CHAPTER X
THE ARREST
In this distress I again consulted Tom, who knew already the whole case.
'In my opinion, Will,' he said, 'the best thing for you is to run away.Let Alice and the boy come here. Run away.'
'Whither could I run?'
'Go for a few days into hiding. They will come here in search of you.Cross the river--seek a lodging somewhere about Aldgate, which is on theother side of the river. They will not look for you there. Meantime Ishall inquire--Oh! I shall hear of something to carry on with for atime. You might travel with a show. Probus does not go to country fairs.Or you might go to Dublin or to York, or to Bath, and play in theorchestra of the theatre. We will settle for you afterwards--what to do.Meantime pack thy things and take boat down the river.'
This seemed good advice. I promised I would think of it and perhaps actupon it. Some might think it cowardly to run away: but if an enemy playsdishonest tricks and underhand practices, there is no better way,perhaps, than to run away.
Now had I been acquainted with these tricks I should have remained whereI was, in Tom's house, where no sheriff's officer could serve me with awrit. I should have remained there, I say, until midnight, when I couldsafely attempt the flight. Unfortunately I thought there was plenty oftime: I would go home and discuss the matter with Alice. I left thehouse, therefore, and proceeded across the fields without any fear orsuspicion. As I approached the Bank, I saw two fellows waiting about.Still I had no suspicion, and without the least attempt to escape or toavoid them I fell into the clutches of my enemy.
'Mr. William Halliday?' said one stepping forward and tapping myshoulder. 'You are my prisoner, Sir, at the suit of Mr. Ezekiel Probus,for the debt of fifty-five pounds and costs.'
As I made no resistance, the fellows were fairly civil. I was to betaken, it appeared, first to the Borough Compter. They advised me toleave all my necessaries behind and to have them sent on to the King'sBench as soon as I should be removed there.
And so I took leave of my poor Alice and was marched off to the prisonwhere they take debtors first before they are removed to the largerprison.
The Borough Compter is surely the most loathsome, fetid, narrow placethat was ever used for a prison. Criminals and Debtors are confinedtogether: rogues and innocent girls: the most depraved and the mostvirtuous: there is a yard for exercise which is only about twenty feetsquare for fifty prisoners: at night the men are turned into a roomwhere they have to lie edgeways for want of space: there is noventilation, and the air in the morning is more horrible than I candescribe. My heart aches when I think of the cruelty of that place: itis a cruel place, because no one ever visits it, no righteous Justice ofthe Peace, no godly clergyman: there is no one to restrain the warder:and he goes on in the same way, not because he is cruel by nature, butbecause he is hardened by daily use and custom.
I stayed in that terrible place for two nights, paying dues and garnishmost exorbitant. At the end of that time I was informed that I could beremoved to King's Bench at once. So I was taken to the Court and mybusiness was quickly despatched. As a fine for being poor, I had to paydues which ought not to be demanded of any prisoner for debt--at leastwe ought to assume that a debtor wants all the money he has for hismaintenance. Thus, the Marshal demanded four shillings and sixpence onadmission: the turnkey eighteen-pence: the Deputy Marshal a shilling:the Clerk of the Papers, a shilling: four tipstaffs ten shillingsbetween them: and the tipstaff for bringing the prisoner from the Court,six shillings.
These dues paid, I was assigned a room, on the ground-floor of the GreatBuilding (it was shared with another), and my imprisonment began. It wasMatthew's revenge and Mr. Probus's first plan of reduction tosubmission. But I did not submit.
Thus I was trapped by the cunning of a man whom I believe to have beenveritably possessed of a Devil. That there are such men we know verywell from Holy Writ: their signs are a wickedness which shrinks fromnothing: a pitiless nature: a constant desire for things of this world:and lastly, as happens always to such men, the transformation of whatthey desire, when they do get it, into dust and ashes; or its vanishingquite away never to be seen, touched, or enjoyed any more. These signswere all visible in the history of Mr. Probus, as you shall hear.Possessed, beyond a doubt, by a foul fiend, was this man whom then I hadevery reason to hate and fear. Now, I cannot but feel a mingled terrorand pity when exemplary punishment overtakes and overwhelms one whocommits crimes which make even the convicts in the condemned cell toshake and shudder. His end was horrible and terrible, but it was afitting end to such a life.
