We saw the bust of Lani, who was executed for the murder of a woman of

the town in the vicinity of the Haymarket; the wretch strangled her in

bed, with his bony, powerful hands, which were preternaturally large,

his countenance was brutal in the extreme, and he was a most

diabolical, merciless wretch.

Another bust was that of Mullins, executed for the murder of an old

lady at Stepney.

This scoundrel was base enough to charge an innocent man with the

crime.

He had a heartless, hypocritical expression of face, and we could

believe him capable of committing the most atrocious crimes.

On leaving the ante-room, we pass along a gloomy passage, and make our

way towards the kitchen.

After reaching the side of a room enclosed with glass panelling, in

the centre of a large apartment, with a groined roof, we proceeded

along another narrow gloomy passage, lighted with gas, and went into

the kitchen, which was very similar in size and general appearance to

the lodge, entering it by a small door of massive structure, furnished

with looks and bolts.

Opposite to it, fronting the Old Bailey, are two ponderous doors,

through which the culprit used to pass on to the drop on the morning

of the execution; but the Private Execution Act has done away with

this, and the extreme penalty of the law is carried out within the

precincts of the gaol.

We are not at all sure that a change has been made for the better.

It is quite true that pickpockets ply their vocation even at the foot

of the gallows; but it is equally true that they do so in churches and

chapels at the present time, but that is no reason that all places of

public worship should be closed, neither is it any reason that

murderers should be strangled in secret.

In the kitchen are two coppers sufficient to cook food for three

hundred prisoners.

The steam is conveyed away from the coppers by means of pipes that

lead though a grated window into the open air.

On shelves were ranged bright tins for the use of the prisoners, and

wooden trays to carry the food from the kitchen to the various prison

cells.

Leaving the kitchen, and bending our steps to the left, we go along a

sombre passage of the same character as the one described.

Passing through a door at the extremity, we enter a covered bridge

leading across a court into the corridor of the male prison.

It has four galleries, surmounted with a glass roof, which presents a

very cheerful appearance, very unlike the remaining portion of the old

prison.

We observed a stair on the outside communicating with each gallery,

which is girdled with an iron balustrade.

There is also a hoisting machine, by which provisions can be conveyed

to each gallery in the short space of a minute and a half.

There is a machine for weighing the provisions in the centre of the

corridor, and a dial over the second gallery.

In answer to our interrogatories, the deputy-governor gave us the

following statement:――“The prisoners are brought here in prison vans

from the various police courts over the metropolis, being committed

for trial by the magistrates.

“The City magistrates commit to Newgate, and send prisoners for remand

as well as for trial. The metropolitan police courts only send those

who have been committed for trial.

“Those sentenced by the justices of the metropolitan police courts are

sent to the House of Correction at Coldbath Fields, whereas those in

the City are sent to Holloway Prison.

“Prisoners convicted of a capital offence remain in Newgate until they

are executed or reprieved. Some are incarcerated in Newgate for short

terms by the judges of the Old Bailey, such as for contempt of court,

and others are sent by the House of Commons for a similar offence.”

“Newgate,” continued the chief-governor, “is a house of detention for

prisoners before trial, as well as for those sentenced to penal

servitude, kept here for a short time awaiting an order from the

Secretary of State to remove them to the Government depots for the

reception of convicts. In all cases of murder tried at the Old Bailey,

the prisoners are sent here. When convicted they are given over to the

sheriff of the county where the offences have been committed. If done

in Essex, the murderer is removed to Chelmsford; if in Kent he is

removed to the county gaol at Maidstone, and if in Surrey he is taken

to Horsemonger lane Gaol.”

On the basement of this wing are the reception cells, and bath rooms,

and the punishment cells.

The deputy-governor showed us into one of the cells in the corridor,

which we found to be 7 feet wide, 13 feet long, and 8 feet 10 inches

high, at the top of the arch. It has a window with an iron frame

protected by three strong iron bars outside.

The furniture consists of a small table which folds against the wall,

under which is a small wooden shelf containing brushes, &c., for

cleaning the cell, a small three legged stool, and a copper basin well

supplied with water from a water-tap.

On turning the handle of the tap in one direction the water is

discharged into the water-closet, and on turning it the reverse way it

is turned into the copper basin for washing. Each cell is lighted with

gas, with a bright tin shade over it. On the wall is suspended the

prisoner’s card.

There are three triangular shelves in a corner of the cell, supplied

with bedding, &c., as in other prisons we visited. The floor is laid

with asphalte; over the door is a grating admitting heated air, with

an opening under the window opposite to admit fresh air at the

pleasure of the prisoner.

Under the latter, and near the basement of the cell, is a grating

similar to the one over the door, leading to the extraction shaft,

carrying off the foul air, and causing a clear ventilation.

Each cell is furnished with a handle communicating with the gong in

the corridor, by which the prisoner can intimate his wants to the

warder in charge, and the door is provided with trap and inspection

plate.

All the cells in the corridor are of the same dimensions and similarly

furnished.

On proceeding to the basement we visited the reception cells, which

are eleven in number, of the same dimensions as those in the corridor

above, and fitted up in the same manner.

There are three slate baths, about six feet long, two feet broad, and

two feet and a half deep, provided with footboards. They are heated by

means of pipes communicating with the boiler in the engine-room. Two

of them are fitted up in one cell, with a dressing-room adjoining.

The other bath is in a long room, where there is a fireplace and a

large metal vessel heated by steam, to cleanse the prisoner’s clothes

from vermin and infection. This resembles a large copper, and is about

two and a half feet in diameter and three feet deep, with an ample lid

screwed down so firmly that no steam can escape.

The clothes are put into it and subjected to the action of the steam

for about a quarter of an hour, when the vermin are destroyed. The

clothes are not in the slightest degree injured.

This vessel is heated by means of a steam-pipe connected with the

boiler in the engine room. The bath is similar to the others already

noticed.

The dark cells are situated at the extremity of the new wing on the

basement. They are six in number, and are of the same dimensions as

the other cells. No light is admitted into them, but they are well

ventilated.

The furniture of each consists of a wooden bench, to serve as a

bed――though it is a hard one――and a night utensil; and the flooring is

of stone.

There are two doors on each cell. When shut, they not only exclude a

single beam of light, but do not admit the slightest sound.

The deputy-governor remarked――

“There are very few punishments inflicted in this prison. Sometimes

the prisoners infringe the prison rules by insolence to their officers

or making away with their oakum instead of picking it. We have only

had two persons in the dark cells for the past two years.”

Opposite the bath-room is an engine-room, fitted up with two immense

boilers for heating the whole of the prison and keeping the baths

supplied with hot water. The engineer informed us that, during the

winter, nearly a ton of coals is consumed per day.

The pipes are conveyed into the different cells for the purpose of

heating them. Along the walls are arranged a copious supply of iron

tools for the purpose of repairing the different locks, &c.

Leaving the corridor of the male prison we returned to the passage

across the court, covered with thick glass, where relatives and

friends are permitted occasionally to visit the prisoners. On each

side of it is a double grating, fenced with close wirework, of about

four feet wide, occupied by the prisoners.

The relatives take their station on each side of the passage during

the interviews, and a warder is stationed by their side to overlook

them. On one occasion we were present when several of the prisoners

were visited by their friends.

One of them was a man of about fifty years of age――a Jew――charged with

having been concerned in the forgery of Russian banknotes. He was an

intellectual-looking fair-complexioned man, with a long flowing beard

and a very wrinkled brow, and his head bald in front.

He was very decently dressed, and appeared deeply interested while he

conversed in broken English through the wire-screen with an elderly

woman, who appeared to be warmly attached to him, and who was

profoundly affected with his situation.

He appeared to be a shrewd man of the world. Alongside was a

genteel-looking man, with sallow complexion and fine dark eye, who was

visited by a tall young woman, decently dressed, who stood with a

bundle in her hand. It appeared this prisoner was under remand for

stealing clothes from his employers.

He looked sullen, and though apparently attached to the young woman,

was very taciturn, and looked around with a very suspicious air.

A modest-looking elderly man, with silver hair, genteelly attired in

dark coat and vest and grey trousers, stood with a bundle in his hand,

and was busily engaged conversing with a little smart woman of

advanced years, dressed in a grey dress and dark shawl.

We learned he was charged with embezzlement.

But there is one feature of Newgate’s interior a recollection of which

will probably abide in the memory of the man who sets eyes on it, long

after all else connected with the grim prison is forgotten――the

murderers’ burying-ground.

When one reads that “the body of the malefactor was the same afternoon

buried within the precincts of the gaol,” the natural inference is

that there is a graveyard, that there is a spot at the rear of the

chapel, very likely, set apart for the interment of those who are

sacrificed to the law’s just vengeance, and that, though the

unhallowed hillocks are devoid of head or footstone, there is a

registry kept, by which the authorities can tell whose disgraced

remains they cover. This, however, is by no means the system adopted.

The guide, unlocking a door, discovers a narrow paved alley, between

two very tall, rough-hewn walls, which are adorned with whitewash. The

alley is, perhaps, five-and-twenty yards long, and not so wide but

that two men joining hands could easily touch the sides of it, and at

the end there is a grated gate.

“This,” remarks the civil warder, “is where we bury ’em,” and you

naturally conclude that he alludes to a space beyond the gate, and

that he is about to traverse the alley, and open it.

Instead of this, barely has he stepped over the threshold than he

points to the letter “S,” dimly visible on the wall’s surface, and,

says he――

“Slitwizen, who was hanged for murdering his wife and burning her

body,” and before your breath, suspended by the startling

announcement, is restored to you, he lays his forefinger on another

letter a few inches off.

“Ketchcalf, who cut the throat of his fellow-servant; Brambleby, who

split his father’s skull with a garden spade; Greenacre, who murdered

Hannah Brown and afterwards cut up her body,” and so as he keeps

shifting barely a foot at a time along the face of the whitened wall,

he goes on adding to the horrible list, while the ghastly fact dawns

on you that every letter denotes a body cut down from the gallows, and

that the pavement you are walking on is bedded in the remains of who

shall say how many male and female murderers?

We are comparatively moderate in modern times in the use of the hempen

cord as a remedy against man-slaying, but this was nearly a generation

since, when business was exceedingly brisk in that line, and a hanging

was looked for in the Old Bailey on a Monday almost as much as a

matter of course as the cattle-market in Smithfield on a Friday.

Then, as now, the dreadful little lane between the high walls was the

only place of sepulchre for those who passed out to death through the

debtors’ door.

The very paving-stones bear witness to the many times they have been

roughly forced up by unskilled hands that a hole may be dug for the

reception of the poor coffined wretches who wear quicklime for a

shroud.

There is not a whole paving-stone the length of the alley, and they

are patched and cobbled and mended with dabs of mortar in the most

unhandsome way.

“A very large number must have been buried here at one time and

another,” I remarked.

“Bless you, yes sir,” replied the Newgate warder of long service, “you

can’t see half the letters. They used to be all over the other wall as

well, but, being whitened every year, the letters at last got filled

up.”

It was not a pleasant idea, and I believe that the cracked and

unstable condition of the paving-stones suggested it, but it came into

my mind as I scanned the walls and made out scores and scores of

ancient letters, showing ghostlike through the obliterating whitewash,

what a hideous crowd it would make if those to whom the initials

applied could all in a moment be recalled to life.

The narrow alley would not hold them all. There would ensue such a

ferocious crushing and striving for escape that there would be murder

done over again, and such work for Mr. Marwood that he would be

striking for extra pay.

A hundred years ago the public executioners of the metropolis were

kept uncommonly busy.

According to the _Newcastle Chronicle_, of July 29th, 1780, there were

thirteen criminals hanged in the four days from July 18th to 21st,

1780, and of these ten had been convicted of complicity in the Gordon

Riots, the remainder being for highway robbery.

One of the condemned rioters was a Jew, named Solomons. The report of

the executions says:――

“Yesterday morning (July 21st), at a quarter-past six o’clock, Thomas

Price, James Burn, Benj. Walters, Jona. Stacey, and George Staples,

convicts, for rioting, &c., in Golden-lane and Moorfields, were called

up to prayers, and about eight o’clock the three former had their

irons knocked off, put in a cart, and conveyed in the same order as

before to the end of Golden-lane, Old-street-road.

“At their coming out of Newgate, James Burn desired the carman not to

drive so fast, which was complied with.

“On their arrival at the place of execution, the Ordinary got up into

the cart, prayed with them for some considerable time, when he left

them, and they were tied up――shortly after they shook hands with each

other, and said, as they had lived together on earth, and died, so

they hoped they should live together in Heaven――their caps were pulled

over their faces, and they were launched into eternity, while the

clock was striking nine.

“The cavalcade then went back to Newgate, and about eleven o’clock,

Jonathan Stacey, for demolishing Mr. Malo’s house, and George Staples,

for demolishing the Romish Chapel, &c., adjoining, were put into the

cart and conveyed to Moorfields, the gallows being fixed directly

opposite the ruins thereof.

