A great variety of trades are represented in Coldbath Fields—such as tailors, shoemakers, blacksmiths, tinsmiths, worsted-workers, laundrymen, bakers, needlemen, basket-makers, mat-makers, printers, bookbinders, carpenters, plumbers, and glaziers. Of these mat-making and laundry-work are considered the hardest. The men selected for following any of the above vocations are looked upon as privileged individuals, and infinitely better off than the ordinary oakum-picker—a task that everyone has to submit to for one month, although many never get beyond it and its accompanying isolation during the two years of their imprisonment. A good deal of the comfort or otherwise with which these trades are followed depends on the warders in charge. If the warder is a brute, the prisoners become demoralized, crime is rampant, and reports and punishment the natural consequence. If he happens to be reasonable and just in his dealings, contentment reigns, the work is well done, and insubordination is unknown. I saw and heard a great deal in support of this assertion, and during my few months’ retirement managed to poke my nose into a good many queer corners. The laundry bears an unenviable notoriety, both on account of the excessive hard labour and the brutality with which it is enforced. There are about sixty men employed in this department, who have severally to wash one or other of the following quantities daily:—30 shirts, 80 sheets, 200 towels, 500 pocket-handkerchiefs, 18 blankets, 250 pairs of socks. Such quantities would tax the capacity of an expert washerwoman; but when a novice—probably a clerk or respectable tradesman—is put to the task, its magnitude is at first insurmountable. Instead of 30 shirts, the poor wretch finds he cannot manage more than 5, which next day he succeeds in bringing up to 15. Meanwhile his hands become chafed and sore, and he sees the doctor in hopes of getting relief; but the doctor is powerless. A cut finger is not a serious complaint though probably a very painful one; and he has no alternative but to send him back. This in itself is considered as malingering; and the poor devil is brought before the Governor for idleness and feigning sickness, and is sentenced to one day’s bread and water as a first offence. Should this “crime” be repeated, he gets an increased punishment, and is either flogged or sent to the punishment cells. This is no overcoloured description. A prisoner in such a case has neither justice nor any means of proving the injustice. Any report, however garbled, is necessarily believed; and if corroboration is necessary, a dozen turnkeys, from every part of the prison, will come forward, and emphatically endorse their comrade’s charge. The prisoner meanwhile is not allowed to speak, and if he did would not be believed, and, as often happens with the lower classes, is actuated by fear, which only increases his apparent guilt.

Typical turnkey L. Normal expression R. Corroborative evidence

It is not the prison authorities that can be held responsible for this burlesque on justice, for more humane, honourable, and just men than the Governor and Surgeon of Coldbath Fields do not exist. It is the vile system that gives no discretionary power to these officials, and considers that a man once overtaken in a fault ought forthwith to be treated like a dog; and, not satisfied with this inhuman conclusion, deputes the carrying out of their system to a set of ignorant, cringing, underpaid warders and turnkeys—in many cases ill-conditioned by nature, and brutal, eye-serving, and untrustworthy by habit.

One victim of this cruel system, that was undergoing fifteen months’ imprisonment, worn out by work, constant reports, punishment, and illness, and who was refused permission to revert to oakum-picking in preference to remaining in the laundry, went back to his solitary cell one Saturday night, and in sheer desperation hanged himself; and Sunday morning found him suspended by his bed-straps from the bell-handle, cold and stone dead. Another lad of 18, who had been reported for talking, and sentenced to bread and water, took it so much to heart that on his cell door being opened about 2 P.M. he rushed past the turnkey, and threw himself over the railings. He was picked up insensible and taken to the hospital, when, incredible as it may appear, he was found to be absolutely uninjured, although he had jumped from a fifth storey and landed on a stone floor. On his dinner tin the unhappy youth had scratched, “Dear father and mother, brothers and sisters I wish you all good-bye and have 3 days cells and 3 days bread and water and pushed about. From A. Burke.” The lad was thereupon brought before the visiting justices, and in consideration of his youth only got seven days in the punishment cells.

It cannot be denied that great malingering and deception are practised by prisoners, which necessitates the greatest vigilance on the part of the officials. Nothing is commoner than for them to pretend attempted suicide; and instances are of frequent occurrence where a man, having calculated the time to a nicety, proceeds to hang himself as his door is being opened. These gentlemen are almost invariably flogged.

