Printed at H.M. Convict Prison, Millbank.
A slamming of doors and turning of keys, and a perfect Babel of voices shouting “Attention!” heralded the Governor’s approach. I can only compare the discord to that which invariably accompanies the progress of an African tribe through a friendly village. A few pop-guns and a tom-tom or two would certainly make the resemblance more complete, though they would probably be objected to by the Home Office on the plea of want of precedent.
The halo of veneration that surrounds a prison governor is by no means confined to himself, but obliquely and in a modified form imparts itself to the humblest of his followers. A miserable door-slammer that usually accompanied him, and combined with this important duty the occasional distribution of letters, amused me on one occasion when I ventured to ask him if he had a letter for me. Such a liberty “from the likes of me to the likes of him” was hardly to be tolerated; and he had the cheek to send me a message that “he objected to be spoken to when accompanying the Governor.”
The door at length opened, and the great man was in the room. “Attention!” was shrieked out as only sycophants can do, and duly responded to; and the halt and the maim, “Old Hundred,” myself, burglars, and pickpockets, presented one uninterrupted, swerving, rickety line. As a spectacle, it must have been truly imposing, during which the Governor sat down. Our names were then respectively called out, and we crossed from one bench to another to show, as it were, our action. Not a muscle of the inspecting officer’s face moved during these scenes in the arena; and it might have been the Sphinx inspecting the army of Pharaoh, so little attention did he apparently pay to us. Nothing, however, had escaped him; and I learnt to believe there was some truth in the assertion that he had eyes in his boots, if not in his pockets also.
As may be supposed, these various inspections took a considerable time, and the day was drawing in before they were all ended. We were thereupon informed that we should occupy temporary cells for “this night only,” and that our final allotment to various parts of the prison would be postponed till the morrow. The cell I now found myself in was indeed a small one—evidently only used as a half-way house, and fitted as sparingly as the thermometer one at Newgate. A notice posted up warned us not to go to bed till the bell rang at eight; and not wishing to break a rule before I had been in the place a day, I foolishly complied with the order.
Meanwhile it was getting dark, and though a gaspipe was fitted into the wall, there was not the slightest indication of its being likely to be lit. Mike, who had frequently been here before, intimated his intention of turning in, and, “order be blowed!” strongly advised us to do the same. I only regret I was weak enough not to. The gloom gradually increased till we were left in outer darkness. To find the bed-clothing would now have been a difficulty; to make any resemblance to a bed an absolute impossibility. Still, on the strength of the notice, I waited through many dark and cold hours, until a brute with a human voice shouted out from somewhere, “You chaps will get no light to-night, so you can turn in when you please.” I was informed afterwards this was a favourite and utterly unauthorized assumption of authority on the part of this bully, and I trust it has only to be noticed to preclude the possibility of its continuance. It was a barbarous and cowardly act, and strictly opposed to the usual system of the prison. How I got through that cold night I cannot tell, for bed, bedding and light were all strangers to me; but night, more merciful than man, threw its mantle over me, and I slept as sound as only the weary can.
CHAPTER XV.
“OAKUM” LET US
SING.
Next morning after breakfast we were drafted to our various localities, and, incredible as it may appear, and to show how efficient is the isolation system, men with whom I parted company that morning I never saw again, though I knew they were in the same building. Our various destinations were indicated in a somewhat primitive style—a huge chalk-mark on our backs. As I threaded my way through various wards with a C scrawled on my back, a smell of tar indicated our approach to what might under altered circumstances have been presumed to be a ship-chandler’s; it was, however, only the oakum district. We were here received by the warder in command, and I was assigned to the fifth storey. I was further presented with my official number—594, on a brass plate.
I now discovered the benefit of “light labour and bed.” This particular ward, together with the two in its immediate vicinity, is principally devoted to fresh arrivals; bed is the exception and oakum is the rule. It is absolutely impossible for any accident to exempt you from commencing your career for one month in these wards; it rests, however, with yourself whether you pick oakum or find a substitute. I decided on the latter course. The system of prison life is such a contemptible one, and the espionage, jealousy, currying favour, and tale-bearing so general between the officials from the highest to the lowest, that this portion of my task is a very delicate one. Whatever I write will be carefully sifted; and if I give the slightest clue capable of being followed up, I should probably injure some warder, assistant warder, or prisoner who did me incalculable services at great personal risk; and as this is the last thing I have the smallest intention of doing, I wish to state, once for all, that all names and dates I give are intentionally altered, and that any official who ever befriended me has nothing to fear from my revelations.
As I ascended the spiral staircase a shout of “Coming up!” intimated to the attics that a fresh victim was approaching, and I was formally received and conducted to my cell. The first impression of my permanent address was not encouraging. On a shelf was a Bible and prayer-book, a tin plate, a tin mug, and a tin knife, a wooden spoon, a box of salt, and a piece of soap, producing a combination such as may be seen in any of the illustrated papers during a small war, and supposed to illustrate, as circumstances require, the utensils in daily use amongst Zulus, Ashantis or whatever savages we may happen to be slaughtering at the time. In another corner was a diminutive basin the size of a saucepan, a slop-pail, and a can of water. On a shelf was a rug and two blankets; bed or bedstead was conspicuous by its absence; and on the table was a lump of rope. My turnkey, having examined my card, ordered in a bed and bedstead, and explained that the rope was to be converted into oakum. A few words and we understood one another; in short, he was a man after my own heart. I have no scruple in mentioning this, for I regret to say the man was dismissed shortly after—through no fault of mine, though indirectly connected with me. I can never forgive myself when I reflect that I had any share in the transaction, though it is a consolation to know that, had he been as careful as he ought, nothing could have brought the offence home to him. In the first instance, he was the victim of as foul a piece of treachery as ever disgraced humanity, and then he lost his head, and compromised himself when absolute silence would have cleared him. I shall narrate the particulars later on. In addition to the above-named furniture, the walls were decorated with a number of printed notices describing your duties, diet, &c., and a prayer (!); a wooden—so much a dozen—effort, supposed to be specially adapted to the requirements of “awakening burglars.” I learnt all these by heart by way of amusement, and will give them for the benefit of the reader. I take especial pleasure in reproducing them, as I believe they’ve never seen daylight before.
SYSTEM OF PROGRESSIVE STAGES FOR MALE
PRISONERS SENTENCED TO HARD LABOUR.
1. A prisoner shall be able to earn on each weekday 8, 7, or 6 marks, according to the degree of his industry; and on Sunday he shall be awarded marks according to the degree of his industry during the previous week.
2. There shall be four stages, and every prisoner shall pass through them or through so much of them as the term of his imprisonment admits.
