House, into which they were no sooner enter’d but he began to revile
_Jacob_ and his Brethren for Highwaymen, and asking them their Names,
they still were in the same Tone of _Sice-Ace_, _Cinque-Duce_, and
_Quater-Tray_, at which the Justice, lifting up his Hands and Eyes to
the Ceiling, cry’d out, _Such audacious Rogues as these were never seen
before_.
‘“_Here, Tom,_” (quoth his Worship to his Clerk), “_write their_
Mittimus, _for I will send them everyone to_ Newgate.”
‘Whilst their Commitment was writing, _Jacob_ pulls a Bit of Parchment
out of his Pocket, and, asking the Constable if he could read it, he
put on his Spectacles, and posing and mumbling over it a Minute or two,
said,
‘“_I cannot tell what to make of it. It is Latin, I think._”
‘“_Well, then,_” (quoth Jacob), “_I’ll tell you what it is, it is the
King’s Process against this Gentleman that is going to commit us to_
Newgate; _therefore, in my Execution of it, I require you, as you are a
Constable, to keep the Peace._”
‘This turn of the Dice made the Magistrate, the Peace Officer, and all
the Rusticks stare at one another as if they were out of their Senses.
However, _Jacob_ brought his Prisoner to _London_, and oblig’d him to
make Satisfaction before he got out of his Clutches.’
The above anecdotes illustrate the humorous side of a bailiff’s life,
but sometimes they met with very rough treatment, nay, were even
killed. On the 4th of August, 1722, a bailiff named Boyce was killed
by a blacksmith, who ran a red-hot iron into him; and the book I have
quoted from thus speaks of bailiffs as ‘such Villains, whose Clan is
suppos’d to descend from the cursed Seed of _Ham_, and therefore
stinks in the Nostrils of all honest Men. Some of them have been paid
in their own Coyn, for Captain _Bew_ kill’d a Sergeant of one of the
Compters. Shortly after, a Bailiff was kill’d in _Grays-Inn_ Walks;
another Bailiff had his Hand chopt off by a Butcher in _Hungerford_
Market, in the _Strand_, of which Wound he dyed the next Day, and
another Man kill’d two Bailiffs at once with a couple of Pistols in
_Houghton Street_, by _Clare Market_, for which he was touch’d with a
cold iron[48] at the Sessions House at the _Old Baily_, besides several
others of that detestable Tribe have deservedly suffer’d the same
fate....
‘But, by the way, we must take Notice that a Bailiff is Universally
hated by Man, Woman, or Child, who dearly love to see them duckt
(Pick-pocket like) in the _Muse_ Pond,[49] or the cleanly Pond of
the Horse Guards, at _Whitehall_, and sometimes well rinsed at the
_Temple_, or _Grays-Inn_ Pump; and if any of these napping Scoundrels
is taken within the Liberty of the _Mint_, the enraged Inhabitants
of this Place tye him fast with Ropes in a Wheelbarrow; then they
trundle him about the Streets, with great Shouts and Huzzas.... After
he is convey’d in the like Order to a stinking Ditch, near _St.
George’s_ Fields, where he is plunged over Head and Ears, _à la mode
de Pickpocket_; and then, to finish the Procession, he is solemnly
convey’d to a Pump, according to the antient Custom of the Place,
where he is sufficiently drench’d for all his dirty Doings.’
This, as I have said, shows the humorous side of imprisonment for
debt. An unimpeachable and veracious authority, one who only gave dry
statistics, and did not draw upon his imagination for his facts, was
John Howard, the philanthropist, who published, in 1777, ‘The State of
the Prisons in England and Wales.’ From his report we learn that the
allowance to debtors was a penny loaf a day--and when we consider that,
during the French war, bread at one time rose to a price equivalent
to our half-crown per quartern loaf, it could hardly be called a
sufficient diet. But the City of London, generous then, as ever,
supplemented this with a daily (? weekly) supply of sixteen stone, or
one hundred and twenty-eight pounds, of beef, which, as Howard gives
the average of debtors in two years (1775-6) at thirty-eight, would
be more than ample for their needs--and there were other charities
amounting to fifty or sixty pounds a year--but, before they were
discharged, they were compelled to pay the keeper a fee of eight
shillings and tenpence.
