When I found myself alone in my permanent cell, I sat down on the little
three-legged stool and examined the furniture. There was a flap-table,
two feet by one, fixed on the right wall. In the left corner behind
the door were three minute quarter-circle shelves, containing a roll
of bedding, a wooden salt-cellar, a wooden spoon, and a comb and brush,
each about four inches long. In the opposite corner under the window
stood the plank bed, and on the floor were three tin utensils--a
dust-pan, a water-can, and a nondescript lidded article for baser uses.
Fortunately, the urn-shaped abomination I found in the Newgate cells,
and have already described, was absent in Holloway. When a prisoner
wished to visit the water-closet, he rang his bell, and sooner or
later (often later) he was let out. Each wing had two closets in a deep
recess, the door shielding the occupant's person from mid-leg to
breast. During the night the nondescript lidded article was brought
into requisition. When the cell doors were opened at six o'clock in the
morning every prisoner put out his "slops," which were emptied by the
cleaners. This scavenger's work must be very distasteful, but so anxious
are the prisoners to get out of their cells that there are always plenty
of candidates for the office. The tins are kept clean by means of brick
and whitening, which are passed into the cells every evening in little
cotton bags. My dust-pan, at least, was always well polished, for I
used it as a mirror to see how I was looking, being naturally anxious to
ascertain what _visible_ effect the prison life had upon me. One of
the warders put me up to a very useful "wrinkle." By well cleaning the
dust-pan with whitening, rubbing it up well with the clean rag until it
had a nice surface, and then lightly passing a rag saturated with dubbin
over it, you could produce a beautiful polish by a few slight touches of
the "finisher." After this artistic process the dust-pan shone like an
oriental mirror, and might have served a belle at her toilette.
Every article of furniture has now been described, excepting the stool.
It was a miniature tripod, fifteen inches high, with a round top about
eight inches in diameter. A more uncomfortable seat could hardly be
devised. There was no support for the back, and the legs had to be
stretched out at full length. If you bent them you threw your body
forward, and ran the risk of contracting round shoulders. Whenever I
wanted a little ease, especially after dinner, when a V-shaped body is
not conducive to digestion, I used to rest against the upright plank
bed, extend my legs luxuriously, and dream of the cigar which was just
the one thing required to complete a picture of comfort.
Such was the furniture of my apartment in Her Majesty's Holloway Hotel.
Scantier appointments were impossible. Yet, to my surprise, an officer
came in one day with an inventory, to see if anything was missing.
Rather a superfluous check, when the iron cell door was constantly
locked and there was no opening to the window! A prisoner could hardly
bury his furniture in a concrete floor, and the most ferocious appetite
would surely quail before deal planks and tin pans.
The cell itself was similar to the one I have already described. The
ventilation was provided by an iron grating over the door, communicating
with a shaft that carried off the foul air; and another iron grating
under the window, which admitted the fresh air from outside. This
grating, however, did not communicate _directly_ with the atmosphere,
for the prison is built with double walls. Eighteen inches or so below
it was another grating in the outer wall. This arrangement prevented the
prisoners from getting a glimpse of the grounds, as well as the air from
rushing in too rawly. My cell was one of the old ones. In the new cells
there is a slightly different method of ventilation. Two of the small
panes of glass are removed from the window, and a little frame is placed
inside, consisting of wood at the sides and fluted glass in the front.
Flush with the window-sill at the bottom, it inclines inward at an angle
of twenty degrees, so that there is room at the top for a six-inch flap,
which works on hinges, and is elevated or lowered by a chain. This is an
improvement on the old system, because the fresh air comes in straight,
and you can regulate the inflow. But in both cases the fresh air has to
_ascend_, and unless there is a wind blowing you get very little of it
on a hot summer day. The ventilation depending entirely on temperature,
without being assisted by a draught, if the outside temperature, as is
often the case in the summer, happens to be higher than that of your
cell, your atmosphere is stagnant, and you live in a tank of foul air.
This defect might be partially remedied by leaving the cell doors open
when the prisoners are out at exercise or chapel, and, as it were,
refilling the tank. But keys are a fetish in prison, and the officials
think it quite as necessary to lock up an empty cell as an occupied one.
