Aneventful day was now approaching, and on the morrow I was to appear at Bow Street for the first time after my formal remand of the previous Friday. I felt an instinctive conviction that my appearance (even though it had not appeared up to that time in the newspapers) would be generally known, and draw together a crowd actuated by motives either of like, dislike, or curiosity; nor was I wrong in my surmise. An official at the police court informed me that numbers of inquiries had been made as to the time of my probable appearance; and as the appointed hour drew near fresh arrivals and those that had been waiting since 10A.M.combined in making up a crowd that literally crammed the court. It was, I admit, a very trying ordeal, for I had been pretty accurately informed what persons were in the court andwaiting to see the “fun.” I did, however, the best (though, I fear, a very foolish) thing under the circumstances, and primed myself with liquor, which certain friends, by dint of great ingenuity, managed to convey to me, for the gaoler, though a most civil and obliging man, was a terrible disciplinarian, and one that was not to be “squared.” Had I not taken these repeated nips—and I’m afraid to say how much I imbibed—I firmly believe I could never have gone through the examination with thesang froidI displayed.
About 12 o’clock a hurrying of feet approaching my cell announced to me that my turn was come; and after a momentary pause in the passage I found myself escorted by a constable and in the dock. I can never forget that terrible moment. In front, on each side, and behind me was a dense throng, representing every class of persons I had ever had dealings with. One expected a certain amount of hostility from the side of the prosecution, but the array of faces I then saw opened up in me a new train of thoughts. Here was a room thronged with people I had befriended and people I had never injured; men I had stood dinners to when their funds were lower than mine;lodging-house keepers that had fleeced me, and waiters I had tipped beyond their deserts; nameless attorneys from the slums of the City, courting daylight and publicity in the hopeless endeavour to get their names into print by the gratuitous offer of their valuable but hitherto unappreciated services—all craning their necks to stare at and exult over a poor devil, who, whatever his faults, was now at a disadvantage. It was the old adage of “hitting a man when he is down;” and I’m thankful for the experience that has enabled me to form a just estimate of the worthlessness of such professions of friendship. On the other hand, I heard of many persons—to their honour, be it said—who abstained from being present through feelings of generous consideration. Myquasi-friend Georgina occupied a conspicuous place in the front row. I verily believe she never took her eyes off me, but her offensive stare had no charm for me; I had more serious matters to occupy my mind. A mountain of flesh that I was once on terms of intimacy with was also present, panting with excitement, but, like the Levite of old, “he passed over on the other side.” I will not weary the reader with details that repeat themselves almostdaily in the police reports; suffice it to say that I was again remanded for another week, and then formally committed for trial at the next sessions of the Central Criminal Court.
On my two previous remands to the House of Detention I had always managed to remain at Bow Street till the 5 o’clock van took its load of victims. It was, at all events, a change, and infinitely more agreeable than the depressing atmosphere of Clerkenwell. On the day, however, of my committal to Newgate I was informed that I could not, as before, wait till 5P.M., but must be ready to start at 2. The rope was clearly getting “tauter”; discipline was gradually assuming its sway, the circles around me smaller and smaller. The other occupants of the “Black Maria” were, like myself, all committed for trial; and as we drove along I was much surprised at the marvellous knowledge they appeared to have gained of me and my affairs. I was, as before, standing in the passage and not in a compartment, and consequently could hear all that passed between the various passengers. My case was the sole subject of conversation; occasionally I was the object of a little mirthful sally. Thus, a man who had beensentenced to three months’ imprisonment in default of paying a fine, said, “Ah, Capting, you might give us two of them quids to pay my fine”—referring to some money that had been alluded to in the court as having been in my possession at the time of my arrest. Another hinted that I “Best take a good look at the streets, ’cos all wud be changed like afore I cum out agin.” Another assured me that the warm baths in Newgate “wus fine but ’ot.” A lady, too, graced our party; she was tawdry, I admit, and lived in the Dials. Her misfortune was that she had mistaken someone’s purse for her own. She was howling over her ill-luck for the first part of the journey, but before we arrived at our destination had quite recovered her usual spirits. She told me she was an actress—an assertion I am not in a position to dispute, though I found her conversation quite as intellectual as that of the usual ballet-girl class; and as she was the last “lady” I was likely to see or hear for some time, I paid great respect to her conversation. All these familiarities were terribly grating to me; they were more difficult to bear than any of my previous humiliations. They were, as it were, the first instalments of being addressedas an equal by inferiors who had hitherto recognised me as a superior; and as we drove along, past objects as familiar to me as my own face, I felt the lump rising in my throat, and I dread to think what weakness I might have been guilty of had not a sharp turn brought us in front of Newgate, and the opening of a huge gate on its creaking hinges recalled me to a sense of my unenviable position. The van, having crossed the courtyard, was backed against the door, where a string of warders formally received us; and after again submitting to the painful ordeal of being catechized, I found myself traversing a dismal and nearly dark corridor; and then the hideous conviction forced itself on me for the first time that I was actually a prisoner and securely lodged in Newgate.
Somuch has been written about this national Bastille, and so many have gone over the building, that one feels as if writing about “a tale that is told.” Nevertheless, I trust my narrative may describe things never before alluded to, and be found to contain matters of interest that came under my personal observation. The first thing at Newgate that a fresh arrival has to submit to is the indispensable bath, accompanied by a very minute and simultaneous search. I was at once ushered downstairs and into a very roomy and luxurious bath room, quite as good as any supplied for eighteenpence at West End establishments, and being invited to undress and get into the bath, had the gratification of observing my clothes undergo, one by one, a very thorough overhauling. Each item was severally manipulated, and I amconvinced not a pin could have escaped detection. Meanwhile I was splashing and thoroughly enjoying myself, much as one has seen a duck that has been cooped up for a week when suddenly turned into a pond. I had not had such a revel for ten days, and in the ecstasy of the moment I felt as if it was almost worth the journey to Newgate for such a luxury. This periodical bath is one of the greatest “inflictions” the average prisoner has to submit to, and numerous instances came under my observation at a later period, of ingenuity displayed by frowzy malefactors to evade this regulation. Twenty minutes found me again “clothed and in my right mind,” and I was ushered into a cell on the same subterraneous floor. This cell was certainly the most empty I had ever seen; its entire furniture literally consisted of a camp stool and a thermometer, and this latter instrument caused me considerable annoyance, for I am not exaggerating when I assert that an absurd make-believe display of anxiety for one’s welfare involved a visit and calculation of the temperature every half-hour through the night. I utterly failed to fathom this custom, the more so as the turnkey who made the calculation probablyunderstood as much about it as he did of astronomy, and can only attribute it to the inherent politeness developed in the officials who periodically have lodgers whom they begin by feeding up, and eventually end by launching into eternity with a hand shake, if we are to believe the papers. This idea is not my own, but was suggested to me by a terrible scamp and fellow lodger whom I shall presently introduce to the reader. An absurd habit that prevailed at Newgate, and which contrasted strangely with the other customs, was that of the chief warder as he finally counted us at night. This official, having glared at you with an expression such as the rattlesnake may be presumed to give the guinea-pig just before dinner, invariably said “Good night!” I was so struck by this unique and time-honoured custom that I asked my friend and valet—for he cleaned out my cell and did other jobs for me—Mr. Mike Rose what it meant. “Well,” he said, “they gets into a sort of perlite way like, ’cos whenever a cove swings they nigh allus shakes hands with ’im, and maybe this is ’ow they gits perlite like.” There was something so original in this logic that I could not but be impressed by it, and though I failed todiscover the connection between the two circumstances, still I had realized that Mr. Mike Rose was a bit of a character and worth cultivation. Very shortly after my incarceration in the thermometer-furnished cell I was visited by the surgeon, and having obtained his permission to have a bed instead of a hammock, a wooden tressel was brought in with sheets, bolster, and blankets. I at once proceeded to make my couch, deeming bed the best place on such a cold and cheerless afternoon; and 6 o’clockP.M.found me in bed, vainly endeavouring to get warm, with my eye fixed on the thermometer, and muffled up to the chin with sheets and blankets, all of which were stamped in letters three inches long with the ominous words “Newgate Prison.” I really believed that my first night’s experience at the “House of Detention” was sufficiently awful, but it was nothing to my sensations here. The associations of the place, the idea that many a murderer had probably occupied this very cell, and possibly slept in these identical bed-coverings, all forced themselves upon me. The bells of the numerous churches which abound round Newgate also seemed desirous of adding to one’s misery by joyful peals; they werepractising their weekly bell-ringing, and one chime was repeating over and over again—in mockery of me, as it were—Haydn’s “Hymn of the Creation,” and “The Heavens are telling” kept floating into my ears through granite walls and iron bars; and though I tried very hard to stifle sound by burying myself under the “broad-arrowed” bed-clothing, all my efforts were futile, till sleep, kind sleep, took pity on me, and I wandered in my dreams far away from my dreadful abode, only to be recalled to the hideous reality by the mournful prison bell, and—
“Sorrow returned with the light of the morn,And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.”
