, that most degrading, heart-breaking product of civilization,
a human automaton. All will, all initiative, all individuality, all
friendship, all the things that make human beings attractive to one
another, are absent. Suffering there is dumb, and when it goes beyond
endurance--alas!
I followed the warder to a door, perhaps not more than two feet in
width. She unlocked it and said, “Pass in.” I stepped forward, but
started back in horror. Through the open door I saw, by the dim light
of a small window that was never cleaned, a cell seven feet by four.
“Oh, don’t put me in there!” I cried. “I can not bear it.”
For answer the warder took me roughly by the shoulder, gave me a push,
and shut the door. There was nothing to sit upon but the cold slate
floor. I sank to my knees. I felt suffocated. It seemed that the walls
were drawing nearer and nearer together, and presently the life would
be crushed out of me. I sprang to my feet and beat wildly with my hands
against the door. “For God’s sake let me out! Let me out!” But my
voice could not penetrate that massive barrier, and exhausted I sank
once more to the floor. I can not recall those nine months of solitary
confinement without a feeling of horror. My cell contained only a
hammock rolled up in a corner, and three shelves let into the wall--no
table nor stool. For a seat I was compelled to place my bedclothes on
the floor.
THE DAILY ROUTINE
No one can realize the horror of solitary confinement who has not
experienced it. Here is one day’s routine: It is six o’clock; I arise
and dress in the dark; I put up my hammock and wait for breakfast. I
hear the ward officer in the gallery outside. I take a tin plate and a
tin mug in my hands and stand before the cell door. Presently the door
opens; a brown, whole-meal, six-ounce loaf is placed upon the plate;
the tin mug is taken, and three-quarters of a pint of gruel is measured
in my presence, when the mug is handed back in silence, and the door is
closed and locked. After I have taken a few mouthfuls of bread I begin
to scrub my cell. A bell rings and my door is again unlocked. No word
is spoken, because I know exactly what to do. I leave my cell and fall
into single file, three paces in the rear of my nearest fellow convict.
All of us are alike in knowing what we have to do, and we march away
silently to Divine service. We are criminals under punishment, and
our keepers march us like dumb cattle to the worship of God. To me the
twenty minutes of its duration were as an oasis in a weary desert. When
it came to an end I felt comforted, and always a little more resigned
to my fate. Chapel over, I returned directly to my cell, for I was in
solitary confinement, and might not enjoy the privilege of working in
company with my prison companions.
Work I must, but I must work alone. Needlework and knitting fall to my
lot. My task for the day is handed to me, and I sit in my cell plying
my needle, with the consciousness that I must not indulge in an idle
moment, for an unaccomplished task means loss of marks, and loss of
marks means loss of letters and visits. As chapel begins at 8:30 I am
back in my cell soon after nine, and the requirement is that I shall
make one shirt a day--certainly not less than five shirts a week. If I
am obstinate or indolent, I shall be reported by the ward officer, and
be brought to book with punishment--perhaps reduced to a diet of bread
and water and total confinement in my cell for twenty-four hours. If I
am faint, weak, or unwell, I may be excused the full performance of my
task; but there must be no doubt of my inability. In such case it is
for me to have my name entered for the prison doctor, and obtain from
him the indulgence that will remit a portion of my prescribed work to
three or four shirts.
However, as I am well, I work automatically, closely, and with
persistence. Then comes ten o’clock, and with it the governor with
his escort. He inspects each cell, and if all is not as it should
be, the prisoner will hear of it. There is no friendly greeting of
“Good-morning” nor parting “Good-night” within those gloomy walls.
The tone is formal and the governor says: “How are you, Maybrick?
Any complaints? Do you want anything?” and then he passes on. Then
I am again alone with my work and my brooding thoughts. I never
made complaints. One but adds to one’s burden by finding causes for
complaint. With the coming and the going of the governor the monotony
returns to stagnation.
THE EXERCISE HOUR
Presently, however, the prison bell rings again. I know what the
clangor means, and mechanically lay down my work. It is the hour
for exercise, and I put on my bonnet and cape. One by one the cell
doors of the ward are opened. One by one we come out from our cells
and fall into single file. Then, with a ward officer in charge, we
march into the exercise yard. We have drawn up in line, three paces
apart, and this is the form in which we tramp around the yard and
take our exercise. This yard is perhaps forty feet square, and there
are thirty-five of us to expand in its “freedom.” The inclosure is
oppressively repulsive. Stone-flagged, hemmed within ugly walls, it
gives one a hideous feeling of compression. It seems more like a
bear-pit than an airing ground for human beings. But I forget that
we are not here to have things made easy, comfortable, and pleasant
for us. We are here to be punished, to be scourged for our crimes and
misdeeds. Can you wonder that human nature sometimes revolts and dares
even prison rigor? Human instincts may be suppressed, but not wholly
crushed.
There were at Woking two yards in which flowers and green trees were
visible, but it was only in after years that I was permitted to take my
exercise in these yards, and then only half an hour on Sunday.
When the one hour for exercise is over, in a file as before, we
tramp back to our work. Confined as we are for twenty-two hours in
our narrow, gloomy cells, the exercise, dull as it is, is our only
opportunity for a glimpse of the sky and for a taste of outdoor life,
and affords our only relief from an otherwise almost unbearable day.
THE MIDDAY MEAL
At noon the midday meal. The first sign of its approach is the sound of
the fatigue party of prisoners bringing the food from the kitchen into
the ward. I hear the ward officer passing with the weary group from
cell to cell, and presently she will reach my door. My food is handed
to me, then the door is closed and double locked. In the following two
hours, having finished my meal, I can work or read. At two o’clock the
fatigue party again goes on its mechanical round; the cell door is
again unlocked, this time for the collection of dinner-cans. The meal
of each prisoner is served out by weight, and the law allows her to
claim her full quantity to the uttermost fraction of an ounce. She is
even entitled to see it weighed if she fancies it falls short. Work is
then resumed until five o’clock, when gruel and bread is again served,
as at breakfast, with half an hour for its disposal. From that time
on until seven o’clock more work, when again is heard the clang of
the prison bell, and with it comes the end of our monotonous day. I
take down my hammock, and once more await the opening of the door. We
have learned exactly what to do. With the opening of our cells we go
forward, and each places her broom outside the door. So shall it be
known that we each have been visited in our cells before the locking of
our doors and gates for the night. If any of us are taking medicine by
the doctor’s orders we now receive it. On through the ten long, weary
hours of the night the night officers patrol the wards, keeping watch,
and through a glass peep-hole silently inspect us in our beds to see
that nothing is amiss.