“They arrived there about a quarter after eleven, when the Ordinary

went up to them, and performed his duty, which, being finished, the

executioner pulled their caps over their eyes, and they were launched

into eternity.

“These poor men prayed in a most exemplary manner all the way from

Newgate to the place of execution, and never once took their eyes from

their books but when they lifted them to Heaven for mercy.”

Out of one hundred and thirty-five rioters who were tried, fifty-nine

were capitally convicted.

The prison arrangements in the olden time were far different to the

present regulations.

The author of a work entitled, “The Penns and Penningtons of the

Seventeenth Century,” tells the following story of Newgate, which, as

we are discoursing on the City gaol, may be interesting to our readers

as a contrast to our present prison regulations.

When we came to Newgate (says the narrator) we found that side of the

prison very full of Friends, who were prisoners there before us; as

indeed were all the other parts of that prison, and most of the other

prisons about the town; and our addition caused a still greater throng

on that side of Newgate.

We had the liberty of the hall, which is on the first story over the

gate, and which in the daytime is common to all the prisoners on that

side, felons as well as others.

But in the night we all lodged in one room, which was large and round,

having in the middle of it a great pillar of oaken timber, which bore

up the chapel that is over it.

To this pillar we fastened our hammocks at one end, and to the

opposite wall on the other end, quite round the room, in three

stories, one over the other; so that they who lay in the upper and

middle row of hammocks were obliged to go to bed first, because they

were to climb up to the higher by getting into the lower ones.

And under the lower range of hammocks, by the wall sides, were laid

beds upon the floor, in which the sick and weak prisoners lay.

There were many sick, and some very weak, and though we were not long

there, one of our fellow prisoners died. The rest of the story is too

good to be omitted.

The body of the deceased, being laid out and put in a coffin, was set

in a room called “The Lodge,” that the coroner might inquire into the

cause of his death.

The manner of their doing it is this. As soon as the coroner is come,

the turnkeys run into the street under the gate, and seize upon every

man that passes till they have got enough to make up the coroner’s

inquest. It so happened at this time, that they lighted on an ancient

man, a grave citizen, who was trudging through the gate in great

haste, and him they laid hold on, telling him he must come in and

serve upon the inquest.

He pleaded hard, begged and besought them to let him go, assuring them

that he was going on very urgent business. But they were deaf to all

entreaties.

When they had got their complement, and were shut in together, the

others said to this ancient man――

“Come, father, you are the oldest among us; you shall be our foreman.”

When the coroner had sworn the jury, the coffin was uncovered that

they might look upon his body, but the old man said to them――

“To what purpose do you show us a dead body here? You would not have

us think that this man died in this room! How shall we be able to

judge how this man came by his death, unless we see the place where he

died, and where he hath been kept prisoner before he died? How know we

but that the incommodiousness of the place wherein he was kept may

have occasioned his death? Therefore show us the place wherein this

man died.”

This much displeased the keepers, and they began to banter the old

man, thinking to beat him off it. But he stood up tightly to them.

“Come, come,” said he, “though you made a fool of me in bringing me

hither, ye shall not find me a child now I am here. Mistake not; for I

understand my place and your duty; and I require you to conduct me and

my brethren to the place where this man died. Refuse it at your

peril.”

They now wished they had let the old man go about his business, rather

than by troubling him have brought this trouble on themselves. But

when he persisted in his resolution the coroner told them they must

show him the place.

It was evening when they began, and by this time it was bed-time with

us, so that we had taken down our hammocks, which in the day hung by

the walls, and had made them ready to go into and were undressing,

when on a sudden we heard a great noise of tongues and trampling of

feet coming towards us.

By-and-bye one of the turnkeys, opening our door said――“Hold! hold! do

not undress; here is the coroner’s inquest coming to see you.”

As soon as they were come to the door (for within it there was

scarcely room for them to come) the foreman who led them, lifting up

his hands, said――“Lord bless me, what a sight is here! I did not think

there had been so much cruelty in the hearts of Englishmen to use

Englishmen in this manner! We need not now question,” said he to the

rest of the jury, “how this man came by his death; we may wonder that

they are not all dead, for this place is enough to breed an infection

among them. Well,” added he, “if it please God to lengthen my life

till to-morrow, I will find means to let the king know how his

Subjects are dealt with here.”

The Sessions House adjoins Newgate prison.

The older wing is uniform with it in appearance, and was the original

Sessions House.

There are seven doors entering into the old court-room; two of them on

the side next to Newgate, one of them in the area being for witnesses,

and another more elevated being a private entrance for the judges.

On the opposite side there are two doors, one for the jury and

counsel, and the other a private entrance for the judges and

magistrates who take their seats on the bench.

There is another door behind the bench, by which any of the judges are

able to retire when disposed; and on each side of the dock there is a

door for the entrance of the witnesses, solicitors, and jury.

The court-room is lighted by three large windows towards Newgate, and

by three smaller sombre windows on the opposite side.

The deputy-governor of Newgate informed us, that all classes of heavy

offences are tried at the Old Bailey Criminal Court, which is the

highest in England. The prisoners are brought from the prison of

Newgate and placed in cells under the courts, until they are called to

the bar to be tried.

They are then brought into the dock to answer to the criminal charges

brought against them. The indictments are read over to each of them,

and they are asked by the clerk of the arraigns if they are guilty or

not guilty. If they plead guilty, they are ordered in the meantime to

stand back.

If they plead not guilty, they remain at the bar until all the pleas

are taken of the other prisoners at the dock.

After this is done the jury are called into the jury-box, to proceed

to investigate the different cases. The prisoners can object to the

jurymen before being sworn.

If the prisoner at the bar is found guilty, he is sentenced by the

judge, and removed to the prison. If he is declared not guilty, a

discharge is written out by the governor, and he retires from the bar.

In the case of a murderer, he is taken to the court in custody of an

officer. He is arraigned at the bar in the same way as the other

classes of prisoners. If found guilty he is taken back to the

condemned cell, where he is watched day and night until he is

executed, which generally takes place within three weeks thereafter.

The deputy-governor stated:――I find the murderers to be of very

different characters. Some are callous and ruffian-like in demeanour,

but others are of more gentle and peaceable disposition, whom you

heartily pity, as you are convinced from all you see about them, that

they had been incited to the commission of their crime through

intemperance or other incidental causes, foreign to their general

character.

We find those to be worst who premeditated their crimes for gain.

There have been few murderers here who assassinated from revenge.

I have seen twenty-nine criminals executed in front of Newgate, and

was present in the court at the trial of most of them. Palmer was one

of the most diabolical characters among penal offenders I ever saw in

Newgate, and Mrs. Manning the most callous of females. Palmer was a

gentlemanlike man, educated for a surgeon.

By giving himself up too much to gambling and field sports he was led

to the murder of J. P. Cooke to repay his losses. He was executed at

Stafford, and was only temporarily under our custody here. In person

he was strong built, about the ordinary height, and had very strong

nerves.

Mrs. Manning was a very resolute woman, but her husband was a very

imbecile character, and had been dragged into crime through the strong

mind of his wife, who had formerly been lady’s maid to the Duchess of

Sutherland.

The deputy-governor informed us he had taken notes of the executions

in Newgate since 1816, when criminals were hanged for cutting and

wounding, burglary, forgery, uttering base coin, &c.

The law was changed in the year 1836 in reference to capital

punishments, and the sentence of death is now restricted to murder and

high treason. In 1785 nineteen persons, and in 1787 no less than

eighteen were executed at one time.

When females are convicted of murder they are asked by the Clerk of

Arraigns if they have anything to urge why sentence of death should be

passed on them. The matron who sits in the dock beside a female

culprit, asks if she is in the family way. A curious case took place

in 1847.

Mary Ann Hunt, being convicted of murder, was asked by the Clerk of

Arraigns if she had anything to urge why sentence of death should not

be passed upon her. She replied through the matron in the dock that

she was with child. An unusual step was here taken. A jury of twelve

married women were summoned to court, who on being sworn, examined

her.

After they, were absent for some time, they returned into the Court,

and stated that she was not with child. She was afterwards examined by

the medical officer in Newgate, and found to be pregnant. She gave

birth to a son on the 28th of December following. When before the

Court she must have been eight months gone with child.

CHAPTER CXLVI.

PEACE’S EXPERIENCE OF THE INTERIOR OF NEWGATE.

We left Charles in charge of a prison warder who ushered him into a

vaulted apartment of a gloomy cheerless description, like most others

in the prison.

Abutting out from this were several small rooms with baths in them,

and Peace was told to perform the customary ablution.

This he knew from former experience to be the usual course of

procedure; so he undressed without a moment’s hesitation, whereupon

his clothes were taken by his attendant and carefully examined, and

all prohibited articles were removed from the pockets.

An inventory of these things was taken, and our hero was informed that

it was against the prison rules for him to retain possession of them;

but that his wife or any of his friends, when they paid him a visit,

might take them away, and “should you be fortunate enough to be

acquitted,” observed the warder, “you can have them when you are

discharged.”

Peace nodded significantly.

“Should I be fortunate enough,” he murmured to himself; “I fear there

is not much chance of that. Well, you see, young man,” he said, aloud,

“I don’t think there is much chance of my pulling through, ’cause, you

see, the case is ugly against me.”

“I have nothing to do with that; you are sent here to await your

trial, and are, of course, innocent till you are proved guilty,”

observed the warder, who was evidently a kindly-disposed person.

Peace was informed that he could have the prison allowance of food, or

order in what he required, under certain restrictions, from an

eating-house on the opposite side of the Old Bailey, and that the

money found upon him could be given to his relatives, who would be

thereby enabled to pay for the choicest viands from the aforesaid

cook-shop.

All this information was conveyed to him in the set phraseology

invariably adopted by wardens when addressing prisoners in similar

cases.

Peace was never at any time in his life a gourmand, and paid but

little attention to the pleasures of the table. Nevertheless, he

directed to have his meals furnished by the proprietor of the elegant

restaurant outside the walls of the prison.

But this only lasted a few days. From what he could see of the prison

fare it was sufficiently good for his purpose, being wholesome and

passably good in flavour, so he dropped the Old Bailey restaurant, and

contented with the food supplied by the City authorities.

After he had taken his bath, and had re-dressed himself he felt a

little refreshed, and he was told to walk in front of his conductor.

He ascended a flight of iron stairs into a lofty hall with a glass

roof like a railway station, and on either side of this were galleries

one above the other, forming tiers with cells along each, the doors of

which were all numbered; a number was shouted in a loud voice by his

attendant, when a warder on the first flight told Peace to come up

stairs; he obeyed, and was at once ushered into his cell, which he was

told must be kept as clean as he then saw it――that it would be

requisite to scrub it every day. His attention was then directed to a

printed list of rules, with which he was to make himself acquainted.

All these formalities he had gone through on other occasions, but he

did not choose to appear as if he knew anything about them; he was

desirous of passing off as a green-hand, he had never been in Newgate

before and none of the officials knew him――it was quite time enough

for him to acknowledge that he had been convicted before upon the

charge of burglary when he was recognised by other prison officials.

When the door of his cell was closed, and he found himself alone in

his narrow prison-house his heart seemed to sink within him; there was

no telling what might be the issue of this capture.

In any case, taking the most favourable view of it, he was certain to

be sentenced to a long term of imprisonment.

This was but a natural consequence, and this he was prepared to

undergo, but if by any chance he should be identified as the

celebrated Charles Peace, of Sheffield and Banner-cross notoriety, his

life would be forfeited.

“Oh,” he murmured, “there is that cursed woman who I have never

trusted out of my sight since I first became acquainted with her. What

will she do? Send me to the gallows, I expect. Oh, I wish I could see

Bill Rawton; he’s the only man I can rely upon.”

After these observations he fell into a reverie; then he proceeded to

examine his cell and its furniture. It was much the same as the others

he had been shut up in.

It was a brick-arched apartment, about 12 ft. by 7 ft. There was the

same description of wash-basin, the same flap table and wooden stool,

the enamelled plate, tin mug, wooden spoon, and salt-box, he had been

accustomed to in the earlier days of his prison life. At the sight of

these old familiar objects his heart grew sick.

“Hang it all! I have been a fool,” he murmured. “I can see that

plainly enough, now that it is too late.”

Oh, how he sighed for liberty at that supremely bitter moment!

The window of his cell was strongly barred and escape was impossible.

He climbed up to this, and from it, through a small door, some 10 in.

by 4 in., was just able to distinguish the roofs of the houses and the

majestic dome of St. Paul’s.

The noise of the street traffic fell faintly on his ears, telling of

the world outside――that dark receptacle of crime.

Then he heaved a profound sigh.

Should he ever again be mixing with the throng of passengers in the

highways and byways of the great city?

It was a query that he could not very well answer; but even at this

time hope did not entirely desert him. There might be some flaw in the

indictment――some legal technicality which might be used in his favour.

There was no telling――such things had occurred and might again.

Anyway he would hope for the best; as Mr. Micawber was wont to say,

something might turn up.

He remained for a long time after this a prey to agonising

thoughts――the leading subject of these being Mrs. Thompson whom he now

more than ever mistrusted.

