The Gospel of Holloway Gaol, with which Judge North essayed my
conversion, produced the opposite effect. Parson Plaford, the prison
chaplain, was admirably adapted by nature to preach it. I have already
referred to his gruff voice. He generally taxed it in his sermon, and I
frequently heard his thunderous accents in the depths of my cell, when
he was preaching to the other half of the establishment. His personal
appearance harmonised with his voice. His countenance was austere, and
his manner overbearing. The latter trait may have been intensified by
his low stature. It is a fact of general observation that there is no
pomposity like the pomposity of littleness. Parson Plaford may be five
feet four, but I would lay anything he is not five feet five. I will,
however, do him the justice of saying that he read the lessons with
clearness and good emphasis, and that he strove to prevent his criminal
congregation from enjoying the luxury of a stealthy nap. He occasionally
furnished them with some amusement by attempting to lead the singing.
The melody of his voice, which suggested the croak of an asthmatical
raven, threw them into transports of sinister appreciation; and
the remarkable manner in which he sometimes displayed the graces of
Christian courtesy to the schoolmaster afforded them an opportunity of
contrasting the chaplain with the Governor.
Parson Plaford's deity was an almighty gaoler. The reverend gentlemen
took a prison view of everything. He had a habit, as I learned, of
asking new comers what was their sentence, and informing them that it
ought to have been twice as long. In his opinion, God had providentially
sent them there to be converted from sin by the power of his ministry.
I cannot say, however, that the divine experiment was attended with much
success. The chaplain frequently told us from the pulpit that he had
some very promising cases in the prison, but we never heard that any
of them ripened to maturity. When he informed us of these hopeful
apprentices to conversion, I noticed that the prisoners near me eyed him
as I fancy the Spanish gypsies eyed George Borrow when they heard him
read the Bible. Their silence was respectful, but there was an eloquent
criticism in their squint.
After one of his frequent absences in search of health, Parson Plaford
related with great gusto a real case of conversion. On one particular
morning a prisoner was released, who expressed sincere repentance for
his sins, and the chaplain's _locum tenens_ had written in the discharge
book that he believed it was "a real case of conversion to God." That
very morning, I found by comparing notes, also witnessed the release of
Mr. Kemp. All the parson-power of Holloway Gaol had failed to shake
his Freethought. _His_ conversion would have been a feather in the
chaplain's hat, but it could not be accomplished. The utmost that could
be achieved was the conversion of a Christian to Christianity.
On another occasion, Parson Plaford ingenuously illustrated the
character of prison conversions. An old hand, a well-known criminal who
had visited the establishment with wearisome frequency, was near his
discharge. He had an interview with the chaplain and begged assistance.
"Sir," he said, "I've told you I was converted before, and you helped
me. It wasn't true, I know; but I am really converted this time. God
knows it sir." But the chaplain would not be imposed upon again. He
declined to furnish the man with the assistance he solicited. "And
then," said the preacher, with tears in his voice, "he cursed and swore;
he called me the vilest names, which I should blush to repeat, and I had
to order him out of the room." "Oh," he continued, "it is an ungrateful
world. But holy scripture says that in the latter days unthankfulness
shall abound, and these things are signs that the end is approaching.
Blessed be God, some of us are ready to meet him." These lachrymose
utterances were the precursors of a long disquisition on his favorite
topic--the end of the world, the grand wind-up of the Lord's business.
We were duly initiated into the mysteries of prophecy, a subject which,
as South said, either finds a man cracked or leaves him so. The latter
days and the last days were accurately distinguished, and it was
obscurely hinted that we were within measurable distance of the flaming
catastrophe.
Over forty sermons fell from Parson Plaford's lips into my critical
ears, and I never detected a grain of sense in any of them. Nor could
I gather that he had read any other book than the Bible. Even that he
appeared to have read villainously, for he seemed ignorant of much of
its contents, and he told us many things that are not in it. He placed
a _pen_ in the fingers of the man's hand which disturbed Belshazzar's
feast, and gave us many similar additions to holy writ. Yet he was
singularly devoid of imagination. He took everything in the Bible
literally, even the story of the descent of the Holy Ghost upon the
apostles in the shape of cloven tongues of fire. "They were like this,"
he said, making an angle with the knuckles of his forefinger on the top
of his bald head, and looking at us with a pathetic air of sincerity. It
was the most ludicrous spectacle I ever witnessed.
During the few visits he paid me, Parson Plaford was fairly civil.
Mr. Ramsey seems to have been the subject of his impertinence. My
fellow-prisoner was informed that we deserved transportation for life.