“Sorrow returned with the light of the morn,And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.”
The daily routine is somewhat different to that of the “House of Detention.” One official only counts the prisoners of a morning, and asks you at the time if you wish to see the doctor during the day. I was once tempted to express this wish with a view of procuring a sleeping draught. He questioned me as to my symptoms in an apparently interested manner, and eventually ordered me a dose of “No. 2.” No. 2, I may here state, is a ready-made article, and is baled out of a huge jar into a dirty tin cup. I took my dose, and, without further detailing theresult, am extremely grateful I had not been prescribed No. 1. If I had, it is very doubtful whether this narrative would ever have been written. The first day is occupied with details to which considerable importance appear to be attached—namely, your description—every particular of which is carefully booked by the head of each department, and a more senseless, harassing ordeal can hardly be conceived. Surely one inspection and general description (this was my third within ten days) ought to suffice, and might without much trouble be forwarded from one prison to another. It is idle to deny that half the questions put to you are absolutely unnecessary, and the conviction is forced on you that you are being pumped from sheer curiosity. Thus the Chaplain, in the blandest manner, only to be acquired by constant attendance on murderers previous to execution, asked me questions that appeared most impertinent—as to where I lived, and if I had any relatives, and where they lived. I at once told him I considered all this quite unnecessary, and declined to enlighten him. Immediately after breakfast on the first morning the prisoners are taken in packs of about twenty before the Governor. This man is what is known in the army asa “Ranker”—that is, one who by merit has raised himself from the rank and file to his present position—and had apparently brought with him many of those habits which, however commendable in a turnkey, are beneath the dignity of a Governor and lower the position he ought to occupy. Acting on the habits associated with his youth, this Governor commenced a minute examination of one’s physiognomy. Seizing you by the nose or ear (I forget which), and scowling hard, he began, “Eyes grey, complexion fresh, mole on neck, &c.;” and having further personally superintended your being measured and weighed, you were filtered through, as it were, into the presence of the Chaplain, who tried to pump you as before described, and who, in his turn, passed you on to the doctor, who appeared to have a kind of roving commission to endeavour to extract any crumbs of information omitted by his twoconfrères.
A Cheerful Group
The whole style and system at Newgate was excessively low. I was moreover very much struck by the resemblance that appeared to exist between the officials from the highest to the lowest. Every one had the same unpleasant expression that suggested the idea that they lived in gloomy streets, where the drainagewas bad. I attribute this in a measure to a commendable desire on the part of the subordinates to imitate their chief, who had not a pleasant expression, and shows how necessary it is that Government should select a gentleman by birth and manners—irrespective of every other recommendation—for a position of such delicacy as that of a prison Governor. The next ordeal one had to submit to was “Chapel,” and, barring the novelty of the scene, I can hardly conceive a more absurd farce. The pumping Chaplain was here metamorphosed into the surpliced cleric, and it is difficult to decide in which character he was most objectionable. In justice I must commend him for the brevity of his remarks, for from find to finish—from “When the wicked man” to the end of the sermon—was all compressed into fifteen minutes, and away we again trudged, like Alice in Wonderland, in search of further novelty. The Chapel of Newgate is a very awful place; anything more calculated to banish reverential feeling and inspire horror can hardly be conceived. On each side is a huge cage, different from anything I had ever seen, except, perhaps, the elephant house at the Zoological. In these, prisoners convicted and prisoners awaitingtrial are severally placed, thus effectually dividing the Scotland Yard sheep from the Scotland Yard goats. Above, protected by small red curtains, were diminutive balconies, capable of holding three persons at most; these were for the accommodation of murderers, from whence they receive the consolations of religion (official) whilst awaiting strangulation. The vibration of a curtain led me to the conclusion that one of these mortuaries was daily occupied, a suspicion that was confirmed by events which I subsequently heard and saw. I discovered, indeed, that a gentleman who had cut the throats of half his family, and who eventually benefited by the religious consolation of the Chaplain and the delicate attentions of Mr. Marwood, was a fellow-lodger at the same time as myself. I saw the poor wretch every day passing and repassing, and later on “assisted” at certain preliminaries in his honour. I moreover had a bird’s-eye view of his last appearance in public, facts that I shall duly narrate hereafter.
“Exercise” was an indispensable feature of life in Newgate, and nothing, I believe, could have exempted one from this ordeal. It answered, indeed, more purposes than one. Health wasdoubtless essential; identification, however, was considerably more important. Three times a week, and before starting on our circus-like walk, all the prisoners awaiting trial, amounting to over two hundred, were ranged shoulder to shoulder round the walls, a preliminary that at first puzzled me considerably. I was not, however, left long in ignorance.
“Should old acquaintance be forgot.”
