We shall never forget the mingled feelings of awe and respect with
which we used to gaze on the exterior of Newgate in our schoolboy days.
How dreadful its rough heavy walls, and low massive doors, appeared to
us—the latter looking as if they were made for the express purpose of
letting people in, and never letting them out again. Then the fetters
over the debtors’ door, which we used to think were a _bonâ fide_ set
of irons, just hung up there, for convenience’ sake, ready to be taken
down at a moment’s notice, and riveted on the limbs of some refractory
felon! We were never tired of wondering how the hackney-coachmen on the
opposite stand could cut jokes in the presence of such horrors, and
drink pots of half-and-half so near the last drop.
Often have we strayed here, in sessions time, to catch a glimpse of the
whipping-place, and that dark building on one side of the yard, in
which is kept the gibbet with all its dreadful apparatus, and on the
door of which we half expected to see a brass plate, with the
inscription ‘Mr. Ketch;’ for we never imagined that the distinguished
functionary could by possibility live anywhere else! The days of these
childish dreams have passed away, and with them many other boyish ideas
of a gayer nature. But we still retain so much of our original feeling,
that to this hour we never pass the building without something like a
shudder.
What London pedestrian is there who has not, at some time or other,
cast a hurried glance through the wicket at which prisoners are
admitted into this gloomy mansion, and surveyed the few objects he
could discern, with an indescribable feeling of curiosity? The thick
door, plated with iron and mounted with spikes, just low enough to
enable you to see, leaning over them, an ill-looking fellow, in a
broad-brimmed hat, Belcher handkerchief and top-boots: with a brown
coat, something between a great-coat and a ‘sporting’ jacket, on his
back, and an immense key in his left hand. Perhaps you are lucky enough
to pass, just as the gate is being opened; then, you see on the other
side of the lodge, another gate, the image of its predecessor, and two
or three more turnkeys, who look like multiplications of the first one,
seated round a fire which just lights up the whitewashed apartment
sufficiently to enable you to catch a hasty glimpse of these different
objects. We have a great respect for Mrs. Fry, but she certainly ought
to have written more romances than Mrs. Radcliffe.
We were walking leisurely down the Old Bailey, some time ago, when, as
we passed this identical gate, it was opened by the officiating
turnkey. We turned quickly round, as a matter of course, and saw two
persons descending the steps. We could not help stopping and observing
them.
They were an elderly woman, of decent appearance, though evidently
poor, and a boy of about fourteen or fifteen. The woman was crying
bitterly; she carried a small bundle in her hand, and the boy followed
at a short distance behind her. Their little history was obvious. The
boy was her son, to whose early comfort she had perhaps sacrificed her
own—for whose sake she had borne misery without repining, and poverty
without a murmur—looking steadily forward to the time, when he who had
so long witnessed her struggles for himself, might be enabled to make
some exertions for their joint support. He had formed dissolute
connexions; idleness had led to crime; and he had been committed to
take his trial for some petty theft. He had been long in prison, and,
after receiving some trifling additional punishment, had been ordered
to be discharged that morning. It was his first offence, and his poor
old mother, still hoping to reclaim him, had been waiting at the gate
to implore him to return home.
We cannot forget the boy; he descended the steps with a dogged look,
shaking his head with an air of bravado and obstinate determination.
They walked a few paces, and paused. The woman put her hand upon his
shoulder in an agony of entreaty, and the boy sullenly raised his head
as if in refusal. It was a brilliant morning, and every object looked
fresh and happy in the broad, gay sunlight; he gazed round him for a
few moments, bewildered with the brightness of the scene, for it was
long since he had beheld anything save the gloomy walls of a prison.
Perhaps the wretchedness of his mother made some impression on the
boy’s heart; perhaps some undefined recollection of the time when he
was a happy child, and she his only friend, and best companion, crowded
on him—he burst into tears; and covering his face with one hand, and
hurriedly placing the other in his mother’s, walked away with her.
Curiosity has occasionally led us into both Courts at the Old Bailey.