THE CRUELTY OF SOLITARY CONFINEMENT
Solitary confinement is by far the most cruel feature of English penal
servitude. It inflicts upon the prisoner at the commencement of her
sentence, when most sensitive to the horrors which prison punishment
entails, the voiceless solitude, the hopeless monotony, the long vista
of to-morrow, to-morrow, to-morrow stretching before her, all filled
with desolation and despair. Once a prisoner has crossed the threshold
of a convict prison, not only is she dead to the world, but she is
expected in word and deed to lose or forget every vestige of her
personality. Verily,
The mills of the gods grind slowly,
But they grind exceeding small,
And woe to the wight unholy
On whom those millstones fall.
So it is with the Penal Code which directs this vast machinery, doing
its utmost with tireless, ceaseless revolutions to mold body and soul
slowly, remorselessly, into the shape demanded by Act of Parliament.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Period of Probation
A CHANGE OF CELL
The day I had completed the nine months of solitary confinement I
entered upon a new stage, that of probation for nine months. I was
taken from Hall G to Hall A. There were in Woking seven halls, A, B, C,
D, E, F, G, separated by two barred doors and a narrow passage. Every
hall has three wards. The female warder who accompanied me locked me
in my cell. I looked around with a sense of intense relief. The cell
was as large again as the one I had left. The floor was of wood instead
of slate. It contained a camp bedstead on which was placed a so-called
mattress, consisting of a sack the length of the bed, stuffed with
coir, the fiber of the coconut. There were also provided two coarse
sheets, two blankets, and a red counterpane. In a corner were three
iron shelves let in the wall one above the other. On the top shelf
was folded a cape, and on top of this there was a small, coarse straw
bonnet. The second shelf contained a tin cup, a tin plate, a wooden
spoon, and a salt-cellar. The third shelf was given up to a slate, on
which might be written complaints or requests to the governor; it is a
punishable offense in prison to write with a pencil or on any paper not
provided.
There was also a Bible, a prayer-book and hymn-book, and a book from
the library. Near the door stood a log of wood upright, fastened to the
floor, and this was the only seat in the cell. It was immovable, and so
placed that the prisoner might always be in view of the warder. Near
it, let into the wall, was a piece of deal board, which answered for a
table. Through an almost opaque piece of square glass light glimmered
from the hall, the only means of lighting the cell at night; facing
this, high up, was a barred window admitting light from the outside.
EVILS OF THE SILENT SYSTEM
The routine of my daily life was the same as during “solitary
confinement.” The cell door may be open, but its outer covering or gate
is locked, and, although I knew there was a human creature separated
from me only by a cell wall and another gate, not a whisper might I
breathe. There is no rule of prison discipline so productive of trouble
and disaster as the “silent system,” and the tyrannous and rigorous
method with which it is enforced is the cause of two-thirds of all
the misconduct and disturbance that occurs in prison. The silence
rule gives supreme gratification to the tyrannous officer, for on the
slightest pretext she can report a woman for talking--a turn of the
head, a movement of the lips is enough of an excuse for a report.
And there is heavy punishment that can be inflicted for this offense,
both in the male and female prisons. An offender may be consigned to
solitary confinement, put for three days on bread and water, or suffer
the loss of a week’s remission, which means a week added to her term of
imprisonment--and all this for incautiously uttering a word.
Unless it be specifically intended as a means of torture, the system of
solitary confinement, even for four months, the term to which it has
since been reduced, can meet only with condemnation. I am convinced
that, within limits, the right of speech and the interchange of
thought, at least for two hours daily, even during probation, would
insure better discipline than perpetual silence, which can be enforced
only by a complete suppression of nature, and must result in consequent
weakness of mind and ruin of temper. During the first months of her
sentence a prisoner is more frequently in trouble for breach of this
one rule than from all other causes. The reduction of the term of
probation from nine to four months has been followed by a reduction in
mental afflictions, which is proof that nothing wholesome or good can
have its growth in unnatural solitude.
The silent system has a weakening effect upon the memory. A prisoner
often finds difficulty in deciding upon the pronunciation of words
which she has not heard for a considerable period. I often found
myself, when desirous of using unusual words, especially in French or
German, pronouncing them to myself in order to fix the pronunciation
in my memory. It is well to bear in mind what a small number of words
the prisoner has an opportunity of using in the monotony of prison
life. The same inquiries are made day after day, and the same responses
given. A vocabulary of one hundred words will include all that a
prisoner habitually uses.
INSANITY AND NERVOUS BREAKDOWN OF PRISONERS
No defender of the silent system pretends that it wholly succeeds in
preventing speech among prisoners. But be that as it may, a period
of four months’ solitary confinement in the case of a female, and
six months’ in the case of a male, and especially of a girl or
youth, is surely a crime against civilization and humanity. Such a
punishment is inexpressible torture to both mind and body. I speak
from experience. The torture of continually enforced silence is known
to produce insanity or nervous breakdown more than any other feature
connected with prison discipline. Since the passing of the Act of 1898,
mitigating this form of punishment, much good has been accomplished, as
is proved by the diminution of insanity in prison life, the decreasing
scale of prison punishment, and the lessening of the death-rate.
By still further reducing this barbarous practise, or, better, by
abolishing it entirely, corresponding happy results may confidently
be expected. The more the prisoners are placed under conditions and
amid surroundings calculated to develop a better life, the greater is
the hope that the system will prove curative; but so long as prisoners
are subjected to conditions which have a hardening effect at the very
beginning of their prison life, there is little chance of ultimate
reformation.
NEED OF SEPARATE CONFINEMENT FOR THE WEAK-MINDED
There are many women who hover about the borderland of insanity for
months, possibly for years. They are recognized as weak-minded, and
consequently they make capital out of their condition, and by the
working of their distorted minds, and petty tempers, and unreasonable
jealousy, add immeasurably not only to the ghastliness of the “house
of sorrow,” but are a sad clog on the efforts to self-betterment of
their level-minded sisters in misery. Of these many try hard to make
the best of what has to be gone through. Therefore, is it necessary,
is it wise, is it right that such a state of things should be allowed?
The weak-minded should be kept in a separate place, with their own
officers to attend them. Neither the weak-minded, the epileptic, nor
the consumptives were isolated. There is great need of reform wherever
this is the case. Prisoners whose behavior is different from the normal
should be separated from the other prisoners, and made to serve out
their sentences under specially adapted conditions.
I read in the newspapers that insanity is on the increase; this fact is
clearly reflected within the prison walls. It is stated that the insane
form about three per thousand of the general population. In local
English prisons insanity, it is said, even after deducting those who
come in insane, is seven times more prevalent than among the general
population.
READING AN INSUFFICIENT RELAXATION
The nervous crises do not now supervene so frequently as formerly
in the case of prisoners of a brooding disposition, but the fact
remains that, in spite of the slight amelioration, mental light is
still excluded--that communion on which rests all human well-being.
