His excited state alarmed me. I feared we should be observed, but it was hopeless to attempt to check him as, with eyes starting, and the tears flowing fast, he added, pointing to his seamed and blotchy face: “The worst has yet to be told; look at these scars that I shall carry with me to the grave. Can you suspect what they are? My —.”
“Hush!” I said, “they have noticed us.”
I never saw him again, but heard, months after, that the unhappy man had died, and that the bright expectations accruing from youth, birth, and fortune, that had been formed six short years ago, lie buried in a nameless convict’s grave.
Not long ago I walked round to the pawn shop in — Road, with the morbid desire of testing the truth of some of his assertions, and found that the watch, chain, and ring were still there. I informed the worthy pawnbroker of the real name and sad fate of his former customer, and was almost tempted to purchase the cat’s-eye as a souvenir of my quasi-friend; but more prudent counsels prevailed, and I relegated them to the auction-room, to go forth with their crests and monograms, a sad memento of fallen greatness.
Aftermy sudden summons to attend the Court I found myself in the yard below, where, in company with some twenty others, I was placed in rotation according to a list the Governor and chief warder were “checking.” This formula being completed, we proceeded in single file, preceded by an “officer” and followed by a patriarch, along the subterraneous passages that connect the prison with the Old Bailey Court-house. These passages are the last remnants of the old prison, and demonstrate the change that has taken place in the accepted notions of insuring the safety of prisoners. Every few yards a massive iron door some inches thick, with huge bolts and a ponderous key, bars the passage. Having passed through all these, we came to a halt in a dark recess, partially lighted by gas, on each side of which were arched cells,suggestive of those of the Adelphi. Into each of these five or six of us were conducted, for by the prison system prisoners before trial may be herded together; after conviction, however, all that ceases, and one is “supposed” henceforth to be isolated. After a delay of some twenty minutes, and during which I was initiated into the style of society I might expect for the future, my name was called and I was conducted up a wooden stair. The hum of voices—for I could see nothing—indicated to me that I was in the vicinity of the Court and on the stair leading into the dock—one of those mysterious boxes I had often seen from the opposite side, where criminals popped up and popped down so suddenly and so mysteriously.
I had seen many murderers sentenced to death from that very dock, and was often puzzled at the geography of the place; all this, however, was now made perfectly clear. It was with mingled feelings of astonishment and bewilderment that I found myself, suddenly and without warning, the observed of all observers. The crowded Court, the forest of well-known faces—vindictive prosecutors, reluctant witnesses, quasi-friends come to gloat over my misfortune, and one or two real sympathisers—allappeared glued together to my bewildered gaze. Beyond, and seated against the wall, were innumerable figures robed in flowing scarlet gowns, and presenting to my senses so ghastly and weird a picture that I can compare it to nothing but that impressive trial scene in “The Bells,” to which Mr. Irving imparts such terrible reality. It only required the mesmerist to complete the resemblance; and he must have been there, although invisible, for I was mesmerized, or at least completely dazed. By degrees, however, I recovered my senses, and embracing the whole scene, summed up the vanity of human sympathy and the value to be attached to friendship, as it is called. Reader, whoever you are, take the word of a man who has been rich and surrounded by every luxury. Friends will cluster round you in your prosperity as they did round me, and when they have eaten you out of house and home, and robbed you by fair means or foul, by card playing and racing, you must not be surprised if you discover that the most vindictive and uncompromising are those you least expected. “For it was not an enemy that reproached me, then I could have borne it—neither was it he that hated me, that did magnify himself against me; but itwas a man, mine equal, my guide, and my acquaintance—yea, mine own familiar friend in whom I trusted, which did eat of my bread—hath lifted up his heel against me.”
The ordeal at length had been gone through, and I was on my return journey to the prison as a “convicted prisoner.” A prisoner after sentence consists of only two classes, the “convict” and the “convicted prisoner,” and it is marvellous how soon the difference shows itself. The “convicted prisoner” finds absolutely no change beyond being deprived of the questionable privilege of procuring his own food at an exorbitant rate. With the “convict,” however, things are very different. Immediately after sentence he is stripped of all his clothes, his hair and beard are cropped as close as scissors can do it, and he is metamorphosized by the assumption of the coarse brown and black striped convict dress. The change is so marvellous that it is difficult at first to recognize a man. One poor fellow I saw, a gentlemanly-looking man from the Post-office, that I frequently spoke to, was so changed when I saw him next morning in Chapel that I could not for the moment recognize the poor wretch who kept grinning at me with an air oflevity as assumed as it was painful. I am not ashamed to admit that I thanked Providence I had escaped that fearful doom. It is not generally known that two years’ imprisonment is the limit of a sentence of hard labour, after which the next higher punishment involves five years’ penal servitude. There is a vast deal of ignorance displayed on this subject, even by those who might be supposed to know better. It is generally believed that imprisonment with hard labour is a severer punishment than penal servitude. No greater fallacy ever existed. I base my assertion, not so much on personal experience (for I was exceptionally fortunate), as on what I saw of the treatment of others; and I confidently assert—and my opinion would be corroborated by every respectable prisoner (if such an anomaly can exist)—that two years’ “hard labour” is an infinitely lighter punishment than even two years of penal servitude would be; and I can only attribute the general acceptation of this error to the fact that convicts get a little more food than convicted prisoners, and prisoners as a rule will do anything for “grub.”
