CHAPTERCXLV.PEACE’S LAST BURGLARY—A BRAVE POLICEMAN—PEACE’S CAPTURE BY ROBINSON—A VISIT TO NEWGATE.The most remarkable and at the same time unaccountable part of Peace’s career is certainly that portion of time while he was in the occupation of the house in the Evalina-road, Peckham. It appears almost incredible that he could have remained there for so long a period without being discovered.After the murder of Mr. Dyson the police were supposed to be on the alert.Every effort was made, so it was stated, to hunt down the perpetrator of the murder at Banner-cross, but in spite of all this Peace was free from suspicion, and night after night committed the most daring burglaries ever attempted by one solitary individual.Indeed, had it not been for the determination and courage displayed by Police-constable Robinson, the chances are that the scoundrel, whose deeds have so surprised the world, would be even at the present time at large and undiscovered.It really does appear most remarkable that so many murderers should be able to elude justice. We have several instances of this since Peace expiated his crimes on the public scaffold.The Wallaces, who went off in a cab after the death of their victim, have never been arrested.The Burton-crescent murder—the murder of Miss Hacker, of a servant girl at Harpurhey, near Manchester, of a youth at Rotherhithe, who died from bayonet wounds, and lastly, the woman whose body was found in a tub at Harley-street, one and all remain deep impenetrable mysteries.But Peace, who although for a time managed to escape detection, was in the end run to earth.The last burglary committed by this lawless man, whose remarkable career we have endeavoured to shadow forth, proved fatal to him.At Blackheath, on the night of 10th of October, 1878, a burglary was committed of a most daring character.On that evening Peace had repaired to the house of Mr. James Alexander Burness, inSt.James’s-park, Blackheath, and whilst endeavouring to add to his own riches was observed by a constable on duty, named Robinson, but Peace was not a man to be taken easily. Upon finding that he was discovered he rushed into the garden and fired four shots at Robinson, then, with a fearful oath, he, after taking deliberate aim, fired a fifth.The shots were fired from an American revolver of the newest make.The fifth struck the constable in the left arm above the shoulder, carried some cloth with it right through the flesh, grazed the bone, and then passing out, went through a gentleman’s drawing-room window, and after rebounding on the wall fell on the floor.But Robinson, though injured, seized the man, and after a desperate struggle threw the fellow to the ground.A fight took place, and the burglar attempted to draw a sheath knife which was in his pocket; but the officer, though severely wounded, did not lose his presence of mind, and gave his prisoner a few taps on the head by way of a sedative.When examined it was found that the fellow carried a six-barrelled revolver, and that the weapon was strapped to his wrist.Young and Brown came up as soon as possible, and the thief was secured, but not until he had been pretty smartly struck with a truncheon.On being charged with the offence the prisoner refused to give any name or address, and as his face was stained with walnut juice he was mistaken at the time for a mulatto.The garden was searched, but no confederates were found. Mr. Burness was away from home at the time, but his wife, who was awakened by one of the servants, witnessed the desperate struggle in the garden.Subsequent examination of the premises by Inspector Bonney, X Division, showed that the dining-room window fastenings had been forced by a crowbar, which was found on the prisoner with other housebreaking tools; and that a hole, 5in.square, near the lock of the door, which was locked on the outside, was cut, enabling the prisoner to put his hand through and unlock the door—the key having been left in the lock.Plated and silver articles were removed ready to be carried away, and the prisoner had taken a bank cheque book from a drawer of a table in the drawing-room, and a letter case from a davenport in the library, which had been forced open.Mrs. Burness said the house was securely locked at half-past eleven o’clock the previous night, and that there were two fastenings to the dining-room window, which had been broken in forcing the window open.At this time, it must be remembered, there was no suspicion that the man was anything but a burglar, and to prove his guilt as such was the effort of the officer.To find out his name was very difficult, but after a fortnight’s search Bonney discovered that the prisoner was a “respectable gentleman,” who at Lambeth, Greenwich, and Peckham, had passed as “Mr. Thompson.”The last residence of this Mr. Thompson, otherwise Peace, was at Evalina-road, Peckham, a most respectable neighbourhood, the house a really comfortable one, and a good garden in front.The inspector prosecuted his inquiries, and found thirty pawn tickets in the dwelling. These tickets mostly related to property stolen from houses in Greenwich and Blackheath—namely, silver and gold plate, together with jewellery.The goods had been pawned by one of Peace’s “lady assistants,” under the obliging name of “Thompson,” and were recognised by those who had lost them.Robinson, although severely wounded, very shortly recovered sufficiently to give his evidence at the magisterial inquiry.He was shot through the fleshy part of the left arm above the elbow, but fortunately no bone was touched.The bullets, fired from a six-chambered revolver, were afterwards found, and were produced in court. The firing of five shots before one took effect was attributed to the constable dodging behind some shrubs while he was being fired at.The following is the description given of Peace in the daily papers at the time of the occurrence:—“The prisoner is a repulsive-looking man, with protruding jaws and thick lips, of the negro cast, with receding forehead; in height he is about 5ft.6in., but he is not a powerfully-built man. He still doggedly refuses to give his name and address, or any account of himself, but from a knife, which bears a name, being found in his possession when captured, it is thought the police will be able to connect him with a burglary committed in December last. Burglaries have been frequent in the neighbourhood of Blackheath during the past three months, the houses selected being generally those with a garden in the rear, and, although detectives have been specially employed to discover the burglars, they have hitherto failed; but it is thought the man who shot the constable is the principal actor in these burglaries, and from his mode of procedure, and the housebreaking tools found upon him, it is evident he was no novice at his work.”EXAMINATION OF THE PRISONER.At the Greenwich Police-court, John Ward, aged sixty—(we quote the newspaper reports; Peace, however was not fifty, although he certainly looked ten years older at the time of his capture)—who had previously refused to give his name, was brought up on remand, before Mr. Flowers, charged with burglariously entering the house of Mr. Burness, 2,St.John’s-park, Blackheath, and stealing several plated articles; and on a second charge of shooting and wounding Police-constable Robinson, 202 R.The prisoner, who had his head and face bandaged on the first examination, was now divested of such bandages; and Edward Robinson, the constable, who had his right arm in a sling, was examined.He stated that at two o’clock on the morning of Thursday last he was on duty in the avenue at the side ofNo.2,St.John’s-park, leading to Blackheath, when he