I asked my mentor his opinion about window shutters and door bolts, at which he absolutely laughed. No burglary is ever attempted through a window unless considerately left open. The front door is the invariable point of attack, as most favourable for ingress and a precipitate retreat, and under occasional circumstances the area. The operation never takes more than twenty minutes, as is erroneously supposed, the object being to be in and out again between the periodical promenade of the policeman. These nocturnal strolls are accurately calculated, and the precision with which they are performed, however admirable from a disciplinary point of view, are totally inappropriate as deterrents to burglaries.
“But suppose,” I asked, “a person said to you, ‘I’ve only got so-and-so in the house—you can have that’: would you be satisfied?”
“Satisfied?” he replied. “No, we knows jolly well what there is afore we comes; and, for the matter of that, there’s no time for talk. We goes straight for the swag, and if anyone tries to ’inder us, we’re bound to let ’im ’ave the jemmy right across the face. That’s ’ow poor Peace got ’imself into trouble fust.” He then went on to tell me that he had a lovely (!) little jemmy about eighteen inches long and tipped with the finest tempered steel, capable of being carried up the sleeve, and so fine that it could be inserted into the smallest crack or hinge; “And,” he added, “once let me get ’is nose in, and make no mistake, I walks in very soon arter.”
This gentleman’s testimony is worthy of consideration. He was associated, as he informed me, with the butler in a well-known burglary of plate somewhere in Kensington, and where the butler, being knave enough to rob his master, was fool enough to entrust a large portion of the proceeds to his confederate to melt down and divide. As I understood him, half only of this bargain was carried out in its integrity.
The secrecy with which foolish women fancy they put away their jewels in secure safes let into the wall is a labour lost in vain. Their hiding-place is thoroughly well known, and probably its value, and other useful particulars. That they have hitherto escaped is merely an accident of time and opportunity; that they will ultimately be victimized is a foregone conclusion. The moral to be gleaned from this is, to be sure of your servants, a fool being almost as dangerous as a knave, and to abstain from flashing your jewellery before eager eyes, only too ready for a clue to its whereabouts.
If after this disinterested advice unprotected women are fools enough to barricade themselves and their treasures in defenceless houses, they have only themselves to thank. They should be careful, however, not to waste their visitor’s time when confronted by his “bull’s-eye,” as burglars are proverbially children of impulse. Houses containing little or nothing of value are never burglariously entered. Men won’t risk penal servitude on a chance; the prize and its price have been carefully calculated.
CHAPTER XXVII.
“JUSTICE TEMPERED WITH
MERCY.”
I had now been many months in hospital, though all the care and kindness I received seemed incapable of improving my condition. Strengthening medicines, stimulants, tonics, all failed to rouse me, and the tempting food, that I had only to suggest to have provided, could not induce me to eat. I was subjected to a minute medical examination, and my lung was found to be affected. Later on a further examination proved that the malady was slowly progressing. To remain in prison was certain death, so my case was submitted to the Home Secretary, who, with the humanity that has characterised his tenure of office, ordered my immediate discharge. I shall never forget the morning when an impulsive turnkey rushed into my room, and saying, “It’s come!” hurriedly disappeared, and I understood that her Majesty’s gracious pardon had arrived, and I was free.
The preliminaries for departure were somewhat long in my case, and it was nearly eleven o’clock before I bade adieu to gloomy Clerkenwell. I had, however, been by no means idle. The resumption of my clothing was a matter of time and difficulty; and though they had, by the kindness of the Governor, been considerably taken in to suit my diminished proportions (eighteen inches in the girth and seven stone in weight), retained a hang-down appearance in the vicinity of the neck and shoulders, that involved an immense expenditure of pins and ingenuity. The clothes of prisoners after admission into prison are, as a rule, subjected to a very necessary process. I do not know whether any discretionary power exists as to dispensing with the rule in certain cases, but it seemed incredible that mine should have undergone the usual formula without retaining a vestige of the fact. Clothes are, however, subjected to a process of modified cremation, and placed in airtight lockers, and smoked in a phosphoric preparation supposed to be antagonistic to the respiratory organs of creeping things. But the smell of fire had not passed over mine, and I can only suppose that the ceremony had been dispensed with as a graceful compliment to the executors of my deceased tailor, whose representative I last met at the “House of Detention.” My hat, too, had either considerably expanded, or my head had considerably contracted, for it necessitated at least a yard of brown paper between the brim and my cranium, before being padded to wearable dimensions.