Tom Shirley came, with Alice, to visit me in my new lodging.
He looked about him cheerfully. 'The new place,' he said, 'is more airyand spacious than the old prison on the other side of the road, where Ispent a year or two. This is quite a handsome court: the Building is aPalace: the Recreation ground is a Park, but without trees or grass: thethree passages painted green remind me somehow of Spring Gardens: thenumbers of people make me think of Cheapside or Ludgate Hill: the shops,no doubt contain every luxury: the society, if mixed, is harmonious....'
'In a word, Tom, I am very lucky to get here.'
'There might be worse places. And hark ye, lad, if there is not anotherfiddler in the Bench, you will make in a week twice as much in thePrison as you can make out of it. Nothing cheers a prisoner more thanthe strains of a fiddle.
This gave me hope. I began to see that I might live, even in this place.
'There are one or two objections to the place,' this optimistphilosopher went on. 'I have observed, for instance, a certain languorwhich steals over mind and body in a Prison. Some have compared it withthe growth they call mildew. Have a care, Will. Practise daily. I haveknown a musician leave this place fit for nothing but to play for Jackin the Green. Look at the people as they pass. Yonder pretty fellow istoo lazy to get his stockings darned: that fellow slouching after himcannot stoop to pull up his stockings: that other thrusts his feet intohis slippers without pulling up the heels: there goes one who has worn,I warrant you, his morning gown all day for years: he cannot even getthe elbows darned: keep up thy heart, lad. Before long we will get theeinto the Rules.'
He visited my room. 'Ha!' he said, 'neat, clean, commodious. With a fineview of the Parade; with life and activity before one's eyes.' He forgotthat he had just remarked on the languor and the mildew of the Prison.'Observe the racquet players: there are finer players here than anywhereelse, I believe. And those who do not play at racquets may findrecreation at fives: and those who are not active enough for fives maychoose to play at Bumble puppy. Well, Will, Alice will come back to me,with the boy. She can come here every morning if you wish. Patience,lad, patience. We will get thee, before long, within the Rules.'
It is possible, by the Warder's permission, to go into the Rules. Butthe prisoner must pay down L10 for the first L100 of his debts, and L5for every subsequent L100. Now I had not ten shillings in the world.When I look back upon the memory of that time: when I think of thetreatment of prisoners: and of the conduct of the prison: and when Ireflect that nothing is altered at the present day I am amazed at thewonderful apathy of people as regards the sufferings of others--it maybecome at any time their own case: at their carelessness as concernsinjustice and oppression--yet subject every one to the same oppressionand cruelty.
What, for instance, is more monstrous than the fact that a man who hasbeen arrested by writ, has to pay fees to the prison for every separatewrit? If he has no money he is still held liable, so that even if hisfriends are willing to pay his debts with the exorbitant costs of theattorney, there are still the fees to be paid. And even if theprisoner's friends are willing to release him there is still the wardenwho must be satisfied before he suffers his prisoner to go.
Again what can be more iniquitous than the license allowed to attorneysin the matter of their costs? Many a prisoner, originally arrested for adebt of four or five pounds or even less, finds after a while that theattorney's costs amount to twenty
or thirty pounds more. He might beable to discharge the debt alone: the costs make it impossible: thecreditor might let him go: the attorney will never let him go: thefriends might club together to pay the debt: they cannot pay the costs:the attorney abates nothing, hoping that compassion will induce theman's friends to release him. In some cases they do: in others, theattorney finds that he has overreached himself and that the prisonerdies of that incurable disease which we call captivity.
At first sight the Parade and the open court of the Prison present anappearance of animation. The men playing racquets have a little crowdgathered round them, there are others playing skittles: children runabout shouting: there are the shrill voices of women quarrelling orarguing: the crowd is always moving about: there are men at tablessmoking and drinking: the tapsters run about with bottles of wine andjugs of beer. There are women admitted to see their friends, husbandsand brothers, and to bring them gifts. Alas! when I remember--the sightcomes back to me in dreams--the sadness and the earnestness in theirfaces and the compassion and the love--the woman's love which enduresall and survives all and conquers all--I wish that I had the purse ofCroesus to set these captives free, even though it would enrich theattorney, whose wiles have brought them to this place.