There was nobody now but his wife to keep watch and ward over her. It

is true his friend Bill Rawton might use some little influence over

the erratic woman, but then Bill knew nothing about the Bannercross

murder, and he debated with himself if it was advisable even now to

make the gipsy acquainted with all the circumstances attending upon

that horrible crime.

If this were done, Rawton might desert him at a time when he most

stood in need of his service.

He was anxious to drive the thoughts of his position from his mind,

and so began to make an inspection of the door of his cell, the

intricacies of which afforded a welcome relief by diverting his ideas

from the misery of his situation.

He had, throughout his life, taken great interest in mechanical

appliances, and, to say the truth, it was, after all, but a poor

consolation to employ his thoughts upon the solid fastenings of his

door, but it was better than suffering the canker worm to gnaw at his

heart. In the wall itself adjoining the door, about two feet from the

top, was a something he could not make out.

At first he was inclined to think it was a ventilator, but upon

further examination he came to the conclusion that he was mistaken.

It was no ventilator. He touched it, and immediately heard a sharp

click outside. This made him start for a moment.

A gong bell was sounded, the trap in the door flew open inwards,

forming a little shelf, and a voice exclaimed――

“Now then, what do you want?”

Through the aperture Peace saw the face of a warder, not the one,

however, who had shown him into the cell.

He did not know very well what answer to make, and the man outside, in

a still more emphatic manner said――

“Can’t you say what you want? Speak, man.”

“Oh,” cried Peace, “I beg your pardon for disturbing you, but I should

like to have some writing paper, pens, and ink, if it not against the

rules.”

No reply was given to this request, but immediately the little trap

closed with a click as suddenly as it had opened.

“I expect Mr. Warder is a bit riled,” murmured our hero. “Well, if he

is I can’t help it.”

Presently he heard a key inserted in the lock, and the door was

opened. Then the warder pointed to an inkstand, pen, and a sheet of

writing paper, lying on the ground just outside the cell door.

“I am sure you are very kind, and I beg to thank you for this favour,”

said our hero, in the softest voice possible.

“That will do,” cried the gaoler, closing the door after Peace had

possessed himself of the writing materials.

“Ah, a man of few words,” murmured the prisoner. “They are most of ’em

like that. The least said the soonest mended is their motto. However,

he’s given me what I asked for. I’ll write a few lines to the old

woman, but I must mind how I word the letter, for I suppose it will be

carefully examined before it is permitted to leave the prison.”

He occupied himself in writing for some considerable time, and when

the hour for bedtime arrived, he unfastened his hammock and retired to

rest, sleeping soundly for the greater portion of the night.

At six o’clock in the morning he was roused by the clanging of a large

bell, and he knew it was time to get up.

But before he had dressed, the door of his cell was thrown open by a

warder, who passed on to make room for the deputy governor and another

warder, who carried a book for taking notes of anything worthy of

notice.

Peace knew all these formalities very well, and was, therefore, quite

prepared for them.

He assumed a respectful manner for the nonce, and, to all appearance,

he felt deeply the painful situation in which he found himself placed.

He bowed submissively to the deputy-governor, who took but little

notice of the obeisance.

“Do you want to see the doctor?” inquired the prison official.

“No, sir; I am in pretty good health. There is nothing the matter with

me, beyond the fact that I am, of course, in great anxiety of mind.”

“Just so. Then you don’t require medical advice?”

“No, sir.”

“Explain to him what he is required to do,” said the deputy-governor,

turning on his heel.

Two brushes were handed to Peace, and he was informed they were to be

used in polishing the floor of his cell. He was also shown all the

other arrangements with which, however, it is needless to say, he was

already very well acquainted, but he listened to the warder’s

instructions complacently enough.

Every morning he had to go on his hands and knees and polish the cell

floor as well as wash and scrub the table, stool, and bason, and every

article in the room.

After breakfast――which was served through the little trap in the door,

and which consisted of a pint of gruel and a piece of bread――he was

told to prepare for chapel.

As we have, in a previous chapter, given a full detail of the

proceedings in the chapel of a prison, it will not be necessary to

repeat the same in this place.

It is certain, however, that in chapel and at other places in the gaol

opportunities are afforded of prisoners conversing, and it is equally

certain that “old lags,” on coming into contact with first offenders,

delight in polluting their minds.

In due course the chaplain paid a visit to Peace. He was urbane and

kind in his manner, asked the prisoner a variety of questions, and it

is needless to say that Peace pretended to be contrite, and expressed

his regret for having been led into error. He did not say he had been

a criminal for the greater part of his life, but he assumed a

sanctimonious air. But the chaplain of Newgate, although uniformly

kind to those under his spiritual care, had too much penetration to be

deceived by Peace’s hypocrisy.

No man could by possibility be more fitted for the office than this

gentleman. Few men have the gift of dropping in a few words of

seasonable advice, judiciously mingled with reproof, than this

gentleman.

When Peace regained his cell, after the service was over, he received a

visit from the governor duly attended, like any other commander-in-chief,

by his aide-de-camp.

He regarded Peace with a scrutinising glance, and inquired if he

wanted anything.

“I want to see my friends as soon as possible, and my solicitor to

arrange for my defence,” said our hero.

“Very well, that is but natural. Write to them and you can have an

interview on the next visiting day.”

“I have written,” cried Peace. “I hope the letter was sent off.”

“It was,” observed the governor, sententiously. “Anything else?”

“No, sir, I don’t think there is anything else, thank you.”

The governor retired.

His visits after this were singularly regular. He came, looked round,

made one or two observations, and then departed.

Peace did not dare to ask if Robinson, whom he had shot, was

progressing favourably or not, but this was a question he was most

anxious about.

If the wounded policeman succumbed to the injuries he had received his

assassin would expiate the crime he had committed on the scaffold.

One day he asked one of the warders if Robinson was still alive. The

question was answered with a nod only, which signified that he was.

This seemed to lift a load off Peace’s heart, and hope dawned again.

After the governor’s diurnal visit all the remanded prisoners were

called out and marched off into a stone-paved yard surrounded by high

brick walls.

Peace had the strongest possible objection to this arrangement.

He dreaded marching round, as, by so doing, he would run the risk of

being detected, and his real identity would become known.

However, he was constrained to follow the instructions given him.

It was deemed necessary that prisoners should have exercise, and so

there was no other course open to him than to comply with the usual

regulations.

He had a good opportunity of looking at his fellow-prisoners.

They were of all grades of society, from the fraudulent merchant to

the small boy who had been taught to pick pockets.

There were forgers, embezzling clerks, housebreakers, and villains of

every conceivable type.

Peace glanced at them, protruding his lower jaw the while, and

distorting his features in such a way as to render recognition

difficult and almost impossible.

“What are you in for?” whispered a youth of the Artful Dodger species.

Peace made no answer.

“I say, old man,” observed the precocious youth aforesaid, “you let

fly at a bobby――didn’t yer? S’help me taters, I wouldn’t be in your

shoes.”

All this was said in a whisper, but it was loud enough for Peace to

hear.

“Hold your tongue, yer fool,” cried another of the group, addressing

himself to the pickpocket. “Can’t yer see as how the gentleman don’t

like it?”

Round and round the yard in Indian file, some three yards apart, did

the prisoners march for nearly an hour.

Two warders were there to keep order, and check any talking between

the prisoners, but a few chance observations such as we have recorded

did at times take place, despite the warders’ surveillance.

“Oh, strike me lucky, but the old un has a pretty mug of his own,”

said the pickpocket, as he caught sight of Peace’s profile.

“Now then, no talking,” said one of the warders.

“I vasn’t a speakin’,” cried the pickpocket.

“It was you who spoke, and if you do it again I’ll report you,” said

the prison official.

“Vell, all I sed vas, vat a beautiful old genelman I’ve got in front

of me. There aint any harm in that, I s’pose.”

“You hold your tongue. Do you hear?”

“Yes, I hear. Vell I’m blest. A cove musn’t even open his mouth to get

a breath of fresh air.”

“Silence.”

The pickpocket said no more, much to Peace’s relief, for the few

chance observations he had already made naturally enough attracted the

attention of most persons to our hero.

Presently a batch of persons emerged from a side door of the prison,

and entered the yard.

They were detectives and warders from other prisons, and had come to

take stock, and see if they could spot any “old friends.”

Peace walked round and round without appearing to be aware of the

presence of the new comers, but he was most anxious, nevertheless.

As he passed along and came within full view of them, he did not

recognise any face that was known to him in the group, and hoped,

therefore, that it was all right as far as that day was concerned.

Nevertheless, several recognitions did take place, for one man was

called to the corner of the yard to undergo a closer scrutiny, while

one of the prison officials compared a photograph he drew from his

pocket with the features of the man in question, and there was no

denying the “soft impeachment.”

[Sidenote: No. 80.]

[Illustration: VISITING DAY AT NEWGATE――PEACE’S INTERVIEW WITH HIS

WIFE.]

The gentleman was known as an “old lag.” The acquaintances thus

claimed are seldom cordially reciprocated, and in more than one

instance Piper at the present moment was found to be identical with

Jenkins, of Coldbath-fields, or White, of Holloway. Peace expected his

turn to come.

It would, indeed, have been a sore trial if the visitors to the gaol

discovered that Mr. Ward, of Blackheath, or Mr. Thompson, of Peckham,

was identical with Mr. Charles Peace, of Sheffield; this is what he

most dreaded, but it so chanced that on this day none of his friends,

either in the “force” or in gaol were present at Newgate. So much the

better for him――he had a respite for a while.

Those who were recognised stoutly protested that the warders or

detectives were mistaken; they said they had never been in trouble

before, and assumed such a virtuous tone of indignation as to somehow

shake the faith of their accusers.

An old and astute detective told us that it was not so much the

recognising the face and figure of the individual that they depended

on in the first instance, as the fact that in nine cases out of ten an

“old lag” would betray himself.

Artful as these men are they appear to lose presence of mind the

moment the detectives come into the yard.

Those whom they are seeking seem to be but too well aware of the

danger that awaits them, and they invariably try to look so perfectly

innocent, and slink past in such a shuffling manner, that the chances

are they are bound to be “spotted.”

But it must be understood that those who are in search of old

acquaintances of this sort generally have a good survey of the

prisoners, as they are marching round, from some dark window of the

prison before they enter the yard. Thus the bearing and looks of the

prisoners are undergoing a careful and rigid scrutiny when they are

not aware of it.

On entering, the detectives note any change in their demeanour.

The new man, the green hand, is perfectly indifferent as to who sees

him――indeed, in most cases, he does not even suspect what has brought

the crowd of persons into the yard, his natural surmise being, if he

reflects at all upon the subject, that they are mere loungers, who

have been brought thither from mere idle curiosity.

But with the old hand the case is altogether different. He looks upon

the detectives and all prison officials as his natural enemies, and he

cannot preserve his usual equanimity when they make their appearance

in the exercise-yard, and hence it is that in most cases the old hand,

by some sudden or indiscreet movement, is pretty sure to betray

himself.

Many culprits of this class would gladly avoid the customary exercise

which is deemed requisite by the authorities to take, and Peace was

one of this number; but to refuse would only cause them to be looked

upon with suspicion, and would be attended with other evil

consequences.

When the customary walk-round in the yard is concluded, the general

practice at Newgate is for the prisoners to partake of the mid-day

meal. This generally consists of a few potatoes or other sort of

vegetables, a few ounces of meat, and a tolerably good supply of

bread――the last-named is generally pretty good. Although it is made of

coarse flour, still as a rule it is passable enough. When their meat

is not included in the list of delicacies soup is given, which is made

from the liquor of the meat on the preceding day.

As far as the meat is concerned, it may be good enough, though it

consists of the coarsest and most inferior part of the animal, but if

any care or attention was paid to the cookery of the beef or mutton it

would be eatable.

But this is never done. Huge junks of beef are placed in a copper,

unsalted, and boiled as rapidly as possible, and when turned out it

presents the appearance of horse flesh. As a rule there is very little

fat to it, and it presents a most objectionable appearance.

The English are not versed in the science of cookery, and have yet a

great deal to learn from their Continental neighbours, but the beef at

Newgate requires a very strong stomach to take to it kindly. This is

the more surprising, seeing that the City gaol is under the

superintendence of the Court of Aldermen and the Court of Common

Council, and every member of these august bodies is supposed to have a

great relish for the good things of this life.

It is true that they have a great abhorrence of evil-disposed persons

who are indiscreet enough to commit acts which bring them under the

ban of the law――such persons must be punished, and ought not to be

pampered or fed upon the fat of the land during their temporary

sojourn in the City prison. And, to say the truth, they certainly are

not.

If the object is to make the meat as hard, unpalatable, and

indigestible as possible, and at the same time to impart as little

flavour and nourishment to the “soup,” the end is attained. But there

is really no reason for this――with the same materials properly cooked

excellent dinners could be furnished; as it is, the cooking is simply

abominable――as bad as can possibly be.