As I passed through the office, I caught the first glimpse of myself in a respectably-sized looking-glass, and could hardly believe that the scarecrow I saw was really myself. But what mattered it if I had half a lung more or less than of yore?—I was free! I was not going to die in prison, and contribute in my person an additional item to the dead-house inventory board.
With what different sensations did I again find myself in the office which I had not entered since my arrival some months before. It seemed as if all the formula would never be completed, and I would almost have foregone the handsome donation of ten shillings I had earned for laming malefactors to have got out a moment earlier. But business is business, and the labourer is worthy of his hire, and in a few moments I had received a rare gold coin (at least so it appeared to me at the time), known as half-a-sovereign. The warder that had accompanied me from the hospital now sent for a cab, and as I drove through the ponderous gate a load appeared to fall off my mind, and though shattered in health, as I breathed the free air of a London fog, my lungs began to expand as they had not done for months.
The usual hour for the jail delivery is 9 A.M., when gangs, varying from ten to a hundred, are daily discharged. As they pass the wicket one by one, each man is presented with a breakfast order, entitling him to an unlimited supply of coffee and bread-and-butter at an adjoining tavern. This kindly act takes its origin from a private source that cannot be too highly commended, and though I failed in discovering its identity, understand it is in no way connected with the “Prisoners’ Aid Society.” Every detail connected with a prisoner on discharge reflects credit on the Government. A vagrant enters prison hungry, filthy, and penniless. He again emerges with his linen washed, his clothes fumigated, money in his pocket, and provided with an ample breakfast. Such treatment has not its parallel in any other country in Europe, and I cannot refrain from offering my testimony in opposition to the usually accepted and erroneous impression, and confidently assert that the British criminal is, if anything, far too generously treated in every respect.
On my way I stopped at a tobacconist’s and bought the biggest cigar I could find. It was, I believe, a good one, though for aught I knew it might have been brown paper. My sense of taste had apparently forsaken me, and it was days before I lost the sensation of having sucked a halfpenny. A friend I met soon after did not at first recognise me. “Good gracious!” he said, as he looked at my diminished circumference, “you’re not half the size you were.” “My dear fellow,” I replied, “you forget I’ve been lately confined.”
The sense of taste that had apparently forsaken me was for a time accompanied by a loss of voice; at least it seemed so, for acting on the force of habit, I could not bring myself to speaking above a whisper; and a waiter at the — Hotel seemed to think he was serving a lunatic as I asked him in a mysterious whisper for a pint of champagne. But the events of the day were too much for my strength, and before 7 that evening I had fainted, and was again in bed, under the care of an eminent physician. A careful examination next day confirmed the opinion of the prison surgeons, and I was ordered forthwith to the South of France, or anywhere from cruel London. Door handles caused me considerable surprise for days: they appeared, indeed, as superfluous additions that I was totally unaccustomed to. A morbid craving for old newspapers now seized me, and I again discovered the importance that seemed to attach itself to my late escapades. I am happily not a vain or unreasonable being: had I been so I might have found ample grounds for either when called upon to pay sixpence for a Daily Telegraph, and one shilling for a Truth at their respective offices, for copies containing references to my case. As it was, I merely concluded that the bump of avarice was equally developed in the Jew and the Gentile newsvendor.
And now the time has come to close my reminiscences. To continue them would be apt to lead me into drivel, an adjunct I have tried to avoid. I make no attempt at justifying my work—though as a literary production it is beneath criticism—being quite aware that many will consider my resuscitating the past an act of bravado. In this I cannot agree with them, for though guilty of a portion of the offence with which I was charged, and which I unhesitatingly admitted, I am happy to know that cruel circumstances prevented my refuting at the time a fraction of the thousand and one lies that were laid to my charge. Not the most trivial incident appears to have passed unnoticed, and the omission to pay for a pennyworth of bloaters has been since transformed into a crime, and carried, as only cowards can, to quarters most likely to injure me. And one scurrilous society journal, notorious for its “enterprise” rather than its “truth,” had the impudence to hint that I had made money at cards by foul play (I who have lost a fortune by gambling); but this I attribute to personal malice, and in return for my once publishing a scheme of a shady nature projected by its owner. This precious prospectus is in my possession, and at the service of any one with a taste for the perusal of rascally documents. I had indeed intended publishing it, but ultimately decided not to add to this volume of horrors, on the principle that “two blacks don’t make a white.” Whether it sees the daylight at the next general election is another affair. The marvel is I have not been associated with the “Clapham Junction Mystery,” or discovered to be the chief of the Russian Nihilists. These remarks are not incapable of corroboration. The link then missing has since been found; and more than one lawyer, and a certain high official, know the truth; and the only deterrent to a very thorough résumé of the case is the pain it would cause to others. For my own part, I should not object, and if any shadow of the “possibility” of the truth lurking in my assertion is to be extracted, it may commend itself by the publicity I have given to my experiences—a frankness not usually associated with unmitigated guilt. But after all, is it worth it? For my part, I value the world’s patronage as much as I do its odium. I’ve tested and accurately appraised both!
