NEWGATE.
NEWGATE! what an ominous sound has that word.
And yet the horror exists not in the name itself; for it is a very
simple compound, and would not grate upon the ear nor produce a shudder
throughout the frame, were it applied to any other kind of building.
It is, then, its associations and the ideas which it conjures up that
render the word NEWGATE fearful and full of dark menace.
At the mere mention of this name, the mind instantaneously becomes
filled with visions of vice in all its most hideous forms, and crime in
all its most appalling shapes;--wards and court-yards filled with a
population peculiar to themselves,--dark gloomy passages, where the gas
burns all day long, and beneath the pavement of which are interred the
remains of murderers and other miscreants who have expiated their crimes
upon the scaffold,--shelves filled with the casts of the countenances of
those wretches, taken the moment after they were cut down from the
gibbet,--condemned cells,--the chapel in which funeral sermons are
preached upon men yet alive to hear them, but who are doomed to die on
the morrow,--the clanking of chains, the banging of huge doors, oaths,
prayers, curses, and ejaculations of despair!
Oh! if it were true that the spirits of the departed are allowed to
revisit the earth for certain purposes and on particular occasions,--if
the belief of superstition were well founded, and night could be peopled
with the ghosts and spectres of those who sleep in troubled
graves,--what a place of ineffable horrors--what a scene of terrible
sights, would Newgate be at midnight! The huge flag-stones of the
pavement would rise, to permit the phantoms of the murderers to issue
from their graves. Demons would erect a gibbet at the debtor's door;
and, amidst the sinister glare of torches, an executioner from hell
would hang these miscreants over again. This would be part of their
posthumous punishment, and would occur in the long--long nights of
winter. There would be no moon; but all the windows of Newgate looking
upon the court-yards (and there are none commanding the streets) would
be brilliantly lighted with red flames, coming from an unknown source.
And throughout the long passages of the prison would resound the orgies
of hell; and skeletons wrapped in winding sheets would shake their
fetters; and Greenacre and Good--Courvoisier and Pegsworth--Blakesley
and Marchant, with all their predecessors in the walks of murder, would
come in fearful procession from the gibbet, returning by the very
corridors which they traversed in their way to death on the respective
mornings of their execution. Banquets would be served up to them in the
condemned cells; demons would minister to them; and their food should be
the flesh, and their drink the gore, of the victims whom they had
assassinated upon earth!
All would be horrible--horrible!
But, heaven be thanked! such scenes are impossible; and never can it be
given to the shades of the departed to revisit the haunts which they
loved or hated--adored or desecrated, upon earth!
NEWGATE!--fearful name!
And Richard Markham was now in Newgate.
He found, when the massive gates of that terrible prison closed behind
him, that the consciousness of innocence will not afford entire
consolation, in the dilemma in which unjust suspicions may involve the
victim of circumstantial evidence. He scarcely knew in what manner to
grapple with the difficulties that beset him;--he dared not contemplate
the probability of a condemnation to some infamous punishment;--and he
could scarcely hope for an acquittal in the face of the testimony that
conspired against him.
He recalled to mind all the events of his infancy and his boyish years,
and contrasted his present position with that which he once enjoyed in
the society of his father and Eugene.
His brother?--aye--what had become of his brother?--that brother, who
had left the paternal roof to seek his own fortunes, and who had made so
strange an appointment for a distant date, upon the hill-top where the
two trees were planted? Four years and four months had passed away since
the day on which that appointment was made; and in seven years and eight
months it was to be kept.
They were then to compare notes of their adventures and success in life,
and decide who was the more prosperous of the two,--Eugene, who was
dependent upon his own resources, and had to climb the ladder of fortune
step by step;--or Richard, who, placed by his father's love half-way up
that ladder, had only to avail himself, it would have seemed, of his
advantageous position to reach the top at his leisure?
But, alas! probably Eugene was a miserable wanderer upon the face of the
earth; perhaps he was mouldering beneath the sod that no parental nor
fraternal tears had watered;--or haply he was languishing in some
loathsome dungeon the doors of which served as barriers between him and
all communion with his fellow-men!
It was strange--passing strange that Eugene had never written since his
departure; and that from the fatal evening of his separation on the
hill-top all traces of him should have been so suddenly lost.
Peradventure he had been frustrated in his sanguine expectations, at his
very outset in life;--perchance he had terminated in disgust an
existence which was blighted by disappointment?