In the Fleet Prison they had no allowance, but, if they made an
affidavit that they were not worth five pounds, and could not subsist
without charity, they had divided amongst them the proceeds of the
begging-box and grate, and the donations which were sent to the prison.
Of these, Howard says, at the time of his visit, there were seventeen.
But the other prisoners who had any money had every facility afforded
them to spend it. There was a tap, at which they could purchase
whatever liquor they required; there was a billiard-table, and, in the
yard, they could play at skittles, Mississippi, fives, tennis, &c.
On Monday nights there was a wine club, and on Thursday nights a beer
club, both of which usually lasted until one or two in the morning; and
pretty scenes of riot and drunkenness took place. The prisoners were
allowed to have their wives and children to live with them.
Ludgate had ceased to exist, and the debtors were transferred to New
Ludgate, in Bishopsgate Street. It was a comparatively aristocratic
debtors’ prison, for it was only for debtors who were free of the City,
for clergymen, proctors, and attorneys. Here, again, the generosity
of the City stepped in; and, for an average number of prisoners of
twenty-five, ten stone, or eighty pounds of beef, were given weekly,
together with a daily penny loaf for each prisoner. The lord mayor and
sheriffs sent them coals, and Messrs. Calvert, the brewers, sent weekly
two barrels of small beer, besides which, there were some bequests.
The Poultry Compter was in the hands of a keeper who had bought the
place for life, and was so crowded that some of the prisoners had to
sleep on shelves over the others, and neither straw nor bedding was
allowed them. The City gave a penny loaf daily to the prisoners, and
remitted for their benefit the rent of thirty pounds annually; the
Calverts also sent them beer. At Howard’s visits, eight men had their
wives and children with them.
Wood Street Compter was not a pleasant abode, for Howard says the place
swarmed with bugs. There were thirty-nine debtors, and their allowance
was a daily penny loaf from the City, two barrels of beer weekly from
the Calverts; the sheriffs gave them thirty-two pounds of beef on
Saturdays, and for some years a benevolent baker sent them, weekly, a
large leg and shin of beef.
At Whitechapel was a prison for debtors, in the liberty and manor of
Stepney and Hackney, but it was only for very small debtors, those
owing above two pounds, and under five. Howard’s story of this prison
is a very sad one, the occupants being so very poor:
‘The Master’s-side Prisoners have four sizeable chambers fronting the
road--_i.e._, two on each storey. They pay two shillings and sixpence a
week, and lie two in a bed; two beds in a room. The Common-side Debtors
are in two long rooms in the Court Yard, near the Tap-room. Men in one
room, women in the other: the Court Yard in common. They hang out a
begging-box from a little closet in the front of the House, and attend
it in turn. It brings them only a few pence a day, and of this pittance
none partake but those who, at entrance, have paid the keeper two
shillings and sixpence, and treated the Prisoners with half a gallon of
beer. The last time I was there, no more than three had purchased this
privilege....
‘At my first visit there were, on the Common-side, two Prisoners in
Hammocks, sick and very poor. No chaplain. A compassionate Man, who
is not a regular Clergyman, sometimes preaches to them on Sunday, and
gives them some small relief. Lady Townsend sends a Guinea twice a
year, which her Servant distributes equally among the Prisoners.
‘As Debtors here are generally very poor, I was surprised to see,
once, ten or twelve noisy men at skittles; but the Turnkey said they
were only visitants. I found they were admitted here as at another
public-house. No Prisoners were at play with them.’
At St. Catherine’s, without the Tower, was another small debtors’
prison. This parish was a ‘_peculiar_,’ the Bishop of London having no
jurisdiction over it, and the place was under the especial patronage
of the Queens of England ever since the time of Matilda, the wife
of Stephen, who founded a hospital there, now removed to Regent’s
Park. It was a wonderful little parish, for there people could take
sanctuary--and there also were tried civil and ecclesiastical cases.