On the other hand, it is equally certain that justice is not meted out in the disposal of everyday offences. Discipline demands that the warders must be supported; and even if they are known to be lying or grossly exaggerating, “the system” necessitates their being believed. If, therefore, this humble stratum of humanity is supposed to be entitled to a particle of fair play, it calls for the immediate attention of Sir Edmund Du Cane. I would suggest the advisability of an experienced ex parte official being daily present at these orderly-room farces, who could watch the cases and weigh the evidence. Until this is done a prisoner has about as much prospect of justice as had Arabi before the arrival of Mr. Broadley. In this rÉsumÉ of justice as administered at Coldbath Fields I must be permitted to disown all reflections on the Governor, for whom I have the profoundest respect. It is the system that I blame, and sympathize with a conscientious man being compelled by regulation to conform to its usages.

About eighty men are employed as tailors; of these the best workmen are employed in the shop, the remainder doing piecework in their respective cells. They make the entire clothing for officers and prisoners for this and many other prisons. The work is exceptionally good—a fact not to be wondered at, considering they count amongst their ranks journeymen and cutters from many of the principal West-end houses. The basket-making is exceptionally good, and to a great extent made to the order of the leading shops; and the specimens of neat work I have seen quite surprised me. Mat-making is a severe type of hard labour. The daily task is one yard, and men who have been employed at it have assured me that it is very hard work. The mat-room is fitted with twelve looms for the make of the best doormats. The Government has a contract with Treloar, a shopkeeper in Ludgate; and as he is supposed to have a large connection, it may be assumed that reputedly honest feet are constantly being brought into contact with the work of dishonest hands.

The bakery is worth a visit, if only to see the mountains of bread in course of preparation. In this place about twenty-four men are constantly employed putting in or taking out loaves from two huge ovens. All the bread, whether white or brown, is made in separate loaves of the average size of a penny roll; and when it is added that some 4000 of these are consumed daily, representing a gross weight of over half a ton, in Coldbath Fields alone (to say nothing of Holloway Gaol and the House of Detention, which are also supplied from here), some idea of the proportions of “our bakery” may be arrived at. The kitchen is, if anything, still more interesting. I have never seen anything to approach the size of the vats and utensils, unless, perhaps, in a pantomime scene representing Gorgeybuster the giant’s cuisine. Everything is here cooked by steam, and excellent the cookery is. The soup, which is supplied three times a week, is exceptionally good. It finds its way from the kitchen in enormous tubs, and on arrival at the various wards is transferred into greasy, half-washed tins; still it does not lose its excellence, and I invariably enjoyed the soup. The usual amount made on soup days is about 200 gallons, and the daily quantity of potatoes consumed about 7 cwt. As may be supposed, certain farces and abuses have crept into this department. Specimens of the cookery are daily laid out for the inspection of the surgeon and Governor. If they should, however, omit this essential form, it is amply compensated for by the voracity of some of the head warders, who frequently sacrifice inclination at the shrine of duty and make a substantial meal during the tasting process. Beef-tea for the use of the patients is also made here—a brew that would be considerably strengthened by being doctored in the hospital kitchen instead of where it is. A pound of beef is the liberal allowance for each pint of beef-tea. The usual custom that prevails, however, is for the beef to be eaten, by those who ought to know better, and for Colonial meat to be substituted for it. I assert this advisedly, and offer it as the possible solution of the knotty problem of why complaints are of such frequent occurrence. Home Office papers, please copy! Despite all the assertions to the contrary, I freely confess I never found fault with the prison fare; and if one could keep one’s thoughts from wandering to “Bignon’s” or the “CafÉ Helder,” one could thoroughly enjoy the liberal fare. I experienced this dietary, pure and simple, for two or three months, so may be fairly considered capable of forming an opinion.

The carpenters’ and smiths’ shops call for no special notice beyond the custom in vogue, whereby all men are carefully searched before returning to their cells. This is, no doubt, an essential ceremony, as turnkeys’ scalping-knives, in the shape of chisels, might occasionally go astray, not forgetting the modest pencil, the most treasured possession of Her Majesty’s prisoners.

The oakum shed finds employment for about a dozen men. In it piles of old rope are being continually chopped up, weighed, and tied into bundles varying from one to three pounds in weight. I have often seen van loads of this apparently worthless rope discharging cargo at this shed, and was surprised to see the same though quite unrecognisable rope leaving the prison a week or two after converted into the finest oakum, to be again utilized for the manufacture of rope.

