The number of admissions into hospital about this time necessitated my having a companion billeted on me, an unfortunate Frenchman, utterly oblivious of any language but his own; and as it turned out that his attainments in English were exactly of the same extent as that of the warders in French, there seemed to be an impassable gulf fixed between all communication of ideas, if either party had happened to possess any. He was complaining to me one day of the disadvantage he laboured under, and described the usual conversation that took place daily between himself and the hospital warder.

“Well, are you better?”

“No, sare.”

“O, all right.”

“VoilÀ mon ami. What do you tink?”My companion, I was gratified to observe, was gradually mastering some of the idioms of our language.

Not long after, an extraordinary creature was admitted as a patient, and I cannot to this day say what his nationality was, although I am inclined to believe his language was some kind of Russian patois. Nobody could make head or tail of him, and a distracted warder, in this dilemma recollecting my success with the “other foreigner” and doubtless giving me credit for a knowledge of every language of the earth besides a few of the lunar ones, came and asked me to try and understand him. My knowledge of outlandish languages is not remarkably extensive (it is confined, I may state, to the Hottentot word for “rice” and the Chinese for “smoke”), and as no one appeared to have a Russian dictionary, I addressed him in Hindustani, considering that in point of longitude it came geographically nearest the Russian. He at once replied in a rambling speech, throwing his arms about and beating his chest; and though I am convinced he understood no more of my speech than I had of his, my reputation was established, the more so as he had no means of betraying my secret. Having then explained to the warder that he complained of pains in the chest, and would prefer an egg beaten in his tea instead of boiled (a change I considered unlikely to materially affect his complaint), I retired to my apartment.

I now for the first time came into personal collision with the chaplain. For weeks and months circumstances, and possibly choice, had kept us apart, nor had we exchanged a word since the eventful day when he discovered that an “unconfirmed” sinner stood before him. It was during prayers (a movable feast indulged in three mornings a week at the chaplain’s convenience) that I was referring to a book on the table in hopes of finding the particular extract he was reading. Failing in that I replaced the book, and resumed my hypocritical solemnity, in blissful ignorance of any impropriety. The holy man, however, thought otherwise, and hissed out at me—

“I consider your behaviour impertinent to me, and disrespectful to God.”

At first I retained my equanimity, for he was incapable of raising my ire; and I assured him what my object had been, and reminded him I was a Presbyterian. At this his rage knew no bounds, and sneering in a manner unworthy of a clergyman (I won’t say a gentleman), he said—

“A Presbyterian, are you? Ah, I thought you didn’t belong to the Church of England!”

I soon got the unhappy man’s back up. I assured him I was indifferent to his opinion, and added I was proud to belong to a Church where such intolerant views were not expressed by its ministers. This undignified scene was heartily enjoyed by twenty prisoners and warders, all of whom assured me I had had considerably the best of it. I intended to have paraded him before the visiting Justices, but common sense prevailed, and I should have ignored his further existence had it not been for a petty spite he indulged in shortly after. As I have before stated, the library books are under his special care. During my long illness I had waded through this “special” catalogue till I had reached number 21, and in the course of events might naturally hope to receive number 22 next. In this, however, I had made a miscalculation, and his Reverence decided that a school edition (the eighth I had read) of the History of England was a more wholesome dietary for a bumptious Presbyterian. I was convinced the mistake was not unintentional, but, anxious to give him an opportunity of gracefully retracting a contemptible action, I sent the following day to point out his oversight. The reply was, as I expected, “If he does not choose to have it let him go without.” I reported the matter to the Governor, who at once offered to place the matter before the visiting Justices, as he had no jurisdiction in the matter; but I decided that the man and his book were neither worth it. I should now, under ordinary circumstances, have been left entirely bookless—a contingency in my case that did not occur. It also gave me the opportunity of reading “The General History of the Church,” a well-written and exhaustive work by the AbbÉ Daras, supplied for the use of Roman Catholics. The superiority of the literature—religious and profane—selected and supplied by the Roman Catholic chaplain, together with his personal merit and gentlemanly bearing, makes Romanism a formidable rival to the “Established” Religion as dispensed at Coldbath. To judge by the jealousy that exists in a certain quarter, it is evident this superiority is realized elsewhere. But the circumstance was not unnoticed by my lynx-eyed, ghostly comforter. On many occasions I have seen him watching, as if he would have liked—had he dared—to ask me what I was reading; but he confined himself to discussing me with the warders, with such remarks as, “I see he’s got hold of something,” or “What’s that he’s reading?” all of which was duly reported to me. I feel I have given undue importance to this contemptible squabble; but I look on it as a tilt between sects, a tussle between an Episcopalian divine, armed with authority, and a Nonconformist, placed at a considerable disadvantage, and where—had I been in a position to do so—I should have left the room—as the Governor once did the Chapel when unmeasured and ill-advised criticism was being lavished on Dissenters. The guilt of schism lay heavily on this orthodox Churchman’s heart. I say schism, for I call it such of the most culpable type that ignores the insignia of Divine sanction accorded to the Ministry and people of Nonconformity. I would ask this bigoted Episcopalian what he thinks of Richard Baxter, Livingston, John Horne, Wesley, Whitfield, Chalmers, Candlish, Caird, Guthrie, McLeod, names only to be mentioned to inspire veneration, and yet these were all Nonconformists of one denomination or another. Surely, if Divine grace finds and fashions such men, they may be considered as entitled to at least respect from clergymen and gentlemen, who, if they do not agree in their respective tenets, may at least abstain from unmeasured abuse of them and their followers! Arrogance anywhere is bad, but is doubly so when men who claim to be disciples of the meek and lowly Jesus set such an example by their narrow-minded remarks about Nonconformity. The Church of England is a venerable and illustrious section of the true Church, and unlikely to have its fair fame sullied by the ravings of a nameless ranter. But it becomes a question, is a chaplain with such extreme views, so uncompromising in his denunciations, so unguarded in his language, so ungovernable in his temper, the sort of person for a prison chaplain, or one likely to convert sinners from the error of their ways? God forbid that my remarks should be mistaken. I do not aspire to be considered either a ranter or a hypocrite, but I respect and never fail to detect religion, and despise its base counterfeit wherever and in whomsoever I find it; and if I can hear the “old story” ungarnished by rhetoric, I care not whether it emanates from Episcopalian, Presbyterian, or Nonconformist of whatever denomination.

