most reprehensible.”
“I expected you would all censure me,” observed Lady Marvlynn; “but it
is done, and can’t be helped now.”
“But the scoundrel knocked my hat over my eyes, and would have killed
me if I’d given him the chance,” exclaimed Lord Fitzbogleton. “He’s a
wetch whom hanging is too good for. I am sowwy you have let him go.”
“So am I; so are we all, I expect,” remarked Major Smithers Smyth.
“What say you, Mr. Quirp?”
Mr. Quirp was a solicitor of Furnival’s-inn, Holborn.
“I always regret hearing of the escape of a robber,” said he. “It but
too frequently happens that men belonging to the criminal class escape
through their victims declining to prosecute. There are many reasons
for this. In the first place the duty which falls to the share of a
prosecutor is at once an onerous and unpleasant one. It is attended
with great inconvenience, loss of time, and in some cases considerable
expense, and hence it is that so many object to the task.”
“Clearly so,” observed Mr. Tangle, another of the company, a barrister
in the Temple. “It has always been so. People do not like to be
hanging about police-courts, but it is essential in the interests of
society that persons should sacrifice their own personal comfort for
the public good.”
“I dare say Lady Marvlynn has made use of her good sense and judgment
in this case,” cried Sir William Leathbridge, coming to the rescue.
“It may be against the dictatorial opinions or views of our legal
friends, but I am quite sure no one ought to blame her or any other
woman for leaning to the side of mercy.”
“Hear, hear,” cried several of the company.
“I would not for a moment presume to dictate,” observed Quirp. “It
would not be right and proper for me to do so; still, at the same
time, I frankly confess I see much to regret in adopting such a
course. If you knew how many hardened ruffians, how many habitual
thieves escape from this cause, you would, I think, endorse the
opinion expressed by myself and Mr. Tangle.”
“I am sure they would, and, what’s more,” chimed in the other lawyer,
“there are hundreds and thousands of men in the metropolis and
elsewhere who calculate with the greatest possible coolness the
chances of detection and conviction, and it is only the reliability
and certainty that punishment follows detection that we can hope for
any beneficial effect therefrom as a deterrent from the commission of
crime.”
“Ah, there is not the slightest doubt of that,” returned Sir William;
“but, of course, there are exceptional cases.”
“Very few, I fancy.”
“But the wretch knocked my hat over my eyes,” cried Lord Fitzbogleton.
“Do be quiet, and leave the other gentlemen to discuss the question,”
observed Arabella Lovejoyce.
“Oh, if you wish it, I will remain silent.”
“I do wish it.”
“Weally, Awabella, you are vewy pwovoking.”
“And very unjust as well, my lord,” remarked Quirp. “The fact of his
knocking your hat over your eyes is an additional reason for his not
having mercy shown to him.”
“Well, gentlemen,” said Lady Batershall, “it is not much use
discussing the question now. Make yourselves as happy and comfortable
as possible, and forget that a burglar has disturbed the harmony of
the evening for a brief period.”
“Well said,” cried Sir William Leathbridge. “I move that we adjourn
the discussion _sine die_. How say you?”
“Agreed,” cried several.
“And so to change the subject,” said Mr. Tangle, “I will just recount
for your delectation a case that came under my notice.”
“That’s right,” cried Major Smithers Smythe.
“Every man has something interesting to tell of his experience in
life, and none are more prolific in that way than you gentlemen of the
legal profession.”
“I am not about to discuss some knotty point of law,” observed Tangle.
“I leave that to its proper arena――a court of justice.”
“I know as much about law as a Hottentot,” returned Smythe. “Still,
although ignorant, I’m willing to learn.”
“It was in the earlier days of my career,” said Tangle, “and briefs
were like angels’ visits, but few and far between――in fact I had begun
seriously to contemplate emigrating to British Columbia, or to some
equally distant and desolate locality.
“Fortunately for me and society generally, which sooner or later must
recognise my distinguished merits by placing me on the bench, I
abandoned the idea of British Columbia, and went to Reading; a
beneficent fate rewarded me for my courage in the shape of a big brief
with a small fee, to defend two men for conspiring to cheat a young
gentleman with more money than brains, by gambling with him and using
loaded dice.
“It was a case that had excited a good deal of interest in the
neighbourhood, partly from the very remarkable way in which the cheat
had been discovered by a stranger who happened to be in the room where
the play was going on, and who, suspecting that all was not right, had
with a large carving fork pinned the hand of one of the conspirators
to the table.
“Underneath it, sure enough, were found the loaded dice, which he had
manipulated up and down his sleeve so skilfully that the verdant youth
found himself some five hundred pounds to the bad.
“As counsel for the defendants, the aspect of the case was far from
inviting, and as the very beery solicitor who instructed me observed,
‘It looked uncommon fishy.’
“In that remark I entirely concurred, and folded up the papers with a
hopeless sigh, cursing the ill-luck that always brought me the deadest
cases.
“In the present instance there was little for me to do but to sit by
and hold my tongue――a process, by-the-way, anything but satisfactory
to one fond of hearing the sound of his own voice.
“Apart from professional regrets, I could not help feeling that this
precious pair of rascals thoroughly deserved all they were likely to
get, and the longer they were shut up, the better for the community at
large.
“The trial came on in due course, and the two prisoners were placed at
the bar. As I looked at them, I was much struck with their gentlemanly
appearance and dress, but then I remembered that, all that was part of
the stock-in-trade of persons of their class, and turning to my brief,
prepared to do battle.
“As this is but a subsidiary portion of my story, it is unnecessary
for me to linger over the details of the trial. They say that lucky
fate often follows on the footsteps of rogues, and in this instance,
by some unpardonable carelessness on the part of the constable, the
loaded dice which had been found under the hand of one of the
prisoners were not forthcoming, and after a great deal of wrangling
with the counsel on the other side, the learned judge said that the
prosecution in not producing it had, in his opinion, failed to make
out a sufficient case to go to the jury, and that he must therefore
direct a verdict for the acquittal of the prisoners.
“They were as much astonished and overpowered as myself by the
unexpected turn things had taken, and with admirable celerity
disappeared from the dock.
“Some four years afterwards I received a very pressing invitation from
my old Eton friend, Charlie Forrester, asking me to run down to his
place in Devonshire, and spend a few days with him.
“Master Charlie, whose lines had fallen in exceeding pleasant places,
and who at twenty-one had come into a very nice estate and some five
thousand pounds annually, after tantalising all the marriageable girls
in the county by refusing to go to balls and croquet parties, with
invitations for which he was pertinaciously pestered from morning till
night, had finally taken himself abroad, no one knew whither, and
there remained between four and five years.
“When he returned home again he brought a wife with him, a proceeding
on his part which excited general discontent and disapprobation.
“But Charlie cared very little what the country folks thought about
him.
“He was passionately fond of his wife, and consequently devoted to
home, while he occupied his time in regulating the affairs of his
estate and improving the breed of pigs. In short, he found within the
limits of his park fence all the amusements and society he required.
“His attachment for his wife was not surprising, for she was indeed a
most lovely and charming woman, full of intelligence and good sense,
and in every way fitted to preside over a household.
“When she and Charlie first met at Pau she was the governess in an
English family that was staying there; their courtship lasted but a
few days, and one fine morning they met by appointment, and walking
together to the church, were married before breakfast.
“Violet Danvers had no idea of the position, pecuniary or otherwise,
that attached to Charlie, but her life had been full of troubles, and
all she knew was that he had been very kind and good to her.
“Friends and relations she had none,” she said; and then, as she
rested her head against his breast, and looked up into his eyes,
Charles felt that Heaven had sent her for him to love and cherish.
“He told her of his past life, and his wanderings in distant
countries, and sought to engage her confidence in return; but she
always seemed to avoid all reference to her own past, and would
hurriedly turn the conversation into quite another channel.
“Charlie was not of a suspicious nature, and had far too much love and
confidence in his wife to fancy that she was concealing anything from
him.
“And so Violet came to her new home――to the old home in which
generations of Forresters had lived and died.
“It was not so very long after they had taken up their abode at ‘The
Lions,’ that I received the invitation before alluded to; and as the
long vacation had already commenced, and my pecuniary resources were
not in a condition to stand a trip even to the sea-side, I thought the
best thing I could do was to accept the hospitality that my old friend
offered me.
“A few days more found me comfortably installed at ‘The Lions,’
thoroughly enjoying the fresh air and strong exercise that followed,
in pleasing contrast to the heated atmosphere of close courts and
continuous sitting in dingy chambers.
“I found Mrs. Forrester a most charming and amusing companion, though
I could not help being struck by an air of constraint and reserve that
at times settled upon her. A very brief acquaintance satisfied me that
there was some mystery attaching to her which she dared not reveal.
“One morning at breakfast, Charlie, after reading a letter he had just
received by the post, informed us that it was from an old Paris friend
of his whom he had met in his traveller days, and who, in pursuance of
a long-standing invitation, had written to say that he proposed coming
on a visit to ‘The Lions,’ and would, without waiting for a reply, put
in an appearance that very evening.
“Charlie was delighted at the prospect of seeing his old acquaintance,
and in the course of a walk over the farm he informed me the name of
the coming guest was Murray, and that he was blessed with a great deal
of more ready wit than ready cash.
“‘Though he is a bit of an adventurer in his way,’ said Charlie, ‘he
is a capital fellow, and the best company in the world.’
“It was very late when the expected guest arrived. Mrs. Forrester had
retired to bed some time before. As for Charlie and myself, we kept
the new comer company while he supped, and when he had done ample
justice to the good things before him, it being already in the small
hours, bed was voted and carried unanimously.
“I was very sleepy, and beyond uttering a mere commonplace or two had
taken little or no notice of the stranger; but when he came across the
room and held out his hand, which, oddly enough, was encased in a
light-coloured glove of some sort, to bid me good night, as I looked
him full in the face, he seemed to start for a moment.
“Although his features were hidden by a heavy moustache and huge
beard, there was something about them that appeared familiar to me.
Where on earth could I have seen him before?
“When I got upstairs into my bedroom, I puzzled my brain with
inquiries, but all in vain; I could connect the face with nothing, and
nothing with the face, and with that I got angry with myself, and went
to sleep.
“The next morning I awoke early, and feeling a strong inclination for
a walk before breakfast, tumbled headlong into my cold tub, and in a
very short time after had completed my ‘toilette,’ and was out in the
glorious fresh air.
“An hour’s stroll brought me back to the window of the breakfast-room,
which opened into the garden, and with the appetite of a tiger I was
on the point of entering when my step was arrested by the sound of
Mrs. Forrester’s voice, trembling with emotion, exclaiming, ‘Say it is
not true!――for pity’s sake, say it is not true!’
“What could this mean? Being of a curious turn――my conduct may have
been disgraceful, but hereafter I hope to stand excused for it; I
moved into a position where I could see into the breakfast room
without being seen, and hear all that was said.
“In an arm-chair by the table, her face buried in her hands, and her
elbows resting on her knees, Mrs. Forrester was rocking herself to and
fro in a way that showed her to be labouring under deep emotion.
“Close to her, in a strangely cool and insolent attitude stood the new
comer of last night, stroking his moustache with his gloved fingers.
“‘Upon my word, my dear Violet,’ he replied to her entreaty, with a
measured slowness of speech that made me long to kick him, ‘I regret
to say that it is true; Arthur Bernard is no more dead than I am. Like
Norval’s father, he at the present moment feeds his flocks, not,
however, upon the Grampian Hills, but in the neighbourhood of the
great city of Otago.’
“‘But they told me he was dead,’ almost shrieked Mrs. Forrester; ‘the
people who were with him when he died wrote to me.’
“‘Wrote to you!’ interrupted Murray with suspicious eagerness. ‘Have
you got the letter?’
“‘No, I dared not keep it,’ she replied, ‘lest it should fall into my
husband’s hands. Listen,’ she continued, hurriedly; ‘he knows nothing
of the past――not even of my first marriage; I have kept it all,
everything from him; for pity’s sake leave this place, where, save for
the thought of that, I have been so happy, and let him remain in
ignorance still.’
“‘Gently, Violet, gently!’ responded the man, unmoved in the least
degree by her appeal. ‘Firstly, let me observe that, having promised
myself a short stay in the country, I can hardly terminate it so
abruptly as you desire me; in the next, as in addition to the
agreeable change of air, I have met, quite unexpectedly, with an old
companion for whom I have been searching ever so many years, and to
whom I have a good deal to say, it would be quite impossible to do as
you wish.’
“She made no response, only kept her face still buried in her hands as
he went on. ‘At last, Violet Bernard, the game is in my hands. You
laughed at my love, jeered at my protestations of devotion for you,
curled up your proud lip at me, and dismissed me from your presence
with contempt when I asked you to be my wife. I have not forgotten
that, and never shall――never, never! But sooner or later you must hear
me; mark, you must! Else――――’ He paused an instant, and continued, ‘I
won’t threaten, but remember Arthur Bernard lives!’
“At this juncture Charles entered the room, but not before Mrs.
Forrester had had time to collect herself; while Murray, without
appearing in the least disconcerted, went on making some commonplace
remarks about the weather.
“As for myself, this interview, of which I had been an unseen
spectator, had naturally aroused varied emotions, and before putting
in an appearance at the breakfast table I thought it best to take a
walk round the garden to indulge in a few moments’ reflection.
“The confession is somewhat humilating, but I have always been rather
fond of interfering in other people’s affairs, and in the present
instance, having seen and heard all I had, I felt exceedingly
reluctant to let the matter drop. The mystery attaching to Mrs.
Forrester was not very difficult to unravel――at least in its main
feature.