A little way off, and apparently approaching, I heard the measured tramp of an advancing crowd, and suddenly there appeared a long string of men in single file; these were the detectives, some seventy or eighty in number, bent on a mission of recognition. Slowly they passed before us, each one staring and occasionally stopping and addressing a prisoner, or whispering to one of their companions. These preliminary enquiries often led to minuter inspections; and if they expressed the wish, a prisoner was afterwards honoured by a private view, and carefully compared with photographs and police descriptions. This, no doubt, is a very essential proceeding, and many a man “wanted” for an undiscovered crime in another part of the kingdom, and committed months or years previously, is recognized by this salutary custom. As may be supposed, this inspection hadabsolutely no personal interest to me. Still the ordeal, degrading in the extreme, never failed to inspire me with horror; and I dreaded the mornings when the “detecs,” as they were lovingly termed, made their appearance. There was something so weird and uncanny in the whole thing—the distant tramp, the solemn march past, the offensive leer, the familiar stare, all combined to make a horrible impression. A more repulsive body of men than these “detecs” can hardly be conceived, got up as they were in every kind of costume—men in pot hats and slap-bang coats, others in shabby-genteel frock coats and tall hats; some in fustians and others in waterproofs and leggings, but all with the same unmistakable expression. I hope the authorities are not under the impression that these individuals are unknown to the law-breaking community, for no greater fallacy can possibly exist. I never missed an opportunity hereafter of asking habitual criminals this question, and am satisfied that their appearances, their beats, and their daily routine are known to every habitual criminal in London. I’ll prove this hereafter. Meanwhile, one has only to look about in the streets, and he cannot fail to observe a civilianfrequently talking to a policeman. This man is not asking his way, but is in nineteen cases out of twenty a “recogniser”; nor can it be wondered at if their foolish actions and evident unwillingness to conceal their vocation makes them as distinguishable as they are. I will confidently assert that every pickpocket and every “unfortunate” knows each and every one of these detectives; and as they invariably frequent the same beat, and pursue the same tactics at the same time every day, it can hardly be wondered at. I know—and it will hardly be asserted that I could know it except by having heard it from others—that a detective is “due” daily at King’s Cross Metropolitan Station about twoP.M., and remains about an hour, and that on race-days he is there before the return from the meeting. If this is true—as I believe it to be—it is natural to suppose that other facts are equally well known. I could adduce a hundred instances of this sort, for I made burglars my particular study, and will disclose hereafter my ideas of the many fallacies that at present exist on this subject, and the causes that lead to burglaries, and how they are easiest avoided. I never lost the opportunity of questioning a burglar or apickpocket, and during the next few months I saw some very fair specimens of these respective species. My remarks must not be taken as referring to the higher Scotland-yard detectives, than whom no cleverer body exists, but to these trumpery plainclothes men, or “recognisers,” that may be seen at every corner, and who, I verily believe, do more to impede than further justice.
Inthe corner of the yard where I daily exercised stood an unpretending looking shed, with slate roof and large folding doors, and resembling a coach-house more than anything I can compare it to. This building always puzzled me, and I enquired of my friend and fellow-lodger, Mr. Mike Rose, what it was. I then discovered it was the scaffold, that grim limb of the law on which so many wretches have periodically suffered within three weeks of their sentence at the Old Bailey Sessions, or, as they are familiarly known, “The C. C. C.” I was most anxious to have a minute examination of this masterpiece of Marwood’s, for it is admitted that that eminent manipulator of the carotid artery has brought his genius to bear on the grim subject with such success that drop, knot, and platform have all arrived at the highestpossible degree of perfection. It was the custom to utilise the services of certain prisoners every day in general cleaning and helping about the prison, and as I was convinced that “the scaffold” would, like every other prison institution, require a periodical clean up, I suggested to my turnkey that if the chance occurred he should select me to assist in this cheerful and instructive duty. He laughed at the idea ofmydoing such work, and added that they only selected men whose antecedents had habituated them to scrubbing and cleaning; but I explained to him that if Mike and I were selected, that Mike would do all the washing, and that I would exercise a sort of moral effect and general supervision that could not possibly make the slightest difference to him, and was based on an agreement between Mike and myself, whereby for a consideration of bread and butter, and my leavings generally, he was to clean out my cell daily and make himself useful to me, and on my behalf. This warder was a very good sort—indeed, about the only one that had not that offensive “bad drainage” expression I had noticed in the others. So he promised compliance, and one day after dinner I found myself in companywith Mike, crossing the yard—I with a duster and he with a mop and pailen routeto the scaffold. There is something horrible in this idea, and many readers will probably consider my act and desire to participate in such a task as in the worst possible taste, but I felt I shouldneverhave such a chance again, and being, moreover, a philosopher, and actuated, even at that early stage, with a determination of some day writing my experiences, I lost no opportunity from the first day of my incarceration to the last to seeeverythingby hook or by crook. I can fairly say I attained my object, and sawmorethan any other man has ever done before, and that too under such favourable circumstances as something more than chance enabled me to. It may not here be out of place to say that I have read every book, sensational or realistic, that purports to describe prison life, and have invariably come to the conclusion that the writers never really wrote from personal observation, or, if they did, had failed signally in giving a correct description of what actually exists. Many were well-written books, but they wereNOTprison life. This narrative (to use an advertising phrase) supplies a want longfelt, and if it abounds with faults of composition—as I readily confess it does—it compensates in a measure for its shortcomings by the accuracy of its details. It is written in a vein, moreover, more likely—as I hope—to meet public approval than that snivelling, sanctimonious style adopted by its predecessors, and which, even if sincere, would nevertheless be palling, but where indulged in by some scheming, anonymous, rascally jail-bird, is as impertinent as it is nauseous. I have no faith in converted burglars. The entire scaffold is a most unpretending construction, and situated in any other yard but Old Bailey might pass observation as a highly-polished and tidy out-house. The floor is level with the outer yard, so that the chief actor is spared the painful necessity of trying to ascend a flight of steps with quaking knees and an air of assumed levity. A few steps, quite unobservable whilst standing on the “drop,” lead down from the back of the flooring into a bricked pit below, and a long bolt, worked by a wheel, enables this apparently solid flooring to split from the centre and to launch the victim in mid-air into the centre of this truly “bottomless pit.” I minutely examined all this, and (as its thoroughdusting necessitated) rubbed and burnished every portion I could think of. Myconfrère, meanwhile, was on his hands and knees, scrubbing away like grim death, and preparing the floor for the ceremony that was to take place a few days hence. Mike all this time was giving me the benefit of his vast experience; and as he appeared to hear everything that was going on, he led me to understand that eightA.M.on Monday next would witness one of those dreadful private executions that periodically take place, witnessed by none but prison officials, and associated, I verily believe, in many instances by circumstances of brutality that would not admit of publicity. He added that we might by luck get a view of the procession, or at least hear a little, for, as he considerately pointed out, our cells actually overlooked the yard. I was most anxious to hear how we might attain to this unusual excitement, and listened attentively whilst Mike enlightened me in something of the following style:—“Yer see, they’ll begin to fake the cove about eight—ah, afore that, and none of us, see, will be allowed out that morning, you bet; so if we can get a bit of glass out of the windey—see—and plug it roundwi’ bread, why none on ’em wud be none the wiser, and we might see a rare