So much has been written about this national Bastille, and so many have gone over the building, that one feels as if writing about “a tale that is told.” Nevertheless, I trust my narrative may describe things never before alluded to, and be found to contain matters of interest that came under my personal observation. The first thing at Newgate that a fresh arrival has to submit to is the indispensable bath, accompanied by a very minute and simultaneous search. I was at once ushered downstairs and into a very roomy and luxurious bath room, quite as good as any supplied for eighteenpence at West End establishments, and being invited to undress and get into the bath, had the gratification of observing my clothes undergo, one by one, a very thorough overhauling. Each item was severally manipulated, and I am convinced not a pin could have escaped detection. Meanwhile I was splashing and thoroughly enjoying myself, much as one has seen a duck that has been cooped up for a week when suddenly turned into a pond. I had not had such a revel for ten days, and in the ecstasy of the moment I felt as if it was almost worth the journey to Newgate for such a luxury. This periodical bath is one of the greatest “inflictions” the average prisoner has to submit to, and numerous instances came under my observation at a later period, of ingenuity displayed by frowzy malefactors to evade this regulation. Twenty minutes found me again “clothed and in my right mind,” and I was ushered into a cell on the same subterraneous floor. This cell was certainly the most empty I had ever seen; its entire furniture literally consisted of a camp stool and a thermometer, and this latter instrument caused me considerable annoyance, for I am not exaggerating when I assert that an absurd make-believe display of anxiety for one’s welfare involved a visit and calculation of the temperature every half-hour through the night. I utterly failed to fathom this custom, the more so as the turnkey who made the calculation probably understood as much about it as he did of astronomy, and can only attribute it to the inherent politeness developed in the officials who periodically have lodgers whom they begin by feeding up, and eventually end by launching into eternity with a hand shake, if we are to believe the papers. This idea is not my own, but was suggested to me by a terrible scamp and fellow lodger whom I shall presently introduce to the reader. An absurd habit that prevailed at Newgate, and which contrasted strangely with the other customs, was that of the chief warder as he finally counted us at night. This official, having glared at you with an expression such as the rattlesnake may be presumed to give the guinea-pig just before dinner, invariably said “Good night!” I was so struck by this unique and time-honoured custom that I asked my friend and valet—for he cleaned out my cell and did other jobs for me—Mr. Mike Rose what it meant. “Well,” he said, “they gets into a sort of perlite way like, ’cos whenever a cove swings they nigh allus shakes hands with ’im, and maybe this is ’ow they gits perlite like.” There was something so original in this logic that I could not but be impressed by it, and though I failed to discover the connection between the two circumstances, still I had realized that Mr. Mike Rose was a bit of a character and worth cultivation. Very shortly after my incarceration in the thermometer-furnished cell I was visited by the surgeon, and having obtained his permission to have a bed instead of a hammock, a wooden tressel was brought in with sheets, bolster, and blankets. I at once proceeded to make my couch, deeming bed the best place on such a cold and cheerless afternoon; and 6 o’clock P.M. found me in bed, vainly endeavouring to get warm, with my eye fixed on the thermometer, and muffled up to the chin with sheets and blankets, all of which were stamped in letters three inches long with the ominous words “Newgate Prison.” I really believed that my first night’s experience at the “House of Detention” was sufficiently awful, but it was nothing to my sensations here. The associations of the place, the idea that many a murderer had probably occupied this very cell, and possibly slept in these identical bed-coverings, all forced themselves upon me. The bells of the numerous churches which abound round Newgate also seemed desirous of adding to one’s misery by joyful peals; they were practising their weekly bell-ringing, and one chime was repeating over and over again—in mockery of me, as it were—Haydn’s “Hymn of the Creation,” and “The Heavens are telling” kept floating into my ears through granite walls and iron bars; and though I tried very hard to stifle sound by burying myself under the “broad-arrowed” bed-clothing, all my efforts were futile, till sleep, kind sleep, took pity on me, and I wandered in my dreams far away from my dreadful abode, only to be recalled to the hideous reality by the mournful prison bell, and—

“Sorrow returned with the light of the morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.”