3. He shall commence in the first stage, and shall remain in the first stage until he has earned 28 × 8, or 224 marks; in the second stage until he has earned 224 more marks, or 448 in the whole; in the third stage until he has earned 224 more marks, or 672 in the whole; in the fourth stage during the remainder of his sentence.
4. A prisoner whose term of imprisonment is twenty-eight days or less shall serve the whole of his term in the first stage.
5. A prisoner who is idle, or who misconducts himself, or is inattentive to instruction, shall be liable
(1) To forfeit gratuity earned or to be earned, or
(2) To forfeit any other stage privileges.
(3) To detention in the stage in which he is until he shall have earned in that stage an additional number of marks.
(4) To degradation to any lower stage (whether such stage is next below the one in which he is or otherwise) until he has earned in such lower stage a stated number of marks.
As soon as the prisoner has earned the stated number, then, unless he has in the meantime incurred further punishment, he shall be restored to the stage from which he was degraded, and be credited with the number of marks he had previously earned therein.
6. None of the foregoing punishments shall exempt a prisoner from any other punishment to which he would be liable for conduct constituting a breach of prison regulations.
7. A prisoner in the first stage will
(a) Be employed ten hours daily in strict separation on first class hard labour, of which six to eight hours will be on crank, tread-wheel, or work of a similar nature.
(b) Sleep on a plank-bed without a mattress.
(c) Earn no gratuity.
8. A prisoner in the second stage will
(a) Be employed as in the first stage until he has completed one month of imprisonment, and afterwards on hard labour of the second class.
(b) Sleep on a plank-bed without a mattress two nights weekly and have a mattress on the other nights.
(c) Receive school instruction.
(d) Have school books in his cell.
(e) Have exercise on Sunday.
(f) Be able to earn a gratuity not exceeding 1s.
(g) The gratuity to a prisoner in this stage, whose sentence is not long enough for him to earn 224 marks in it, may be calculated at 1d. for every 20 marks earned.
9. A prisoner in the third stage will—
(a) Be employed on second class hard labour.
(b) Sleep on a plank-bed without a mattress one night weekly, and have a mattress on other nights.
(c) Receive school instruction.
(d) Have school books in his cell.
(e) Have library books in his cell.
(f) Have exercise on Sunday.
(g) Be able to earn a gratuity not exceeding 1s. 6d.
(h) The gratuity to a prisoner in this stage, whose sentence is not long enough for him to earn 224 marks in it, may be calculated at 1d. for every 12 marks earned.
10. A prisoner in the fourth stage will—
(a) Be eligible for employment of trust in the service of the prison.
(b) Sleep on a Mattress every night.
(c) Receive school instruction.
(d) Have school books in his cell.
(e) Have library books in his cell.
(f) Have exercise on Sunday.
(g) Be allowed to receive and write a letter and receive a visit of twenty minutes; and in every three months afterwards to receive and write a letter, and receive a visit of half-an-hour.
(h) Be able to earn a gratuity not exceeding 2s.
(i) The gratuity to a prisoner in this stage, whose sentence is not long enough for him to earn 224 marks in it, may be calculated at 1d. for every 10 marks earned.
(j) The gratuity to a prisoner in this stage, whose sentence is long enough to enable him to earn more than 896 marks, may be calculated at the same rate, provided that it shall not in any case exceed 10s.
Printed at H.M. Convict Prison, Millbank.
The composition of this abstract, alternating as it does between threats of punishment and hopes of “employments of trust,” clearly stamps it as intended to appeal to the feelings and adapt itself to the capacities of the lowest classes. That any man of education could be roused to any degree of ambition by such “trust” as would be likely to be placed in him, is to suppose an impossible absurdity. The “system” throttles any such contingency, and leads—as all short-sighted policies do—to men believing in no such thing as good faith, and having no inward restraining motive for abstaining from deception. Why will not the Chief Commissioner of Prisons see that the brute power at their disposal is wholly inadequate to prevent a man with a modicum of brains and a few sovereigns from doing as he pleases? Let them try the “confidence trick” in a modified form with the better class of prisoners, and if it is found to fail, revert to the hard and fast rule. A discretionary power in the hands of such a man as the Governor of Coldbath Fields would thoroughly test the experiment.
What trash “employment of trust” sounds to a man who knows that from first to last—however exemplary his behaviour—he is suspected, and never supposed to be lost sight of!
Personally, I felt I’d as lief be in the punishment cells as in any “employment of trust”; they are both birds of the same feather, recognizing no code but brute force, distrust, and degrees of punishment. I can only compare the prison system to a huge machine, capable of crushing a man body and soul, or handling him so lightly that nothing but the “idea” and its moral obligations remain to remind him of its hideous proximity. If any further proof is required of the truth of my deductions, my personal experience will amply provide it.
SHORT PRAYERS FOR MORNING AND EVENING.
Morning.
O God and Holy Father, Thou hast in mercy watched over me through the night; in Thy tender love keep me this day from evil. I have greatly sinned against Thee. Do Thou turn me from all my evil ways; wash me in the blood of Jesus, and let Thy Spirit lead me that I may hate sin and love what is right. Let Thy grace preserve me amidst all trials, that I may be made truly a servant of Jesus Christ and ever love and serve my God and Saviour. Amen.
Evening.
O God, Thou hast safely brought me to the close of another day. May Thy goodness lead me to repentance that I may give Thee my heart. Forgive all my evil thoughts, and words, and deeds. What good thoughts I have had from Thee do Thou strengthen, that I may love Thee more and serve Thee better. Keep me, O God, and all whom I love, from danger or sin this night, and so preserve us by Thy grace that at last we may sleep in Jesus and be for ever with the Lord. Amen.
This hypocritical effusion hangs over one’s table, and is supposed to be admirably adapted for “awakening” burglars, and turning pickpockets from the error of their ways. As a literary composition it is beneath criticism, and would disgrace a “National School” boy in a proclaimed district. I don’t know who is the inspired author, nor how they are sold by the dozen.
NOTICE.
“Prisoners who desire assistance from the agent of the Discharged Prisoners’ Relief Committee, in finding employment on discharge, should apply to the Governor fourteen days before they go out, when their cases will be investigated. Wilfully false statements as to antecedents, &c., will disqualify a prisoner from assistance, as will also misconduct in prison.”
There is no institution I heard so much abused as the above, and although I cannot speak from personal knowledge, I should say that a thorough enquiry into its working (not its profession) might possibly be attended with benefit. Beyond seeing a fly-blown old man waddling about the prison, who, I was informed, was the agent, I know nothing, and care less, about this doubtless admirable institution.
DIETARY FOR CONVICTED PRISONERS.
