As the key turned in the ponderous door, and I found myself, with sixteen others, standing on a huge mat in a dismal corridor, I realised that I had arrived “home,” or at what I might consider as such, for—as I imagined—the next eighteen months. I had already passed one week in Newgate, and really thought, in the sanguineness of my heart, that I had made a considerable hole in my sentence, and that the remaining seventy-seven weeks would soon slip by. My first intimation that the place was inhabited, except by mutes, was hearing a metallic voice saying, pro bono publico, “You’ll find that talking is not permitted here—you mustn’t talk.” By peering into the gloom I discovered that the voice belonged to a bald head, and the bald head to a venerable head warder. The poor old man was super-annuated shortly after, and evidently meant to show the recruits he was not to be trifled with, and that there was life in the old dog yet. We were next taken through endless corridors to the “Reception Room.” Can any name be more suggestive of satire, except perhaps “Mount Pleasant,” the hill so called on which the prison stands, bounded at each corner by a public-house, and a “pop-shop” here and there sandwiched in between! The reception we received in the Reception Room was far from a cordial one; it was, indeed, as cold as the weather outside. The Reception Room is octagon shape, with benches arranged over the entire floor; on these we were directed to sit down, about a yard apart. In front was a large desk and a high stool, on which a turnkey was perched, whose sole duty was to prevent the least intercourse between the prisoners; in fact, the entire room and its fittings conveyed the impression of being connected with a charity school for mutes. The Reception Room is the first and last place a prisoner passes through; it is here that, on his arrival, he is transformed into the Queen’s livery, and again on his departure reverts to citizen’s clothing—it is, in fact, the filter through which the dregs of London have to pass before becoming sufficiently purified to be again permitted to mingle with the pure stream outside. The silence of the grave is its normal condition, where the novice receives a foretaste of the “silent system.”

The Effects of a Warm Bath at “Coldbath.”