The vacuity of the solitary system, to some at least, is partially
lighted by books. But what of those who can not read, or who have
not sufficient concentration of mind to profit by reading as a
relaxation? There are many such, in spite of the high standard of
free education that prevails at the present day. The shock of the
trial, and the uprooting of a woman’s domestic ties, coupled with
the additional mental strain of having to start her prison career in
solitary confinement, is surely neither humane, nor merciful, nor
wise. These months of solitary confinement leave an ineffaceable mark.
It is during the first lonely months that the seeds of bitterness
and hardness of heart are sown, and it requires more than a passive
resistance--nay, nothing short of an unfaltering faith and trust in an
overruling Providence--to bring a prisoner safely through the ordeal.
Let the sympathetic reader try to realize what it means never to feel
the touch of anything soft or warm, never to see anything that is
attractive--nothing but stone above, around, and beneath. The deadly
chill creeps into one’s bones; the bitter days of winter and the still
bitterer nights were torture, for Woking Prison was not heated. My
hands and feet were covered with chilblains.
MY SUFFERINGS FROM COLD AND INSOMNIA
Oh, the horrors of insomnia! If one could only forget one’s sufferings
in sleep! During all the fifteen years of my imprisonment, insomnia was
(and, alas! is still) my constant companion. Little wonder! I might
fall asleep, when suddenly the whole prison is awakened by shriek
upon shriek, rending the stillness of the night. I am now, perforce,
fully awake. Into my ears go tearing all the shrill execrations and
blasphemies, all the hideous uproars of an inferno, compounded of
bangs, shrieks, and general demoniac ragings. The wild smashing of
glass startles the halls. I lie in my darkened cell with palpitating
heart. Like a savage beast, the woman of turmoil has torn her clothing
and bedding into shreds, and now she is destroying all she can lay
hands on. The ward officers are rushing about in slippered feet, the
bell rings summoning the warders, who are always needed when such
outbursts occur, and the woman, probably in a strait-jacket, is borne
to the penal cells. Then stillness returns to the ghastly place, and
with quivering nerves I may sleep--if I can.
MEDICAL ATTENDANCE
But what if one is ill in the night? The lonely prisoner in her cell
may summon aid by ringing the bell. The moment it is set in motion it
causes a black iron slab to project from the outer wall of her cell
in the gallery. On the slab is the prisoner’s number, and the ward
officer, hearing the bell, at once looks for the cell from which the
call has been sent. Presently she finds it, then fetches the principal
matron, and together they enter the hard, unhomelike place. If the
prisoner is ill they call the doctor of the prison, and medicines and
aid will be given. But sympathy is no part of their official duty, and
be the warder never so tender in her own domestic circle, tenderness
must not be shown toward a prisoner. The patient may be removed from
her cell to the infirmary, where they will care for her medically,
perhaps as well as they would in a hospital; she may even receive a
few flowers from an infirmary warder whose heart comes out from its
official shell; but through it all, sick though she be, she is still a
prisoner under lock and key, a woman under surveillance, a woman denied
communion with her kind.
ADDED SUFFERINGS OF THE DELICATELY NURTURED
What words can adequately describe the long years, blank and weary
enough for all prisoners, but which are indescribably so to one who
has been delicately nurtured! I had enjoyed the refinements of social
life; I had pitied, and tried, as far as lay in my power, to help the
poor and afflicted, but I had never known anything of the barbarism,
the sordid vices of low life. And I was condemned to drag out existence
amid such surroundings, because twelve ignorant men had taken upon
themselves to decide a question which neither the incompetent judge nor
the medical witnesses could themselves determine.
So far as I can learn, there is no other instance of a woman
undoubtedly innocent and of gentle birth, confined for a term of nearly
fifteen years in an English convict prison. In the nature of things a
delicate woman feels more acutely than a robust prisoner the rigors of
prolonged captivity.
Neither confidence nor respect can be secured when punishment is
excessive, for it then becomes an act of persecution, suitable only
for ages of darkness. The supineness of Parliament in not establishing
a court of criminal appeal fastens a dark blot upon the judicature of
England, and is inconsistent with the innate love of justice and fair
play of its people.
HOW CRIMINALS AND IMBECILES ARE MADE
The law in prison is the same for the rich as the poor, the “Star
Class” as for the ignorant, brutalized criminal. My register was “L.
P. 29.” These letters and numbers were worked in white cotton upon a
piece of black cloth. Your sentence is indicated thus: “L” stands for
penal servitude for life; “P” for the year of conviction, which in my
case was the sixteenth year since the previous lettering. This is done
every twenty-five years. The “29” meant that I was the twenty-ninth
convict of my year, 1889. In addition to this register I wore a red
cloth star placed above it. The “Star Class,” of which I was a member,
consisted of women who have been convicted of one crime only, committed
in a moment of weakness or despair, or under pressure which they were
not strong enough to resist at the time, such as infanticide, forgery,
incendiarism; and who, having been educated and respectably brought
up, betray otherwise no criminal instincts or inclinations; and who,
when in the world, would be distinct in character from the habitual
criminal, not only from a social point of view, but in their virtues,
faults, and crimes.
There should be separate rules and privileges to meet the case
of a prisoner guilty of moral lapses only, as distinguished from
the habitual breaker of the laws. At present the former gets the
same treatment and discipline as the habitual criminal of several
convictions, and can not claim a single privilege that the old offender
has not a right to ask--for example, members of both classes are
limited to the same number of letters and visits. The “Star Class” is
supposed to be kept separate from ordinary prisoners. It was so at
Woking Prison. But at Aylesbury Prison, to which I was transferred
later, they were sandwiched between two wards of habitual criminals,
with whom they came continually in contact, not only in passing to
and from the workshops, fetching meals, and going to exercise, but
continuously. That contamination should ensue is hardly surprising.
It requires a will of iron, and nearly the spirit of a saint, not
to be corrupted by the sights and sounds of a prison, even when no
word is spoken. It is a serious accusation against any system to say
“that it produces the thing it is designed to prevent,” but such, I
am convinced, is the fact as regards the manufacture of criminals and
imbeciles by the present system of penalism almost the world over.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Period of Hard Labor
ROUTINE
Having passed solitary confinement and probation, I entered upon
the third stage, hard labor, when I was permitted to leave my cell
to assist in carrying meals from the kitchen, and to sit at my door
and converse with the prisoners in the adjoining cells for two hours
daily--but always in the presence of an officer who controls and limits
the conversation. My daily routine was now also somewhat different from
that of solitary confinement and probation.