“As for this Murray and the influence he seemed to possess over her, I
had long since made up my mind that he was a villain who would stoop
to any device, however contemptible, to ensure the success of any evil
enterprise in which he might be engaged.
“I determined to use every endeavour to defeat him in his present
scheme, though let it not be for a moment supposed that any heroics
were mixed up in this resolve.
“I looked upon the whole matter rather as a game of chess, in which by
hook or by crook I must checkmate my adversary.
“When I reached the breakfast room, the trio seemed on the best
possible terms one with another――Charlie cheerful and unsuspicious as
ever, Mrs. Forrester playing nervously with a tiny piece of toast,
which she made pretence to eat, but never touched, and Murray eating
and talking with equal earnestness.
“‘Oh, yes,’ he said, as I came in, ‘your wife and I, Charlie, have
discovered that we are old acquaintances. Curious, isn’t it?’ Wheels
within wheels! What fools we are to fancy our world to be such a huge
place!’
“I looked at his face as I sat down at the table more closely than I
ever had before, and again the old thought of last night came back to
me.
“Then my eyes involuntarily settled on his hands; they were still
encased in light gloves.
“I do not know what it was that prompted me, but, joining in the
conversation, I said――
“‘You are right; I often tumbled across people I never expected to see
again――mere passing acquaintances. Do you know,’ I continued, ‘last
night when you arrived I fancied we had met before, though then you
had no beard and moustache?’
“I could have sworn, and did to myself at the moment, that his hand
trembled as he raised his cup to his lips; but a moment after, as he
set it down again, he was perfectly calm and cool, while in a
nonchalant tone he replied――
“‘I must say you have the advantage of me, as I am not aware that we
ever met before; indeed, I am quite sure that we never did. Besides, I
have worn a beard and moustache ever since one or the other would
grow.’
“‘Why, when you were in Paris you were as clean shaven as a priest on
a feast-day,’ burst in Charlie, quite innocently; but Murray, without
taking any notice of the observation, turned to Mrs. Forrester, and
commenced talking to her about something quite different.
“Slowly, but surely, a conviction was growing upon me that made me pay
considerable respect to my impressions of the night before, and
determined me to be more watchful than ever.
“My only fear was that Mrs. Forrester, in the weakness of her terror,
would take some desperate step, when after all, as I firmly believed,
there was not the slightest ground for alarm.
“In the course of the next twenty-four hours, by dint of pertinacious
listening and watching, I found that Murray’s protestations of
affection cooled in proportion as he ingenuously hinted that his
silence may be purchased for a reasonable sum――a suggestion that his
victim caught eagerly at, only to be the more crushed by the revulsion
of feeling that followed when she reflected how utterly impossible it
was for her to obtain the two hundred pounds he modestly asked.
“He was treading on dangerous ground, this same Murray; even as he
stood there I might have handed him into the custody of the nearest
constable on a charge of endeavouring to extort money by threats and
menaces.
“Looking at it from a legal point of view, this would have been an
excellent course to adopt; but it was the exposure that was to be
avoided, and, therefore, it was necessary to adopt different tactics.
“For three days I watched――with what a trial to the patience can
readily be imagined――this human spider torturing the poor fly he had
got into his web: he cool, courteous, and insinuating as he worked out
his scheme; she growing weaker and weaker, and losing all strength and
courage, only to find it again to take one last desperate step, and
thus for ever put an end to the torture she was suffering.
“Yet all this while her husband seemed to notice nothing amiss with
her, though her eyes were often red with weeping, and her face wore a
settled look of melancholy and despair.
“Not that he failed in affection or tenderness, only he was one of
those men who, in the goodness of their own digestions and the
smoothness of their life-stream, look upon dyspepsia as a popular
delusion, and cannot understand why any one should be unhappy.
“It was the evening of the fourth day since Murray’s arrival, and
after dinner I had left him and Charlie discussing a bottle of ’54
Chateau Margaux and their old Paris days, and was wandering down a
side-path that led into the plantation, when I suddenly trod on
something.
“Looking downward, I saw that it was a pocket-book, of somewhat bulky
dimensions. There was only one thing to be done――namely, to pick it
up, unclasp it, and examine the contents――which, I need scarcely add,
I faithfully did.
“This investigation having been satisfactorily accomplished, I placed
the pocket-book in my pocket, and strolled on into the plantation,
again to reflect what my next move with Mr. Murray should be. I knew
the game was in my hands “now;” my only puzzle was, how to play it
without making a disturbance.
“Still, what was to be done must be done quickly. As I came to this
determination I found myself standing by a small lake that lay in the
midst of the plantation; almost at the same moment I heard a groan, as
of some one in distress.
“Turning eagerly to the direction whence it seemed to come; through
the dusk which was now growing into darkness, I saw the flutter of a
white dress near the head of the lake. I know not what possessed me,
but a thought seized me that sent me tearing through the bushes and
brambles with frantic speed.
“A few seconds more, and I had caught Mrs. Forrester by the wrist.
“‘What would you do, woman?’ I exclaimed, breathless.
“She made no answer――only fell fainting at my feet.
“When I got back to the house I found Murray alone in the dining-room,
paying the closest attention to a second bottle of the ’54 Chateau
Margaux, to better appreciate which the lamp had been brought in, so
that he might examine the marvellous beauty of its colour.
“Charlie was closeted in the smoking-room with his farm bailiff; in
short, the opportunity of an interview alone with Murray, that I so
much wanted, presented itself. I was not slow to take advantage of it;
and, flinging myself into an arm-chair close to him, poured out a
glass of wine, and settled comfortably to my task.
“It was pretty plain that he was anything but pleased at the prospect
of a _tete-a-tete_, and seemed not altogether easy in his chair.
“‘I was thinking of taking a stroll in the garden,’ he said, half
rising from his chair.
“‘A pity to leave such excellent tipple,’ I replied; ‘besides, it’s
rather chilly. ‘Do you know,’ I continued, ‘I have been thinking of
that observation you made the other night, when I said we had met
before, and, upon my word, I believe I was right after all. I have
such a capital memory for faces that I cannot imagine myself
mistaken.”
“‘Indeed,’ he laughed, roughly, ‘you seem to have great confidence in
yourself; unfortunately, as I told you, in this instance you are
mistaken.”
“‘Well, perhaps I am,’ was my answer, as I drew my chair a little
nearer to his. “The strangest part of my error was that I fancied you
were one of two men I defended at Reading some four years ago, for
conspiring to cheat a young undergraduate out or his money by playing
with loaded dice.’
“He was far too much on his guard to make any sign; he only said, with
a smile, ‘You certainly paid me a great compliment.’ But I saw that he
was drawing away his right hand, which had hitherto been resting on
the table. ‘It was a remarkable case,’ I continued, ‘chiefly from the
way in which the roguery was detected. The hand of the man who was
manipulating the loaded dice was, as yours might be, on the table, to
all appearances, in the most innocent manner possible’――with that, as
if to give him ocular demonstration of the way in which the cheat had
been effected, I took hold of his hand and held it on the table――‘when
a stranger, who had been sitting at the further end of the room, came
quickly to the side of the rogue, and in an instant more had pinned
his hand with a carving-fork to the mahogany.’ I felt that I had
carried the play on long enough, and quickly inserting my finger at
the top of his glove, I tore it down the back. He jumped to his feet,
and so did I. “You are the man,’ I said, ‘whose hand was so pinned to
the table, and that scar is the evidence I should call, if it were
necessary to prove it, Therefore, sit down and hear what else I have
to say.’
“He glared viciously at me, lifted his fist as if he would have struck
me, and then sank into his chair again.
“‘A man who could try to rob a poor silly boy by such disgraceful
means,’ I continued, ‘could bardly be expected to have any pity on a
helpless woman; but, fortunately, I have been a witness of your
endeavours on more than one occasion, by threats and menaces, to
extort a large sum of money from your host’s wife, and that by
representing to her that her first husband was alive, and at Otago,
New Zealand, when you knew as well as I do that he was dead, and has
been so these two years.’
“‘He is not dead,’ growled Murray.
“‘He is dead,’ I replied, ‘and your own pocket-book proves it.’
“As I said this, I held up to him the wallet that I had tumbled upon
in the plantation walk, in one of the pockets of which, among a number
of other exceedingly suspicious-looking documents, I had found a
certificate of the death of Arthur Bernard.
“But as I have been a very long time in telling my story――barristers
are proverbially long-winded, you know――I must hurry to a conclusion.
“The morning following our interview, Murray, with many excuses and
regrets, found himself unavoidably compelled to return to town.
“As he got into the phaeton that was to take him to the station he
kindly whispered in my ear, ‘I’ll live to pay you out for this yet!’ a
promise that I somehow or other fancy he will fulfil some day. Till
then I am content to forget all about him.
“As for Mrs. Forrester, the clouds upon her horizon have lifted; she
has buried a sad and painful past, and lives in a present, loved as
dearly and tenderly as ever by Charlie, who knows nothing, and who
never shall, unless she, as I have advised her, has the courage to
tell him all, even to the extent that her first husband, Arthur
Bernard, was the co-conspirator who stood at Murray’s side in the
felon’s dock.
“I have every hope that she will do this, for the confidence between
husband and wife should be as clear as the day at noon.”
“Well, Mr. Tangle,” said Lord Chetwynd, when the barrister had brought
his narrative to an end, “it is a most interesting story of real life,
and I expect you gentlemen of the long robe are the possessors of
secrets of a similar character, which, in many cases, you are, for
various reasons, not permitted to divulge.”
“Yes, we are at times the recipients of many a domestic drama or
tragedy.”
“And did Mrs. Forrester ever make known to her husband the history of
her first unfortunate marriage?”
“I believe not. Certainly not that I am aware of. It was a matter I
did not choose to interfere in beyond giving her a word or so of
advice. No man has a right to interfere between husband and wife, you
know.”
“He was a base scoundrel,” observed Quirp, “and for such men we should
have no pity; one hardly knows what punishment such a fellow
deserves.”
“Solitary confinement,” cried Major Smythe. “That’s the way to bring a
fellow to his senses. If that doesn’t succeed nothing will.”
“Well, you see,” remarked Quirp, “solitary confinement is so terrible
that it cannot be resorted to with safety; after a time it has been
found to drive prisoners mad.”
“Drive them mad――eh?”
“Dear me, yes. Didn’t you know that? It is the most fearful of all
punishments, and has been tried in the penal prisons of this country
and elsewhere. I will give you an account of a prison I visited while
this punishment was in operation.
“The prison I am about to speak of was in Philadelphia, to which city
an important will case once necessitated my paying a visit. Let me
premise here that the solitary system was, at that time at least,
practised in American prisons with far more rigour than in English
gaols, and sometimes lasted a lifetime, or ended in the madness of the
prisoner.”
CHAPTER CXLIII.
A VISIT TO A PRISON――SOLITARY CONFINEMENT.
“Why, Mr. Quirp, have you been in a prison?” inquired Lady Marvlynn.
“I am sorry to say I have been in a good many, my dear madam,”
returned the lawyer. “Not as an inmate――don’t imagine that.”
Upon this the company burst out into a loud laugh.
“No, only as a visitor,” added Quirp. “That is all, and from what I
have seen of the internal accommodation of those places I have no
desire to dwell therein even for the space of, say, four and twenty
hours.”
“You are afraid the air would not agree with you?”
“Exactly so. I am quite sure that neither the air, the food, nor the
sleeping accommodation would suit me. But I will give you an account
of what I saw.
[Sidenote: No. 77.]
[Illustration: THE “HARVEST HOME” GAMES AT FARMER ASHBROOK’S.]
“I had visited a large number of prisoners, when the warder of the
Penitentiary said to me, just as we reached the door of a cell whose
outward appearance was even more gloomy than those we had visited:――
“‘This is the cell of the prisoner I was speaking about――Dick Malden.
I have no time to wait at present, but, if you would like to converse
with him, I will lock you in the cell, and call for you, say in half
an hour.’
“The warden, in his practical way, was accustomed to allude to his
prisoners in much the same manner as the keeper of a menagerie would
refer to his living specimens of natural history.
“After all, I thought, there was more reason in this than appeared at
the first glance; for no doubt many of the human hearts which were
caged in those impenetrable walls of iron and stone, throbbed with
fiercer passions and more savage instincts than ever inspired the
breast of any wild beast of the field.
“I had become so used to the warder’s manner that, before I assented
to his proposition, I was on the point of making inquiries regarding
the tameness of the animal within; but I checked myself, and merely
signified my assent.
“The door was partially opened, and, by a strange sort of turnstile
arrangement, I was inducted alone into the cell.
“‘Scientific visitor for No. 46!’ cried the warder in a loud voice
from the outside; then the iron door crashed between us; thud went the
shooting bolts, and I heard his echoing steps retreating down the
vaulted corridor.
“The cell in which I stood was about ten by fifteen, larger than the
ordinary dungeon, and was well lighted by a small grating high in the
wall opposite the entrance.
“It contained a small iron bedstead, a small iron table, a small iron
chair, and a young man seated on a stool, engaged in pegging shoes
with such rapidity that it seemed his life must depend upon completing
a gigantic taste in an impossibly short space of time.
“But upon my entrance, he threw down his work, and rushed up to me
with an eagerly extended hand, and a wild joyous blaze in his eyes
(they were very fine eyes――large, gray, lustrous, and expressive), as
if I were a brother or a near friend from whom he had long been
separated.
“I noticed that the young man was very handsome, even in his degrading
prison dress. His frame was lithe and sinewy, his hands and feet small
and delicately shaped.