The cell floor, I have said, was blackleaded and polished. A small fibre
brush was supplied for sweeping up the dust, and a tight roll of black
cloth for polishing. I used both these at first, but I soon dispensed
with the latter. Having a slight cold, I found my expectoration black,
a circumstance that slightly alarmed me until I reflected that my lungs
were in excellent order, and that the discoloration must be due to some
extrinsic cause. This I discovered to be the blacklead from the floor.
It wears off under your tread, and as there is no draught to carry the
dust away, it floats in the air and is inhaled. The only remedy was to
avoid the blacklead altogether. When, therefore, the bucket containing
a quantity in solution was next brought round, I declined to have any.
"But you must," said the officer. "Well, I object," I answered, "and I
certainly shall not put it on. If you like to do it yourself of course
I cannot prevent you." He did not like to do it himself and disappeared,
saying he would come again directly, which he forgot to do. Several days
afterwards the Deputy-Governor came on a tour of inspection. Noticing
that my floor was neither black nor polished, he attempted a mild
reproof. I repeated my objection. "Well, you know," he replied, "you
must keep your cell clean." "Yes," I rejoined, "and I _do_ keep it
clean for my own sake; but your blacklead is _dirt_." That ended the
conversation, and the blacklead question was never agitated again,
although once or twice, during my absence from the cell, the obnoxious
stuff was put on the floor and polished up by one of the cleaners.
Let me add that in the new cells the floors are all boarded, and the
blacklead nuisance is there unknown.
While I was meditating on my luxurious surroundings, the warder entered
again with a prisoner, who carried a bag. "Well, Mr. Foote," said the
genial officer, "how are you getting on? I've brought you some work. It
isn't hard, and you needn't task yourself; you'll find it help to pass
away the time." Some of the contents of the bag were then emptied on the
floor. They consisted of fibre-rope clipped into short lengths. These
had to be picked abroad. The work was light, but very monotonous. It did
help to kill time, and it was less troublesome than picking oakum.
Mr. Truelove tells me that they made him pick oakum in prison till
his fingers were raw, and laughed at him for complaining. He was then
seventy years old! Think of it, reader, and reflect on the tender
mercies of the religion of charity.
During my imprisonment I never worked at anything but fibre-picking.
Gladly would I have wheeled a barrow in the open air, but that is a
privilege reserved for felons; misdemeanants are locked up in their
cells night and day. Once there was an attempt made to instruct me in
the art of brush-making, but it egregiously failed. An officer from the
D wing, where the mats and brushes are made, opened my cell door one
afternoon, and shouted, "Come along!" "Where?" I asked, not liking his
manner. "Where!" he ejaculated, "Come along." "Thank you," I said, "but
you must please tell me where." He was very much annoyed by my freezing
civility, which I always found the best represser of impertinence;
but recognising his mistake, he changed his tone, and vouchsafed an
explanation. "The Governor," he said, "wants you to come and see how
brushes are made." "Oh, of course," I said, and marched after him.
Arriving at the D wing, I was silently introduced to a prisoner sitting
on a stool, who had been brought out of his cell to give me lessons
in brush-making. He worked and I watched. Presently the officer had to
attend to some other business a few yards off. Directly his back was
turned the prisoner eagerly whispered, "How long are ye doin'?" I told
him. "I'm doin' fifteen months," he confidingly said. Then he added,
with look half positive and half interrogative, "Time's damned long,
ain't it?" I agreed. Forgetting his work, he spliced a bit of rope
badly. "See," I said, "that splice is wrong." "Ah," he replied, his face
brightening, "you're a salt un too, are ye? Hanged if I didn't think
you was a barnacle." He informed me that he had been in the English
and American navies, and all round the world. Where had I been? I was
obliged to explain that I was a journalist. Quill-driving, as he called
it, was evidently, in his opinion, an ignominious employment. However
did I learn splicing! When I explained that I was bred at the seaside,
and passionately loved boating, his sailor's heart warmed towards me
again. "This work ain't hard," he said; "you can make two brushes in an
hour and a half, and I makes a dozen a week." I smiled. It was a fine
illustration of what is called prison labor. Resuming, he said: "I'm
the only one as makes 'em now, and I s'pose they wants more. The chap
as made 'em afore me used to do three dozen a week. Wasn't he a darned
fool? Now, don't you go makin' more than two a day, or you'll put my
nose out of joint." "No," I promised, "I won't make _more_ than two a
day." "Ah," he said, looking at me with a comical twinkle of the eyes,
"I see you ain't a goin' to make brushes."
At this point the warder stepped up, and invited me to try my hand.