saw a flickering light in the dining-room at the rear of the house.Thinking this was suspicious, he went to the next beat and obtained the assistance of Constable Girling, and returned to the avenue, Girling assisting him over the garden wall 6ft.high, and they kept watch till the arrival of Sergeant Brown, 32 R, who lifted Girling over the wall, and told them to remain there while he went to the front of the house to rouse the occupiers.On the door-bell ringing, the light used inside the house was immediately extinguished, and he jumped from the wall into the garden, breaking some glass, and Girling got off the wall and went down the avenue to the rear of the garden wall.The prisoner came out from the dining-room window on to the lawn, and ran along the garden to the back.He followed the prisoner, who turned round and faced him, and presented a revolver at him.It was moonlight at the time, and the revolver being presented at his head, the prisoner said—“Keep back—keep back! or, by God, I’ll shoot you!”He told the prisoner he had better not do so, and he rushed at him; the prisoner discharging three shots in succession, the first two shots passing close to the left side of his head, and the third shot passing over his head.He then made another rush at the prisoner, who took a more straight aim at him, and fired a fourth shot, when he closed with him, and struck the prisoner on the face with his left hand, guarding his head by raising his right arm.The prisoner said, “I will settle you this time,” and then fired the fifth shot, which perforated the great coat and tunic he was wearing, and went through his arm above the elbow.They struggled together, and he threw the prisoner on the ground, seizing him with his left hand and knees, and caught hold of the revolver, which was strapped round the prisoner’s wrist, and struck him over the head with the revolver.Whilst on the ground the prisoner put his left hand in a pocket, and said, “I will give you something else.”At this time Sergeant Brown appeared, and assisted Constable Girling up, and took the prisoner from him. The wound in his arm bled very much, and he was taken to the divisional surgeon, and his wound was dressed. He was still under treatment.Sarah Selina Cooper, under-housemaid, at the prosecutor’s house, said that on the morning of the burglary, in cleaning the room, she found a shot on the hearth rug, and a hole in the window, the shot having struck the wall.Inspector Browney said he could produce evidence as to the prisoner having been concerned in another burglary.The prisoner said he had been informed, a quarter of an hour before being brought into court, that he would be again remanded, which was not fair, as he had never before been in custody. Mr. Flowers remanded the prisoner.When Peace was brought to the Greenwich Station after he had been caught in the act, he presented a most miserable and pitiable spectacle. “Talk of him being taken for a half-caste,” said my informant, “he looked more like a black man than a mulatto.“What with the rough usage he had got in the struggle and the tumbling about on the grass, he was in a desperate plight—clay all over him, his face clogged up with dirt, and the mud oozing up about his neck and stiffening the little hair he had. He was a mealy-mouthed, whining old scamp, and he was as dirty as the devil.”This was not a very official way of putting it; but it was explicit enough for the purpose.“Did he say anything particular?” I asked.“Oh, he kept whining away; but the fact was he had been badly ‘punished.’ Robinson had certainly given him a stiff un on the head.”“And who wouldn’t?” asked an approving constable who just looked in. “Wouldn’t you, if a fellow fired a revolver at you, and then searched for his knife?”Of course we concurred, Peace having no sympathisers in the company. “Well,” continued my informant, “he had got it and no mistake. Robinson had given him sufficient to settle him for a day. Peace looked dazed and bewildered, and kept wandering in his talk, now and again moaning and crying. When we stripped him we found he was one mass of filth. His shirt was all rags; the marvel is how it hung together; everything about him was similar—he was one of the most miserable-looking scoundrels I ever set eyes upon. In fact he was in so bad a way that I felt sorry for the poor wretch. I had some hard eggs boiled for myself. I gave him one and some bread, which he ate with some difficulty.“When he was locked up he went on in the same way.“When I looked at him through the grating, he whined out,” said the officer, imitating his way of talking, as if his tongue was too big for his mouth, “Oh, would to God, sergeant, you would come in here and knock my brains out—I feel so bad.” He was always going on in this way—“Would to God,” and “I wish to God,” being the phrases which most frequently fell from his lips.“A canting, whining old hypocrite,” said the sergeant to me; “and as for his face, why he was so ugly I cannot understand why any woman would look at him, much less live in the same house with him.“He was the ugliest, vilest-looking little wretch you would meet in a long day’s walk.”When Peace refused to give his name he was over-cunning. The police suspected that a man who would give no name must have unusual reasons for his silence.So they set their wits to work to find out who and what he was.When he did give the name of “John Ward” they were not disposed to accept it. The warders of the principal prisons were sent for to see if they could identify him.When the warder of Millbank appeared Peace was asked if he knew him.“Oh, no!” replied the prisoner, with an affectation of great innocence and ignorance. “I never saw his face before. Who is he?” He was informed.“Ah!” continued Peace, “he never saw me before; I never was in such a prison before. This is the first time I was in such a place,” and he looked wearily round his cell with the air of an injured innocent. It was the same with all the other warders who came to look at him.Peace’s old audacity returned to his assistance. He stood up when called, and relying upon his changed appearance—the shaving of his head, the dyeing with walnut juice, and the like—he confronted them with as much confidence as could be put on by an old convict in the presence of those who had been his gaolers.He succeeded in deceiving all those experienced officers, but just in proportion to the success of his deception was the desire of the authorities to get behind the mask, and they did so at last—not by any sudden revelation, or undetected discovery, but simply by the capacity for taking pains in putting together the many “trifles” which at length connected the burglar Ward with the murderer Peace.There was something superb about the audacity of this remarkable villain.After he had somewhat recovered from the “taps” which friend Robinson had given him that memorable morning in the garden at Blackheath, he once more tried on the old canting ways which had in former days served him so well.In prisons oft he had known the value of playing the part of the penitent, and by his good conduct had been able to get out much earlier to resume his old bad courses.On the way from Greenwich to Newgate he was himself again.In the prison van the inmates are divided by wire partitions, through which they can see and talk to each other if they are in the talking mood, as they usually are.One of the prisoners had got three months for drunkenness. Peace, who was waiting his turn when this person was committed, recognised his face, and at once embraced the opportunity to put a few words of good advice.He positively commenced to lecture the prisoner on the wickedness of which he had been guilty. “But,” remarked the officer, “you should have heard how the other prisoners let out at him.”