At six o’clock the bell rings to rise. Half an hour later a second bell
signifies to the officers that it is time to come on duty. Each warder
in charge of certain wards--there are three wards to each hall--then
goes to the chief matron’s office, where she receives a key wherewith
to unlock the prisoners’ cells. All keys are given up by the female
warder before going off duty, and locked for the night in an iron safe
under the charge of a male warder. When again in possession of her key
she repairs to her ward, and at the order, “Unlock,” she lets out the
prisoners to empty their slops. This done, they are once more locked
in, with the exception of three women who go down to the kitchen to
fetch the cans of tea and loaves of bread which make up the prisoners’
breakfast. At Woking the breakfast was of cocoa and coarse meal bread,
while later, at Aylesbury, it consisted of tea and white bread. I am
constrained to remark here that more consideration should be shown by
the medical officer toward women who complain of being physically unfit
to do heavy lifting and carrying. The can is carried by two women up
two or three flights of stairs, according to the location of their
ward, and the bread by one woman only. Each can contains fourteen
quarts of tea, and the bread-basket holds thirty pounds or more of
bread. To a woman with strong muscles it may cause no distress, but in
the case of myself and others equally frail, the physical strain was
far beyond our strength, and left us utterly exhausted after the task.
The breakfast was served at seven o’clock, when the officers returned
to the mess-room to take theirs. At 7:30 a bell rang again, and the
officers returned to their respective wards. At ten minutes to eight
the order was given, “Unlock.” Once more the doors were opened. Then
followed the order, “Chapel,” and each woman stood at her door with
Bible, prayer-book, and hymn-book in hand. At the words “Pass on,” they
file one behind the other into the chapel, where a warder from each
ward sits with her back to the altar that she may be able the better
to watch those under her charge and see that they do not speak. After
a service of twenty minutes the prisoners file back to their cells,
place their books on the lower shelf, and with a drab cape and a white
straw hat stand in readiness for the next order, “To your doors.” This
given, they descend into the hall and pass out to their respective
places of work.
TALK WITH THE CHAPLAIN
Many of these women have their tender, spiritual moments. At such times
they will beg for a favorite hymn to be sung at the chapel service
on Sunday, and their requests are generally granted by the chaplain.
He is the only friend of the prisoner, and his work is arduous and
often thankless. He is the only one within the walls to whom she may
turn for sympathy and advice. It may not be every woman who gladly
avails herself of the enforced privilege of attending daily chapel.
“Religion,” as a term, is unpalatable to many. But there are very few
who are not better and happier for the few moments’ unofficial talk
with her chaplain, be she Protestant or Roman Catholic.
It is to be regretted that his authority is so limited, and his
opportunities for brightening the lives of those who walk in dark
places so few. Red tape and standing orders confront him at every
turn, so that even the religious training is drawn and sucked beneath
the mighty wheel of the Penal Code, and there is no time for personal
suasion to play more than a minor part in a convict’s life.
MY WORK IN THE KITCHEN
The work for first offenders, who are called the “Star Class,” consists
of labor in the kitchen, the mess, and the officers’ quarters. Six
months after I entered upon the third stage I was put to work in the
kitchen. My duties were as follows: To wash ten cans, each holding
four quarts; to scrub one table, twenty feet in length; two dressers,
twelve feet in length; to wash five hundred dinner-tins; to clean
knives; to wash a sack of potatoes; to assist in serving the dinners,
and to scrub a piece of floor twenty by ten feet. Besides myself there
were eight other women on hard labor in the kitchen. Our day commenced
at 6 A.M., and continued until 5:30 P.M. A half hour at breakfast time,
twenty minutes at chapel, one hour and a half after the midday meal,
and half an hour after tea summed up our leisure. The work was hard and
rough. The combined heat of the coppers, the stove, and the steamers
was overpowering, especially on hot summer days; but I struggled on,
doing this work preferably to some other, because the kitchen was the
only place where the monotony of prison life was broken. It was the
“show place,” and all visitors looked in to see the food.
THE MACHINE-MADE MENU
What dining in prison means may be judged by a perusal of the schedule
as given in the Prison Commission Report:
DIET FOR FEMALE CONVICTS
Breakfast
Three-quarters of a pint of cocoa, containing ½ ounce of cocoa, 2
ounces milk, ½ ounce of molasses. Bread.
Dinner
Sunday. 4 ounces tinned pressed beef. Bread.
} 3 ounces (cooked), with its
} own liquor, flavored with ½
Monday. Mutton } ounce onions, and thickened
Tuesday. Beef } with bread and potatoes left
Wednesday. Mutton } on previous days, 1/8 ounce
Friday. Beef } of flour, and for every 100
} convicts, ¾ ounce of pepper.
} ¾ pound potatoes. Bread.
Saturday. 1 pint soup, containing 6 ounces of shins of beef
(uncooked), 1 ounce pearl barley, 3 ounces of fresh vegetables,
including onions, and for every 100 convicts, ¾ ounce pepper. ¾
pound potatoes. Bread.
Thursday. ¾ pound pudding, containing 1 ounce 2 drachms water. ¾ pound
potatoes. Bread.
Supper
1 pint gruel, containing 2 ounces oatmeal, ¾ ounce molasses, 2 ounces
milk. Bread.
Bread per convict per week, 118 ounces.
Bread per convict each week-day, 16 ounces.
Bread per convict each Sunday, 22 ounces.
Salt per convict per day, ½ ounce.[2]
VISITORS TO THE KITCHEN
During the four years I worked in the kitchen I saw many people. The
Duke of Connaught, Sir Evelyn Wood and his staff, Lord Alverston, Sir
Edward du Cane, the late Lord Rothschild, and Sir Evelyn Ruggles-Brise,
besides judges, magistrates, authors, philanthropists and others of an
inquiring turn of mind, who had obtained the necessary permit to make
the tour of the prison under the escort of the governor or one or two
of his satellites. These ladies and gentlemen expressed the most varied
and sometimes startling opinions. I recollect on one occasion, when
some visitors happened to be inspecting the kitchen during the dishing
up of the hospital patients’ dinner, one old gentleman of the party was
quite scandalized at the sight of a juicy mutton-chop and a tempting
milk pudding. He expostulated in such a way that the governor hastened
to explain that it was not the ordinary prison diet, but was intended
for a very sick woman. Even then this old gentleman was not satisfied,
and stalked out, audibly grumbling about people living on the fat of
the land and getting a better dinner than he did. I firmly believe that
he left the prison under the impression that its inmates lived like
pampered gourmets, and that he no longer marveled there were so many
criminals when they were fed on such luxuries.
THE “HOMELIKE” CELL
On another occasion a benevolent-looking old lady, having given
everything and everybody as minute an inspection as was possible,
expressed herself as being charmed, remarking:
“Everything is so nice and homelike!”
I have often wondered what that good lady’s home was like.
A little philosophy is useful, a saving grace, even in prison; but
people have such different ways of expressing sympathy. A visitor, who
I have no doubt intended to be sympathetic, noticing the letter “L” on
my arm, inquired:
“How long a time have you to do?”