My motive, too, has been to present prison life in a truer light than I have hitherto seen described, and, with a few trifling exceptions, and a necessary transposition of names and places, to give the outer world an insight into that mysterious community that lives and moves and has its being in their very midst. The erroneous impression that exists as to the harsh treatment of prisoners has, I trust, in a measure been removed. To represent a prison as an elysium would be absurd. It is intended as a deterrent, though considering the wild beasts it has to deal with, it may be questioned whether it is not far too considerate in the matter of food. Nor can it be denied that the rules are framed, and their execution carried out by officials actuated as a body by humane and honourable principles. That there are black sheep in every grade must also be conceded, and if their responsibilities were curtailed, and in some cases transferred, considerable advantage would, I think, ensue. A man of education and worldly experience, circumstanced as I was, is probably capable of forming a juster estimate of things as they really exist than a Governor or any otherwise well-informed individual: and as my remarks have been suggested in no spirit of acrimony, but, on the contrary, under a sense of obligation, it is to be hoped that the seed sown in Clerkenwell may bring forth fruit in Whitehall. That my remarks are disinterested nobody will be foolish enough to deny, and whether acted on or not is a matter of perfect indifference to me. At the same time, a probe here and an inquiry there will manifest the weak points of the “system,” and convince the highest in authority that there are more things in a prison than are dreamt of in their philosophy. My conclusions have been drawn in a great measure from the treatment of others. For my own part, I often fancy my past experiences are a dream, so difficult is it to believe that the treatment I received, and immunity from degrading employment except in name, are compatible with “imprisonment with hard labour.” And if even one of the many objects I have aspired to is attained, the blank that divides the past from the future will not have been endured in vain.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
A RETROSPECT.
I cannot conclude my story without asking, What constitutes honesty? and if anybody can give a really logical and satisfactory reply, I would ask him, Has he ever met a really honest man?
In the conviction of being credited with a reprobate mind, I freely admit my inability to answer either question satisfactorily. It is my experience, indeed, that no such thing as honesty—as at present understood—exists, and that it is simply a question of time, circumstance, or opportunity, although I have met many rich men who are credited with this undefinable attribute. That men of means are proverbially the best of fellows (I was once a “best fellow” myself) need not be repeated, nor will I insult your common sense, virtuous reader, who never did a shady thing in your life, by telling you what everybody knows—that their goodness increases in proportion to their wealth. Whether they are really honest is another question, and though no one would credit them with theft, would they be equally exemplary in regard to filthier and more nameless crimes? Why should a rich man steal? As a class they are proverbially mean and selfish. Why, then, should they worry themselves with such unnecessary consequences? That the highest of the so-called aristocracy are not above suspicion may be remembered, when some well-known names were once associated with a nasty scandal not entirely composed of strawberry leaves; and if their better halves were like Cæsar’s wife, the immunity did not extend to themselves. And a comparison of the men undergoing penal servitude for huge commercial swindles, bogus “cab companies,” and rascally prospectuses, with others at large, less fortunate in finding dupes, only proves that detection and want of opportunity have been left out of the calculation; that “not proven” and “guilty” are synonymous terms; and that at heart prince and peasant, duke and dustman, are alike desperately wicked. It was said, with a great deal of truth, that when a certain projector contemplated another gigantic fraud on the public it was his invariable custom to preface the robbery by building a church—a hint that was not lost on the observant speculator. In the same way, when a person thrusts himself into prominence as the self-constituted scourge of erring humanity, and is offensively blatant in his denunciations of fraud, it may be reasonably assumed in nine cases out of ten that the man is an undiscovered rogue, and fairly qualified for “Eighteen months’ imprisonment.”
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