“They were not going to be preached at by that old canting humbug.”The fellow who had got the three months turned upon Peace and said, “Well, you’re a nice one, you are. Here am I got three months for getting drunk; but what have you been doing? Don’t ye think I know? Why you’ve been trying to shoot a policeman, you have. They ought to hang the likes of you.”The sentiment met with the approving plaudits of the other prisoners, and Peace did not continue his discourse, and, what with the sense of mortification at being repulsed, and the candid if cruel remarks of the other occupants of the prison van, had rather an unhappy time of it during the rest of the journey to Newgate.Peace’s journey in the “Black Maria,” or prison-van, was by no means an agreeable one—journeys of this description can never be accounted agreeable under the most favourable circumstances, but in Peace’s case it was most disheartening.He trembled lest his identity should become known, and, to say the truth, he feared the worst.It seemed hardly possible, under existing circumstances for him to maintain hisincognito, and discovery meant certain death.Nevertheless he bore up as best he could, and hoped for the best.The exterior of Newgate Gaol is not by any means prepossessing—the interior is most depressing.On arriving within the court-yard of the gloomy and repulsive-looking old city prison, from whose debtors’ door so many have stepped to pass on to the scaffold, Peace and his companions were let out of the “Black Maria,” and conducted into a dark stone passage, and our hero was told to stand in a row with his fellow-passengers.The deputy-governor, with two warders, received the batch of prisoners, and the constable, who had acted as conductor to the hearse-like carriage, handed over to the deputy-governor a number of papers, one for each prisoner, whereupon the names were called out, to which suitable replies were given. Most of them were “remands” or “committals.”Peace answered to his name in a low submissive tone, and looked as if he felt deeply sensible of his humiliating position.There was, however, no getting over the fact that he had attempted to murder a police-constable; and, indeed, at this time it was by no means certain that Robinson would get the better of his injuries. He was progressing favourably, it is true, but an unfavourable change might take place at any time.The prison officials scanned Peace for a few moments, then upon a signal from their superior he was conducted to his quarters by a young man, who treated him with civility and consideration.It was the first time Peace had been in Newgate, and he did not even at that supreme moment of misery realise the fact that he was driven to his last ditch, and that never again was he destined to become a free man.Out of the many thousands who pass by this great city prison, how few there are who have any definite idea of its inner penetralia!A brief account of a visit to the establishment in question will convey to the mind of the reader its most noticeable features.First of all comes the lodge, as it is termed. We enter this by a door elevated a few steps above the level of the street, in a line with the Old Bailey—this, flanked by dark masses of stone forming part of the wall, which is about four feet in thickness.This outer door has doubtless attracted the attention of many street passengers. It is about four feet and a half high, and is covered at the top with short bristling iron spikes, the open space above being farther fenced with two strong iron bars with transverse iron rods. There is another massive oaken inner door alongside, faced with iron, of enormous strength, which is only shut at night.It reminds us of the terrible prisons in the old barbaric times, when criminals were more desperate than in our day, before Howard commenced his angelic mission over the dungeons of England and the Continent.This door has a very strong Bramah lock with a big brazen bolt, which gives a peculiarly loud rumbling sound when the key is turned; and at night it is secured with strong iron bolts and padlocks, and by an iron chain. The great bolts penetrate a considerable way into the massive stone wall.The lodge is a small sombre-looking, high-roofed apartment, with a semi-circular iron-grated window over the doorway, and a grated window on each side, and is floored with wood.On our left hand is a small room, occupied by a female warder who searches the female visitors to the prison, lighted by an iron-grated window; and on our right is an ante-room leading to the governor’s office.Another heavy oaken door, faced with iron, leads into the interior of the prison; and alongside is an iron-grated window communicating with the interior.On the walls are suspended different notices by the Court of Aldermen in accordance with Act of Parliament.One of them forbids liquors to be introduced into the prison, another refers to visiting the prisoners, and a third to the attorneys and clerks who should visit them respecting their defences.The deputy-governor opened the ponderous iron-bolted door leading into a gloomy recess passage with arched roof, conducting along the back of the porter’s lodge towards the male corridor and kitchen. On our right hand is a strong door of the same description, leading to the female prison, secured by ponderous lock and bolts.We meantime turned to the left, and came to another strong oaken door faced with iron. In this sombre passage the gas is kept burning, even at mid-day. As we passed along we saw the sunbeams falling on a stone flooring through an iron grating, opening into the interior of the old prison yard.On passing through this heavy door, which is kept locked, the passage widens. Here we saw a long wooden seat for the accommodation of the prisoners who are to appear before the governor to have their descriptions taken.This passage leads, on the right-hand side, into a room called the bread-room, where we observed a warder in the blue prison uniform, who is detained here on duty.We went with the chief warder into the bread-room, which is also used to take descriptions of the prisoners, being well lighted and very suitable for this purpose.It has a wooden flooring, and is whitewashed.In this apartment is an old leaden water-cistern, very massive, and painted of a stone colour, curiously carved, with the City coat of arms inscribed on it, and dated 1781.There is here also a cupboard containing a curious assortment of irons used in the olden time, as well as a number of those used in the present day, of less formidable appearance.There are here deposited the leg-irons worn by the celebrated burglar and prison-breaker, Jack Sheppard, consisting of an iron bar about an inch and a half thick and fifteen inches long.At each end are connected heavy irons for the legs, about an inch in diameter, which were clasped with strong iron rivets.In the middle of the cross-bar is an iron chain, consisting of three large links to fasten round the body. We found these irons to weigh about twenty pounds.There is also in this cupboard a “fac simile” of the heavy leg-irons of Dick Turpin, the celebrated highwayman, who plays a conspicuous part in Mr. Ainsworth’s celebrated romance, “Rookwood,” in which work “Turpin’s Ride to York” is not the least attractive feature.The irons worn by Turpin consist of two iron hoops about an inch thick to clasp the ankle, and about five inches in diameter.A ring goes through and connects with the iron clasp, which secures the ankle with a long link on each side, about ten inches in length, and about an inch in