It is to be hoped that a change will very shortly take place in the

culinary department of Newgate, for it should be remembered that many

persons are sent there who in the due course of time are proved to be

innocent of the crimes with which they are charged.

Peace, however, never complained of the food which he partook of

without a murmur, but there were others who made wry faces as the

unsavoury mess was placed before them.

During the afternoon he was constrained to take another turn round the

yard with his companions in misfortune, or, more properly speaking,

crime.

On this occasion no detectives or warders paid a visit to the yard,

and Peace, therefore, had no misgivings as far as that day was

concerned. But he was, however, greatly relieved when he was conducted

back to his cell. Anyway he would not be troubled to move out of it

again till the following morning.

He was most anxious to see Bill Rawton or his wife. He had more

confidence in the former and would much prefer having an interview

with the gipsy, but he had already sent letters to both, and expected

to see them on the next visiting day.

Certain days in the week are appointed for prisoners to have

interviews with their friends or relatives. The friends of prisoners

not convicted are allowed to come and see them and converse through

wire gratings.

The rules in this respect are stringent enough, and many have declared

that they are unnecessarily so. It certainly does appear hard upon an

unconvicted person, that he or she should not be permitted to have any

private conversation with friends or relatives. But such is the

present regulation.

There are two gratings with a space of some three or four feet between

them, in which space stands or sits a warder.

Any parcels of clothes or other not prohibited articles are passed

first to the warder so that he may be satisfied that there are no

contraband things among them, and then, after examination they are

handed by him to the prisoner.

The visiting goes on for an hour. The prisoners, or such of them who

have friends to see them, stand in a row against the railings with

their friends opposite.

Everyone is talking at once to his own friend, and the consequence is

that a noise and hubbub is kept up for the whole of the time, and all

present are too interested in their own individual matters to heed

what is going on between his neighbour and friend, and as far as the

warders are concerned they look upon the scene with perfect apathy,

and in most cases do not hear anything very distinctly; or, if they

do, do not bother themselves with affairs which after all do not as a

general rule in any way interest them.

Peace during his first few days’ incarceration in the gaol of Newgate

had conducted himself in a discreet and proper manner. He was

observant of the prison rules, assumed an air of passive resignation,

and strove as best he could to impress everybody with the fact that he

was a repentant sinner.

The hyprocrisy of this man was one of his leading characteristics. One

morning, when the governor had paid him his accustomed diurnal visit,

he expressed himself dissatisfied with the manner in which his cell

was cleaned.

Peace assumed a tone of humility and said he was much pained at

incurring his censure, but that he would be specially mindful of the

timely warning, and take every care not to incur his censure again.

At the same time he expressed his thanks for the considerate manner he

had been treated by the prison officials, whose kindness he should

ever be grateful for.

It is said that a soft word turneth away wrath, and Peace after this

was treated with the greatest possible kindness, conformable with the

rules of the gaol; indeed he played his part so admirably that those

about him were disposed to believe that he had fallen into error by

some sudden or spasmodic influence which they were at a loss to

account for.

CHAPTER CXLVII.

VISITING DAY AT NEWGATE.

Peace had written a number of epistles to his friends. These, of

course, had undergone the usual inspection, but there was nothing in

the documents to compromise the writer.

On the contrary, although the language was neither grammatical nor

refined, the letters themselves appeared to be those of a penitent and

contrite man who bitterly regretted the error into which he had

fallen.

The day at length arrived upon which Peace had the satisfaction of

seeing his poor ill-used wife and Bill Rawton, the gipsy.

For the behoof of those who have never witnessed scenes of this

description we will endeavour to give a graphic account of the

interior of the gaol on one of these occasions.

On certain mornings, and at regular hours, small groups of woe-begone

tearful girls may be seen in the Old Bailey, exchanging whispers with

each other or treading their way silently through the throng of meat

salesmen, City policemen, ticket porters, warehousemen, clerks, and

shopboys, with which the busy place is full.

The girls look prematurely old and worn, and many of them have the

unmistakable expression all noted criminals obtain, while the elder

women may be divided into two classes――the callous and the crushed,

and in the latter category may be included the wife of Charles Peace.

There is a world of misery behind the defiant as well as the tortured

faces one sees here.

All pause at the steps leading up to the half door, behind which the

head and shoulders of a stalwart man in uniform are seen, and after a

moment’s parley they are admitted within.

The object of their journey is nearly accomplished now, for they are

about to be allowed to see and converse with husbands, or lovers, with

their brothers, or their sons.

These last are taking their prescribed amount of exercise in the

prison yards, and it is from behind one of the gratings looking on

these that they are permitted to gaze from a given distance upon and

exchange words with their visitors.

Between the prisoners and their friends runs a passage of about a yard

wide, with another set of iron bars fencing it off from the place

where the women stand; so that between the visitors and the visited

are two stout barriers and sufficient space to preclude the

possibility of articles being handed from one to the other. There are

no seats.

The prisoners are told to break out of the line of march, and

permitted to advance to the grating of the yard in batches of three or

four.

The women who have come to see them stand exactly opposite, within the

prison, and all have to press their faces close to the bars to make

hearing possible.

If a double set of wild-beast cages were planted in parallel lines,

with the ironwork of each facing the others, but a yard or so

apart――if the lions and tigers were pushing their noses eagerly at the

barriers, as if trying to escape, and if a keeper or two were planted

in the intervening space to watch, a fair imitation of Newgate gaol

during visiting hours would be obtained.

The gloomy place has been vastly altered and improved during the last

few years. Those who only remember its old dark wards, with their long

line of oakum-pickers at work in the day time, who saw the condemned

cell, say about the time Palmer had occupied it, or Bousfield

endeavoured to commit suicide by throwing himself in its fire, would

be amazed at the transformation effected in its interior.

Light iron staircases lead to airy galleries, out of which the various

cells open, and from the lower floor of which the exercise grounds are

gained. The condemned cell differs little now from that appropriated

to ordinary prisoners, save that there is accommodation for the

warders, whose duty it is to watch the wretch sentenced to die, and

who never leave him until he falls from the gallows’ drop.

But our present business is with the exercise yards, and the

interviews held between their bars. There is a ghastly resemblance

between them and the playground of some strict school.

Pacing regularly round, a fixed space being maintained between each

man or boy, and the rate of walking in each case the same, proceed the

prisoners. It is their wicked, callous faces which make the school

simile seem ghastly.

Dangerous beasts moving restlessly to and fro in a vast cage seems

much nearer the mark, now that we are among them. Sordid common

villainy, theft, forgery, assault, burglary, cutting and wounding, and

passing bad money, make up the bulk of the offences with which the men

before us stand charged.

A stout florid-faced man, who looks like a country farmer, and who is

gesticulating violently through the bars to the cowed and crying

little woman beyond them, is in on a charge of horse-stealing. He has

been in prison before, and indeed was only out of it ten days when he

was again apprehended. A muscular powerful man, he looks as if he

would carry off a horse bodily, if necessary; and one wonders what the

messages are he is impressing so earnestly on his poor little wife.

A warder is standing near enough to the twain to overhear their talk,

but we are assured no effort is made to eavesdrop, the presence of a

prison official being insisted on simply as a precautionary measure.

Next to the horse-dealer is a well-dressed young clerk, whose alleged

offence is embeszlement. The elderly woman whose sobs reach us across

the yard is his mother.

She seems to be pleading earnestly, and he to be half sullen, half

ashamed, but finally to yield to her entreaties, whatever their

purport may have been.

The third prisoner being visited is an older man, and the girl talking

to him looks like his daughter.

Their interview is far calmer than that of the other two, and seems

indeed of a business character; for some clean linen has been brought,

and the man is actoally talking of the weather as we pass by――a

proceeding which we thought a feint, but which, as we were reminded,

was natural enough.

The three-quarters of an hour allotted to each interview is doubtless

a very precious time.

It can only be had on particular days, and the strongest wish of those

concerned must be to compress as many questions and answers into it as

possible.

Fancy the painful excitement with which a man about to be tried for

some serious crime must look forward to his promised talk with those

whom he can trust to act for him outside.

The anxious thoughts, the doubts, the fears, the hopes which agitate

him in the solitude of his cell are to all bear fruit in the momentous

conversation he is permitted to hold.

The chances of the impending trial, his fate if convicted, the means

to be raised for his defence, and the effect upon those dependent on

him of his present state, have to be eagerly canvassed; and it is all

important that not a moment should be lost.

But this very eagerness defeats itself. Just as it often happens, that

when people meet after a long absence, and for a limited time, they

fail to recall half the topics in which they are vitally interested,

and on which they are anxious to compare notes――so with the imprisoned

men before us and their friends.

In the other yards we visited men and women were absolutely staring at

each other through the bars, in silence; though the latter had come on

purpose to talk, and the former would be shut up again in a quarter of

an hour.

In some cases it may have been the dumbness of despair which made them

tongue-tied; but many seemed so nervously anxious to express all they

had to say that they were unable to arrange their ideas sufficiently

to give them articulate shape.

Some of the women treated the whole affair lightly, smirked at the

warders, and looked boldly round; but these were the exceptions. The

rule both in those waiting and those in communication with their male

friends was absolute dejection.

Two other kinds of accomodation are provided for special visitors,

both similar in character. The first is an enclosed closet in the

centre of the principal corridor, and is for the attorneys; the second

is for the prisoners who are Roman Catholics, and who are visited by

their priest.

Both have glass sides and roof, and realise “the light closets,” upon

which Clarissa laid much stress when describing the lodgings she had

been entrapped into by Lovelace.

The advice to little children, “to be seen but not heard,” is rigidly

enforced upon all people inside these two places.

They live, for the time being literally, in a glass-house, and every

movement can be seen from almost any portion of the chamber or

corridor in which they stand.

Both places were empty during our stay, the only visitors being the

women pressing against the iron bars.

It is easy to fill up their vacancy, however; and all but impossible

not to realise the scences which take place in the attorneys’ box, as

well as the priests’.

There are seats here, and a resting-place for papers. It is, indeed, a

small office under a glass case, and swept and garnished for the next

tenants.

The futile attempts at deceit, the half confessions, the miserable

equivocations as to the extent and circumstances of guilt on the one

hand; the calm business tone, the remonstrances on the suicidal folly

of concealment, the penetrating questions, the practised art with

which the truth is wormed out, and the astute assurances of help from

the professional advisers on the other, this place has heard.

If glass walls have ears like the neighbours of stone and brick, what

strange stories could this little cramped cage reveal!

There are more women in the porter’s lodge, as we leave, tearful and

miserable as the rest, and waiting their turn for interviews.

They, too, will be conducted to the iron barriers, and utter their

broken conversation across the dismal yard of intervening space. The

prison of Newgate is so obviously well managed, and the comforts――we

had almost written the luxuries――of its inmates are so carefully

secured, that its authorities have doubtless sufficient reasons for

the rules under which the visits of prisoners’ friends may be paid and

received.

Still, a vast majority of the inmates are “remand cases;” and as they

are all sent elsewhere as soon as possible after conviction, it is

difficult to repress a wish that some less restricted mode of

communication could be allowed.

Although many of the evil faces we saw marching round were old prison

hands, we presume that the law holds them innocent of the particular

offences they are charged with, until it finds them guilty.

Again, it must occasionally happen that guiltless persons who have

been committed for trial are detained here, and there is something

repulsive in the absolutely penal character of the reception they have

in each case to give their friends.

The reader will be able to understand from the foregoing description

the most noticeable features of the visiting day at Newgate.

Upon the morning to which our history more immediately refers there

were two persons among the throng of visitors outside the gate of the

city prison――these being Mrs. Peace and Bandy-legged Bill, both of

whom had presented themselves at the prison for the purpose of having

an interview with the most celebrated burglar of modern times.

Bill had dressed himself in his best attire, and looked quite

respectable.

His female companion was tearful, depressed, and appeared to be quite

borne down.

When the prison door was thrown open, the motley throng of visitors

passed into the entrance.

They were conducted to the place appointed for the visitors, and

behind the bars they beheld the man of whom they were in search.

Peace appeared to be perfectly composed. His wife uttered a deep sigh

as she reached the barrier which separated her from her husband.

A woman who stood next to her, and who was evidently a native of the

“Emerald Isle,” set up a most dismal howl as she caught sight of a

shock-headed urchin, who was, it afterwards transpired, her youngest

son.

“Och, bad luck to the spalpeen as brought you to this!――bad luck to

him the murtherin’ baste,” cried the woman. “It’s sorry that I am to

see ye brought to this anyhow, but it aint no fault of yours. Oh,

murder, but my heart is a breakin’, it’s all through that dirty

blackguard, ‘Cakey.’”

Cakey was a London pickpocket of the most pronounced type, and he it

was who had suborned the ill-fated young Irish lad and taught him to

become a thief. (So his mother affirmed.)

She set up such a howl that the other prisoners could not hear what

their relatives had to say.

“Now then, less noise there,” exclaimed one of the turnkeys. “Don’t be

howling like that, woman.”