On Mondays beans and fat bacon may be substituted for beef. At the expiration of nine months one pint of cocoa, with two ounces extra bread, may be given at breakfast three days in the week, in lieu of one pint of porridge, or gruel, if preferred.
The following will be the terms to which the above diets will be applied:—
Prisoners sentenced to seven days and under, No. 1 diet for the whole time.
Prisoners sentenced to more than seven days, and not more than one month, No. 1 diet for seven days, and No. 2 diet for remainder of term.
Prisoners sentenced to more than one month, and not more than four months, No. 2 diet for one month, and No. 3 diet for remainder of term.
Prisoners sentenced to more than four months, No. 3 diet for four months, and No. 4 diet for remainder of term.
TABLE OF SUBSTITUTES
For cooked English beef or potatoes, which may be issued, if deemed necessary, by the authorities.
In lieu of four ounces cooked English beef:
Five ounces Colonial beef or mutton, preserved by heat (served cold); nine ounces beans, one ounce fat bacon, four ounces American or other foreign beef, preserved by cold (weighed after cooking), eight ounces cooked fresh fish; six ounces cooked salt meat; twelve ounces cooked salt fish.
In lieu of three ounces cooked English beef:
Three-and-three-quarter ounces Colonial beef or mutton, preserved by heat (served cold); seven ounces beans, three-quarters of an ounce fat bacon; three ounces American or other foreign beef, preserved by cold (weighed after cooking); six ounces cooked fresh fish; four-and-a-half ounces cooked salt meat; nine ounces cooked salt fish.
In lieu of twelve ounces potatoes:
Eight ounces cabbage or turnip-tops; twelve ounces parsnips, turnips, or carrots; twelve ounces preserved (dried) potatoes; eight ounces leeks; twelve ounces rice (steamed till tender).
In lieu of ten ounces potatoes:
Seven ounces cabbage or turnip-tops; ten ounces parsnips, turnips, or carrots; ten ounces preserved (dried) potatoes; seven ounces leeks; ten ounces rice (steamed till tender).
In lieu of eight ounces potatoes:
Six ounces cabbage or turnip-tops; eight ounces parsnips, turnips, or carrots; eight ounces preserved (dried) potatoes; six ounces leeks; eight ounces rice (steamed till tender).
In lieu of six ounces potatoes:
Four ounces cabbage or turnip-tops; six ounces parsnips, turnips, or carrots; six ounces preserved (dried) potatoes; four ounces leeks; six ounces rice (steamed till tender).
All the meats to be weighed without bone.
All vegetables to be weighed after cooking.
Printed at H.M. Convict Prison, Millbank.
A careful perusal of Dietary 4 will convince the reader that it is sufficiently generous to obviate any loss of weight, and yet, as a rule, prisoners fall away on it, (There are some extraordinary exceptions to this rule, and one man, a gentleman by birth, and an ex-officer in the army, increased two stone in a few months; the absolute half-starved vagrant also, of course, fattens on it.) I can only attribute it to the voracious way they bolt their food. It is stated of that eminent projector, the late Mr. Rumford, that he once submitted to the then Elector of Saxony a scheme whereby he might reduce the expense of maintaining his army, without impairing its efficiency, by a very simple method, namely, to reduce the amount, but compel his soldiers to masticate their food. I cannot say if the suggestion was acted on, but I am thoroughly convinced that if prisoners received less, and were compelled to eat slower, a considerable saving to the state and an improvement in the appearance of the men would be effected. Personally I found during the very few weeks I subsisted on this diet that it was more than I could possibly eat, and withal good. The gruel, I confess, is an acquired taste, and I was almost immediately permitted to substitute cocoa. The porridge was also a sad disappointment. I innocently hoped to have found the delicious composition associated with the land of cakes and immortal Burns, and could have burst into tears in recognising it as intensified gruel. Its nourishing powers, however, are not to be gainsaid; and to see malefactors shovelling it away, as I have, one would suppose they enjoyed it. The recitation of the substitutes for cooked beef I am compelled to characterise an official quibble. During the few months I spent at Coldbath I never heard—as I certainly should—of any beef being issued at all, the invariable substitute being Colonial meat served cold, except on one occasion, when salt fish was supplied. On the merits of this last item I cannot speak personally, for long before that I was on a daily diet of mutton and mutton broth, as I describe hereafter. For the preserved Colonial meat, however, I have nothing but praise. “Served,” as it was, under every disadvantage, I found it excellent; and as it can be purchased for seven-pence a pound, the marvel is that the poorer classes, who seldom or never taste butcher’s meat, do not patronise it more largely. I can only suppose its merits are unknown.
The bedstead, or “plank-bed,” as it is termed, is the hardest couch I ever felt; with a mattress on it I could feel every grain in the wood, and shuddered to think of my companions, all of whom had to submit for a month to the board “pure and simple.” It is only raised three inches from the floor, and is two feet in breadth—a tight fit for twenty stone. I had now fairly settled down in my final destination for a month, and will describe the routine of the day:—
6 A.M. |
—Rise. |
6.30 „ |
—Breakfast. |
7 „ |
—Take down the day’s work, and receive a fresh supply. |
8 to 9 „ |
—Exercise. |
9 „ |
—Chapel (three times a week). |
12 noon |
—Dinner. |
5 P.M. |
—Supper. |
8 „ |
—Bed. |
8.30 „ |
—Lights out. |
A slight difference existed between the regulation here and at Newgate on the subject of “lights out.” At Coldbath it was a serious offence to retire before 8 P.M. At Newgate it was, however, optional, though hampered with an absurd condition. One evening, at this latter awful place, I had determined on a comfortable read; with this object I undressed about 7 P.M., and, pulling my bed under the lamp, abandoned myself to the perusal of Chambers’ Magazine, for 1878. Barely, however, had I commenced, when “in a moment all was dark.” I ascertained next morning that it was a rule to put out the gas as soon as a man got into bed; whether from economical motives or as an extra mode of annoyance, I never troubled to ask.