thickness.These long links are connected with another circular link, by a chain passing through to fasten round the body. They are about thirty-seven pounds in weight.It was a saying in the olden time when any body wanted to be extremely bitter, “I shall live to see you double-ironed in Newgate.”But criminals are not so frequently manacled in the present day beyond wearing handcuffs, when it is deemed necessary for security, and in extreme cases in penal prisons by way of punishment for refractory conduct. Those, however, who work in gangs at Portland, Dartmoor, or elsewhere, are chained together, so that there should be no chance of escape. But men condemned to death are not now placed in irons as was the custom in such cases in former times.There are, however, to be seen now at Newgate some of the old irons which were formally put on prisoners capitally convicted, which they were constrained to wear day and night till the morning of execution, when they were knocked off before they ascended the scaffold.It was the practice at that time to hang the bodies of prisoners in chains as a warning to other depredators, but this also has been abolished.There is, in Newgate, also an axe which was made to behead Thistlewood and the other Cato-street conspirators, but it was not used; the bodies of the culprits, after hanging the usual time, were taken down and decapitation was effected by the use of a sword, which was said to be dexterously used by a young surgeon engaged for the purpose.The axe, which forms one of the curiosities of Newgate, is large and heavy, and weighs about eleven pounds.There is also a murderer’s belt, about two and a half inches wide, for pinioning condemned persons when about to pay the last penalty of the law.It goes round the body; and fastens behind with straps to secure the wrist, and clasp the arms close to the body.There is likewise another used by the executioner on the drop for securing the legs. A number of these straps had been used in pinioning notorious murderers executed at Newgate, who tragic histories are recorded in the “Newgate Calendar,” and many of these leg-irons had fettered the limbs of daring highwaymen in the olden times, who used to frequent Blackheath and Hounslow-heath, Wormwood Scrubs, and a host of other places on the outskirts of the metropolis.What thoughts do these memorials of the past conjure up!The massive and cheerless City prison which contain these ghastly relics give us a glimpse of the rigid discipline of our forefathers.In the meantime we returned to an ante-room leading into the governor’s office on the left-hand side of the lodge, lighted by an iron-grated window looking into the Old Bailey.There is a cupboard here containing arms for the officers in the event of any outbreak in the prison, consisting of pistols, guns, bayonets, and cutlasses.We do not expect there is any chance of any outbreak in this City stronghold, but it is of course just as well to be prepared for any emergency.In convict prisons the governors and warders cannot be too careful, for there some of the most desperate characters on the face of the earth are congregated.No.79.Illustration: THE PRISONERS AT EXERCISETHE PRISONERS AT EXERCISE—PEACE EYEING THE DETECTIVES.In the ante-room there are two very fine old paintings of Botany Bay, which are hung on one of the walls. There is also a painting of Davies, who was executed years ago for the murder of his wife at Islington.It is roughly executed, and was done by himself before he was apprehended. It is said to be a tolerably good likeness.His brow is lofty and full, the lower part of the face is perhaps a little sensual, but taken altogether, it is a countenance which does not in any way accord with one’s preconceived notions of the type of a murderer. But it is not possible to arrive at an accurate conclusion as to the character of individuals by their facial expression.Along two shelves over the door of this apartment and on the top of an adjoining cupboard are arranged three rows of the busts of murderers who have been executed at Newgate.Some of these had a most repulsive appearance and were of the most brutal and lowest type of humanity.The deputy-governor directed attention to the bust of the miscreant Greenacre who had a very sinister appearance.It is, we believe, not more than a year and a half ago since his mistress and accomplice, Sarah Gale, died in Van Diemen’s Land at a very advanced age.She was transported for life as an accessory to the murder. She was nearly, if not quite, eighty at the time of her decease.Another bust pointed out to us was that of Daniel Good, who was executed for murdering a female and mutilating the body, a portion of which he buried in a stable.The mouth had a disagreeable expression, but his countenance was better moulded than that of Greenacre, and did not give indications of the enormity of the crime he committed.Good, when the mutilated remains of his victim were discovered, sought safety in flight. At the time of the commission of the crime he was groom to a gentleman residing at Roehampton, but it transpired that in early life he earnt his living as a bricklayer.He went to some remote country place a hundred miles and more from the metropolis, and obtained work. As may readily be imagined he passed under another name, and it was some months before he was discovered—indeed, it was quite by accident that he was found out.The woman in whose house he lodged was deeply concerned at his dejected appearance and his restlessness at night.She heard him sighing and groaning for hours, and suspected that he had something on his mind.She mentioned the circumstance to one or two of her associates, the police were communicated with, and this led to Good’s identification.“There,” said the deputy-governor, looking at a full-length bust, “that is Courvoisier, who was executed for the murder of his master, Lord William Russell. The counsel who defended him—the late Mr. Charles Phillips—declared, as he went into court, that he would get him off, and it was likely enough he would have succeeded had it not been for one circumstance.”“And what was that, pray?”As Phillips was addressing the jury in a most powerful speech, a cab drove up in the court-yard, and a woman, who was the landlady of a hotel in the neighbourhood of Leicester-square, brought into court some of Lord William Russell’s family plate, which Courvoisier had tied up in a bundle, and left at her house to be called for.This was fatal to the prisoner. Charles Phillips saw all chance of an acquittal was over. He dashed down his brief, and said no more.The judge summed up, and the jury returned a verdict of guilty, upon which Mr. Phillips impudently declared they were right, as Courvoisier confessed to him that he committed the murder, just before he entered the court.Phillips never got over this, and retired from the bar, accepting an appointment offered him by Government.Upon examining Courvoisier’s bust we found the man had a low brow, and the lower part of the face was coarse, or, it might be said, brutal, the neck was full and protruding under the ears.The upper lip of most of the group of busts was thick, which might possibly be caused by the process of hanging. Some of them had their eyes open, and others shut.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 theNewcastle 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.
The most remarkable and at the same time unaccountable part of Peace’s career is certainly that portion of time while he was in the occupation of the house in the Evalina-road, Peckham. It appears almost incredible that he could have remained there for so long a period without being discovered.
