THE BUFFER'S HISTORY.
"You are well aware that my name is really John Wicks, although very few
of my pals know me by any other title than the Buffer.
"My father and mother kept a coal and potatoe shed in Great Suffolk
Street, Borough. I was their only child; and as they were very fond of
me, they would not let me be bothered and annoyed with learning. For
decency's sake, however, they made me go to the Sunday-school, and there
I just learnt to read, and that's all.
"When I was twelve years old, I began to carry out small quantities of
coals and potatoes to the customers. We used to supply a great many of
the prisoners in the Bench; and whenever I went into that place, I
generally managed to have a game of marbles, and sometimes rackets, with
the young blackguards that lurked about the prison to pick up the racket
balls, run on messages, and so on. At length I got to play for money;
and as I generally lost, I had to take the money which I received from
the customers to pay my little gambling debts. I was obliged to tell my
father and mother all kinds of falsehoods to account for the
disappearance of the money. Sometimes I said that I had lost a few
halfpence; then I declared that a beggar in the street had snatched a
sixpence out of my hand, and ran away; or else I swore that the
customers had not paid me. This last excuse led to serious
misunderstandings; for sometimes my father went himself to collect the
debts owing to him; and then, when the prisoners declared they had paid
me, I stuck out that it was false; and my father called them rogues and
swindlers. At length, he began seriously to suspect that his son was
robbing him; and one day he found it out in a manner which I could not
deny. I was then fourteen, and was pretty well hardened, I can tell you.
So I turned round, and told my father that he had brought it all on
himself, because he had instructed me how to cheat the customers in
weight and measure, and had therefore brought me up in wrong principles.
"You must understand that the usual mode of doing business in coal-sheds
is this: all the weights only weigh one half of what they are
represented to weigh. For instance, the one which is used as the fifty
pound weight is hollow, and is, therefore, made as large in outward
appearance as the real fifty pound weight; whereas, in consequence of
being hollow, it actually only weighs twenty-five pounds. This is the
case with all the weights; the pound weight really weighs only half a
pound, and so on. You may ask why the weights are thus exactly one half
less than they are represented to be,--neither more nor less than one
half. I will tell you: when the leet jury comes round and points, for
instance, to the weight used for fifty pounds, the answer is, 'Oh, that
is the twenty-five pound weight;' and, upon being tested, the assertion
is found to be correct. So there is never any danger of being hauled
over the coals by the leet jury; but if the weights were each an odd
number of ounces or pounds short, they could not be passed off to the
jury as weights of a particular standard, and then the warehouseman
would get into a scrape. It is just the same with the measures. The
bushel contains a false bottom, and is really half a bushel; and when
the leet jury calls, it is stated to be the half bushel measure, whereas
to customers it is passed off as the bushel. This will also account to
you for the way in which costermongers in the streets are able to sell
fruit (cherries particularly) and peas, in the season, for just one half
of the price at which they can be bought at respectable dealers. The
poor dupe who gives twopence for _a pound_ of cherries of a costermonger
in the street, only obtains half a pound; and the housewife who thinks
that she can save a hundred per cent. by buying her peas in the same
way, only gets half a peck instead of a peck.
"My father had thirty barrows, which he let out to the costermongers at
the rate of eighteen pence a day each; and some of those men could clear
eight or ten shillings a day by their traffic. But they are so addicted
to drinking that they spend all they get; and in the winter season they
starve. Now and then a costermonger would disappear with the barrow, for
the loan of which my father never required any security, as the poor
souls had none to give; and then my father offered a reward for the
apprehension of the absentee. He was generally caught, and my father
always had him taken before the magistrate and punished--as a warning,
he said, to the rest. I used to think he behaved very harshly in this
respect, as the poor wretch whom he thus got sent to the treadmill had
most probably paid for the barrow over and over again.
"But to return to my story. When my father discovered that I had robbed
him, I threw in his teeth the use he made of false weights and measures.
He was alarmed at this, because I threatened to inform the neighbours;
and so he did not give me the thrashing which he had at first promised.