The brown bread, which was often warm from the oven, was as good as any I have ever tasted, and the quantity enough to satisfy anyone; and yet the ordinary prisoner would devour his and gratefully accept as much as anyone else would give him. I found that prisoners would do anything for food, and through my entire career I bartered it in exchange for soap, etc. Amongst other recipients of my bounty was a German Jew who lived near me. He spoke very little English, and as I speak German fluently, I often had a word with him. He told me the usual story about being sentenced for nothing; and though I did not believe a word of it, it led to his being put on my free list. A more voracious appetite I never met with, and the way he bolted half a pound of bread and three or four potatoes was truly appalling; indeed, so unsatisfactory was it, that I transferred my patronage after a week; one might as well have tried to fill Nelson’s monument. Giving away food is strictly prohibited—a regulation that necessitates certain precautions, commendable for their suitability rather than their cleanliness. The usual mode is for the donor to stuff bread, potatoes, or a lump of suet down his stocking or inside his shirt, and when time and circumstance permit, to transfer it to the recipient of his bounty, who in his turn first shoves it up his back or into his cap, to be transferred at leisure into the mouth or elsewhere. This manipulation never commended itself to me; and my rule, though not much more refined, had at least the advantage of avoiding any personal contact with the greasy dainties. I placed all my food in my pocket-handkerchief, and transferred it bodily in exchange for the others’. This rule only applied to the clean linen day, when I was enabled without delay to get rid of my brother-reprobate’s mouchoir. On other occasions I received their pocket-handkerchiefs clean, and returned them later on full of good things. I let it be understood that I never took a handkerchief unless it was clean; and so perfect did the system become, that I had only to say en passant, “Your handkerchief to-morrow,” and it was duly handed to me washed and perfectly clean. I only once was offered a treat of this kind. It was a poor black man (I often see him about). I watched him fumbling in his chest and eventually produce a crust; this he secreted for some minutes in his fist, and then said, “Here, master,” and held it out to me. I can see his look of surprise that followed my refusal; but it was kindly meant, and though I declined the emetic, I wouldn’t have hurt his feelings for the world. Soup that I didn’t consume I usually placed outside the door, hoping that my regular “cleaner” would reach it in time. In this, however, I was often disappointed, for my custom having got known, a raid was frequently made on it by others—a practice I determined to try and circumvent.
I was suffering at this time from liver complaint, and had on my shelf a concoction of taraxacum and podophyllin. Of this I poured one day about two doses into my mutton broth; and as it was somewhat discoloured by the process, I added half a cup of soapsuds and a handful of salt. Not long after the two thieves arrived, and I could distinctly hear their long gulps as they swallowed the savoury concoction. My commendable endeavour to break them of pilfering was, however, a complete failure; and the only remark I overheard was, “I say, Bill, it’s damned salt, ain’t it?”
The soap one received had to last a fortnight, and was not sufficient for a thorough wash daily and the periodical bath, and I experienced great inconvenience at first by having to economize; but when it had got mooted about that there “was a swell as was mug enough to swap grub for soap,” my market became literally glutted, and I was enabled to revel in a bath every morning.
Washing one’s cell floor was not an agreeable duty. At first I puffed and blew like a grampus, but it soon became a very simple affair, and I became a perfect adept at the charwoman business. I heard whilst here, from a reliable source, of some man who after leaving the prison was staying at a West-end hotel, and who, seeing a servant shirking her duty whilst scrubbing the doorstep, and unable to resist the force of habit, very kindly gave her the benefit of his experience, and stripping off his coat, proceeded to lay-to assiduously. I should not hesitate to do the same under certain circumstances. This “doing” one’s own apartment was the only derogatory duty I had ever to perform; and as it was a private show, and clearly for one’s own benefit, I never had the slightest objection to it; the more so as the taking of my morning bath (the saucepan on the floor) had half completed the process.
Oakum-picking cannot be called an intellectual employment. I should say, too, it was decidedly monotonous, though I can hardly speak from personal experience. I tried the experiment of unravelling the rope, but it was so intensely provoking that I turned my thoughts to evading the necessity. My turnkey and I were friends within twenty-four hours, and I consulted him about getting a substitute. As turnkey and prisoner had both left before I had, I may say, without injuring anyone, that for a weekly consideration my task was picked daily. Of a morning a bundle was mysteriously thrown into my cell, and a few moments later I proudly descended with “my work,” and dropped the unused rope on the stair. The usual task that prisoners have to pick is three pounds a day, but being a light-labour man I was only assigned one pound. I invariably returned a portion of this modified amount unpicked, thereby lulling the suspicions of a dense but offensively-inclined taskmaster. Oakum is one of the most tell-tale commodities I ever came across. If merely unravelled, it remains black and juicy; but the more it is picked and pulled the paler it gets, till it is capable of assuming the appearance of Turkish tobacco. An experienced eye can at once detect the amount of labour bestowed on it, and some of the huge bundles I saw my confrères carrying down were works of art as regards finish. The man who actually picked my oakum was the “cleaner,” a privileged individual with a roving commission. His duties frequently brought him to my cell, and he told me he was a “racing man.” I discovered, however, as we became better acquainted, that the designation is capable of considerable expansion, and that his peculiar talent was the “three-card trick.” He knew every racecourse in England as well as every prison, and never failed of a morning to inquire how I had slept, adding, that he always slept badly the first few nights in a strange prison; and my reply that I was not affected in a “similar way” appeared to cause him considerable surprise. In my unravelling process I one day chanced to come across a bit of cane. It was certainly moist from proximity to the tar, but I carefully dried and subsequently smoked it. I can hardly say the pleasure was unalloyed, for it bore such a resemblance to the fragrant British Havanna that I got alarmed, and put it out. It was the only smoke I had for months.
Exercise at Coldbath was an important institution, and considering it was the only fresh air I at first experienced in the day, I always looked forward to it. An hour is the regulation time, but seldom is the boon of that duration; and if the warder is otherwise engaged, the exercise has to give way, and thus the prisoner is deprived of a healthy occupation to meet the convenience of a selfish turnkey. Overlooking the exercise-yard attached to C ward were a row of houses, and I often wondered what the lookers-on thought of the moving mass of misery that circled round below them. To me, with my limited facilities, there was ample room for reflection; and I often marvelled how such various types of humanity could have been collected, or indeed that they ever existed.
One feeble old man particularly attracted my notice. He was almost unable to walk round from sheer old age, and appeared altogether incapable of having qualified in any way for lodgings at Coldbath. I asked a warder what on earth he had done.
“Well,” he said, “they say he’s a bad ’un. He’s here for violently assaulting the police, and got six months.”
“But,” I added, “he don’t look as if he would last so long; he must be at least a hundred!”
“Very likely,” was the reply. “The fact is, a new rule has come in lately, and pauper prisoners are buried in the prison; so they sent him here in hopes of starting our new cemetery.”