After the murder of Mr. Dyson the police were supposed to be on the alert.
Every effort was made, so it was stated, to hunt down the perpetrator of the murder at Banner-cross, but in spite of all this Peace was free from suspicion, and night after night committed the most daring burglaries ever attempted by one solitary individual.
Indeed, had it not been for the determination and courage displayed by Police-constable Robinson, the chances are that the scoundrel, whose deeds have so surprised the world, would be even at the present time at large and undiscovered.
It really does appear most remarkable that so many murderers should be able to elude justice. We have several instances of this since Peace expiated his crimes on the public scaffold.
The Wallaces, who went off in a cab after the death of their victim, have never been arrested.
The Burton-crescent murder—the murder of Miss Hacker, of a servant girl at Harpurhey, near Manchester, of a youth at Rotherhithe, who died from bayonet wounds, and lastly, the woman whose body was found in a tub at Harley-street, one and all remain deep impenetrable mysteries.
But Peace, who although for a time managed to escape detection, was in the end run to earth.
The last burglary committed by this lawless man, whose remarkable career we have endeavoured to shadow forth, proved fatal to him.
At Blackheath, on the night of 10th of October, 1878, a burglary was committed of a most daring character.
On that evening Peace had repaired to the house of Mr. James Alexander Burness, inSt.James’s-park, Blackheath, and whilst endeavouring to add to his own riches was observed by a constable on duty, named Robinson, but Peace was not a man to be taken easily. Upon finding that he was discovered he rushed into the garden and fired four shots at Robinson, then, with a fearful oath, he, after taking deliberate aim, fired a fifth.
The shots were fired from an American revolver of the newest make.
The fifth struck the constable in the left arm above the shoulder, carried some cloth with it right through the flesh, grazed the bone, and then passing out, went through a gentleman’s drawing-room window, and after rebounding on the wall fell on the floor.
But Robinson, though injured, seized the man, and after a desperate struggle threw the fellow to the ground.
A fight took place, and the burglar attempted to draw a sheath knife which was in his pocket; but the officer, though severely wounded, did not lose his presence of mind, and gave his prisoner a few taps on the head by way of a sedative.
When examined it was found that the fellow carried a six-barrelled revolver, and that the weapon was strapped to his wrist.
Young and Brown came up as soon as possible, and the thief was secured, but not until he had been pretty smartly struck with a truncheon.
On being charged with the offence the prisoner refused to give any name or address, and as his face was stained with walnut juice he was mistaken at the time for a mulatto.
The garden was searched, but no confederates were found. Mr. Burness was away from home at the time, but his wife, who was awakened by one of the servants, witnessed the desperate struggle in the garden.
Subsequent examination of the premises by Inspector Bonney, X Division, showed that the dining-room window fastenings had been forced by a crowbar, which was found on the prisoner with other housebreaking tools; and that a hole, 5in.square, near the lock of the door, which was locked on the outside, was cut, enabling the prisoner to put his hand through and unlock the door—the key having been left in the lock.
Plated and silver articles were removed ready to be carried away, and the prisoner had taken a bank cheque book from a drawer of a table in the drawing-room, and a letter case from a davenport in the library, which had been forced open.
Mrs. Burness said the house was securely locked at half-past eleven o’clock the previous night, and that there were two fastenings to the dining-room window, which had been broken in forcing the window open.
At this time, it must be remembered, there was no suspicion that the man was anything but a burglar, and to prove his guilt as such was the effort of the officer.
To find out his name was very difficult, but after a fortnight’s search Bonney discovered that the prisoner was a “respectable gentleman,” who at Lambeth, Greenwich, and Peckham, had passed as “Mr. Thompson.”
The last residence of this Mr. Thompson, otherwise Peace, was at Evalina-road, Peckham, a most respectable neighbourhood, the house a really comfortable one, and a good garden in front.
The inspector prosecuted his inquiries, and found thirty pawn tickets in the dwelling. These tickets mostly related to property stolen from houses in Greenwich and Blackheath—namely, silver and gold plate, together with jewellery.
The goods had been pawned by one of Peace’s “lady assistants,” under the obliging name of “Thompson,” and were recognised by those who had lost them.
Robinson, although severely wounded, very shortly recovered sufficiently to give his evidence at the magisterial inquiry.
He was shot through the fleshy part of the left arm above the elbow, but fortunately no bone was touched.
The bullets, fired from a six-chambered revolver, were afterwards found, and were produced in court. The firing of five shots before one took effect was attributed to the constable dodging behind some shrubs while he was being fired at.
The following is the description given of Peace in the daily papers at the time of the occurrence:—
“The prisoner is a repulsive-looking man, with protruding jaws and thick lips, of the negro cast, with receding forehead; in height he is about 5ft.6in., but he is not a powerfully-built man. He still doggedly refuses to give his name and address, or any account of himself, but from a knife, which bears a name, being found in his possession when captured, it is thought the police will be able to connect him with a burglary committed in December last. Burglaries have been frequent in the neighbourhood of Blackheath during the past three months, the houses selected being generally those with a garden in the rear, and, although detectives have been specially employed to discover the burglars, they have hitherto failed; but it is thought the man who shot the constable is the principal actor in these burglaries, and from his mode of procedure, and the housebreaking tools found upon him, it is evident he was no novice at his work.”
EXAMINATION OF THE PRISONER.
At the Greenwich Police-court, John Ward, aged sixty—(we quote the newspaper reports; Peace, however was not fifty, although he certainly looked ten years older at the time of his capture)—who had previously refused to give his name, was brought up on remand, before Mr. Flowers, charged with burglariously entering the house of Mr. Burness, 2,St.John’s-park, Blackheath, and stealing several plated articles; and on a second charge of shooting and wounding Police-constable Robinson, 202 R.
The prisoner, who had his head and face bandaged on the first examination, was now divested of such bandages; and Edward Robinson, the constable, who had his right arm in a sling, was examined.
He stated that at two o’clock on the morning of Thursday last he was on duty in the avenue at the side ofNo.2,St.John’s-park, leading to Blackheath, when he saw a flickering light in the dining-room at the rear of the house.