He, however, resolved to send me away from home, and in the course of a
few days got me a place at a friend's of his, who kept a sweet-stuff
shop, in Friar Street, Blackfriars. There I was initiated into all the
mysteries of that trade. I found that the white-sugar articles were all
largely adulterated with plaster of Paris; and that immediately
accounted to me for the pernicious--often fatal--effects produced by
this kind of trash upon children. If parents, who really care for their
children, were only commonly prudent, they would never allow them to eat
any white-sugar sweet-stuff at all. Then I discovered that the articles
passed off as burnt almonds, really contained the kernels of fruits; for
the kitchen-maids in wealthy families and hotels collect and sell the
stones of the peaches, apricots, and nectarines, eaten at the
dinner-tables of their masters, as regularly as cooks dispose of their
bones and grease. In fact, the most deleterious ingredients enter into
the composition of sweet-stuff. The sugar-refiners sell all their scum
to the sweet-stuff makers; and this scum is composed of the lime, alum,
bullock's blood, charcoal, acetate of soda, and other things used for
fining sugar. Oxide of lead is also mixed with the small proportions of
sugar used in making sweet-stuff; and thus you may perceive what filthy
and poisonous substances are given to children in the shape of
sugar-plums. I hope that I do not weary you with this description; and
if you should be surprised that I can now recollect the chemical names
of the ingredients used, I must tell you that I went so often to the
sugar-refiners, and to the chemists, for my master, that I soon became
familiar with every thing at all relating to the business.
"I now come to more interesting matters. I had been with my master about
six years, and was then going on for twenty-one, when my father died. My
mother sent for me home to help her in the business; and I now had the
command of money. The taste for gambling which I had imbibed in my
boyhood, returned with additional force; and I sought every opportunity
of gratifying my inclination in this respect. I frequented a notorious
public-house in Suffolk Street, where gaming was carried on to a great
extent; and my ill-luck seemed unvaried. My mother did all she could to
check the progress of this infatuation; but it was invincible; and in
the course of three years I had completely ruined both my mother and
myself. An execution was put into the house for rent, and my mother died
of a broken heart. I shed a few tears, and then looked round me for some
occupation.
[Illustration]
"One of the persons who frequented the public-house in Suffolk Street
offered to recommend me to a friend of his, who kept an auction-room in
the City. I gladly accepted the proposal, and was engaged as 'a bidder,'
at that establishment. I will tell you what I had to do: the auction was
carried on in an open warehouse in a great thoroughfare. The articles
put up for sale were all of the most worthless description--razors, made
(like Peter Pindar's) to sell, and not to cut; pen-knives, that would
inflict no damage upon a piece of wood; decanters, that would scarcely
resist the pressure of the most delicate lady's hand; candlesticks, made
of a metal that would melt if held too close to the fire; urns, that
sprang a leak the moment hot water was poured into them; watches, that
were never known to go beyond the first four-and-twenty hours; scissors,
that would not sever a thread; snuffers, that merely crushed without
diminishing the wick; teapots, made of polished pewter, and warranted as
silver; in a word, every species of domestic rubbish of this kind,
occupied the counters and tables in the auction-room. Myself and three
others were hired as bidders. Our duty was to offer a price for every
article put up, and buy it in if it appeared likely to go to a stranger
at too low a price--although, indeed, few prices were too low for the
articles on which they were put. Then, when a greenhorn entered the
mart, we were to puff off the articles amongst ourselves in his
hearing--never talking _to_ him, but talking _at_ him. The master was
perched up behind a high desk, using his hammer with exemplary alacrity,
and knocking down article after article to the flats that came in and
bid. Sometimes the dupes would come back the following day, and demand
the return of their money, as they had ascertained that the goods for
which they had parted with it were worthless: it was then our duty to
hustle such obstreperous claimants, bonnet them, or, in extreme cases,
knock them down, and then give them into custody for creating a
disturbance.
