Irregularities continued—Intrigues between male and female prisoners—Women conspire to be removed—Their unceasing misconduct—Plot to murder the Matron—Renewed trials of Governor—A number of suicides—A serious assault—First flogging under new Act—One hundred and fifty lashes inflicted—An effectual warning—Assaults checked.

Irregularities of an entirely new character appeared at Millbank after the exodus of the worst-behaved had taken place. An intrigue was discovered to have been in progress for many months, between the women in the laundry and certain of the male prisoners. This had not gone further than the interchange of correspondence, but its existence is in some respects a proof of the laxity of the discipline maintained in the Penitentiary. It was customary to make up the clothes of the male prisoners sent to the wash in kits, or small parcels, which were opened in the laundry by a female prisoner, called the “kitter.” One day the kitter, by name Margaret Woods, found among the clothes a slip of paper—a prayer-book leaf—on which some man had written that he came from Glasgow, and that he hoped the women were all well. Woods not being able to read, showed it to another woman, who showed it to a third, a Scotch girl, Ann Kinnear, who came also from Glasgow. “Yes,” she said, “I know him well. It’s John Davidson—a very nice young man; and if you won’t answer it, I’ll write myself.” The acquaintance, on paper, soon deepened between Kinnear and Davidson. One of her tributes of affection was a heart, which she worked with gray worsted on a flannel bandage belonging to Davidson. At another time she sent him a lock of her hair.

It is easy to understand the flutter throughout the laundry caused by this flirtation, which was known and talked of by all the women. They were all eager to have correspondents, having husbands “outside” being no obstacle seemingly; nor was age, for an old woman, with grown-up children, entered herself as eagerly as the girls barely in their teens. John Davidson was in all cases the channel of communication. He promised to do his best for each of his correspondents: to find out a nice sweetheart for Mary Ann Thacker, and to tell Elizabeth Trenery how fared her friend Combs, with whom she had travelled up from Cornwall. He expressed his regret to his own friend Kinnear, that he was likely soon to be set at large; but that before going he would “turn her over” to another nice young man, in every way similar to himself. How long this clandestine intercommunication might have continued, it would be difficult to say; but at length the wardswoman came to know of it, and she instantly reported it to the matron. One fine morning the whole of the kits were detained, and a general search made in the tower. Several letters were discovered. They were written mostly with blue ink made of the blue-stone used for washing, and contained any quantity of rubbish: questions, answers, gossips, vows of unalterable affection, promises to meet “outside” and continue their acquaintance.

All this of itself was harmless enough, the reader may say: and such it would have been undoubtedly in a boys’ school next door to some seminary for young ladies, in the suburbs; but it was hardly in accordance with the condition of prisoners, or the seclusion that was a part of their punishment. And no sooner was this intrigue detected, and put an end to, than another of similar character was discovered between the male convicts in the kitchen and certain maid-servants kept by the superior officers. The steward on searching the kitchen drawer of his housemaid—it does not appear what led him to ransack the hiding-places of his servants’ hall—found a letter addressed to the girl by the prisoner named Brown. Brown, when taxed with it, admitted the letter, but declared that the first overtures had come from the maid. He had been cleaning the steward’s door-bell, when this forward young person nodded to him from the passage, and he nodded back. At the same time another prisoner was caught at the same game with the female servant of the resident surgeon. On searching the prisoner-cooks a letter from the girl was found in this man’s pocket, and a lock of long hair, neatly plaited. The first-mentioned girl had not confined her smiles to Brown, for in her possession was another letter from John Ratcliffe, a prisoner who had been working in the starching yard close by the steward’s quarters. Betsy S., the surgeon’s second maid, had become also the object of the affections of a prisoner named Roberts, who had thrown a letter to her through the open window. But Betsy would not encourage his advances, and took the letter at once to her master. Moreover the chaplain’s maid was always at her kitchen window, making signs.

The chief lesson to be learned from these nefarious practices is, that it is a grave error to permit officers and their families to reside within the walls of a prison. In the old constructions the “gaoler’s” house was always placed in the very centre of the buildings, from whence he was supposed to keep a watchful eye on all around. But the gain was only imaginary; and even if there had been any advantage it would have been more than nullified by the introduction of the family, or unprofessional element, within the walls. A prison should be like a fortress in a state of siege: officers on duty, guards posted, sentries always on the alert, every one everywhere ready to meet any difficulty or danger that may arise. No “free” person should pass the gates but officials actually on duty inside. In this way the modern practice of placing all residences and private quarters in close proximity to, but outside, the prison is a distinct improvement on the old. By it the moral presence of the supreme authority with his staff is still maintained, and no such irregularities as those I have just described could possibly occur.