“I have just completed ten years,” was my reply.
“Oh, well,” cheerfully responded the sympathetic one, “you have done
half your time, haven’t you? The remaining ten years will soon slip
by”; and the visitor passed on, blissfully ignorant of the sword she
had unwittingly thrust into my aching heart. Even if a prisoner has
little or no hope of a mitigation, it is not pleasant to have an old
wound ruthlessly handled, and ten years’ imprisonment as lightly spoken
of as ten days might be.
THE OPIATE OF ACQUIESCENCE
I preferred the kitchen work, although often beyond my strength, to any
other that fell to a prisoner’s lot, because of the glimpses into the
outside world it occasionally afforded. But I never permitted myself
to dwell upon the fact that at one time I had been the social equal
of at least the majority of those with whom I thus came into passing
contact, since to do so would have made my position by contrast so
unbearable that it would have unfitted me to do the work in a spirit
of submission, not to speak of the mental suffering which awakened
memories would have occasioned. I soon found that both my spiritual and
my mental salvation, under the repressive rules in force, depended upon
unresisting acquiescence--the keeping of my sensibilities dulled as
near as possible to the level of the mere animal state which the Penal
Code, whether intentionally or otherwise, inevitably brings about.
I have been frequently asked by friends, since my release, how I could
possibly have endured the shut-in life under such soul-depressing
influences. I have given here and there in my narrative indications
of my feelings under different circumstances. Here I may state in
general that I early found that thoughts of without and thoughts of
within--those that haunted me of the world and those that were ever
present in my surroundings--would not march together. I had to keep
step with either the one or the other. The conflict between the two
soon became unbearable, and I was compelled to make choice: whether
I would live in the past and as much as possible exclude the prison,
and take the punishment which would inevitably follow--as it had in
so many cases--in an unbalanced mind; or would shut the past out
altogether and coerce my thoughts within the limitations of the prison
regulations. My safety lay, as I found, in compressing my thoughts to
the smallest compass of mental existence, and no sooner did worldly
visions or memories intrude themselves, as they necessarily would, than
I immediately and resolutely shut them out as one draws the blind to
exclude the light. While I thus suppressed all emotions belonging to
a natural life, I nevertheless found, whenever I came accidentally in
contact with visitors from the outside world, that my inner nature was
attuned like the strings of a harp to the least vibration of others’
emotions. The slightest unconscious inflection of the voice, whether
sympathetic or otherwise, would call forth either a grateful response
or an instant withdrawal into the armor of reserve which I had to adopt
for my self-protection. But this exclusion of the world created a dark
background which served only to intensify the light that shone upon me
from realms unseen of mortal eyes. Lonely I was, yet I was never alone.
But, however satisfying the spiritual communion, the human heart is so
constituted that it needs must yearn for love and sympathy from its own
kind, for recognition of all that is best in us, by something that is
like unto it, in its experiences, feelings, emotions, and aspirations.
VISITS OF PRISONERS’ FRIENDS
A prisoner is allowed to receive a visit from her friends at intervals
of six, four, and two months, according to her stage of service.
There are four stages, each of nine months’ duration: first, solitary
confinement; second, probation; while the third and fourth stages are
not specially designated. During the first two stages the prisoner is
clothed in brown, at the third stage in green, and the fourth in navy
blue. Every article worn by the prisoner or in use by her is stamped
with a “broad arrow,” the convict’s crest.
A visit may be forfeited by bad conduct or delayed through a loss
of marks. When a prisoner is entitled to receive a visitor, she
applies to the governor for permission to have the permit sent to the
person she names; but if the police report concerning the designated
visitor is unfavorable the request is not granted. When a prisoner’s
friends--three being the maximum--arrive at the prison gates they ring
a bell. The gatekeeper views them through a grille and inquires their
business. They show their permit; whereupon he notifies the chief
matron, who in turn notifies the officer in charge of the prisoner.
The rule regarding visits precluded any discussion of prison affairs,
or anything regarding treatment, or aught that passes within the
prison walls. Had I permitted myself to break this rule the visit
would have been stopped at once by the matron in charge. Consequently,
all the statements on such matters reported from time to time in the
press during my imprisonment, and quoted as received from my mother or
friends, are shown to be pure fabrications.
MY MOTHER’S VISITS
A visit! What joy or what sorrow those words express in the outside
world! But in prison--the pain of it is so great that it can hardly be
borne.
Whenever my mother’s visit was announced, accompanied by a matron I
passed into a small, oblong room. There a grilled screen confronted me;
a yard or two beyond was a second barrier identical in structure, and
behind it I could see the form of my mother, and sitting in the space
between the grilles, thus additionally separating us, was a prison
matron. No kiss; not even a clasp of the hand; no privacy sacred to
mother and daughter; not a whisper could pass between us. Was not this
the very depth of humiliation?
My mother crossed every two months from France to visit me. Neither
heat nor cold deterred her from taking this fatiguing journey. Thus
again and again she traveled a hundred miles for love of me, to cheer,
comfort, and console; a hundred miles for thirty minutes!
At these visits she would tell me as best she could of the noble,
unwearied efforts of my countrymen and countrywomen in my cause; of
the sympathy and support of my own Government; of the earnest efforts
of the different American ambassadors in my behalf. And though their
efforts proved all in vain, the knowledge of their belief in my
innocence, and of their sympathy comforted, cheered, and strengthened
me to tread bravely the thorny path of my daily life.
Almost before we had time to compose ourselves there would come a
silent sign from the mute matron in the chair--the thirty minutes
had passed. “Good-by,” we say, with a lingering look, and then turn
our backs upon each other, she to go one way, I another; one leading
out into the broad, open day, the other into the stony gloom of the
prison. Do you wonder that when I went back into my lonely cell the
day had become darker? I went forth to meet a crown of joy and love,
only to return with a cross of sorrow; for these visits always created
passionate longings for freedom, with their vivid recollections of past
joys that at times were almost unbearable. No one will ever know what
my mother suffered.
A LETTER FROM LORD RUSSELL
As the years passed the repression of the prison system developed a
kind of mental numbness which rendered my life, in a measure, more
endurable. It also came as a relief to my own sufferings to take an
interest in those of my fellow prisoners. Then Lord Russell of Killowen
wrote me a letter[3] expressing his continued confidence in me, which
greatly renewed my courage, while the loving messages from my friends
in America kept alive my faith in human nature.
PUNISHED FOR ANOTHER’S FAULT
By the exercise of great self-control and restraint I had maintained a
perfect good-conduct record at Woking for a period of years, when an
act of one of my fellow prisoners got me into grievous trouble.
