Improved Ventilation and Drainage—Revised dietary—Provision of Hard Labour—Mild rule of Governor Chapman—Constant warfare between Prisoners and Authorities—Feigned suicides—Repeated Offences—Turbulence developed into open mutiny—Cells barricaded—Furniture demolished—Officers assaulted—Resistance to Authority culminates in murderous affray—Act permitting corporal punishment passed.

No pains were spared to make the Penitentiary wholesome for re-occupation. A Parliamentary Committee—that great panacea for all public ills—had however already reported favourably upon the place. They had declared that no case of local unhealthiness could be made out against it; nor had they been able to find “anything in the spot on which the Penitentiary is situated, nor in the construction of the building itself, nor in the moral and physical treatment of the prisoners confined therein, to injure health or render them peculiarly liable to disease.”

Yet to guard against all danger of relapse, they advised that none of the old hands should return to the prison, and recommended also certain external and internal improvements. Better ventilation was needed; to obtain this they called in Sir Humphrey Davy, and gave him carte blanche to carry out any alterations. Complete fumigation was also necessary; and this was effected with chlorine, under the supervision of a Mr. Faraday from the Royal Institution. To render innocuous the dirty ditch of stagnant water—dignified with the name of moat—which surrounded the buildings just within the boundary wall, it was connected with the Thames and its tides. Additional stoves were placed in the several pentagons, and the dietary reorganized on a full and nutritive scale, in quality and quantity equal to that in force before the epidemic. Provision was also made to secure plenty of hard labour exercise for the prisoners daily, by increasing the number of crank mills and water machines in the yards. More schooling was also recommended, as a profitable method of employing hours otherwise lost, and breaking in on the monotony and dreariness of the long dark nights. The cells, the committee thought too, should be lighted with candles, and books supplied “of a kind to combine rational amusement, with moral and religious instruction.” Indeed there was no limit to the benevolence of these commissioners. Adverting to the testimony of the medical men they had examined, who were agreed that cheerfulness and innocent recreation were conducive to health, they submitted for consideration, whether some kind of games or sports might not be permitted in the prison during a portion of the day. Fives-courts and skittle-alleys were probably in their minds, with cricket in the garden, or football during the winter weather. As one reads all this, one is tempted to ask whether the objects of so much tender solicitude were really convicted felons sentenced to imprisonment for serious crimes.

The rule of Governor Chapman was essentially considerate and mild. There was no limit to his long-suffering and patience. Though by all the habits of his early life he must have learned to look at breaches of discipline with no lenient eye, we shall find that he never punished even the most insubordinate and contumacious of the ruffians committed to his charge till he had first exhausted every method of exhortation or reproof; and when he had punished he was ever ready to forgive, on a promise of future amendment, or even a mere hypocritical expression of contrition alone. It is now generally admitted that felons cooped up within four walls can be kept in bounds only under an iron hand. Captain Chapman acted otherwise, the committee which controlled him fully endorsing his views. For a long time to come the prison was like a bear garden; misconduct was rife in every shape and form, increasing daily in virulence, till at length the place might have been likened to Pandemonium let loose. Then more stringent measures were enforced, with satisfactory results, as we shall see; but for many years there was that continuous warfare between ruffianism and constituted authority which is inevitable when the latter savours of weakness or irresolution.

Feigned suicides were among the earliest methods of annoyance. It is not easy to explain exactly what end the prisoners had in view, but doubtless they hoped to enlist the sympathies of their kindhearted guardians, by exhibiting a recklessness of life. Those who preferred death to continued imprisonment must indeed be miserably unhappy, calling for increased tenderness and anxious attention. They must be talked to, petted, patted on the back, and taken into the infirmary, to be regaled with dainties, and suffered to lie there in idleness for weeks. So whenever any prisoner was thwarted or out of temper, often indeed without rhyme or reason, and whenever the fancy seized him, he tied himself up at once to his loom, or laid hands upon his throat with his dinner-knife, or a bit of broken glass. Of course their last idea was to succeed. They took the greatest pains to insure their own safety, and these were often ludicrously apparent; but now and then, though rarely, they failed of their object, and the wretched victim suffered by mistake. Happily the actually fatal cases were few and far between.