The paper room is the most original and interesting of the various institutions in this original and interesting place. I do not know if it lies in the route through which visitors are conducted, but if it does it will repay a minute inspection. Into this room the sweepings of the Houses of Parliament and the various Government Offices in the United Kingdom find their way. All old telegrams, after being kept six months at the General Post Office, are sent here to be destroyed, to say nothing of old ledgers, directories, blue books, almanacks, etc.; in short, a heterogeneous mass of things useful and things useless, all higgle-de-piggledy, to be sorted and torn into small pieces, and eventually converted into paper by Alderman Waterlow and his sons (these last named individuals do their share of the work at home). Amongst this pile the most valuable discoveries are of daily occurrence; and articles priceless in the estimation of a prisoner, such as pen-knives, boxes of cigarettes, butt-ends of cigars, writing paper, envelopes, novels, coins, pencils, and postage stamps, are hourly exhumed. About 200 men are employed in this department, whose duty is to tear up into small atoms a certain amount of waste paper daily. Of the above number some 20 of the most trustworthy (i.e., those who are the greatest adepts in the art of secreting property about their persons) are employed in overhauling the supply, and delivering up contraband goods—that they may not require—before passing it to be manipulated by their less trustworthy confrÈres. Great precautions are supposed to be taken against the possibility of a prisoner appropriating any of this “treasure trove,” and they are each and all subjected to a minute examination before returning to their cells. That this search meets all the requirements of the case may be gleaned from the quantities of things that find their way into the prison. I was never without a capital pen-knife, and when I lost mine (or when it was stolen), as I did on more than one occasion, I never had any difficulty in procuring another. The stationery that I used for my “private” correspondence was invariably House of Commons paper, and, excepting perhaps being almost imperceptibly soiled, was as good as new. The traffic in tobacco through this agency is by no means inconsiderable, and before I had made my personal arrangements for a weekly supply I have frequently exchanged food for cigarettes; but they were far from satisfactory, and I found them infinitely better adapted for choking than chewing. Butt-ends of cigars, too, find a ready market; but at this point I invariably drew the line, and preferred—inveterate smoker though I am—to forego the luxury of chewing a cigar that had been half-masticated by some scorbutic quill-driver. The special trade that I was put to was worsted work. I was officially described as a “needleman,” a title I had more claim to than may appear at first sight. Needlemen are employed either in knitting stockings, making shirts, or darning blankets, shirts, or socks. I had the choice of any of these delectable pursuits, and selected the latter as the most easy of evasion. Darning burglars’ stockings, I admit, sounds a humble and unsavoury vocation; but considering they are boiled for about three days before passing into the needlemen’s hands, any antipathy on the subject must be attributed to sheer prejudice. Other motives also influenced me; it was far the lightest and most elastic job, and a reserve bundle I always kept in stock did me good service on the thimble rig principle. The allotted task was 15 pair a day at least, but thanks to my “reserve” (a far greater success than Mr. Cardwell’s), and “auxiliaries” of other kinds, I found that two pair and sometimes three a day met all the “requirements of the service.” The nature of my work amusingly exemplified Locke’s theory of the “Association of Ideas,” and I never took up a stocking without having vividly presented to my mind the scene in “Faust,” where Marguerite is bound to lame the wearer. I speak from personal knowledge, for one afternoon I experimentalized with one of my specimen repairs and blistered my foot for a month. I often had qualms of conscience as I saw the numerous men that were limping round at exercise—the number of whom appeared to increase in proportion to the quantity of stockings I darned—and I could not help feeling that I was the unintentional cause of all this misery. My deplorable incapacity in the Berlin wool and fancy line was once nearly getting me into a terrible scrape. Amongst the pedestrians that exercised at the same time as myself was an ex-convict and desperado, who prided himself on the recital of his past experiences, and who had undergone penal servitude in Australia and England almost without interruption during the past 20 years. He was a Hercules in appearance, addicted to the use of his fists on the slightest provocation, and about the last man whose susceptibilities one would care to offend. On his arrival some twelve months previously he had laid down some wholesome rules for the guidance of those whom it might concern. “I don’t wants any ’umbug as long as I’m ’ere”—this was the burthen of his instructions. “I’ll do my work as well as I’m able, and you’ll allus find me willing and respec’ful-like; but if any of you attempts to bully or ’umbug me I’ll cut your throats from ear to ear.” Conceive, then, my feelings on seeing this amiable creature one morning struggling with his stocking. A glance convinced me it was my handiwork. With a terrible oath, and livid with rage, he expressed a wish that he only knew the chap that had “fixed” his stocking. With an equally fervent but inaudible prayer I sincerely hoped he never would.