ANOTHER COMPANION--A CAREER OF CRIME--HIS OPINIONS ABOUT RELIGION
AND CHURCH RATES--AN INCURABLE: HIS OPINION ABOUT FLOGGING.
Another of my companions in hospital gave me the particulars of his
history in answer to my enquiries. I give them precisely in his own
words:--
"I was about fifteen years of age before I stole any money, or got into
any trouble; but I used to 'nick' little things, such as fruit, &c.,
when I was a kid. My father kept a small shop, but I was bound an
apprentice to a very peculiar branch of the Sheffield trade; and before
I had finished my apprenticeship I committed my first crime. I was
playing at bagatelle one night, and lost all my cash, and as I was
anxious to win it back, I broke into my master's premises, and took all
the money that was in the cash-box. I got 'copt,' and was sent into the
county jail. When I came out I enlisted in the army. My father bought
me off after I had been in the regiment a short time. I then took to
hawking, but I did not make much money at that, so I enlisted
again,--deserted, and got flogged; and the flogging made me a
blackguard;--committed another crime, and got out of the army.
Afterwards I committed other crimes, and was at last copt and sentenced
to five years' penal servitude. I was sent to do most of it at
Gibraltar. After coming home I resolved I should make a fair trial to
gain an honest livelihood. I had about thirteen pounds of a gratuity
coming to me, and by the aid of the vicar I got all that at once, and
set up as a greengrocer. But as I was not very well acquainted with the
business I soon lost my little capital, and I resolved to try and get
work at my trade. I called on all the 'gaffers' in that business, but
none of them would employ me. Those who knew me would have nothing to
do with me; those who didn't wanted a character, which of course I
could not give. Well, I went two days without tasting a bit of food;
but on the third I ate some turnips. On the fourth day I became so
desperate with hunger that I determined on going on the 'cross.' I
commenced, and committed seventeen burglaries right off, in various
parts of the country. The first was in my own town, and the moment I
got the 'wedge'[18] 'planted'[19], I went to the police-office and asked
for a bed for the night, as I had no money. Next day, early, there was
a great hubbub about my job. One of the police came to the office and
swore it must have been done by me; but when the superintendent told
him that I had slept in the station-house all night, and that it could
not have been me, he never said any more about it. The next place I
robbed was a church; but all the rest were shops. I was tried for the
church and two of the other jobs; but I got off the former, as the
clergyman prosecuted me, when it ought to have been some other official
connected with it. I pleaded guilty to the second charge against me;
and it's that I'm now here for. When I was in prison, waiting for
trial, I called myself a Roman Catholic, and was visited by the priest.
One day I confessed to him that I had robbed a church, and that I was
very sorry for it--and so I was, upon my word. That's the only crime I
ever committed which gave me any trouble. Well, the priest was
thunderstruck, and looked daggers at me; but when I told him it was a
Protestant church, he gave me absolution, and said the crime was not so
bad as he at first thought."
[18] Silver-plate.
[19] Hidden.
"What religion do you profess now?" I enquired.
"Well, I'm down in the books now as a Protestant, or Church of England
man; but I do not believe all that churchmen believe. I think there's a
good deal of humbug about what is called Christianity altogether. I
have tried several creeds, and there's none of them squares exactly
with my ideas."
"Which of them have you tried?"
"I was eighteen months a Mormon. My uncle is an elder in their church;
but I got enough of them one night at a meeting. After the business was
concluded, one of the members proposed that the lights should be put
out during the remainder of the proceedings.--My Crikey! that night was
enough for me.... I was in earnest at first though; and when I was
baptised and anointed, I intended to have gone out to the settlement in
America."
"What do you object to in the Church of England?"
"Oh! I don't pay much attention to these matters. I like a good man, no
matter what church he belongs to. For instance, the Presbyterian
minister at 'Gib.' was a first-rate man; and so is that chaplain at
Pentonville, the Rev. Mr. Sherman. But I am of the barber's opinion
about church-rates."
"What was his opinion?"
"Well, a certain barber opened a shop down our way, and shortly
afterwards was called on to pay the church-rates. 'Church-rates,' says
he, 'what have I to do with church-rates? I never go near the church. I
belong to the dissenters.' 'Well, but you know the church is always
open to receive you, and every Sunday the doors are open for you to
come and worship; and you ought to consider it a privilege to be
permitted to attend on the ministration of God's Holy Word,' was the
reply. 'I do not consider it a privilege to go to a church I don't
believe in,' said the barber. 'I go to a different church, which I am
pleased with, and therefore I won't pay you any rates.' 'But you know
the law will compel you to pay them.' 'Oh, then, there they are; if the
law says so, it must be done.' 'Well, as you have paid me so promptly I
shall be a regular customer of yours, and will now have a 'shave' and
my hair cut,' said the collector. He only continued for a short time,
however, to patronize the barber, having found a shop nearer home and
more convenient. But at the end of the year the barber made out his
account all the same as if he had continued his custom as he had
promised to do. When the collector got the account, he said, 'How's
this? I don't owe you a quarter of this sum; you must have made a
mistake. I have only been so many times at your shop altogether, and
yet you charge me as if I had gone all the year round.' 'My dear sir,'
replied the barber, 'you know that my shop, as by law established, is
always open to receive you, excepting Sunday, when your shop is open,
so that you may avail yourself of my skill, and you ought to consider
it a very great privilege to be permitted to do so.' 'I don't consider
it any privilege to get that from you which I can get from others that
I happen to prefer, on the same terms, and therefore I refuse to pay
your account.' 'Then, it appears, I am obliged to pay your account
whatever it may be, whether I get value for it or not, but yet you are
not obliged to pay me mine unless you do get value for it, even when
you promise to take value. Good morning.' 'Good morning,' said the
collector; and the barber retired.