I have now brought my experiences of Newgate to a close, and shall briefly describe our departureto our final and respective destinations. An unusual bustle one morning indicated that something out of the ordinary was about to happen, and though we received no actual warning, it was generally buzzed about that we were to make a start after breakfast. At breakfast-time the warder told me to put my things together, and half an hour later found me and sixteen others marshalled in the corridor, where, being carefully compared with our respective descriptions, we were formally handed over to a detachment of warders from Coldbath Fields. Other parties were being simultaneously paraded for Holloway and Pentonville, the latter all in convict dress and as pitiable a looking set as can well be conceived. I discovered, both now and subsequently, that a human being is invariably referred to as if he were a parcel. Thus, on arrival, one is said to be “received,” and one’s departure is described as being “sent out.” This is not intended in an offensive sense, but may be taken rather as a figure of speech. In the adjoining yard were half a dozen vans—indeed, I had never before seen such a formidable array, except, perhaps, a meet of the four-in-hand club on a rainy day—and into one of these I was politelyconducted, with a degree of precaution as unnecessary as it was absurd.
No reader can accuse me of rounding the points of this ungarnished story, or endeavouring to conceal any incident, however unpleasant. As, however, my subsequent experiences may discover a treatment so kind and exceptional as to appear almost incredible, I must only ask the reader to credit me with the veracity that my previous frankness entitles me to expect. My anxiety on this point is considerably enhanced by the contradiction it will bear to other narratives I have read, and which, purporting to describe prison life, invariably represent it as a hot-bed of cruelty, where prisoners are starved and otherwise ill-treated, all of which I emphatically deny, and cause me to doubt whether one single specimen of these so-called personal narratives is anything else but an “idle tale,” written with a view of enlisting sympathy, and possibly turning an honest penny. If these writers and these prisoners had seen as much as I have (from outside) of prisons on the Continent, in Morocco, and in China, they would think themselves very fortunate in their present quarters. I—who have seen prisoners starving inprisons in Morocco, and absolutely “unfed,” except by the charity of visitors, who usually scramble a few shillings’ worth of bread amongst them; and who, for a dollar to the jailor, have seen a Chinaman at Shanghai brought out, made to kneel down and have his head sliced off like a water-melon—have no patience with these well-fed, well-clothed, and well-housed rascals. I would send all these discontented burglars and their “converted” biographers to China or Morocco, and omit to supply them with return tickets. I have lately read a book connected with penal servitude, by an anonymous writer, in which this innocent lamb is whining throughout of his hardship in being compelled to herd with criminals; and it says a great deal for his imitative capacity that he should so naturally and so thoroughly have adopted the almost universal “injured innocence” tactics of the habitual criminal. One great nuisance at all prisons is the almost universal habit that prisoners have of protesting their innocence; they protest it so often to everybody on every possible occasion, that they eventually begin to believe that they really are innocent. I found these guileless creatures great bores; indeed I am (I am convinced) well withinthe mark when I assert that there were only about three-and-twenty guilty persons besides myself amongst the fifteen hundred prisoners in Coldbath Fields. This compulsory herding with innocent burglars is a great trial, and one that never enters into the calculation of a judge.
A short drive at a good pace on this early December morning brought us to the gates of Coldbath Fields Prison; and as I stepped out, I could not help recalling Dante’s famous line—
“All hope abandon ye who enter here.”
“All hope abandon ye who enter here.”
It only proves how apt one is to form erroneous ideas from first impressions. I was never more mistaken in my life.
From my birth up to within the past twelve months I have had the misfortune to be afflicted with one of the most dreadful diseases that flesh is heir to. It is one that entails suffering both to body and mind, and from which a vast proportion of humanity suffers in a more or less aggravated form. It is a slow and insidious disease that never decreases of its own accord, but on the contrary develops itself with one’s increasing years as surely as the most virulent cancer. It has this advantage, however, over this latter dreadful complaint—that it invariably yields to treatment conscientiously applied; but it has also this disadvantage, that, whereas other afflictions invariably enlist the sympathy of our fellow-creatures, this one never fails to be jeered and hooted at and turned into ridicule by the coarse and vulgar ofour species. This complaint, surprising as it may appear, is held in contempt by most of the faculty, and I doubt whether it has ever received baptism in the English or any other pharmacopoeia. I will therefore without further preamble state, for the benefit of afflicted humanity, that it is called “obesity.” In the course of my remarks I may be led into the use of what may appear strong expressions; and if I should unwittingly offend the susceptibilities of any fat reader, he or she will, I trust, forgive it, as coming from one who has, as it were, gone through the mill, and been subjected to the like ridicule and the like temptations as themselves.
For thirty-eight years I’ve been a martyr to obesity. At my birth, as I am credibly informed, I was enormous—a freak of nature that was clearly intended for twins. As I developed into boyhood I still maintained the same pronounced pattern; and when I entered the Army as an ensign, it was said, with a certain amount of truth, that I was eighteen years of age and 18 stone in weight. I am particular in giving these otherwise uninteresting details, for I am aware from experience how fat people catch at every straw to evade a “regimen,”and invariably say as I did, “Nothing will make me thin,” “I’ve tried everything,” “It’s natural in our family,” “My father weighed nineteen stone,” &c., &c. I say to these people, “This is rubbish. I don’t care if your father weighed forty and your grandmother fifty stone; I’llGUARANTEEtoREDUCEyou perceptibly and withPERFECT SAFETYif you’ll guarantee to follow my instructions.”