Howard says that the prison for debtors had been rebuilt seven years
before he wrote. It was a small house of two storeys; two rooms on
a floor. In April, 1774, there was a keeper, but no prisoners. ‘I
have since called two or three times, and always found the House
uninhabited.’
No notice of debtors’ prisons would be complete without mention of the
King’s Bench, which was in Southwark. Howard reports:
‘The Prisoners are numerous. At more than one of my visits, some had
the Small Pox. It was so crowded this last summer, that a Prisoner paid
five shillings a week for half a bed, and many lay in the chapel. In
May, 1766, the number of Prisoners within the Walls was three hundred
and ninety-five, and, by an accurate list which I procured, their wives
(including a few only called so) were two hundred and seventy-nine,
children seven hundred and twenty-five--total, one thousand and four;
about two-thirds of these were in the Prison.’
The prisoners had, as in the Fleet, their weekly wine and beer clubs,
and they also indulged in similar outdoor sports. The Marshalsea and
Horsemonger Lane gaol complete the list of London debtors’ prisons.
Howard’s description of the county prisons is something appalling.
Gaol-fever, distemper, or small-pox being recorded against most of
them. At Chelmsford there had been no divine service for above a year
past, except to condemned criminals. At Warwick the debtors’ common
day-room was the hall, which was also used as a chapel. At Derby a
person went about the country, at Christmas-time, to gentlemen’s
houses, and begged for the benefit of the debtors. The donations were
entered in a book, and signed by each donor. About fourteen pounds were
generally collected in this manner.
Chesterfield gaol was the property of the Duke of Portland, and Howard
describes it thus:
‘Only one room, with a cellar under it, to which the Prisoners
occasionally descend through a hole in the floor. The cellar had not
been cleaned for many months. The Prison door had not been opened for
several weeks, when I was there first. There were four Prisoners, who
told me they were almost starved; one of them said, with tears in his
eyes, “he had not eaten a morsel that day,”--it was afternoon. They
had borrowed a book of Dr. Manton’s; one of them was reading it to the
rest. Each of them had a wife, and they had, in the whole, thirteen
children, cast on their respective parishes. Two had their groats from
the Creditors, and out of that pittance they relieved the other two.
No allowance: no straw: no firing: water a halfpenny for about three
gallons, put in (as other things are) at the window. Gaoler lives
distant.’
At Salisbury gaol, just outside the prison gate, a round staple was
fixed in the wall, through which was passed a chain, at each end of
which was a debtor padlocked by the leg, who offered for sale to
the passers-by, nets, laces, purses, etc., made in the prison. At
Knaresborough the debtors’ prison is thus described:
‘Of difficult access; the door about four feet from the ground. Only
one room, about fourteen feet by twelve. Earth floor: no fireplace:
very offensive: a common sewer from the town running through it
uncovered. I was informed that an Officer confined here some years
since, for only a few days, took in with him a dog to defend him from
vermin; but the dog was soon destroyed, and the Prisoner’s face much
disfigured by them.’
The gaolers were not always the most gentle of men, as may be seen by
the trial of one Acton, deputy-keeper and turnkey of the Marshalsea,
for the murder of a prisoner named Thomas Bliss. The indictment will
briefly tell the story:
‘That the said _William Acton_, being Deputy Keeper, under _John
Darby_, of the said prison, being a person of inhuman and cruel
disposition, did, on the 21st of October, in the Year of our Lord,
1726, cruelly, barbarously, and feloniously Beat, Assault, and Wound
the said _Thomas Bliss_ in the said Prison, _viz._, in the Parish of
Saint George’s-in-the-Fields, in the Borough of _Southwark_, in the
County of _Surrey_, and did put Irons and Fetters of great and immense
weight upon his legs, and an Iron Instrument, and Engine of Torture,
upon the Head of the said _Thomas Bliss_, called the Scull-cap, and
also Thumb-screws upon his Thumbs; and the said _Thomas Bliss_ was
so wounded, fettered, tortured and tormented in the Strong Room of
the said Prison (which is a dangerous, damp, noisome, filthy, and
unwholesome place) did put, and him did there detain several days; by
means of which excruciating Tortures, close Confinement, Duress, and
cruel Abuses, the said _Thomas Bliss_ got so ill an Habit of Body, that
he continued in a languishing Condition till the 25th Day of _March_
following, and then died.’