That this is a very small world was demonstrated to me during a conversation I once had with a fellow prisoner. He was a decent, educated man, and had been in a pawnbroker’s establishment. Our conversation one night turned on things theatrical, and he was giving me some interesting experiences of the “ladies” he had met at various times on business. He asked me if I knew Mrs. —, and I said I had spoken to the old hag. He then proceeded to tell me what a constant customer she had been in former days, and how her contributions had varied from woollen rags one week to valuable jewellery another. It was then that a circumstance was brought to my mind—told me some three years ago by a lovely and accomplished actress, since retired from the stage—of how a popular burlesque artiste in the same theatre had once lost a valuable jewel, and how suspicion pointed at this identical old woman, who had a girl at the theatre. I asked him if he recollected anything about it, and he at once proceeded to give me details that convinced me that the pendant he referred to was one and the same as that which had mysteriously disappeared, and that the suspicions formed a few years ago might have been very fully confirmed had a visit been paid to an establishment not a hundred miles from Tottenham Court Road.

During my illness I had at different times the services of the various cleaners in making my bed, brushing the floor, and bringing in my meals, and I invariably extracted anything of interest about their previous careers. My first was an unmitigated young “till thief.” This is a special branch of the profession, requiring assurance rather than dexterity, and consists in watching your opportunity when the shop is empty, and then making a dash for the till or cash-box. My valet had apparently been eminently fortunate, and although he had undergone a previous twelve months, had escaped detection a score of times. He was then undergoing a lengthened seclusion for an unforeseen occurrence, which he in no way considered as a reflection on his prowess. He had, it appears, entered a confiding lamp-dealer’s, and finding the shop conveniently empty, and the cashbox conspicuously displayed, had done his business, and proceeded to leave the premises. A swinging glass door, however, unfortunately intervened between the shop and the street, which in the excitement he pushed the wrong way, and in some way jammed. This little delay made a difference in his and the shopman’s respective accounts of about £45. On another occasion he found himself in a corn-chandler’s—a class that is proverbially considerate in avoiding superfluous obstacles to a hurried exit,—and whilst helping himself to the till, a customer came in, who, seeing him engaged, asked for a pennyworth of barley; to this he obligingly served her, added the cumbrous coin to his other findings, and then complacently left the shop. This individual was a special pet with the turnkeys, and as such—combined with his trustworthy reputation—was invariably selected for expeditions to the various stores. His special talent here stood him in good stead, and he never returned without having stolen three or four eggs, a handful of flour, or a lump of soap. Indeed, so inherent was the spirit for thieving, that if all else failed, he would annex physic, and I have often seen him with bottles of quinine and iron mixture. This latter forms a considerable article of commerce, and is much sought after and bartered (never mind how or where) for advantages of a more palatable type. A short time before his discharge I advised him to drop the cash-box game, and he assured me he had quite determined to “turn it up.” Within a week he had been re-convicted, and is at present undergoing seven years’ penal servitude. In my next valet I was considerably disappointed. Although an unmitigated thief, I fancied I detected some redeeming features. I talked to him frequently, and treated him with as much kindness as a man with my circumscribed means had probably ever been able to. In return he assisted to rob me of contraband things, of which he always had a liberal share. He had been a lieutenant (in burglary) of the late Mr. Peace, and often discussed that eminent man with evident regret. He had been with him in various minor affairs, and through his entire career had never been “nabbed.” His present incarceration was the result of treachery, where a less fortunate associate had rounded on him, and he was arrested a week after. He often hoped to meet him outside, though an incident that occurred will necessitate a postponement of the pleasure. A batch of convicts, en route to penal servitude, were one day being medically examined by the surgeon (a new regulation lately come into force), amongst whom my valet recognised his quasi friend, the informer. The interview took place near the kitchen, where my man was cooking a chop, the surgery being next door, at which the convicts were ranged. “And what did you say?” I enquired. “Say!” he replied, “I slapped my stomach to show ’im I was all right, and then I says, ‘You looks ’orrid ill, you —; you’ll never do it; thank God, ’twill kill yer.’”