This fashion of attempting suicide was led by a certain William Major, who arrived from Newgate on the 8th October, 1824. A few days afterwards he confided to the surgeon this determination to make away with himself; “that, or murder some one here; for I’d sooner be hanged like a dog than stay in the Penitentiary.” Such terrible desperation called of course for immediate expostulation, and Captain Chapman proceeded at once to Major’s cell. The prisoner’s knife and scissors were first removed; then the governor spoke to him. Major replied sullenly; adding, “I’ve made up my mind: I’d do anything to get out of this place; kill myself or you. I’d sooner go to the gallows than stay here.” “I reasoned with him,” says Captain Chapman in his Journal, “for a length of time on the wickedness of such shocking expressions; telling him there was only one way of shortening his time, and that was by good conduct. I told him his threats were those of a silly lad, which I should however punish him for.” So Major was carried off to a dark cell, but not before the governor had said all he could think of, to reason him out of his evil frame of mind. He remained in the dark two days, and then, having expressed himself penitent and promising faithfully better behaviour, he was released. For three weeks nothing further occurred, and then, “Suddenly,” says the governor, “as I was passing through a neighbouring ward, a turnkey called to me, ‘Here, here, governor! bring a knife. Major has hanged himself.” He had made himself fast to the cross beam of his loom. The action of his heart had not, however, ceased, though the circulation was languid and his extremities cold. He was removed at once to the infirmary, and as soon as animation was restored, the governor returned to the prisoner’s cell, and then found that “the hammock lashing was made fast in two places to the cross beam from the loom to the wall; in one was a long loop, in which Major had placed his feet; in the other a noose, as far distant from the loop as the length of the beam would permit, in which he had put his head; a portion of the rope between noose and loop he had held in his hand.” It was quite clear, therefore, that he had no determined intention of committing suicide; besides which he had chosen his time just as the turnkey was about to visit him, and he had eaten his supper, “which,” says the governor, “was no indication of despair.” Major soon recovered, and pretended to be sincerely ashamed of his wicked behaviour.

Not long afterwards a man, Combe, in the refractory cell, tried to hang himself with a pocket handkerchief. Placing his bedstead against the wall, he had used it as a ladder to climb up to the grating of the ventilator in the ceiling of his cell. To this he had made fast the handkerchief, then dropped; but he was found standing calmly by the bed, with the noose not even tight. Next a woman, Catherine Roper, tried the same trick, and was found lying full length on the floor, and evidently she was quite uninjured. Then came a real affair; and from the hour at which the act was perpetrated all doubt of intention was unhappily impossible. Lewis Abrahams, a gloomy, ill-tempered man, was punished for breaking a fly-shuttle; again for calling his warder a liar. That night he hung himself. He was found quite dead and cold, partly extended on the stone floor, and partly reclining as it were against the cell wall. He had suspended himself by the slight “nettles” (small cords) of his hammock, which had broken by his weight. The prisoner in the next cell reported that between one and two in the morning he had heard a noise of some one kicking against the wall; and then no doubt the deed was done.

After this unhappy example attempts rapidly multiplied, though happily none were otherwise than feigned. One tried the iron grating and a piece of cord; another used his cell block as a drop, but was careful to retain the halter in his hands; a third, Moses Josephs, tried to cut his throat, but on examination nothing but a slight reddish scratch was found, which the doctor was convinced was done by the back of the knife. In all these cases immediate and anxious attention was afforded by all the officials of the Penitentiary. The governor himself, who never gave himself an hour’s relaxation, and was always close at hand, was generally the first on the scene of suicide. If there was but a hint of anything wrong he was ready to spend hours with the intending felo-de-se. Thus in Metzer’s—a fresh case: a man who would not eat, was idle too, morose and sullen, “though spoken to always in the kindest manner.” No sooner was it known that he was brooding over the length of his confinement—his was a life sentence—and had hinted at suicide, than the governor spent hours with him in exhortation. Metzer, being a weaver by trade, had been placed in a cell furnished with a loom; from this he was to be changed immediately to another, lest the beam should be a temptation to him; but the governor, being uneasy, first visited him again, and found him, though late at night, in his clothes perambulating his cell. On this his neighbour was set to watch him for the rest of the night, and the doctor gave him a composing draught. Next morning, when they told him he was to leave his cell for good, he became outrageously violent, and assaulted every one around. He was now taken forcibly to the infirmary, and put in a strait-waistcoat; whereupon he grew calmer and promised to go to his new cell, provided he was allowed to take his own hammock with him. It struck the governor at once that something might be concealed in it, and it was searched minutely. Inside the bedclothes they found a couple of yards of hammock lashing, one end of which was made into a noose, “leaving,” the governor remarks, “little doubt of his intention.”

But to meet and frustrate these repeated attempts at suicide were by no means the governor’s only trials. The misconduct of many other prisoners must have made his life a burthen to him. Thefts were frequent: these fellows’ fingers itched to lay their hands on all that came in their way. The tower wardsman—a prisoner in a place of trust—steals his warder’s rations; others filch knives, metal buttons, bath brick, and food from one another. Then there was much wasteful destruction of materials, with idleness and carelessness at the looms, aggravated often by the misappropriation of time in manufacture of trumpery articles for their own wear: one makes himself a pair of green gaiters, another a pair of cloth shoes, a third an imitation watch of curled hair, rolled into a ball, which hangs in his fob by a strip of calico for guard.