For the past fifteen years I’ve tried every remedy, with, however, the invariable result—that they did me no good, or at least so little that I came to the conclusion that the result did not repay the inconvenience. It must here be understood that when I refer to “remedies,” I do not speak of some that aspire to that title, which, if they don’t kill, don’t certainly cure; nor of others which will assuredly first cure and then as certainly kill—though I confess to have given even these a trial, and swallowed ingredients that don’t come well out of analysis. I would warn all zealous fat people to be careful of these concoctions, and at least consult a physician before saturating their systems with poisons. I do not even refer to other “remedies,” admittedly and which I have foundsafe, though before concluding my hints I shall have a word to say about them, and give my opinion of their respective titles to merit, on the principle that “a wink is as good as a nod to a blind horse.” In support of my claim to credence I may state that my appearance was known to almost everybody, many of whom have since seen me as I now am; and though I cannot produce testimonials from a corpulent clergyman in Australia who weighed 40 stone and now only 14, and never felt better in his life, nor from the fat Countess del Quackador, of Buenos Ayres, who attributes her recovery to the sole use of —, still I can produce myself, and seeing is usually admitted to be half way to believing. My theory is based on that of that excellent man and apostle of corpulency, the late Mr. Banting—a theory which, as propounded by him, was in a crude state, but, like all great discoveries, is capable of improvement based on experience. In short, I agree with him as a whole, but differ on many essential points. I felt, whilst practising his treatment, that something was wanting, and my experience has since discovered what that something is. Others like myself may have found the Banting theory deficientbeyond a certain point. I would ask these to give mine a fair trial for three months.
Anyone who has waded through my narrative will observe that the dietary I subsisted on for some months of my life was in itself incapable of reducing a man; and it was thanks to the liberal margin I had to work upon, and the facilities I enjoyed for not only weighing myself, but also my food, that I attribute in a great measure the perfecting of my theory, and the reliance that may be placed on it. Banting lays down as a principle that “quantity may fairly be left to the natural appetite, provided the quality is rigidly adhered to.” In this I disagree with him, but on the contrary confidently assert that until the subject is reduced to its proper size, it is absolutely imperative to limit the quantity as well as the quality. The quantity, however, is a liberal one, both as regards solid and fluid. At the same time it must be remembered that great ignorance exists as to the weight of the commonest articles of dietary, and to form an estimate of their weight by their appearance can only be attained by experience. One often hears of persons that “don’t eat more than a bird,” and stout people are invariablyaccredited with being small eaters. It would astonish these persons to find that they consume in blissful ignorance three or four pounds a day. I would recommend every corpulent person to purchase a set of cheap scales capable of weighing accurately one, two, four, and eight ounces (an ounce is a word that conveys a diminutive impression, yet eight of them constitute half a pound); these can be procured at any ironmonger’s at a cost of two or three shillings. I would also suggest a half-pint measure; this involves an outlay of about twopence. Without these two articles no corpulent person’s house can be considered properly furnished. Before commencing the experiment it is indispensable to be accurately weighed, taking care to weighallyou have on (separately and at another time), so that your exact weight can be arrived at, whether attired in summer or winter clothing. By degrees this weekly weighing becomes an amusement, and one that increases as your weight decreases.
The following table may be accepted as fairly accurate, and shows what the respective natural weights of persons ought to be. I do not lay down a hard and fast rule, that in no case ought itto be exceeded. On the contrary, my theory, based on personal experience, convinces me that every person has his own peculiar weight and dimensions as intended by Nature, and when he has found his “bearings”—which he will have no difficulty in doing, as I shall explain hereafter, by unmistakable symptoms—any further reduction is attended with difficulty, and is, indeed, unnecessary. Taken, however, as something to work upon, the following scale, obtained from a leading insurance company, may be studied with advantage; and when the corpulent reader has arrived within half a stone of the specified weight—a generous concession surely—he may then, but not till then, begin to take occasional liberties, both as regards quantity and quality. I am offering these remarks to those only who conscientiously intend to give my theory a fair trial. To those lukewarm disciples who would like to be thin, without possessing the self-denial necessary for this most simple remedy, I cannot do better than apply the views I once heard expressed by a piper to a cockney officer in a Highland regiment who asked him to play the “Mabel” valse—that “it would only be making a fool of the tune and a fool of the pipes.”
Average weight for a person
High
Stones
Pounds
Feet
Inches
8
2 or 3
5
0
8
8 – 9
5
1
9
1 – 2
5
2
9
8 – 9
5
3
9
11 – 12
5
4
10
3 – 4
5
5
10
6 – 7
5
6
10
9 – 10
5
7
11
2 – 3
5
8
11
9 – 10
5
9
12
4 – 5
5
10
12
10 – 12
5
11
13
0
6
0
When the reader has attained to within half a stone of these figures, he will have the game in his own hands, and can regulate his system with as much accuracy as a clock. On November 25th, 1881, I weighed the enormous weight of 19 stone 13 lbs. On October 1st, 1882, I weighed 12 stone 4 lbs., and with a loss of 18 inches in girth—i.e., a reduction of 7 stone 9 lbs.; and as this can be verified, my opinion is at least worthy of attention. I consider it absolutely necessary that one should at first limit one’s self to 2 pounds solid and 3 pints fluid daily; and I cannot do better than give the dietary I have pursued for the past five or six months in the south of France:—
At6A.M.—I take half-a-pint of black coffee and one ounce of coarsebrownbread or biscuit.