Yet at that time the chaplain had not even _seen_ the publication
for which we were imprisoned! However, his son had, and he was "a
trustworthy young man." Towards the end of his term Mr. Ramsey found
the charitable heart of the man of God relent so far as to allow that
transportation for life was rather too heavy a punishment for our
offence, which only deserved perpetual detention in a lunatic asylum.
For the last ten months of my term Parson Plaford neither honoured nor
dishonored my cell with his presence. Soon after I was domiciled in
the A wing he called to see me. I rose from my stool and made him
a satirical bow. This greeting, however, was too freezing for his
effusiveness. Notwithstanding the opinion of us he had expressed to Mr.
Ramsey, and with which I was of course unacquainted, he extended his
hand as though he had known me for years.
"Ah," he said, "this is a sorry sight. Your trouble is mental I know. I
wish I could help you, but I cannot. You are here for breaking the law,
you know." "Yes," I replied, "such as it is. But the law is broken every
week. Millions of people abstain from attending church on Sunday, yet
there is an unrepealed law which commands them to."
"Yes, and I'd make them," was the fiery answer from the little man, as
the bigot flamed in his eyes.
"Come now," I said, "you couldn't if you tried."
"Well," he said, "you've got to suffer. But even if you are a martyr,
you don't suffer what _our_ martyrs did."
"Perhaps not," I retorted, "but I suffer all your creed is able
to inflict. Doesn't it occur to you as strange and monstrous that
Christianity, which boasts so of its own martyrs, should in turn
persecute all who differ from it? Suppose Freethought had the upper
hand, and served you as you serve us: wouldn't you think it shameful?"
"Of course," he blurted. Then, correcting himself, he added: "But you
never will get the upper hand."
"How do you know?" I asked. "Freethought _has_ the upper hand in
France."
"Yes," he replied, "but that is an infidel country. It will never be so
here."
"But suppose," I continued, "it _were_ so here, and we imprisoned you
for deriding our opinions as you imprison us for deriding yours. Would
you not say you were persecuted?"
"Oh," he said, "that's a different thing."
Mr. Bradlaugh was then mentioned.
"By the way, you're remarkably like him," said the chaplain.
I thought it a brilliant discovery, and still more so when I learned, a
few minutes later, that he had not seen Mr. Bradlaugh for thirty years.
Darwin was referred to next.
"I suppose you know he's been disproved," said the chaplain,
complacently.
"No, I don't," I answered; "nor do I quite understand what you mean.
_What_ has been disproved?"
"Why," he said, "I mean that man isn't a monkey."
"Indeed!" I rejoined; "I am not aware that Darwin ever said that man
_is_ a monkey. Nor do I think so myself--except in some extreme cases."
Whether this was construed as a personality or not I am unable to
decide, but our interview soon terminated. Parson Plaford called on
me two or three times during the next few weeks, promised me some good
books to read as soon as the regulations permitted, and fulfilled his
promise by never visiting me again.
Mr. Ramsey was nursed a little longer. I suppose the chaplain had hopes
of him. But he finally relinquished them when Mr. Ramsey said one Monday
morning, on being asked what he thought of yesterday's sermon, "I wonder
how you could talk such nonsense. Why, I could preach a better sermon
myself."
"Could you?" bristled the little man. And from that moment he gave Mr.
Ramsey up for lost.
One day the chaplain ran full butt against Mr. Kemp in the corridor.
"Ah," he said, "how are you getting on?" Mr. Kemp made a curt reply. The
fact was, he was chewing a small piece of tobacco, an article which does
somehow creep into the prison in minute quantities, and is swapped for
large pieces of bread. Mr. Kemp was enjoying the luxury, although it
would have been nauseous in other circumstances; for the prison fare
is so insipid that even a dose of medicine is an agreeable change. Now
Parson Plaford and Mr. Kemp are about the same height, and lest the
chaplain should see or smell the tobacco, the little blasphemer was
obliged to turn his head aside, hoping the conversation would soon
end. But the little parson happened to be in a loquacious mood, and the
interview was painfully prolonged. Next Sunday there was a withering
sermon on "infidels," who were described as miserable persons that "dare
not look you in the face."
Parson Plaford seemed to be on very intimate terms with his maker. If
his little finger ached, the Lord meant something by it. Yet, although
he was always ready to be called home, he was still more ready to accept
the doctor's advice to take a holiday when he felt unwell. The last
sermon I heard him preach was delivered through a sore throat, a chronic
malady which he exasperated by bawling. He told us that the work and
worry were too much for him, and the doctor had ordered him rest, if he
wished to live. He was going away for a week or two to see what the
Lord meant to do with him; and I afterwards heard some of the prisoners
wonder what the Lord _was_ doing with him. "I speak to you as a dying
man," said the chaplain, as he had said several times before when he
felt unwell; and as it might be the last time he would ever preach
there, he besought somebody, as a special act of gratitude, to get saved
that very day.