These were doubtless offences of a trivial character. The anxiety evinced by many to escape from durance was a much more serious affair. Surprising ingenuity and unwearied patience are exhibited by prisoners in compassing this, the great aim and object of all who are not free. As yet, however, the efforts made were tentative only and incomplete. To break a hole in the wall or manufacture false keys was the highest flight of their inventive genius, and the plot seldom went very far. One of the first cases was discovered quite by chance. On searching a prisoner’s cell, some screws, a few nails, and two pieces of thick iron wire were found concealed in his loom; and in one of his shoes as it hung upon the wall, a piece of lead shaped so as to correspond with the wards of a cell key. This the prisoner confessed he had made with his knife from memory, and altogether without a pattern. “I have a very nice eye,” he said, “and I have always carefully observed the keys as I saw them in the officers’ hands.” “And what did you mean to do with the key?” he was further asked. “To get away, of course.” “How?” “I can open the wooden door when I please, and then I should have unlocked my gate.”[1] On examination a hole was found in his door, just below the bolt and opposite the handle; through this, by means of a narrow piece of stuff, a knitting needle in fact, he could move back the bolt whenever he pleased. Once out in the ward, he meant, with a file he had also secreted, to get through the bars of the passage window. The wards of this key were fastened into a wooden handle, which was also found in his cell. Another prisoner, having been allowed to possess himself of a large spike nail, which had been negligently left about in the yard, worked all night at the wall of his cell, and soon succeeded in removing several bricks. The hole he made was large enough to allow him passage. Besides this, from the military great-coats, on which he was stitching during the day, he had made himself a coat and trousers. He might have actually got away had not a warder visited his cell to inspect his work, and taking up the great-coats as they lay in a heap in the corner, discovered the disguise beneath, also the spike nail, and the rubbish of bricks and mortar from the hole. More adventurous still, a third prisoner proposed to escape by stealing his warder’s keys. Failing an opportunity, he too turned his attention to making false ones; and for the purpose cut up with scissors his pewter drinking can into bits. By holding the pieces near the hot irons he used for his tailoring, he melted the metal, and ran it into a mould of bread. Information of this project was given by another prisoner in time to nip it in the bud. Another, again, had been clever enough to remove a number of bricks, and would have passed undetected, had not the governor by chance, when in his cell, touched the wall and found it damp. A closer inspection showed that the mortar around the bricks had been picked out, and the joints filled in by a mixture of pounded mortar and chewed bread. On the outside was laid a coating of whiting, such as was issued to the prisoners to help them in cleaning their cans.

In some mischief of this kind, one or other of the prisoners was perpetually engaged. Cutting up their sheets to fabricate disguises; melting the metal buttons, as the man just mentioned had melted his pewter can; laying hold of files, rasps, old nails, scissors, tin, copper wire, or whatever else came handy; and working always with so much secrecy and despatch, that their plans were discovered more by fortune generally, than good management. In those days the best methods of prison discipline were far from matured. We know now that the surest preventives against escape, are repeated and unexpected searchings, with continuous vigilant supervision. A prisoner to carry out his schemes must have leisure, and must be left to himself to work unperceived. By the practice of the Penitentiary, prisoners had every facility to escape; and we shall find ere long, that they knew how to make the most of their advantages. For the present, all the good luck was on the side of the gaolers.

But at this juncture a new trouble threatened all the peace and comfort of the place. The prisoners seem to have grown all at once alive to the power they possessed of combination. It had been suspected for some time that a conspiracy was in progress among the denizens of D Ward, Pentagon two, and a minute search of the several cells brought to light a number of clandestine communications. These, written mostly on the blank pages of prayer-books, and spare copy-book leaves, were all to the same effect: exhortations to riot and mutiny. A certain George Vigers was the prime mover; all the letters, which were very widely disseminated, having issued from his pen. It had long been openly discussed among the prisoners that the hulks were pleasanter places than the Penitentiary. Here, then, was an opportunity of removal. All who joined heartily in the projected commotion would draw upon themselves the ire of the committee, and would certainly be drafted to the hulks. To explain what might otherwise appear unintelligible, it must be mentioned here, that the punishment implied by a sentence to the hulks was by no means of a terrifying character, as is evidenced by the choice of the prisoners.