"You will see from this colloquy what the barber's notions were about
church rates. Now, I have an idea that it is most unjust for one set of
religious men to force their neighbours who differ from them, to help
to pay for the support of their church, particularly when they are able
themselves to do all that is required in that way, if they were
willing. This mainstay and foundation being rotten, the fabric cannot
be secure. The churchman acts unjustly in this, and to act unjustly is
anti-christian: therefore the churchman is no Christian any more than I
am a Dutchman."
"Well, we'll leave the church question at present. Have you anything
more to tell me about yourself? Have you never thought seriously about
changing your mode of life when you get out of prison again? An
intelligent fellow like you would do well in America, and I would
strongly recommend you to leave the country as soon as you get your
liberty."
"As to altering my conduct, I tell you that when I was in the separate
cells, I did resolve on it, and began to pray and read good books, but
after I got among the other prisoners I gave it all up again; I should
like to go abroad well enough, but I shall not have funds for it, so I
must stop at home."
"Then do you intend to go thieving and robbing again?"
"Well, I shall never go another day without food, that's certain. If I
can get it honestly, good and well; if not I'll steal: why should a man
starve in a Christian country?"
"You have the workhouse to go to."
"The workhouse! it's a second jail: I would nearly as soon be in
prison, and when you have a chance of getting off without being caught,
it's better to run the risk and chance it, for all the difference there
is or ever can be between the workhouse and the prison. They can't make
a man work unless they feed and clothe him, any more than they can make
a steam engine go without fuel. Well, give me food and I'll work; work
is no punishment to me, if I can get meat to support it, and if I don't
I can't, that's all about it. But what's the good of making me work for
years, at work that will not be of any use to me when I get out? I have
only learnt one trade, there are only a very few men in that trade,
they won't employ me; then what am I to do? Starve in a Christian
country? It isn't likely; and as for the workhouse, I shall never go to
it as long as I can be fed in prison, with the chance always of keeping
out of both?"
"Suppose they should flog you next time?"
"In the first place, I have a disease on me now that would prevent me
from being flogged, so that I have no fear of flogging. But, even if I
was able to stand flogging, all the difference it would make to me,
would be to make me keep a sharper eye after the 'coppers.' Small game
would not then tempt me so much. I should look after larger stakes, go
in at heavier jobs, and calculate well my chances of escape before
going to work. Once I had made up my mind to commit a crime, and saw
the coast clear, the chance of all the floggings in the world would not
deter me. I'll find you fellows in the prison to-day who will take a
good round flogging for a pound of tobacco! now do you think that the
mere chance of the lash would hinder these men from attempting to get
hold of a few hundred pounds' worth of jewellery? It's not likely.
Thieves weren't frightened into honesty by the gallows, nor would they
be now, if they were to be cut into mince-meat. Thousands might be led
into honest ways if suitable work was found for them, but it would
require to be very different work from that of the 'navvy,' and then
many of them have to be _learned_ to work before they could make a
living at all."
"Then you don't think flogging did you any good at all?"
"Certainly it did not; and what's more, you will never find a man doing
much good after being flogged. It either makes him an invalid, or a
desperado. It may make him quiet under authority, but it ensures the
very opposite when he is free."
This prisoner was a more than usually clever and intelligent type of a
numerous class of convicts--not the most difficult class to cure, but
the next to it, perhaps. Unlike the city-bred professional thief, he
had been taught to work, and such work as he could perform was no
punishment to him. Unlike the professional, he goes out of the prison
hesitating, wavering, as to his future course: willing to take work if
suitable; determined to avoid the workhouse; easily tempted to steal,
resolved to do so rather than starve; but, on the whole, anxious to
make a comfortable livelihood. He had one son, and I remember well how
glad he was when some benevolent person wrote to him to say that he had
been bound an apprentice to a respectable trade. He is now dead.
Another of my companions was of a somewhat different class, and a much
more difficult subject to deal with. He told me that he was fifty-seven
years of age. I asked him how long he had been a prisoner, not adding
his sentences together, but how long he had actually been in prison.
"Thirty-seven years," he replied.
"How old were you when you got into trouble first?"
"Fourteen."
"What was your first sentence?"
"Seven years' transportation."
"How did you like Australia?"
"Well, the place is well enough, and a man can get a living easier
abroad than he can at home. But I have been rather a queer customer in
my time. I don't believe there's a man in this prison, or in any
prison, who has gone through more hardships and punishments than I have
done."
"Were you ever flogged?"