So far I have made but little reference to the female convicts. Indeed, during the first years after the reopening of the Penitentiary, except in isolated cases, they appear to have conducted themselves quietly enough. But the contagion from the male pentagons could not but spread, sooner or later. The news of the removal of the worst men to the hulks no doubt acted as a direct incitement to misconduct. Had not this power of removal been accompanied, in the case of the males, with authority to inflict corporal punishment, we should have seen a great and continuous increase of the riotous disturbances described already. A certain number, it is true, had gained their ends; but if those who remained were ambitious to tread the same path, it was possible that sound flogging would be tried before removal to the hulks. With the women it was different—they could not be flogged, so they had it much their own way. It was the same then as now: the means of coercion to be employed against females are limited in the extreme, and a really bad woman can never be tamed, though she may in time wear herself out by her violence. We shall see more than one instance of the seemingly indomitable obstinacy and perversity of the female character, when all barriers are down and only vileness and depravity remains.

Long before the women broke out into open defiance of authority there were more than rumours that all was not right in the women’s pentagon. “Irregularities are on the increase there,” observes the governor in his journal. The object of the agitation was no secret. The women wanted to get away from the Penitentiary as the men had done. One having abused a matron in the most insolent terms, swore, if not sent at once to the hulks, or abroad, she would have some one’s life. Another sent for the governor, saying she had something particular to confide to him. “Well?” asked Captain Chapman. “You must send me to the hulks or to New South Wales,” she answered. Other women made the same request, pleading that they had not a friend on earth, and when released they must return to their old vicious courses. “I told them,” says the governor, “they could only be sent to the hulks when they were incorrigible, and to qualify for that they must pass months in the dark. Then I exhorted them to return to their work and better thoughts.” But they both at once flatly refused either to work or to think better of it, demanding to be sent immediately to the dark, a wish which was gratified without further delay.

It now appeared evident that the discipline of the female side was most unsatisfactory, and there had been great remissness on the part of the officers. It was discovered, too, among other things, that the religious exercises had been greatly neglected: the reading of the lesson in the morning service in the wards had been “either shamefully slurred over, or neglected altogether.” For this, and other omissions, the visitor assembled the matrons in a body, and lectured them in plain terms.

That very afternoon occurred the first real outbreak. All at once the whole of one of the wards was found to be in an uproar. The shouts and yells of the women could be heard all over the prison, and for a great distance beyond. The disturbance arose in this wise: there had been great misconduct that morning in chapel, but the offenders had eluded detection, as they thought; therefore when the matron reprimanded them, they concluded that one of their number had “rounded” or “put them away,”—in other words, had turned informer. Elizabeth Wheatley was suspected, and upon her the whole of her companions fell, tooth and nail, when let out for exercise. It was with the utmost difficulty she was rescued from their clutches. Then the ringleaders, having been again confined to their cells, commenced a hideous din and continued it for hours.

Soon after this a violent attack is made upon the chief matron: a woman assaults her, and deals her a blow that makes her nose bleed. This is the signal for a general disturbance. All the ward join in the uproar: those not under lock and key crowd round the matron with frightful yells and imprecations, and from those in their cells, come shouts through the bars, such as “Give it her! give it her. I’d make a matron of her, if I was out. I’d have her life.” The unfortunate officer is only saved from serious injury by the prompt interposition of the wardswoman, a well-conducted prisoner; the excitement now becomes tremendous.

Let us look at a scene enacted in another part of the prison on that very same evening. It is towards dusk in the “Long Room,” where there are beds for nearly forty. Half a dozen women, unattended by a turnkey, are discussing the topics of the day. One, Nihill, is lamenting in bitter terms the want of pluck exhibited by the others. None of the women were “game,” she said. She was ready to do anything, but none of the others would give her a helping hand. There were men in the prison, too, who were willing and able to join in a mutiny if they only got a lead. It might be done in chapel, where the whole of the population of the Penitentiary collected together twice a day for prayers. At this moment comes a new arrival, bearing the news of the murderous assault upon the matron, to which reference has been already made.

“How many were in it?” Nihill asks, she being the leading malcontent of those mentioned above.

“Five.”

“That’s three too many. I wish I’d been there. Wait till I get my green jacket,[3] I’ll carry a knife, and I’ll stick it into her.”

“She’s a brute,” adds another. “I’d serve her so too.”