lot; never you mind, leave it to me, and to-morrow when I cleans your cell, I’ll fix it for yer.” This was indeed something to look forward to, and next morning when Mike appeared he led me to understand, by the most hideous grimaces, that he had succeeded on his own window, and prepared to do the same by mine; so leaving him to himself, I withdrew into another cell, for it is a peculiarity of prison system that if two men are together, or even near one another, they are invariably watched, but if alone they are comparatively unobserved, and free to prosecute any undertaking without the least risk of detection. Mike’s gestures, accompanied by a rolling of his eyes in the direction of the window, convinced me on my return that he had succeeded in his undertaking, and having the highest opinion of his constructive and destructive capabilities, I determined not to approach the window nor to test his work till the supreme moment arrived. Mike was one of those individuals who undergo imprisonment as a matter of course, and with considerably greater advantage than most men. I do not here include myself, for mine was anexceptional case; he had benefited by the experience of years, and though only a young man, appeared to be intimate with every prison in the kingdom; he was, moreover, a most willing and respectful man and a capital worker, and, as such, a favourite with the warders, who knew they could always depend on a job being well done by him; he was, consequently, all day employed on odd jobs, which carried with them privileges that enabled him to roam about and give the uninitiated—such as myself—the benefit of his profound and varied experience. Mike, I fear, was a terrible ruffian; he was now awaiting his trial for burglary and personal violence, and though he assured me it was a mere nothing, and a grossly exaggerated and trumped-up charge, I gleaned from the facts that came out at his trial that he had rifled the contents of a small shop in the City Road, and that when the old woman who lived on the premises had ventured to remonstrate, that Mike had marked his sense of such an unjustifiable proceeding by half throttling her, and eventually making away “for a little season.” He assured me, however, it was “nothing,” adding, however, that as it was his fourth conviction, he quite expected penalservitude. He informed me also that he had written an elaborate defence, which he proposed reading to the judge and jury. This defence he insisted on showing me, and I am bound to say that a more damning document, or one more capable of hanging a man, I never saw; but luck and circumstances happily (for him) prevented him carrying out his intention of reading it, and Mike by the omission got off with two years’ hard labour. Mr. Rose, who was about four-feet-four in his stockings, communicated to me, amongst other interesting facts, that he was a volunteer, and I could not help realising on various occasions after he had been performing violent exercise in my cell, that there was some truth in the adage that “a Rose by any name would smell as sweet.” Mike, in short, was a character, and whether in chapel, where he apparently led the choir and knew every response by heart, or in the prison, where he appearedau courantwith everything and everybody, I found him a most useful neighbour, invariably obliging and respectful, and willing to turn his hand to anything.
Theeventful day at length dawned when the scaffold was to be brought into requisition. “The condemned sermon” of the day before, to say nothing of the evident bustle that was going on, had sufficiently prepared our minds for what was about to happen; and the getting our breakfasts half an hour earlier, and the omission of the usual passage cleaning, all clearly pointed to some unusual occurrence. My friend the warder, too, kept me thoroughlyau courantwith what was passing, and when giving me my breakfast added, “Well, I sha’n’t be back just yet, as I’ve got to assist at a little business down below that will take about an hour.” After, therefore, he had left me, I mounted my stool, and having contemplated Mike’s handiwork with considerable satisfaction, removed the pane of glass and awaited theprocession with very much the same sensation that I have looked out for the passing of the Lord Mayor’s Show or Mr. Hengler’s circus. The view I anticipated can hardly be said to have been obtained under the most favourable circumstances. Perched on a stool, and liable, if detected, of getting into a very serious scrape, was in itself sufficient to infuse a certain amount of alloy into the transaction; but when to all this must be added my own feelings—that here was I,ONEprisoner actually confined within the same walls, and watching the execution ofANOTHERprisoner—it will readily be conceived that a piquancy was introduced into the proceeding such as seldom or ever has fallen to the lot of an individual in my position. I could not have had long to wait, though the discomfort of my position and the anxiety attending it made it appear a matter of hours; and no twenty stone of humanity ever suffered more torture than I did whilst with craned neck and squinting through a crevice I awaited the advent of this hideous procession. The dismal toll of St. Sepulchre’s bell and the distant tramp of advancing footsteps, however, announced that the “time had come.” I could distinctly hear the “Ordinary” repeating in very ordinary tonesportions of the Burial Service as the weird procession passed below me; a dense fog made it very indistinct, but there it was almost beneath me—the warders first, then the Governor, and then the condemned man trussed like a turkey, supported by Marwood, and immediately preceded by the chaplain. I could have dropped a biscuit amongst the party, so near were they, as they passed through a wicket and were lost to sight. A solemn silence now ensued, followed after a few moments that appeared like hours by a terrible thud; and I pictured to myself the lately scrubbed floor giving way, and my fellow-prisoner suspended mid-air in that dark and bottomless pit. The closing of the outer shed doors recalled me to my senses, and the approaching sound of footsteps, as the “small and early party” dispersed, some to breakfast and some to the morning paper, but all to reassemble an hour hence for the inquest, the quicklime, the thrusting into a hole, and the general obliteration of the morning’s work, suggested to me the advisability of at once restoring my apartment to its normal condition. So with one piece of bread jammed into the window, and another jammed into my mouth, I resumed my breakfastas if perfectly oblivious of the terrible drama that had just taken place. A few hours later we were exercising in the identical yard, and the modest coach-house with its closed doors looked as disused as the portals of a swimming-bath on Christmas Day.
The scene just enacted and thedébrisof my breakfast forcibly recalled to my mind an execution I witnessed many years ago from, as I believe, the identical eating-house that had just supplied me with my breakfast. It was in ’65, as near as I can recollect, that myself and three or four others engaged a room on the first floor with two windows to witness the execution of Müller for the murder of Mr. Briggs. A public hanging has been so often and so graphically described that I hesitate to attempt to add anything that is not already known. On the night before (Sunday) we agreed to rendezvous at 10 o’clock at the Raleigh Club. It was raining in torrents, and it was a question in our minds whether or no we should brave the elements; but an empty four-wheeler standing outside settled the point, and we proceeded on our ghastly journey. As it turned out, the deluge was all in our favour, for had it been fine we shouldnever have got near the place, and would assuredly have shared the fate of a cab-load of young Guardsmen who had preceded us about an hour, and who unluckily arrived between the showers and never got beyond Newgate Lane; at this point they were politely but firmly invited to descend, stripped to their shirts, and then asked where the cabman should drive them to. We, however, were more fortunate. In a sheet of water that even the stoutest burglar found to be irresistible, we alighted in a comparatively deserted street in front of our unpretending coffee-house; and a few minutes found us in a cosy room with a blazing fire, and a servant who had preceded us laying out the contents of a hamper of prog. The scene on the night previous to a public execution afforded a study of the dark side of nature, not to be obtained under any other conditions. The lowest scum of London appeared to be here collected in dense masses, which, as the hour of execution approached, amounted, according to theTimes, to at least 100,000 people. The front of Newgate was strongly barricaded, huge barriers of stout beams traversing the street in all directions; they were intended as a precaution against the pressure of the crowd;they, however, answered another purpose, not wholly anticipated by the authorities. As the crowd increased, so wholesale highway robberies were of momentary occurrence; and victims in the hands of some two or three desperate ruffians were as far from help as though divided by a continent from the battalions of police that surrounded the scaffold.