One of the prisoners offered a different reason for the chaplain's
temporary retirement. "He ain't ill, sir. I knows what 'tis. I was down
at the front when your friend Mr. Ramsey went out. There was a lot of
coaches and people, and the parson looked as white as a ghost. He thinks
ther'll be more coaches and people when you goes out, and he's gone off
sooner than see 'em."
During the chaplain's absences his _locum tenens_ was usually a
gentleman of very opposite characteristics. He was tall, thin, modest,
and even diffident. He slipped into your cell, as I said before, with
the deferential air of an undertaker. His speech was extremely soft and
rapid, although he stuttered a little now and then from nervousness.
"I suppose you know," I asked on his first visit, "what I am here for?"
"Y-e-s," he stammered, with something like a blush. I said no more, for
it was evident he wished to avoid the subject, and I really think he
was sorry to see me persecuted in the name of Christ. He had called, he
said, to see whether he could do anything for me. Could he lend me any
books? I thanked him for the proffered kindness, but I had my own books
to read by that time. Mr. Stubbs's sermons were much superior to Mr.
Plaford's. They were almost too good for the congregation. He dwelt with
fondness on the tender side of Christ's character, and seemed to look
forward to a heaven which would ultimately contain everybody.
On one occasion we had a phenomenal old gentleman in the pulpit. He was
white-haired but florid. His appearance was remarkably youthful, and
his voice sonorous. I heard that he was assistant chaplain at one of the
other London prisons. With the most exemplary fidelity he went through
the morning service, omitting nothing; unlike Parson Plaford, who
shortened it to leave time for his sermon. I wondered whether he would
get through it by dinner-time, or whether he would continue it in the
afternoon. But he just managed to secure ten minutes for his sermon,
which began with these extraordinary words, that were sung out at the
top of his voice: "When the philosopher observes zoophyte formations on
the tops of mountains, he," etc. How singularly appropriate it was to
the congregation. The sermon was not exactly "Greek" to them, but it was
all "zoophyte." I heard some of them wonder when that funny old boy was
coming again.
The prisoners sit in chapel on backless benches, tier above tier, from
the rails in front of the clerk's desk almost to the roof behind. Two
corners are boarded off within the rails, one for the F wing and the
other for the debtors' wing. Above them is a long gallery, with private
boxes for the governor, the doctor and the chief warder, and a pulpit
for the chaplain. Parson Plaford used to make a great noise in closing
the heavy door behind the pulpit, leading to the front of the prison;
and he rattled the keys as though he loved the sound. He placed them on
the desk beside the "sacred volume," and I used to think that the Bible
and the keys went well together. In offering his first private prayer,
as well as in his last after the benediction, he always covered his
face with the sleeve of his robe, lest, I suppose, the glory of his
countenance, while communicating with his maker, should afflict us as
the insufferable splendor of the face of Moses afflicted the Jews at
Mount Sinai. His audible prayers were made kneeling with clasped hands
and upturned face. His eyes were closed tightly, his features were
painfully contracted, and his voice was a falsetto squeak. I fancy the
Governor must have sighed at the performance. The doctor never troubled
to attend it.
The prisoners were supposed to cross their hands in front while in
chapel. Several unsuccessful attempts were made to induce me to conform
to the regulation. I declined to strike prescribed attitudes. Another
rule, pretty rigorously enforced, was that the prisoners should look
straight before them. If a head was turned aside, an officer bawled
out "Look to your front." I once heard the injunction ludicrously
interpolated in the service. "Dearly beloved brethren," said the
chaplain. "Look to your front," growled the officer. It was text and
comment.
Only once did I see a prisoner impressed. The man sat next to me; his
face was red, and he stared at the chaplain with a pair of goggle
eyes. Surely, I thought, the parson is producing an effect. As we were
marching back to our cells I heard a sigh. Turning round, I saw my
harvest-moon-faced friend in an ecstacy. It was Sunday morning, and near
dinner time. Raising his hands, while his goggle eyes gleamed like wet
pebbles, the fellow ejaculated--"Pudden next."