Here a woman interposed on the other side and a fierce quarrel ensued and there was a hand to hand fight. The other prisoners gave the alarm; assistance arrived; and the combatants were secured and carried off to the dark cells.

The next affair occurred at school time. A prisoner, Smith, was checked by the matron for quarrelling with the monitress, whereupon Smith, seizing her stool, swore she would make away with the matron. Two other prisoners came to the rescue, and, pushing the matron into a cell close by, got in with her, and pulled the door to. Smith in a fury raced after them, but the cell gate was locked before she arrived, and she had to be satisfied with the grossest abuse from the further side. But Sara Smith was now mistress of the ward, and ranged up and down with uplifted stool, and fury in her looks, till the governor, bold Captain Chapman, came to the spot with his patrols, and she was, with some difficulty, overpowered.

So determined were the women to misconduct themselves, that they took in bad part the advice of the few who were well-disposed. When one Mary Anne Titchborne begged her companions to behave better, they turned at her en masse, pursuing her to her cell with horrid threats, brandishing their pattens over their heads, and swearing they would have her life. The following feminine feat at first sight appeared most extraordinary. One of the female prisoners, it was declared, had in the night jumped out of her window, on the second floor, into the airing-yard below, a height of seventeen feet; and the governor, who visited her about 7 a.m., four hours after the accident, found her sitting in her cell again, quietly at work, and “with the exception of a sprain, or a contusion of the fingers of the right hand, quite unhurt.” According to this woman’s story, she determined to take her life about ten o’clock and threw herself out of her window. “It seems incredible,” remarks Captain Chapman, “that she could have effected this, as the sash of the window opens from the bottom with the hinge, forming thus an acute angle—in fact a V—having an aperture about ten inches wide. Not a single pane of glass was broken, and Miller, for all her fall, was unhurt, beyond a scratch or two upon her fingers.” Miller when questioned further stated that on reaching terra firma she was at first quite stunned. By and by she got up and walked about the yard for several hours; then, finding it cold, she returned to her ward, which she accomplished easily, as all the external doors and passage gates had been left unlocked. This carelessness with reference to “security” locks, as they are called, or the gates that interpose between the prisoners and fresh air, might easily make the hair of a modern gaoler stand on end; and even the considerate Governor Chapman was forced to reprimand the matrons for this gross neglect of duty. A little later Miller confessed her fraud. After school at night, she had managed to secrete herself in an unoccupied cell. No one missed her; and about eleven, coming out, she commenced to wander up and down the ward, going from cell to cell knocking.

“Who’s there?”

“Miller.”

“Where have you come from?”

“I have jumped out of the window, and got back through the gates, which were left open.”

“Go back to your cell, for goodness’ sake.”

“I can’t get in, the door is locked.”

“Call up the matron then.”

“I daren’t.”

Such was the conversation overheard by others. About three o’clock, Miller could stand it no longer, and woke the matron of the ward.

One other case of misconduct among the females which occurred some months afterward may be mentioned here. This was the discovery of a conspiracy which at first sight seemed of rather serious dimensions. Its apparent object was to murder the chaplain, the matron, and a female officer named Bateman, all of whom had incurred the rancour of certain of the worst prisoners. One day in chapel an officer noticed much nudging and winking between two or three of the women, one of whom afterwards came up to her, as she stood by the altar rails, and said, “There’s a conspiracy going on.”

“Where?” asked the matron.

“In a bag.”

“A bag? Who’s got it?”

“Jones.”

And in effect, upon Jones was found a bag of white linen, six inches by four, and inside it a strip of bright yellow serge, such as the “first class” women wore. On this yellow ground was worked in black letters, as a sampler might be, the following:—

“Stab balling (bawling) Bateman, dam matron too, and parson; no justis now, may they brile in hell and their favrits too. God bless the governor; but this makes us devils. Shan’t care what we do—20 of us sworn to drink and theve in spite—get a place—rob and bolt. Make others pay for this. Shan’t fear any prison or hel after this. Can’t suffer more. Some of us meen to gulp the sakrimint, good blind: they swear they’ll burk the matron when they get out, and throw her in the river. No justis. Destroy this. No fear. All swer to die; but don’t split, be firm, stic to yor othe, and all of ye, stab them all. Watch yor time—stab am to the hart in chaple; get round them and they can’t tell who we mean to stab.”