The scene that met our view as we pulled up the windows and looked out on the black night and its still blacker accompanyists baffles description. A surging mass, with here and there a flickering torch, rolled and roared before us; above this weird scene arose the voices of men and women shouting, singing, blaspheming; and as night advanced, and the liquor gained firmer mastery, it seemed as if hell had delivered up its victims. To approach the window was a matter of danger; volleys of mud immediately saluted us, accompanied by more blasphemy and shouts of defiance. It was difficult to believe we were in the centre of a civilised capital that vaunted its religion and yet meted out justice in such a form.
The first step towards the morning’s work was the appearance of workmen about 4A.M.; this wasimmediately followed by a rumbling sound, and we realized that the scaffold was being dragged round. A grim, square, box-like apparatus was now indistinctly visible, as it was slowly backed against the “debtors’ door.” Lights now flickered about the scaffold; it was the workmen fixing the crossbeams and uprights. Every stroke of the hammer must have vibrated through the condemned cells, and warned the wakeful occupant that his time was nearly come. These cells are situated at the corner nearest Holborn, and passed by thousands daily who little know how much misery that bleak white wall divides them from. Gradually as day dawned the scene became more animated, and battalions of police marched down and surrounded the scaffold. Meanwhile a little unpretending door was gently opened; this is the “debtors’ door,” and leads direct through the kitchen on to the scaffold. The kitchen on these occasions is turned into a temporary mausoleum, and draped with tawdry black hangings, which conceal the pots and pans, and produce an effect supposed to be more in keeping with the solemn occasion. From our standpoint everything was visible inside the kitchen and on the scaffold; to the surging massin the streets below this bird’s-eye view was, however, denied. Presently an old and decrepit man made his appearance, and cautiously “tested” the drop; but a foolish impulse of curiosity led him to peep over the drapery, and a yell of execration saluted him. This was Calcraft, the hangman, hoary-headed and tottering and utterly past his work.
The tolling of St. Sepulchre’s about 7.30A.M.announced the approach of the hour of execution; meanwhile a steady rain was falling, which, however, in no way decreased the ever-increasing crowd. As far as the eye could reach was a sea of human faces. Roofs, windows, church rails, and empty vans—all were pressed into the service, and tightly packed with human beings eager to catch a glimpse of a fellow-creature on the last stage of life’s journey. The rain by this time had made the drop slippery, and necessitated precautions on behalf of the living if not on those appointed to die; so sand was thrown over a portion (not of the drop—that would have been superfluous), but on the side, the only portion that was not to give way. It was suggestive of the pitfalls used for trapping wild beasts—a few twigs and a handful of earth,and below a gaping chasm. Here, however, all was reversed; there was no need to deceive the chief actor by resorting to such a subterfuge: he was to expiate his crime with all the publicity a humane government could devise. The sand was for the benefit of the “ordinary,” the minister of religion, who was to offer dying consolation at 8 and breakfast at 9A.M.
The procession now appeared, winding its way through the kitchen, and in the centre of the group walked Müller, a sickly, delicate-looking lad, securely pinioned and literally as white as marble. As he reached the platform, he looked up, and placed himself immediately under the hanging chain. At the end of this chain was a hook, which was eventually attached to the hemp round the poor wretch’s neck. The concluding ceremonies did not take long, considering how feeble the aged hangman was. A white cap was first placed over his face, then his ankles were strapped together, and finally the fatal noose was put round his neck, the end of which was then attached to the hook. I fancy I can see Calcraft now, laying the “slack” of the rope that was to give the fall lightly on the doomed man’s shoulder, so as to preclude thepossibility of a hitch, and then stepping on tiptoe down the steps and disappearing below. The silence now was truly awful. I felt my heart in my mouth; it was the most terrific suspense I had ever realized. I felt myself involuntarily saying, “He could be savedYET,YET,YET;” and then a thud, that vibrated through the street, announced that Müller was launched into eternity. My eyes were literally glued to the spot. I was fascinated by the awful sight; not a detail escaped me. Calcraft meanwhile, apparently not satisfied with his handiwork, seized hold of the wretch’s feet and pressed on them for some seconds with all his weight, and with a last approving look shambled back into the prison. Meanwhile the white cap was getting tighter and tighter, until it looked ready to burst; and a faint blue speck that had almost immediately appeared on the carotid artery after the drop fell gradually became more livid till it assumed the appearance of a huge black bruise. Death, I should say, must have been instantaneous, for he never stirred a muscle, and the only movement that was visible was that from the gradually stretching rope as the body kept slowly swinging round and round. The hanging of the body foran hour constituted part of the sentence, an interval that was not lost upon the multitude below. The drunken again took up their ribald songs, conspicuous amongst which was one that had done duty pretty well through the night, and ended with, “Müller, Müller, he’s the man”; but the pickpockets and the highwaymen reaped the greatest benefit. It can hardly be credited that respectable old City men on their way to business, with watch-chains and scarf-pins, in clean white shirt-fronts, and with unmistakable signs of having spent the night in bed, should have had the foolhardiness to venture into such a crowd, but there they were in dozens. They had not long to wait for the reward of their temerity. Gangs of ruffians at once surrounded them; and whilst one held them by each arm, another was rifling their pockets. Watches, chains, and scarf-pins passed from hand to hand with the rapidity of an eel; meanwhile their piteous shouts of “Murder!” “Help!” “Police!” were utterly unavailing. The barriers were doing their duty too well, and the hundreds of constables within a few yards were perfectly powerless to get through the living rampart.
From our window I saw an interesting case ofmistaken identity, and I was glad to have the opportunity of saving an innocent man from arrest. The incident was referred to in the next day’s papers, and was briefly this. A well-dressed old man had had his scarf-pin pulled out, and a policeman by this time being luckily near, a lad standing by was taxed with the theft. We, however, from our vantage ground had seen the whole affair, and recognized the real culprit, who was standing coolly by whilst the innocent man was being marched off. By shouting and hammering with our sticks, we eventually succeeded in attracting the notice of the constable, and pointed out the real culprit, and the pin was then and there found on him.
Whilst these incidents were going on, 9 o’clock was gradually approaching, the hour when the body was to be cut down. A few minutes previously two prisoners had brought out the shell—a common deal one, perforated with holes. I remember remarking at the time how small it looked; and my conjecture proved correct, for it was with difficulty that the body could be squeezed in. It showed with what consummate skill and regard to economy the exact size of the body must havebeen calculated. With its clothes on, the corpse was too big for the shell; divested of them, however, there was doubtless ample room, not only for it, but for the layers of quicklime that enveloped it. And now Calcraft again appeared, and producing a clasp-knife, with one arm he hugged the body and with the other severed the rope. It required two slashes of the feeble old arm to complete this final ceremony, and then the head fell with a flop on the old man’s breast, who, staggering under the weight, jammed it into the shell. The two prisoners then carried it into the prison, the debtors’ door closed till again required to open for a similar tragedy, and the crowd meanwhile having sufficiently decreased, enabled us to go home to bed, and to dream of the horrors of the past twelve hours.