I have already referred to the chapel music, in which the schoolmaster
played such a distinguished part. A few more notes on this subject may
not be out of place. There was a choir of a dozen or so prisoners, most
of whom were long-term men in some position of trust. Short-timers
are not, I believe, eligible for membership; indeed, the whole public
opinion of the establishment is against these unfortunates, who have
committed no crime worth speaking of; and I still remember with what
a look of disgust the worthy schoolmaster once described them to me
as "Mere parasites, here to-day and gone to-morrow." Having a bit of
a voice, I was invited to join the sweet psalmists of Holloway; but I
explained that I was only a spectator of the chapel performances, and
could not possibly become an assistant. The privileges enjoyed by the
choristers are not, however, to be despised. They drop their work two or
three times a week for practice, and they have an advantage in matters
which are trifling enough outside, but very important in prison. In
chapel they sit together on the front benches, and if they smile and
whisper they are not so sharply reprimanded as the common herd behind
them.
Another privileged class were the cooks, who occupied the last bench,
and rested their backs against the wall. They were easily distinguished
by their hair being greased, no other prisoners having fat enough to
waste on such a luxury.
Saturday morning's chapel hour was devoted to general practice, which
was known as the cat's chorus. Imagine three or four hundred prisoners
all learning a new tune! Some of the loudest voices were the most
unmusical, and the warblers at the rear were generally behind in time as
well as in space. How they floundered, gasped, broke down, got up again,
and shuffled along as before till the next collapse! Sometimes they gave
it up as hopeless, a few first, and then others, until some silly fellow
was left shrilling alone, when he too would suddenly stop, as though
frightened at the sound of his own voice.
I noticed, however, that whenever an evangelical hymn was sung to an
old familiar tune, they all joined in, and rattled through it with great
satisfaction. This confirmed the notion I had acquired from previous
reading, that nine out of every ten prisoners in our English gaols
have been Sunday-school children, or attendants at church or chapel.
Scepticism has not led them to gaol, and religion has not kept them out
of it.
Parson Plaford, as I have said, never visited me after the second month.
He heard my defence on the third trial before Lord Coleridge, and sadly
confessed to Mr. Ramsey that he was afraid I was a hardened sinner. He
appears to have had some hopes of my fellow prisoner, whom he continued
to visit for another month. Mr. Ramsey encouraged him in doing so, for
a conversation with anyone and on anything is a welcome break in the
monotony of silence. But when he got books to read there was less
need of these interviews, and they soon ceased. Mr. Ramsey informs me,
however, that the chaplain called on him just before he left, and asked
whether he could offer any suggestions as to the "system." The old
gentleman admitted that he had been operating on prisoners for over
twenty years without the least success.
The chaplain often confided to us in his sermons that prisoners came to
him pretending they had derived great good from his ministrations, only
in order to gain some little privilege. I learned, also, from casual
conversations in the exercise-ground, that the old gentleman had his
favorites, who were not always held in the same esteem and affection by
their companions. They were generally regarded as spies and tell-tales,
and the men were very cautious of what they said and did in the presence
of these elect. Piety was looked upon as a species of humbug, although
(so persistent is human nature) a really good, generous man would have
been liked and respected. "I could be pious for a pound a day," said one
prisoner in my hearing, with reference to the chaplain's salary. "Yes,"
said the man he spoke to, "so could I, or 'arf of it."
One Sunday the lesson was the story of Peter's miraculous rescue from
prison. "Ah," said an old fellow to his pal, "that was a good yarn we
heard this morning. I'd like to see th' angel git 'im out o' Holloway."
Parson Plaford was evangelical, but a thorough Churchman, and he had a
strong preference for those of his own sect. There was in the prison a
young fellow, the son of a wealthy member of Parliament, whose name
I need not disclose. He was doing eighteen months for getting into
difficulties on the turf, and mistaking his father's name for his own.
Having plenty of money, he was able to establish communication with
his friends outside; and this being detected, the Governor kept him
constantly on the move from wing to wing, and corridor to corridor,
so that he might have no time to grow familiar with the officers
and corrupt their integrity. The plan was a good one, but it did not
succeed. Young officers, who work ninety or a hundred hours a week, with
only two off Sundays in three months, for twenty-three shillings, cannot
always be expected to resist a bribe.
The young scapegrace I refer to was very anxious to get out of his cell,
and he applied to the chaplain for the post of schoolmaster's assistant.
The duties of this office are to help bind the books and keep the
library catalogue, and to carry the basket of literature when the
schoolmaster goes the round. Parson Plaford would not entertain the
application. "No," he said, "I begin to think your religious notions
are very unsound. I must have a good Churchman for the post." Well, the
chaplain got his good Churchman; it was an old hand, sentenced twice
before to long terms for felony, and then doing another five or seven
years for burglary and assault.