"In this situation I remained for three years. The master was very good
to us, and gave us a present every time he effected large sales by our
means. One afternoon an elderly gentleman entered the mart, and stood
bidding for some cut decanters. They had been invoiced to the proprietor
of the establishment for six shillings, and the lowest price at which
they were to be knocked down was two pounds ten. The bidding was rather
slow; and I retreated a pace or two behind the old gentleman, to avoid
having the appearance of being anxious to make myself conspicuous. In
that position I observed the corner of a red pocket-book peeping out of
his coat tail. I glanced around: no one noticed me; and in a moment I
abstracted the inviting object. This was the first theft I ever
committed; and bad as I already was, the moment I had that pocket-book
safe in my possession, I would have given the world for it to have been
back again in its former place. The deed was however done; and I
evaporated from the auction mart with the rapidity of thought.
"I was not such an idiot as to return to my lodgings; but I hastened
into the vicinity of Smithfield, and entered a public-house in Chick
Lane. The parlour--a little slip, with a single window looking upon the
street--was fortunately empty; and I immediately examined my treasure.
And true enough it was a treasure! It contained eight hundred pounds in
Bank of England notes, together with bills of exchange to the amount of
three thousand. There were also letters and cards of address, which
showed me who the old gentleman was. He was a rich landholder in the
county of Hants. I enclosed the bills of exchange and the letters in a
sheet of paper, and returned them through the post to their owner. The
Bank notes I kept. But I was now at a loss how to act; for I fancied
that if the notes had been stopped, there would be danger in attempting
to pass them. After I had put the letter in the post, I returned to the
public-house in Chick Lane, and meditated upon the best course to
pursue. While I was sitting in the parlour, over a glass of
brandy-and-water, pondering upon this very difficult matter, a man
entered, sate down, called for some liquor, and got into conversation
with me. By degrees we grew confidential; and he let me know that he was
a member of the swell-mob. I opened my heart to him; and he immediately
offered to take me to a place where I could change my notes.
"I thankfully accepted his proposal; and he led me into Field Lane.
There he entered a shop where they sold salt fish, herrings, haddocks,
and oysters. He asked a dirty-looking girl if Israel Moses was at home;
and, receiving an affirmative answer, led the way up a narrow, dark, and
dirty staircase, to a room where an old Jew, with a face almost
completely concealed by grisly white hair, was sitting at a table
covered with papers. My guide immediately communicated to him the object
of my visit; and the old Jew questioned me closely relative to the way
in which I had obtained the Bank notes. My companion advised me to tell
him the exact truth, which I did; and the Jew then offered me six
hundred pounds in gold for my eight hundred pounds' worth of notes. He
explained to me that he should be compelled to send them to his agents
in Paris, Hamburgh, and Amsterdam, to get rid of them; and that he could
therefore afford to give me no more. I accepted his proposal, received
the gold, and departed, accompanied by my new friend, who was no other
than Dick Flairer.
"I made him a handsome present for his counsel and assistance, and was
about to part from him, when he told me that I had better take care of
myself for a few days until the hue and cry concerning the pocket-book
should be over. He asked me to accompany him to his lodgings in Castle
Street, Saffron Hill. I agreed; and there I first met his sister Mary.
In the evening Dick went out, to ascertain, as he said, 'how the wind
blew.' He came back at a late hour, and brought me a copy of a hand-bill
that had been printed and circulated, and which gave not only a full
description of the robbery, but also a most painfully accurate account
of my person. Dick assured me that I was not safe in his lodgings, as he
himself was a suspicious character in the neighbourhood; and he advised
me to hide myself in a certain house which he knew in Chick Lane. I
followed his advice, and proceeded to the Old House, where I lay
concealed in that horrid dungeon under ground for a mortal fortnight.
Mary brought me my food every other day, and gave me information of what
was going on outside. She told me that the newspapers had published an
account of the return of the bills of exchange and letters by post; and
that the same organs stated that the old gentleman who had been robbed
was unwilling to proceed any farther on that very account. At length
Dick came himself, and assured me that I might leave the dungeon; but
that it would be better for me to remain quiet in some snug place for a
few weeks. I proposed to him a trip into the country; he agreed; and
Mary accompanied us.
"We went down to Canterbury, and took lodgings on the Herne Bay road,
close by the barracks. Dick and I used to visit all the neighbouring
towns, and see what we could pick up; but we led a jovial life, spending
much more than we got, and thus making desperate inroads into my funds.
My old habits of gambling returned; and the gold which I had received
from the Jew was disappearing very rapidly. We had left London for
upwards of eight months, when we thought of returning to our old haunts.