Visitsat Newgate are made under great disadvantage, and have not even the recommendation of privacy. A few of the more respectable (as regards clothes) prisoners, such as myself, were allowed to see our daily visitors in a portion of the enclosure a little removed, but still so near the regular place that it was almost impossible to hear what was said on account of the terrible roar made by the united lungs of a hundred malefactors and their demonstrative friends. Visits are only permitted between two and four o’clock, and as everybody comes about the same hour, the babel that ensues may be readily conceived. As, moreover, we are untried, and consequently innocent, people, these restrictions as to time and numbers are clearly unjust, and merit alteration. Solicitors are permitted to consult with their clients in glass boxes, where all can be seenbut nothing heard. These cases are situated in the direct route through which sight-seers are conducted. An amusing incident occurred to me on one occasion. I was in deep consultation with an eminent solicitor of Gray’s Inn Square, as a herd of some ten country bumpkins, male and female, were being piloted about, and I distinctly saw their conductor make a motion that evidently referred to me. I cannot, of course, say what that communication was, but it was evidently enough to raise the desire on the part of one of the females to have a closer inspection of me. With a light step, such as a sack of coals might make on a skating rink, the biped cautiously stalked me, and deliberately flattened her “tip-tilted,” turn-up nose against the window. Without a moment’s warning, I bounded from my chair and shouted out, “Sixpence extra for the chamber of horrors.” The fair creature jumped as if shot from a catapult, and I fancy I can now see her black stockings and frowzy petticoat as she flew towards her party. Hemma Hann had been taught a lesson!
There are certain abuses that call for immediate and rigorous suppression at Newgate, the more so as it is a place where prisoners are, as it were, intransit, and thus many things that might be made real advantages are (or were a year ago) gross injustices. I refer specially to the “privilege” of procuring your own food. Men awaiting trial are naturally ignorant of the system and its details, and I cannot do better than state what occurred to me, and the absolute injustice I was subject to; for my case is only similar to that of many others, who have not perhaps the same advantage as I have of ventilating the grievance.
I was asked on the first day what I would like to order, and deeming it safest to avoid mistakes I gave one order to hold good daily. I ordered a pint of milk and a plate of bread and butter for breakfast; a plate of meat and a pint of ale for dinner; and for supper a pint of milk and a plate of bread and butter. Now I ask any unprejudiced reader what ought such food to have cost, supplied to a prisoner from a common coffee-house in such a district?
I have been at the trouble of enquiring at this and similar eating-houses, and find that their prices for the above articles are, for a pint of milk, 4d.; bread and butter, 3d.; a plate of meat and vegetables, 8d.; bread, 1d.; and a pint of ale, 4d.;total, 2s. 3d. But a free citizen and a caged prisoner are two different things, for which there are two different prices. For the above homely fare I was charged 3s. 6d. a day, and as my money was in the hands of the prison authorities, I had absolutely no redress. No notice was ever taken of a complaint, though I made a dozen. Often my beer did not come, but I was charged all the same; my milk was frequently forgotten, and eventually appeared an hour after in a boiled state—and yet this scandalous charge was paid daily. I ask any humane government, is not this a shame? What is the only inference that can possibly be drawn? Surely it is within the bounds of possibility that these officials, badly paid and half fed, supplement their day’s food at the expense of the prisoner; if they do not, would they permit the coffee-house keeper to reap such profits? Common sense suggests there must be collusion. I am fortified in this opinion by what I’ve lately seen. During the past few weeks I’ve been round this grimy district, and seen the turnkeys running in and out from the wicket opposite into certain of these houses that I could indicate, and the honorary membership that appears to exist leaves no room for anyinterpretation but the one suggested. I sincerely hope this matter may not be deemed too trivial to be looked into, and that it will be the means of introducing an improvement of the system, whereby a prisoner can procure articles at fixed prices, and that this tariff is hung up in every cell. My treatment was so glaringly unjust that I cannot lose the opportunity of giving publicity to the sequel. On the eve of my departure to “Cold Bath Fields,” I was asked to sign the usual paper which purported to show how my money, £1 5s. 4d., had been expended, and as a proof of my being satisfied with it. This I distinctly declined to do; and one would have supposed that in an establishment where “justice” plays so prominent a part, my refusal would at least have elicited an enquiry. On the contrary, however, pressure was actually brought to bear on me, and even the Governor lowered himself by making it a personal matter. The man, as I said before, was not a gentleman by birth, but I was hardly prepared for such violent partizanship on his part. “So I hear you decline to sign the receipt for your money. Very well; I shall retain the money, and report your conduct to the Governor of Cold Bath Fields.” This was thedignified speech that greeted me next morning. In reply, I assured him that I certainly should not sign, and he might report me to whomsoever he pleased. Thus ended our squabble; and it might as well have been spared, for I found on my arrival at Cold Bath Fields that only 4s. 5½d. had been sent with me, and that consequently the eating-house man had been paid £1 0s. 10½d. by his patron the Governor on my behalf, and despite my protest. With the abolition of Newgate as a prison, except during the sessions, it is sincerely to be hoped that these crying scandals have been abolished too.
One thing that struck me particularly was the small number of warders in comparison to the prisoners. Seven or eight, from the Governor to the lowest turnkey, comprised the entire staff, and were responsible for the safety of some two hundred prisoners. Such a number was clearly inadequate, and the risk they ran, however remote, was forcibly brought to my notice by a conversation I once overheard. Amongst others awaiting trial was a desperate-looking ruffian of low stature, with bull head and black shaggy eyebrows—a man who had undergone more than one sentence of penal servitude, and who, to judge by hisappearance, was capable of any atrocity. This ruffian was pointing out one morning how easy it would be to make a dash at the warders, and then, without the possibility of opposition, simply to walk out. The plan certainly seems feasible, especially during chapel, where four or five warders are absolutely at the mercy of two hundred prisoners. One can only suppose that a moral restraint exists, and on which the authorities rely, that would prevent many from joining in such a mutiny, and who, if a choice had to be made, would prefer to join issue with the warders rather than with their unsavoury opponents. During the sessions the regular staff is augmented by five or six additional hands, for the most part feeble old men, suggestive of sandwich men out of employment. I was much amused by one of these patriarchs who was left in absolute and sole charge, and daily superintended the exercise of some fifty or sixty prisoners. I never lost an opportunity of having a chat with him, as he stood shivering in a threadbare ulster, with a dew-drop on his nose, a ragged comforter round his neck, and his poor old gums rattling in the drafty yard. I found, however, that he was not devoid of official dignity, andhad a very high conception of the position and importance of “officers,” as every turnkey likes to be styled. I remember saying to the poor old chap one day, “You officers must have a very difficult duty to perform, what between maintaining your dignity and doing your duty strictly.” A leer, such as one might associate with a magpie looking down a marrow-bone, was all he vouchsafed in reply for a moment, and I feared he suspected I was pulling his leg; but I was eventually reassured by his replying, “Yis, there’s no responsibler dooty than an officer’s.” “Yes,” I replied, “but I’ve always heard that you officers are sad dogs;” and as I moved away I heard the old gums clatter as if pleased at the compliment, and if I had had a shilling in my pocket I should certainly have given it to the old “officer.” The first day of the sessions had now arrived, and I rose with mingled feelings of anxiety and pleasure; anxiety for what the day might bring forth, and pleasure at the thought that anything was better than the uncertainty that at present involved my future, and hailing with delight the prospect of knowing the worst. I never expected, however, that my case would be tried on the first day, andwas therefore considerably taken back when, about 3P.M., my door was suddenly opened, and with a “Come along, you’re wanted in the Court,” a warder made his appearance. The awful reality now burst on me for the first time that I was on the point of appearing in a criminal dock to answer a charge of forgery, and uttering forged bills. I won’t weary the reader by saying more than that I pleaded guilty to the uttering, but denied the forging, as I still do, and ever shall; but being informed that the two acts were considered synonymous, my plea was registered as “guilty,” and I was sentenced to eighteen months imprisonment with hard labour. I am now entering on a phase of my career which may be considered as the commencement proper of my narrative, and one that I expected, from the steps that led up to it, would consist of harshness and brutality, such as one reads of in stories of the Bastile and other prisons; whereas, on the contrary, I was leaving all that behind, and about to experience a kindness and consideration I can never adequately describe or be sufficiently grateful for. But a word or two is necessary before we leave Newgate to enable me to describe the OldBailey Court House and its sombre approaches, its subterraneous passages, and dingy cells. I must also make a digression to narrate the heart-breaking story of a poor wretch which he himself told me, and which I’ve reason to believe is strictly true, and to which his position as a man of title—I shall refrain from giving his name—imparts a considerable degree of interest. It is a tale which demonstrates to what a contemptible state a man can bring himself by the excessive use of stimulants, and how that degradation is augmented when wedded to immorality, culminating in the inevitable shipwreck that waits on bright prospects and a long rent roll when drink and prostitution appear at the altar, only to be divorced, as in the present case, by a term of penal servitude.