"Thank you," I replied; "the Governor told you to let me see how brushes
are made, and I have seen how brushes are made." Then bowing slightly,
I walked straight back to my cell, leaving the officer almost petrified
with astonishment. I heard no more of brush-making.
My objection to the work was simple. It was more interesting than
picking fibre, but it necessitated stooping, the brush being held, like
a shoe, between the knees. As a lecturer, I knew too well the value of a
sound chest to engage in such employment.
I come now to the diet. Third-class fare, to which I was entitled by
the doctor's order, was almost entirely farinaceous, and miserably
monotonous. Breakfast and tea (or supper), served at eight and six
respectively, consisted of six ounces of brown bread and three quarters
of a pint of gruel, or "skilly." The latter was frequently so fluid
that spooning was unnecessary. The dinners, served punctually at twelve
o'clock, were more varied. Brown bread and browner potatoes were
the staple of each mid-day meal. The bread was always excellent. The
potatoes were abominable. I have said that they were browner than the
bread, and I may add that the color was not caused by cooking, but
purely original. As the old potatoes were leaving the market, and the
new ones were too expensive for prisoners, the most robust appetite
must have turned with disgust from the supply which fell to our share. I
should imagine that every swine's trough around the metropolis must have
been plundered to provision Holloway Gaol.
The variable part of the dinner was as follows. Pea-soup, to which, as I
have already said, I had a physical antipathy, was served up three days
out of every seven--on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. And such
pea-soup! The mixture used to rise as I swallowed it, and I have often
grasped my throat to keep it down, knowing that if I did not eat,
however nauseous the food, my health would necessarily suffer. It was
not pea-soup before the joint, but pea-soup without it, and in that case
the quality of the compound is an important matter. When I read the
Book of Job afresh in my cell, I found in the sixth chapter, and seventh
verse, a text which admirably suited my situation: "The things that my
soul refused to touch are as my sorrowful meat." Three days a week I
could have preached a better, or at least a more feeling, sermon on that
text than any parson in the kingdom.
On Sundays and Wednesdays, instead of the pea-soup, I was served with
six ounces of suet pudding baked in a separate tin. I never saw such
pudding, and I never smelt such suet. Brown meal was used for the dough,
and the suet lay on the top in yellow greasy streaks. I can liken the
compound to nothing but a linseed poultice. The resemblance was so
obvious that it struck many other prisoners. I have heard the
term poultice applied to the suet pudding more than once in casual
conversations in the exercise ground. Twice a week I was entitled to
meat. On Friday, instead of the pea-soup or suet pudding, there was
three ounces of Australian beef; and on Mondays _three-quarters of an
ounce_ of fat bacon with some white beans. The subtle humorist who drew
up the diet scale had appended a note that "all meats were to be weighed
without bone."
A good tale hangs by that bacon and beans. While I was awaiting the
second trial in Newgate, and providing my own food, I studied the
diet scale which hangs up in each cell, and was fascinated by this
extravagant quantity of pork, which seemed to evidence an unimagined
display of prison hospitality. One of the officers to whom I mentioned
the matter said, "Ah, Mr. Foote, I wish you would show that diet up
when you get out. Untried prisoners have the same fare as condemned
criminals, only they get less of it. There are lusty chaps come in here,
some of them quite innocent, who could eat twice as much, and look
round for the man that cooked it. I'll tell you a story about that
three-quarters of an ounce. A fellow rang his bell one day after the
dinner was served. 'Well,' I said, 'what's the matter?' 'I want's my
bacon,' said he. 'Well, you've got it,' said I. 'No I aint,' said he.
'It's in your tin,' said I. 'Taint in my tin,' said he. Then I fetched
up the cook. We all three searched, and at last we found the bacon in
one of the shucks of the beans."
The worthy fellow laughed, and so did I, as he ended his story. There
might have been some exaggeration in it, but you would not find it so
hard to believe if you had ever sat down to dine on three-quarters of an
ounce of fat bacon.
I was confined in my cell twenty-three hours out of every twenty-four,
and during the first week my one hour's exercise was mostly taken in the
corridor instead of in the open air. The prison authorities are careless
about a man's health being subtly undermined, but they do not like
him to catch cold, which may produce visible and audible consequences.