“His face was smooth and beardless as a woman’s, his features regular,
and singularly handsome, and the contour of his closely cropped head
was noble and dignified; yet, with all these redeeming characteristics,
there was the inevitable stamp of the born criminal over all.
“His physiognomy was one of those strange, rarely encountered
specimens, where, through the mask of good nature, shines forth the
glimmering of a depravity so natural to the possessor as to render
even him totally unconscious of its existence. But I liked the
intensity of feeling with which he grasped my hand.
“‘Take a chair,’ said he, pushing up the single chair, and seating
himself on the side of the iron bedstead. ‘I hope you will pardon my
vehemence, sir, when I say that yours is the only human face I have
seen for, I judge, eight months.’
“‘Are you in earnest?’ I exclaimed in amazement――for, much as I
condemned the system of solitary confinement, I was not aware that it
was carried to this extent in America.
“‘Certainly, sir,’ replied the prisoner, Dick Malden. ‘You will
perceive, by the peculiar construction of that door, that I cannot
even see the face of my gaoler when he brings me food. Even in the
chapel, on the Sabbath, our seats are so arranged that we can neither
see each other nor the face of the chaplain who preaches to us. We
used to have some relief by being able to speak to each other through
the water-pipes of the necessary here,’ said he, pointing to the
apparatus, just below the small grating; ‘but they found it out, and
now even that avenue of communication is obstructed. They have got us
solitary enough _now_!’
“As the young man said this, a wan smile crossed his lips.
“‘What is the term of your sentence?’
“‘A lifetime.’
“‘And your crime?’
“‘Murder!’
“There was something terrible in his calm, even tones, and I
instinctively shrank back at the dreadful word. Perceiving that the
gesture pained him, however, I continued the colloquy by asking――
“‘Pray how many times have you been in prison, Mr. Malden?’
“‘Call me Dick, sir,’ said the prisoner, laughing, but evidently
gratified at my civility. ‘I have been in prison――in this same
prison――five times, when they “copped” me on this last go; I had a
pretty sure thing of it, however.’
“‘I suppose if you were released to-morrow,’ said I, ‘it would not be
long before you would be back again?’
“‘Very likely,’ he replied, nodding his head meditatively.
“Then, perceiving the mingled curiosity and incredulity in my
countenance, he continued――
“‘If you care to hear it, sir, I don’t mind giving you some
particulars of a thief’s story. The last man I saw, about eight months
ago, was a sort of a tract distributor, who asked me a great many
silly questions about religious matters, of which he himself was as
ignorant as that spider on the wall there. He was one of your d――――d
canting hypocrites, without enough brains to call a congregation into
a God-shop, and without pride enough to work for a living, so I turned
my back on him at the start. I see nothing but pleasant sympathy in
your face, however, and would like the most of my half-hour with you.’
“I gladly assented, and the prisoner-for-life began his story as
follows:――
“‘I never knew my mother, and my father was a professional thief――at
least, he was when I first recognised him as my father. He brought me
up as a thief, and I soon proved a wonderful adept, but, in his
drunken moments (he was seldom sober) he beat me so cruelly that, when
fourteen years of age, I ran away from him, and came from the western
city, in which we lived, to this city.
“‘I was an accomplished thief for one so young. There was nothing in
that queer Latin of the thief’s lexicon that I was not thoroughly
conversant with, and, being acquainted with all the secret signals, I
was enabled, at almost every point of my journey, to form any variety
of acquaintance in my now peculiar life.
“‘I could “fake” a “wipe,” or “crib” a “spoon,” with the best of them,
and was not long in teaching the swell-mob of the eastern coast more
than they knew, and, moreover, what was not imported from foreign
countries either.
“‘But, somehow or another, I was not naturally inclined to the
profession, and, accident befriending me, I became a lawyer’s clerk in
Philadelphia.
“‘My employer had a very extensive library, and so much did I enjoy
reading, that I remained with him for a number of years, improving my
mind, and robbing my employer so moderately it was imperceptible.
“‘I dressed well, and moved in decent circles, but, when eighteen
years of age, I overstepped my modesty, robbed my master of two
hundred dollars, and fled, for I knew he would not forgive me.
“‘He pursued, arrested, and imprisoned me. This sealed my fate. Allow
me to say to you sir, that I know it to be both wrong and impolite, to
steal; but in some cases I can convince you that it can’t be helped.
My imprisonment was of brief duration, but it was sufficient to
confirm me as a villain and a wretch.
“‘This system of solitary confinement can never reform a criminal. I
have tried it for many years, and I ought to know.’
“The prisoner-for-life paused contemplatively, and I could not help
wondering at these unusual comments from such lips.
“‘No,’ he continued, ‘they will never succeed in reforming the world
that way; I am certain of it. Look at it yourself from my point of
view, and you will see it in the same light. Here am I, say, arrested
for theft. Grant the crime――what’s the use of denying it after you’re
judged?
“‘And I will credit the law by saying this much, that I was never
imprisoned unjustly in my life. I am suddenly picked up from the
street, and, after a brief trial (I would willingly dispense with
that, because my word goes for nothing, and I have no friends), placed
in solitary confinement for six months, a year, or two years.
“‘No person, sir, who has never undergone the punishment, can even
imagine the slow agony of solitary confinement. You could not stand it
a year. I, who by this time, should be pretty well used to it, will be
able to stand it ten or twelve years longer, when my life-imprisonment
will be at an end. Save in the case of such visits as yours, no human
face is seen by the prisoner.
“‘You probably wondered, when you entered this cell, why I worked so
hard. When we first come here, we are given the choice of doing
nothing or working. We always prefer the former at first; but not many
days of thought――wild, mad, wearing, eternal, lonely thought――are
required to drive us to the latter alternative, and we work so hard,
so incessantly, in order to forget ourselves, that the authorities
make much more out of us than they could out of honest workmen.
“‘You see, sir, we must forget ourselves, and that is what we try to
do when we work so hard.
“‘Well, suppose my term expires, my cell door opened, I am conducted
downstairs, change these striped clothes for those relinquished upon
entering the prison, and am shown into the street――free to do as I
will.
“‘Imagine my sensations. I have not seen a human face for years,
perhaps, and now, suddenly, I see thousands.
“‘I am just as if I were translated into another planet――or like Rip
Van Winkle after his thirty years’ nap. My clothes are out of fashion,
houses have been built where I remember nothing but empty lots. The
faces of men and women in the streets seem unreally vivid and
distinct.
“‘The roar and rumble of the street confuse my brain. I am bewildered,
lost. The few dollars I have earned through overwork in the prison are
speedily expended for necessities. I am penniless in the world. It is
difficult to obtain honest employment.
“‘Credentials are almost always required; and who would employ a
convict? The only acquaintances whom I meet in the populated streets
are those whom I knew of old――fellow-thieves. From these alone I
receive the cordial smile of welcome, the warm handclasp of
friendship. However deeply I may have resolved upon reformation, my
old unprincipled feelings repossess me.
“‘I borrow money of thieves, visit the old cribs mostly frequented by
thieves, meet and become intimate with women――often very pretty
girls――who are thieves, and whom I have known before. This is my only
sympathy in the world.
“‘There is nothing intentionally false or down-dragging in their
smiles and their welcomes, because I belong to their tribe, and know
that they are really glad of my release from the Penitentiary.
“‘Well, thieving is the only legitimate occupation I have. A few
weeks’ dissipation serves to render me forgetful of my prison
experience, hard and bitter as it may have been.
“‘My trade is a precarious one――from day to day, from hand to mouth.
If the hardships, the danger, the necessary and never-ceasing anxiety
of a life of pillage could be presented to the infant mind, I think
there would be no thieves.
“‘It is terrible, and yet, to one who has been initiated into the
wicked mysteries, there is a fascination which cannot be resisted.
“‘It is all luck――I may run a day, a week, a month, a year; but,
sooner or later, I am sure to feel the cop’s accusing grip upon my
shoulders――and the eternal dread of this is what gives the wandering
glitter which you may have noticed in the thief’s eye, and which
renders his life a torment of restlessness and fear.
“‘Well, after a while, I find myself here again, and immediately pitch
in to drown my wretchedness in hard work.
“‘The magistrates know me, and treat me as an old customer; and here,
in the prison, they regard me as an erratic boarder (permanent enough
now!) who will be sure to return again.
“‘This is the routine of my own life, and may answer for that of many
of my class.
“‘I will relate to you the circumstances of my last arrest――and my
final one, for I firmly believe that I shall never again quit these
prison walls alive.
“‘I had just finished a term of four years, and, after praying to God
very sincerely, and reasoning with myself very strongly, and come to
the determination to lead an honest life, if within the scope of
possibility. Fortune favoured me, and I obtained a subordinate
position in the office of a prominent lawyer.
“‘He knew my history. I told it all to him, and threw myself upon his
generosity. He extended his hand nobly to me. For a long time I did
not repay his kindness with ingratitude. I suffered more than he
thought in my endeavours to be honest.
“‘Every day I would encounter the sneers of my comrades in the street,
and frequently their curses, but still remained firm in my good
resolutions.
“‘My employer was an old bachelor. His office was in the front part of
his dwelling, which was presided over by his housekeeper, Mrs.
Stanton, an eccentric, but kind-hearted old lady. I noticed, casually,
that my employer never banked any of his money, and, at the same time,
very seldom had much of it upon his person, so out of mere curiosity
(I assure you, sir, it was nothing _but_ curiosity), I set myself to
find out what he did with it, until one day I discovered, while
accidentally traversing an upper hall in his house, that he secreted
it somewhere in an old bureau, in his own bedroom.
For several days after this I could not help thinking what a shrewd
old fellow my employer was, to deposit his money in such an
out-of-the-way place, instead of letting all the world know its
whereabouts by the presence of the usual massive and cumbrous iron
safe.
“‘Well, sir, one bright morning, Mr. B――――, my employer, sent me to
collect a bad debt for an inconsiderable amount, and, as I left the
office, I noticed that the door of the dwelling-house was wide open.
“‘I was pretty sweet on Polly, the cook, or she was on me, which was
better yet, and I thought it wouldn’t do any harm just to run into the
kitchen and give her a good-morning kiss. As Satan would have it,
Polly wasn’t in the kitchen, and there were signs of her having just
gone to market.
“‘I glanced into the little sitting-room, which Mrs. Stanton nearly
always occupied when she was in the house, and, to my surprise, there
were signs of her having also just gone to market.
“‘Greatly marvelling that such a nice house should be thus left all
alone, I thought I would just take a look around the premises, out of
mere curiosity. To make a long story short, I found myself presently
in Mr. B――――’s bedchamber, gazing very curiously at that old bureau,
somewhere in which I knew he kept his money. At first my curiosity was
genuine, but I gradually began to think how many nice things I could
buy if that money was mine.
“‘I was sadly in need of a suit of clothes, and was also very fond of
dress. I hadn’t been on the spree for a long, long time, and, just at
this unfortunate moment, my mouth began to water for the wine-cup.
“‘Well, sir, it is hardly worth while for me to describe the various
phases of temptation which led, step by step, to the evil deed. I was
almost as much surprised at myself as any stranger would have been,
had he seen me, when a few minutes later, I found myself rummaging
through the drawers of that old bureau, in the most nervous and
excited manner.
“‘I was engaged in this manner when I was startled by a loud scream,
and wheeled on my heel to perceive the housekeeper, Mrs. Stanton,
looking at me. The thought of my position flashed upon me so strongly
and vividly that, for a moment, I was incapable of action.
“‘I was too old a bird, however, to be paralysed by fear for more than
an instant of time. Her screams continued.
“‘In my wild alarm, I sprang upon her and clutched her throat.
“‘As I did so, a thousand thoughts flashed through my brain. The
consequences which would fall upon me should my employer discover any
attempt upon his property――the judge’s face, stern and relentless――the
words of the prosecuting attorney――the stolid jurymen, with prejudice
and hatred imprinted upon their foredooming faces――and then the walls
of this accursed prison rose before me, with their stony hopelessness
augmented fifty-fold. I continued to choke down her accursed cries
more vigorously as these terrible thoughts fleeted through my head.
“‘At length she ceased struggling, and, slowly relinquishing my grip,
I laid her upon the floor. I then bent over her, with a cold, icy
horror at my heart, never experienced before; for I perceived that the
housekeeper was dead.
“‘I had no control over myself after that, sir. In my wild excitement
I rushed to the nearest police-station, hurriedly confessed my crime,
and was arrested. At the subsequent trial I was found guilty of murder
in the first degree, and sentenced to be hanged. In view of the
extenuating circumstances, as they called them, my sentence was
commuted to penal servitude for life, and here I am.’
“‘Good-bye, sir, and may God bless you! I hear the warden at the
door.’
“Tears stood in his eyes as he extended his hand to me, and grasping
it warmly I quitted the cell. After the door was closed I heard a
great hammering going on within, and I knew that the prisoner-for-life
was forgetting his loneliness in the monotonous hum-drum of
shoe-pegging.”
“Poor fellow,” said Lord Fitzbogleton. “What a dweadful punishment it
must be to be impwisoned for life!”
“Yes, it is a most melancholy state of existence without doubt,” said
Smythe: “and, to say the truth, it appears almost miraculous how
prisoners are able to bear so severe a punishment, but in most cases
they deserve what they get. The wonder is that there are not more
escapes, seeing that so many are driven to what one might call a
desperate condition.”
“When I was in the United States,” said Captain Crasher, “escapes and
attempted escapes from prison were frequent occurrences, but here in
the old country, as our Transatlantic cousins term it, the chances for
prisoners freeing themselves from bondage are but few and far between.