A pleasant prelude to ten years’ penal servitude.

I am indebted to this noble-minded creature for many hints as to how burglaries are concocted and how best guarded against, and I am of opinion that attention to them will do more to obviate their frequency than all the absurd warnings as to window shutters and area gates, that periodically emanate from Scotland Yard. No burglary is ever attempted on chance; in fact, no house is ever entered except on exact and reliable information. This is usually obtained through a frivolous maidservant (in which case a delay of weeks may be necessary for love-making), a rascally butler, or the local chimney-sweep. The information chiefly sought after is the strength of the garrison (whether males or females), the class of valuables (whether plate or jewellery), their usual locality, and the habits of the occupants. With this as a basis, the house is watched for days and weeks, in order that a confirmation of the information may be obtained. The time preferred is when the night police are in the act of relieving the day men, and if that should be inconvenient (to the burglar), between the night patrols. All this may appear ridiculous, but I give it as the testimony of a notorious burglar, imparted to me in good faith, under exceptionally favourable circumstances for hearing the truth, and if acted on will materially increase the security of householders.

I asked my mentor his opinion about window shutters and door bolts, at which he absolutely laughed. No burglary is ever attempted through a window unless considerately left open. The front door is the invariable point of attack, as most favourable for ingress and a precipitate retreat, and under occasional circumstances the area. The operation never takes more than twenty minutes, as is erroneously supposed, the object being to be in and out again between the periodical promenade of the policeman. These nocturnal strolls are accurately calculated, and the precision with which they are performed, however admirable from a disciplinary point of view, are totally inappropriate as deterrents to burglaries.

“But suppose,” I asked, “a person said to you, ‘I’ve only got so-and-so in the house—you can have that’: would you be satisfied?”

“Satisfied?” he replied. “No, we knows jolly well what there is afore we comes; and, for the matter of that, there’s no time for talk. We goes straight for the swag, and if anyone tries to ’inder us, we’re bound to let ’im ’ave the jemmy right across the face. That’s ’ow poor Peace got ’imself into trouble fust.” He then went on to tell me that he had a lovely (!) little jemmy about eighteen inches long and tipped with the finest tempered steel, capable of being carried up the sleeve, and so fine that it could be inserted into the smallest crack or hinge; “And,” he added, “once let me get ’is nose in, and make no mistake, I walks in very soon arter.”

This gentleman’s testimony is worthy of consideration. He was associated, as he informed me, with the butler in a well-known burglary of plate somewhere in Kensington, and where the butler, being knave enough to rob his master, was fool enough to entrust a large portion of the proceeds to his confederate to melt down and divide. As I understood him, half only of this bargain was carried out in its integrity.

The secrecy with which foolish women fancy they put away their jewels in secure safes let into the wall is a labour lost in vain. Their hiding-place is thoroughly well known, and probably its value, and other useful particulars. That they have hitherto escaped is merely an accident of time and opportunity; that they will ultimately be victimized is a foregone conclusion. The moral to be gleaned from this is, to be sure of your servants, a fool being almost as dangerous as a knave, and to abstain from flashing your jewellery before eager eyes, only too ready for a clue to its whereabouts.

If after this disinterested advice unprotected women are fools enough to barricade themselves and their treasures in defenceless houses, they have only themselves to thank. They should be careful, however, not to waste their visitor’s time when confronted by his “bull’s-eye,” as burglars are proverbially children of impulse. Houses containing little or nothing of value are never burglariously entered. Men won’t risk penal servitude on a chance; the prize and its price have been carefully calculated.