“Oh, bedad, it is meself as is the most miserable ’oman as ever broke

the bread of life,” exclaimed Mrs. O’Grady, “and it is well for the

likes of you to be bullyragging a poor broken-hearted mother. I’ve six

childhre, and never a one av ’em iver done aught as they need be

ashamed of――never a one, save my poor Dinnis, and may be he’s got into

a bit o’ throuble through that lying, dirty scamp, “Cakey.”

Cakey, as he was termed, was the young gentleman who had made himself

so obnoxious to Peace in the exercise yard.

“Hold your row, mother,” said one of the prisoners, “You aint

everybody.”

“There now,” exclaimed Mrs. O’Grady. “It’s well for the likes of him

to be thryin’ to stop the mouth of a fond and affectionats parent; but

hold up your head, Dennis darlin’, and don’t be afther takin’ heed of

the dirty spalpeen. Och, but it brings tears into my motherly eyes to

see ye behind the bars.”

“Now, then, there’s quite enough of this,” exclaimed one of the

warders. “You mustn’t make such a noise. If you are not more quiet, we

shall have to turn you out.”

“An’ it’s turnin’ me out ye’d be afther――would it?” cried the woman.

“Yes, unless you behave yourself.”

“Oh, murdher, it’s the first time I was within the walls of a prison,

and I hope it ’ill be the last. Maybe I don’t know how to behave

mysel’, and am wrong entirely. Och, sure, now, I’ve been as well

brought up, and that aint saying much, as ony av ye.”

After this outbreak the Irishwoman was a little more subdued, and

conversed with her son in a lower tone.

“I’m sorry to see you in this pickle,” said Bill Rawton to Peace.

“It’s a precious bad business.”

“It is,” returned our hero, “but I swear most solemnly that I never

intended to do the bobby any harm. I was driven to it――in fact it

appears to me to be almost like a dream. How is Sue?”

“She is pretty well,” returned his wife.

“Hark you,” said Peace, in a whisper; “both you and Bill must keep a

sharp look-out――watch over her Do you understand?”

Both his visitors nodded.

“Good! so much the better, there is good raason for this.”

“She’s all right” observed Bill. “Don’t trouble yourself about that;

she’s right enough.”

His wife at this time had decamped from the Evilina-road, but neither

she nor Bill made him acquainted with this circumstance.

Peace hesitated a moment or two, and then said――

“She can come on the next visiting day. Poor soul, she means well, I

believe, but there, when she’s had a drop of drink, she will let her

tongue run nineteen to the dozen, she’ll want a deal of looking

after――and you know as well as I do, that we’ve got a set of gossiping

neighbours. What do you they say about me now?”

“Oh, they are all of them very kind and say they are sorry you’ve got

into trouble and hope you’ll get through better than you expect.”

“I never intended to hurt the ‘bobby’;――I swear that. Nothing was

further from my thoughts, but you see I was half mad at the time, and

driven to it.”

“All I intended to do was to frighten him; but it’s of no use talking

about that now; when a man’s in trouble people generally look at the

worst side of the case.”

“Cheer up, old man, and don’t give way,” cried the gipsy, in a

consolatory tone, “Let us hope the judge will look upon the matter in

the right light, and deal mercifully with you. How about your

defence?”

“I have seen my lawyer and shall be well defended.”

“Who will you have then?”

“Oh, one of the very best in the whole profession――Mr. Montague

Williams.”

“Couldn’t have a better, I should say.”

“No; but, Lord bless me! what defence is there?”

Rawton looked down upon the ground, and shook his head.

“Not much,” said he.

“I make up my mind for a long lagging――that’s bound to follow as a

natural consequence――and if the ‘bobby’ had died I should have had

something worse.”

“Ah, but he has recovered――there is no doubt about that,” returned

Bill, quietly.

Peace nodded significantly, and said, “So I hear.”

“Be thankful for that.”

“I am thankful.”

“And I say, Charlie,” whispered Rawton, as he put his face closer to

the iron bars, “I saw Lorrie the day before yesterday.”

“Yes. What did she say?”

“Sends her love and all that sort of thing, and told me to let you

know that if you needed it she would let you have what you want to pay

the costs incurred for your defence.”

“Umph, it’s jolly good of her. Tell her I don’t want anything at

present. I’ve got enough to last me till after the trial, but possibly

I may avail myself of her offer after then. Ah, Bill, but they’ve got

me pretty tight now. There aint much chance of slipping out of

this――none whatever.”

A long conversation now took place between the prisoner and his wife.

This chiefly related to the disposal of certain sums of money and

domestic matters generally.

Mrs. Peace was tearful and broken down, but she strove to bear up

against this new misfortune as best she could.

Peace had but little consideration for her. His thoughts were engaged

upon his own terrible position.

While he was conversing with his wife, the woman O’Grady set up one of

her wild howls again, and interrupted the conversation.

“Can’t you be quiet, woman?” said Peace. “A fellow is notable to hear

himself speak.”

“Och, but it’s nearly mad that I am――I’ve seven childhre, and none on

’em iver did anything as they need be ashamed ov, barrin’ this poor

lad, who has been brought into throuble through that dirty blackguard,

Cakey, and bad luck to him.”

“I think you told us that before, missus,” suggested one of the other

prisoners. “The story is a little old.”

“It’s ould――is it?”

“Well, I think so, but that don’t matter. Hold your row.”

The Irishwoman began uttering a series of anathemas against the

speaker and lawless persons in general, when a turnkey took her by the

elbow, and conducted her away from the scene, telling her, as he did

so, that they had had quite enough of her for that day.

Everybody was greatly relieved when she had gone, and the conversation

was carried on between the prisoners and their friends without any

further interruption.

When the time had expired, accorded to visits of this character, Bill

Rawton and Mrs. Peace took leave of our hero, and went sadly on their

way home.

For the next few days Peace occupied himself in writing letters, and

having interviews with his lawyer, for the purpose of preparing his

defence.

Some of his letters were literary curiosities, and as a sample of them

we give the reader a faithful verbatim copy of some he addressed to

his friend, Mr. Brion.

We have, in the course of this work, made allusions to the inventions

of the hero, and it has been pretty generally admitted by those who

are competent judges that these were by no means of a contemptible

character.

His partner in these inventions was a Mr. Brion, who was a near

neighbour of Peace’s.

This person was under the full impression at the time that our hero

was a respectable gentleman, who was possessed of independent means,

and he was never more surprised in his life than when he learnt the

real character of the man with whom he had been dealing.

After Peace’s conviction for the attempted burglary and attack on

Police-constable Robinson, Mr. Brion, of Peckham, made the following

statement:――

“The invention spoken of was for the raising of sunken ships; and for

the purpose of having it patented, specifications were deposited in

the names of Henry Brion, geographer, and Henry Thompson, gentleman.

“Becoming bold over their invention, they offered to the Admiralty to

raise the ‘Eurydice’ and ‘Vanguard,’ and a similar proposal was made

to the German Government in regard to the ‘Grosser Kurfurst.’ Peace

was told by the Admiralty that outside assistance was unnecessary, and

that the naval authorities could do their own work.

“Brion’s connection with Peace ended in an estrangement.

“One day Brion had fetched from Peace’s house one of the fittings

which they had decided to use in their plan of operations, as he

required it in order to satisfy a gentleman who was ready to advance

£500 to carry out the experiment.

“While doing this Peace came into the house, and was very angry at

what Brion had done, and on his going away said that he would settle

the matter in a way that Brion did not dream of.

“Mrs. Thompson told Brion afterwards that, as he had put him out so,

the wonder was that Peace had not shot him, and added that if Brion

had come round to Peace’s house, as he asked him to do, Peace told her

that he would have shot him.

“The convict had also told her that he could get into Brion’s house

and despatch the whole of them.

“Brion saw nothing more of Peace until he received a letter from

Newgate, which was couched in the following terms:――

“‘From John Ward, 1 D for trial, H.M. Prison.

Newgate, Nov. 2, 1878.

“My dear Sir.――Mr. Brion,――I do not know how to write to you

or what to say to you, for my heart is near broken, for I am

nearly mad to think that I have got into this fearful mess,

all with giving myself up to drinking; but O, Mr. Brion, do

you have pity on me, do not you despise me, as my hone

famery has don, for I do not know ware they are, for they

have broken up there home and gon I do not know where. So O,

my dear Sir, I must beg of you to have mercy upon me and

come to see me.

“O do not say nay, for I now that when you do see me, and

know what I am here for, you will weep for me; but I cannot

tell you till I can see you, for I have something that I

want you to do for me, that is for you to try and find out

for me, for I do not know whare they are gon to.

“Give my love to Mrss. brion and to little fredey, but not

disspse me now that I am in Prison, and for meary sakke

write a letter back to me direct at once, to give hease to

my trobel hart. I finish with my love to you all. I am yours

recherd JOHN WARD. But do have mercy upon me and come to see

me. You can see me heney week day from one till two o’clock,

and inquire for John Ward for trial.’

“On November 2nd Brion went to Newgate and asked to see the writer of

the letter. To his surprise he was shown his old acquaintance,

Thompson.

“Peace said he was a wicked, dreadful man; that he had shot a

policeman, but that he only did it as he was driven for money, and

asked him (Brion) to come to the court and give him a character. The

prisoner also asked him to call on a publican in Middlesex-street,

Whitechapel, with whom he had had some dealings, and ask him to give

him a character.

“This person, in reply to his request, said that a character would do

Peace more harm than good.

“Other letters were received by Brion before the trial at the old

Bailey.

“From John Ward, 1 D for trial, H.M. Prison,

“Newgate, Nov. 4, 1878.

“‘O my dear Friends, Mr. and Mrs. Brion,――I know that you

are full of trouble for me been such a nod fool to give way

to drink and bring myself into this most fearful afarer; but

do forgive me for writing to you and have Pity upon me; and

do all you can for me, a moust wretched and miserbel man,

that is not fiet to live nor dei, for I am not fiet to meet

my God, and I am not fiet to live now that I have disgraced

myself, but O do have Pity upon me, and do all you can for

me, and I will Pray to God to re Pay you for it agane.

“‘Sir, if you have seen my Solictor, or seen Mr. Levy, or

heard from or seen my wife, do be kind as to come and see me

at once, for O, Sir, I have vely much thet I do want to see

… bring me the stamps and envelops … you for, and it will do

me much beter than you writing to me, so do be so kind and

see to-morrow, the 5th, if you can do and if you have seen

my wife or friends tell them to come and see me at once, for

I must see them.

“I do also want to see Mr. Levy very much, if you will write

and tel him. Sir do not let Doctor Sargent nor heney oughter

frinds know of my drisgrase, I conclude with my best love to

you all, but come and see me.

“‘Yours, “‘JOHN WARD.

“‘Dear Sir,――I think that the shesions will be on the 18th

of Novem.

“‘Henry Brion, 22, Philip-road, Peckham-rye, S.E., London.’

“The third letter was as follows:――

“From John Ward,

“for trial, H. M. Prison, Newgate.

“‘My dear Sir,――Mr. Brion, will you be so kind as to send me

the directions of Mr. Nash, direct at once for I do want to

suppine him to come on my trial to prove that I bougth my

guitors of him, for the police have got them for to say that

I stole them, but I bought them of him when I bought my ship

of him. So do be so kind as to send me his directions this

very day, and my dear sir you be so kind as to come and see

me yourself on Monday, for I do want to see you Mr.

Brion.――I am your an unhappy man, JOHN WARD.’”

It will be seen by these documents, that Peace was a very illiterate

man, but it must be admitted, however, that, in conversing with him,

he did not appear, from his conversation to be nearly so ignorant as

he really was.

He had a very small amount of education, but he had natural gifts, and

was, moreover, a hypocrite and deceiver of the most pronounced type.

Peace’s arrest caused much consternation in the house in the

Evalina-road.

On the morning that Mr. Thompson was missing, there was trouble at No.

4. Mrs. Thompson went to Mrs. Long in great distress. The infatuated

woman seemed to be fond of the wretch she had taken up with, despite

all his ill-usage.

She said, however, at this time that she did not care anything about

him, “if she only knew where he was.”

She took to advertising in the newspapers. These brought no response.

She found, on her return, that the old woman had gone away with the

boy, and taken with her two boxes filled with valuables.

She instantly took precautions to secure the rest, which she stored

away in her own name in a house at Peckham――all except the articles we

have already described as having been left elsewhere.

She stayed with Mrs. Long, to whom she first told the story that her

husband had gone off to America with another woman, and that she would

never see him more.

Her stay extended over ten days, and then, chancing to get a hint

somehow as to her husband’s whereabouts, she left, telling Mrs. Long

that she should write and send her address.

Mrs. Long never heard from her afterwards, but believed in her still,

and trusted in the information she had given us she might not do “the

poor woman any evil turn.”

Two days after Peace disappeared, Mrs. Thompson went to Mrs. Cleaves,

a greengrocer a few doors off, whose husband had identified some of

the property, and asked her as a great favour to come into the house

with her.