Thinking this was suspicious, he went to the next beat and obtained the assistance of Constable Girling, and returned to the avenue, Girling assisting him over the garden wall 6ft.high, and they kept watch till the arrival of Sergeant Brown, 32 R, who lifted Girling over the wall, and told them to remain there while he went to the front of the house to rouse the occupiers.
On the door-bell ringing, the light used inside the house was immediately extinguished, and he jumped from the wall into the garden, breaking some glass, and Girling got off the wall and went down the avenue to the rear of the garden wall.
The prisoner came out from the dining-room window on to the lawn, and ran along the garden to the back.
He followed the prisoner, who turned round and faced him, and presented a revolver at him.
It was moonlight at the time, and the revolver being presented at his head, the prisoner said—
“Keep back—keep back! or, by God, I’ll shoot you!”
He told the prisoner he had better not do so, and he rushed at him; the prisoner discharging three shots in succession, the first two shots passing close to the left side of his head, and the third shot passing over his head.
He then made another rush at the prisoner, who took a more straight aim at him, and fired a fourth shot, when he closed with him, and struck the prisoner on the face with his left hand, guarding his head by raising his right arm.
The prisoner said, “I will settle you this time,” and then fired the fifth shot, which perforated the great coat and tunic he was wearing, and went through his arm above the elbow.
They struggled together, and he threw the prisoner on the ground, seizing him with his left hand and knees, and caught hold of the revolver, which was strapped round the prisoner’s wrist, and struck him over the head with the revolver.
Whilst on the ground the prisoner put his left hand in a pocket, and said, “I will give you something else.”
At this time Sergeant Brown appeared, and assisted Constable Girling up, and took the prisoner from him. The wound in his arm bled very much, and he was taken to the divisional surgeon, and his wound was dressed. He was still under treatment.
Sarah Selina Cooper, under-housemaid, at the prosecutor’s house, said that on the morning of the burglary, in cleaning the room, she found a shot on the hearth rug, and a hole in the window, the shot having struck the wall.
Inspector Browney said he could produce evidence as to the prisoner having been concerned in another burglary.
The prisoner said he had been informed, a quarter of an hour before being brought into court, that he would be again remanded, which was not fair, as he had never before been in custody. Mr. Flowers remanded the prisoner.
When Peace was brought to the Greenwich Station after he had been caught in the act, he presented a most miserable and pitiable spectacle. “Talk of him being taken for a half-caste,” said my informant, “he looked more like a black man than a mulatto.
“What with the rough usage he had got in the struggle and the tumbling about on the grass, he was in a desperate plight—clay all over him, his face clogged up with dirt, and the mud oozing up about his neck and stiffening the little hair he had. He was a mealy-mouthed, whining old scamp, and he was as dirty as the devil.”
This was not a very official way of putting it; but it was explicit enough for the purpose.
“Did he say anything particular?” I asked.
“Oh, he kept whining away; but the fact was he had been badly ‘punished.’ Robinson had certainly given him a stiff un on the head.”
“And who wouldn’t?” asked an approving constable who just looked in. “Wouldn’t you, if a fellow fired a revolver at you, and then searched for his knife?”
Of course we concurred, Peace having no sympathisers in the company. “Well,” continued my informant, “he had got it and no mistake. Robinson had given him sufficient to settle him for a day. Peace looked dazed and bewildered, and kept wandering in his talk, now and again moaning and crying. When we stripped him we found he was one mass of filth. His shirt was all rags; the marvel is how it hung together; everything about him was similar—he was one of the most miserable-looking scoundrels I ever set eyes upon. In fact he was in so bad a way that I felt sorry for the poor wretch. I had some hard eggs boiled for myself. I gave him one and some bread, which he ate with some difficulty.
“When he was locked up he went on in the same way.
“When I looked at him through the grating, he whined out,” said the officer, imitating his way of talking, as if his tongue was too big for his mouth, “Oh, would to God, sergeant, you would come in here and knock my brains out—I feel so bad.” He was always going on in this way—“Would to God,” and “I wish to God,” being the phrases which most frequently fell from his lips.
“A canting, whining old hypocrite,” said the sergeant to me; “and as for his face, why he was so ugly I cannot understand why any woman would look at him, much less live in the same house with him.
“He was the ugliest, vilest-looking little wretch you would meet in a long day’s walk.”
When Peace refused to give his name he was over-cunning. The police suspected that a man who would give no name must have unusual reasons for his silence.
So they set their wits to work to find out who and what he was.
When he did give the name of “John Ward” they were not disposed to accept it. The warders of the principal prisons were sent for to see if they could identify him.
When the warder of Millbank appeared Peace was asked if he knew him.
“Oh, no!” replied the prisoner, with an affectation of great innocence and ignorance. “I never saw his face before. Who is he?” He was informed.
“Ah!” continued Peace, “he never saw me before; I never was in such a prison before. This is the first time I was in such a place,” and he looked wearily round his cell with the air of an injured innocent. It was the same with all the other warders who came to look at him.
Peace’s old audacity returned to his assistance. He stood up when called, and relying upon his changed appearance—the shaving of his head, the dyeing with walnut juice, and the like—he confronted them with as much confidence as could be put on by an old convict in the presence of those who had been his gaolers.
He succeeded in deceiving all those experienced officers, but just in proportion to the success of his deception was the desire of the authorities to get behind the mask, and they did so at last—not by any sudden revelation, or undetected discovery, but simply by the capacity for taking pains in putting together the many “trifles” which at length connected the burglar Ward with the murderer Peace.
There was something superb about the audacity of this remarkable villain.
After he had somewhat recovered from the “taps” which friend Robinson had given him that memorable morning in the garden at Blackheath, he once more tried on the old canting ways which had in former days served him so well.
In prisons oft he had known the value of playing the part of the penitent, and by his good conduct had been able to get out much earlier to resume his old bad courses.
On the way from Greenwich to Newgate he was himself again.
In the prison van the inmates are divided by wire partitions, through which they can see and talk to each other if they are in the talking mood, as they usually are.
One of the prisoners had got three months for drunkenness. Peace, who was waiting his turn when this person was committed, recognised his face, and at once embraced the opportunity to put a few words of good advice.