Another peculiarity that struck me forcibly was the apparently universal obstruction that appeared to exist in the criminal throat. It was absolutely epidemic, and the sounds—such as are made by an over-wound moderator lamp—that accompanied their fruitless endeavours to obtain relief were excessively revolting. This and the like are the worst features of coming in contact with these dirty wretches. Many habits usually looked upon as filthy were freely indulged in, and anyone who instinctively abstained from participating was looked upon as an outsider. A foolish habit I had contracted in my youth of applying my pocket-handkerchief to its natural use was, I fancy, specially resented. I could never shake off these feelings, and though with them, was never “one of them.” I always kept them at arms’ length, and invariably received some implied recognition of my superiority. The better class of prisoners for the most part addressed me as “Capting,” or “Sir”; and even the lowest, if they spoke—which I never encouraged—did so with some small degree of reserve. The neighbourhood abounds with street-organs; indeed, it is the head-quarters where the instrumentalists for the most part live, the consequence being that, like the lady of Bambury Cross, we had music wherever we “goed.” About this time a certain popular air was much in vogue, and evidently much admired by the criminal classes. I enquired the name of this vile music-hall ditty, but without effect; and can only describe it by the fact that no sooner did it commence than the whole mob appeared to cheer up, and took up a sort of gin-and-water refrain which they buzzed out—“Ho moy littul tarling, ’ow are yew?” The wretch who composed it deserves a month. It is impossible to describe the monotony of these days without occupation—for my deputy did my task—and without books. The religious tract, as a leaflet was officially styled, had to last a fortnight; and I knew by heart all about “The Sweet Recollections of a Sweep,” and “The Converted Charwoman of Goswell Road.” “What Pickest Thou, you Wretch?” and “How are your Poor Fingers, you Blackguard?” were also works contained in this religious repertoire, and altogether of a more thrilling description. They were generally understood to have been the work of a local divine, as indeed their style suggested. The library books are a very sorry lot, though probably well adapted to the capacities of their readers. The rule, too, that permits their change only once a fortnight is in itself a species of torture unworthy of the system that sanctions them at all. The type for the most part is large, and such as an educated man can read in a day. Why, then, spoil a gracious act by limiting its very innocent scope. Such, too, is the reckless supervision of these literary treasures that I received no less than seven school histories of England during my career. I felt this as almost a reflection on the Dean of W— and my classical education generally.
There was, however, a reserve library for the special benefit of the “serious” minded, and men of education with strict Episcopalian proclivities. This issue, and its attendant patronage, is vested entirely in the hands of the chaplain—a custom it is high time to alter—and considering I had never been confirmed, it is a marvel how I was ever included in its favoured ranks. The blessing was not, however, an entirely unmitigated one; and “Locke’s Essay on the Mind,” “The Theory of Sturm,” and such light reading usually fell to my share. Happily I was independent of it all, although an amusing and undignified squabble some months later deprived me of even this modified clerical patronage.
I must mention one incident connected with my “three card” acquaintance before leaving the oakum district. It was after chapel, and he was in my cell, when, after sundry enquiries as to how I liked the service, etc., he said—
“I calls it bad, very bad taste, the way they goes on, even in chapel, at a chap about his work. Didn’t you hear this morning about the oakum?”
“Oakum,” I said; “I don’t remember any allusion to it.”
“O yes you do,” he replied. “D’you mind my nudging you?” and then I recollected receiving a dig in the ribs, which I failed to understand at the time, as they began to sing, “O Come, let us sing,” etc. The racing man had made a mistake in the spelling, and very properly resented the allusion.
My transfer from this hateful district was, however, nearer than I supposed, and an unexpected occurrence a few days after my arrival brought about this welcome change. My door was one day suddenly opened, and my friend the turnkey appeared in breathless agitation.
“Summat’s up,” he jerked out; “mind you tells em nothink. You’re going to be transferred at once.”
CHAPTER XVI.
THE VISITING JUSTICES.
Something was indeed up; a letter, in fact, that I had clandestinely written had been intercepted. Personally I was indifferent to the result; the worst had been done to me when I found myself in prison. Degrees of punishment had no terrors for me, and I was equally callous as to whether employed in a “situation of trust” or languishing in a punishment cell. To me all appeared tarred with the same brush, and I loathed the privileges and punishments, the indulgences and deprivations, the spiritual comforts, and every other contingency with the same intensity. As regards the turnkey, however, my sympathy was enlisted. Here was a poor man, with a wife and family, liable to dismissal, and even imprisonment, if convicted of carrying letters. At the time I was at a loss to understand how the traffic could possibly have been discovered. I was confident I had not been observed writing, and had seen the letters securely secreted in the warder’s pouch. Unless, then, he had been guilty of some indiscretion, the discovery seemed impossible. Such a contingency as foul play from without never entered my head, and yet, alas, such a thing had actually occurred. A servant in the family of one of my correspondents had lately been detected in a series of systematic thefts from her employers, extending over many months. The discovery naturally involved her immediate dismissal, and by way of gratitude for their refraining from prosecuting her, she purloined my letter, and assuming a position of authority, called at the prison and produced the document. Her motive was clearly revenge, but the truth (as it always does) eventually came out, and the mystery that shrouded the transaction for months has happily been dispelled, and the temporary doubt (almost excusable) that associated the act with very dear friends has given way to a regret that I could ever have doubted their honour. As to the thieving, sneaking wretch, she decamped with her spoils; and though her photograph has been freely distributed in the “three ball” quarter, she has hitherto evaded discovery. For my part I would gladly subscribe a trifle for the present address of Mrs. Smith. With the mystery that surrounded everything that occurred in the place, I tried in vain to ascertain whether anything had really been discovered, but day after day passed, and the affair had apparently blown over. This, however, was an erroneous impression; it was only the lull that precedes the storm, and not a stone was being left unturned to sift the matter. The turnkey, at the time only suspected of complicity in the matter, was carefully watched. When he left of an evening his every footstep was dogged, and a nightly report of his rambles duly made. A letter, too, that he foolishly posted in a neighbouring pillar-box pointed indirectly to his connivance, and subsequent inquiries at the district receiving office made matters possibly clearer. A close relationship exists between such Government institutions as post-offices, prisons, and police-stations, which affords greater facilities to constituted authorities for unearthing mysteries than to ordinary mortals. I was ignorant in those days of this affinity, and an easy prey to such trumpery contingencies; but I eventually reduced the trafficking to a science impossible of detection, and unfailing in its results. Can it be wondered at—surrounded as one is by underpaid officials, who begin at twenty-one shillings and twenty-three shillings a week, with a gradual increase, after years of toil, to a possible twenty-eight shillings, and with a prospect, after twenty years’ service, of receiving a pension of ten shillings a week—can it be wondered at, I ask, that these worthy men are unable to resist a bribe? I should regret to have to prove my words, but if I was in the position again, I think I could undertake to be in daily communication with the outer world, despite bolts and bars and the “special” observation I was always subject to. This is no idle boast, as subsequent events will prove; and the authorities have only themselves to thank for exercising no discretionary power in their treatment of prisoners, when the facts I mention prove conclusively that a great difference does exist