Nevertheless, even here successful attempts at escape do take place,
despite the surveillance kept over the unfortunate denizens of a penal
prison. When I was in America many of the convicts of Clinton prison
strove to be again on their travels. No less than thirteen tried to
escape within the space of two months. Whether this was caused by the
neglect of the officers, or the insecurity of the prison, I will not
intend to say, but as we are discoursing on prison life, I will just
give you an account of the rascals at Clinton, and how they managed to
escape, or, at least, tried to do so.
“First, two of their number made their exit from the forge during the
night, which is closely guarded inside and out by several of the most
efficient guards of the prison.
“Strange to say, these same two escaped from the same place last
summer.
“Their names were Samuel Tweed and Henry Austin.
“After leaving the prison they proceeded to a barn in the vicinity,
where they procured a horse and waggon, with which they managed to
reach the village of Saranac, some six or eight miles distant; but
there finding their great enemy, the snow, had not left the premises,
and as they were unable to use the waggon any further, the snow being
so deep, they concluded to tramp it on foot, and to their sorrow, for
they were quickly followed by officers Christian and Hagerty, who
succeeded in first capturing Tweed; but, Austin being somewhat of a
more daring character, attempted to fight it out, paying no attention
to the word ‘halt’ given by Mr. Hagerty.
“Seeing that Austin meant to try his speed, Mr. Hagerty discharged his
revolver over the convict’s head, which, as intended, brought him to
bay. Finally they were once more secured in their old quarters, and
now wear a heavy log chain as a reward of their escapade.
“Not the least daunted by the failure of his brother convicts, William
Wallace (no relation of the Scotch chieftain), who was employed as
engineer at the rolling-mill, took it into his head to vamose; so, by
playing possum with the keeper, he succeeded in leaving the prison.
“He could not have scaled the stockade before the alarm was given,
but, alas! the bird had flown, and was not caught for some days
aterwards, and then by chance, he being hidden in the woods, heard a
gun discharged close by, and, thinking he had been discovered, took to
his heels and ran.
“Those who fired the gun were not in search of escaped convicts, but
for pleasure, and pleased they were when they saw fifty dollars within
their reach, and which they received for the capture of the said
William Wallace, who now works in his old shop, but is not engineer,
unless he may be called an engineer in a small way, for I suppose it
is a matter of engineering to walk with the large shackle and chain
which he wears without injuring his ankles.
“So far I have only recorded escapes and recaptures. Now I come to a
trial escape (which is a very rare occurrence).
“It was on Sunday, a day of rest (but not for the prison-keepers),
that as usual two convicts were sent from their cells to feed the
hogs, but instead of laying out the usual quantity of food for the
hogs, they laid out an unusual quantity of food for themselves,
contemplating beforehand that they would need it on their travels.
“Travels, I say, for travel they did over the pickets, and God knows
where, for they were not seen again for ten or twelve days after. One
of them, by name Tanner, happened to come across an old acquaintance
of his in the shape of the sheriff of the town he was convicted in.
“The sheriff, knowing his term had not expired, at once arrested him
and placed him in gaol, there to await an answer from the
prison-officers, concerning the escape of Tanner.
“One of the ex-officers of the prison, Mr. John Thompson, who had been
sent in that direction in expectation that Tanner would seek his
former acquaintances, was soon at the gaol and immediately recognised
him.
“From certain information received from Tanner, in regard to the
whereabouts of Yates, his confederate, Thompson and the sheriff
proceeded some miles further on in hopes of effecting Yates’s capture.
“In the meantime, Tanner thought he would try his luck once more; so
with very little trouble he succeeded in breaking out of the gaol,
since which neither he nor Yates has been heard of.
“Probably Mr. Thompson and the sheriff will learn to profit by that
somewhat stale proverb, that ‘A bird in the hand is worth two in the
bush.’
“Next comes another escape from that stronghold, the forge. Strange to
say, among so many guards, a convict could not be seen to leave his
fire and ascend to the roof, from there through a sky-light, as
Patrick Curly did, not many nights before, but the fortunate was
doomed to misfortune, as it proved, for he succeeded in getting no
further than Cadyville, where he was captured and brought back, and by
two boys, both younger than himself.
“He now wears the reward of his failure in the shape of a heavy chain
fastened to the leg, and it is to be hoped he will learn that the way
of the transgressor is hard.
“It was on the evening of the 28th of May, some half-dozen of convicts
were employed in the foundry (a rather unusual thing, _i.e._, after
six o’clock, p.m.), in charge of three guards, each having charge of
two men; but it seems that one of the guards, a Mr. Burdick, was
cross-eyed, which enabled him to see both ways; but unfortunately for
his reputation, and I have no doubt for his position, he did not see
the way that William Shea and Patrick Foley made their exit, and it
was not for some time after they had gone before our friend, Mr. B.,
became aware of the fact.
“When he was told of it he remarked: ‘Yes, they are gone, and so is my
75 dols. a month gone.’ He being a keeper, was of course at once
discharged for neglect of duty.
“Shea, after three days’ hard travelling, became so exhausted, that he
concluded to give himself up, which he did to two men, for which they
received the usual reward of 50 dols.
“Foley, it seems, was somewhat the toughest, for he managed to stay
away two days longer, and after travelling, as he says, about a
hundred miles and more, he met two men of whom he inquired how far it
was from Canada, which they undertook to show him by bringing him back
to the prison, which was somewhat about twelve miles distant.
“Foley participated in the joy of the two men who effected his
capture, for on entering the prison-gate, being tied down to a waggon,
he looked up and exclaimed ‘How are you, Canada?’
“The usual reward was received by all parties――viz., 50 dols. for the
capture of each――and the captured received their reward by having
their head shaved in the shape of a cock’s comb, dark cell, and ball
and chain; that man-killing machine known as the shower-box being
abolished by an act passed by our State Legislature.
“Nothing must do but the Sabbath must be broken, also, the prison
windows (which by-the-bye are made of cast iron), by two desperadoes
known as James McManus and Washington Roxford.
“The circumstances are as follow:――It seems that when the convict
Curly escaped, Charles Richardson, principal keeper, received the
information that the said McManus in some way or other assisted him,
which justified Richardson in keeping McManus locked up.
“Some time previous Roxford had committed a breach of prison
discipline, for which he also was locked up and wore a chain.
“It seems they contemplated to repeat the Sing Sing tragedy, in
bucking and gagging the guards, for the material for so doing was
found in their rooms; but luckily for Charley Gray, who it seems they
intended to select for their victim, they pursued another course,
which was to cut their doors, and with a heavy sledge hammer break the
cast-iron windows, which they succeeded in doing about nine o’clock
a.m.
“While the Sunday school was being held they succeeded in going
through the window, but to their surprise they were confronted by
several of the guards, who it seems had been on the alert, expecting
this for some time. No doubt Charley Richardson rewarded them as they
deserved, both being ‘hard cases.’
“It is a strange thing that in this enlightened age one of the State
prisons should be as far behind the times as to have doors and windows
made of cast iron, which is well known to be utterly useless as a
safeguard against convicts’ escapes, and the convicts know it, too.
“It is to be hoped that some means will be found to make the new
prison now in contemplation more secure than the one at Dancmora.
“His Excellency Gov. Hoffman paid a visit to the prison some time
since, which was not intended as an official one (he being on a
pleasant trip to the trout lakes in the vicinity), but the convicts
made it one for him, for out of 500 and odd men there nearly one-half
wanted to see him, but of course could not, his stay there being but
short; but those that did see him were received very kindly, and those
who deserved it, I have no doubt, heard from him in a short time, for
he had already pardoned two.
“He had no sooner left the prison than three of the convicts took the
notion that they would leave too; but thanks to some of the guards
they did not go any further than the main sewer, where they had hidden
themselves.
“Their names were Obastio (coloured), Whitehead and Howard; all
belonging to that unruly school of boys known as the ‘Nail Factory.’
“The guards were aroused in the night, or in the morning, for it was
about three, and that, too, on a Sunday morning, by the report of a
pistol which was discharged at the convict Hughes, who attempted to
break the window with a hammer; but the night-guard, Mr. Kimball,
being on watch for such things, quickly made him drop the sledge and
cry for quarter. He was not shot, though it was no fault of the
guards, for they were determined to make an example of some of those
gaol-breakers.
“The convict, Thomas Kelly, was indicted for murder in the first
degree, subsequently, for the murder of his fellow-convict, Lorenzo.
He was tried at Plattsburgh, the witnesses being mostly convicts.
“A convict there, named Mulligan, a noted river pirate, under sentence
of fifteen years, attempted suicide by opening an artery in his arm,
and was only saved by the prompt arrival of the prison physician,
Arthur S. Wolff.
“Several attempts have been made, of late, in the prisons, upon the
lives of officers. In a great many of them they are provoked assaults
by the officers, I have no doubt. At least, one came to my notice
during my stay.
“It was between a convict named Morrow and Officer Moore. This Moore
was a very brutal man, and uses at all times the most abominable
language towards his men; and it was a wonder to me that such a man
should be allowed in the prison as a keeper.
“Charley Richardson knew this man’s character; why did he not take
such steps as would cause his removal? On the same day convict
Flaherty attempted to cut Officer Cartwright without any cause
whatever.
“What is the use of officers carrying firearms, if they have them in
such a position that it takes them so long before they can get at
them? I have known about six or seven keepers in one prison who could
have prevented the beatings they have received by the timely
appearance of their pistols, which they keep slung on a belt around
behind them, and in a case, which is kept buttoned.
“Convicts know this; so, when they attack an officer they know they do
it without chance of being shot. Never do I remember of one case where
a convict was shot in attempting to strike an officer, which was
getting to be an every-day occurrence.”
“Gentlemen,” said Lady Marvlynn, “I do hope and trust you have enjoyed
yourselves. We have had, I am sure, a most charming and sociable
evening. I can speak for myself. The amount of information and
interesting matter which many of my guests have kindly furnished us
with has been specially acceptable both to myself and many others of
the company. There has of course been one circumstance which has
broken up the harmony and flow of conversation for a brief period. I
allude to the presence of that lawless man whom many of you censure
me――and, I admit, with justice, perhaps――for suffering to escape; but
at the same time――――”
“Say no more upon that subject, my lady,” interrupted Sir William
Leathbridge. “The fellow has had a respite――is far away by this time.
The best thing we can do is to forget that he was present here
to-night.”
“But he knocked my hat over my eyes, and be hanged to him,” cried
Fitzbogleton, “and sent Miss Awabella Lovejoyce into hysterics.”
“Miss Lovejoyce will forgive him, I dare say,” observed the baronet.
“Oh, dear me, yes,” returned the fair Arabella, “most willingly.”
“I felt assured of that,” said the baronet. “Now, ladies and
gentlemen, we are, I take it, all agreed upon one point, this being
that our kind friend and hostess has acted with her usual discretion,
and, all things considered, it is just as well, and it may be a great
deal better, that we are rid of the scoundrel.”
“Certainly, quite right, Sir William,” cried several. “We endorse your
opinion most willingly.”
“And so this matter being settled,” observed the baronet, “and seeing
also that we have had a long sitting, and however pleasurable the
evening may have been, which it has been to all of us――(hear,
hear)――nevertheless, as it is now drawing to a close, before we break
up I have one toast to propose, and I am sure, speaking from my own
personal experience, and the experience also of most――and indeed I may
say, all persons present――that you will join me in doing justice to
that toast. I will not tell you how many years I have had the honour
of knowing Lady Marvlynn, because you see by so doing I should have to
go back to the sunny days of my youth, and this would lead up to the
unpleasant fact that I might probably be no longer young――in fact, it
might be said that I am getting old. (“No, no,” and cheers). Well, we
will not dwell upon such an objectionable subject. Her ladyship is the
same bright, kind-hearted creature whom I knew, say for the nonce a
dozen or so years ago. Time has not changed her, and, as far as I am
individually concerned, as years have flown by, my friendship for her
ladyship has been strengthened rather than diminished, and I may add
that it is a deep and lasting friendship, which I am perfectly well
convinced will only end with my life; and, so you see, this being so,
I have felt it a duty incumbent on me to propose the health and
happiness of Lady Marvlynn. May her future life be one of unclouded
sunshine, each day fulfilling the promises of yesterday, still
promising to morrow. My friends, Lady Marvlynn!” cried the baronet,
raising his glass.
The company stood up and drank the toast with enthusiasm.
Signor Marouski sang a sort of benediction in choice Italian, which
was doubtless very fine, but nobody understood it.
This did not much matter, it was very effective, nevertheless.
Other speeches and toasts followed, and shortly after midnight the
guests began to take their departure.
Lord Fitzbogleton was the last to leave. He still lingered by the side
of Miss Lovejoyce.
“Your carriage is at the door, my lord,” observed the lady.
“I know it,” he answered petulantly. “I am perfectly well assured of
that important fact. What does it matter? I am master of my own
time――have no wife or babies waiting for my return. Hang it, don’t be
in such a hurry to get rid of a fellow.”
“I am in no hurry, my lord.”
“I am glad to hear you say so, and now about the wing. I swear most
positively I will not go till I’ve got your pwomise.”
“What promise?”
“What pwomise! Why, that you will consent to accept the wing as a
token of my esteem.” He was going to say love, but substituted the
other word in lieu of it.
“Your esteem?”
“Certainly. Confound it, Awabella. I intend to always call you
Awabella, you know.”
“Well, yes, that, I believe, is an agreement.”
“It is, and you won’t depart from the letter of the law in this
respect.”
“There is no reason for my doing so.”
“Well, what was I saying? Where was I? Oh, I know――about your
pwomise.”
“We will talk about that when we next meet.”