Onthe morning after my arrival at Newgate it was with considerable surprise that I saw a man in convict dress, who was apparently the object of special watch and guard. My curiosity was considerably increased from the circumstance of his being the only individual out of some two hundred in this conspicuous attire; he was moreover clearly not a novice, but wore the dreadful suit with the apparent ease of a man to whom it was by no means a novelty. He looked horribly ill, and a terrible eruption that showed itself on his neck, face, and hands gave unmistakable evidence that the unhappy wretch was literally rotten; added to this, however, there was a something about him, a “je ne sais quoi,” that marked the gentleman and asserted the blue blood, despite the convict dress, the loathsome disease, and the degradingsurroundings. A fixed melancholy seemed never to desert him. When he moved, it was with eyes cast down, and nothing appeared to interest him; it was the motions of a human machine, bowed down with grief or shame, or meditating some awful vengeance. I was so struck with all this that I determined to lose no opportunity of scraping an acquaintance with the mysterious stranger. I enquired of a warder, but all he knew or pretended to know was that he was undergoing a sentence of 20 years’ penal servitude, and had lately been drafted there from a convict prison; that he had only been there a few days, and would in all probability be moved elsewhere very shortly. Chance favoured my desire to make his acquaintance. It was on a Saturday afternoon, a time devoted to a very general and extra clean up, and when almost everyone is put on a job. My warder—like a brick—had put me, at my urgent request, to “dusting” the rails, a duty, I had observed, at which the convict was frequently employed. I got as near as discretion would permit, and ventured to ask him who and what he was. He looked at me at first with a mingled expression of surprise and distrust, but being apparently reassured by eithermy manner or my dress, began in short, jerky sentences in something of the following style: “You ask me who I am. That’s a question I haven’t heard for six long years. Since that time I’ve been an unit, 4016 of Portland, and praying night and day that death would release me.” I was alarmed at his excited manner; his eyes flashed, he quivered like a maniac, and I begged him to be calm. This appeal seemed to touch some long dried-up spring; kind words evidently sounded strange to him, and a tear trickled down his seamed and hollow cheeks. The weakness, however, was but momentary, and wiping his eyes with his coarse blue handkerchief, he began in a melancholy voice the following sad story:—
“You ask me who I am, or rather who I was. Know, then, that six years ago I was known as —.” I started at the name, for it was a well-known and titled one. “At an early age my parents died, leaving me the possessor (under guardians) of £20,000 a year, an estate in England, and another in Ireland, a house in London, and an ancient title. My uncle and guardian, alas! was actuated by no affection for me, but considered that if he placed me under a good tutor,insured me a liberal education, and sent me to see the world, he was fairly earning the handsome salary allowed him by the Court of Chancery, whose ward I was. At the age of 18 I started with my tutor on a three years’ tour, it having been decided that I should thus have seen everything, and made a fitting termination to the education of a man with the bright prospects I so confidently considered were in store for me. Would to God I had been born a navvy; I should never then have become what you now see me. The eventful era in my life at length arrived. After seeing everything and going half over the world, I found myself in England again, and on the eve of being invested with the absolute control of my huge estates. I will not insult you, nor deceive myself, by concealing any of my blemishes. Know, then, I was a drunkard, a confirmed sot at 21, too weak to resist the dram bottle, and capable of every folly, every crime, when under the influence of its fatal spell. I moreover hated the society of gentlemen, and was never happy except in low company. In London, whither I came after taking possession of my estates, I did not know a soul; the few respectable friends or relatives of my father I studiouslyavoided. Pleasure for me was only to be attained by herding with cads and prostitutes. My position, my title, my wealth, made this an easy task, and I soon became acquainted with a number of that voracious, threadbare class. My most intimate friends were broken-down gentlemen and spendthrifts of shady reputation; fighting men and banjo men, and blood-suckers of every type, who flattered my vanity, and led me as it were, with the one hand, whilst they rifled my pockets with the other. They ate at my expense, they drank at my expense; I paid their debts in many instances, and any rascal had only to recount to me a tissue of lies for me to at once offer him consolation by the ‘loan’ of a cheque. ‘What matters it,’ thought I; ‘was I not —, and had I not more money than I could possibly spend in a century?’ I was passionately fond of theatres, not respectable ones where I should have had to behave decently, but low East-end and transpontine ones, where I was a very swan amongst the geese, and where my title and wealth obtained me the inestimable privilege of going behind the scenes, and throwing money about in handfuls. On these almost nightly visits I was invariably dunned and asked for aid by everydesigning knave; they saw I was a fool, and usually drunk, and what I mistook for homage was in reality the treatment that only a contemptible drunkard with money, such as I, ever gets. Every scene-shifter had a harrowing tale, or an imaginary subscription list, to all of whom I administered bounteous monetary consolation; and any varlet with a whole hand, and a greasy rag round it, at once received a ‘fiver’ as a mark of sympathy for his painful accident. In short, I was a fool, looked on as only fit to be fleeced, and simply tolerated for the sake of my money. Would to God I had confined myself to these contemptible but otherwise harmless follies!