Whenever it is snowing or raining, or whenever the ground is wet, the
prisoners exercise in the corridors, where the air is scarcely purer
than in their cells. During the first week, the weather being bad,
I only went out once. On Saturday, which was cleaning day, I had no
exercise at all, and on Sunday I was entitled to none--prisoners not
being allowed that privilege on the blessed Sabbath until a month of
their sentence has expired. I was therefore confined to my cell without
exercise or fresh air from Friday morning until Monday morning, or
three clear days. The exercise out of doors is a delightful relief from
solitary confinement in a brick vault. The prisoners walk in Indian file
in circles: a regular thieves' procession, the Rogue's March without
the music. The new comers, who violate the rule of silence, are soon
detected by the vigilant officers, but the old hands, as I have said,
acquire a habit of speaking without moving the lips, and in a tone
which just reaches their next neighbor. Ten days or so after I entered
Holloway I overheard the following conversation behind me:--
"Who's that bloke in front o' you?" "Dunno," was the reply. "Queer
lookin' bloke, aint he?"--"How long's he doin'?"--"A stretch," which in
prison language means twelve months, and having served that term, I know
that it _is_ a stretch. "What's he in for?"--"Dunno, but I hear he
put somethin' in a paper they didn't like."--"What, a stretch for
that!"--And I venture to assert that, although the prisoner who uttered
this ejaculation was on the wrong side of a gaol, his unsophisticated
common sense on this point was infinitely superior to the bigotry of
Giffard, Harcourt, and North, and of the jury who assisted in sending us
to gaol for "putting something in a paper they didn't like."
During my first week's residence in Holloway Gaol, owing to the bad
weather, I exercised in the corridor with the other inmates of the A
wing. There is little more room between the cell doors and the railing
overlooking the well than suffices for the passage of a single person.
The prisoners therefore walked in Indian file, and as they were
practically beyond supervision except when they came abreast of one of
the three or four officers in charge, a great deal of conversation went
on, and I wondered why the chief warder below did not hear the loud hum
of so many voices. I afterwards discovered the reason. When you stand
under the procession you can hear nothing but the trampling of dozens of
feet, which reverberates through the wing, and drowns every other sound.
At first I marched as stiff as a poker, drawing myself together, as
it were, into the smallest compass, to avoid the contamination of
the company, most of whom were poor, repulsive specimens of humanity,
survivals in our civilised age of the lower types of barbarous or savage
times. Most of them were young and had a reckless bearing, but a few
were middle-aged, and some were obviously old hands who "knew the
ropes," were reconciled to their fate, and resolved on making the best
of the situation. Tramp, tramp, tramp! My very life seemed reduced to
this monotonous shuffle. I half fancied myself in a new kind of hell,
ranked in an everlasting procession of aimless feet, mechanically
following a convict's coat in front of me, and as mechanically followed
by the wearer of a similar coat behind. But as I passed the great window
at the end of the wing the blessed light of the silvery winter sun
sometimes streamed through the dense glass upon my face, rays of
the eternal splendor coming so many millions of miles from the
great fire-fount, how indifferent, as Perdita saw, to the artificial
distinctions of men! I felt refreshed, but the feeling wore off as I
returned to the gloomy corridor, skirting cells on the right, and on the
left a low rail that offered the suicide a tempting leap into the arms
of Death. All this time I was living an intense inward life, but
I suppose there was a far-away look in my eyes, for now and then a
prisoner would say "Cheer up, sir." I smiled at this consolatory effort,
for although I was disgusted, I was not despondent. Occasionally
an attempt was made to drag me into conversation, but I parried all
advances with as little offence as possible. One dirty short man,
grievously afflicted with scurvy, or something worse, several times
manoeuvred to get behind me, and at last he succeeded. "How long ye
doin', mate?" No answer. "I say, mate, how long ye doin'?" No answer. "A
damned long time, _I_ know, or they wouldn' give ye a ---- new suit like
that, ye stuck-up ------."
What oaths I heard in that wretched gaol! No abomination of human speech
is unknown to me. One particularly vile expletive was fashionable during
my imprisonment; it seasoned every phrase, and preceded every adjective.
Its constant iteration was sickening, until long experience made me
callous. How thankful I should be to Judge North for trying to purify
me in that mud-bath of rascality. I can never forget the debt of
gratitude--and I never will!