This bag was akin somewhat to the mysterious chuppaties, which were the forerunner of the Indian Mutiny. It was passed from hand to hand, each prisoner opening, reading, and then sending it on. Jones, on whom it was found, declared she had picked it up in the passage. She was lame, and returning from exercise had put her crutch on something soft. “Why, here is some one’s swag,” she cried, and thereupon became possessed of it. But she had intended to give it up to the matron; “Oh yes, directly she had read it.” However, another prisoner forestalled her, and Jones got into trouble. Then, with the instinct of self-preservation, which is stronger, perhaps, among prisoners than in other human beings, Jones “rounded” at once, in other words, gave full information of the plot. Hatred of the matron was at the bottom of it.

This great conspiracy was of a piece with many such plots in modern experience—mere empty threats and rank bombastic talk. Prisoners are very fond of bragging what they mean to do, both inside and outside when again free. In the present case there was supposed to be much more in store for the matron than the actual assault with which they threatened her. One of the conspirators swore that if she (the matron) escaped now, later on vengeance should overtake her. “As soon as I’m free I’ll do for that cat of destruction. I’ll send her first a dead dog with a rope round its neck, made up into a parcel. That’ll frighten her. Curse her, I’ll give her a bitter pill yet. If it’s ten years hence, I’ll never forget her. I’ll watch her, and track her outside; and I have friends of the right sort that’ll help me.” But threatened men and women live long, and nothing much happened to the matron then or afterwards.

Let us now return to the male side. Here the worries and annoyances of the governor were still varied and continuous. Hardly had misconduct in one shape succumbed to treatment, than it broke out in another. Many attempts to escape—one of which, to be detailed hereafter, went very near complete success; a couple of very serious assaults, and a fresh suicidal epidemic, still kept his energies on the stretch. It was his practice, as we know, to give his immediate attention to anything and everything, as soon as it occurred; and although he must now have been alive to the preponderance of imposture in the attempts prisoners made upon their own lives, still so kindhearted a man could not but be greatly exercised in spirit, whenever the suicides seemed of a bon fide nature.

The following case called at once for his most anxious interference. One Thomas Edwards was reported to have it in contemplation to do himself a mischief. Another prisoner detected him in the act of concealing a piece of hammock lashing in his bosom, gave information, and the halter was seized at once by the officer in charge. It was found to be nearly two yards in length. In Edwards’ pocket was also a letter, an old letter from his brother, across which in red chalk was written:

“To Captain Chapman. The last request of an innocent, and injured man is, that this note may be delivered to a much loved brother.

“I can no longer bear my unfortunate situation. Death will be a relief to me, though I fain would have seen you once more; but I was fearful it might heighten your grief. The privations of cold and hunger, I can no more suffer. I now bid you an eternal farewell. God forgive me for the rash act I am about to commit—the hour is fast approaching when I must leave this troublesome world. Write to my dear sister, but never let her know the truth of my end, and comfort her as well as you can. God forgive me.

Farewell for ever,

Farewell.”

“I immediately sent for Edwards,” says Captain Chapman in his journal. “He appeared much distressed. The tears rolled down his cheeks, but he would not speak. I said everything I could think of to soothe and console him, and had him taken by the surgeon to the infirmary.” The case seemed to require full investigation, which it received; and the result is recorded a little further on by the governor. “It appeared that up to two or three days before he had been remarkably cheerful. But one day some extra soup had disagreed with him, after which he hardly spoke, not even to his partner with whom he walked in the yard.” Then, when he thought he was unobserved, he had secreted the hammock lashing which was to put an end to his wretched existence.

Bile or indigestion have doubtless driven many to desperation; but though the saying is common enough, that life under such afflictions is barely worth having, actual cases of suicide from stomachic derangements are comparatively rare. Perhaps the soup story opened the governor’s eyes a little to the prisoner’s real character, and then, later on, a second detection of fraud proved beyond doubt that Edwards was an impostor.

He was caught in a clandestine correspondence with his relatives outside, and for this he was transferred to “the dark.” Fifteen minutes afterwards they find him suspended from the top of his cell gate by his pocket handkerchief. They cut him down at once. He pretends to be unable to speak, yet it is clear that he has not done himself the slightest injury. Nevertheless, to keep him out of mischief, he is removed to the infirmary and put into a strait jacket. To escape from this restraint he embarks upon a new line of imposture. He sends an urgent message to the chaplain, having, as he asserts, a weighty sin upon his conscience, which he wishes at once to disclose.

“Some four years ago, sir, I murdered a young woman. She was the one I kept company with. I was jealous. I threw her into the New River. Sir, I have never had a happy moment since I committed the deed. My life is a burthen to me; and I would gladly terminate it upon the scaffold.”