Such were the topics of Markham's thoughts as he walked up and down the
large paved court-yard belonging to that department of the prison to
which he had been consigned;--and, of a surety, they were of no
pleasurable description. Uncertainty with regard to his own
fate--anxiety in respect to his brother--and the dread that his
prospects in this life were irretrievably blighted--added to a feverish
impatience of a confinement totally unmerited--all these oppressed his
mind.
That night he had nothing but a basin of gruel and a piece of bread for
his supper. He slept in the same ward with a dozen other prisoners, also
awaiting their trials: his couch was hard, cold, and wretched; and he
was compelled to listen to the ribald talk and vaunts of villany of
several of his companions. Their conversation was only varied by such
remarks as these:--
"Well," said one, "I hope I shan't get before the Common-Serjeant: he's
certain to give me toko for yam."
"I shall be sure to go up the first day of sessions, and most likely
before the Recorder, as mine is rather a serious matter," observed a
second. "He won't give me more than seven years of it, I know."
"For my part," said a third, "I'd much sooner wait till the Wednesday,
when the Judges come down: they never give it so severe as them City
beaks."
"I tell you what," exclaimed a fourth, "I shouldn't like to have my meat
hashed at evening sittings before the Commissioner in the New Court.
He's always so devilish sulky, because he has been disturbed at his
wine."
"Well, you talk of the regular judges that come down on the Wednesday,"
cried a fifth; "I can only tell you that Baron Griffin and Justice
Spikeman are on the rota for next sessions; and I'm blowed if I wouldn't
sooner go before the Common-Serjeant a thousand times, than have old
Griffin meddle in my case. Why--if you only look at him, he'll transport
you for twenty years."
At this idea all the prisoners who had taken part in this conversation,
burst out into a loud guffaw--but not a whit the more hearty for being
so boisterous.
"Is it possible," asked Markham, who had listened with some interest to
the above discourse,--"is it possible that there can be any advantage to
a prisoner to be tried by a particular judge?"
"Why, of course there is," answered one of the prisoners. "If a swell
like you gets before Justice Spikeman, he'll let you off with half or a
quarter of what the Recorder or Common-Serjeant would give you: but
Baron Griffin would give you just double, because you happened to be
well-dressed."
"Indeed!" ejaculated Markham, whose ideas of the marvellous equality and
admirable even-handedness of English justice, were a little shocked by
these revelations.
"Oh! yes," continued his informant, "all the world knows these things.
If I go before Spikeman, I shall plead Guilty and whimper a bit, and
he'll be very lenient indeed; but if I'm heard by Griffin I'll let the
case take its chance, because he wouldn't be softened by any show of
penitence. So you see, in these matters, one must shape one's conduct
according to the judge that one goes before."
"I understand," said Markham: "even justice is influenced by all kinds
of circumstances."
The conversation then turned upon the respective merits of the various
counsel practising at the Central Criminal Court.
"I have secured Whiffins," said one: "he's a capital fellow--for if he
can't make anything out of your case, he instantly begins to bully the
judge."
"Ah! but that produces a bad effect," observed a second; "and old
Griffin would soon put him down. I've got Chearnley--he's such a capital
fellow to make the witnesses contradict themselves."
"Well, I prefer Barkson," exclaimed a third; "his voice alone frightens
a prosecutor into fits."
"Smouch and Slike are the worst," said a fourth: "the judges always read
the paper or fall asleep when they address them."
"Yes--because they are such low fellows, and will take a brief from any
one," exclaimed a fifth; "whereas it is totally contrary to etiquette
for a barrister to receive instructions from any one but an attorney."
"The fact is that such men as Smouch and Slike do a case more harm than
good, with the judges," observed a sixth. "They haven't the ear of the
Court--and that's the real truth of it."
These remarks diminished still more the immense respect which Markham
had hitherto entertained for English justice; and he now saw that the
barrister who detailed plain and simple facts, did not stand half such a
good chance of saving his client as the favoured one "who possessed the
ear of the Court."
By a very natural transition, the discourse turned upon petty juries.
"I think it will go hard with me," said one, "because I am tried in the
City. I wish I had been committed for the Middlesex Sessions at
Clerkenwell."
"Why so!" demanded another prisoner.