Although the facts of the indictment were fully borne out by the
evidence, the jury acquitted Acton. I should mention that Bliss had
twice attempted to escape from the prison.
Let us pass to a pleasanter theme, and see what was the inner life of a
debtor’s prison about 1750, the story of which is told in a little book
undated.[50] The foot-notes are taken from the book.
* * * * *
Close by the Borders of a slimy Flood,
Which now in secret rumbles through the Mud;
(Tho’ heretofore it roll’d expos’d to light,
Obnoxious to th’ offended City’s Sight).[51]
Twin Arches now the sable Stream enclose,
Upon whose Basis late a Fabrick rose;
In whose extended oblong Boundaries, }
Are Shops and Sheds, and Stalls of all Degrees, }
For Fruit, Meat, Herbage, Trinkets, Pork and Peas. }
A prudent City Scheme, and kindly meant;
The Town’s oblig’d, their Worships touch the Rent.
Near this commodious Market’s miry Verge,
The Prince of Prisons stands, compact and large;
Where by the Jigger’s[52] more than magick Charm,
Kept from the Power of doing Good--or Harm,
Relenting Captives inly ruminate
Misconduct past, and curse their present State;
Tho’ sorely griev’d, few are so void of Grace,
As not to wear a seeming cheerful face:
In Drink or Sports ungrateful Thoughts must die,
For who can bear Heart-wounding Calumny?
Therefore Cabals engage of various Sorts,
To walk, to drink, or play at different Sports,
Here oblong Table’s verdant Plain,
The ivory Ball bounds and rebounds again[53];
There at Backgammon two sit _tête-à-tête_,
And curse alternately their adverse fate;
These are at Cribbage, those at Whist engag’d,
And, as they lose, by turns become enrag’d;
Some of more sedentary Temper, read
Chance-medley Books, which duller Dulness breeds;
Or Politick in Coffee-room, some pore
The Papers and Advertisements thrice o’er;
Warm’d with the Alderman,[54] some sit up late,
To fix th’ Insolvent Bill, and Nation’s fate:
Hence, Knotty Points at different Tables rise,
And either Party’s wond’rous, wond’rous wise;
Some of low Taste, ring Hand-Bells, direful Noise!
And interrupt their Fellows’ harmless Joys;
Disputes more noisy now a Quarrel breeds,
And Fools on both Sides fall to Loggerheads;
Till, wearied with persuasive Thumps and Blows,
They drink, are Friends, as tho’ they ne’er were Foes.
Without distinction, intermixed is seen,
A ‘Squire dirty, and Mechanick clean:
The Spendthrift Heir, who in his Chariot roll’d,
All his Possessions gone, Reversions sold,
Now mean, as one profuse, the stupid Sot
Sits by a Runner’s Side,[55] and shules[56] a Pot.
Some Sots, ill-mannered, drunk, a harmless Flight!
Rant noisy thro’ the Galleries all Night;
For which, if Justice had been done of late,
The Pump[57] had been three pretty Masters’ Fate,
With Stomach’s empty, and Heads full of Care,
Some Wretches swill the Pump, and walk the Bare.[58]
Within whose ample Oval is a Court, }
Where the more Active and Robust resort, }
And glowing, exercise a manly Sport. }
(Strong Exercise with mod’rate Food is good,
It drives in sprightful Streams the circling Blood;)
While these, with Rackets strike the flying Ball,
Some play at Nine-pins, Wrestlers take a Fall;
Beneath a Tent some drink, and some above
Are slily in their Chambers making Love;
Venus and Bacchus each keeps here a Shrine,
And many Vot’ries have to Love and Wine.