“Indeed, we will do no such thing. We will talk about it now. I will
not leave this house till you have given me your word that you will
accept the wing as a token of fwendship and esteem.”
“That is your determination?”
“It is.”
“Then, of course, as you are so persistent I have no alternative. Be
satisfied with the assurance that I will accept the gift.”
“I am the happiest of men,” exclaimed the young nobleman. “Farewell
for the pwesent, dearest Awabella. You are an angel――that’s what you
are.”
“Am I?” she exclaimed, bursting out into a laugh.
“There you go again,” ejaculated her companion. “You are so fond of
looking at things in a widiculous light. A fellow don’t like to be
held up to widicule. No fellow likes that.”
“No, of course not.”
“Then why do you do it?”
“I have not attempted to hold you up to ridicule,” said she, pouting.
“No, no, I didn’t mean to say that. Pardon me, my charmer, I could not
find it in my heart to blame you. You are faultless.”
The champagne and other sparkling wines, together with the excitement
of the day, had produced a visible effect upon Fitzbogleton, whose
utterance was a little thick.
“We part good friends,” said he. “Say that you are not offended.”
“Goodness me, no!” cried Arabella. “How can I possibly be offended?”
He would not leave go of her hand, but strove as best he could to
explain himself. He was a little foggy, and Miss Lovejoyce thought he
would never go.
“If he is often like this,” she murmured, “he must be rather a
troublesome man.”
At length he made a movement towards the door, and after bidding a
final farewell, betook himself to his chocolate-coloured chariot, and
was driven off.
And so the festivities at Lady Marvlynn’s were brought to a close.
CHAPTER CXLIV.
A GLANCE AT STOKE FERRY FARM HARVEST HOME.
For some days after Peace’s return to the Evalina-road he was in a
furious savage state. He did not tell anyone of his escapade at the
residence of Lady Marvlynn, but those about him were at no loss to
divine that something had occurred which not only roused his temper,
but made him as sharp and snappish as a rabid dog.
Mrs. Thompson, who had been putting an enemy into her mouth, incurred
his displeasure. With brutal ferocity he struck her mercilessly about
the face and head. So violent was his attack that one of the unhappy
woman’s eyes was closed, in addition to several other bruises, which
she received at the hands of her brutal companion; the only wonder is
that she consented to remain with him so long.
It was in vain for Mrs. Peace to interfere, for she knew that the
chances would have been that she would have been subjected to a
similar course of treatment, for Peace ruled his two female companions
with a rod of iron.
Bill Rawton strove to pacify the tyrant. He was a man who never at any
time of his life treated one of the opposite sex with unkindness, and
Peace’s conduct towards the “ladies” of his establishment met with
Bill’s unqualified disapproval.
As time went on, however, the owner of the home in the Evalina-road
toned down, and it is said that he expressed his regret for his
barbarity――anyway, he became more considerate towards those who might
at any given moment have handed him over to the officers of the law.
But we must leave the brutal burglar for a while, to take a glance at
some of the other characters, who figure in this history.
In the succeeding chapters it will be our purpose to chronicle the
career of our hero, with something like an unbroken course of action.
It is, perhaps, needless to say that Mr. Algernon Sutherland dodged
the police; he did not present himself at the police-court, where the
second examination should have taken place, and the magistrate, Mr.
Kensett, felicitated himself upon the fact that the young man had
contrived to give his enemies the slip.
Many months had passed over since the capture, and fresh examination
of Sutherland took place, and the affair had by this time been nearly
if not quite forgotten.
It was autumn, and the harvest time was over, the fields were no
longer forests of waving corn, but bare and yellow stubble; the yards
of the farmers were filled with portly and imposing sacks of corn,
warm and sweet beneath thin roofs of pale clean thatch.
Harvest time is the holiday of country labourers――one of hard work and
high wages, which is the best holiday of all.
At harvest time men and women, who in some parts of England are still
preferred to machines, earn the chance of buying for themselves and
families new corduroy trousers, cotton gowns, and nailed boots for the
ensuing year.
But there are few (however temperately they may have lived during the
other months of the year) who do not spend a great deal of their money
on filthy debauches over poisoned beer. This is called the “harvest
drunken touch.” With some it lasts no longer than one night; with
others a week, a fortnight, or even longer. It is one of the sacred
impurities of our forefathers, which descend from generation to
generation, fathers and grandfathers industriously setting the bad
example.
I have to describe a jovial and a far happier scene, and to take you
to a _Plat_ or orchard, belonging to Stoke Ferry Farm. John Ashbrook
was, as we have already seen, a most prosperous man.
It was a bright day for him when he left Oakfield House to take to
Stoke Ferry Farm, and to espouse its then owner’s charming daughter.
Very different was it with the other brother.
Richard Ashbrook, who had married the girl Jane Ryan, seemed to go
from bad to worse after his brother had left him, and his wife died.
He seemed to lose all heart, and the consequence was that his farm was
neglected, for the simple reason that he did not appear to care about
anything. The result may be easily imagined. Richard was as
unprosperous as his brother was flourishing.
Nevertheless, when the harvest festivities were about to take place at
Stoke Ferry, John insisted upon his brother and sister doing honour to
them by their presence.
It was a goodly gathering. Brickett was present, as were also old Nat,
whom the reader will doubtless remember as one of the parlour
customers of the “Carved Lion;” Mother Bagley, the personification of
spotlessness in dress, and sedateness in demeanour; and Master John
Ashbrook, puffing out his cheeks like the sides of a red balloon, and
rubbing his broad brown hands, and Patty as loveable and charming as
she had ever been.
There were sports to be played at, and prizes to be contended for;
pole-climbing, jumping in sacks, wheelbarrow races blindfold, hurdle
jumping, ball throwing, and quoit throwing were the order of the day.
These games occupied the whole of the forenoon, and when six brawny
fellows took their places, the whole of their bodies being encased in
sacks, with nothing but their heads visible, there was a roar of
laughter, and peal after peal followed in quick succession as one or
more stumbled, and frantically strove to rise upon his legs again.
When these sports were over, they adjourned to the barn, and commenced
an onslaught upon brown loaves, Cheshire cheese, and a barrel of
home-brewed beer.
After lunch it was announced that the lamb race was to come off.
Heralds in corduroys spouted it forth with their voices, loud and
brazen as trumpets; ballmen cleared the course with their wands of
stout ground-ash.
“Come, Kitty,” said John Ashbrook, “Why be dull a day like this?
Brighten up, lass, brighten up, there’s plenty of sun behind the
clouds yet, though, for my part I cant see any clouds at all.”
“There be clouds, nevertheless, master,” said the young woman. “I be
thinkin’ as how he be dead and gone. The clouds are in my heart, where
it’s not for the eyes of man to see.”
“It may be so, that be true enough, I dessay, lass, but ye see it
beant o’ no manner o’ yoose for a lad or lass a settin’ their minds to
be for ever a mournin’. Look at my brother――he can’t forget, poor
chap, the one as be dead and gone. Don’t ee follow his example. Look
at Joe――he’s the honestest and truest lad in the hull county, and he’s
bin after ee ever so long, but you won’t speak to un, though all the
maids be a dyin’ for un. Don’t ee like him, Kitty?”
I like him well enough――I could not help doing that there, if it were
only for his fondness and attachment to Mr. Phillip, but I couldna
marry him.”
“And why not?”
“I couldna without a tellin’ him, and I wouldna do that to save my
life.”
“Ye be a strange gell, self-willed and wayward, I’m thinkin’. I
dessay, if the truth may be spoken, Joe knows all about what you ha’
to tell him.”
“Does he? Well may be as how he does.”
“And so ye see, lass, there beant no yoose your being so obstinate.
You must say a kind word or two to Joe or else――――”
“Or else, what, master?”
“Well, maybe you and I shall fall out.”
“We ha’ never done that as yet, anyhow.”
“Noa, an’ I hopes as how we never shall.”
“Tell him what you like then, it won’t alter his love, you foolish
hussey; and now go and have your thumbs tied.”
“What, run for the lamb!” she cried, shrinking back a little.
“Aye, run for the lamb. Ye’re the straightest-limbed girl in these
parts, and the strongest. Joe Doughty is the Lord of the Harvest, and
so, gell, you must be the Lady of the Lamb.”
The lamb race, as it is termed, is thus regulated. A young lamb is run
for by the young maidens, who have their thumbs tied behind their
backs. Whoever succeeds in first seizing the lamb with her mouth,
retains it as her prize, and receives the title of the Lady of the
Lamb.
The custom is an ancient one――the relic, perhaps, of a less refined
age than the present――and it cannot be considered a very elegant
performance. Nevertheless, it generally affords amusement to most
persons who witness it.
Ten young women had already stood forward as candidates.
It fell to the sweetheart of each to tie her thumbs for her. If by
chance any one of them did not happen to have a sweetheart, one of the
young men volunteered to perform the amorous duty; and this was
perhaps the prettiest part of the sport.
Sometimes there was a little confusion when a belle happened to
possess more than one recognised lover.
They would stand watching her with their sheepish eyes, and she would
be compelled to choose once for all which of the two she would keep
company with for the future.
When Kitty appeared the girls looked at each other anxiously, for they
recognised in her a formidable antagonist.
All the young men made way for Joe Doughty, who went up to her and
asked her if he might tie her hands for her.
“As well you as any other,” was the answer.
She exceeded Ashbrook’s expectations, and the forebodings of the other
candidates were verified.
Kitty, open-jawed, and as agile as a young leopardess, had soon
pounced upon the lamb, and won the prize with her teeth.
Whether she would have been a match for the female acrobat who
recently astounded the frequenters of a London music-hall, with the
tenacious power and strength of her teeth, is another question, but
she took the shine out of all her rustic competitors, and her master,
Mr. John Ashbrook, felt proud of the victory she had obtained.
Now the old wives were marshalled into a line to run a race for a
pound of tea.
Mother Bagley, who indignantly refused “to beneath herself by joining
in such a rabbling concern,” condescended, however, to drink hot tea
against other dames who worshipped the refreshing beverage.
The scalding twankey brought the tears into her eyes, but comfort to
her heart.
Snuff had now become her staff of life, the prop of her old age. To be
out of snuff was to be snuffed out――a dead charred wick instead of a
bright and constant flame.
A tub of water was brought out and placed in the centre of the plat.
Apples were called for, the largest that could be had.
The boys immediately formed themselves into a procession, and
proceeded to wassail the orchard, or to go apple-howling, as it was
otherwise termed.
[Sidenote: No. 78.]
[Illustration: DEADLY STRUGGLE BETWEEN PEACE AND CONSTABLE ROBINSON.]
One of them had a cow’s horn, from which he extracted horribly
discordant notes. Then they marched to one of the apple trees and
encircled it, chanting a prayer for the next year’s crop.
Stand fast, root――bear well, top――
Pray the Lord send us a good heavy crop.
Every twig apples big――
Every bough apples enow:
Hats full, caps full,
Full quarters, sacks full.
They shouted in chorus with the cow-horn accompaniment, rapped the
trees with sticks, which each bore in his hand, and concluded the
ceremony by knocking down three monster red-cheeked pippins, which
were soon floating in the tub, ready to be mouthed for by the
youngsters, who endeavoured to earn them under the same conditions as
the lamb race.
Indeed, the sports and pastimes on this occasion were singularly
varied and amusing.
Old Mr. Jamblin had, throughout his life, taken great delight in
keeping up the old English customs of his forefathers, and John
Ashbrook proved a worthy successor, in this respect, to his
father-in-law.
At six o’clock they sat down to the harvest dinner, which was spread
and served on a table of fabulous length in a corner of the plat,
where the grass had been mowed for the purpose.
It was still warm enough for _al fresco_ repasts――at least, on such an
evening as this, when the air was fragrant, when the nightingale was
singing, and when the last rays of sunlight fell goldenly and
gloriously upon the scene.
As soon as the sirloins of beef and huge plum puddings had disappeared
from the table, and pipes with tobacco had taken their place, a low
whisper ran backwards and forwards, and more than one voice cried
audibly for Joe Doughty.
Joe had earned the rank of the Lord of the Harvest by reaping more
corn than any other labourer on the farm. It was one of the duties of
this nobleman to propose the health of the reapers.
He was, like a good many more, unaccustomed to public speaking. So he
rose and said――
“Pr’aps as Master Cheadle was the vice, sitting opposite to Master
Ashbrook and all――――”
“Strike me into brandy pop, you’re a coming it strong, young man,”
said Cheadle, with affected sternness, “Don’t go puttin’ your pack
upon other pipple’s shoulders.”
“There, that’s just like my Joe,” cried Doughty’s mother. “He knows I
want him to speechify, and he’s a tryin’ to get out of it on purpose
to worrit me.”
“All right, mother,” cried Doughty, “you shan’t be worrited. I aint
much of a hand at speechifying, but I dunno as I ought to shirk my
duty; so you see I shall ha’ to cut the matter as short as the stubble
in the whate-fields. I’m a goin’ to ax you to drink the health of the
most considerate and kindest of masters as ever mortal man had. From
the first drop of the dew-cup to what we are drinking now, when ha’ we
had to ask for beer and couldn’t get it?”
Chorus of voices: “Never!”
[The dew-cup is the first draught of beer given to reapers before they
begin harvest work.]
“We’ve had kindness always, and beer always, and money always when we
have earned it, sometimes afore that wi’ some on ye, and to-day we’ve
had sports and prizes as we don’t get every day in England; so I ax ye
to drink the health of Master Ashbrook.”
The health was drunk with wild enthusiasm.
“And, now,” said Doughty, “let’s hear you join in wi’ me in the
harvest song, and we’ll sing it in the good old style.”