"Flogged! I should think I have. Just wait until night, when I am going
to bed, and I'll let you see my back all in ridges with the cat."
"What effect had the flogging on your conduct?"
"Flogging takes out one devil and puts in seven. That's the effect it
had on me. But there's not one in a hundred could stand the floggings
and punishments I have endured. I had ten years once in Australia, and
I was in the penal class most of the time, and, by jingo! they know how
to punish there."
"Suppose I were to offer you 20_l._ to be flogged, would you accept the
money and take the flogging?"
"I should think I would, and that very quick, too. I would as soon take
a bashing as bread and water for seven days."
"Then a bashing, as you call it, would not frighten you from committing
a crime?"
"If I thought I was going to be caught even, I should not commit a
crime. A 'flat' or a 'mumper' may do a job to get into prison, but I
never do anything unless I believe I am to escape. It's the getting
caught, that's the crime, the punishment you have got to chance. A
fellow needn't begin thieving if he is to be frightened at punishment;
he would never make a living at it. It requires a fellow with a good
heart to be a thief, I can tell you; and if his heart is not in the
right place, he'd better keep on the square."
"Now, tell me; do you never think seriously about your evil ways? You
are getting up in years, and although you appear to be very robust in
your general health at present, you cannot expect to live very much
longer in this world."
"Well, to tell you the truth, I do sometimes think of leading an honest
life. But I am so hardened now to all punishment that I don't care very
much what I do. It's not easy for a man at my age to change all of a
sudden to be a Christian, and then it's so difficult to get work
suitable for one's abilities, that I am almost driven to go on the
cross. I have a very good brother, who has been very kind to me, and
I've been thinking several times of going home and getting work from
him. He is the only man who ever did me a kindness since I was fourteen
years of age, and I love and respect him very much."
This man had been longer in prison than any other I met with. He had
been five times a convict. I considered him the very worst of a certain
class of prisoners that I ever knew, and feel quite convinced that he
will not be many weeks out of prison. He was constantly trafficking
with his fellow-prisoners, and when he could get a chance to steal, his
hands _would_ be at work. I remember his being in the cook-house for a
time, and almost every day he stole several pounds of mutton or beef.
He would steal anything for an inch of tobacco. He was turned out of
the cook-house on suspicion, but they never could punish him for theft
except on one occasion, which happened in the following manner.
The prisoners were in the habit of getting a pint of oatmeal gruel for
supper. This pint of gruel was supposed to contain two ounces of meal;
but in order to make it part better it was made thinner, so that every
night there was a surplus. This surplus the prisoners thought belonged
to them, and some of the officers permitted the orderlies for the day,
who served it out, to divide whatever remained amongst the prisoners in
their own wards. The authorities, however, did not allow the prisoners
more than a pint:--no matter whether it was thick or thin, no matter
whether there was only one ounce of meal in it, back to the cook-house
and the swill-tub the surplus must go. Some officers adhered to the
rule, others did not. The officer in charge of the prisoner referred to
was one of those who did, and when my friend helped himself to a pint
out of the surplus gruel he was "reported" the same evening (which
happened to be a Saturday). On Sunday the governor, departing from his
usual custom, came to his cell, and passed sentence on him there. When
the prisoner came out of 'Chokey,' as the punishment cells are called
by the prisoners, he came to me about the Sunday sentence of a hungry
man for taking a pint of gruel, which in some proportion belonged to
himself. He fancied it was not legal to pass sentence on a Sunday, and
thought he might get back the time he had forfeited, by appealing to
the director. I told him I did not approve of the conduct of the
governor, but at the same time expressed the opinion that the director
would not interfere in his case. (Whether he did so or not I am unable
to say, as I was removed before the director's visit was due.) This
prisoner was a big stout man, above thirteen stone weight, and there
was nothing the matter with him except a diseased leg. This leg was
rather a convenience to him than otherwise. If he disliked any work he
was put to, he could always get rid of it by making his leg sore, and
this could not be prevented, nor brought directly home to him. When he
was at Dartmoor prison he was always in hospital; but now, as his work
pleased him better he seldom troubled the doctor. On the contrary, when
about due to go home, that is when he arrived at his last stage, and
became entitled to beer and other privileges, he wanted to get out of
the invalid prison, where these privileges are not allowed unless the
state of the invalid requires them, and to be sent to the public works
where they would be granted.
Many convicts are so afflicted that they can almost compel the doctor
to admit them into the hospital. So whenever they are put into some
billet they like they are well, and whenever they are put into one they
dislike they send in a sick report, and the medical officer in general
must admit them. This was the case with the prisoner I have referred
to. Moreover, I question if he was ever a single day in the prison
without doing something that was considered wrong, and yet he was very
seldom detected or punished. Every day he was trafficking, frequently
he was stealing, and he told lies as a rule. Speaking the truth was
quite an exceptional matter with him. Thieves generally consider it to
be a virtue rather than a sin to tell a lie to save a 'pal' from
punishment, but in cases where their own interests are not specially at
stake, they can speak the truth as well as other men. But this prisoner
seemed utterly incapable of speaking the truth, even when falsehood
brought no advantage to him.