A year or two later (1832), the report of the Parliamentary Committee on Secondary Punishments laid bare the system, and expressed their unqualified disapprobation of the whole treatment of convicts on board the hulks. It being accepted that the separation of criminals, and their severe punishment, are necessary to make crime a terror to the evil doer, the committee pointed out that in both these respects the system of management of the hulks was not only necessarily deficient, but actually inimical. All that has been said of the miserable effects of the association of criminals in the prisons on shore, the profaneness, the vice, the demoralization that are its inevitable consequences, applied in the fullest sense to the hulks. The numbers in each ship varied from eighty to eight hundred. The ships were divided into wards of from twelve to thirty persons; in these they were confined when not at labour in the dockyard, and the evil consequences of such associations may easily be conceived, even were the strictest discipline enforced. But the facts are stated as follows: “The convicts after being shut up for the night are allowed to have lights between decks, in some ships as late as ten o’clock; although against the rules of the establishment, they are permitted the use of musical instruments; flash songs, dancing, fighting, and gaming take place; the old offenders are in the habit of robbing the newcomers; newspapers and improper books are clandestinely introduced; a communication is frequently kept up with their old associates on shore; and occasionally spirits are introduced on board. It is true that the greater part of these practices are against the rules of the establishment; but their existence in defiance of such rules shows an inherent defect in the system. But the indulgence of purchasing tea, bread, tobacco, etc., is allowed, the latter with a view to the health of the prisoners; the convicts are also allowed to receive visits from their friends, and during the time they remain, are excused working, sometimes for several days. Such communications can only have the worst effect. It is an improper indulgence to anyone in the position of a convict, and keeps up a dangerous and improper intercourse with old companions. The most assiduous attention on the part of the ministers of religion would be insufficient to stem the torrent of corruption flowing from these various and abundant sources; and but little attention is paid to the promotion of religious feelings, or to the improvement of the morals of the convicts.” It was plainly seen that the convicts were also allowed to earn too much money—threepence a day to convicts in the first class, three halfpence to those in the second; out of which the former got sixpence a week, and the latter threepence, to lay out in the purchase of tea, tobacco, etc., and the remainder was laid by to be given to them on their release. They were supposed to work during the day at the arsenals and dockyards, but “there was nothing in the nature or severity of their employment which deserves the name of punishment or hard labour.” The work lasted from eight to ten hours, according to season; but so much time was lost in musters, and going to and from labour, that the summer period was never eight hours, and winter only six and a half. As common labourers work ten hours, and when at task work or during harvest much longer, the convicts could hardly be said to do more than was just sufficient to keep them in health and exercise; indeed, their situation could not be considered penal; it was a state of restriction, but hardly of punishment.

Thus, as the committee described, the criminal sentenced to transportation for crimes to which the law affixed the penalty of death, passed his time, well fed, well clothed, indulging in riotous enjoyment by night, vexed with but moderate labour by day. No wonder that confinement on the hulks failed to excite a proper feeling of terror in the minds of those likely to come under its operation. The hulks were indeed not dreaded; prisoners described their life in them as a “pretty jolly life.” If any convict could but overcome the sense of shame which the degradation of his position might evoke, he would feel himself to be better off than large numbers of the working-classes, who have nothing but their daily labour to depend on for subsistence. At the dockyards, among the free men the situation of a convict was looked upon with envy; and many labourers would have been glad to change places with him, in order that they might better their situation. It was not strange, then, that the discontented denizens of the Penitentiary found even the moderate rigour of that establishment too irksome, and that they were eager to be transferred to the hulks.

Towards the end of September, 1826, came the first indications of disturbance. A prisoner having smashed his bedstead, demolished also the iron grating to his window, and thrust through it his handkerchief, tied to a stick, shouting and hallooing the while loud enough to be heard in Surrey. The same day, Hussey, another notorious offender, returning from confinement in the dark, was given a pail of water to wash his cell out, but instead, discharged the whole contents over his warder’s head. Before he could be secured he had destroyed everything in his cell, and had thrown the pieces out of the window. Next, a number of prisoners during the night took to rolling their cell-blocks and rattling their tables about. By this time the dark cells had many occupants, who spent the night in singing, dancing, and shouting to each other.