Mary seemed quite averse to the proposal, and was most anxious to remain
a short time longer where she was. To this Dick agreed; and he and I
came up to town. We went to the Boozing-ken on Saffron Hill, and there
took up our quarters. Dick introduced me to Bill Bolter; and as it
happened that our funds were all low, we resolved upon adopting some
means to replenish our purses. Happening to take up the _Times_, I saw
an advertisement, according to which a wealthy jeweller and goldsmith in
the Strand required a porter. I made a remark which led Dick Flairer to
observe, that if I chose to take the situation, he could get me a
reference, as he knew one of the largest linen-drapers in Norton
Folgate, who was in the habit of buying stolen goods of the cracksmen of
Dick's gang, and would not dare refuse to perform the part required. The
plan was settled: I applied for the situation, gave the reference, and
in two days entered the service of the rich goldsmith. In less than a
fortnight I had obtained all the information I required; and stepping
out one evening, I hastened to the boozing-ken, where I met the pals,
and appointed the following night for the enterprise. I then returned to
my master's residence.
"On the ensuing night, precisely as the clock struck twelve, I stole
softly down from my bed-room, and entered the shop by means of a
skeleton key. I then cautiously opened the front door, and admitted Dick
Flairer and Bill Bolter. We immediately set to work to pack up all the
most valuable and most portable articles; in which occupation we were
engaged when a cry of '_Fire, fire!_' was heard in the street outside;
and almost at the same moment a tremendous knocking at the front door
began. For an instant we were paralysed; but the noise of steps
descending the stairs hurried us into action; and, opening the doors, we
darted from the house with the speed of wild animals, leaving all the
booty behind us. The cry of '_Fire!_' was instantly succeeded by that of
'_Thieves!_' and several persons began to pursue us hotly. We gained
Wellington Street, and hastened towards Waterloo Bridge, intending to
get into the Borough with the least possible delay. On we went--through
the great gate, without waiting to pay the toll at the entrance of the
footway--the pursuers gaining upon us. Suddenly I recollected that the
cornice along the outside of the parapet was very wide; and without
hesitating a moment I sprang over the parapet, alighted on the cornice,
and only saved myself from falling into the river by catching hold of
the gas-pipe which runs along the outer side of the bridge. Scarcely had
I thus accomplished a most dangerous feat, when I distinctly saw a man,
a few yards a-head, mount the parapet, and precipitate himself into the
river. Then arose the sounds of voices on the bridge, crying, '_He is
over!_' '_He has leaped in!_' '_He will be drowned._' '_They have all
three escaped._' '_But where the devil could the other two have got
to?_' and such-like exclamations, which convinced me that my companions
were safe. There I remained, a prey to a thousand painful reflections
and horrid ideas, for upwards of an hour; till at length I grew so dizzy
that I was every moment on the point of falling into the river. The
bridge was now completely silent; and I ventured to leave my
hiding-place. I passed over the bridge to the Surrey side, without
molestation, and proceeded by a circuitous route to the Old House in
Chick Lane, where, to my astonishment, I found Bill Bolter. I then
learnt that it was Dick Flairer who had leapt into the river, and was no
doubt drowned; and that Bolter had only escaped by concealing himself in
the deep shade of one of the recesses of the bridge, when totally
overcome by fatigue, until his pursuers had passed, when he retraced his
steps, and quietly gained the Strand.
"We were greatly grieved to think that our enterprise in the jeweller's
house should have failed, and that we had lost so excellent a fellow as
Flairer; but in the midst of our lamentations, the door opened and Dick
himself entered the room. Pale, dripping, and exhausted, he fell upon a
seat, and would most probably have fainted--if not died--had we not
forced some brandy down his throat. He then revived; and, having changed
his clothes, was soon completely recovered from the effects of his bath,
and the desperate exertions he had made to swim to a wharf communicating
with the Commercial Road.