Among the prisoners I noticed one of robust physique and martial
bearing. Seldom had I seen so fine a figure. Within six months I saw
that man reduced almost to a skeleton by solitary confinement, wearily
trailing one limb after the other, and looking out despairingly from
cavernous, moribund eyes. Well did Lord Fitzgerald (I think) in a recent
speech in the House of Lords describe this torture as the worst ever
devised by the brain of man. His lordship added that the Governor of a
great prison told him that he never knew a man undergo twelve months
of such punishment without severe suffering, or two years of it without
being terribly shaken, or three years without being physically and
mentally wrecked. In the penal servitude establishments the discipline
has to be relaxed, or the prisoners would die or go mad before their
terms expired. They work out of their cells in the daytime, and on
certain occasions (Sundays, I believe) they are allowed to walk in
couples and exercise their faculty of speech.
The poor fellow I refer to, fearing that he would die, and having learnt
that I was a public man, managed to tell me something of his case. He
had been a warder in Coldbath Fields Prison, where he officiated as
master-tailor. In an evil moment he "cabbaged" some cloth, was detected,
tried, condemned, and sentenced to twenty months' imprisonment. He had
been in the army for over twenty years without a scratch of the pen
against his name, and his officers had given him excellent characters;
but the judge would hear of nothing in mitigation of sentence, although
he knew it deprived the man of a pension of thirty-six pounds a year,
which he had earned by long service in India, where the enemy's blades
had drunk deeply of his blood. His wife and children had gone to a
work-house in Leicestershire, and as they had no money for travelling,
he had never received a visit. He pined away in his miserable cell until
he became a pitiable spectacle which excited the compassion of the whole
prison. The doctor ordered him out of his cell, but the authorities
would not allow it. He told me how much he had lost round the chest and
calf, but I have forgotten the precise figures. One fact, however, I
recollect distinctly; he had lost _eight inches round the thigh_, and
his flesh was like a child's. Eventually the doctor peremptorily
ordered him into the hospital, and the Prison Commissioners and Visiting
Magistrates were reluctantly obliged to let him save the man's life.
Dreary indeed was the life in my prison cell, sitting on the
three-legged stool picking fibre, or walking up and down the twelve-foot
floor. I used frequently to stand under the window for long intervals,
resting my hand on the sloping sill. It was impossible to see through
the heavy-fluted panes, but outside was light, liberty and life.
Sometimes, especially on Saturdays, when I had been accustomed to run
down to the North, the Midlands or the West, to fulfil a lecturing
engagement, the muffled shriek of a distant railway whistle went through
me like the clash of steel.
My library, during the first three months, consisted of a Bible, a
Prayer Book and a Hymn Book. Although I was really there for knowing too
much about the "blessed book" already, I read it right through in the
first month, and again in the second, besides reading it discursively
afterwards. And still, I am a sincerely impenitent Freethinker! You may
knock a man down with the Bible, and make an impression on his skull;
but when he picks himself up again, you find you have made no impression
on his mind, except that his opinion of _you_ is altered. I remember
the chaplain calling to see me one day as I was just concluding my
inspection of what Heine calls the menagerie of the Apocalypse. He could
not help seeing the Bible, for when it lay open there was very little
table visible. "Ah," he said, "I see you have been reading the holy
Scripture." "Yes," I replied, "I've read it through this month, and I
believe I'm the only man in the place who has done it--including the
chaplain."
By and by the schoolmaster hunted me out a French Bible, the only one in
the prison. It was an old one, and contained some scratches by a
Gallic prisoner, who had been twice immured for smuggling (_pour
contrabandier_), and who pathetically called on God to help him. _Cette
vie est vie amere_, he had written. Yes, my poor French friend, it was
bitter indeed! As for the hymn book, it contained two or three good
pieces, like Newman's "Lead, Kindly Light," but for the rest it was the
scraggiest collection I ever met with--evangelical and wooden, with an
occasional dash of weak music and washy sentiment.
The monotony of my existence was not even broken by visits to chapel.
After the first day's attendance at "divine worship" for some reason I
was not let out at the hour of devotion. After a few days, however, one
of the principal officers said to me "Wouldn't you like to go to chapel,
Mr. Foote. There's nothing irksome in it, and you'll find it breaks the
monotony." "With pleasure," I replied, "but I have not till now received
an invitation." "What!" he exclaimed. Then, calling up a young Irish
officer in my wing, he asked "How is this? Why hasn't Mr. Foote been
invited to chapel?" "Well, sir," answered the culprit, scratching his
head and looking sheepish, "I knew Mr. Foote was a Freethinker, and I
didn't want to insult his opinions." Good! I thought. Why was not this
worthy fellow on the jury, or better still, on the bench? I told him I
was very much obliged for his intended kindness, but at the same time I
preferred going to chapel, as I wished to see all I could for my money.