At9A.M.—I breakfast off four ounces of lean meat, three ounces of brown bread or biscuit, and half-a-pint of black coffee.
At2P.M.—I have six ounces lean meat, three ounces brown bread or biscuit, six ounces green vegetables, and half-a-pint of any fluid except ale, effervescing wines, or aërated waters.
After Dinner—I take half-a-pint of coffee.
At6P.M.—I take half-a-pint of coffee.
At Supper—I have two ounces brown bread or biscuit, and a couple of glasses of sherry or claret.
Independently of this I eat fruitad lib.I find as a broad rule that all vegetables that grow above ground, such as cauliflower, artichokes, sprouts, &c. (except peas and rice), are conducive to health; whereas all that grow underground, such as potatoes, carrots, beet-root, &c., are fat persons’ poison. It is immaterial what meat one eats, whether fish, flesh—except pork—or fowl, but it is necessary to avoid the fat. Stout persons will find, as I did, an inclination to smuggle in a little, but they must flee from the temptation. A severe trial at first is confining one’s self to this quantity and quality, whilst others are indulging to a greater extent at the same table; but the feeling soonwears off, and must be looked on as the penalty attached to Pharaoh’s fat kine. Fat people never consider that if they were suffering from a cancer they would not hesitate to submit to amputation—and amputation is not unattended with pain—to prolong life; and yet they waver regarding the treatment of corpulency—an equally certain enemy to life—with a painless remedy! Do they invariably also, in other paths of life, return good for evil, and heap coals of fire on an enemy’s head? And yet here is a hideous, ungainly, deadly foe pampered and fattened at the cost of life, comfort, and appearance. And then the ridicule! I ask you, amiable fat reader, is that agreeable? I would, in fact, make obesity penal, as calling for special legislation, whereby the police would be justified in arresting oleaginous pedestrians, clapping them into the scales at the nearest police-station, and if they exceeded a certain number of feet in circumference, or weight, at once procure their summary imprisonment, without the option of a fine. The streets would thus be cleared of these fleshy obstructions; besides which, if the law recognises attempted suicide as a crime in one way, why not in another? The dietary I havesuggested is conducive to constipation, a result that brown bread remedies considerably, if not entirely removes. There are brown breads and brown breads, however, and after trying a good many, I have come to the conclusion that the “whole meal bread” made by Messrs. Hill and Son, of 60, Bishopsgate Street Within, and 3, Albert Mansions, Victoria Street, is admirably adapted to the requirements of the corpulent. It keeps the bowels open, is delicious in flavour, and entirely free from the alum that finds its way into many other kinds. Some six months ago I had an interview with a member of this firm, and explained my views of the advantages that would attend a biscuit made of the same meal. I have lately tasted some made by them, that are apparently specially adapted for the consumption of the corpulent; and as they have agents in every part of the kingdom, the regular supply is within the reach of all. I strongly commend these to all my readers. There is one more item to which I attach great importance, namely, the taking at bed-time of one teaspoonful of liquorice-powder (German Pharmacopoeia) in half a tumbler of water. This quantity may be gradually increased,as circumstances seem to require; and as a good deal depends on the purity and freshness of this drug, the advisability of going to a good chemist cannot be too strongly urged. I have often been told that smoking is injurious to the corpulent, but this I consider sheer nonsense. I smoke from morning to night, and, on the contrary, believe it makes up for the larger amount of food one had previously been in the habit of consuming. In America, where I spent many happy years, I was never without “a smoke,” a habit I still continue, though with the disadvantage of having to substitute British for the fragrant Oronoko and Perique tobaccos. This latter is, in my estimation, whether used as cigar, cigarette, or in a pipe, the finest tobacco in the world. I have discovered, beyond doubt, that a person afflicted with obesity is affected by the smallest transgression of the strictregimen. I have for experiment taken one lump of sugar in my coffee at meals, and found that this single innovation has produced an increase of a pound in my weight in a week; indeed, a person disposed to this affliction is as sensitive as an aneroid. It was in May last that I first determined to reap at least one benefit from my lateincarceration, and, by a careful regard to quantity and quality, to test effects that my position and the time at my disposal offered great facilities for, and thus reduce corpulency to a science, and its reduction to a certainty. A reference to other portions of this narrative will put it beyond a doubt that the unlimited amount of food at my disposal made this an easy task. I will not here go into these particulars, as a detailed account necessary for the unbroken interest in my narrative will be found elsewhere, but will confine myself to giving a table of the reduction I made in myself by my own free-will and determination.
I weighed
1881.
stone
pounds
November 25th
19
13
December 7th
19
9
,, 19th
18
12
1882.