"We staid for the remainder of the night at the Old House; and on the
following morning Dick Flairer went up to the boozing-ken, where he
procured a newspaper. He then returned to us; and we perceived by the
journal that the curtains of the bed-room which I had occupied at the
jeweller's house had caught fire, and created the alarms which had
interrupted us in the midst of our employment in the shop. I moreover
ascertained that I was of course suspected of having admitted thieves
into the premises, and that a reward was offered for my apprehension. I
was accordingly compelled to remain concealed for some weeks in the Old
House, while Bolter and Flairer, being unsuspected, were enabled to go
abroad. I did not upon this occasion conceal myself in the dungeon of
the Old House, for I could not bear the solitude of that living tomb;
and as Bolter and Flairer were constantly visiting me, the time did not
hang so very heavily on my hands. At length I left the Old House, and I
and Dick returned to Canterbury.
"When we arrived there, after an absence of two months, we made a most
unpleasant discovery--unpleasant to Dick as the brother, and to me who
was enamoured of Mary. She was in a way to become a mother; her
situation was too palpable to be concealed. Dick flew into a most
ungovernable rage; and Mary tried to deny it. But the fact was glaring,
and she was obliged to confess that she had been seduced by a serjeant
of the regiment stationed at Canterbury. Her attachment to that man, and
the hope that he would do her justice, were the reasons that had induced
her to remain at Canterbury, when we went to London. The serjeant had
recently treated her with neglect and indifference, and she longed for
revenge. Dick and I swore that she should have it. She told us that the
serjeant was very fond of angling, and that every morning early he
indulged in his favourite sport in the river Stour, which flowed close
by the barracks.
"Next morning Dick and I went down to the river, and there we saw the
serjeant preparing his tackle. From the description we had received of
him, we knew him to be the man we wanted; but there was a large
water-mill close by, and we dared not attack him in a spot that was so
overlooked. We accordingly returned home, and consulted together how we
should proceed. At length we resolved that Mary should endeavour to get
him to grant her an interview on the banks of the river. She sent him a
note, saying that she was to leave Canterbury in a few days, and that
she wished to see him once more. She concluded by begging him to meet
her that evening or the next between nine and ten o'clock, close by the
bridge of Kingsford's water-mill. He consented, and appointed the
evening of the next day for the interview.
"The hour drew nigh, and Mary went to the place agreed upon. Dick and I
followed her at a little distance. The night was dark; it was in the
month of April; and the air was very cold. As we drew near the bridge as
noiselessly as we could, we distinguished the forms of two persons
standing upon the bridge, and leaning in earnest conversation upon the
low railing that overhung the huge wheel which was revolving beneath,
the torrent pouring over it through the sluices of the dam upon the top
of which the bridge stood. We advanced closer; and could then perceive
that the two forms were those of Mary and her seducer. We proceeded to
the bridge. When we reached the middle, Dick went up to the serjeant,
and said, '_This is my sister; do you mean to do her justice?_'--'_No,_'
cried Mary; '_he has just told me that I need have no hope in that
respect_.' '_Then there is nothing more to be said,_' exclaimed Dick
Flairer; and at the same moment we precipitated ourselves upon the
serjeant. Dick Flairer pressed his hand upon his mouth; the poor wretch
struggled violently; but in an instant we hurled him over the
bridge-railing. He fell upon the wheel; the roar of the torrent, and the
din of the ponderous machine drowned his last cry of agony, and the
crushing of his bones. '_Now, Mary,_' said I, '_you are revenged_.' She
pressed my hand convulsively, without uttering a word; and we returned
to our lodgings.
"Next day, the body of the serjeant was found, fearfully crushed and
mutilated, a mile below the mill, entangled in a bed of osiers. It was
carried to the barracks: an inquest was called; and a verdict of '_Found
Drowned_' was recorded. Not a suspicion was entertained that the man had
been murdered, it being evident from the surgical examination that he
had been crushed by the wheel of the mill, upon which it was supposed he
had accidentally fallen, over the bridge-railing, which was only about
three feet high.