and always will between the vagrant and the gentleman, even in prison, in more ways than one. The underpaid turnkey is still more unfairly handicapped, and it resolves itself into his choosing between my £5 and the Government £1. What more natural than that he should elect the former, when the most ordinary precaution will guard against detection. I don’t think the authorities ought to begrudge the so-called gentleman this solitary advantage. No one can deny that six months to a man of education is an infinitely severer trial than eighteen to a costermonger. The one has to battle with the mind, conscience, remorse, shattered prospects, loss of caste, a blighted future, food, clothing, surroundings, all inferior to what he has been accustomed to; to submit, moreover, to be addressed by inferiors in a tone of authority, besides a hundred-and-one other humiliations impossible to remember: the other finds himself amongst friends, loses nothing by his incarceration, is better clothed, fed, and housed than if he were at home, and, in the case of an artizan, reverts to his every-day employment; and yet this is seldom taken into consideration, and justice is ladled out to gentleman and vagrant alike. I cannot assert this as my own experience, for justice was indeed tempered with mercy to me, and I am fully sensible of the consideration I received, both at my trial and hereafter. Under ordinary circumstances one would be accused of ingratitude for breaking rules and deceiving those in authority who had treated one well, but I never took this personal view of it. I was fighting a system that I despised, not individuals that I respected. So I looked on it as a game of “brag,” a kind of “French and English,” a question of bolts and bars versus brains, where the latter had apparently the worst of it, where undue importance was attached to watching and spying, and nothing left to one’s parole. About a week after my transfer (I was now in the needlework ward, and being initiated into the mysteries of darning stockings) I received a summons to appear before the Governor. I knew now that the letter-writing had been discovered, or, as my friend the turnkey had expressed it, “Summat was up.” He told me, in a few words, that it had come to his knowledge that I had been sending out clandestine letters, and requested me to inform him if that was the case, and who had been my channel of communication, adding that he was prepared to take down any statements I might feel disposed to make. The idea of denying it never entered my head—I was perfectly indifferent as to what might happen; I thereupon informed him that I had written, as he alleged, three letters, and that I was quite prepared to bear the consequences. I, however, respectfully declined to give him any information as to my employé. I was then requested to wait outside, and the order was given to send for Mr. B—. “Well,” I thought, “if poor old B— tells them as much as I have he need not fear being identified as my brother conspirator.” A moment later, and I was recalled: a glance at the unhappy B— convinced me that fear had robbed him of his self-possession, and that he had not observed the salutary advice he had given me as to “telling ’em nothink.” His face was the colour of a boiled turkey, and the keys at his side (a sorry burlesque on authority) were rattling from tremour. The Governor then said, “Mr. B— has admitted that he took a letter for you, so I presume you have now no objection to admit it.” In courtesy to the nervous donkey I asked him if that was correct, and on his replying in the affirmative, I at once made a clean breast of it. The poor man was thereupon suspended from duty, and a week later summarily dismissed. I tried to make him every reparation in my power, and shortly after I procured him a billet at thirty shillings a week, but when I sent to his lodgings I found he had left. I heard afterwards he had gone into the country, where I hope by this time he has recovered his position. My case had yet to be dealt with, and as the Governor was not qualified to adjudicate on such a serious offence as this is considered, I was remanded to appear before the Visiting Justices. I heard terrible rumours of these avenging Solons, and of the floggings, solitary confinements, and other barbarities that followed in the wake of their fortnightly visits, and was prepared—but perfectly indifferent—for the worst. My information for the most part was derived from brother malefactors, and consequently likely to be considerably exaggerated. I found, indeed, that this was the case, and when the eventful day—Black Wednesday—arrived, I discovered that the dreaded justices were a full bench of Middlesex magistrates, my old friends who had smashed, pulverized, and otherwise annihilated Barnabas Amos on my representations, and who I hoped and believed were gentlemen capable of weighing the pros and cons of my peculiar case. My expectations were more than verified. The punishment cells, as I had had them described, and of which I hereafter got a bird’s-eye view—from outside—were not inviting abodes. There are twelve of them, fitted with double doors, warranted to preclude all sound from penetrating beyond. They contain no furniture, except a plank and a stool, both fixed to the floor, and the two blankets and rug that constitute the entire bed and bedding are issued every night and removed every morning. Water is supplied three times a day, and the food is stirabout and dry bread, administered on homoeopathic principles. Books there are none—indeed, the subdued light would make them superfluous; the occupants, moreover, have no employment, the distraction of oakum-picking even being fiendishly denied them. Men who had undergone this punishment told me that the effect was indescribable, this combination of gloom, idleness, and profound silence, and their wasted appearance after a fortnight’s incarceration fully confirmed their assertions. The penalty, as I was credibly informed, for sending a letter out was ten days at least in the punishment cells; and a preliminary I underwent of being carefully weighed on the morning of the eventful day raised the betting in my estimation to six to four on the cells. A kind friend expressed great sympathy for me, but feared I must make up my mind to this degrading punishment. But he was wrong; the weighing was superfluous, and I got off with a reprimand.
The Middlesex magistrates having heard the case, which was put before them in the kindest light by the Governor, and taking into consideration the dastardly act, whereby the offence was in a measure discovered, informed me through the chairman that they knew my position and were sorry for it, pointed out the gravity of my offence, and finished with an admonition—a treatment that only gentlemen could have accorded to such as I. This generosity induced me to register a mental vow that I would not abuse their kindness. I felt indeed as if I were on my parole; but the foolish act of an illiterate jailor—instigated, I suspect, by a vindictive snob—a few days after, armed with the authority, but incapable of discriminating between the treatment most likely to be deterrent to a man like myself and that desirable with a costermonger, turned me from my good resolutions. I saw it was a question of the “best man wins,” that confidence was a thing that never entered their heads, and that I had nothing to gain by passive submission. For the first and only time in my career I felt insulted, and determined henceforth to double my precautions, to evade every regulation, and to lose no opportunity of bribing everything and everybody with whom I came in contact. The act that decided me in this course was being formally searched. A few days after my admonition I was unexpectedly visited by two warders, and ordered to change everything I had on for a fresh supply, which they brought in. Meanwhile my cell was turned upside down. The salt was capsized into the plate; my bed minutely examined; the table and stool tapped and shaken; and matches struck and poked down the ventilators; and when they discovered I had neither pencil nor paper, I was left to readjust my apartment. As I said to them at the time, nobody in his senses would have supposed that a man who had so lately escaped a severe punishment would be such a fool as to incur the risk of possessing contraband articles. As a fact, I had got rid of all my combustibles a few days before; and if any of the officials can remember a stoppage in a certain drain about that time, they can make a pretty shrewd guess at what became of them. The above incident may, I hope, attract the notice of someone in authority, and be the means of giving a discretionary power to governors of prisons as regards the treatment of a certain class of prisoners. Sauce for the goose is not always sauce for the gander, and it’s for the authorities to decide whether certain results cannot be attained by tact that can never be assured by brutality.