Early next morning, about 5 a.m., in this same ward from which all the rioters came, Stephen Harman broke everything he could lay hands on—the window frame and all its panes of glass, his cell table, stool, shelf, trencher, salt-box, spoon, drinking-cup, and all his cell furniture. He had first barricaded his door, and could not be secured till all the mischief was done. Later in the day from another cell came a long low whistle, followed by the crash of broken glass. The culprit here, when seized, confessed he had been persuaded by others; all were to join after dinner, the whistle being the signal to commence. The governor was now really apprehensive, anticipating something of a serious nature. He had a strong force of spare warders and patrols posted in the tower of the pentagon; but though the whistle[2] was frequently heard during the night, nothing occurred till next day, at half-past eight, when George Vigers and another followed Harman’s lead and destroyed everything in their cells. They joined their companions in the dark cells, all of whom, being outrageously violent, were now in handcuffs. In the dark they continued their misconduct; using the most shocking and revolting language to all officials who approached them; assaulting them, deluging them with dirty water, resolutely refusing to give up their beds, and breaking locks, door panels, and windows, and this although they were restrained in irons. These handcuffs having failed to produce any salutary effect, they were now removed; although several of the prisoners did not wait for that, and had riddled themselves of their bracelets. For the next few days “the Dark,” as these underground cells were styled in official language, continued to be the scene of the most unseemly uproar. When Archdeacon Potts, one of the committee, visited it he was received with hoots and yells; and this noise was kept up incessantly day and night. But at length, after nearly a fortnight of close confinement, the strength of the rioters broke down, several of them being removed to the hospital, while the others went back to their cells. But there was no lack of reinforcements: fresh offenders took up the game, and the dark cells were continually full. As soon as those first punished were sufficiently recovered, they broke out again. The cases of misconduct, generally of the same description, were varied now and then by a plot to break the water-mill by whirling round the cranks too fast, continuous noise, insolence, dancing defiantly the double shuffle, attempts to incite a whole ward, when in the corridor at school, to rise against their warders, overpower them, and take possession of their keys.

Throughout the long nights of the dreary winter months these disturbances continued; a time of the utmost anxiety and annoyance to worthy Captain Chapman, who was invariably the foremost in the fray. Nothing can exceed the pluck and energy with which he tackled the most truculent. When a prisoner, mad with rage, dares any man to enter his cell, it is Governor Chapman who always enters without a moment’s hesitation; when another, armed with a sleeveboard, threatens to dash out everybody’s brains, it is Captain Chapman who secures the weapon of offence; when a body of prisoners on the mill break out into open mutiny, and the warder in charge is in terror for his personal safety, it is Governor Chapman who repairs at once to the spot and collars the ringleaders. Perhaps it would have been better if so much resolute courage had not been tempered with too much kindness of heart. No one can read of Captain Chapman’s proceedings without admitting that he was brave; but for his particular duties he was undoubtedly also amiable to a fault. Had he been more unrelenting it is probable that the worst offenders would never have gone such lengths in their insubordination. A word or two of contrition, often the merest sham, was sufficient generally to secure his pardon. Thus when a man has worked himself into a fury and appears ready for any act of desperation, the mere appearance of the governor calms him, and the prisoner, softened, says, “You, sir, use me much better than I deserve. Put me in the dark.” “I left him,” says Captain Chapman, on one occasion, “saying I trusted my lenity would have a much better effect than a dark cell. I therefore admonished and pardoned him.” Had such kindness been productive of good results no one could have questioned his wisdom; almost invariably it was worse than futile, and the malcontents soon worse than ever, and devising fresh schemes.

It was in this winter that the superintending committee became convinced that the methods of coercion they possessed were hardly so stringent as the case required. They reported to the House of Commons that “there were among the prisoners some profligate and turbulent characters for whose outrageous conduct the punishments in use under the rules and regulations of the Penitentiary were by no means sufficient.” They found by experience that “confinement in a dark cell, though in most cases a severe and efficacious punishment, operates very differently on different persons. It appears to lose much of its effect from repetition; it cannot always be carried far without the danger of injuring health; and on some men as well as boys it has no effect.” Many of the ringleaders in the disturbances just described were subjected to twenty-five, twenty-eight, and even to thirty days of uninterrupted imprisonment in the dark, and certainly with little effect. In view of this want of some more salutary punishment the committee expressed a wish for power to flog. They were convinced that “the framers of the statute under which the Penitentiary is now governed acted erroneously in omitting the power to inflict corporal punishment when they re-enacted most of the other provisions of the 19th Geo. III. And they are satisfied that a revival of this power (a power possessed in every other criminal prison in this country) would be highly advantageous to the management of this prison, provided such power were accompanied by regulations adequate to control the exercise of it, and to guard against its being abused.”

Soon after these lines were in print, and presented to the House, it became more than ever apparent that to tame these turbulent characters some serious steps must be taken soon. During the early months of 1827 there had been no cessation of misconduct of the kind already described, but the cases were mostly isolated, and generally succumbed to treatment. But as March began a storm gathered which soon burst like a whirlwind on the place. It was heralded by a riot in chapel on Sunday, the 3rd of March. Previous to the sermon, during evening service, a rumbling noise was heard, as if the prisoners assembled were stamping in unison with their feet. The sound ceased with the singing of the psalm, and recommenced during the sermon, and increased in violence. It was discovered that the noise was made by the prisoners knocking with their fists against the sheet iron that separated the several divisions. As the uproar continued to increase to a shameful and alarming extent, the governor left the chapel to fetch the patrols, and other spare officers, all of whom, with drawn cutlasses, were posted near the chapel door. The prisoners were then removed to their cells, and, in the presence of this exhibition of force, they went quietly enough. The ringleaders were afterwards singled out and punished: the chief among them being a monitor, long remarkable for his piety, who on this occasion had distinguished himself by mimicking the chaplain, by commenting in scandalous terms upon the sermons, and using slang expressions instead of responses.