After that I went to the house of prayer like any church-going belle
(this is what Cowper must have meant, for how could a _bell_ go to
church?) every Sunday, and every other day during the week. Had the
chapel been of larger dimensions I should have gone daily, but it was
too small to hold all the prisoners, who were therefore divided into two
congregations, each approaching the, holy altar on alternate days. What
I saw and heard in the sacred edifice will be related in a separate
chapter.
At the end of my second month I was entitled to a school-book and a
slate and pencil. These articles were promptly brought to me by the
obliging school-master. Two copies of Colenso's Arithmetic had been
procured; one was given to me, and the other, as I afterwards learned,
to Mr. Ramsey. The fly-leaf was cut out, I noticed; the object being to
prevent us from obtaining a bit of paper to write on. This, I may
add, is the general rule in the prison library, every book being thus
mutilated. It is a silly precaution, for if a prisoner can succeed in
carrying on a correspondence with his friends outside, he is obviously
not dependent on the library for materials, and he would be the veriest
fool to excite suspicion by amputating the leaves of a book.
Knowing that I should have no better school-book during my long
imprisonment, I determined to make Colenso last as long as possible. I
steadily went through it from beginning to end. Working the addition
and subtraction sums was certainly tedious, but I wanted to keep the
interesting problems, as you reserve the daintier portions of a repast,
till the end. Curiously enough, it was the sober and serious Colenso
who gave me my one restless night in Holloway Gaol. I puzzled over one
pretty problem, and the bed-bell rang before I could solve it. Directly
my gas was turned out the method of solution flashed on my mind, and
I was so vexed at being unable to work it out immediately that it
was hours before I could fall asleep. During that time my brain made
desperate but futile efforts to reach the answer by mental arithmetic,
and when I woke in the morning I felt thoroughly fagged.
Having had no writing materials for two months the slate and pencil
looked very inviting. I composed a few pieces of verse, including a
sonnet on Giordano Bruno and some epigrams on Parson Plaford, Judge
North, Sir Hardinge Giffard, and other distasteful personages. But as
every piece written on the slate had to be rubbed out to make room for
the next, I soon sickened of composition. It was murdering one bantling
to make place for another.
Sometimes the dulness of my incarceration was relieved by overhearing
whispered conversations outside my cell door. Until we became well
known, there was considerable speculation among the prisoners as to
who we were, and what we were there for. One day a couple of fellows,
engaged in cleaning the corridor, worked themselves near together, one
standing on either side of my door. "Who's the bloke in yer?" I heard
queried. "Dunno," said the other, "I b'lieve he's a Fenian." Another
time I heard the answer, "Oh, he's one of Bradlaugh's pals; and
Bradlaugh's coming up next week"--a next week which happily never
arrived.
Mr. Ramsey tells me that similar speculations went on outside his door.
Like mine, his card specified "misdr." (misdemeanor) as the offence, the
officials perhaps not liking to write blasphemy. Like me also, he
was put down as a Fenian. "Why there," said a prisoner, who had just
enounced this opinion, "look at his card; see--murder!" The "misdr."
was not written too plainly, and "murder" was his interpretation of the
hieroglyph.
Let me here interpolate another good story in connexion with Mr. Ramsey.
He was confidently asked by an old hand what he was in for. "Blasphemy,"
said Mr. Ramsey. "Blasphemy! What the hell's that?" said the fellow.
Here was a confirmed criminal who had never heard of this crime before;
it was not in the catalogue known to his fraternity; and on learning
that all which could be got from it was nine months' imprisonment if you
were found out, and nothing if you were not, he concluded that he would
never patronize that line of business.
From the description already given of my cell, the reader has seen that
my domestic accommodations were exceedingly limited. All my ablutions
were performed with the aid of a tin bowl, holding about a quart. This
sufficed for hands and face, but how was I to get a wash all over? I
broached this question one day to warder Smith, who informed me that
the bathing appliances of the establishment were scanty, and that the
prisoners were only "tubbed" once a fortnight. I explained to him that I
was not used to such uncleanliness; but of course he could not help me.