Such the Amusements of this merry Jail,
Which you’ll not reach, if Friends or Money fail;
For e’er it’s threefold Gates it will unfold,
The destin’d Captive must produce some Gold;
Four Guineas at the least for diff’rent Fees,
Compleats your _Habeas_, and commands the Keys;
Which done, and safely in, no more you’re led,
If you have Cash, you’ll find a Friend and Bed;
But, that deficient, you’ll but ill betide,
Lie in the Hall,[59] perhaps on Common Side.[60]
But now around you gazing Jiggers swarm,[61]
To draw your Picture, that’s their usual Term;
Your Form and Features strictly they survey,
Then leave you (if you can) to run away.
To them succeeds the Chamberlain, to see }
If you and he are likely to agree; }
Whether you’ll tip,[62] and pay you’re Master’s Fee.[63] }
Ask him how much? ‘Tis one Pound, six, and eight;
And, if you want, he’ll not the Twopence bate;
When paid, he puts on an important Face,
And shows Mount-scoundrel[64] for a charming Place;
You stand astonish’d at the darken’d Hole,
Sighing, the Lord have Mercy on my Soul!
And ask, Have you no other Rooms, Sir, pray?
Perhaps inquire what Rent, too, you’re to pay:
Entreating that he would a better seek;
The Rent (cries gruffly) ‘s Half-a-Crown a Week.
The Rooms have all a Price, some good, some bad,
But pleasant ones, at present, can’t be had;
This Room, in my Opinion’s not amiss; }
Then cross his venal Palm with Half a Piece,[65] }
He strait accosts you with another face. }
How your Affairs may stand, I do not know;
But here, Sir, Cash does frequently run low.
I’ll serve you--don’t be lavish--only mum!
Take my Advice, I’ll help you to a Chum.[66]
A Gentleman, Sir, see--and hear him speak,
With him you’ll pay but fifteen Pence a Week,[67]
Yet his Apartments on the Upper Floor,[68]
Well-furnished, clean and nice; who’d wish for more?
A Gentleman of Wit and Judgement too!
Who knows the Place,[69] what’s what, and who is who;
My Praise, alas! can’t equal his Deserts;
In brief--you’ll find him, Sir, a Man of Parts.
Thus, while his fav’rite Friend he recommends,
He compasses at once their several Ends;
The new-come Guest is pleas’d that he shou’d meet
So kind a Chamberlain, a Chum so neat;
But, as conversing thus, they nearer come,
Behold before his Door the destin’d Chum.
Why he stood there, himself you’d scarcely tell,
But there he had not stood had Things gone well;
Had one poor Half-penny but blest his Fob, }
Or if in prospect he had seen a Job, }
H’ had strain’d his Credit for a Dram of Bob.[70] }
But now, in pensive Mood, with Head downcast,
His Eyes transfix’d as tho’ they look’d their last;
One Hand his open Bosom lightly held,
And one an empty Breeches Pocket fill’d;
His Dowlas Shirt no Stock, nor Cravat, bore,
And on his Head, no Hat, nor Wig he wore,
But a once black shag Cap, surcharg’d with Sweat;
His Collar, here a Hole, and there a Pleat,
Both grown alike in Colour, that--alack!
This neither now was White, nor was that Black,
But matched his dirty yellow Beard so true,
They form’d a threefold Cast of Brickdust Hue.
Meagre his Look, and in his nether Jaw
Was stuff’d an eleemosynary Chaw.[71]
(Whose Juice serves present Hunger to asswage,
Which yet returns again with tenfold Rage.)
His Coat, which catch’d the Droppings from his Chin,
Was clos’d, at Bottom, with a Corking Pin;
* * * * *
Loose were his Knee-bands, and unty’d his Hose,
Coax’d[72] in the Heel, in pulling o’er his Toes;
Which, spite of all his circumspective Care,
Did thro’ his broken, dirty Shoes appear.