After this, in all parts of the prison there are strong symptoms of mutiny. Loud shouts, laughter, and the thieves’ whistle on every side. For the next few days there is much uneasiness; and at length, about midnight on the 8th, the governor is roused from his bed. Pentagon six is in an uproar. As Captain Chapman hurries to the scene he is saluted with the crash of glass, interspersed with loud cries of triumph and of encouragement. The airing-yard below is strewed with fragments; broken window-frames, fragments of glass, utensils, and tables smashed to bits. Two notorious offenders in B Ward, Hawkins and John Caswell, are busy at the work of destruction, and already everything is in ruins. The tumult is so tremendous, so many others contribute their shouts, and the thieves’ whistle runs so quickly from cell to cell, that sleep is impossible to any one within the boundary wall; and presently all officials, chaplain, doctor, manufacturers, and steward, have joined the governor, and are helping to quell the disturbance. It is quelled, but hardly has the governor got back to bed, at two in the morning, when the uproar recommences: the same noise and loud shouts from one side of the pentagons of prisoners, inciting each other to continue the riot. Next day, from various other wards come reports that a spirit of insubordination is on the increase; and the offenders in the dark, ten in number, are violent in the extreme. Again, at midnight, the governor is aroused by a tremendous yelling from Pentagon six, followed by the smashing of glass. The offenders are seized at once, and, the governor remarks, “from what I could learn, were pretty roughly handled by their captors.” During this night, too, in noise and violence the several prisoners in the dark exceeded, if possible, their accustomed mutinous conduct. One, by some extraordinary effort, broke the part of his door to which the lock was attached, and got it into his cell, swearing he would brain the first person who approached him. There was much answering to and from the dark cells and the upper stories of the pentagons opposite. There was evidently discontent also in other parts of the prison. Those prisoners who had no hope of gaining any remission of their sentences, having no inducement to behave well, were on the point of insurrection. In addition to these alarms, on the night of the 14th it was reported to the governor that the prisoners were making their escape from the dark cells. The noise was so tremendous that it could be heard all over the prison.

And now mysterious documents emanating from the prisoners were picked up, containing complaints mostly of the treatment they received, and full of terrible threats. As time passed, the worst of these threats found vent in the hanging of the infirmary warder’s cat. The halter was a strip of round towel from behind the door, and a piece of paper was affixed to it, with these portentous words:—

“you see yor Cat is hung And
you Have Been the corse of it
for yoor Bad Bavior to Those
arond you. Dom yor eis, yoo’l
get pade in yor torn yet.”

Next were several closely written sheets, full of inflammatory matter, which gave the authorities so much uneasiness that several hundred prisoners were closely examined as to their contents. As these letters afford curious evidence of the importance prisoners arrogate to themselves, it may be interesting to publish one in extenso. It was found on the road back from chapel. There was no signature attached. It was addressed to the visitor.

“Sir,—Four instances of brutality have occurred in this Establishment within the last week; the which we, as men (if we do our duty towards God and man), cannot let escape our notice, and hope and trust you will not let them pass without taking them into your serious consideration. We will take the liberty of putting a few questions to you, which we hope you will not be offended at. Who gave Mr. Bulmer authority to strike a lad named Quick almost sufficient to have broken his arm, indeed so bad that the lad could not lift his hand to his head? and who gave Mr. Pilling the same authority to smite a lad to the ground, named Caswell, with a ruler, the same as a butcher would a Bullock, without him (Caswell) making the least resistance? On Saturday night last there was brutal and outrageous doings, Mr. Pilling as desperate as ever, assisted by that villain Turner (we cannot give him a better term—we wish we could). Who would have thought a man could have been so cruel as to lift a poker against a fellow-creature? A ruler, we have heard, was broken into two pieces, a thing that is made of the hardest of wood. Was there ever, in the annals of treachery and oppression, facts more scandalous than these! No. To hear their cries was sufficient to make the blood run cold of any man, if he was possessed of the least animal feeling (‘For God’s sake have compassion, and do not quite kill me,’ etc., etc.). And we do not hesitate to say, had not the wise Creator, that sees and hears all, put it into the heart of a man to be there and stop them in their bloody actions, homicide would have been committed: then God knows what would have been the result. We will admit that these men committed themselves in the most provoking manner; but still, who are, what are these men, that they should take the law in their own hands? You are the person they should have applied to, and we are satisfied you would not have given them such authority. Many men have committed as bad, or worse crimes than either of these, and in less than one minute afterwards have been sorry for it. How did these men know but this was the case here? but without speaking to them, as Christians would do, knocks them down, as we have stated before, as a Butcher would do an Ox—we cannot make a better comparison—Messrs. Pilling and Turner in particular. The governor, too, who professes to fear God, we think if he would study the great and principal commandment, that is, to do to others as he would be done unto, it would be much more to his credit; especially, sir, as you and other gentlemen of this establishment expect when there is a discharge of prisoners (and it is to be hoped that soon will be the case) that they will give the establishment a good name. They cannot do it, unless there is a stop put to such brutal actions; they will most likely speak the sentiments of their hearts; they will say they have seen some of their fellow-creatures driven like wrecks before the rough tide of power till there was no hold left to save them from destruction. That will be a pretty thing for the public to hear. And, sir, we do not wish to be too severe, but unless Pilling and Turner are dismissed from the Establishment, and that shortly, we will fight as long as there is a drop of blood in us; for it is evident, many men have expired from a much lighter blow than either of those delivered; therefore necessity obliges us—we must do it for our own safety; but depend upon it, sir, it is far from our wish to do anything of the kind, for your sake, and for the sake of what few good ones we have (and God knows it is but few). There is 3 good men in the Pentagon—Messrs. Newstead, Rutter, and Hall, and we wish we could speak well of the others—but we cannot.

