HIS ROW BECOMES FILLED WITH VERY SHARP-EDGED STONES INDEED.
The inhabitant of a cell has a very rough row to hoe under any
circumstance, and it has to be hoed, but there is no necessity for him
to fill his row with stones and to plant roots in it himself. He soon
finds his level, and the impression he makes on his arrival is the one
which, as a rule, clings to him to the end.
When prison air and prison influence have succeeded in incasing a man
with the sort of moral hardbake that renders him callous to those
feelings which at first so gall the raw spots, he finds himself watching
with curiosity the shapings of newcomers. Some announce immediately on
arrival that they cannot possibly be there more than a month or two;
their arrest was a mistake, and their uncle, the member of Parliament,
is now busily engaged making representations to the Home Secretary. One
of the very few amusements prisoners have is in watching the important
fellows, the men whose friends could do so much for them if they would
only let them know where they are. Sometimes a chap who has perhaps been
a body servant or something of the kind, who has picked up the kind of
veneer he could catch by aping his master, will furnish food for smiles
to every one he comes in contact with during his stay. He never receives
a letter without explaining confidentially to every one that another
aunt whose favorite he was has just died, leaving him L10,000 in cash,
not to speak of a trifle or two in the shape of half a dozen houses.
These gentlemen are immediately furnished with a name which becomes much
better known than their own, and whenever they have delivered themselves
of their periodical brooding of lies the news goes smiling round that
Billy Treacle's aunt has died again and left him another fortune.
So long as their inventions do no more harm than make them ridiculous,
they are only laughed at and let alone, but when one of them develops a
talent for invention which molests or injures others, especially when it
takes the form of confidential communication to the governor of what he
sees, and still more of what he does not see, such retribution as both
prisoners and officers can inflict is not long in falling. His row
becomes filled with very sharp-edged stones indeed, and roots which tear
his hands painfully. Nearly always these boastings are fathered by an
absurd vanity--a desire ever to appear what they are not, and while they
think they are deceiving others they deceive no one but themselves.
One case I remember, though, was an exception. One young fellow made
such use of his invention, and the story is so interesting and
instructive as showing with what lofty respect English gentlemen are
educated for the rights of property, that I shall relate it.
Four or five years after I went to Chatham a young fellow named
Frederick Barton arrived with a ten years' sentence for forgery. His
appearance and manners were very much in his favor, and his conduct so
confirmed the good first impression that he speedily became a favorite
with everybody from the governor down.
Some three years had slipped by when one day he asked me if I would
prepare a petition which he might send to the Home Secretary in the hope
of obtaining a commutation of sentence. I liked the youngster very well
and readily consented, but told him that I doubted very much if he
would get anything. The petition was sent, and in a few days the usual
answer was returned, "No grounds." He told me of his ill luck, and I
said to him: "Look here, so long as you send up whining petitions asking
for mercy both you and they will be treated with contempt. If you wish
to get that English gentleman in the Home Office to do anything for you,
make him believe you are a millionaire; you will see whether he will do
anything then for you or not." He laughed merrily at that. "A
millionaire! Why, I haven't a sixpence. My father is only a private
coachman at Tunbridge Wells." "That is nothing at all," I said; "if you
will be guided by me, and let me manage things for you, I will have a
petition sent in for you from the outside, and I feel sure we can get
you out." An idea had just flashed into my mind, and I was eager to try
it.
At first he was a little timid about the venture, fearing that I might
get him into trouble, but when he became convinced that I would do
nothing of the kind he consented. I had a warder in the prison who in
consideration of an occasional tip used to act as my postman, sending my
letters to my friends and bringing in theirs to me. This was a deadly
offense against the rules, but as the permitted correspondence was
outrageously limited I saw no reason why I should deprive myself of
letters when I had the chance to have them, and as I took good care that
the great men in London should get no inkling of my misdeeds I dare say
their hearts did not grieve after what their eyes did not see.