January 10th
18
1
,, 31st
17
12
March 20th
16
10
May 18th
16
4
June 6th
15
12
,, 20th to July 2nd
15
8
July 15th
15
4
,, 29th
14
10
September 2nd
13
2
,, 9th
12
10
,, 23rd
12
6
October 1st
12
4
Making a total loss of 107 lbs. (7 stone 9 lbs.) in318 days. This loss was not obtained without great determination and self denial, but was it not worth it? If any corpulent reader could see my photograph of November, 1881, and November, 1882, he would, I think, admit it was, and receive a stimulus to persevere as I did. A reference to the above table will show no diminution between June 20th and July 2nd. I attribute this to my having found what I call my “bearings,” for though continuing in the same course, I could not get away from 15 stone 8 lbs. I persisted, however, and eventually succeeded; and the next date shows a steady decline. I would recommend no experimentalist to transgress this bound, and when they find that after a fortnight’s continuance of the strict system they have obtained no perceptible diminution of weight they shouldSTOP; they have found their “bearings,” and any further perseverance is attended with unnecessary inconvenience. The time, however, has then come for most careful watch and guard, and the slightest liberty is accompanied by a proportionate increase. Yielding to the kindly meant advice of friends, I some months ago took new milk and other fattening luxuries, with the result of increasing a stonein six weeks. I had, however, the remedy in my own hands, and can now play fast and loose with an amusing degree of certainty. I can, without an effort, reduce or increase my weight three or four pounds in a week, and having attained the comfortable weight of 13 stone 10 lbs, I am determined never again to turn the scale beyond 14 stone. I allow this margin as the legitimate perquisite of advancing years.
In conclusion, I guarantee reduction with perfect safety to all who will honestly try the followingregimenin its integrity for three months:—
Breakfast—Eight ounces coarse brown bread (yesterday’s baking); four ounces lean meat; one pint coffee or other fluid.
Dinner.—Four and a-half ounces brown bread; six ounces any lean meat (or, if preferred as an occasional substitute, half-pint of soup—ten ounces); six ounces green vegetables; one pint fluid.
Tea.—One and a-half ounces brown bread; half a pint of coffee.
Supper.—One or two glasses of wine, or a glass of spirit and water (except rum); and two ounces biscuit.
Total.—Two pounds solid and three pints fluid.
Bed-time.—One teaspoonful liquorice powder (German pharmacopoeia) in half a tumbler of water.
I have parcelled the above out into meals to meet the ordinary taste, though it is quite immaterial how or when the quantity is taken. It is, moreover, a matter of perfect indifference whether tea (no sugar or milk), claret, or, in fact, any other fluid (except ale and aërated or effervescing drinks), is substituted for coffee.
The principal points on which I differ from the so-called “Banting” system are:—
(a) The limiting of the quantity till a proper reduction has taken place.
(b) The occasional substituting (if desired) of soup for meat, which I have found attended with no inconvenience.
(c) The substitution of brown bread or brown biscuit for toast or rusk—thereby obviating constipation.
(d) The taking of liquorice powder at bed-time in lieu of the alkaline on rising.
To the uninitiated the above may appear trifles; their advantage can only be estimated by those who have tried both systems.
Asthe key turned in the ponderous door, and I found myself, with sixteen others, standing on a huge mat in a dismal corridor, I realised that I had arrived “home,” or at what I might consider as such, for—as I imagined—the next eighteen months. I had already passed one week in Newgate, and really thought, in the sanguineness of my heart, that I had made a considerable hole in my sentence, and that the remaining seventy-seven weeks would soon slip by. My first intimation that the place was inhabited, except by mutes, was hearing a metallic voice saying,pro bono publico, “You’ll find that talking is not permitted here—you mustn’t talk.” By peering into the gloom I discovered that the voice belonged to a bald head, and the bald head to a venerable head warder. The poor old man wassuper-annuated shortly after, and evidently meant to show the recruits he was not to be trifled with, and that there was life in the old dog yet. We were next taken through endless corridors to the “Reception Room.” Can any name be more suggestive of satire, except perhaps “Mount Pleasant,” the hill so called on which the prison stands, bounded at each corner by a public-house, and a “pop-shop” here and there sandwiched in between! The reception we received in the Reception Room was far from a cordial one; it was, indeed, as cold as the weather outside. The Reception Room is octagon shape, with benches arranged over the entire floor; on these we were directed to sit down, about a yard apart. In front was a large desk and a high stool, on which a turnkey was perched, whose sole duty was to prevent the least intercourse between the prisoners; in fact, the entire room and its fittings conveyed the impression of being connected with a charity school for mutes. The Reception Room is the first and last place a prisoner passes through; it is here that, on his arrival, he is transformed into the Queen’s livery, and again on his departure reverts to citizen’s clothing—it is, in fact, the filter throughwhich the dregs of London have to pass before becoming sufficiently purified to be again permitted to mingle with the pure stream outside. The silence of the grave is its normal condition, where the novice receives a foretaste of the “silent system.”
The Effects of a Warm Bath at “Coldbath.”