He positively commenced to lecture the prisoner on the wickedness of which he had been guilty. “But,” remarked the officer, “you should have heard how the other prisoners let out at him.”
“They were not going to be preached at by that old canting humbug.”
The fellow who had got the three months turned upon Peace and said, “Well, you’re a nice one, you are. Here am I got three months for getting drunk; but what have you been doing? Don’t ye think I know? Why you’ve been trying to shoot a policeman, you have. They ought to hang the likes of you.”
The sentiment met with the approving plaudits of the other prisoners, and Peace did not continue his discourse, and, what with the sense of mortification at being repulsed, and the candid if cruel remarks of the other occupants of the prison van, had rather an unhappy time of it during the rest of the journey to Newgate.
Peace’s journey in the “Black Maria,” or prison-van, was by no means an agreeable one—journeys of this description can never be accounted agreeable under the most favourable circumstances, but in Peace’s case it was most disheartening.
He trembled lest his identity should become known, and, to say the truth, he feared the worst.
It seemed hardly possible, under existing circumstances for him to maintain hisincognito, and discovery meant certain death.
Nevertheless he bore up as best he could, and hoped for the best.
The exterior of Newgate Gaol is not by any means prepossessing—the interior is most depressing.
On arriving within the court-yard of the gloomy and repulsive-looking old city prison, from whose debtors’ door so many have stepped to pass on to the scaffold, Peace and his companions were let out of the “Black Maria,” and conducted into a dark stone passage, and our hero was told to stand in a row with his fellow-passengers.
The deputy-governor, with two warders, received the batch of prisoners, and the constable, who had acted as conductor to the hearse-like carriage, handed over to the deputy-governor a number of papers, one for each prisoner, whereupon the names were called out, to which suitable replies were given. Most of them were “remands” or “committals.”
Peace answered to his name in a low submissive tone, and looked as if he felt deeply sensible of his humiliating position.
There was, however, no getting over the fact that he had attempted to murder a police-constable; and, indeed, at this time it was by no means certain that Robinson would get the better of his injuries. He was progressing favourably, it is true, but an unfavourable change might take place at any time.
The prison officials scanned Peace for a few moments, then upon a signal from their superior he was conducted to his quarters by a young man, who treated him with civility and consideration.
It was the first time Peace had been in Newgate, and he did not even at that supreme moment of misery realise the fact that he was driven to his last ditch, and that never again was he destined to become a free man.
Out of the many thousands who pass by this great city prison, how few there are who have any definite idea of its inner penetralia!
A brief account of a visit to the establishment in question will convey to the mind of the reader its most noticeable features.
First of all comes the lodge, as it is termed. We enter this by a door elevated a few steps above the level of the street, in a line with the Old Bailey—this, flanked by dark masses of stone forming part of the wall, which is about four feet in thickness.
This outer door has doubtless attracted the attention of many street passengers. It is about four feet and a half high, and is covered at the top with short bristling iron spikes, the open space above being farther fenced with two strong iron bars with transverse iron rods. There is another massive oaken inner door alongside, faced with iron, of enormous strength, which is only shut at night.
It reminds us of the terrible prisons in the old barbaric times, when criminals were more desperate than in our day, before Howard commenced his angelic mission over the dungeons of England and the Continent.
This door has a very strong Bramah lock with a big brazen bolt, which gives a peculiarly loud rumbling sound when the key is turned; and at night it is secured with strong iron bolts and padlocks, and by an iron chain. The great bolts penetrate a considerable way into the massive stone wall.
The lodge is a small sombre-looking, high-roofed apartment, with a semi-circular iron-grated window over the doorway, and a grated window on each side, and is floored with wood.
On our left hand is a small room, occupied by a female warder who searches the female visitors to the prison, lighted by an iron-grated window; and on our right is an ante-room leading to the governor’s office.
Another heavy oaken door, faced with iron, leads into the interior of the prison; and alongside is an iron-grated window communicating with the interior.
On the walls are suspended different notices by the Court of Aldermen in accordance with Act of Parliament.
One of them forbids liquors to be introduced into the prison, another refers to visiting the prisoners, and a third to the attorneys and clerks who should visit them respecting their defences.
The deputy-governor opened the ponderous iron-bolted door leading into a gloomy recess passage with arched roof, conducting along the back of the porter’s lodge towards the male corridor and kitchen. On our right hand is a strong door of the same description, leading to the female prison, secured by ponderous lock and bolts.
We meantime turned to the left, and came to another strong oaken door faced with iron. In this sombre passage the gas is kept burning, even at mid-day. As we passed along we saw the sunbeams falling on a stone flooring through an iron grating, opening into the interior of the old prison yard.
On passing through this heavy door, which is kept locked, the passage widens. Here we saw a long wooden seat for the accommodation of the prisoners who are to appear before the governor to have their descriptions taken.
This passage leads, on the right-hand side, into a room called the bread-room, where we observed a warder in the blue prison uniform, who is detained here on duty.
We went with the chief warder into the bread-room, which is also used to take descriptions of the prisoners, being well lighted and very suitable for this purpose.
It has a wooden flooring, and is whitewashed.
In this apartment is an old leaden water-cistern, very massive, and painted of a stone colour, curiously carved, with the City coat of arms inscribed on it, and dated 1781.
There is here also a cupboard containing a curious assortment of irons used in the olden time, as well as a number of those used in the present day, of less formidable appearance.
There are here deposited the leg-irons worn by the celebrated burglar and prison-breaker, Jack Sheppard, consisting of an iron bar about an inch and a half thick and fifteen inches long.
At each end are connected heavy irons for the legs, about an inch in diameter, which were clasped with strong iron rivets.
In the middle of the cross-bar is an iron chain, consisting of three large links to fasten round the body. We found these irons to weigh about twenty pounds.
There is also in this cupboard a “fac simile” of the heavy leg-irons of Dick Turpin, the celebrated highwayman, who plays a conspicuous part in Mr. Ainsworth’s celebrated romance, “Rookwood,” in which work “Turpin’s Ride to York” is not the least attractive feature.
The irons worn by Turpin consist of two iron hoops about an inch thick to clasp the ankle, and about five inches in diameter.