The daily routine is somewhat different to that of the “House of Detention.” One official only counts the prisoners of a morning, and asks you at the time if you wish to see the doctor during the day. I was once tempted to express this wish with a view of procuring a sleeping draught. He questioned me as to my symptoms in an apparently interested manner, and eventually ordered me a dose of “No. 2.” No. 2, I may here state, is a ready-made article, and is baled out of a huge jar into a dirty tin cup. I took my dose, and, without further detailing the result, am extremely grateful I had not been prescribed No. 1. If I had, it is very doubtful whether this narrative would ever have been written. The first day is occupied with details to which considerable importance appear to be attached—namely, your description—every particular of which is carefully booked by the head of each department, and a more senseless, harassing ordeal can hardly be conceived. Surely one inspection and general description (this was my third within ten days) ought to suffice, and might without much trouble be forwarded from one prison to another. It is idle to deny that half the questions put to you are absolutely unnecessary, and the conviction is forced on you that you are being pumped from sheer curiosity. Thus the Chaplain, in the blandest manner, only to be acquired by constant attendance on murderers previous to execution, asked me questions that appeared most impertinent—as to where I lived, and if I had any relatives, and where they lived. I at once told him I considered all this quite unnecessary, and declined to enlighten him. Immediately after breakfast on the first morning the prisoners are taken in packs of about twenty before the Governor. This man is what is known in the army as a “Ranker”—that is, one who by merit has raised himself from the rank and file to his present position—and had apparently brought with him many of those habits which, however commendable in a turnkey, are beneath the dignity of a Governor and lower the position he ought to occupy. Acting on the habits associated with his youth, this Governor commenced a minute examination of one’s physiognomy. Seizing you by the nose or ear (I forget which), and scowling hard, he began, “Eyes grey, complexion fresh, mole on neck, &c.;” and having further personally superintended your being measured and weighed, you were filtered through, as it were, into the presence of the Chaplain, who tried to pump you as before described, and who, in his turn, passed you on to the doctor, who appeared to have a kind of roving commission to endeavour to extract any crumbs of information omitted by his two confrÈres.

A Cheerful Group

The whole style and system at Newgate was excessively low. I was moreover very much struck by the resemblance that appeared to exist between the officials from the highest to the lowest. Every one had the same unpleasant expression that suggested the idea that they lived in gloomy streets, where the drainage was bad. I attribute this in a measure to a commendable desire on the part of the subordinates to imitate their chief, who had not a pleasant expression, and shows how necessary it is that Government should select a gentleman by birth and manners—irrespective of every other recommendation—for a position of such delicacy as that of a prison Governor. The next ordeal one had to submit to was “Chapel,” and, barring the novelty of the scene, I can hardly conceive a more absurd farce. The pumping Chaplain was here metamorphosed into the surpliced cleric, and it is difficult to decide in which character he was most objectionable. In justice I must commend him for the brevity of his remarks, for from find to finish—from “When the wicked man” to the end of the sermon—was all compressed into fifteen minutes, and away we again trudged, like Alice in Wonderland, in search of further novelty. The Chapel of Newgate is a very awful place; anything more calculated to banish reverential feeling and inspire horror can hardly be conceived. On each side is a huge cage, different from anything I had ever seen, except, perhaps, the elephant house at the Zoological. In these, prisoners convicted and prisoners awaiting trial are severally placed, thus effectually dividing the Scotland Yard sheep from the Scotland Yard goats. Above, protected by small red curtains, were diminutive balconies, capable of holding three persons at most; these were for the accommodation of murderers, from whence they receive the consolations of religion (official) whilst awaiting strangulation. The vibration of a curtain led me to the conclusion that one of these mortuaries was daily occupied, a suspicion that was confirmed by events which I subsequently heard and saw. I discovered, indeed, that a gentleman who had cut the throats of half his family, and who eventually benefited by the religious consolation of the Chaplain and the delicate attentions of Mr. Marwood, was a fellow-lodger at the same time as myself. I saw the poor wretch every day passing and repassing, and later on “assisted” at certain preliminaries in his honour. I moreover had a bird’s-eye view of his last appearance in public, facts that I shall duly narrate hereafter.