She said Mrs. Ward had gone as well as her husband, and there were

several boxes, saying, “I am afraid to open them myself. I don’t know

what he may have been up to. I can’t open them unless somebody will

help me, because the old devil may have killed somebody, and have

packed their bodies in these boxes.”

Mrs. Cleaves did not relish the ghastly suggestion, and declined to

have anything to do with Mrs. Thompson’s boxes, which were ultimately

obtained by the police, who had no scruples about searching the

contents.

Mention was made at this time of a suspicious-looking crucible in the

house in the Evalina-road. It was found, however, that Peace never

made use of this. One of his “fences” had brought it to the house in

the hope that arrangements might be made for reducing on the spot a

large haul of goods to a concentrated shape.

But Mr. Peace preferred to dispose of his plunder in the rough, and

did not care to set up a furnace, whose discovery would have been

fatal.

He did once try melting silver in this crucible over an ordinary fire,

but the attempt was a failure, and it was not renewed.

Peace was quite right when he observed that Mrs. Thompson required

watching. But who was to undertake the task now that her lord and

master was in durance vile?

Mrs. Peace became duly impressed with the fact “that the game was up”

and she was not disposed to remain any longer in her old quarters at

Peckham.

The consequence was, that Mrs. Thompson was left to fight her own

battles in the best way she could. A description of this woman is

given by a journalist, and it is a tolerably accurate one.

“I was privileged yesterday,” says he, “to see Mrs. Thompson, the lady

who has been so intimately identified with the convict Charles Peace.

Mrs. Thompson is a woman of gaunt stature, wizened features, and

altogether the very antithesis of the saucy Mrs. Dyson, for whom Peace

seemed to have formed such a consuming passion.

“This preference for two women of such opposite appearance may be

taken, I presume, as an instance of the happy impartiality of Mr.

Peace in his loves. Possibly Mrs. Thompson may owe some of her present

uncomeliness to her experience while under the protection of the

burglar. That she has undergone much suffering I think certain, from

the hard and leather-looking hue of her shrunken face.

“There is an abiding distrust lurking in her cold, restless eyes,

which is confirmed by the twitching of her fingers as she speaks to

you.

“There are moments when Mrs. Thompson thaws, as it were, when the

curiously Mephistophelian mouth, the corners of which curl upwards

instead of downwards, with a sharp precision of ominous intent, loses

somewhat of its rigidity.

“That is when Mrs. Thompson is face to face with the whiskey bottle.

It is then the lady becomes communicative.

“She croons over her connection with ‘Charley,’ referring to the

criminal in terms of admiration and horror combined. It is quite

erroneous to say, as some papers have done, that Mrs. Thompson was

educated at a boarding school, and is a woman of culture.

“To use her own words ‘No, sir, as I was I am. I have brothers and

sisters――that is true. But myself, all I can say of myself is, that I

disgraced them.’ The woman seems to have money, but she appears to be

oppressed by a dread that ‘Charley’ Peace will escape and cut her

throat.”

Mr. Brion was certainly hardly dealt by. In the first place he had

been greatly deceived by the hero of this work, and in the end he had

lost a considerable amount of time in rendering assistance to the

Government in the prosecution of the Bannercross murderer, and had no

adequate compensation for the same.

A writer for the press gives the following faithful account of his

visit to Mr. Peace’s “friend” at Peckham:――

“How Peace came to live at Peckham is a story which has not yet been

told, and, I suspect, will not be known unless it is told by Peace

himself or by another party whom I called upon yesterday, and who, I

suspect, could say a great deal if he could be induced to say it.

“This gentleman, who occupies a good house in a leading road, was a

great friend of Peace’s. The people say that he and Peace were ‘always

together.’

“Considering Peace’s manner of life, that is more than I can receive

as gospel; but it is certainly a fact that this gentleman was more in

Peace’s company than any other person in Peckham. My interview with

him was not very encouraging.

“A sharp-witted Peckham boy, who acted as my guide in showing me the

residences of the people whose names I had on a card to visit, pointed

to the street in which the house was situated, and said, ‘You will

easily find it; it is the only house on that side where the lower

windows are _frosted_, to prevent people looking in.’

“The boy added that the windows were frosted after this gentleman

began to be seen a good deal in Peace’s company. Sometimes he went and

visited Peace at 5, East-terrace, and sometimes Peace came and visited

him.

“With the exception of Mrs. S. Smith, who let the house to Peace, the

latter kept himself very ‘reserved’ so far as his neighbours were

concerned, and as the neighbours thought that the Thompsons――as they

called themselves――were well-to-do people, considerably above their

station――they did not like to intrude themselves upon the new comers’

notice.

“The house of this gentleman is a better one than that occupied by

Peace, and is in a more pretentious road. There is an apartment

underneath the level of the roadway, with a large open window, and it

was this window which was ‘frosted.’

“I saw no other window on the road treated in that fashion. Of course

it may have been done simply to prevent prying people from looking in,

though none of the neighbours seem to have thought it necessary to

take similar precautions.

“Three knocks with the knocker failed to elicit any answer, and I was

leaving to try my luck elsewhere, when a comely-looking lady put her

head out. Happening to look back at the time, I noticed her, and

returned.

“She kept me standing at the door for some time, but eventually, on my

telling her as much of my business as I thought it prudent to mention,

she asked me in, adding, as she showed me into a parlour, ‘I don’t

think he will tell you anything about that.’

“She closed the door, and left me to myself. The parlour, I had been

told, was mainly furnished with articles from Peace’s house.

“I sat down in one of the chairs belonging to the walnut suite which

had adorned Peace’s parlour, and here I may say that if the walnut

suite is a fair sample of the ‘luxurious furnishings” at 5,

East-terrace, you must not suppose that there was anything very

palatial about the place.

“In fact, the longer I inquire into this man’s establishment the glory

of it seemeth to fade away. The suite is a fairly good one, covered

with rep, in green and gold stripes, considerably faded by wear――such

a suite as the esteemed auctioneer over the way from your office would

knock down any day for fifteen or sixteen guineas, and think he had

done fairly well for the seller, and not badly for the buyer.

“In the room was also a harmonium, on which ‘Mr. Thompson,’ ‘Mrs.

Thompson,’ and the boy ‘Ward’――of whom more anon――used to play sacred

and other music.

“It is a fair-looking instrument, worth perhaps a ten-pound note.

There are other nick-nacks which had also been obtained from Peace’s

establishment.

“While I had been using my eyes in this way a conversation had been

conducted in undertones in another room.

“The wife was evidently telling the husband who I was. Then the door

opened and there came close up to me a little man, wearing spectacles,

through which he peered at me, with his small keen eyes, rather

curiously, and ‘took me in’ from head to foot.

“After he had finished his examination he retired to a chair in the

corner. The wife stood by his side, and he pointed me to a seat near

the window.

“‘What’s your name?’ he asked me abruptly.

“‘Had I not better tell you my business first?’ I replied.

“‘Your name, sir, your address, and your occupation?――_if_ you

please.’

“I told him my name.

“‘Have you your card?’

“I handed him my card, which he carefully examined, then looked at me

carefully as if to see if he could detect any discrepancy between the

name on the card and the person who presented it.

“‘Now, sir, what do you want?’

“I soon told him what I wanted.

“‘You knew Peace very well, did you not?’

“‘I knew Mr. Thompson; but before I say any more let me tell you that

I have been before the authorities, and expressly cautioned not to say

anything to anybody. They have heard my story, and if I am wanted they

know where to find me.’

“‘Oh, I didn’t know you were going to be a witness?’

“‘I did not say I was going to be a witness. The Greenwich police have

asked me what I know, and I may tell you have warned me against saying

any more. I must decline to give any information which may be

used――――’

“Here the wife interrupted, ‘You have said quite enough; don’t say any

more.’

“The husband drew up abruptly. I told him he had quite mistaken my

mission.

“I had been informed that he was more in Mr. Thompson’s house than

anybody else, that he had frequently had Mr. Thompson at his house;

that Mrs. Thompson and Mrs. Ward had also been there, and that I

simply wanted to know what kind of people they were, and how they

lived, and was not anxious to know anything about the Blackheath

business.’

“‘Before I say any more,’ he answered, ‘I must ask you to promise me

as a particular favour that you will not mention my name in any way.’

“‘Well,’ I said, ‘your name has been hinted at already. You have been

spoken of as Mr. B――――, and I expect the Peckham people know very well

now who Mr. B―――― is.’

“He did not seem pleased at this information, and was about to tell me

something more, when his wife again put the drag on, and kept it on

all the time I was in the room.

“‘You were working with Mr. Thompson on a patent for raising sunken

ships――were you not?’

“‘I must decline to answer any questions about that.’

“‘Well, but that is a matter about which there is nothing to be gained

by reticence. In fact, I know you have got that model in your house

now, and that it is enclosed in a box like a plate-chest. I should

really, as a mere matter of curiosity, like to have a look at it.’

“It was no use. He entrenched himself behind his spectacles, the wife

assisted him to hold the fort of his lips, and nothing further could I

obtain from him.

[Sidenote: NO. 81.]

[Illustration: PEACE AT HIS PRISON TOILET AFTER HIS LIFE SENTENCE.]

“If it had not been for that excellent lady, I think ‘Mr. B――――’ would

have been induced to tell something which has not yet been made

public, though he was evidently very anxious not to say anything which

could in anyway connect him any further with the ‘Thompsons.’

“As I was leaving I tried a parting shot.

“Mrs. Thompson when she left promised to write to you, stating where

she could be found. You have had a letter, I am told. There is now no

doubt that Mrs. Thompson is merely wanted as a witness. There can be

no harm in saying if you have had that letter.”

Mr. B―――― was about to speak, but his good wife was before him, and

with her ‘don’t say any more――you have said too much already’――a point

which I politely disputed with her――‘Mr. B――――’ shook his head, and I

left the interesting couple.

“Someone has said that a woman can’t keep a secret, and an old cynic

offered a reward for the first female who could be found capable of

holding her tongue.

“I want the address of the gentleman, for I can conscientiously claim

the reward.

“I have found in the person of my friend, Mrs. B――――, a lady who can

not only hold her own tongue, but that of her husband also.

“I left that house with mingled respect for the excellent good wife,

and disappointment that she did not happen, at the time I called, to

be out taking a five o’clock tea with some estimable neighbours in the

region of Evalina-road, or anywhere else except in her own house and

by her husband’s side.

“I am convinced that this gentleman and his wife could have told me a

great deal as to Peace’s life at home, and perhaps something about his

life abroad, which he may have guessed at or picked up in his frequent

interviews with his friends the Thompsons, of No. 5, East-terrace.”

CHAPTER CXLVIII.

THE TRIAL OF CHARLES PEACE FOR BURGLARY.

The days and nights passed slowly and sadly enough with Charles Peace

during the brief interval between his committal and trial.

Take whatever view he would of the case he could not see any gleam of

sunshine and hope for the future. It was not possible for any

intelligent jury, after hearing the overwhelming evidence which would

be brought forward for the prosecution, to return any other verdict

than that of guilty upon the charge or charges preferred against the

ill-fated man.

Peace, despite his sanguine temperament, was forcibly impressed with

this fact. He whined and moaned and declared himself to be an ill-used

man.

His relatives and friends had deserted him in the hour of extreme

need――so he averred. It was the way of the world, he added, and there

was therefore no reason to be surprised at a circumstance, which, to

say the truth, was one of almost daily occurrence.

He confessed that he had been greatly to blame, that under the

influence of drink and excitement he had committed a most

unwarrantable act of violence, but was at the same time truly thankful

that the life of the gallant police officer had not been sacrificed.

This was one of the greatest consolations he had in the hour of

trouble and suffering.

He affected to be so contrite, and assumed such a virtuous tone, that

those about him were half disposed to believe he had been led into

crime by a sudden impulse: nevertheless the facts were dead against

him, and a heavy sentence would be sure to follow conviction.

As the sessions drew nigh Peace became additionally nervous and

anxious. He wrote off to several of his friends.

So long as a man is in prison before trial and condemnation he has no

work of any sort to do beyond the cleaning of his own cell and

utensils.

Books are allowed him, and writing materials, as before observed.

Whatever a man writes is inspected and read by the governor, and every

sheet of paper is counted, and has to be accounted for.

This course is adopted so that prisoners may be prevented from writing

letters to their friends outside without undergoing the inspection of

the governor.

The rule is an arbitrary one, and it does not seem to be altogether

just. They have no right to be placed under such rigid surveillance

before they are proved guilty.

About 420,000 persons in the course of a year pass through the hands

of the police in England and Wales. Of these, about 275,000 are

convicted, some summarily, others after trial by jury, the former

being seventeen times as numerous as the latter.

The great majority of these mean nothing but the slightest

punishments, generally fines; but about 70,000 are sentenced to

imprisonment. Of these, 6000 in round numbers are children under

sixteen years of age, nearly 1000 of whom are committed to

reformatories for most of the remainder the cellular prisons probably

furnish sufficient correction.

Of the adults rather more than 2000 are sentenced to penal servitude.