It is the rule to search daily both the cell and the person of all
prisoners--those at hard labor three times a day--to make sure that
they have nothing concealed with which they may do themselves bodily
injury.
To me it was a bitter indignity. I was never allowed to forget that,
being a prisoner, even my body was not my own. It was horrible to
be touched by unfriendly hands, yet I was compelled to submit--to
be undressed and be searched. During the term of my imprisonment I
was searched about ten thousand times, and on only one occasion was
anything found contrary to regulations. I had no knowledge of it at
the time, as the article had been placed surreptitiously in my cell by
another prisoner to save herself from punishment.
The facts are as follows: I was working in the kitchen, when a prisoner
upset some boiling water on my foot. I thought it best not to speak of
it, and did not, therefore, mention it to any one. My foot, however,
became inflamed and caused me great pain, and the prisoner in question,
noticing that I limped, inquired what the matter was. I told her that
the coarse wool of my stocking was irritating the blister on my foot.
Thereupon she offered to give me some wool of a finer quality with
which to knit a more comfortable pair. I was not aware at the time that
this was not permitted, nor that the wool was stolen. When it neared
her turn to be searched, having a lot of this worsted concealed in
her bed, she made the excuse of indisposition in order to return to
her cell and get rid of it. While there she transferred it from her
cell to mine, its neighbor, the doors of the cells being open during
working-time.
[Illustration: BARONESS VON ROQUES, The mother of Mrs. Maybrick.]
When the time came to search my cell, the wool was, of course, found,
and I was at once reported. The warder took me to the penal ward, and
I was shut in a cell, in which the light came but dimly through a
perforated sheet of iron. This was at eight A.M. At ten o’clock I was
brought before the governor for examination and judgment. I stated that
the wool did not belong to me and that I was ignorant as to how it got
into my cell. The governor took the officer’s deposition to the effect
that it was found in my cell, and reasoned that I must, therefore,
have knowledge of the article. I was taken back to the punishment cell
and left there for eight hours. When the officer opened the door to
read to me the governor’s judgment, I was found in a dead faint on the
floor. With some difficulty I was restored to consciousness and was
then removed to the hospital. When I had sufficiently recovered from
the shock, I was allowed to return to my own cell in the hall to do my
punishment. I was degraded for a month to a lower stage, with a loss of
twenty-six marks, and had six days added to my original sentence.
Had this offense occurred under the more enlightened system that
obtains at Aylesbury Prison at the present time, I should have been
forgiven, as it was a first offense under this particular rule. The
governor at Woking was a just and humane man, and he was not a little
troubled to reconcile the fact of my being in possession of this
worsted, when I had no means of access to the tailor shop or of coming
in contact with any of the workers there who alone had the handling
of it. Of course, I could not explain that the worsted had been passed
into the kitchen by one of the tailoresses, who came every morning to
fetch hot water for use in the tailor-room, and who was a friend of the
prisoner who put it in my cell.
I was kept in the hall during the months of my penal punishment, and
also for twelve months thereafter, since at that time a “report” always
carried with it a loss of the privilege of working in the kitchen.
When I had an opportunity, in “association time,” of speaking to the
prisoner who had got me into this trouble, and reproached her for the
injury she had done me, she frankly confessed her deed, but excused
herself by saying that she did not expect I would be punished; that
she was tempted to do it because at that time her case was under
consideration at the Home Office, and that she had received the promise
of an early discharge if she did not have any “reports.” She well knew
that if this worsted had been found in her cell this promise would
have been revoked. As she was a “life woman,” and had served a long
time, I had not the heart to deprive her of this, perhaps her only
chance of freedom, through a vindication of myself. A week later I had
the satisfaction of knowing that my silence had been the means of her
liberation.
FORMS OF PUNISHMENT
The punishment of prisoners at Woking consisted of:
1. Loss of marks, termed in prison parlance, “remission on her
sentence,” but without confinement in the penal ward.
2. Solitary confinement for twenty-four hours in the penal ward, with
loss of marks.
3. Solitary confinement, with loss of marks, on bread and water from
one to three days.
4. Solitary confinement, with loss of marks, on bread and water for
three days, either in a strait-jacket or “hobbles.” Hobbling consists
in binding the wrists and ankles of a prisoner, then strapping them
together behind her back. This position causes great suffering, is
barbarous, and can be enforced only by the doctor’s orders.
5. To the above was sometimes added, in violent cases, shearing and
blistering of the head, or confinement in the dark cell. The dark
cell was underground, and consisted of four walls, a ceiling, and a
floor, with double doors, in which not a ray of light penetrated. No. 5
punishment was abolished at Aylesbury, but in that prison even to give
a piece of bread to a fellow prisoner is still a punishable offense.
THE TRUE AIM OF PUNISHMENT
Punishment should be carried out in a humane, sympathetic spirit, and
not in a dehumanizing or tyrannous manner. It should be remedial in
character, and not degrading and deteriorating. It should be the aim
and object of the prison system to send a prisoner back into the world
capable of rehabilitating himself or herself and becoming a useful
citizen. The punishment in a convict prison, within my knowledge, is
carried out in an oppressive way, the delinquent is left entirely to
herself to work out her own salvation, and in nine cases out of ten
she works out her own destruction instead, and leaves prison hardened,
rancorous, and demoralized.
THE EVIL OF COLLECTIVE PUNISHMENT
There are so many prisoners with whom complaint-making is a mania,
who on every possible occasion make trivial, exaggerated, and false
complaints, that it is not altogether strange that officials look
with a certain skepticism on all fault-finding; hence it frequently
happens that those with just grievances are discredited because of the
shortcomings of the habitual grumblers. At the same time, one can not
disapprove too strongly of collective punishment which involves the
utter absence of trust in any prisoner, however deserving. A prisoner
slightly abuses a privilege or is guilty of some small infringement of
the rules, when down comes the hammer wielded by the inexorable Penal
Code, and strikes not only the one offending, but, in its expansive
dealing, all the other prisoners, guilty or innocent of the offense.
Many a privilege, trivial in itself and absolutely harmless, has been
condemned because of its abuse by one prisoner.
I cite one instance. Each cell was provided with a nail on which,
during the day, the prisoner could hang a wet towel, and, during the
night, her clothes. Those who worked in the laundry came in with wet
clothing every evening, which, as no change is allowed, must be either
dried at night or put on wet the next morning. One prisoner pulled her
nail out and purposely wounded herself. She was weak-minded, and no
doubt thought to excite pity. The matter was referred to the director,
Mr. Pennythorne, who gave the order that all the nails throughout
the building be removed. Hence, because of the shortcomings of one
weak-minded woman, all opportunity for the working women to dry their
clothes was taken from them. Others besides myself appealed to the
director and protested. He replied that we would be obliged to submit
to the edict the same as the rest, and that no distinction could be
made in our favor. Of course we could not argue the matter; the penalty
fell heavier upon the laundry women and the kitchen workers than upon
myself. It is a glaring instance of the great wrong done by collective
punishment. However, the prisoners had their revenge, for they never
referred to him afterward except as “Mr. Pennynails.”