We must have sat thus silently for at least an hour, when a door from outside was unlocked, and a warder, accompanied by two prisoners carrying sacks, made their appearance. The contents of these, being thrown on the floor, were discovered to be boots, not new ones, or even pairs, but very old and dirty, mended and patched with lumps of leather on the soles, on the heels, and, in fact, anywhere. We were now invited to “fit” ourselves, and a scramble ensued amongst a section of the prisoners. I selected a nondescript pair, tied by a cord, as unsuited a couple as ever were united, the right foot of which would have fitted an elephant, and the left have been tight for a cork leg. With this unsavoury acquisition on my lap I resumed my seat. It is the custom, as I before hinted, to show one the worst of everything at first, and the rule that applied to the cells was clearly in force regarding the boots. I found, however, that after the general “fit,” and when acomparative lull ensued, that some of the more fortunate ones had better ones supplied, and I shortly after received a new pair in exchange for my “fit.” The next thing that made its appearance was a basket full of caps and stocks. Here I was less fortunate, and the size of my head precluded the possibility of a fit. The basket was followed by a bundle of wooden labels, on each of which our various names were inscribed; with these in our hands, we were told to “Come along.” My label considerably puzzled me. We now found ourselves in the corridor devoted to baths, where each man received a bundle of clothing. The object of the label now manifested itself; it was to attach to our clothes—not likely to be wanted for some time. The bundles consisted of a pair of blue worsted socks, a blue striped shirt, a blue pocket-handkerchief the thickness of a tile, a towel as coarse as a nutmeg-grater, and a suit of clothes. The clothes, when new, are really very good, and by no means objectionable. There is nothing of that conspicuous, degrading appearance about them that distinguishes the convict dress. On the contrary, the trousers and vest are well cut, and made of good warm mole-skin; thejacket is a capital material, and were it not for painful associations, and the possibility of unpleasant attentions from zealous policemen, I would gladly have a suit of the jacket material. The otherwise agreeable effect is somewhat marred by the broad-arrow Government mark, which appears to be applied regardless of all symmetry and indeed of all expense. No general rule apparently exists as to the marking of this cloth, which one must conclude is left entirely to the discretion and good taste of the individual armed with the paint-pot. This want of uniformity thus lends an agreeable variety to the different appearances of individuals; for my part, I always felt that I resembled the “Seven of Spades.” The Baths are, as I found them at Newgate, in themselves excellent, and if one could forget one’s probable predecessor, the enjoyment would be considerably enhanced. They were, I daresay, perfectly clean, though I always fancied I detected a Seven-Dials mouse-trap flavour in the atmosphere, and in the water. The bath, as an institution, admirably fulfils its twofold function; it insures a thorough wash, and removes the last trace of one’s former self. Entering the apartment with the bundleunder my arm, I proceeded to divest myself of my clothing. I had not, however, been many seconds submerged before an eye was applied to the peephole, followed by the entrance of a turnkey, and all my clothing was carefully removed. The process of re-dressing was not an easy one; nothing came within a foot of my size except the socks; the overalls declined to do anything like meeting, and a piece of twine was pressed into the service. The waistcoat was another trial, necessitating the turnkey calling for the “corpulent waistcoat.” Trussed up in this fashion, I patiently awaited the “corpulent” waistcoat, a marvel of tailoring. The chest measurement could not have exceeded thirty-six; whilst the waist (?) must have been one hundred. From the “corpulent” one only reaching half-way down my chest, I concluded that its original owner must have been about five-foot-nothing. But the warder very good-naturedly said “he’d make it all right,” and not long after I was measured, and within twenty-four hours possessed a brand-new suit. My enormous size also necessitated special shirts; a couple were made in an incredibly short space of time, and all through my career I experienced the benefit of wearing linenthat had never been contaminated by contact with “baser metal.” The warder to whom I was indebted for these delicate attentions was one of the best in the prison, and though I never came much in contact with him, I understood he was a great favourite. He was connected with the stores, and could get more done in an hour than one of the blustering kind in a week. Before leaving the baths, I would wish to draw attention to a custom that calls for immediate alteration. The system at present in vogue is for all prisoners to have a bath immediately on arrival,afterwhich they undergo medical examination. At these examinations, as is well known, many creatures are found, not only to be alive with vermin, but suffering from itch. With these facts, that are not to be gainsaid, common sense surely suggests a medical examinationbeforeinstead ofafterthe bath, an arrangement which, however disagreeable to the surgeons, would be a considerable benefit to the prison inmates generally. It is a common occurrence for men who have been in prison three, and even six months, to be found to be suffering from itch, and it is equally certain that they caught it in these baths, which arepro bono publicooncea fortnight. I thank God I was spared any of these “plagues,” though I never took my periodical dip without finding my thoughts wandering to Scotland and the Argyll (not Bignell’s).
Having joined my companions we were reconducted to the reception-room, which by this time was crowded by contributions from the various Police-courts. My Newgate friend Mike was now thoroughly in his element; he appeared to take a pride in showing his intimacy with the etiquette of the place, and seemed quite hurt if a warder didn’t recognize him as an old acquaintance. As I looked down the benches now fully occupied, I fancied I could have distinguished every new comer from thehabituéby the way they wore their caps. The new hands put them on in such a manner that they resembled a quartern loaf, whilst the more experienced—such as Mike—cocked them with a jaunty air as if proud of the effect. At a later period I observed that a great deal of vanity existed on the subject of toilet amongst the regular jail-birds: they plastered down their hair—as I know—with the greasy skimmings of their soup, or applications of suet pudding; and many—incredible as it mayappear—shaved regularly with their tin knives and the back of a plate for a mirror. Hair-cutting now commenced, and anyone whose hair was too long was effectually operated on. It is a mistake to suppose that prisoners’ hair is cut in the barbarous manner that is applied to convicts; nothing is done to them beyond what a soldier has to submit to—namely, having his hair and beard of moderate length. As I have all through life kept what I have as close as possible, the hair-cutting in my case was dispensed with, and through the subsequent few months I had always to ask for the services of the barber, and invariably received the same reply—“Surely, yours is short enough!” There was one item in the crop I was never subjected to—probably because my moustache was small—but which I certainly should not have liked; it was the habit of clipping the ends square to the lip. I’ve often seen men in London and elsewhere with this distinctive crop, which I should now invariably associate with prison life; and if I met a Bishop who affected this style it would be difficult to convince me that I had not met him “elsewhere.” The next person that intruded himselfwas—as I was informed—a chaplain. His attire was far from clerical, and consisted of a billycock hat—not a good, honest, disreputable one, but one of your shabby-genteels, so infinitely more fatal—a coat that suggested Crosse and Blackwell’s cut, and boots suspiciously resembling the prison make. He interrogated me in my turn, though I fear his curiosity was far from satisfied. His mania was the ceremony of “confirmation,” and when he discovered I had omitted that essential form, I at once passed into his black books. Happily, I was perfectly indifferent to his displeasure or his patronage—indeed the latter would have been the most unbearable. He never forgave me, however, as a discreditable tiff we had long after conclusively proved. As I got to see more of this shining light I began to suspect that he must have been a Jesuit, he did so much to make Protestantism obnoxious.