We must have sat thus silently for at least an hour, when a door from outside was unlocked, and a warder, accompanied by two prisoners carrying sacks, made their appearance. The contents of these, being thrown on the floor, were discovered to be boots, not new ones, or even pairs, but very old and dirty, mended and patched with lumps of leather on the soles, on the heels, and, in fact, anywhere. We were now invited to “fit” ourselves, and a scramble ensued amongst a section of the prisoners. I selected a nondescript pair, tied by a cord, as unsuited a couple as ever were united, the right foot of which would have fitted an elephant, and the left have been tight for a cork leg. With this unsavoury acquisition on my lap I resumed my seat. It is the custom, as I before hinted, to show one the worst of everything at first, and the rule that applied to the cells was clearly in force regarding the boots. I found, however, that after the general “fit,” and when a comparative lull ensued, that some of the more fortunate ones had better ones supplied, and I shortly after received a new pair in exchange for my “fit.” The next thing that made its appearance was a basket full of caps and stocks. Here I was less fortunate, and the size of my head precluded the possibility of a fit. The basket was followed by a bundle of wooden labels, on each of which our various names were inscribed; with these in our hands, we were told to “Come along.” My label considerably puzzled me. We now found ourselves in the corridor devoted to baths, where each man received a bundle of clothing. The object of the label now manifested itself; it was to attach to our clothes—not likely to be wanted for some time. The bundles consisted of a pair of blue worsted socks, a blue striped shirt, a blue pocket-handkerchief the thickness of a tile, a towel as coarse as a nutmeg-grater, and a suit of clothes. The clothes, when new, are really very good, and by no means objectionable. There is nothing of that conspicuous, degrading appearance about them that distinguishes the convict dress. On the contrary, the trousers and vest are well cut, and made of good warm mole-skin; the jacket is a capital material, and were it not for painful associations, and the possibility of unpleasant attentions from zealous policemen, I would gladly have a suit of the jacket material. The otherwise agreeable effect is somewhat marred by the broad-arrow Government mark, which appears to be applied regardless of all symmetry and indeed of all expense. No general rule apparently exists as to the marking of this cloth, which one must conclude is left entirely to the discretion and good taste of the individual armed with the paint-pot. This want of uniformity thus lends an agreeable variety to the different appearances of individuals; for my part, I always felt that I resembled the “Seven of Spades.” The Baths are, as I found them at Newgate, in themselves excellent, and if one could forget one’s probable predecessor, the enjoyment would be considerably enhanced. They were, I daresay, perfectly clean, though I always fancied I detected a Seven-Dials mouse-trap flavour in the atmosphere, and in the water. The bath, as an institution, admirably fulfils its twofold function; it insures a thorough wash, and removes the last trace of one’s former self. Entering the apartment with the bundle under my arm, I proceeded to divest myself of my clothing. I had not, however, been many seconds submerged before an eye was applied to the peephole, followed by the entrance of a turnkey, and all my clothing was carefully removed. The process of re-dressing was not an easy one; nothing came within a foot of my size except the socks; the overalls declined to do anything like meeting, and a piece of twine was pressed into the service. The waistcoat was another trial, necessitating the turnkey calling for the “corpulent waistcoat.” Trussed up in this fashion, I patiently awaited the “corpulent” waistcoat, a marvel of tailoring. The chest measurement could not have exceeded thirty-six; whilst the waist (?) must have been one hundred. From the “corpulent” one only reaching half-way down my chest, I concluded that its original owner must have been about five-foot-nothing. But the warder very good-naturedly said “he’d make it all right,” and not long after I was measured, and within twenty-four hours possessed a brand-new suit. My enormous size also necessitated special shirts; a couple were made in an incredibly short space of time, and all through my career I experienced the benefit of wearing linen that had never been contaminated by contact with “baser metal.” The warder to whom I was indebted for these delicate attentions was one of the best in the prison, and though I never came much in contact with him, I understood he was a great favourite. He was connected with the stores, and could get more done in an hour than one of the blustering kind in a week. Before leaving the baths, I would wish to draw attention to a custom that calls for immediate alteration. The system at present in vogue is for all prisoners to have a bath immediately on arrival, after which they undergo medical examination. At these examinations, as is well known, many creatures are found, not only to be alive with vermin, but suffering from itch. With these facts, that are not to be gainsaid, common sense surely suggests a medical examination before instead of after the bath, an arrangement which, however disagreeable to the surgeons, would be a considerable benefit to the prison inmates generally. It is a common occurrence for men who have been in prison three, and even six months, to be found to be suffering from itch, and it is equally certain that they caught it in these baths, which are pro bono publico once a fortnight. I thank God I was spared any of these “plagues,” though I never took my periodical dip without finding my thoughts wandering to Scotland and the Argyll (not Bignell’s).

Having joined my companions we were reconducted to the reception-room, which by this time was crowded by contributions from the various Police-courts. My Newgate friend Mike was now thoroughly in his element; he appeared to take a pride in showing his intimacy with the etiquette of the place, and seemed quite hurt if a warder didn’t recognize him as an old acquaintance. As I looked down the benches now fully occupied, I fancied I could have distinguished every new comer from the habituÉ by the way they wore their caps. The new hands put them on in such a manner that they resembled a quartern loaf, whilst the more experienced—such as Mike—cocked them with a jaunty air as if proud of the effect. At a later period I observed that a great deal of vanity existed on the subject of toilet amongst the regular jail-birds: they plastered down their hair—as I know—with the greasy skimmings of their soup, or applications of suet pudding; and many—incredible as it may appear—shaved regularly with their tin knives and the back of a plate for a mirror. Hair-cutting now commenced, and anyone whose hair was too long was effectually operated on. It is a mistake to suppose that prisoners’ hair is cut in the barbarous manner that is applied to convicts; nothing is done to them beyond what a soldier has to submit to—namely, having his hair and beard of moderate length. As I have all through life kept what I have as close as possible, the hair-cutting in my case was dispensed with, and through the subsequent few months I had always to ask for the services of the barber, and invariably received the same reply—“Surely, yours is short enough!” There was one item in the crop I was never subjected to—probably because my moustache was small—but which I certainly should not have liked; it was the habit of clipping the ends square to the lip. I’ve often seen men in London and elsewhere with this distinctive crop, which I should now invariably associate with prison life; and if I met a Bishop who affected this style it would be difficult to convince me that I had not met him “elsewhere.” The next person that intruded himself was—as I was informed—a chaplain. His attire was far from clerical, and consisted of a billycock hat—not a good, honest, disreputable one, but one of your shabby-genteels, so infinitely more fatal—a coat that suggested Crosse and Blackwell’s cut, and boots suspiciously resembling the prison make. He interrogated me in my turn, though I fear his curiosity was far from satisfied. His mania was the ceremony of “confirmation,” and when he discovered I had omitted that essential form, I at once passed into his black books. Happily, I was perfectly indifferent to his displeasure or his patronage—indeed the latter would have been the most unbearable. He never forgave me, however, as a discreditable tiff we had long after conclusively proved. As I got to see more of this shining light I began to suspect that he must have been a Jesuit, he did so much to make Protestantism obnoxious.