THE EVIL OF CONSTANT SUPERVISION
Individual supervision is compulsory, and in many cases it is
essential, but not in all. Surely there are some prisoners who might,
with good results, be trusted. The supervision is never relaxed; the
prisoner is always in sight or hearing of an officer. During the day
she is never trusted out of sight, and at night the watchful eye of the
night officer can see her by means of a small glass fitted in the door
of each cell. She may grow gray during the length of her imprisonment,
but the rule of supervision is never relaxed. Try and realize what
it means always to feel that you are watched. After all, these
prisoners are women, some may be mothers, and it is surely the height
of wickedness and folly to crush whatever remnant of humanity and
self-respect even a convict woman may still have left her. These poor
creatures who wear the brand of prison shame are guarded and controlled
by women, but men make the rules which regulate every movement of
their forlorn lives.
SOME GOOD POINTS OF CONVICT PRISONS
The rules of prison, rigorous as they are, are not wholly without
some consideration for the hapless beings who are condemned to suffer
punishment for their sins within their gloomy walls. On the men’s side
the system is harsher, the life harder, and the discipline more strict
and severe; and I can well believe that for a man of refinement and
culture the punishment falls little short of a foretaste of inferno.
But gloomy and tragic as the convict establishment is, it is a better
place than the county prison, and I have heard habitual criminals avow
that a convict prison is the nearest approach to a comfortable “home”
in the penal world. I know that a certain type of degenerate women,
after serving their sentences, have committed grave offenses with the
sole object of obtaining a conviction which would send them back to
penal servitude. For such the segregation system would be the most
effectual remedy.
MY SICKNESS
I had never been a robust woman, and the hardships of prison life were
breaking down my constitution. The cells at Woking were not heated. In
the halls were two fireplaces and a stove, which were alight day and
night; but as the solid doors of the cells were all locked, the heat
could not penetrate them. Thus, while the atmosphere outside the cell
might be warm, the inside was icy cold. During the hard winter frosts
the water frequently froze in my cell over night. The bed-clothing was
insufficient, and I suffered as much from the cold as the poorest and
most miserable creature on earth. Added to this, I was compelled to go
out and exercise in all kinds of weather. On rainy days I would come in
with my shoes and stockings wet through, and as I possessed only one
pair of shoes and one pair of stockings, I had to keep them on, wet as
they were. The shoes I had to wear until worn out; the stockings until
changed on the Saturday of each week, which was the only day a change
of any kind of underwear could be obtained, no matter in what condition
it might be. Therefore, the majority of the inmates in the winter time
seldom had dry feet, if there was much rain or snow, the natural result
being catarrh, influenza, bronchitis, and rheumatism, from all of which
I suffered in turn.
TAKEN TO THE INFIRMARY
As long as the prisoner is not feverish she is treated in her own cell
in the ward, her food remaining the ordinary prison dietary; but as
soon as her temperature rises, as occurred in my case frequently, she
is admitted as a patient to the infirmary, where she is fed according
to medical prescription.
The infirmary stands a little detached from the prison grounds. It has
several wards, containing from six to fifteen beds, and several cells
for cases that require isolation. The beds are placed on each side of
the room, and are covered with blue and white counterpanes. At the head
of each is a shelf, on which stand two cups, a plate, and a diet card.
In the middle of each room is a long deal table. On the walls are a few
old Scriptural pictures.
THE UTTER DESOLATION OF A SICK PRISONER
When a prisoner is admitted she is first weighed and then allotted a
bed. Her food and medicine are given her by an officer, who places it
on a chair at her bedside if she is too ill to sit at the table. The
doctor makes his rounds in the morning and evening, and if the patient
is seriously ill he may make a visit in the night also. The matron
in charge goes through the wards at stated times to see that all is
going well, but there is no nursing. The prisoner must attend to her
own wants, and if too weak to do so, she must depend upon some other
patient less ill than herself to assist her. To be sick in prison is
a terrible experience. I felt acutely the contrast between former
illnesses at home and the desolation and the indifference of the
treatment under conditions afforded by a prison infirmary. To lie all
day and night, perhaps day after day, and week after week, alone and in
silence, without the touch of a friendly hand, the sound of a friendly
voice, or a single expression of sympathy or interest! The misery and
desolation of it all can not be described. It must be experienced. I
arrived at Woking ill, and I left Woking ill.
FOOTNOTES:
[2] A convict employed in washing, or other exceptional hard work, may
have daily an extra allowance of 3 ounces bread, and cheese 1 ounce,
as an intermediate meal between breakfast and dinner, and an extra
allowance of 1 ounce of meat (uncooked) four times a week. A convict
on entering the second-class will have the choice of 1 pint of tea
(made of 1/6 ounce tea, ½ ounce of sugar, 2 ounces milk) and 2 ounces
additional bread instead of gruel for supper; and a convict on entering
the first or special class will have, in addition to the above, the
choice of 4 ounces of baked mutton cooked in its own liquor, not
flavored or thickened, instead of boiled meat or soup, if she takes tea
instead of gruel. The food is wholesome, but spoiled by overcooking.
But oh, how jaded the palate becomes!
[3] Reproduced in the Introduction to Part Two.
CHAPTER SIX
At Aylesbury Prison
REMOVAL FROM WOKING
I had been admitted to the infirmary suffering from a feverish cold.
I had been in bed a fortnight and was feeling very weak, when, on the
morning of November 4, 1896, I awoke to find the matron standing at
my bedside. “Maybrick,” she said, “the governor has given orders that
you are to be removed to-day to Aylesbury Prison. Get up at once.”
Without a word of explanation she left. I had become a living rule of
obedience, and so with trembling hands dressed myself. Presently I
heard footsteps approaching. A female warder entered with a long, dark
cloak covered with broad arrows, the insignia of the convict. I was
told to put on this garment of shame. Then, supported by the warder,
I crossed the big yard to the chief matron’s office. There other women
of the “Star Class” were waiting, handcuffed. A male warder stepped
forward and told me to hold out my hands, whereupon he fastened on a
pair of handcuffs and chained me to the rest of the gang. This was done
by means of a chain which ran through an outer ring attached to each
pair of handcuffs, thus uniting ten women in a literal chain-gang.
This was to me the last straw of degradation--the parting indignity
of hateful Woking; but, happily, this was a painful prelude to a more
merciful régime at Aylesbury.