Just in this hapless Trim, and pensive Plight,
The old Collegian[73] stood confess’d to Sight;
Whom, when our new-come Guest at first beheld,
He started back, with great Amazement fill’d;
Turns to the Chamberlain, says, Bless my Eyes! }
Is this the Man you told me was so nice? }
I meant, his Room was so, Sir, he replies; }
The Man is now in Dishabille and Dirt,
He shaves To-morrow, tho’, and turns his Shirt;
Stand not at Distance, I’ll present you--Come,
My Friend, how is’t? I’ve brought you here a Chum;
One that’s a Gentleman; a worthy Man,
And you’ll oblige me, serve him all you can.
The Chums salute, the old Collegian first,
Bending his Body almost to the Dust;
Upon his Face unusual Smiles appear,
And long-abandon’d Hope his Spirits cheer;
Thought he, Relief’s at hand, and I shall eat; }
Will you walk in, good Sir, and take a seat? }
We have what’s decent here, though not compleat. }
As for myself, I scandalize the Room,
But you’ll consider, Sir, that I’m at Home;
Tho’ had I thought a Stranger to have seen,
I should have ordered Matters to’ve been clean;
But here, amongst ourselves, we never mind,
Borrow or lend--reciprocally kind;
Regard not Dress, tho’, Sir, I have a Friend
Has Shirts enough, and, if you please, I’ll send.
No Ceremony, Sir,--You give me Pain,
I have a clean Shirt, Sir, but have you twain?
Oh yes, and twain to boot, and those twice told,
Besides, I thank my Stars, a Piece of Gold.
Why then, I’ll be so free, Sir, as to borrow,
I mean a Shirt, Sir--only till To-morrow.
You’re welcome, Sir;--I’m glad you are so free;
Then turns the old Collegian round with Glee,
Whispers the Chamberlain with secret Joy,
We live To-night!--I’m sure he’ll pay his Foy;
Turns to his Chum again with Eagerness,
And thus bespeaks him with his best Address:
See, Sir, how pleasant, what a Prospect’s there;
Below you see them sporting on the Bare;
Above, the Sun, Moon, Stars, engage the Eye,
And those Abroad can’t see beyond the Sky;
These Rooms are better far than those beneath,
A clearer Light, a sweeter Air we breathe;
A decent Garden does our Window grace
With Plants untainted, undisturb’d the Glass;
In short, Sir, nothing can be well more sweet;
But I forgot--perhaps you chuse to eat,
Tho’, for my Part, I’ve nothing of my own,
To-day I scraped my Yesterday’s Blade-bone;
But we can send--Ay, Sir, with all my Heart,
(Then, very opportunely, enters Smart[74])
Oh, here’s our Cook, he dresses all Things well;
Will you sup here, or do you chuse the Cell?
There’s mighty good Accommodations there,
Rooms plenty, or a Box in Bartholm’[75] Fair;
There, too, we can divert you, and may show
Some Characters are worth your while to know.
Replies the new Collegian, Nothing more }
I wish to see, be pleas’d to go before; }
And, Smart, provide a handsome Dish for Four. }
* * * * *
But I forget; the Stranger and his Chum,
With t’other two, to Barth’lomew Fair are come;
Where, being seated, and the supper past,
They drink so deep, and put about so fast,
That, e’re the warning Watchman walks about,
With dismal tone Repeating, Who goes out?[76]
Ere St. Paul’s Clock no longer will withold
From striking Ten, and the voice cries--All told;[77]
Ere this, our new Companions, everyone
In roaring Mirth and Wine so far were gone,
That ev’ry Sense from ev’ry Part was fled,
And were with Difficulty got to Bed;
Where, in the Morn, recover’d from his Drink,
The new Collegian may have Time to think;
And recollecting how he spent the Night,
Explore his Pockets, and not find a Doit.
Too thoughtless Man! to lavish thus away
A Week’s support in less than half a Day,
But ’tis a Curse attends this wretched Place,
To pay for dear-bought Wit in little Space,
Till Time shall come when this new Tenant here,
Will in his turn shule for a Pot of Beer,
Repent the melting of his Cash too fast,
And Snap at Strangers for a Night’s Repast.
JONAS HANWAY.