“N.B. We do not wish to give the last new warder a bad name, for we have not seen sufficient of him to speak either way, but what little we have seen leads us to believe he is a good man. We hope, sir, you will excuse us, but we will ask you another question. If you were in Mr. Pilling’s situation, and a man committed himself, would you not reason with him on the base impropriety of what he had done? We know you would. Instead of that, Mr. Pilling takes a delight in aggravating the cause with a grin, or a jeer of contempt, not only before you see him (the prisoner), afterwards the same; which, without the least doubt, makes a man commit acts of violence which at other times he would tremble at the idea. We hope, sir, you will take this into your worthy and serious consideration, and by so doing you will greatly oblige,

“Your Obedient Humble Servants,

“Friends to the Oppressed.”

This letter indicates the prisoners’ attitude. On another occasion a few of them go to the governor’s office to remonstrate with him on one of his punishments. We might as well imagine—to compare great things with small—a deputation from the criminal classes waiting on a judge to complain of his sentence on a thief. As soon as the protesters are ushered in, one says that Davis, the culprit, is very sorry for what he has done; another says that he was unwell at the time, and all unite in hoping the governor will let him off. Fortunately the governor is not so weak as they fancied. He says: “On my remarking to them—which I did with much indignation—their highly improper conduct in presuming to remonstrate with me in the execution of my duty, Boak (one of the three) remarked, that by their rules they were to apply to the governor or visitor if they had any complaint. To which I answered, ‘Most certainly,’ but that my confining Timothy Davis could not possibly be any grievance to them; and repeated that their presuming to dictate to me was of such a reprehensible and insubordinate nature that I should confine them in the dark cells.” But as they were penitent, and promised for the future to mind their own business, they were released the same day.

Meanwhile, the rioting and destruction proceeded without intermission. A frequent device now was for prisoners to barricade their cell doors, so as to work the more uninterruptedly. For this purpose the cell-blocks or some of the fragments from the demolished furniture served; and, as a brilliant idea, one or two prisoners invented the practice of filling their keyholes with sand and brick rubbish, or hampering the locks with their knives. But in March the riot exceeded anything in previous experience. It was prefaced by the usual exhibitions of defiance and insubordinate conduct, and the uproar as before broke out in the middle of the night. A dozen or more of the prisoners dressed themselves, barricaded their doors, and then set to work. By and by the whole ward was in a tumult. The dark cells were already full, and there was no other place of punishment. The shouting and yelling could not therefore be checked, and continuing far into the day excited other prisoners at exercise, so that they were on the point of laying violent hands upon their warders. One scoundrel took off his cap and tried to cheer on his fellows to acts of violence; and some followed the warder into a corner, swearing they would have his life. The condition of the whole prison was now so alarming that the governor, with permission of the visitor, sought extraneous help. Application was made to the Queen’s Square police office for a force of constables to assist in maintaining order and insuring the safe custody of the prisoners. As soon as these reinforcements arrived they were marched to the airing-yard of Pentagon five—the scene of the recent riots.