I was next passed on to a schoolmaster—a gradual improvement in accordance with the system is here apparent—who amused me by inquiring if I could read, how I spelt “oxen,” if I could write, and if I thought I could “write a letter?” This latter question was very conclusively set at rest a week later by an incident that occurred in which I was the chief culprit, and which necessitated the collective wisdom of the Home Office and a full bench of the Visiting Justices to adjudicate upon. Meanwhile, I had “passed” this scorching examination, and had to sit quietly by and listen to illiterate costermongers and rascally pickpockets being severally questioned. It had its amusing features, although I felt how degrading it was for a public school-boy and a gentleman by birth and education to be compelled under any combination of circumstances to submit to be catechized by such a trio. The next person to appear was the doctor—the dearest, kindest old gentleman I ever met. His manner to all was alike considerate and kind; one, moreover, who seemed to be aware that the position of a gentleman (unless usurped by a cad) loses nothing of its dignity by a courteous bearing towards inferiors or men placed in a painful position—a manner that inspired respect and yet precluded the possibility of a liberty, a refreshing contrast to a nondescript that had preceded him, and the beau idÉal of a fine old English gentleman. Stripped to the waist and behind a screen, we were one by one subjected to a minute examination. A schemer had a very sorry look-out with this eminent physician; no dodge could possibly avail, for he was intimate with every “ailment” that criminal flesh is heir to. It was amusing, after hearing some rascal relate the numerous complaints from which he was suffering, to hear the surgeon quietly say with a smile, “Oh, you’ll soon be all right,” and to see the hospital warder write down, “Fit, hard labour.” This short and apparently informal ceremony is the most momentous in one’s future career, and though unaware of it at the time, I was not surprised later on at the importance attached to it by the experienced criminal. By it one’s future treatment is entirely guided, and the class of labour is carefully selected in accordance with its decision. A card, then and there signed by the surgeon, and which is always fixed on one’s cell door, decides one’s future vocation; and “Hard labour,” or “Light labour and bed,” bear a significance incredible to the uninitiated. As I stood before the kind old man stripped to the waist (or rather to where my waist now is) I was amused by his astonishment at my enormous proportions. I satisfied him I was not deceiving him by a reference to an operation I had once undergone; and this, coupled with my unnatural size, decided him I was incapable of hard labour, and the words, “Light labour and bed,” were recorded on my card. Before many hours had passed I realized the benefit of those magic words. These preliminaries, as is always the case in well-constructed dramas or farces, only led up to the event of the day—the inspection by the Governor. In Her Majesty’s prisons these individuals are clothed in attributes something more than mortal, and receive an amount of homage sufficient to turn the head of a fool or a snob. In this instance the Governor was neither, and though a strict disciplinarian, was the justest and “straightest” man I ever met. Prisoners and warders were equally amenable to his discipline, and the slightest dereliction of duty brought him down on you like a load of bricks. There was no abuse or verbosity accompanying this discipline, and though he was feared, I believe he was equally liked and respected by every man in the prison. The advent of such a personage naturally involved a proportionate amount of preparation, and everything received an overhaul. Men who wore Her Majesty’s livery for the first time, and were mere babes in the mysteries of its graceful adjustment, were told to put their stocks “square on,” or button this button and not that of their vests and jackets; lumps of coal that had burned crooked were carefully straightened, and even the coal-box got a lick of whitewash at the last moment. We were then rehearsed in a sort of drill: every man was informed that when “attention” was called he was at once to “spring” up smartly and remain standing—an old vagrant, aged 100 to judge by his appearance, “sprang” with so much zeal that I really thought he had cricked his neck. When all the preparations were considered complete, and we had attained an efficiency worthy the reputation of the “North Corks,” and as some minutes had yet to elapse before the great man’s arrival, it was deemed advisable to fix our thoughts in the same reverential groove by reading certain rules for our future guidance. The following notice is one of the half-dozen that hang up in every cell—all of which I shall produce hereafter. They can hardly be considered as light reading, or such as one would select unless absolutely compelled; nevertheless, they afforded me a certain amount of occupation by learning them by heart during the many solitary hours I spent hereafter:—