I was next passed on to a schoolmaster—a gradual improvement in accordance with the system is here apparent—who amused me by inquiring if I could read, how I spelt “oxen,” if I could write, and if I thought I could “write a letter?” This latter question was very conclusivelyset at rest a week later by an incident that occurred in which I was the chief culprit, and which necessitated the collective wisdom of the Home Office and a full bench of the Visiting Justices to adjudicate upon. Meanwhile, I had “passed” this scorching examination, and had to sit quietly by and listen to illiterate costermongers and rascally pickpockets being severally questioned. It had its amusing features, although I felt how degrading it was for a public school-boy and a gentleman by birth and education to be compelled under any combination of circumstances to submit to be catechized by such a trio. The next person to appear was the doctor—the dearest, kindest old gentleman I ever met. His manner to all was alike considerate and kind; one, moreover, who seemed to be aware that the position of a gentleman (unless usurped by a cad) loses nothing of its dignity by a courteous bearing towards inferiors or men placed in a painful position—a manner that inspired respect and yet precluded the possibility of a liberty, a refreshing contrast to a nondescript that had preceded him, and the beau idéal of a fine old English gentleman. Stripped to the waist andbehind a screen, we were one by one subjected to a minute examination. A schemer had a very sorry look-out with this eminent physician; no dodge could possibly avail, for he was intimate with every “ailment” that criminal flesh is heir to. It was amusing, after hearing some rascal relate the numerous complaints from which he was suffering, to hear the surgeon quietly say with a smile, “Oh, you’ll soon be all right,” and to see the hospital warder write down, “Fit, hard labour.” This short and apparently informal ceremony is the most momentous in one’s future career, and though unaware of it at the time, I was not surprised later on at the importance attached to it by the experienced criminal. By it one’s future treatment is entirely guided, and the class of labour is carefully selected in accordance with its decision. A card, then and there signed by the surgeon, and which is always fixed on one’s cell door, decides one’s future vocation; and “Hard labour,” or “Light labour and bed,” bear a significance incredible to the uninitiated. As I stood before the kind old man stripped to the waist (or rather to where my waist now is) I was amused by his astonishment at my enormous proportions. I satisfied him I was notdeceiving him by a reference to an operation I had once undergone; and this, coupled with my unnatural size, decided him I was incapable of hard labour, and the words, “Light labour and bed,” were recorded on my card. Before many hours had passed I realized the benefit of those magic words. These preliminaries, as is always the case in well-constructed dramas or farces, only led up to the event of the day—the inspection by the Governor. In Her Majesty’s prisons these individuals are clothed in attributes something more than mortal, and receive an amount of homage sufficient to turn the head of a fool or a snob. In this instance the Governor was neither, and though a strict disciplinarian, was the justest and “straightest” man I ever met. Prisoners and warders were equally amenable to his discipline, and the slightest dereliction of duty brought him down on you like a load of bricks. There was no abuse or verbosity accompanying this discipline, and though he was feared, I believe he was equally liked and respected by every man in the prison. The advent of such a personage naturally involved a proportionate amount of preparation, and everything received an overhaul. Men who wore HerMajesty’s livery for the first time, and were mere babes in the mysteries of its graceful adjustment, were told to put their stocks “square on,” or button this button and not that of their vests and jackets; lumps of coal that had burned crooked were carefully straightened, and even the coal-box got a lick of whitewash at the last moment. We were then rehearsed in a sort of drill: every man was informed that when “attention” was called he was at once to “spring” up smartly and remain standing—an old vagrant, aged 100 to judge by his appearance, “sprang” with so much zeal that I really thought he had cricked his neck. When all the preparations were considered complete, and we had attained an efficiency worthy the reputation of the “North Corks,” and as some minutes had yet to elapse before the great man’s arrival, it was deemed advisable to fix our thoughts in the same reverential groove by reading certain rules for our future guidance. The following notice is one of the half-dozen that hang up in every cell—all of which I shall produce hereafter. They can hardly be considered as light reading, or such as one would select unless absolutely compelled; nevertheless, they afforded me a certain amount of occupation bylearning them by heart during the many solitary hours I spent hereafter:—