When the harvest song (which has appeared too often in print to need
further recording) was concluded, John Ashbrook rose and thanked them,
and then, without sitting down, sang a song in praise of the “Lord of
the Harvest.” All rose while Doughty remained seated. At the end of
the song Joe commenced a song in praise of the head carter. The
company rose again and joined him in the characteristic chorus, “With
a halt, with a ree, with a wo, with a gee;”――then the carter sang to
the shepherd, the shepherd to the thatcher, and so on.
All these little musical arrangements had been decided on weeks before
the appointed day, and it had taken some of the vocalists months to
learn their parts.
By the time their complimentary songs were ended it was quite dark. A
large camphine lamp, which occupied the centre of the table, supplied
the place of the moon, and half a dozen candles played their parts of
fixed stars.
“Who’s to be knocked down for the next song?” roared the wood-cutter,
in his stentorian voice. “It’s my call――and I calls on――calls on――――”
“Come, say it, and ha’ done wi’ it,” said Nat, peevishly. “It rouses
my corruption to hear a growed-up man hogglin’ and bogglin’ like that
’ere.”
“Then I calls on you, Nat.”
The rustics laughed, and sang, “Poor old hoss――poor old hoss!”
“Don’t ee be fools,” cried Joe. “I aint a-going to let ee sing that
to-night.”
“Spiff a song, ould un, and don’t be ranty tanty――coom.”
“I bean’t ranty tanty,” said Nat, “but it meks me rankled to think as
we ha’ no fitchet pie for supper. We allers yoosed to ha’ it, and I
can’t sing wi’out it, nother.”
“We used to ha’ fitchet pie, sartinly,” said the old wood-cutter, “but
we didn’t yoose to ha’ such good meat nor such fine plum puddings as
we’s had to-day, and there’s no lack o’ beer. Pour him out a noggin
and then he’ll sing.”
“There’s something better than that coming. My eyes alive, look ee
here.”
“Buckle-my-buff, and a gallon on it,” shouted an enthusiastic clown.
“There’s another coming,” said the girls, as they set it down upon the
table.
The beer mugs were speedily emptied, and sent in half-dozens to the
bowl, before which a servant lass, ladle in hand, laboured without
ceasing.
“My blessing to all on you,” cried Nat, with a devotional expression
of countenance.
“Yes, that’s all very well, Nat, but we want your song first, and your
toast afterwards.”
“I doesn’t care a dump for yer wants; I’ll sing when I has a mind to,
and not afore.”
“Well, there’s plenty as can if you can’t.”
“Can’t. Who says I cant sing? I’ll sing e’er a man here for a pint.”
And he broke out into the following pastoral:――
THE GAY PLOUGHBOY.
Come, all you merry ploughboys, and listen to my song;
A tale I have to tell you, which doth to love belong.
He that doth rise up early to lead his team with joy,
And so bravely does his duty like a gay ploughboy.
Like a gay ploughboy.
Says the mother to the daughter, “You seem to love him well――
It seems as if your tender breast all on his head could dwell;
Young lads they are so rakish, young maids they do decoy,
And some day we’ll see you on the knee of a gay ploughboy.”
Of a gay ploughboy.
“Oh, no, oh no,” said Jenny, “he’s just the lad for me;
With him I could live happy, his heart’s so gay and free,
And he does rise so early to lead his team with joy,
And he bravely does his duty, like a gay ploughboy.”
Like a gay ploughboy.
Young William in the evening, returning home from plough.
He showed to me a gay gold ring, how could my tongue say No?
“Oh, take this ring, dear Jenny, and the parson we’ll employ,
And they may see you on the knee of a gay ploughboy.”
Of a gay ploughboy.
’Twas so they were united, and William goes to plough,
And Jenny rises with delight to milk her spotted cow.
Down in a lonely cottage, where none can them annoy,
Ah, who so happy as Jenny and her gay ploughboy?
And her gay ploughboy.
“Where’s measter?” said a cowboy, addressing himself to the multitude.
“Here’s the fiddlers coom, and wants to know whether they may stop or
no.”
“Yes, they may stop,” said Nat, in a confident tone. “I’m head man
here.”
“You’ve got bit by a barn-mouse already――aint you?” inquired the
wood-cutter.
“Or bin to Hatcham Fair and broke both his legs,” said Joe.
“That’ll be first-class if we ha’ a dance, won’t it?” said a young
lady, with an elegant motion, which was probably intended for a
pirouette.
“Dancin’!” cried Nat, scornfully. “Drat it, what d’ye want to be got
at dancin’ for We be very well as we are, and I means to call upon the
thatcher for a song, cos he and I allers bin such very partikiller
friends.”
“I aint heard your toast as yet,” said the thatcher, “and I’ve been
listening for it hard, tew.”
“If you’d listened harder wi them stupid ears, you’d ha’ herd me gi’
it afore ever I sung. Here’s another for ee, you darned deaf adder,
‘Two In and One Out’――d’ye know what that be? It’s _in_ health, _in_
wealth, and _out_ of debt.”
“And a downright good toast too,” said John Ashbrook, who had left the
company for a while and had now returned, “and an excellent toast,
Nat.”
“Aye, that it be, measter.”
“But what say ee to a dance?” said Ashbrook.
“There, I knew all your pretty girls would like to dance. Tell ’em to
come in, some of ee.”
Half a dozen scampered off with the glad tidings, and in a few minutes
returned with three men, each of whom carried something wrapped up in
green baize beneath his arm.
“I want my call answered first, though,” said old Nat, “and the
thatcher he aint no true friend o’ mine, so I calls on――――”
“Be quiet, you flabbergullion, talking like that ’ere, afore measter.”
“He knows as much about civility as a fly does of a gaiter strap,”
said the indignant Mrs. Doughty.
“There, when he gets into that drunken guret it aint no yoose talkin’
to him. If the angel Gibbriel commed down he’d try and push him out of
the way. I never seed such an obstinate fellow in all my born days.”
“I intend to ha’ my call,” cried Nat, “and so I calls on Kitty
Morgan.”
“I don’t know any songs,” said Kitty.”
“Get out! you know a wheelbarrow full,” returned Nat.
“And she can sing even as sweetly as a barley bird (a nightingale),”
said the farmer.
There was no getting out of it――so Kitty tried to do her best.
“Very prettily sung, my gell,” said Ashbrook when she concluded. “Now
for the dance――it will be bull’s noon (midnight) else before we begin.
The Harvest Lord and the Lady of the Lamb lead off. What’s it to be,
Joe?”
“‘Speed the Plough’s’ my sort, sir,” said Joe, touching his cap; “it’s
one of the best country dances we have.”
“I quite agree with you, Joe――it is,” said the farmer. “Now, fiddlers,
strike up for ‘Speed the Plough.’”
The musicians tuned their instruments, ran over the first few bars,
and were satisfied that they were up to the mark, and then dashed off.
“Speed the Plough” was danced through and played through as country
people dance and as country fiddlers play.
As far as vigour was concerned there was no reason to complain. The
farmer stopped the dance out, and then left them entirely to their own
devices.
This was turned to profit by the fiddlers, who had been secretly paid
by him. Disguising this fact, they sent one round with a tambourine,
as they were wont to do in public-houses.
On Saturday night and village revels one penny was the accustomed fee
for man and partner.
“Now then,” cried the musician, going his rounds and jingling the
coppers in his tambourine, “now then, for the next dance. Six down;
who makes eight? Now then, mates and partners, for double lead through
the next country dance. Ten down; who makes twelve? Oh, there isn’t a
twelve (cheerfully); then we’ll go on as we are.”
All the other popular dances were done in due notation. “Step-and-Fetch-it,”
“The Tramp,” “Lee Po,” “Hands Across,” “Six Bond,” &c.
“Want more corn vith your galop?” inquired a man, bringing the almost
but never quite exhausted musicians some mugs of “Mickle my buff.”
“Ah, we shan’t hurt to-night,” they said. “It’s real fiddlers’ fare
here――meat, drink, and money.”
Several single dances were next performed, such as hornpipes, “The
Dunhill Parson,” “The Broom Dance,” “The Pipe Dance,” and others of
the same calibre, after which a kind of cushion dance, called
“Bob-in-the-Bowster,” which was provocative of much kissing and
enjoyment.
In the meantime the old women were steadily drinking all the while,
amusing themselves at same time with a game of cards, called “Laugh
and Lay Down,” and with another game, which none but rustics can
understand, and which is played by inscribing chalk lines both ways
upon a table, and making spots between the squares.
Kate Morgan, the Lady of the Lamb, as she was termed on the eventful
day, had withdrawn from the throng of merry-makers, and Joe Doughty,
who had not ceased watching her the whole evening, followed her.
She turned and saw him. Then his heart, which had been so stout in the
furrowed field, began to tremble like a timid bird.
“Well,” said his companion.
“I hope as how it is well,” he answered. “Kitty, I’ve got a serious
word or two to say to ee.”
“Ha’ ee?”
“Yes, my gell.”
And what be it then?”
“In foreign seas, so I’ve bin told, lass, there’s fishes as ha’ teeth
upon their tongues, and there be many a woman as can set teeth upon
him which will bite a man’s life and happiness in two.”
“An’ what if they be? Has that anything to do wi’ me?”
She looked at him keenly. Poor girl, she had had bitter experiences.
“I want you to understand,” said Joe Doughty, in a serious tone of
voice, “that the will of a woman has a deal to do wi’ me, for ye must
know how much my future happiness depends upon one single word uttered
by you.”
“By me?”
“Aye, lass, that be true enough――by you. Often and often, when alone
in the field of waving corn, or it may be yellow stubble, I ha’
thought of one who had it in her power to mek or mar me. Now doant ye
be shakin’ yer head, ’cause what I be sayin’ is the solemn truth, and
there’s no gettin’ away from it. Indeed, it aint o’ no yoose tryin’.
Where was I? Oh, I know, in the field, either a ploughin’, sowin’, or
reapin’, it matters not which; but, anyway, I ha’ thought this matter
over and over again, and though I ha’ not sed anything, not as yet, I
ha’ felt all the deeper perhaps. Kitty, you must not look so coldly on
me; indeed you mustn’t. Shall I tell you why?”
“If you like.”
“Because I love you, and none other but you. I aint rich, that you
know, but I’ve saved a bit of money, for I haven’t bin like a good
many others on the farm, a spending what I earn afore I earned it.”
“I know you have been careful and frugal,” she answered.
“Well, I aint afraid of work――that you know also.”
“I do.”
“An’ if so be as you consent to be my wife, which I hope and believe
you will, I shall work wi’ greater energy, for I shall ha’ something
to work for. A man ain’t a mite o’ yoose in this world if he be all
alone, as I ha’ bin all these lonely years, and I want ee for a
partner, and if I canna ha’ ee, then there be no other woman as I care
about having. Answer me! Dang it all, say yes or no Kitty, without
further ado.”
“Hark ee, Joe Doughty,” said the woman, with a boldness and energy
that fairly astonished him.
“I be not fit for an honest man. I tell ee plainly that, years agone,
when you were away from Stoke Ferry, summut happened as will for ever
prevent me from becoming your wife.”
“It won’t do, Kitty; you must find some better excuse than that,” said
he, placing his hands upon her shoulder. “It wunno do, lass.”
“Wunno do!” she ejaculated, in unfeigned surprise. “May be ee don’t
understand me rightly. I tell ee agen and agen――I ain’t fit to be the
wife of an honest man.”
“And why not?”
“Ye maun to force me into a confession. Well, so be it. I am already a
mother.”
“What if ee be? Don’t ee think I ha’ considered all that. He who be
dead and gone did ee a wrong, and it appears to me that ye are not the
only woman as he wronged, for there’s――――”
“I know what you are going to say,” she said, interrupting him, but,
if you care about me, don’t ee say a word agen Master Philip, ’cause I
can’t bear that. Whatever his faults may have bin, it ain’t right and
proper to be a-talkin’ about em now. He was wayward and wilful, and
did not take heed of timely warning, but he be dead and gone; he met
with a cruel death, and so say no more about ’im.”
“You are right――I will not refer to the subject again, seeing as how
it be a trouble to ee; but it doesn’t follow that, because in a
foolish hour you forgot all but your love for him, that ye’re no fit
to be my wife, and I say agen you must find some better excuse.”
“I should not like to ha’ a husband taunt me wi’ the shame that has
fallen on me. I should no like that.”
“And do you think, you foolish lass, that I am likely to do so? You
ought to know me better――a deal better nor that there.”
“Are you in earnest, Joe?”
“Earnest! Dall it, I never was so much in earnest――no not in the whole
course of my life.”
“And you mean what you say?”
“Of course I do; every word I ha’ sed.”
“And you’ll ha’ me for all that ha’ past?”
“Aye, lass, I will.”
“What be left of my heart be yours,” she cried, “and what be left of
my life will be devoted to you, and so, if ye’ll tek me ye may ha’
me.”
Her lusty companion wound his arms around her, and embraced her with
fervour. And so Joe Doughty and Kate Morgan were betrothed in this
simple and homely fashion.
When farmer Ashbrook was informed of the circumstance, he was greatly
pleased, and promised to give the bride a handsome dowry; not that Joe
had for a moment been actuated by mercenary feelings when he declared
his passion and besought the girl to bestow her hand and heart upon
him, for he was strongly attached to her, and had never at any time
flirted with any other village maiden.
Mr. Philip Jamblin, the ill-fated young man who was murdered by Giles
Chudleigh, had not been altogether so circumspect as his relations and
friends could have desired.