ABSTRACT OF THE REGULATIONS

RELATING TO THE

TREATMENT AND CONDUCT OF CONVICTED
CRIMINAL PRISONERS.

1. Prisoners shall not disobey the orders of the Governor or of any officer of the prison, nor treat them with disrespect.

2. They shall preserve silence, and are not to cause annoyance or disturbance by making unnecessary noise.

3. They shall not communicate or attempt to do so with one another, or with any strangers or others who may visit the prison.

4. They shall not disfigure any part of their cells or damage any property, or deface, erase, destroy, or pull down any rules or other papers hung up therein, or commit any nuisance, or have in their cells or possession any article not sanctioned by the orders and regulations.

5. They shall not be idle, nor feign sickness to evade their work.6. They shall not be guilty of profane language, of indecent or irreverent conduct, nor shall they use threats towards or commit assaults upon officers or one another.

7. They shall obey such regulations as regards washing, bathing, hair-cutting, and shaving as may from time to time be established, with a view to the proper maintenance of health and cleanliness.

8. They shall keep their cells, utensils, clothing, and bedding clean and neatly arranged, and shall when required clean and sweep the yards, passages, and other parts of the prison.

9. If any prisoner has any complaint to make regarding the diet, it must be made immediately after a meal is served and before any portion of it is eaten. Frivolous and groundless complaints, repeatedly made, will be dealt with as a breach of prison discipline.

10. A prisoner may, if required for the purposes of justice, be photographed.

11. Prisoners shall attend divine service on Sundays, and on other days when such service is performed, unless they receive permission to be absent. No prisoner shall be compelled to attend the religious service of a church to which he does not belong.

12. The following offences committed by male prisoners convicted of felony or sentenced to hard labour will render them liable to corporal punishment:—

1st. Mutiny or open incitement to mutiny in the prison, personal violence to any officer of the prison, aggravated or repeated assaults on a fellow-prisoner, repetition of insulting or threatening language to any officer or prisoner.

2nd. Wilfully and maliciously breaking the prison windows, or otherwise destroying the prison property.

3rd. When under punishment, wilfully making a disturbance tending to interrupt the order and discipline of the prison, and any other act of gross misconduct or insubordination requiring to be suppressed by extraordinary means.

13. A prisoner committing a breach of any of the regulations is liable to be sentenced to confinement in a punishment cell, and such dietary and other punishments as the rules allow.14. Any gratuity granted to a prisoner may be paid to him through a Prisoners’ Aid Society, or in such way as the Commissioners may direct.

15. Prisoners may, if they desire it, have an interview with the Governor or superior authority to make complaints or prefer requests; and the Governor shall redress any grievance or take such steps as may seem necessary.

16. Any prisoner wishing to see a member of the Visiting Committee shall be allowed to do so on the occasion of his next occurring visit to the prison.

Printed at H.M. Convict Prison, Millbank.