One has not to look long before the misery of it is too plainly apparentabove the show of cheerful carelessness. One sees the wives of theprisoners: their husbands play racquets and drink about and of anevening sit in the tavern bawling songs; the poor women, ragged anddraggled, come forth carrying their babes to get a little air: theirfaces are stamped with the traces of days and weeks and years ofprivation. The Prison has destroyed the husband's sense of duty to hiswife: he will not, if he can, work for his family; he lives upon suchdoles as he can extract from his family or hers. Worse still, men losetheir sense of shame: they say what they please and care not who hears:they introduce companions and care not what is said or thought aboutthem: things are said openly that no Christian should hear: things aredone openly that no Christian should witness or should know. There aremany hundreds of children within these accursed walls. God help them, ifthey understand what they hear and what they see!
In the prison there are many kinds of debtors: there is the debtor whois always angry at the undeserved misery of his lot: sometimes hiswrongs drive him mad in earnest: then the poor wretch is removed toBedlam where he remains until his death. There is, next, the despairingdebtor who sits as one in a dream and will never be comforted. There isthe philosophical debtor who accepts his fate and makes the best of it:there is the meek and miserable debtor--generally some small tradesmanwho has been taught that the greatest disgrace possible is that whichhas actually fallen upon him; there is the debtor who affects the Beauand carries his snuff-box with an air. There is the debtor who was agentleman and can tell of balls at St. James's; there is the ruffler whoswaggers on the Parade, looking out for newcomers and inviting those whohave money to play with him. As for the women they are like the men:there are the wives of the prisoners who fall, for the most part, into adraggled condition like their husbands; there are ladies who put onsumptuous array and flaunt it daily on the Parade: stories are whisperedabout them; there are others about whom it is unnecessary to tellstories; in a word it is a place where the same wickedness goes on asone may find outside.
There is a chapel in the middle of the great Building. Service is heldonce a week but the attendance is thin; there is a taproom which iscrowded all day long: here men sit over their cups from morning tillevening; there is a coffee-room where tea and coffee can be procured andwhere the newspapers are read; this is a great place for the politiciansof whom there are many in the Prison. Indeed, I know not where politicsare so eagerly debated as in the King's Bench.
The King's Bench Prison is a wonderful place for the observation ofFortune and her caprices. There was a society--call it not aclub--consisting entirely of gentlemen who had been born to good estatesand had suffered ruin through no fault of their own. These gentlemenadmitted me to their company. We dined together at the Ordinary andconversed after dinner. One of them, born to an easy fortune, was ruinedby the discovery of a parchment entitling him to another estate. Therewas a lawsuit lasting for twenty years. He then lost it and found thatthe whole of his own estate had gone too. Another, a gentleman of largeestate, married an heiress. Her extravagancies ran through both her ownfortune and her husband's. She lived with him in the Prison and daily,being now a shrew as well as a slattern, reproached him with the ruinshe herself had caused. There was a young fellow who had fallen amonglawyers and been ruined by them. He now studied law intending as soon ashe got out to commence attorney and to practise the tricks and roguerieshe had learned from his former friends. Another had bought a seat in theHouse of Commons and a place with it. But at the next election he losthis seat and his place, too. And another was a great scholar in Arabic.His captivity affected him not one whit because he had his books andcould work in the Prison as well as out.
With such companions, I endeavoured to keep aloof from the drinking androystering crew which made the Prison disorderly and noisy. Yet, as Iwill show you directly, I was the nightly servant of the roysterers.
You have heard of Tom Shirley's judgment that in every debtors' prisonthe collegians, if they do not, as many do, go about in filthy rags andtatters, are all slatterns: some can afford to dress with decency andcleanliness, not to speak of fashion, which would be, indeed, out ofplace in the King's Bench; even those care not to observe the customs ofthe outside world; the ruffles are no longer white or no longer visible;the waistcoat is unbuttoned; the coat is powdered; the wig is uncurled;those who wear their own hair leave it hanging over the ears instead oftying it neatly with a black ribbon behind. This general neglect ofdress corresponds with the universal neglect of morals which prevailsthroughout the Prison. Everything conspires to drag down and to degradethe unfortunate prisoner: the hopelessness of his lot; the persecutionof his enemies; the uncertainty about the daily bread; the freedom withwhich drink is offered about by those who 'coll it,' _i.e._, in thelanguage of the place who have money; the temptation to do as others doand forget his sorrows over a bowl of punch; speedily contaminate theprisoner and make him in all respects like unto those around him. I havesaid already that if it is bad for men it is worse for women. Let medraw a veil over this side of the King's Bench. Suffice it to say thatone who has written on the Prisons has declared that if Diana herselfand her nymphs were to be imprisoned for twelve months in the King'sBench, at the end of that time they would all be fit companions forMessalina.