Of the 420,000 persons apprehended by the police more than 80,000 are

either known or suspected to be criminals by trade, and from 50,000 to

60,000 are known to be living in total idleness and vice.

This is, of course, a terrible state of things, but as yet no remedy

has been found to repress crime in the metropolis or elsewhere.

Peace was a criminal of the most irreclaimable, daring, and desperate

order, but this was not known to the authorities at――for a

certainty――the time of his arrest, but it afterwards became

sufficiently manifest.

At length the day arrived on which Peace was to be tried.

He was in close converse with his lawyer on the preceding day, and was

informed that Mr. Montague Williams would conduct the defence.

The legal gentleman did not tell his client that the case was in every

way a hopeless one, but bade him keep up his spirits and hope for the

best.

Before the court was duly opened, barristers and solicitors were to be

seen ascending the staircase, ducking mysteriously into ante-rooms,

and it was evident enough that there was to be a sort of legal field

day.

In the several robing-rooms counsel were dressing like other actors

for their parts.

The judge was arraying himself in his robes of office, and everybody

appeared to be engaged on some important business.

A court of justice is built everywhere much in the same fashion――a

throne for the judge, benches right and left for the sheriff and

municipal authorities, boxes on each side for the juries, separate

pews for the warder and clerk of the court, convenient seats for the

barristers. Then there is the witness-box, the dock, and benches piled

tier over tier for the convenience of the spectators, and, as a matter

of course, the ventilation is radically bad.

There is also a stone hall outside in which clients congregate till

their turn comes on, and witness-rooms.

In addition to this, British witnesses seem to possess an

inexhaustible supply of sandwiches in brown paper, and ardent spirits

in old medicine bottles: upon these they feed incessantly, partly to

kill time, and partly to fortify their moral courage, which they know

will soon be tried in public as severely as the integrity of the

prisoners.

Up and down a passage which leads to the jury-room and to the private

entrances into the court, one may see the attorneys in their Sunday

shabby-genteel, and in great bustle and importance, running backwards

and forwards, now halting to confab with gentlemen who are relations

of the prisoners, or are subpœnaed witnesses――now with the barristers

who wear stereotyped smiles upon their faces, as if law life was a

pleasant dream.

The judge entered the court and the usual formulæ had to be gone

through. The benches appointed for the use of barristers were

tolerably well filled.

The first case to be tried was a charge of embezzlement. It did not

occupy a great space of time, as it was as clear as the sun at

noon-day――that is on days that luminary does condescend to shine.

Peace was anxiously waiting his turn with two other fellow-prisoners.

To his ineffable disgust one of these was the lad “Cakey,” as he was

termed, who had so annoyed him in the exercise-yard. He was charged

with picking pockets, in the practice of which he was an adept.

“Strike me lucky,” said the audacious young ruffian. “I hopes as how

they won’t keep us waiting long――don’t you?”

“Mind your own business,” returned Peace.

“Vell, there aint no call to be humpy about the matter. I spoke

civilly enough――didn’t I?”

“You are too fast for my book,” said Peace. “You’re like a sheep’s

head――all jaw.”

“Oh, carry me out and bury me dacent, but you’re as good as a play,

you are, and no flies,” said the pickpocket. “Blest if you couldn’t

make a fortin’ as a mummer; but I say, old man, I ’xpect you’ll get it

rather ’ot. What made yer fire yer pop-gun at a ‘bobby,’ eh?”

“Mind your own business, and don’t interfere with me.”

“Vell, I’m sorry for yer, and I hopes as how――――”

“Hold your tongue, you fool,” interrupted our hero. “You’ll have

enough to do to prove your innocence, I’m thinking.”

“Vell, now, we agree this once. I’m of the same ’pinion. They’ll be

down upon me as dead as a hammer. I’ll lay yer half a bull that they

give me two ‘stretch.’ I mek up my mind to that there, but you――vell,

I don’t know how it ’ill go vith you, old un; but yer had a pretty

smart tussle with yer bobby――didn’t you?”

“Let the gentleman be,” said the other prisoner, who, like “Cakey,”

was hardly out of his teens. “Yer sees as how he don’t like it. I’m

ashamed on yer. This isn’t a time for chaff――is it?”

“I don’t know that it is, but it’s better than sitting like a set of

mutes――aint it? It’s enough to give a fellow the hump to be sitting

still a waitin’ to be placed in the dock.”

The conversation, if it could be so termed, was brought to a close by

a man coming in and saying to the young pickpocket――

“Now then, this way.”

Cakey was placed in the dock. The trial did not last half an hour. He

was found guilty, and sentenced to eighteen months’ imprisonment.

He considered the sentence a most lenient one, and left the court in

better spirits than he had entered it. He found Peace in the passage

when he was returning to the gaol.

“Vat do yer think, guv’nor? Only eighteen months. There’s for

you――I’ve lost my half bull.”

Peace was too much wrapped up in his own thoughts to take any heed of

the playful youth who was addressing him.

His case was the next, and as he was placed in the dock he glanced

furtively round the court.

The first face he recognised was that of Robinson, the policeman, then

his glance fell upon several others that were familiar to him, but he

did not see any of his Sheffield friends. “So much the better,”

murmured he.

Mr. Poland was engaged in earnest conversation with a police-inspector,

while Mr. Douglas Straight was scanning some papers before him.

Peace was conscious that he was an object of interest, for he saw that

the eyes of many persons were upon him.

He endeavoured to put on a look of humility and dejection, hoping

thereby to excite sympathy.

He glanced at the jury to see if they looked mercifully disposed or

otherwise. One or two jurors struck him as being hard-featured men,

who were bent upon doing their duty fearlessly.

It was on the morning of Tuesday the 19th of November, 1878, on which

this trial took place. It was of course an eventful day in the history

of our hero.

The case was tried at the Central Criminal Court, before Mr. Justice

Hawkins, John Ward alias Charles Peace aged sixty (he was so put down,

although he had not reached that age by three years) who was described

as a sailor, was indicted for a burglary in the dwelling-house of

James Alexander Burness, and stealing therefrom a quantity of plate,

the property of the aforesaid James Alexander Burness.

He was charged also with feloniously shooting at Edward Robinson, a

police constable, with intent to murder him.

Mr. Poland and Mr. Douglas Straight conducted the prosecution for the

Treasury.

The prisoner was defended by Mr. Montagu Williams and Mr. Austin

Metcalfe.

There was a dead silence when the case came on, and a number of

persons from Greenwich, Blackheath, and elsewhere, who had been

suffering from the depredations of burglars, were present at the

trial; and, in addition to these, in an obscure corner sat, unobserved

by Peace, Aveline’s husband and Lady Marvlynn.

The indictment proceeded with was the charge of shooting at the

constable.

Edward Robinson was then examined. He said: On the morning of the 10th

of October I was on duty at Blackheath in the avenue leading from St.

John’s-park, the back of the residence of Mr. Burness. I noticed the

flickering of a light in Mr. Burness’s drawing-room, and this excited

my suspicion, and I procured the assistance of another constable named

Girling. The light continued to move about the house, and I was

assisted by Girling on to the wall. At this time a sergeant named

Brown came up, and he went to the front of the house and I heard the

bell ring, when the light was extinguished immediately, and the

prisoner jumped out of the drawing-room window to the lawn. When I saw

him in the act of running away I followed him, and he turned round and

pointed a revolver at my head, and said, “Keep back; keep off, or by

―――― I will shoot you.” I said to him, “you had better not,” and he

immediately fired three chambers of a revolver at my head. Two shots

passed over my head and the third by the side of my head. I made a

rush at him and he fired a fourth shot, when I closed with him and

struck him on the face with my left hand. The prisoner then said, “You

――――, I will settle you this time!” and then fired a fifth shot, which

wounded me in the right arm. I seized the prisoner then, and threw him

down, when the prisoner exclaimed, “You ――――, I will give you

something else!” and tried to put his hand in his pocket. I struggled

with him and got the revolver from him, and struck him several blows

with it. I held him down till Sergeant Brown came up and he was then

secured. The revolver was strapped round his wrist. I began to feel

faint from loss of blood at this time, and handed the prisoner over to

Sergeant Brown and Girling.

Charles Brown, a sergeant of police, proved that he heard the shots

fired and the cries for assistance, and said that when he went to the

spot he found Robinson lying above the prisoner with a six-chambered

revolver in his hand, but it was strapped round the prisoner’s arm. On

the prisoner he found a silver flask, a banker’s cheque-book, and a

letter-case, which were afterwards identified by Mr. Burness, and a

small crowbar.

William Girling, the other policeman, confirmed the testimony of the

previous witnesses as to the five shots being fired, and he also said

that he heard the prisoner say that he only did it to frighten him. On

the prisoner he found an auger, a jemmy, a gimlet, and other

housebreaking implements. The prisoner attempted to get away after he

had apprehended him, but he hit him with his staff.

Mr. Bonny, an inspector of the R Division, proved that he examined Mr.

Burness’s house and found that several places had been broken open

with a jemmy.

The prisoner refused to give his name and address, and when he was

asked for them, he replied, “Find out.”

Sarah Selina Cooper, servant to Mr. Burness, proved that she found a

bullet in the drawing-room on the morning after the occurrence.

Mr. Montagu Williams, on behalf of the prisoner, entreated the jury,

in the first place, not to allow any prejudice that might have been

created in their minds by what they had read about the number of

burglaries that had been committed in this neighbourhood to operate

against the prisoner, but to be guided solely by the evidence relating

to the particular charge. He said that his case was that the prisoner

did not intend to murder the constable, but that all he desired was to

get away; and he argued that the facts were of a character that tended

to support this view of the case.

The jury, after a very short deliberation, found the prisoner guilty

upon the first count of the indictment, which charged him with

discharging the revolver at the constable with intent to murder him.

The jury, at the same time, desired to express their admiration of the

courageous conduct of the constable, and expressed a hope that he

would receive some reward for the way in which he had acted. The

foreman of the jury handed in a written paper to that effect.

Mr. Justice Hawkins: I am not surprised, gentlemen, that you should

have made this representation, for the constable has certainly behaved

in a very gallant manner.

Mr. Poland said that probably his lordship would like to hear

something of the previous history of the prisoner.

Mr. Justice Hawkins said he should be glad to receive any information

that could be given to him respecting the prisoner.

Inspector Bonny then stated that at the prisoner’s house at Sheffield

there was found a large quantity of property, and in twenty-six cases

property had been identified by the owners as the produce of different

burglaries. The necessary legal proofs were not present in court, but

they could be produced on the following morning.

Mr. Justice Hawkins said he did not think it was necessary to postpone

passing judgment, as he thought the court was already in possession of

sufficient information to leave no doubt as to what course should be

taken.

Mr. Read, the deputy clerk of arraigns, then put the usual formal

question to the prisoner whether he had anything to say why judgment

should not be pronounced upon him.

The prisoner, in reply, said: Yes; I have this to say, my lord, I have

not been fairly dealt with: and I declare before God that I never had

the intention to kill the prosecutor, and all I meant to do was to

frighten him, in order that I might get away. If I had had the

intention to kill him I could easily have done it, but I never had

that intention. I declare I did not fire five shots――I only fired

four, and I think I can show you, my lord, now. I can prove that only

four shots were fired. If your lordship will look at the pistol, you

will see that it goes off very easily, and the sixth barrel went off

of its own accord after I was taken into custody. At the time the

fifth shot was fired the constable had hold of my arm, and the pistol

went off quite by accident. The prisoner then exclaimed with great

earnestness, “I really did not know that the pistol was loaded, and I

hope, my lord, that you will have mercy on me. I feel that I have

disgraced myself. I am not fit either to live or die. I am not

prepared to meet my God, but still I feel that my career has been made

to appear much worse than it really is. Oh, my lord, do have mercy on

me; do give me one chance of repenting and of preparing myself to meet

my God. Do, my lord, have mercy on me; and I assure you that you shall

never repent it. As you hope for mercy yourself at the hands of the

great God, do have mercy on me, and give me a chance of redeeming my

character and preparing myself to meet my God. I pray and beseech you

to have mercy on me.”

The prisoner delivered this speech in a calm and earnest tone of

voice, and at the conclusion he appeared to be quite overcome by his

feelings.

Mr. Justice Hawkins then, addressing the prisoner, said: John Ward,

the jury have found you “Guilty,” upon the most irresistible evidence,

of having fired this pistol five times at the constable with intent to

murder him, and I must say that I entirely concur in that verdict, and

I do not believe that any other would, upon consideration, have been

satisfactory to themselves. You were detected in the act of committing

a burglary in the house of a gentleman, and, putting altogether aside

what may have been your conduct on other occasions, the circumstances

of this particular case are quite sufficient to prove to my mind that

you are an accomplished burglar, and that you went to this house

determined to rob by fair means if you could, but armed in such a

manner that you were also determined to resort to foul means if

necessary to escape detection. You have asserted that you only fired

the pistol at the constable in order to frighten him, that thus you

might be enabled to make your escape. I do not believe you. The shot

was fired at his head, and but that he was guarding his head at the

time with his arm he would have received the shot upon it, and if that

had been the case death would probably have been the result, and you

would at this moment probably be receiving a sentence of death. I do

not consider it at all necessary to make any inquiry into your

antecedents; the facts before me are quite sufficient to show that you

are an accomplished burglar, and a man who would not hesitate to

commit murder in carrying out that object. Notwithstanding your age,

therefore, I feel that I should fail in my duty to the public if I did

not pass upon you the extreme sentence of the law for the offence of

which you have been convicted, which is that you be kept in penal

servitude for the rest of your natural life.