CHAPTER XVII.
PRISON TRADES.
A great variety of trades are represented in Coldbath Fields—such as tailors, shoemakers, blacksmiths, tinsmiths, worsted-workers, laundrymen, bakers, needlemen, basket-makers, mat-makers, printers, bookbinders, carpenters, plumbers, and glaziers. Of these mat-making and laundry-work are considered the hardest. The men selected for following any of the above vocations are looked upon as privileged individuals, and infinitely better off than the ordinary oakum-picker—a task that everyone has to submit to for one month, although many never get beyond it and its accompanying isolation during the two years of their imprisonment. A good deal of the comfort or otherwise with which these trades are followed depends on the warders in charge. If the warder is a brute, the prisoners become demoralized, crime is rampant, and reports and punishment the natural consequence. If he happens to be reasonable and just in his dealings, contentment reigns, the work is well done, and insubordination is unknown. I saw and heard a great deal in support of this assertion, and during my few months’ retirement managed to poke my nose into a good many queer corners. The laundry bears an unenviable notoriety, both on account of the excessive hard labour and the brutality with which it is enforced. There are about sixty men employed in this department, who have severally to wash one or other of the following quantities daily:—30 shirts, 80 sheets, 200 towels, 500 pocket-handkerchiefs, 18 blankets, 250 pairs of socks. Such quantities would tax the capacity of an expert washerwoman; but when a novice—probably a clerk or respectable tradesman—is put to the task, its magnitude is at first insurmountable. Instead of 30 shirts, the poor wretch finds he cannot manage more than 5, which next day he succeeds in bringing up to 15. Meanwhile his hands become chafed and sore, and he sees the doctor in hopes of getting relief; but the doctor is powerless. A cut finger is not a serious complaint though probably a very painful one; and he has no alternative but to send him back. This in itself is considered as malingering; and the poor devil is brought before the Governor for idleness and feigning sickness, and is sentenced to one day’s bread and water as a first offence. Should this “crime” be repeated, he gets an increased punishment, and is either flogged or sent to the punishment cells. This is no overcoloured description. A prisoner in such a case has neither justice nor any means of proving the injustice. Any report, however garbled, is necessarily believed; and if corroboration is necessary, a dozen turnkeys, from every part of the prison, will come forward, and emphatically endorse their comrade’s charge. The prisoner meanwhile is not allowed to speak, and if he did would not be believed, and, as often happens with the lower classes, is actuated by fear, which only increases his apparent guilt.
It is not the prison authorities that can be held responsible for this burlesque on justice, for more humane, honourable, and just men than the Governor and Surgeon of Coldbath Fields do not exist. It is the vile system that gives no discretionary power to these officials, and considers that a man once overtaken in a fault ought forthwith to be treated like a dog; and, not satisfied with this inhuman conclusion, deputes the carrying out of their system to a set of ignorant, cringing, underpaid warders and turnkeys—in many cases ill-conditioned by nature, and brutal, eye-serving, and untrustworthy by habit.
One victim of this cruel system, that was undergoing fifteen months’ imprisonment, worn out by work, constant reports, punishment, and illness, and who was refused permission to revert to oakum-picking in preference to remaining in the laundry, went back to his solitary cell one Saturday night, and in sheer desperation hanged himself; and Sunday morning found him suspended by his bed-straps from the bell-handle, cold and stone dead. Another lad of 18, who had been reported for talking, and sentenced to bread and water, took it so much to heart that on his cell door being opened about 2 P.M. he rushed past the turnkey, and threw himself over the railings. He was picked up insensible and taken to the hospital, when, incredible as it may appear, he was found to be absolutely uninjured, although he had jumped from a fifth storey and landed on a stone floor. On his dinner tin the unhappy youth had scratched, “Dear father and mother, brothers and sisters I wish you all good-bye and have 3 days cells and 3 days bread and water and pushed about. From A. Burke.” The lad was thereupon brought before the visiting justices, and in consideration of his youth only got seven days in the punishment cells.
It cannot be denied that great malingering and deception are practised by prisoners, which necessitates the greatest vigilance on the part of the officials. Nothing is commoner than for them to pretend attempted suicide; and instances are of frequent occurrence where a man, having calculated the time to a nicety, proceeds to hang himself as his door is being opened. These gentlemen are almost invariably flogged.
On the other hand, it is equally certain that justice is not meted out in the disposal of everyday offences. Discipline demands that the warders must be supported; and even if they are known to be lying or grossly exaggerating, “the system” necessitates their being believed. If, therefore, this humble stratum of humanity is supposed to be entitled to a particle of fair play, it calls for the immediate attention of Sir Edmund Du Cane. I would suggest the advisability of an experienced ex parte official being daily present at these orderly-room farces, who could watch the cases and weigh the evidence. Until this is done a prisoner has about as much prospect of justice as had Arabi before the arrival of Mr. Broadley. In this résumé of justice as administered at Coldbath Fields I must be permitted to disown all reflections on the Governor, for whom I have the profoundest respect. It is the system that I blame, and sympathize with a conscientious man being compelled by regulation to conform to its usages.
About eighty men are employed as tailors; of these the best workmen are employed in the shop, the remainder doing piecework in their respective cells. They make the entire clothing for officers and prisoners for this and many other prisons. The work is exceptionally good—a fact not to be wondered at, considering they count amongst their ranks journeymen and cutters from many of the principal West-end houses. The basket-making is exceptionally good, and to a great extent made to the order of the leading shops; and the specimens of neat work I have seen quite surprised me. Mat-making is a severe type of hard labour. The daily task is one yard, and men who have been employed at it have assured me that it is very hard work. The mat-room is fitted with twelve looms for the make of the best doormats. The Government has a contract with Treloar, a shopkeeper in Ludgate; and as he is supposed to have a large connection, it may be assumed that reputedly honest feet are constantly being brought into contact with the work of dishonest hands.