Here a large body of prisoners were at exercise. The governor and the visitor in turn addressed them, pointing out “the shame and disrepute they were bringing on themselves and the institution by their mutinous conduct.” Several in reply were most insolent in speech and manner, declaring they did not deserve to be treated with suspicion. One addressed a warder close at hand with loud abuse, another the taskmaster, swearing he was starved to death, and both had to be removed. These constables remained on duty during the night, and for several weeks to come continued to give their assistance. On the return of the prisoners to their wards, the governor spent four hours, from seven to eleven o’clock, going patiently from cell to cell, impressing on each man the necessity for orderly and subordinate conduct. “My time and efforts,” he says next day, “were, I regret to say, quite thrown away, for the noise and shouting continued during the night, though not quite to the same extent.” Nothing very serious, however, happened till three o’clock the following day, when Hickman, a prisoner in the infirmary, began to break his windows, and with loud huzzahs endeavoured to incite the others in the yards to “acts of violence and insubordination.” He was answered by many voices, and the tumult soon became general. Meanwhile, the governor and the visitor had repaired to Hickman’s cell as soon as the smashing of glass was heard, but the man had cunningly made fast his door, and could not be interfered with. It appeared that he had complained of want of exercise, and had accompanied this complaint with so much contrition for previous violent conduct, that the surgeon had allowed his cell door to be unlocked, so that he might walk when he liked in the passage. Directly the officers had gone to dinner he got out, and, using his knife, which had imprudently been left in his possession, hampered the locks at both ends of the passage. His next act was to slice into ribbons the whole of his bedding and that of several cells adjoining his own, which were unoccupied and proved not to be locked. This business satisfactorily arranged, he began to shout and to smash all the windows within his reach. Before he could be secured he had demolished eighty-two panes of glass and several sashes complete. He was found brandishing his broom, and offering to fight the lot of his captors, one of whom promptly knocked him down, when he was quickly handcuffed and carried back to his cell. But the noise he made that night, with others, was so great that the governor declared he never closed his eyes during the night. Night after night the misconduct of the prisoners continued, and grew worse and worse. Wards hitherto well behaved became infected. In C Ward, Pentagon six, “they commenced at 4 a.m. shouting and bellowing like the rest.” The visitor on going to “the dark” was again most grossly insulted and abused. Another evening the noise and shouting that broke out was so loud that many officers going off duty heard the disturbance at the other end of Vauxhall Bridge, and returned to the prison.

All through the months of April and May the violence of the malcontents continued unabated. They had found out their strength, no doubt, and laughed at all attempts to coerce them. Neither dark cells nor irons exercised the least effect, and the only remaining punishment—the lash, the committee were not as yet empowered to enforce. It must be confessed that one reads with regret that a parcel of unruly scoundrels should thus be allowed to make a mockery of the punishment to which they were sentenced by the law, and that they should be suffered unchecked to set all order and discipline at defiance. And all this deliberate insolence and open insubordination could have but one end, and culminated at length in a murderous affray, in which a couple of prisoners fell upon the machine-keeper and nearly killed him. The plot had been well laid, and brewing for some time. About seven o’clock one morning, while working quietly at the crank, prisoner Salmon rushed at Mr. Mullard, the machine-keeper, and knocked him off the platform by a tremendous blow, which caught him just behind the ear, and cut his head open. Crouch, another prisoner, struck Mr. Mullard at the same moment. When on the ground he was kicked by Salmon in the mouth. No one but the wardsman, another prisoner, came to poor Mullard’s assistance; but this man acted with great spirit, and it was mainly owing to his prompt interference that the machine-keeper escaped with his life.

At the moment the attack was made all the other officers were at a distance. One warder said he saw Mr. Mullard fall, but thought it was accidental, and that the prisoner Salmon had stooped over to pick him up. However, when the other prisoners crowded round, shouting, “Give it him! Give it him! Lay on,” this warder, perceiving their evil intentions, took to his heels—to get assistance, for he afterwards indignantly disclaimed all idea of quitting the yard through personal apprehension. At the tower he found the taskmaster coming out cutlass in hand; Rogan, the warder, got one also, and both hurried back to the yard. Smith, the wardsman, was fighting with Crouch, and Mr. Mullard, who had got again to his feet, with Salmon; the other prisoners looking on, being, as they afterwards asserted, afraid to stir, “particularly after seeing the warder, Rogan, run away.” Crouch now came at the taskmaster “with fury in his looks;” upon which the latter drew his cutlass and warned him to stand off, and then both Crouch and Salmon were secured. There was no doubt the greater part of the prisoners were concerned in this mutiny, for although Mullard called aloud for assistance, not a soul but Smith, the wardsman, stirred a finger to help him. These miscreants were subsequently tried at the Old Bailey, and sentenced to increased imprisonment.

Not long after this the new Act, authorizing the committee to flog for aggravated misconduct, was passed, and then a clearance was made of the worst subjects by sending them from the Penitentiary to the hulks. This was really yielding to the prisoners. But it gained a certain lull of peace within the walls—no slight boon after the disturbances, and it was hoped that the new powers of punishment would check any further outbreak amongst those who remained.