Then I laid the matter before the Deputy-Governor, who told an officer
to take me to the bath-room at the base of the debtor's wing, where I
enjoyed a good scrub. On returning to the criminal part of the prison I
had my hair cut, a prisoner officiating as barber. Despite the rule of
silence, I gave him verbal instructions how to proceed, otherwise he
would have given me the regular prison crop. During the rest of my term
I always had my hair trimmed in my own fashion. The prison crop, I may
observe, is rather a custom than a rule; the regulations require
only such hair-cutting and shaving as is necessary for health and
cleanliness, but the criminal population affect short hair, and the
difficulty is not to bring them under, but to keep them out of, the
barber's hands.
Prison barbers are generally amateurs. Of course the officers are above
such work, and unless a member of the tonsorial profession happens to
be in residence, the scissors are wielded by the first man who fancies
himself a natural adept at the business. The last barber I saw in
Holloway Gaol was a coachman, whose only qualification for the work was
that he had clipped horses' legs. He wore a blue apron round a corpulent
waist, and looked remarkably like a pork-butcher. He walked round the
victim like an artist engaged on a bust, and his habit was to work
steadily away at one spot until the skin showed like a piece of white
plaster, after which he labored at another spot, and so on, until the
task was finished. Seeing on my head an uncommon mass of hair, he made
many desperate solicitations to be allowed an opportunity of displaying
his skill, but I steadily resisted the appeal, although it evidently cut
him to the quick.
The bathing-house for the criminal prisoners has eight compartments. In
the ordinary course, I should have formed one of a detachment of that
number, but an exception was made in my case, and I was always taken to
bathe alone. Behind the bath-room were the dark cells. I was allowed to
inspect these miserable, black holes. They were damp and fetid, and when
the door was closed you were in Egyptian darkness. I cannot conceive
that such horrid punishment is necessary or justifiable. The prison
authorities have every inmate absolutely in their power, and if they are
obliged to resort to the black-hole, it must be from want of foresight
or the general imbecility of the system.
The flogging was always done outside the black-hole, in the bath-room
at the foot of the D wing. I have often heard screaming wretches
dragged along the corridor, and their cries of agony as their backs were
lacerated by the cat. Singularly, the dinner hour was always selected
for this performance, which must have been a great stimulus to the
appetites of new comers. One man who was lashed told me it was weeks
before his flesh healed. I do not believe that the cat and the dark
hole are necessary to prison discipline. They brutalise and degrade both
prisoners and officials.
The doctor was astonished one morning by my application for a
tooth-brush. Such a thing was never seen or heard of in a prison. I
was obliged therefore to use my middle finger, which I found a very
inefficient substitute. Another difficulty arose on the shirt question.
The prisoners are allowed a clean outer shirt every week, and a clean
inner shirt every fortnight. I explained that I would prefer the
order reversed, but was told that I could not be accommodated. But I
persisted. I wearied the upper officials with applications, and finally
obtained a clean kit weekly. Even then I found it necessary to badger
them still further. The fortnightly intervals between the baths were too
long, and at last I got the Governor to let me have a tub of cold water
in my cell every night. This luxury of cleanliness was the best feature
in the programme, although my fellow-prisoners appeared to regard it as
an unaccountable fad.
One or two brief conversations with the Governor were also an agreeable
variation. I found him to be a disciple and friend of the late F. D.
Maurice, one of whose books he offered to lend me. He was astonished
to find that I had read it, as well as other works by the same author,
which he had _not_ read. Colonel Milman expressed a good deal of
admiration for Mr. George Jacob Holyoake, and he was still more
astonished when I told him that this gentleman had occupied a
blasphemer's cell in the old stirring days, when he fiercely attacked
Christianity instead of flattering it. "Nothing would give me greater
pleasure," said the gallant Governor, "than to hear from you some day as
a believer." "Sir," I replied, "I would not have you entertain any such
hope, for it will never be realised. My Freethought is not a hobby, but
a conviction. You must remember that I have been a Christian, that I
know all that can be said in defence of your creed, and that I am well
acquainted with all your best writers. I am a Freethinker in spite
of this; I might say _because_ of it. And can you suppose that my
imprisonment will induce me to regard Christianity with a more friendly
eye? On the contrary, it confirms my belief that your creed, to which
you are personally so superior, is a curse, and carries the spirit of
persecution in its heart of hearts."
Colonel Milman smiled sadly. He began to see that the sceptical disease
in me was beyond the reach of physic.