“Are you quite sure you are telling me the truth?” the chaplain asks.

“The truth, sir—God’s truth. If I am not, may I,” etc.

He detailed the circumstances of the murder with so much circumstantiality that it was thought advisable to take all down in writing, so as to make full inquiry; but both governor and chaplain were “fully convinced that the prisoner had fabricated the whole story in the hopes of getting himself removed to Newgate.” No sort of corroboration was obtained outside, of course, and by and by the matter dropped. I have merely quoted this as a sequel and commentary upon the conduct of Edwards, proving that he was clearly an impostor from first to last.

But not long after this a fatal case occurred. The suicide was a man long suspected of being wrong in his head. Early one morning he was found hanging to the cross beam of his loom, from the framework of which he had jumped, and thereby dislocated his neck. It appeared on inquiry, that the mental derangement of which this man showed symptoms had been kept quite a secret from the governor and medical officer; so also had his frequent requests to see the chaplain; and the officer in charge of the ward was very properly suspended from duty “for culpable neglect, as probably, with timely interference, the prisoner’s life might have been saved.” But whether it might or might not, the news of his death spread rapidly through the prison, and from having occurred but rarely, real or feigned suicides became again quite the fashion. The gossip of an incautious matron took the intelligence first into the female pentagon. That very evening, after the women had been locked up, one yelled to another in the next cell that she meant to hang herself directly, and had a rope concealed, which she dared any one to discover. This woman was made safe at once; but next morning another was found tied up by her apron to the pegs of the clothes rack behind her cell door. She had failed to come out with the rest to wash, and as the officers approached to examine her cell they heard a noise of groaning within. A sort of feeble barricade had been made by the prisoner, with her mattress and pillows, to prevent entrance; but the door was easily opened, and behind it hung Hannah Groats by the neck, to one peg, while she carefully kept herself from harm by holding on by her hands to the two pegs adjoining. She was instantly taken down, when it was seen that she had not sustained the slightest damage. She had, of course, chosen her time just when she knew the cell doors were about to be opened, and she was sure to be quickly discovered.

Next the men took up the contagion. One announced that unless he be removed without delay from the cell he occupied he should forthwith make away with himself, as he was tired of life. “He appeared so much dejected, and spoke with such apparent earnestness, that I ordered him to the infirmary,” says the governor. Another man writes on his slate that the authorities treat him with such severity, he shall certainly commit suicide. He is seen at once by both chaplain and governor, but continues “dogged and intractable.” Then a certain impudent young vagabond, notorious for his continual misconduct, is found one morning seated at his table, reading the burial service aloud from his prayer-book, and sharpening his knife on a bit of hearth-stone; a woman is discovered with a piece of linen tied tightly round her neck, and nearly producing strangulation; men, one after another, are found suspended, but always cut down promptly, and proved unhurt in spite of pretended insensibility: cases of this kind really occurred so frequently, that I should fill many pages were I to recount a tithe of them.

I will describe the first instance in which it was found necessary to inflict corporal punishment in Millbank, which was as a punishment for a brutal assault. One of the prisoners, David Sheppard, checked mildly by his officer for walking in his wrong place, replied, “I’ll walk as I have always done, and not otherwise.”

“You must walk with your partner.”

“What is that you say? I’ll partner you,” exclaimed Sheppard most insolently; an answer that is conclusive evidence as to the sort of discipline maintained in the prison.

The officer made no further remark, but walked away to unlock a gate. Sheppard followed him quickly, and without the least notice, struck him a tremendous blow behind the ear, striking him again and again till other officers came to the victim’s assistance. Many of the prisoners cried “Leave off!” but none offered to interfere. As soon as the prisoner had been secured, he was carried before the governor. The assault was brutal and unprovoked, and seemed to call for immediate example. Under the recent Act, it had become lawful to inflict corporal punishment in serious cases, and now for the first time this power was made available. The prisoner Sheppard was sent to the Queen’s Square police office, and arraigned before the sitting magistrate, who sentenced him forthwith to “one hundred and fifty lashes on the bare back.” The whole of the prisoners of the D ward, to which Sheppard belonged, were therefore assembled in the yard, and the culprit tied up to iron railings in the circle. “Having addressed the prisoner,” says the governor, “on this disgraceful circumstance, I had one hundred lashes applied by Warder Aulph, an old farrier of the cavalry, and therefore well accustomed to inflict corporal punishment, who volunteered his services. The surgeon attended, and he being of opinion that Sheppard had received enough, I remitted the remainder of his sentence, on an understanding to that effect with Mr. Gregory (the sitting magistrate). The lashes were not very severely inflicted, but were sufficient for example. Sheppard, when taken down, owned the justice of his sentence, and, addressing his fellow-prisoners, said he hoped it would be a warning to them. He was then taken to the infirmary.” A strong force of extra warders was present to overawe the spectators; but all the prisoners behaved well, except one who yelled “Murder” several times, which was answered from the windows above, whence came also cries of “Shame.” Another, who had been guilty some months before of a similar offence, witnessed the operation. It affected him to tears. “He was much frightened, and promised to behave better for the future.”