A ring goes through and connects with the iron clasp, which secures the ankle with a long link on each side, about ten inches in length, and about an inch in thickness.
These long links are connected with another circular link, by a chain passing through to fasten round the body. They are about thirty-seven pounds in weight.
It was a saying in the olden time when any body wanted to be extremely bitter, “I shall live to see you double-ironed in Newgate.”
But criminals are not so frequently manacled in the present day beyond wearing handcuffs, when it is deemed necessary for security, and in extreme cases in penal prisons by way of punishment for refractory conduct. Those, however, who work in gangs at Portland, Dartmoor, or elsewhere, are chained together, so that there should be no chance of escape. But men condemned to death are not now placed in irons as was the custom in such cases in former times.
There are, however, to be seen now at Newgate some of the old irons which were formally put on prisoners capitally convicted, which they were constrained to wear day and night till the morning of execution, when they were knocked off before they ascended the scaffold.
It was the practice at that time to hang the bodies of prisoners in chains as a warning to other depredators, but this also has been abolished.
There is, in Newgate, also an axe which was made to behead Thistlewood and the other Cato-street conspirators, but it was not used; the bodies of the culprits, after hanging the usual time, were taken down and decapitation was effected by the use of a sword, which was said to be dexterously used by a young surgeon engaged for the purpose.
The axe, which forms one of the curiosities of Newgate, is large and heavy, and weighs about eleven pounds.
There is also a murderer’s belt, about two and a half inches wide, for pinioning condemned persons when about to pay the last penalty of the law.
It goes round the body; and fastens behind with straps to secure the wrist, and clasp the arms close to the body.
There is likewise another used by the executioner on the drop for securing the legs. A number of these straps had been used in pinioning notorious murderers executed at Newgate, who tragic histories are recorded in the “Newgate Calendar,” and many of these leg-irons had fettered the limbs of daring highwaymen in the olden times, who used to frequent Blackheath and Hounslow-heath, Wormwood Scrubs, and a host of other places on the outskirts of the metropolis.
What thoughts do these memorials of the past conjure up!
The massive and cheerless City prison which contain these ghastly relics give us a glimpse of the rigid discipline of our forefathers.
In the meantime we returned to an ante-room leading into the governor’s office on the left-hand side of the lodge, lighted by an iron-grated window looking into the Old Bailey.
There is a cupboard here containing arms for the officers in the event of any outbreak in the prison, consisting of pistols, guns, bayonets, and cutlasses.
We do not expect there is any chance of any outbreak in this City stronghold, but it is of course just as well to be prepared for any emergency.
In convict prisons the governors and warders cannot be too careful, for there some of the most desperate characters on the face of the earth are congregated.
No.79.
Illustration: THE PRISONERS AT EXERCISETHE PRISONERS AT EXERCISE—PEACE EYEING THE DETECTIVES.
THE PRISONERS AT EXERCISE—PEACE EYEING THE DETECTIVES.
In the ante-room there are two very fine old paintings of Botany Bay, which are hung on one of the walls. There is also a painting of Davies, who was executed years ago for the murder of his wife at Islington.
It is roughly executed, and was done by himself before he was apprehended. It is said to be a tolerably good likeness.
His brow is lofty and full, the lower part of the face is perhaps a little sensual, but taken altogether, it is a countenance which does not in any way accord with one’s preconceived notions of the type of a murderer. But it is not possible to arrive at an accurate conclusion as to the character of individuals by their facial expression.
Along two shelves over the door of this apartment and on the top of an adjoining cupboard are arranged three rows of the busts of murderers who have been executed at Newgate.
Some of these had a most repulsive appearance and were of the most brutal and lowest type of humanity.
The deputy-governor directed attention to the bust of the miscreant Greenacre who had a very sinister appearance.
It is, we believe, not more than a year and a half ago since his mistress and accomplice, Sarah Gale, died in Van Diemen’s Land at a very advanced age.
She was transported for life as an accessory to the murder. She was nearly, if not quite, eighty at the time of her decease.
Another bust pointed out to us was that of Daniel Good, who was executed for murdering a female and mutilating the body, a portion of which he buried in a stable.
The mouth had a disagreeable expression, but his countenance was better moulded than that of Greenacre, and did not give indications of the enormity of the crime he committed.
Good, when the mutilated remains of his victim were discovered, sought safety in flight. At the time of the commission of the crime he was groom to a gentleman residing at Roehampton, but it transpired that in early life he earnt his living as a bricklayer.
He went to some remote country place a hundred miles and more from the metropolis, and obtained work. As may readily be imagined he passed under another name, and it was some months before he was discovered—indeed, it was quite by accident that he was found out.
The woman in whose house he lodged was deeply concerned at his dejected appearance and his restlessness at night.
She heard him sighing and groaning for hours, and suspected that he had something on his mind.
She mentioned the circumstance to one or two of her associates, the police were communicated with, and this led to Good’s identification.
“There,” said the deputy-governor, looking at a full-length bust, “that is Courvoisier, who was executed for the murder of his master, Lord William Russell. The counsel who defended him—the late Mr. Charles Phillips—declared, as he went into court, that he would get him off, and it was likely enough he would have succeeded had it not been for one circumstance.”
“And what was that, pray?”
As Phillips was addressing the jury in a most powerful speech, a cab drove up in the court-yard, and a woman, who was the landlady of a hotel in the neighbourhood of Leicester-square, brought into court some of Lord William Russell’s family plate, which Courvoisier had tied up in a bundle, and left at her house to be called for.
This was fatal to the prisoner. Charles Phillips saw all chance of an acquittal was over. He dashed down his brief, and said no more.
The judge summed up, and the jury returned a verdict of guilty, upon which Mr. Phillips impudently declared they were right, as Courvoisier confessed to him that he committed the murder, just before he entered the court.
Phillips never got over this, and retired from the bar, accepting an appointment offered him by Government.
Upon examining Courvoisier’s bust we found the man had a low brow, and the lower part of the face was coarse, or, it might be said, brutal, the neck was full and protruding under the ears.
The upper lip of most of the group of busts was thick, which might possibly be caused by the process of hanging. Some of them had their eyes open, and others shut.
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 theNewcastle 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.