It was pretty plainly demonstrated that he had seduced two young women
before he was sent to his account by the brutal Giles, and there were
some evil-disposed persons still living who hinted that the young
farmer had been brought to his end from this cause.
He was a free-hearted fine young fellow, who at times let his passions
run riot.
Many of his betters are apt to do the same thing. This is evidenced by
the conduct of Lord Ethalwood, but two blacks do not make a white, and
the late Philip Jamblin was, as we have already seen, not without
fault.
We have taken but little notice of Richard and Maude Ashbrook, who had
been present througout the festivities at Stoke Ferry.
They had not taken a very active part in any of the proceedings,
remaining for the nonce but passive spectators.
Richard Ashbrook seemed to be a completely broken-down man. He did not
appear to have any relish for the sports――occasionally, it is true, a
wan smile passed over his melancholy features, but that was all.
He appeared to be thankful when the sports were brought to a
conclusion, and pleading indisposition he retired to bed.
For the next few days he grew worse, and it soon became manifest to
those about him that his life was drawing to a close. He said he had
no desire to live, and that he knew his final time was approaching. He
was continually mentioning the name of his deceased wife, Jane Ryan,
whose spirit, so he averred, had appeared to him on three separate
occasions.
Those about him strove to disposses his mind of this idea, but, for
all they could say or do, Richard Ashbrook persisted in his
declaration, and so he prepared to settle his worldly affairs.
His brother John, who was almost heart-broken, agreed to take charge
of his child and his sister Maude. It was arranged that Oakfield Farm
was to be sold, the proceeds of the same were to be handed over to
Maude; and in less than a fortnight after the harvest-home at Stoke
Ferry Richard Ashbrook breathed his last.
It will be remembered by the reader that the first scene of this
history was laid at Oakfield, when Jane Ryan played so conspicuous a
part on the night of the burglary by Charles Peace, Gregson, and
Cooney.
CHAPTER CXLV.
PEACE’S LAST BURGLARY――A BRAVE POLICEMAN――PEACE’S CAPTURE BY
ROBINSON――A VISIT TO NEWGATE.
The most remarkable and at the same time unaccountable part of Peace’s
career is certainly that portion of time while he was in the
occupation of the house in the Evalina-road, Peckham. It appears
almost incredible that he could have remained there for so long a
period without being discovered.
After the murder of Mr. Dyson the police were supposed to be on the
alert.
Every effort was made, so it was stated, to hunt down the perpetrator
of the murder at Banner-cross, but in spite of all this Peace was free
from suspicion, and night after night committed the most daring
burglaries ever attempted by one solitary individual.
Indeed, had it not been for the determination and courage displayed by
Police-constable Robinson, the chances are that the scoundrel, whose
deeds have so surprised the world, would be even at the present time
at large and undiscovered.
It really does appear most remarkable that so many murderers should be
able to elude justice. We have several instances of this since Peace
expiated his crimes on the public scaffold.
The Wallaces, who went off in a cab after the death of their victim,
have never been arrested.
The Burton-crescent murder――the murder of Miss Hacker, of a servant
girl at Harpurhey, near Manchester, of a youth at Rotherhithe, who
died from bayonet wounds, and lastly, the woman whose body was found
in a tub at Harley-street, one and all remain deep impenetrable
mysteries.
But Peace, who although for a time managed to escape detection, was in
the end run to earth.
The last burglary committed by this lawless man, whose remarkable
career we have endeavoured to shadow forth, proved fatal to him.
At Blackheath, on the night of 10th of October, 1878, a burglary was
committed of a most daring character.
On that evening Peace had repaired to the house of Mr. James Alexander
Burness, in St. James’s-park, Blackheath, and whilst endeavouring to
add to his own riches was observed by a constable on duty, named
Robinson, but Peace was not a man to be taken easily. Upon finding
that he was discovered he rushed into the garden and fired four shots
at Robinson, then, with a fearful oath, he, after taking deliberate
aim, fired a fifth.
The shots were fired from an American revolver of the newest make.
The fifth struck the constable in the left arm above the shoulder,
carried some cloth with it right through the flesh, grazed the bone,
and then passing out, went through a gentleman’s drawing-room window,
and after rebounding on the wall fell on the floor.
But Robinson, though injured, seized the man, and after a desperate
struggle threw the fellow to the ground.
A fight took place, and the burglar attempted to draw a sheath knife
which was in his pocket; but the officer, though severely wounded, did
not lose his presence of mind, and gave his prisoner a few taps on the
head by way of a sedative.
When examined it was found that the fellow carried a six-barrelled
revolver, and that the weapon was strapped to his wrist.
Young and Brown came up as soon as possible, and the thief was
secured, but not until he had been pretty smartly struck with a
truncheon.
On being charged with the offence the prisoner refused to give any
name or address, and as his face was stained with walnut juice he was
mistaken at the time for a mulatto.
The garden was searched, but no confederates were found. Mr. Burness
was away from home at the time, but his wife, who was awakened by one
of the servants, witnessed the desperate struggle in the garden.
Subsequent examination of the premises by Inspector Bonney, X
Division, showed that the dining-room window fastenings had been
forced by a crowbar, which was found on the prisoner with other
housebreaking tools; and that a hole, 5 in. square, near the lock of
the door, which was locked on the outside, was cut, enabling the
prisoner to put his hand through and unlock the door――the key having
been left in the lock.
Plated and silver articles were removed ready to be carried away, and
the prisoner had taken a bank cheque book from a drawer of a table in
the drawing-room, and a letter case from a davenport in the library,
which had been forced open.
Mrs. Burness said the house was securely locked at half-past eleven
o’clock the previous night, and that there were two fastenings to the
dining-room window, which had been broken in forcing the window open.
At this time, it must be remembered, there was no suspicion that the
man was anything but a burglar, and to prove his guilt as such was the
effort of the officer.
To find out his name was very difficult, but after a fortnight’s
search Bonney discovered that the prisoner was a “respectable
gentleman,” who at Lambeth, Greenwich, and Peckham, had passed as “Mr.
Thompson.”
The last residence of this Mr. Thompson, otherwise Peace, was at
Evalina-road, Peckham, a most respectable neighbourhood, the house a
really comfortable one, and a good garden in front.
The inspector prosecuted his inquiries, and found thirty pawn tickets
in the dwelling. These tickets mostly related to property stolen from
houses in Greenwich and Blackheath――namely, silver and gold plate,
together with jewellery.
The goods had been pawned by one of Peace’s “lady assistants,” under
the obliging name of “Thompson,” and were recognised by those who had
lost them.
Robinson, although severely wounded, very shortly recovered
sufficiently to give his evidence at the magisterial inquiry.
He was shot through the fleshy part of the left arm above the elbow,
but fortunately no bone was touched.
The bullets, fired from a six-chambered revolver, were afterwards
found, and were produced in court. The firing of five shots before one
took effect was attributed to the constable dodging behind some shrubs
while he was being fired at.
The following is the description given of Peace in the daily papers at
the time of the occurrence:――
“The prisoner is a repulsive-looking man, with protruding jaws and
thick lips, of the negro cast, with receding forehead; in height he is
about 5 ft. 6 in., but he is not a powerfully-built man. He still
doggedly refuses to give his name and address, or any account of
himself, but from a knife, which bears a name, being found in his
possession when captured, it is thought the police will be able to
connect him with a burglary committed in December last. Burglaries
have been frequent in the neighbourhood of Blackheath during the past
three months, the houses selected being generally those with a garden
in the rear, and, although detectives have been specially employed to
discover the burglars, they have hitherto failed; but it is thought
the man who shot the constable is the principal actor in these
burglaries, and from his mode of procedure, and the housebreaking
tools found upon him, it is evident he was no novice at his work.”
EXAMINATION OF THE PRISONER.
At the Greenwich Police-court, John Ward, aged sixty――(we quote the
newspaper reports; Peace, however was not fifty, although he certainly
looked ten years older at the time of his capture)――who had previously
refused to give his name, was brought up on remand, before Mr.
Flowers, charged with burglariously entering the house of Mr. Burness,
2, St. John’s-park, Blackheath, and stealing several plated articles;
and on a second charge of shooting and wounding Police-constable
Robinson, 202 R.
The prisoner, who had his head and face bandaged on the first
examination, was now divested of such bandages; and Edward Robinson,
the constable, who had his right arm in a sling, was examined.
He stated that at two o’clock on the morning of Thursday last he was
on duty in the avenue at the side of No. 2, St. John’s-park, leading
to Blackheath, when he saw a flickering light in the dining-room at
the rear of the house.
Thinking this was suspicious, he went to the next beat and obtained
the assistance of Constable Girling, and returned to the avenue,
Girling assisting him over the garden wall 6 ft. high, and they kept
watch till the arrival of Sergeant Brown, 32 R, who lifted Girling
over the wall, and told them to remain there while he went to the
front of the house to rouse the occupiers.
On the door-bell ringing, the light used inside the house was
immediately extinguished, and he jumped from the wall into the garden,
breaking some glass, and Girling got off the wall and went down the
avenue to the rear of the garden wall.
The prisoner came out from the dining-room window on to the lawn, and
ran along the garden to the back.
He followed the prisoner, who turned round and faced him, and
presented a revolver at him.
It was moonlight at the time, and the revolver being presented at his
head, the prisoner said――
“Keep back――keep back! or, by God, I’ll shoot you!”
He told the prisoner he had better not do so, and he rushed at him;
the prisoner discharging three shots in succession, the first two
shots passing close to the left side of his head, and the third shot
passing over his head.
He then made another rush at the prisoner, who took a more straight
aim at him, and fired a fourth shot, when he closed with him, and
struck the prisoner on the face with his left hand, guarding his head
by raising his right arm.
The prisoner said, “I will settle you this time,” and then fired the
fifth shot, which perforated the great coat and tunic he was wearing,
and went through his arm above the elbow.
They struggled together, and he threw the prisoner on the ground,
seizing him with his left hand and knees, and caught hold of the
revolver, which was strapped round the prisoner’s wrist, and struck
him over the head with the revolver.
Whilst on the ground the prisoner put his left hand in a pocket, and
said, “I will give you something else.”
At this time Sergeant Brown appeared, and assisted Constable Girling
up, and took the prisoner from him. The wound in his arm bled very
much, and he was taken to the divisional surgeon, and his wound was
dressed. He was still under treatment.
Sarah Selina Cooper, under-housemaid, at the prosecutor’s house, said
that on the morning of the burglary, in cleaning the room, she found a
shot on the hearth rug, and a hole in the window, the shot having
struck the wall.
Inspector Browney said he could produce evidence as to the prisoner
having been concerned in another burglary.
The prisoner said he had been informed, a quarter of an hour before
being brought into court, that he would be again remanded, which was
not fair, as he had never before been in custody. Mr. Flowers remanded
the prisoner.
When Peace was brought to the Greenwich Station after he had been
caught in the act, he presented a most miserable and pitiable
spectacle. “Talk of him being taken for a half-caste,” said my
informant, “he looked more like a black man than a mulatto.
“What with the rough usage he had got in the struggle and the tumbling
about on the grass, he was in a desperate plight――clay all over him,
his face clogged up with dirt, and the mud oozing up about his neck
and stiffening the little hair he had. He was a mealy-mouthed, whining
old scamp, and he was as dirty as the devil.”
This was not a very official way of putting it; but it was explicit
enough for the purpose.
“Did he say anything particular?” I asked.
“Oh, he kept whining away; but the fact was he had been badly
‘punished.’ Robinson had certainly given him a stiff un on the head.”
“And who wouldn’t?” asked an approving constable who just looked in.
“Wouldn’t you, if a fellow fired a revolver at you, and then searched
for his knife?”
Of course we concurred, Peace having no sympathisers in the company.
“Well,” continued my informant, “he had got it and no mistake.
Robinson had given him sufficient to settle him for a day. Peace
looked dazed and bewildered, and kept wandering in his talk, now and
again moaning and crying. When we stripped him we found he was one
mass of filth. His shirt was all rags; the marvel is how it hung
together; everything about him was similar――he was one of the most
miserable-looking scoundrels I ever set eyes upon. In fact he was in
so bad a way that I felt sorry for the poor wretch. I had some hard
eggs boiled for myself. I gave him one and some bread, which he ate
with some difficulty.
“When he was locked up he went on in the same way.
“When I looked at him through the grating, he whined out,” said the
officer, imitating his way of talking, as if his tongue was too big
for his mouth, “Oh, would to God, sergeant, you would come in here and
knock my brains out――I feel so bad.” He was always going on in this
way――“Would to God,” and “I wish to God,” being the phrases which most
frequently fell from his lips.
“A canting, whining old hypocrite,” said the sergeant to me; “and as
for his face, why he was so ugly I cannot understand why any woman
would look at him, much less live in the same house with him.
“He was the ugliest, vilest-looking little wretch you would meet in a
long day’s walk.”
When Peace refused to give his name he was over-cunning. The police
suspected that a man who would give no name must have unusual reasons
for his silence.
So they set their wits to work to find out who and what he was.
When he did give the name of “John Ward” they were not disposed to
accept it. The warders of the principal prisons were sent for to see
if they could identify him.
When the warder of Millbank appeared Peace was asked if he knew him.
“Oh, no!” replied the prisoner, with an affectation of great innocence
and ignorance. “I never saw his face before. Who is he?” He was
informed.
“Ah!” continued Peace, “he never saw me before; I never was in such a
prison before. This is the first time I was in such a place,” and he
looked wearily round his cell with the air of an injured innocent. It
was the same with all the other warders who came to look at him.