“It was on a dull foggy night—a night I can never forget—that some half-dozen of my boon companions had been dining with me at a celebrated restaurant. Thedébrisof the dessert had not been removed, and they were sipping their coffee whilst I was settling the bill, when a suggestion was made that we should go to the ‘Sussex.’ The ‘Sussex’ was a very disreputable theatre, situated somewhere over the water, and supported entirely by the lowest classes and a few golden calves, such as myself, who were serving theirapprenticeship, and who were permitted the inestimable privilege of going behind the scenes—entering the green-room, or indeed any room, and paying ten shillings a bottle for as much fluid of an effervescent nature in champagne bottles as anybody and everybody chose to call for. On these occasions we were ushered into the sacred precincts, with a certain amount of implied caution similar to and about as necessary as that assumed by a ragamuffin in the streets when asking you to buy a spurious edition of theFruits of Philosophy. This, however, in my ignorance, only enhanced the pleasure. We were, as I believed, participating in some illegal transaction, permitted only to the most fortunate. As a fact, we were violating no law; and if the Lord Chamberlain did not object, Scotland Yard certainly didn’t. Etiquette on these occasions demanded that we should be formally introduced to the various ‘ladies’ that frequented the green-room—a custom I considered highly commendable, for in my ignorance I believed that not the slightest difference existed between the highest exponent of tragedy and the frowsiest ballet-girl in worsted tights and spangles.
“On this particular night, as I was watchingthe transformation scene being ‘set,’ and listening to the sallies of the tawdry ‘fairies’ that crowded the wings, my attention was attracted by a tall woman, who was gnawing a bone with a gusto that conveyed to me the impression she hadn’t eaten for a month. I felt for the poor creature, and went and stood near her. I thought at the time (for I was very drunk) that she was the most beautiful being I had ever seen; her pink-and-white complexion (it was in reality dabs of paint) appeared to me to be comparable only to a beautiful shell. I was spellbound by the sight, and instantaneously and hopelessly in love. It would have been a mercy—may God forgive me!—if that bone had choked her. That woman eventually became ‘her ladyship.’ But I’m anticipating.”
The poor fellow here became so affected that I begged him to pause; it was, however, useless.
“The sight of her in a measure sobered me, and I asked her who and what she was. She told me a harrowing tale of how she was the eldest of seven children; that her mother was bed-ridden and her father blind; and how she toiled at a sewing-machine all day and at the theatre all night, andthen only earned a miserable pittance, barely sufficient to keep a roof over their heads. The recital affected me considerably (drunken people are easily moved to tears), as she went on to tell me how she had been in the theatre since 11 that morning (for it was the pantomime season, and there had been a morning performance), and how she had not tasted food until a carpenter had kindly given her the remains of his supper. I lost no time in procuring a bottle of champagne, and felt happier than I had for years as she placed a tumblerful to her parched lips and drank it off at a gulp. A few moments later I saw ‘little Rosie’ (for so she told me her blind parent loved to call her) being lashed to an ‘iron,’ and posing as an angel for the great transformation scene in course of preparation. I subsequently discovered—though, alas! too late—that ‘little Rosie’ was nightly to be seen outside the ‘Criterion’ and in front of the ‘Raleigh,’ and was known as ‘big Rose.’ But my mind has again got in advance of my story. Oh, dear! oh, dear! where am I?”
At this stage I really got alarmed, far his excitement was evidently increasing. Happily, however, a passing official necessitated silence, andhe eventually resumed with comparative composure.
“I will not weary you with unnecessary details; suffice it to say that within a month we were married, and the vows that were made ’till death should us part’ were eventually broken by the living death that consigned me to penal servitude. After our marriage ‘little Rosie’s’ nature gradually began to change; and the frankness andnaïvetéthat had so captivated me gradually gave way to habits and sentiments that astonished and alarmed me. I verily believe that, had I found in her the woman I hoped and believed her to be, I should truly have reformed, and given up that vile curse, drink. Instead of that, however, I found at my elbow one who was always ready to encourage me in the vice. Port was her favourite tipple, and though my own state seldom permitted me to judge of her consumption, still in my lucid intervals of sobriety I was astonished at the amount she consumed. Gradually we began to turn night into day, and nights of debauch regularly followed the few hours of daylight we seldom or ever saw. Even yet I had not abandoned all hope of reform. My conscience smote me when I was sober enoughto heed it, and in hopes of avoiding temptation I hurried with my wife to Ireland; but even here she could not rest quiet. The cloven foot persisted in showing itself, and we were tabooed by the whole county. In this I found further cause for mortification—I who might have been looked up to and sought after. I tried to spare my wife’s feelings by concealing the real cause of our existence being ignored; but, fool that I was, I gave way to her importunings, and actually called on those who had avoided us. The well-merited reward of my temerity was not long in coming. Some of the county families returned our cards by post, whilst others sent them back by a servant; and at a subscription ball that took place not long after we received the cut dead. This filled up the cup of my humiliation, and I rushed back to London. I had realised the fact that virtue won’t herd with vice.
“A cousin about this time made his appearance, and gradually became a daily visitor; and had my muddled faculties been more capable of forming an opinion, I might have been puzzled how a well-dressed and apparently gentlemanly man could be the nephew of either the blind father or thebed-ridden mother. Gradually, however, my suspicions were aroused, and I employed a detective to watch them both. He fulfilled his duty, alas! too well, and I received incontestable proof that my wife was a —, and that the ‘cousin’ was a man with whom she had lived for years. A sickly child, too, that frequently came to the house, and whom she often told me, with tears in her eyes, was her ‘dead sister’s,’ I had reason to suspect was a much nearer relative. But my feelings outstride my discretion. I’m again going too fast, and surely you’ve heard enough?”
I begged him to continue, for I was deeply interested in his tale.
“My wife now began to display reckless extravagance; nothing was good enough for her; the handsome settlement I had made on her failed to meet a fraction of her expenses, and she became so degraded as to borrow money of my very servants. Love, they say, is blind, and in my case, I fear, was frequently blind drunk. On these occasions I would agree to anything, and gradually signed away first one thing, and then another, till I found myself divested of house, estates, everything, and a pensioner on my wife’s bounty. Itmay seem incredible that anything should be capable of bringing the blush of shame to such as I—I who for six long years have worn this dreadful dress—but, believe me, my cheeks tingle even now when I think of it all. I was at length compelled to resort to the pawnbroker’s, and watch, chain, ring, everything, found their way to an establishment in — Road. My credit, once good, was entirely gone; tradesmen to whom I owed money began to dun me; others refused me the smallest credit; servants, washerwomen, butchers, and bakers all were creditors; writs and County Court summonses were of daily occurrence; and the family mansion that my ancestors had never disgraced was in the hands of the bailiffs. How I cried out in my anguish will never be known. Relations I had none to whom I could apply for sympathy or advice. My only friend was ‘drink,’ and in my misery I turned to it with redoubled energy. I have not much more to tell; the climax which brought me here was very near at hand. One afternoon I had returned to our lodgings (we were then in apartments at 28, — Place) rather sooner than expected from a fruitless endeavour to borrow a few pounds. I hadstopped at every public-house, and gulped down a dram of cheap spirits, in hopes of lightening my sorrow; I was, I believe, almost mad with misery and drink. As I entered the room the first thing that met my gaze was the hated ‘Cousin.’ To seize a loaded pistol that always hung over the mantel-piece was the work of a second, and, without aim, without deliberation, I fired. The report and my wife’s screams alarmed a policeman who happened to be passing by; he entered and found her swooning on the ground, but happily uninjured. Thank God! I’m free of that crime—and the tell-tale bullet lodged in the wall. Concealment was hopeless. I was there and then arrested, and eventually sentenced, on the evidence of my wife and her paramour, to ‘twenty years’ penal servitude.’”