The prisoner appeared to be panic-stricken at the sentence. He uttered

a series of moans, and fell into the arms of the warders in

attendance, in a state of perfect prostration.

Whether his emotion was real or not it is not easy to say, but

certainly on this occasion Peace completely broke down.

He had not for a moment contemplated having so severe a sentence

passed on him, and he afterwards said it was a shame, and a most cruel

merciless punishment.

At this moment all his bravado forsook him, and his despair and

anguish were pitiful to behold.

Radically bad as the man was there were a few persons among the

spectators who pitied him and thought him hardly dealt by.

This is invariably the case. No matter how great the criminal, or how

many heinous offences he may have been guilty of, misplaced sympathy

is sure to follow his sentence.

Lady Marvlynn and Sir J. Battershall were greatly moved when the

sentence was passed upon the prisoner.

Her ladyship, from her own personal experience, knew the brutal nature

of the man. Nevertheless, she was much affected at the issue of the

proceedings.

“Miserable wretch!” she ejaculated. “I should have thought six, or ten

years at the most, would have sufficed in a case of this sort, but of

course Mr. Justice Hawkins is, I suppose, the best judge.”

“I don’t think it would be possible to find a better,” returned her

companion. “I confess I cannot myself see any palliation, any

reasonable excuse, for the crime of which he has been found guilty

upon the clearest evidence.”

“No, I suppose there is none,” returned Lady Marvlynn; “but still

penal servitude for life! Why it is almost worse than death.”

“If Robinson had succumbed to his injuries there would have been but

one course left――his murderer would have to suffer the extreme penalty

of the law. You do not duly consider the matter, my lady.”

“I hope I do. But the Lady Aveline, this will be sad news for her.”

“Sad!” exclaimed the baronet. “I do not see how that can be.”

“Ah, I know she will be sorry to hear of his untimely fate.”

“Really, Lady Marvlynn, you surprise me. I have yet to learn that my

wife has any sympathy for ruffians of this type.”

“I don’t say she has sympathy, but she possesses the inestimable

quality of mercy――which blesses him that gives, and him that

takes――and she has a feeling heart. That you know.”

“Oh, most certainly. No man knows it better. Still I cannot for the

life of me understand why you and Aveline are so wrapped up in this

man.”

“You will not be surprised when you know all.”

The baronet made no further remark, but seemed lost in a reverie.

Peace, who was completely overcome, had to be carried out of court.

Mr. Justice Hawkins then directed the prosecutor, Robinson, to stand

forward, and, addressing him, said: The jury have expressed their

admiration at the bravery you have displayed in this matter, and have

also expressed a wish that you should receive some reward. In the

first place, I hand to you the paper on which the jury have expressed

their opinion of your conduct, in order that you may keep it and refer

to it in after life, and that it may be an incentive to future good

conduct. I quite concur in the opinion of the jury with regard to the

manner in which you have acted on this occasion, and I think the

country ought to be proud of you and of the force to which you belong,

and I have great pleasure in ordering you a reward of £25 for your

gallant conduct.

The prosecutor thanked his lordship, and the proceedings then

terminated.

When Peace returned to Newgate after his sentence he immediately came

under another class, and his real imprisonment began.

He moaned and groaned as if in deep pain, and there is but little

doubt as to his sufferings at this time.

He was conducted downstairs to the same floor as the baths; he made no

observation, but was evidently in a state of prostration, but he did

manage with assistance to reach that part of the City prison where

another painful ceremony had to be gone through.

The garments he had on he was no longer permitted to wear.

They had to be exchanged for those of a convict. Never again was he

destined to wear the clothes of a free man.

He had been previously told that whatever clothes he wore would be

forfeited.

They were not of much value, it is true, for, at the time of his

capture, he was encased in his shabby long-tailed coat, as represented

in the illustration on the front page of the preceding number.

This valuable garment, together with his low-crowned hat and other

articles that completed his suit, were forfeited to the Crown――doubtlessly

have been preserved as relics of the most daring burglar of modern

times.

He heaved a profound sigh, which seemed to come from the bottom of his

heart, when he was arrayed in the convict garb, with which, however,

he was but too familiar.

After he had shuffled into his new attire, he was told to select from

a bundle of dirty, greasy-looking things what was supposed to be a

woollen cap of the Scotch-bound type; he chose one which appeared to

fit him the best, and then the painful ceremony was over.

“I’ve been cruelly used,” he ejaculated. “The sentence was a most

unjust one. I never intended to hurt the bobby. I’ll take my solemn

oath that nothing was further from my thoughts. But my friends will

not see me thus wronged without making an effort on my behalf. They

will send a petition to the Home Office.”

“Well that can be done, of course,” observed one of the warders, who

felt some commiseration for the wretched man.

“It must be done.”

“Time enough for that.”

“Penal servitude for life. It’s scandalous.”

The warders were not disposed to continue the conversation; so they

marched their prisoner off to his cell.

Peace found he had to mount higher in the world, to the top landing,

and he was located on the north side of the wall, he hitherto having

been on the south.

The first thing that struck him on entering his new abode was the

smell of tar――good, wholesome, honest tar. He had been described in

the indictment as a sailor. Why or wherefore was not clearly made

manifest.

It is true that he had been on board ship once or twice during his

chequered career, but he could not lay claim to being much of a

sailor, but he soon found out that his long days of comparative

idleness had come to an end.

The smell of the tar gave him a gentle hint of the agreeable process

of oakum-picking, this being one of the occupations prison authorities

had invented for the amusement of the prisoners under their charge.

The cell was an exact counterpart of the one he had left, except that

the dust from the oakum had taken off a good deal of the brilliant

cleanliness of the floor and walls.

He was most miserable, and found it impossible to regard his new

sphere of occupation with complacency. He had passed through a

terrible ordeal, had hoped against hope, but now the terrible reality

came upon him with redoubled force.

His worst fears became an actual reality: he was a convict, and would

remain so to the end of his life. He slept but little during the

night――when he thought of his sentence he shuddered. He tossed

restlessly in his hammock, groaned and gnashed his teeth.

“A life!” he ejaculated. “It’s too bad――a burning shame.”

Then he thought of getting his friends to send in a memorial to the

Home Office, praying for a commutation of the severe sentence passed

upon him.

He clung to this hope even as a drowning man is said to cling to a

straw.

The next morning, while he was cleaning his cell, three pieces of junk

or old rope that had been part of the standing rigging of some old

ship were flung into his cell, with an intimation that he would have a

“fiddle” presently.

“Umph!” he ejaculated, “here’s some of their cursed stuff. I know what

that means――aching fingers and endless toil.”

He was perfectly correct in this conjecture.

After some little time a warder he had never seen before, except at a

distance, entered his narrow prison-house, and told him that he would

have to pick four pounds of oakum every day while he was in Newgate,

or else his allowance of food would run short.

“Oh, I dare say,” replied Peace. “Then I shall have to go on short

commons, ’cause you see I shan’t be able to do the quantity you

require.”

“That’s no business of mine,” returned the warder; “I don’t make the

rules. All I have to do is to see that they are carried out.”

“Much obliged to you for your information,” exclaimed the prisoner;

“I’ve been cruelly used.”

“I’ve nothing to do with that,” said the warder, slamming the door of

the cell.

“A set of merciless wretches,” ejaculated Peace. “I know the ways of

them but too well.”

He sat down on his stool, and buried his face in his hands.

After he had devoured his breakfast the taskmaster-warder paid him a

visit, bringing with him the “fiddle,” on which he was to play a tune

called “Four pounds of oakum a day.”

It consisted of nothing but a rope and a long crooked nail. He showed

Peace how to break up the block of junk, and to divide the strands of

the rope.

There was, however, but little necessity for the warder to enter into

a description of the work, since the prisoner he was instructing knew

the odious business pretty well from his previous experience in the

ways of prison life.

However, he affected to be a novice, and listened to all the warder

had to say, apparently paying the greatest attention to his

instructions.

The four pounds did not look so much after all, but when pulled to

pieces and divided into strands, it seemed to grow wonderfully in

size, and Peace knew the amount of labour required to pick it.

He made a wry face and groaned, but did not complain.

When the strands were all divided his instructor showed him how to

pull them to pieces.

Peace set to work, being perfectly well assured that the task must be

got through. He soon found out――as others had done before him――that

oakum-picking made his fingers and thumbs sore and painful;

nevertheless he persevered――the task seemed to be an interminable one.

When he saw how little progress he had made in the first hour his

heart seemed to sink, and he remembered the many miserable and lonely

hours he had passed in convict prisons.

He was on the side of the gaol nearest to Newgate-street. His cell was

on the top floor and the window was open, so that he now heard much

plainer the noise of the street traffic, which spoke to him of the

outside world.

There was something consolatory in even hearing the sounds of the

passing vehicles as they rumbled along in one of the great

thoroughfares of the busy city.

At chapel next morning he with others, who had been tried at the same

sessions, were marched into a cage under the women’s gallery, and

locked in. Once a day only were they exercised out of doors, and this

took place in a much smaller yard than he had walked in before his

conviction.

This was a matter of no very great importance; one yard was as good as

another to him.

He bore up as best he could, hoping that sooner or later he might

succeed in getting a commutation of his sentence. This hope, however,

was never destined to be realised.

Every morning the quantum of “junk” was served out, and in the evening

the taskmaster came round with weights and scales to take each man’s

oakum.

There was no cheating in respect to the requisite quantity of oakum on

these occasions.

The prisoner who had picked his full allowance was permitted to have

the remainder of his time to himself for the rest of the day; but it

was sharp work for the best of them to get through the four pounds of

oakum.

Many now found it impossible to get through that quantity. Some could

not do as much as two pounds, although they worked from morning till

nine o’clock at night.

The old “lags,” who were well used to the work, were, in most cases,

able to do their quantum.

About three or four days after his sentence, a warder entered Peace’s

cell with another prisoner, to crop and shave him.

Peace knew this ceremony had to be gone through, and was, therefore,

in no way surprised at the appearance of his new visitors.

He begged to be allowed to shave himself, but this request was

refused; so he sat himself down, and submitted himself to the

operator, who was a regular bungler.

He, however, managed to effect a clean scrape, after which Peace’s

hair was clipped to about half an inch long. He had not much hair on

his head at this time, but what there was had to be reduced to the

regular length.

The person who performed the operation was very loquacious; most

members of the hair-dressing fraternity usually are so, and Peace’s

barber was confidential and communicative. He affected to commiserate

with our hero, and deprecated in the strongest terms the severity of

the sentence passed upon him.

He also told Peace that he (the barber) had done a “lagging” before,

and that he was doing a six years’ “stretch” at the present time.

This playful conversation was not interrupted by the warder in

attendance, who looked on as the operation was performed, and

occasionally indulged in a smile as some pertinent remark fell from

the lips of the perruquier.

After the shaving and cropping the barber wished Peace good-bye, bade

him keep his spirits up, and hope for the best.

What that best was he did not say, but he tripped merrily out of the

cell, with a nod to its occupant, and once more our hero found himself

alone.

CHAPTER CXLIX.

THE TROUBLES OF MRS. PEACE.

After Peace’s arrest, trial, and conviction, the house in the

Evalina-road was no longer a home for his miserable partner.

Mrs. Peace and the woman Thompson could not agree, and this, in

addition to other circumstances, caused Mrs. Peace to make a

precipitate retreat from the neighbourhood of Peckham, and Mrs.

Thompson was left to pursue her own erratic course.

There was no help for this. It was not at all likely that the two

women would agree in the absence of their master.

Mrs. Peace left Peckham, and at once proceeded to Hull, and from

thence to Sheffield. But the police were actively engaged in ferreting

out every scrap of information which might lead to the detection of

other crimes committed by our hero.

As a natural consequence his miserable partner was suspected, and

after some searching inquiries she was arrested and taken before the

sitting magistrates at Sheffield, as will be seen from the following

report:――

At the Sheffield Town Hall, yesterday, before the Mayor (Ald. Mappin)

and W. E. Laycock, Esq., Hannah Peace, a respectably-dressed woman, 58

years of age, of No. 4, Hazel-road, Darnall, the wife of Charles

Peace, picture-frame dealer, who murdered Mr. Arthur Dyson, engineer,

at Banner Cross-terrace, on the 29th November, 1876, was brought up

under circumstances which are at present exciting unusual interest.

The charge against her was that of being an accomplice in the recent

Blackheath burglaries, on the ground that certain articles of property

found at the house where she is living had been identified as part of

the booty obtained at Blackheath.