Peace’s old audacity returned to his assistance. He stood up when
called, and relying upon his changed appearance――the shaving of his
head, the dyeing with walnut juice, and the like――he confronted them
with as much confidence as could be put on by an old convict in the
presence of those who had been his gaolers.
He succeeded in deceiving all those experienced officers, but just in
proportion to the success of his deception was the desire of the
authorities to get behind the mask, and they did so at last――not by
any sudden revelation, or undetected discovery, but simply by the
capacity for taking pains in putting together the many “trifles” which
at length connected the burglar Ward with the murderer Peace.
There was something superb about the audacity of this remarkable
villain.
After he had somewhat recovered from the “taps” which friend Robinson
had given him that memorable morning in the garden at Blackheath, he
once more tried on the old canting ways which had in former days
served him so well.
In prisons oft he had known the value of playing the part of the
penitent, and by his good conduct had been able to get out much
earlier to resume his old bad courses.
On the way from Greenwich to Newgate he was himself again.
In the prison van the inmates are divided by wire partitions, through
which they can see and talk to each other if they are in the talking
mood, as they usually are.
One of the prisoners had got three months for drunkenness. Peace, who
was waiting his turn when this person was committed, recognised his
face, and at once embraced the opportunity to put a few words of good
advice.
He positively commenced to lecture the prisoner on the wickedness of
which he had been guilty. “But,” remarked the officer, “you should
have heard how the other prisoners let out at him.”
“They were not going to be preached at by that old canting humbug.”
The fellow who had got the three months turned upon Peace and said,
“Well, you’re a nice one, you are. Here am I got three months for
getting drunk; but what have you been doing? Don’t ye think I know?
Why you’ve been trying to shoot a policeman, you have. They ought to
hang the likes of you.”
The sentiment met with the approving plaudits of the other prisoners,
and Peace did not continue his discourse, and, what with the sense of
mortification at being repulsed, and the candid if cruel remarks of
the other occupants of the prison van, had rather an unhappy time of
it during the rest of the journey to Newgate.
Peace’s journey in the “Black Maria,” or prison-van, was by no means
an agreeable one――journeys of this description can never be accounted
agreeable under the most favourable circumstances, but in Peace’s case
it was most disheartening.
He trembled lest his identity should become known, and, to say the
truth, he feared the worst.
It seemed hardly possible, under existing circumstances for him to
maintain his _incognito_, and discovery meant certain death.
Nevertheless he bore up as best he could, and hoped for the best.
The exterior of Newgate Gaol is not by any means prepossessing――the
interior is most depressing.
On arriving within the court-yard of the gloomy and repulsive-looking
old city prison, from whose debtors’ door so many have stepped to pass
on to the scaffold, Peace and his companions were let out of the
“Black Maria,” and conducted into a dark stone passage, and our hero
was told to stand in a row with his fellow-passengers.
The deputy-governor, with two warders, received the batch of
prisoners, and the constable, who had acted as conductor to the
hearse-like carriage, handed over to the deputy-governor a number of
papers, one for each prisoner, whereupon the names were called out, to
which suitable replies were given. Most of them were “remands” or
“committals.”
Peace answered to his name in a low submissive tone, and looked as if
he felt deeply sensible of his humiliating position.
There was, however, no getting over the fact that he had attempted to
murder a police-constable; and, indeed, at this time it was by no
means certain that Robinson would get the better of his injuries. He
was progressing favourably, it is true, but an unfavourable change
might take place at any time.
The prison officials scanned Peace for a few moments, then upon a
signal from their superior he was conducted to his quarters by a young
man, who treated him with civility and consideration.
It was the first time Peace had been in Newgate, and he did not even
at that supreme moment of misery realise the fact that he was driven
to his last ditch, and that never again was he destined to become a
free man.
Out of the many thousands who pass by this great city prison, how few
there are who have any definite idea of its inner penetralia!
A brief account of a visit to the establishment in question will
convey to the mind of the reader its most noticeable features.
First of all comes the lodge, as it is termed. We enter this by a door
elevated a few steps above the level of the street, in a line with the
Old Bailey――this, flanked by dark masses of stone forming part of the
wall, which is about four feet in thickness.
This outer door has doubtless attracted the attention of many street
passengers. It is about four feet and a half high, and is covered at
the top with short bristling iron spikes, the open space above being
farther fenced with two strong iron bars with transverse iron rods.
There is another massive oaken inner door alongside, faced with iron,
of enormous strength, which is only shut at night.
It reminds us of the terrible prisons in the old barbaric times, when
criminals were more desperate than in our day, before Howard commenced
his angelic mission over the dungeons of England and the Continent.
This door has a very strong Bramah lock with a big brazen bolt, which
gives a peculiarly loud rumbling sound when the key is turned; and at
night it is secured with strong iron bolts and padlocks, and by an
iron chain. The great bolts penetrate a considerable way into the
massive stone wall.
The lodge is a small sombre-looking, high-roofed apartment, with a
semi-circular iron-grated window over the doorway, and a grated window
on each side, and is floored with wood.
On our left hand is a small room, occupied by a female warder who
searches the female visitors to the prison, lighted by an iron-grated
window; and on our right is an ante-room leading to the governor’s
office.
Another heavy oaken door, faced with iron, leads into the interior of
the prison; and alongside is an iron-grated window communicating with
the interior.
On the walls are suspended different notices by the Court of Aldermen
in accordance with Act of Parliament.
One of them forbids liquors to be introduced into the prison, another
refers to visiting the prisoners, and a third to the attorneys and
clerks who should visit them respecting their defences.
The deputy-governor opened the ponderous iron-bolted door leading into
a gloomy recess passage with arched roof, conducting along the back of
the porter’s lodge towards the male corridor and kitchen. On our right
hand is a strong door of the same description, leading to the female
prison, secured by ponderous lock and bolts.
We meantime turned to the left, and came to another strong oaken door
faced with iron. In this sombre passage the gas is kept burning, even
at mid-day. As we passed along we saw the sunbeams falling on a stone
flooring through an iron grating, opening into the interior of the old
prison yard.
On passing through this heavy door, which is kept locked, the passage
widens. Here we saw a long wooden seat for the accommodation of the
prisoners who are to appear before the governor to have their
descriptions taken.
This passage leads, on the right-hand side, into a room called the
bread-room, where we observed a warder in the blue prison uniform, who
is detained here on duty.
We went with the chief warder into the bread-room, which is also used
to take descriptions of the prisoners, being well lighted and very
suitable for this purpose.
It has a wooden flooring, and is whitewashed.
In this apartment is an old leaden water-cistern, very massive, and
painted of a stone colour, curiously carved, with the City coat of
arms inscribed on it, and dated 1781.
There is here also a cupboard containing a curious assortment of irons
used in the olden time, as well as a number of those used in the
present day, of less formidable appearance.
There are here deposited the leg-irons worn by the celebrated burglar
and prison-breaker, Jack Sheppard, consisting of an iron bar about an
inch and a half thick and fifteen inches long.
At each end are connected heavy irons for the legs, about an inch in
diameter, which were clasped with strong iron rivets.
In the middle of the cross-bar is an iron chain, consisting of three
large links to fasten round the body. We found these irons to weigh
about twenty pounds.
There is also in this cupboard a “fac simile” of the heavy leg-irons
of Dick Turpin, the celebrated highwayman, who plays a conspicuous
part in Mr. Ainsworth’s celebrated romance, “Rookwood,” in which work
“Turpin’s Ride to York” is not the least attractive feature.
The irons worn by Turpin consist of two iron hoops about an inch thick
to clasp the ankle, and about five inches in diameter.
A ring goes through and connects with the iron clasp, which secures
the ankle with a long link on each side, about ten inches in length,
and about an inch in thickness.
These long links are connected with another circular link, by a chain
passing through to fasten round the body. They are about thirty-seven
pounds in weight.
It was a saying in the olden time when any body wanted to be extremely
bitter, “I shall live to see you double-ironed in Newgate.”
But criminals are not so frequently manacled in the present day beyond
wearing handcuffs, when it is deemed necessary for security, and in
extreme cases in penal prisons by way of punishment for refractory
conduct. Those, however, who work in gangs at Portland, Dartmoor, or
elsewhere, are chained together, so that there should be no chance of
escape. But men condemned to death are not now placed in irons as was
the custom in such cases in former times.
There are, however, to be seen now at Newgate some of the old irons
which were formally put on prisoners capitally convicted, which they
were constrained to wear day and night till the morning of execution,
when they were knocked off before they ascended the scaffold.
It was the practice at that time to hang the bodies of prisoners in
chains as a warning to other depredators, but this also has been
abolished.
There is, in Newgate, also an axe which was made to behead Thistlewood
and the other Cato-street conspirators, but it was not used; the
bodies of the culprits, after hanging the usual time, were taken down
and decapitation was effected by the use of a sword, which was said to
be dexterously used by a young surgeon engaged for the purpose.
The axe, which forms one of the curiosities of Newgate, is large and
heavy, and weighs about eleven pounds.
There is also a murderer’s belt, about two and a half inches wide, for
pinioning condemned persons when about to pay the last penalty of the
law.
It goes round the body; and fastens behind with straps to secure the
wrist, and clasp the arms close to the body.
There is likewise another used by the executioner on the drop for
securing the legs. A number of these straps had been used in pinioning
notorious murderers executed at Newgate, who tragic histories are
recorded in the “Newgate Calendar,” and many of these leg-irons had
fettered the limbs of daring highwaymen in the olden times, who used
to frequent Blackheath and Hounslow-heath, Wormwood Scrubs, and a host
of other places on the outskirts of the metropolis.
What thoughts do these memorials of the past conjure up!
The massive and cheerless City prison which contain these ghastly
relics give us a glimpse of the rigid discipline of our forefathers.
In the meantime we returned to an ante-room leading into the
governor’s office on the left-hand side of the lodge, lighted by an
iron-grated window looking into the Old Bailey.
There is a cupboard here containing arms for the officers in the event
of any outbreak in the prison, consisting of pistols, guns, bayonets,
and cutlasses.
We do not expect there is any chance of any outbreak in this City
stronghold, but it is of course just as well to be prepared for any
emergency.
In convict prisons the governors and warders cannot be too careful,
for there some of the most desperate characters on the face of the
earth are congregated.
[Sidenote: No. 79.]
[Illustration: THE PRISONERS AT EXERCISE――PEACE EYEING THE
DETECTIVES.]
In the ante-room there are two very fine old paintings of Botany Bay,
which are hung on one of the walls. There is also a painting of
Davies, who was executed years ago for the murder of his wife at
Islington.
It is roughly executed, and was done by himself before he was
apprehended. It is said to be a tolerably good likeness.
His brow is lofty and full, the lower part of the face is perhaps a
little sensual, but taken altogether, it is a countenance which does
not in any way accord with one’s preconceived notions of the type of a
murderer. But it is not possible to arrive at an accurate conclusion
as to the character of individuals by their facial expression.
Along two shelves over the door of this apartment and on the top of an
adjoining cupboard are arranged three rows of the busts of murderers
who have been executed at Newgate.
Some of these had a most repulsive appearance and were of the most
brutal and lowest type of humanity.
The deputy-governor directed attention to the bust of the miscreant
Greenacre who had a very sinister appearance.
It is, we believe, not more than a year and a half ago since his
mistress and accomplice, Sarah Gale, died in Van Diemen’s Land at a
very advanced age.
She was transported for life as an accessory to the murder. She was
nearly, if not quite, eighty at the time of her decease.
Another bust pointed out to us was that of Daniel Good, who was
executed for murdering a female and mutilating the body, a portion of
which he buried in a stable.
The mouth had a disagreeable expression, but his countenance was
better moulded than that of Greenacre, and did not give indications of
the enormity of the crime he committed.
Good, when the mutilated remains of his victim were discovered, sought
safety in flight. At the time of the commission of the crime he was
groom to a gentleman residing at Roehampton, but it transpired that in
early life he earnt his living as a bricklayer.
He went to some remote country place a hundred miles and more from the
metropolis, and obtained work. As may readily be imagined he passed
under another name, and it was some months before he was
discovered――indeed, it was quite by accident that he was found out.
The woman in whose house he lodged was deeply concerned at his
dejected appearance and his restlessness at night.
She heard him sighing and groaning for hours, and suspected that he
had something on his mind.
She mentioned the circumstance to one or two of her associates, the
police were communicated with, and this led to Good’s identification.
“There,” said the deputy-governor, looking at a full-length bust,
“that is Courvoisier, who was executed for the murder of his master,
Lord William Russell. The counsel who defended him――the late Mr.
Charles Phillips――declared, as he went into court, that he would get
him off, and it was likely enough he would have succeeded had it not
been for one circumstance.”
“And what was that, pray?”
As Phillips was addressing the jury in a most powerful speech, a cab
drove up in the court-yard, and a woman, who was the landlady of a
hotel in the neighbourhood of Leicester-square, brought into court
some of Lord William Russell’s family plate, which Courvoisier had
tied up in a bundle, and left at her house to be called for.
This was fatal to the prisoner. Charles Phillips saw all chance of an
acquittal was over. He dashed down his brief, and said no more.
The judge summed up, and the jury returned a verdict of guilty, upon
which Mr. Phillips impudently declared they were right, as Courvoisier
confessed to him that he committed the murder, just before he entered
the court.
Phillips never got over this, and retired from the bar, accepting an
appointment offered him by Government.
Upon examining Courvoisier’s bust we found the man had a low brow, and
the lower part of the face was coarse, or, it might be said, brutal,
the neck was full and protruding under the ears.
The upper lip of most of the group of busts was thick, which might
possibly be caused by the process of hanging. Some of them had their
eyes open, and others shut.