"The moment the verdict was returned, and we saw that no suspicion
attached to any body in reference to the murder, we left Canterbury, and
repaired to London. In the course of a few weeks, Mary became the mother
of a still-born child; and in due time I assured her that I would
overlook her fault, and marry her if she would have me. She was pleased
with the proposal; and Dick readily agreed to it. But before we could be
spliced, I one day met the goldsmith of the Strand in the street; and he
gave me into custody. I was taken before the magistrates, and fully
committed for an attempt to rob my employer. While I was in Newgate,
waiting for my trial, I was greatly alarmed lest the old gentleman, whom
I had robbed at the auction mart, should prefer an indictment against
me; but my fears in this respect were unfounded. At length the sessions
commenced, and I was put upon my trial. The Sheriffs had supplied me
with counsel, for I was completely without funds when I was arrested.
The barrister thus retained in my behalf, advised me to plead guilty, as
I should then stand a good chance of escaping transportation. I followed
his recommendation, and expressed my contrition for the offence. The
Recorder read me a long lecture, and condemned me to seven years'
transportation, which sentence was commuted to two years' imprisonment
in Newgate.
"During that time I seriously thought of mending my ways, when I should
be once more at liberty. But I could not conceive what on earth I should
do for a livelihood if I did not steal. I knew that I should be turned
adrift without a penny in my pocket; and I had no friends but those with
whom I could only pursue my old career. When the chaplain spoke to me
upon the errors of my past life, and the necessity of reformation, I
used to say to him, '_Show me, reverend sir, how I am to obtain an
honest living when I leave these walls, and I never shall sin again._'
But he always gave an evasive reply. In fact, what could he say? If he
had required a man-servant--a groom--an errand-boy--a menial scrub to
black his boots and brush his clothes, would he have taken me? No. If he
had known any friend who wanted a man to take care of his hounds--never
enter his house--but sleep in the kennels along with the dogs, would the
chaplain have recommended me? No. If the governor of Newgate had needed
a man to sweep the dirt away from the front of the prison, would the
reverend gentleman have spoken a kind word in favour of me? No. Of what
use, then, is it for these gaol chaplains to preach penitence and
reformation, when by their very actions they say, '_We do not believe
that you can possibly change for the better?_' Of what benefit is it for
these salaried moralists to declaim upon the advantages of a virtuous
course, when they know perfectly well that the old maxim is invariably
correct,--'_Give a dog a bad name and hang him!_' Virtue must be fed;
but Virtue, upon leaving the walls of a criminal prison, can obtain no
food. Must Virtue, then die of starvation? Human nature revolts against
this self-destruction--this systematic suicide; and, sooner than submit
to it, Virtue will allow itself to be changed by circumstances into
Vice. Virtue in this case has no option but to become Vice.
"I often thought, when I was in prison, that if there was a workshop,
established by the government to receive persons whom the criminal gaols
daily vomit back upon society, many a miserable creature would in
reality reform, and be saved from a re-plunge into the sea of crime. But
all that the government does is to punish. I mentioned these thoughts to
the chaplain. And what did he say? He endeavoured to get rid of the
necessity of giving a decisive opinion, by throwing himself headlong
into a mass of argument and reasoning, half religious and half
political, which I could not understand. Thus do those men invariably
extricate themselves from perplexing topics. In my opinion there is no
mockery more abominable--no hypocrisy more contemptible--no morality
more baseless than the attributes of a gaol-chaplain!
"If good and pious men attended criminal prisons of their own free will,
and talked in a plain homely manner to the inmates,--a manner which
those inmates could understand,--how much benefit might result! But when
you think that the chaplain only troubles himself about you because he
is paid,--that he doles out his doctrine in proportion to the income
which he receives,--and that he says the same to you to-day which he
said to another yesterday, and will say to a third to-morrow,--his
office is mean, contemptible, and degrading.
"It does not do for me to hold forth in this manner; I know _that_: but
I cannot help expressing the thoughts that occupied me when I was in
Newgate. They are often present in my memory; and, sometimes, when I am
dull and in low spirits, I console myself by the conviction that if I am
bad now, it is because there is no door open for me to be good. So a
truce to these ideas. They do not often come from my lips; and even now
I scarcely wish to recall them.
"Well--I passed my two years in Newgate; and when I was released, I
stood still by the lamp-post at the top of the Old Bailey, thinking
which way I should go. I had not a penny in my pocket; and I knew that
in the course of a few hours I should be hungry. As true as I am sitting
here, tears rolled down my cheeks as I contemplated the necessity of
returning to my old pursuits,--yes--burning tears--tears of agony--such
tears as I never shed before, and shall never shed again!