"Because, you see, I'm accused of robbing my master; and as all the
jurymen are substantial shopkeepers, they're sure to convict a man in my
position,--even if the evidence isn't complete."
"I'm here for swindling tradesmen at the West-End of the town," said
another.
"Well," exclaimed the first speaker, "the jury will let you off if
there's the slightest pretence, because they're all City tradesmen, and
hate the West-End ones."
"And I'm here for what is called '_a murderous assault upon a
police-constable_,'" said a third prisoner.
"Was he a Metropolitan or a City-Policeman?"
"A Metropolitan."
"Oh! well--you're safe enough; the jury are sure to believe that he
assaulted you first."
"Thank God for that blessing!"
"I tell you what goes a good way with Old Bailey Juries--a good
appearance. If a poor devil, clothed in rags and very ugly, appears at
the bar, the Foreman of the Jury just says, '_Well, gentlemen, I think
we may say_ GUILTY; _for my part I never saw such a hang-dog countenance
in my life_.' But if a well-dressed and good-looking fellow is placed in
the dock, the Foreman is most likely to say, '_Well, gentlemen, far my
part I never can nor will believe that the prisoner could be guilty of
such meanness: so I suppose we may say_ NOT GUILTY, _gentlemen_.'"
"Can this be true?" ejaculated Markham.
"Certainly it is," was the reply. "I will tell you more, too. If a
prisoner's counsel don't tip the jury plenty of soft sawder, and tell
them that they are enlightened Englishmen, and that they are the main
prop, not only of justice, but also of the crown itself, they will be
certain to find a verdict of _Guilty_."
"What infamy!" cried Markham, perfectly astounded at these revelations.
"Ah! and what's worse still," added his informant, "is that Old Baily
juries always, as a matter of course, convict those poor devils who have
no counsel."
"And this is the vaunted palladium of justice and liberty!" said
Richard.
In this way did the prisoners in Markham's ward contrive to pass away an
hour or two, for they were allowed no candle and no fire, and had
consequently been forced to retire to their wretched couches immediately
after dusk.
The night was thus painfully long and wearisome.
Markham found upon enquiry that there were two methods of living in
Newgate. One was to subsist upon the gaol allowance: the other to
provide for oneself. Those who received the allowance were not permitted
to have beer, nor were their friends suffered to add the slightest
comfort to their sorry meals; and those who paid for their own food,
were restricted as to quantity and quality.
Such is the treatment prisoners experience _before_ they are tried;--and
yet there is an old saying _that every one must be deemed innocent until
he be proved guilty_. The old saying is a detestable mockery!
Of course Markham determined upon paying for his own food; and when
Whittingham called in the morning, he was sent to make the necessary
arrangements with the coffee-house keeper in the Old Bailey who enjoyed
the monopoly of supplying that compartment of the prison.
The most painful ordeal which Richard had to undergo during his
captivity in Newgate, was his first interview with Mr. Monroe. This
gentleman was profoundly affected at the situation of his youthful ward,
though not for one moment did he doubt his innocence.
And here let us mention another revolting humiliation and unnecessary
cruelty to which the _untried_ prisoner is compelled to submit. In each
yard is a small enclosure, or cage, of thick iron bars, covered with
wire-work; and beyond this fence, at a distance of about two feet, is
another row of bars similarly interwoven with wire. The visitor is
compelled to stand in this cage to converse with his relative or friend,
who is separated from him by the two gratings. All private discourse is
consequently impossible.
What can recompense the prisoner who is acquitted, for all the
mortifications, insults, indignities, and privations he has undergone in
Newgate previous to that trial which triumphantly proclaims his
innocence?
Relative to the interview between Markham and Monroe, all that it is
necessary to state is that the young man's guardian promised to adopt
all possible means to prove his innocence, and spare no expense in
securing the most intelligent and influential legal assistance. Mr.
Monroe moreover intimated his intention of removing the case from the
bands of Mac Chizzle to those of a well-known and highly respectable
solicitor. Richard declared that he left himself entirely in his
guardian's hands, and expressed his deep gratitude for the interest thus
demonstrated by that gentleman in his behalf.
Thus terminated the first interview in Newgate between Markham and his
late father's confidential friend.
He felt somewhat relieved by this visit, and entertained strong hopes of
being enabled to prove his innocence upon the day of trial.
But it then wanted a whole month to the next sessions--thirty horrible
days which he would be compelled to pass in Newgate!