“Exercise” was an indispensable feature of life in Newgate, and nothing, I believe, could have exempted one from this ordeal. It answered, indeed, more purposes than one. Health was doubtless essential; identification, however, was considerably more important. Three times a week, and before starting on our circus-like walk, all the prisoners awaiting trial, amounting to over two hundred, were ranged shoulder to shoulder round the walls, a preliminary that at first puzzled me considerably. I was not, however, left long in ignorance.

“Should old acquaintance be forgot.”

A little way off, and apparently approaching, I heard the measured tramp of an advancing crowd, and suddenly there appeared a long string of men in single file; these were the detectives, some seventy or eighty in number, bent on a mission of recognition. Slowly they passed before us, each one staring and occasionally stopping and addressing a prisoner, or whispering to one of their companions. These preliminary enquiries often led to minuter inspections; and if they expressed the wish, a prisoner was afterwards honoured by a private view, and carefully compared with photographs and police descriptions. This, no doubt, is a very essential proceeding, and many a man “wanted” for an undiscovered crime in another part of the kingdom, and committed months or years previously, is recognized by this salutary custom. As may be supposed, this inspection had absolutely no personal interest to me. Still the ordeal, degrading in the extreme, never failed to inspire me with horror; and I dreaded the mornings when the “detecs,” as they were lovingly termed, made their appearance. There was something so weird and uncanny in the whole thing—the distant tramp, the solemn march past, the offensive leer, the familiar stare, all combined to make a horrible impression. A more repulsive body of men than these “detecs” can hardly be conceived, got up as they were in every kind of costume—men in pot hats and slap-bang coats, others in shabby-genteel frock coats and tall hats; some in fustians and others in waterproofs and leggings, but all with the same unmistakable expression. I hope the authorities are not under the impression that these individuals are unknown to the law-breaking community, for no greater fallacy can possibly exist. I never missed an opportunity hereafter of asking habitual criminals this question, and am satisfied that their appearances, their beats, and their daily routine are known to every habitual criminal in London. I’ll prove this hereafter. Meanwhile, one has only to look about in the streets, and he cannot fail to observe a civilian frequently talking to a policeman. This man is not asking his way, but is in nineteen cases out of twenty a “recogniser”; nor can it be wondered at if their foolish actions and evident unwillingness to conceal their vocation makes them as distinguishable as they are. I will confidently assert that every pickpocket and every “unfortunate” knows each and every one of these detectives; and as they invariably frequent the same beat, and pursue the same tactics at the same time every day, it can hardly be wondered at. I know—and it will hardly be asserted that I could know it except by having heard it from others—that a detective is “due” daily at King’s Cross Metropolitan Station about two P.M., and remains about an hour, and that on race-days he is there before the return from the meeting. If this is true—as I believe it to be—it is natural to suppose that other facts are equally well known. I could adduce a hundred instances of this sort, for I made burglars my particular study, and will disclose hereafter my ideas of the many fallacies that at present exist on this subject, and the causes that lead to burglaries, and how they are easiest avoided. I never lost the opportunity of questioning a burglar or a pickpocket, and during the next few months I saw some very fair specimens of these respective species. My remarks must not be taken as referring to the higher Scotland-yard detectives, than whom no cleverer body exists, but to these trumpery plainclothes men, or “recognisers,” that may be seen at every corner, and who, I verily believe, do more to impede than further justice.