"Suddenly a thought struck me. I would go to the workhouse. The idea
consoled me; and, fearful lest my good intentions should grow cool, I
turned back past the door of Newgate again, and directed my steps down
the Old Bailey towards Blackfriars' Bridge. In the course of an hour, I
knocked at the door of the ---- Workhouse, with an order for admission
from the overseer.
"It was about twelve o'clock in the day when I entered the Workhouse.
The porter conducted me into the office, where the master took down my
name, age, &c. He then sent me to the bath-room, where I was cleansed.
When I came from the bath I put on the coarse linen, grey suit, and
thick shoes which constitute the workhouse garb--the livery of poverty.
The dress differed but little from the one I had worn in Newgate--so
small is the distinction in this blessed country between a felon and a
pauper! My old clothes were put up together in a bundle, labelled with
my name, and conveyed to the store-room, to be returned to me when I
chose to leave the place. As soon as I was dressed, I was allotted to
the _able-bodied men's department_ of the Workhouse. The scale of food
for this class of persons was just this:--
---------+------+--------+-----+------+---------+--------+-------+--------
|Bread.| Gruel. |Meat.|Bacon.|Potatoes.| Soup. |Cheese.| Suet
| | | | | | | |Pudding.
+------+--------+-----+------+---------+--------+-------+--------
| _Oz._|_Pints._|_Oz._| _Oz._| _Oz._ |_Pints._| _Oz._ |
| | | | | | | |
Monday | 14 | 1½ | .. | .. | .. | 1½ | 2 | ..
Tuesday | 21 | 1½ | .. | .. | .. | .. | 4 | ..
Wednesday| 14 | 1½ | .. | .. | .. | 1½ | 2 | ..
Thursday | 14 | 1½ | .. | 4 | 8 | .. | 2 | ..
Friday | 14 | 1½ | .. | .. | .. | .. | 2 | 14
Saturday | 14 | 1½ | .. | .. | .. | 1½ | 2 | ..
Sunday | 14 | 1½ | 5 | .. | 8 | 1½ | .. | ..
+------+--------+-----+------+---------+--------+-------+--------
Total| | | | | | | |
Weekly| 105 | 10½ | 5 | 4 | 16 | 6 | 14 | 14
Allowance| | | | | | | |
---------+------+--------+-----+------+---------+--------+-------+--------
"So you see that we had only five ounces of cooked meat and five ounces
of bacon, in the shape of animal food, in the course of each week! And
yet we had to work--to keep the grounds in order, to do various jobs in
the establishment, and to pick four pounds of oakum each, every day, the
Sabbath excepted. Felons are better off;[79] for in the prison one has
more meat, more bread, and more gruel (which is certainly nourishing)
than in the workhouse!
"We had nothing to drink with our dinners and suppers but water--and of
that they could not very well stint us, because it cost nothing. The
able-bodied women had much _less_ than the able-bodied men. The infirm
paupers had each one ounce of tea and seven ounces of sugar weekly,
instead of gruel, for breakfast! Fancy one ounce of tea for seven meals!
"We were divided into messes, or tables of ten each; and each mess
elected a carver. The duty of the carver was to go to the kitchen and
fetch the provision allotted to the individuals at his particular table,
and then to distribute it in equal proportions. What fighting and
wrangling always took place at meal times! On meat days, one had too
much fat, and another's morsel was too under-done:--on bacon days, one
had too much lean, and another had the rind given to him. Then one
declared that he had been cheated out of a potatoe; and so on. It was a
scene of perpetual selfishness--of human beings quarrelling for a crumb!
But who can wonder? A potatoe or a cubic inch of bread was a
considerable portion of a meal; and where all were ravenous, who could
afford to lose even a potatoe or a crumb?[80]
"Neither of you have ever been in a workhouse, I know; and therefore you
cannot imagine the change it produces in its inmates. They grow
discontented with the world, and look upon their superiors with
abhorrence. An army of able-bodied men, recruited from all the Unions in
the kingdom, would make the finest republican soldiers imaginable. They
would proceed with a good heart to level throne, aristocracy, and every
institution which they believed oppressive to the industrious classes.