Some of the women were weeping, some swearing. When all were ready the
prison-van drove into the yard and we filed out to the clanking of our
chains. Then the door was shut and we were driven off. A special train
was waiting at the station, and escorted between male warders we got
in. It was bitterly cold and raining heavily, but crowds lined the road
and platforms.
[Illustration:
Copyright by S. G. Payne & Son, Aylesbury.
AYLESBURY PRISON, Where Mrs. Maybrick was confined from 1896 to 1904.]
NEW INSIGNIA OF SHAME
We were objects of morbid curiosity to the idle and curious people, who
may or may not have felt sorry for us. But to be stared at was most
distressing to all, to the first offender in particular. If the public
but realized how prisoners suffer when their disgrace is thus brought
to the public notice, they might feel ashamed of their lack of ordinary
human consideration and pass on. But why should it be necessary at all
to subject a prisoner to such humiliation and degradation? Male as well
as female prisoners could be transferred from one prison to another
without attracting any notice in the street or at the station, if
they were provided with garments for traveling upon which the hideous
brand of shame--the “broad arrow”--is not stamped. It is this mark of
condemnation which attracts the morbid curiosity of the people. Such
exhibitions and the callous disregard of a prisoner’s feelings can
only harden and embitter the heart and lower his or her self-respect.
ARRIVAL AT AYLESBURY PRISON
After a journey of nearly five hours we arrived at Aylesbury Station.
The public were apparently aware that the first batch of convicts was
to be transferred that day, as there were crowds at all the stations at
which we stopped. When we got out at Aylesbury it was with difficulty
that a passage was made for us. The prison-vans were in readiness, and
we were rapidly driven away. I felt weak and faint and cold. A thick
fog enveloped the town, and I could see only the dim outlines of houses
appearing and disappearing as we passed along. We stopped before what
appeared a gigantic structure, and then drove through two large iron
gates into a small courtyard. There we descended and drew up in line
to be counted by the officer, while our numbers and names were given
to the governor, who stood waiting to receive us. The order “Pass on!”
was called by the matron in charge, whereupon we entered a long, dark,
gloomy passage, at the end of which was a strong, barred door. This was
unlocked, and, when we had passed in, relocked.
I have already described what a prison is like. Again we stood in line.
Then a male warder came forward. He unlocked my handcuffs and unclasped
the chain which bound me to my fellow convicts. With a clang that
echoed through the empty halls they fell together to the ground. My
wrists were bruised and sore from the long pressure of their combined
weight.
Presently the order “Pass on!” was repeated, and, led by a female
warder, we went up two flights of the iron stairway to the top ward of
the hall. Each prisoner was then in turn locked into a cell. Thus ended
my second journey as a prisoner. The contrast with former journeys in
my life drew bitter tears from my eyes.
During the remainder of the week daily batches of prisoners continued
to arrive, and on the sixth day all had been duly transferred from
Woking Prison, which was then turned into military barracks.
After this short break in our prison life the same daily routine was
once more taken up. Whether it was due to the change of air or other
physical causes I can not say, but from the time of my arrival I began
to droop. I lost strength and suffered terribly from insomnia.
A NEW PRISON RÉGIME
Six months after our arrival, there came a change of authorities, and
with the passing of the years a more enlightened régime was instituted
by the Home Office. If a prisoner has any complaint to make or
wishes to seek advice, she asks to have her name put down to see the
governor. She is then termed a “wisher,” and is “seen” by him in his
office in the presence of the chief matron. Her request is written down
by him in her penal record, and if he can not settle the matter out of
hand it is referred to a “visiting director,” to whom the prisoner is
permitted to make a statement. If this gentleman finds that his powers
are insufficient to deal with the question, he in turn passes it on to
the prison commission, and sometimes it goes even to the Secretary of
State himself.
The same privilege holds good concerning medical matters. If a prisoner
is feeling ill she asks the officer in charge of the ward where she
is located to enter her name on the doctor’s book. At ten o’clock
the prisoner is sent for, and sees the doctor in the presence of an
infirmary nurse. He enters her name in a book, also the prescription,
both of which are copied later in the prisoner’s medical record. If a
prisoner is dissatisfied with the treatment she is receiving, she can
make application to see the “medical inspector,” who comes to the
prison every three months. But if neither the governor, nor the doctor,
nor the director, nor the inspector gives satisfaction, then there is
the “Board of Visitors” to inquire into the complaint.
THE BOARD OF VISITORS
The idea of the “Board of Visitors” is to act as a guaranty to the
public that everything is honest and above board, and that there
can be no possibility of inhuman treatment. If this is the sole
object in view--namely, that the prisoners shall be seen by these
“visitors”--then the object is largely attained. They have done much
to ameliorate the prisoners’ condition. Whereas, at one time the women
slept in their clothes, they are now provided with nightdresses;
instead of sitting with their feet always on the stone floor, they are
now allowed a small mat, as well as a wooden stool; and, as the result
of many complaints regarding the rapid decay of teeth, toothbrushes
are allowed, a concession which I much appreciated. For a short time
felt slippers were granted us, but these have been discontinued on
the ground of expense. The same beneficent influence also secured
wide-brimmed hats for the women. Formerly they had nothing to protect
their eyes, and the reflected glare from the stone walls was the cause
of much weakness and inflammation.
There were several changes in the diet also. Tea was substituted for
cocoa at breakfast and supper, white bread in lieu of wholemeal bread,
and tinned meat replaced the dry bread and cheese previously given on
Sunday.
The time of solitary confinement was reduced from nine months to four,
and immediately on its expiration the probationers can now work in
“association” in either the laundry or the tailor’s shops where the
officers’ uniforms--of brown cashmere in summer and navy-blue serge
in winter--are made, besides all the clothing for the prisoners’ own
use; also in the twine-room, where excellent spinning is done; while
the prisoner with special aptitude may be recommended to the bead-room,
which turns out really artistic work.
REGULATIONS CONCERNING LETTERS AND VISITS
The prisoners were also allowed to receive three photographs of near
relatives and to keep them in their cells. Previously these had to be
returned within twenty-four hours. Best of all, the intervals between
letters and visits were reduced by a month. The number of letters
permitted to be sent by a prisoner varies according to the stage she
is in. In the fourth stage a letter is allowed every two months, and
a “special letter” occasionally, if the prisoner’s conduct has been
satisfactory.
The following is a copy of the prison regulations concerning
communications between prisoners and their friends:
“The following regulations as to communications, by visit or letter,
between prisoners and their friends, are notified for the information
of their correspondents:
“The permission to write and receive letters is given to prisoners
for the purpose of enabling them to keep up a connection with their
respectable friends, and not that they may be kept informed of public
events.
“All letters are read by the prison authorities. They must be
legibly written, and not crossed. Any which are of an objectionable
tendency, either to or from prisoners, or containing slang or improper
expressions, will be suppressed.