Nothing is so likely to strike the person who enters them for the first
time, as the calm indifference with which the proceedings are
conducted; every trial seems a mere matter of business. There is a
great deal of form, but no compassion; considerable interest, but no
sympathy. Take the Old Court for example. There sit the judges, with
whose great dignity everybody is acquainted, and of whom therefore we
need say no more. Then, there is the Lord Mayor in the centre, looking
as cool as a Lord Mayor _can_ look, with an immense _bouquet_ before
him, and habited in all the splendour of his office. Then, there are
the Sheriffs, who are almost as dignified as the Lord Mayor himself;
and the Barristers, who are quite dignified enough in their own
opinion; and the spectators, who having paid for their admission, look
upon the whole scene as if it were got up especially for their
amusement. Look upon the whole group in the body of the Court—some
wholly engrossed in the morning papers, others carelessly conversing in
low whispers, and others, again, quietly dozing away an hour—and you
can scarcely believe that the result of the trial is a matter of life
or death to one wretched being present. But turn your eyes to the dock;
watch the prisoner attentively for a few moments; and the fact is
before you, in all its painful reality. Mark how restlessly he has been
engaged for the last ten minutes, in forming all sorts of fantastic
figures with the herbs which are strewed upon the ledge before him;
observe the ashy paleness of his face when a particular witness
appears, and how he changes his position and wipes his clammy forehead,
and feverish hands, when the case for the prosecution is closed, as if
it were a relief to him to feel that the jury knew the worst.
The defence is concluded; the judge proceeds to sum up the evidence;
and the prisoner watches the countenances of the jury, as a dying man,
clinging to life to the very last, vainly looks in the face of his
physician for a slight ray of hope. They turn round to consult; you can
almost hear the man’s heart beat, as he bites the stalk of rosemary,
with a desperate effort to appear composed. They resume their places—a
dead silence prevails as the foreman delivers in the verdict—‘Guilty!’
A shriek bursts from a female in the gallery; the prisoner casts one
look at the quarter from whence the noise proceeded; and is immediately
hurried from the dock by the gaoler. The clerk directs one of the
officers of the Court to ‘take the woman out,’ and fresh business is
proceeded with, as if nothing had occurred.
No imaginary contrast to a case like this, could be as complete as that
which is constantly presented in the New Court, the gravity of which is
frequently disturbed in no small degree, by the cunning and pertinacity
of juvenile offenders. A boy of thirteen is tried, say for picking the
pocket of some subject of her Majesty, and the offence is about as
clearly proved as an offence can be. He is called upon for his defence,
and contents himself with a little declamation about the jurymen and
his country—asserts that all the witnesses have committed perjury, and
hints that the police force generally have entered into a conspiracy
‘again’ him. However probable this statement may be, it fails to
convince the Court, and some such scene as the following then takes
place:
_Court_: Have you any witnesses to speak to your character, boy?
_Boy_: Yes, my Lord; fifteen gen’lm’n is a vaten outside, and vos a
vaten all day yesterday, vich they told me the night afore my trial vos
a comin’ on.
_Court_. Inquire for these witnesses.
Here, a stout beadle runs out, and vociferates for the witnesses at the
very top of his voice; for you hear his cry grow fainter and fainter as
he descends the steps into the court-yard below. After an absence of
five minutes, he returns, very warm and hoarse, and informs the Court
of what it knew perfectly well before—namely, that there are no such
witnesses in attendance. Hereupon, the boy sets up a most awful
howling; screws the lower part of the palms of his hands into the
corners of his eyes; and endeavours to look the picture of injured
innocence. The jury at once find him ‘guilty,’ and his endeavours to
squeeze out a tear or two are redoubled. The governor of the gaol then
states, in reply to an inquiry from the bench, that the prisoner has
been under his care twice before. This the urchin resolutely denies in
some such terms as—‘S’elp me, gen’lm’n, I never vos in trouble
afore—indeed, my Lord, I never vos. It’s all a howen to my having a
twin brother, vich has wrongfully got into trouble, and vich is so
exactly like me, that no vun ever knows the difference atween us.’
This representation, like the defence, fails in producing the desired
effect, and the boy is sentenced, perhaps, to seven years’
transportation. Finding it impossible to excite compassion, he gives
vent to his feelings in an imprecation bearing reference to the eyes of
‘old big vig!’ and as he declines to take the trouble of walking from
the dock, is forthwith carried out, congratulating himself on having
succeeded in giving everybody as much trouble as possible.