RELATING TO THETREATMENT AND CONDUCT OF CONVICTEDCRIMINAL PRISONERS.1. Prisoners shall not disobey the orders of the Governor or of any officer of the prison, nor treat them with disrespect.2. They shall preserve silence, and are not to cause annoyance or disturbance by making unnecessary noise.3. They shall not communicate or attempt to do so with one another, or with any strangers or others who may visit the prison.4. They shall not disfigure any part of their cells or damage any property, or deface, erase, destroy, or pull down any rules or other papers hung up therein, or commit any nuisance, or have in their cells or possession any article not sanctioned by the orders and regulations.5. They shall not be idle, nor feign sickness to evade their work.6. They shall not be guilty of profane language, of indecent or irreverent conduct, nor shall they use threats towards or commit assaults upon officers or one another.7. They shall obey such regulations as regards washing, bathing, hair-cutting, and shaving as may from time to time be established, with a view to the proper maintenance of health and cleanliness.8. They shall keep their cells, utensils, clothing, and bedding clean and neatly arranged, and shall when required clean and sweep the yards, passages, and other parts of the prison.9. If any prisoner has any complaint to make regarding the diet, it must be made immediately after a meal is served and before any portion of it is eaten. Frivolous and groundless complaints, repeatedly made, will be dealt with as a breach of prison discipline.10. A prisoner may, if required for the purposes of justice, be photographed.11. Prisoners shall attend divine service on Sundays, and on other days when such service is performed, unless they receive permission to be absent. No prisoner shall be compelled to attendthe religious service of a church to which he does not belong.12. The following offences committed by male prisoners convicted of felony or sentenced to hard labour will render them liable to corporal punishment:—1st. Mutiny or open incitement to mutiny in the prison, personal violence to any officer of the prison, aggravated or repeated assaults on a fellow-prisoner, repetition of insulting or threatening language to any officer or prisoner.2nd. Wilfully and maliciously breaking the prison windows, or otherwise destroying the prison property.3rd. When under punishment, wilfully making a disturbance tending to interrupt the order and discipline of the prison, and any other act of gross misconduct or insubordination requiring to be suppressed by extraordinary means.13. A prisoner committing a breach of any of the regulations is liable to be sentenced to confinement in a punishment cell, and such dietary and other punishments as the rules allow.14. Any gratuity granted to a prisoner may be paid to him through a Prisoners’ Aid Society, or in such way as the Commissioners may direct.15. Prisoners may, if they desire it, have an interview with the Governor or superior authority to make complaints or prefer requests; and the Governor shall redress any grievance or take such steps as may seem necessary.16. Any prisoner wishing to see a member of the Visiting Committee shall be allowed to do so on the occasion of his next occurring visit to the prison.
RELATING TO THE
TREATMENT AND CONDUCT OF CONVICTEDCRIMINAL PRISONERS.
1. Prisoners shall not disobey the orders of the Governor or of any officer of the prison, nor treat them with disrespect.
2. They shall preserve silence, and are not to cause annoyance or disturbance by making unnecessary noise.
3. They shall not communicate or attempt to do so with one another, or with any strangers or others who may visit the prison.
4. They shall not disfigure any part of their cells or damage any property, or deface, erase, destroy, or pull down any rules or other papers hung up therein, or commit any nuisance, or have in their cells or possession any article not sanctioned by the orders and regulations.
5. They shall not be idle, nor feign sickness to evade their work.
6. They shall not be guilty of profane language, of indecent or irreverent conduct, nor shall they use threats towards or commit assaults upon officers or one another.
7. They shall obey such regulations as regards washing, bathing, hair-cutting, and shaving as may from time to time be established, with a view to the proper maintenance of health and cleanliness.
8. They shall keep their cells, utensils, clothing, and bedding clean and neatly arranged, and shall when required clean and sweep the yards, passages, and other parts of the prison.
9. If any prisoner has any complaint to make regarding the diet, it must be made immediately after a meal is served and before any portion of it is eaten. Frivolous and groundless complaints, repeatedly made, will be dealt with as a breach of prison discipline.
10. A prisoner may, if required for the purposes of justice, be photographed.
11. Prisoners shall attend divine service on Sundays, and on other days when such service is performed, unless they receive permission to be absent. No prisoner shall be compelled to attendthe religious service of a church to which he does not belong.
12. The following offences committed by male prisoners convicted of felony or sentenced to hard labour will render them liable to corporal punishment:—
1st. Mutiny or open incitement to mutiny in the prison, personal violence to any officer of the prison, aggravated or repeated assaults on a fellow-prisoner, repetition of insulting or threatening language to any officer or prisoner.
2nd. Wilfully and maliciously breaking the prison windows, or otherwise destroying the prison property.
3rd. When under punishment, wilfully making a disturbance tending to interrupt the order and discipline of the prison, and any other act of gross misconduct or insubordination requiring to be suppressed by extraordinary means.
13. A prisoner committing a breach of any of the regulations is liable to be sentenced to confinement in a punishment cell, and such dietary and other punishments as the rules allow.
14. Any gratuity granted to a prisoner may be paid to him through a Prisoners’ Aid Society, or in such way as the Commissioners may direct.
15. Prisoners may, if they desire it, have an interview with the Governor or superior authority to make complaints or prefer requests; and the Governor shall redress any grievance or take such steps as may seem necessary.
16. Any prisoner wishing to see a member of the Visiting Committee shall be allowed to do so on the occasion of his next occurring visit to the prison.