The bakery is worth a visit, if only to see the mountains of bread in course of preparation. In this place about twenty-four men are constantly employed putting in or taking out loaves from two huge ovens. All the bread, whether white or brown, is made in separate loaves of the average size of a penny roll; and when it is added that some 4000 of these are consumed daily, representing a gross weight of over half a ton, in Coldbath Fields alone (to say nothing of Holloway Gaol and the House of Detention, which are also supplied from here), some idea of the proportions of “our bakery” may be arrived at. The kitchen is, if anything, still more interesting. I have never seen anything to approach the size of the vats and utensils, unless, perhaps, in a pantomime scene representing Gorgeybuster the giant’s cuisine. Everything is here cooked by steam, and excellent the cookery is. The soup, which is supplied three times a week, is exceptionally good. It finds its way from the kitchen in enormous tubs, and on arrival at the various wards is transferred into greasy, half-washed tins; still it does not lose its excellence, and I invariably enjoyed the soup. The usual amount made on soup days is about 200 gallons, and the daily quantity of potatoes consumed about 7 cwt. As may be supposed, certain farces and abuses have crept into this department. Specimens of the cookery are daily laid out for the inspection of the surgeon and Governor. If they should, however, omit this essential form, it is amply compensated for by the voracity of some of the head warders, who frequently sacrifice inclination at the shrine of duty and make a substantial meal during the tasting process. Beef-tea for the use of the patients is also made here—a brew that would be considerably strengthened by being doctored in the hospital kitchen instead of where it is. A pound of beef is the liberal allowance for each pint of beef-tea. The usual custom that prevails, however, is for the beef to be eaten, by those who ought to know better, and for Colonial meat to be substituted for it. I assert this advisedly, and offer it as the possible solution of the knotty problem of why complaints are of such frequent occurrence. Home Office papers, please copy! Despite all the assertions to the contrary, I freely confess I never found fault with the prison fare; and if one could keep one’s thoughts from wandering to “Bignon’s” or the “Café Helder,” one could thoroughly enjoy the liberal fare. I experienced this dietary, pure and simple, for two or three months, so may be fairly considered capable of forming an opinion.
The carpenters’ and smiths’ shops call for no special notice beyond the custom in vogue, whereby all men are carefully searched before returning to their cells. This is, no doubt, an essential ceremony, as turnkeys’ scalping-knives, in the shape of chisels, might occasionally go astray, not forgetting the modest pencil, the most treasured possession of Her Majesty’s prisoners.
The oakum shed finds employment for about a dozen men. In it piles of old rope are being continually chopped up, weighed, and tied into bundles varying from one to three pounds in weight. I have often seen van loads of this apparently worthless rope discharging cargo at this shed, and was surprised to see the same though quite unrecognisable rope leaving the prison a week or two after converted into the finest oakum, to be again utilized for the manufacture of rope.
The paper room is the most original and interesting of the various institutions in this original and interesting place. I do not know if it lies in the route through which visitors are conducted, but if it does it will repay a minute inspection. Into this room the sweepings of the Houses of Parliament and the various Government Offices in the United Kingdom find their way. All old telegrams, after being kept six months at the General Post Office, are sent here to be destroyed, to say nothing of old ledgers, directories, blue books, almanacks, etc.; in short, a heterogeneous mass of things useful and things useless, all higgle-de-piggledy, to be sorted and torn into small pieces, and eventually converted into paper by Alderman Waterlow and his sons (these last named individuals do their share of the work at home). Amongst this pile the most valuable discoveries are of daily occurrence; and articles priceless in the estimation of a prisoner, such as pen-knives, boxes of cigarettes, butt-ends of cigars, writing paper, envelopes, novels, coins, pencils, and postage stamps, are hourly exhumed. About 200 men are employed in this department, whose duty is to tear up into small atoms a certain amount of waste paper daily. Of the above number some 20 of the most trustworthy (i.e., those who are the greatest adepts in the art of secreting property about their persons) are employed in overhauling the supply, and delivering up contraband goods—that they may not require—before passing it to be manipulated by their less trustworthy confrères. Great precautions are supposed to be taken against the possibility of a prisoner appropriating any of this “treasure trove,” and they are each and all subjected to a minute examination before returning to their cells. That this search meets all the requirements of the case may be gleaned from the quantities of things that find their way into the prison. I was never without a capital pen-knife, and when I lost mine (or when it was stolen), as I did on more than one occasion, I never had any difficulty in procuring another. The stationery that I used for my “private” correspondence was invariably House of Commons paper, and, excepting perhaps being almost imperceptibly soiled, was as good as new. The traffic in tobacco through this agency is by no means inconsiderable, and before I had made my personal arrangements for a weekly supply I have frequently exchanged food for cigarettes; but they were far from satisfactory, and I found them infinitely better adapted for choking than chewing. Butt-ends of cigars, too, find a ready market; but at this point I invariably drew the line, and preferred—inveterate smoker though I am—to forego the luxury of chewing a cigar that had been half-masticated by some scorbutic quill-driver. The special trade that I was put to was worsted work. I was officially described as a “needleman,” a title I had more claim to than may appear at first sight. Needlemen are employed either in knitting stockings, making shirts, or darning blankets, shirts, or socks. I had the choice of any of these delectable pursuits, and selected the latter as the most easy of evasion. Darning burglars’ stockings, I admit, sounds a humble and unsavoury vocation; but considering they are boiled for about three days before passing into the needlemen’s hands, any antipathy on the subject must be attributed to sheer prejudice. Other motives also influenced me; it was far the lightest and most elastic job, and a reserve bundle I always kept in stock did me good service on the thimble rig principle. The allotted task was 15 pair a day at least, but thanks to my “reserve” (a far greater success than Mr. Cardwell’s), and “auxiliaries” of other kinds, I found that two pair and sometimes three a day met all the “requirements of the service.” The nature of my work amusingly exemplified Locke’s theory of the “Association of Ideas,” and I never took up a stocking without having vividly presented to my mind the scene in “Faust,” where Marguerite is bound to lame the wearer. I speak from personal knowledge, for one afternoon I experimentalized with one of my specimen repairs and blistered my foot for a month. I often had qualms of conscience as I saw the numerous men that were limping round at exercise—the number of whom appeared to increase in proportion to the quantity of stockings I darned—and I could not help feeling that I was the unintentional cause of all this misery. My deplorable incapacity in the Berlin wool and fancy line was once nearly getting me into a terrible scrape. Amongst the pedestrians that exercised at the same time as myself was an ex-convict and desperado, who prided himself on the recital of his past experiences, and who had undergone penal servitude in Australia and England almost without interruption during the past 20 years. He was a Hercules in appearance, addicted to the use of his fists on the slightest provocation, and about the last man whose susceptibilities one would care to offend. On his arrival some twelve months previously he had laid down some wholesome rules for the guidance of those whom it might concern. “I don’t wants any ’umbug as long as I’m ’ere”—this was the burthen of his instructions. “I’ll do my work as well as I’m able, and you’ll allus find me willing and respec’ful-like; but if any of you attempts to bully or ’umbug me I’ll cut your throats from ear to ear.” Conceive, then, my feelings on seeing this amiable creature one morning struggling with his stocking. A glance convinced me it was my handiwork. With a terrible oath, and livid with rage, he expressed a wish that he only knew the chap that had “fixed” his stocking. With an equally fervent but inaudible prayer I sincerely hoped he never would.