"But that is no business of mine--and I care nothing for politics of any
kind. Of an evening, we used to gather round the fire till bed-time, and
talk of our past lives. Many--many of my companions, had, like myself,
seen better days; and it actually made one's heart ache to hear them
compare their former positions with their present ones. And after all,
what can be more inhuman--what more cruel, than the very principles of
the workhouse system? Old couples, who have lived together for years and
years, are separated when they go to the workhouse. Mothers are debarred
from the society of their little ones:--no ties of kindred are respected
_there_!
"I remember one man--he was about sixty, and much better behaved than
the rest--who had been a writer, or something of that kind, in his time.
The men used to get him now and then, when he was in the humour to
recite poems--some of which he had composed in better days, and others
since he had been in the Union. Those of his palmy years were all about
love, and friendship, and sweet spring, and moonlight scenes, and so
on;--but from the moment that he set foot in the workhouse, he bade
farewell to love and friendship; and he never more was destined to know
the enjoyments of charming seasons and tranquil hours! One of his late
poems made such an impression on me, that I learnt it by heart. It was a
workhouse scene. I remember it now; and will repeat it:--
"THE SONG OF THE WORKHOUSE.
"Stooping over the ample grate,
Where burnt an ounce of fuel,
That cheered not the gloom
Of the workhouse room,
An aged and shivering female sate,
Sipping a pint of gruel:
And as she sopped a morsel of bread
In that liquid thin and poor,
With anguish she shook her aching head,
And thought of the days that were o'er.
"Through the deep mists of years gone by
Her mental glances wandered;
And the warm blood ran
To her features wan;
And fire for a moment lighted her eye,
As o'er the past she pondered.
For she had once tripped the meadow green
With a heart as blithe as May;
And she had been crowned the village-queen
In times that were far away!
"She'd been the pride of parents dear,
And plenty banished sorrow;
And her love she gave
To a yeoman brave;
And a smiling offspring rose to cheer
Hearts that feared not for the morrow.
Oh! why should they fear? In the sweat of their brow
They ate their daily bread;
And they thought, 'The earth will e'er yield as now
The fruits whereon we're fed!'
"But when their hair grew silvery white,
Sorrow their cot invaded,
And ravaged it then
As armies of men
Sack the defenceless town by night:--
Thus all Hope's blossoms faded!
From their little farm the stock was swept
By the owner of their land;
And the very bed on which they slept,
Was snatched by the bailiff's hand.
"One hope--one fond hope now was all
Each tender heart dared cherish--
That they might remain
Still linked by one chain,
And 'midst the sorrows that might befal,
Together live or perish.
But Want drove them on to the workhouse gate;
And when the door was pass'd
They found themselves doomed to separate--
To separate at last!
"And he fell sick:--she prayed in vain
To be where he was lying;
She poured forth her moan
Unto hearts of stone;
Never admittance she could gain
To the room where he was dying!
Then into her brain the sad thoughts stole
That brain with anguish reeling--
That the great ones, judging by their own soul,
Think that paupers have no feeling.
"So, thus before the cheerless grate,
Watching the flick'ring ember
She rocked to and fro,
Her heart full of woe;
For into that heart the arrow of fate
Pierced like the cold of December.
And though she sopped a morsel of bread,
She could not eat for crying:
'T was hard that she might not support the head
Of her much-lov'd husband dying!
"I stayed in the workhouse six weeks; and could stand it no longer. I
had to labour, and was half-starved. So one morning I went to the
Master, demanded my clothes, and was speedily retracing my steps towards
my old haunts. That evening I supped with Dick Flairer at the
boozing-ken on Saffron Hill; and the same night we broke into a
watchmaker's shop in the City. We got seventeen pounds in money, and a
dozen watches and other trinkets, which we sold to the 'fence' in Field
Lane for thirty guineas. That was a good bargain for him! I then went
and took up my quarters with Dick Flairer at his lodgings; and in a few
weeks I married his sister Mary. Six or eight months afterwards poor
Dick was killed; and--"