It is impossible to read this account of the infliction of what seemed a highly necessary chastisement without noticing the peculiar sensitiveness of the prison authorities on the subject. In these days there are crowds of thin-skinned philanthropists, ever ready to loudly rail against the use of the lash, even upon garroters and the cowards who beat their wives. But in the time of which I am writing—in 1830 that is to say, when soldiers, for purely military offences, were flogged within an inch of their lives, and the “cat” alone kept the slave population of penal colonies in subjection—it is almost amusing to observe what a coil was raised about a single instance of corporal punishment. Were proof required of the exceeding mildness of the rule under which Millbank was governed, we should have it here.

Between this and the next assault there was a long interval. But after a little more than twelve months had elapsed, the ferocity of these candidates for reformation again made itself apparent. This time it was a concerted affair between two prisoners who fancied themselves aggrieved by the stern severity of their officer, Mr. Young. These men, Morris and King, had been reported for talking to each other from cell to cell. Next day both were let out to throw away the water in which they had washed. They met at the trough, and recommenced conversation which had been interrupted the day before.

“At your old tricks, eh?” cried Mr. Young. “I shall have to report you again.”

“You lie, you rascal,” shouted Morris, suddenly drawing a sleeveboard which he had concealed behind his back. Holding this by the small end with both hands, he aimed several tremendous blows at Mr. Young’s head, which the latter managed to ward off partly, with his arms. But now King, armed with a pewter basin in one hand and a tailor’s iron in the other, attacked him from behind. Soon Mr. Young’s keys were knocked away from him, and he himself brought to the ground. However, he managed to regain his legs, and then made off, closely pursued by his assailants, who, flourishing their weapons and smashing everything fragile in their progress, drove him at length into a corner, got him down, beat him unmercifully, and left him for dead, King throwing the basin behind him as a parting shot.

Mr. Young’s cries of “Murder!” had been continuous. They were re-echoed by the shouts of the many prisoners who, standing at their open cell doors, were spectators of the scene. One man, Nolan, climbing up to his window, gave the alarm to the tower below. Assistance soon arrived—the taskmaster followed by two others, who met first Morris and King as they were returning to their cells. “What has happened?” they asked. “I haven’t an idea,” Morris replied coolly. King, too, is equally in the dark. The officers pass on and come to other cells, in which the prisoners are seen grinning as if in high glee, and when questioned they only laugh the more. But at length Nolan is reached. “Oh, sir,” says Nolan at once, through the bars of his gate, “they’ve murdered the officer, Mr. Young, sir. There lie his keys, and his body is a little further on.” At this moment, however, Mr. Young is seen dragging himself slowly towards them, evidently seriously injured and hardly able to walk. He just manages to explain what has happened, and as the governor has by this time also arrived, the offenders are secured and carried off to the refractory cells.

Here was another case in which a prompt exhibition of the “cat” would probably have been attended with the best results. But for some reason or other this course was not adopted; the prisoners Morris and King were remanded for trial at the next Clerkenwell Assizes, where, many months afterwards, they were sentenced to an additional year’s imprisonment. So far as I can discover, in these times the power to inflict corporal punishment in the Penitentiary was very sparingly employed. No other case beyond that which I have just described appears recorded in the journals till some four years afterwards, in 1834, when a prisoner having attacked his officer with a shoe frame, the sitting magistrate ordered him to be flogged with as little delay as possible. For this purpose the services of the public executioner were obtained from Newgate, and one hundred out of the three hundred lashes ordered were laid on “not very severely.” A large gathering of the worst behaved prisoners witnessed the punishment; but all were very quiet. “Not a word was spoken, though many were in tears.” “I fervently hope,” says Captain Chapman, “that this painful discharge of my duty may be productive of that to which all punishment tends—the prevention of crime.”