It is not only from their rags that the poverty of the prisoners isbetrayed; one may learn from their hollow cheeks, their eager eyes,their feeble gait, that many--too many--are suffering from want of food.It is true that the law of the land gives to every prisoner agroat--four-pence a day--to be paid by the detaining creditor: yet thegroat is not always paid, and can only be obtained if the creditorrefuses it by legal steps, which a man destitute of money cannot take.What attorney will take up the case of a man without a farthing? If thedebtor wins his case how is he to pay the attorney and costs out offour-pence a day? If he wishes to plead in _forma pauperis_, the lawallows the warder to charge six shillings and eight-pence for leave togo to the Court and half a crown for the turnkey to take him there--whatprisoner on the poor side can pay these fees? So that when a prisoner isreally poor he cannot get his groats at all, for the creditor will notpay them unless he is obliged. Again there are other ways of evading thelaw. If a debtor surrenders in June there is no Court till November andthe creditor need not pay anything till the order of the Court isissued. There are a few doles and charities; but these amount to no morethan about L100 a year, say, two pounds a week or six shillings a day.Now there are 600 prisoners as a rule. How many of these are on the poorside? And how far will six shillings a day go among these starvingwretches? There are also the boxes into which a few shillings a day aredropped. But how far will these go among so many? It is within mycertain knowledge that
many would die of sheer starvation every weekwere it not for the kindness of those but one step above them.
If, for instance, one would understand what poverty may mean he mustvisit the Common side of the King's Bench Prison. Those who have visitedthe courts and narrow lanes of Wapping report terrible stories of ragsand filth, but the people, by hook or by crook, get food. In the Prisonthere is neither hook nor crook: the prisoner unless he knows a tradewhich may be useful in that place: unless he can repair shoes andclothes: unless he can shave and dress the hair, cannot earn a penny.Look at these poor wretches, slinking about the courts, hoping toattract the compassion of some visitor; see them uncombed, unwashed,unshaven; their long hair hanging over their ears; a horrid bristlingbeard upon their chin; their faces wan with insufficient food, theireyes eagerly glancing here and there to catch a look of pity, a dole ora loan. If you follow them to the misery of the Common side where theyare thrust at night you will see creatures more wretched still. Thesecan go abroad even though skewers take the place of buttons; these haveshoes--which once had toes; these have beds, of a kind; there are otherswho have no beds, but lie on the floor; who have no blankets and nevertake off their rags; who go bare-footed and bare-headed. Remember thattheir life-long imprisonment was imposed upon them because they couldnot pay a debt of a pound or two. Their pound or two, by reason of theattorney's costs and the warden's fees, has grown and swelled till ithas reached the amount of L20 or L40 or anything you will. No one canrelease them; the only thing to be hoped is that cold and starvation mayspeedily bring them to the end--the long sleep in the graveyard of St.George's Church.
I speedily found that I could manage to live pretty well by means of myfiddle. Almost every evening there was some drinking party which engagedmy services. I played for them the old tunes to which they sang theirsongs about wine and women--bawling them at the top of their voices;they paid me as much as I could expect. By good luck there was no otherfiddler in the place; a harpist there was; and a flute-player; wesometimes agreed together to give a concert in the coffee-room.
I continued this life for about six months, making enough money everyweek to pay my way at the Ordinary. Perhaps--I know not--the prison wasalready beginning to work its way with me and to reduce me, as TomShirley said, to the condition of a fiddler to Jack in the Green.
I had a visit, after some three months, from Mr. Probus. He came one dayinto the prison. I saw him standing on the pavement looking round him.Some of the collegians knew him: they whispered and looked at him withthe face that means death if that were possible. One man stepped forwardand cursed him. 'Dog!' he said, 'if I had you outside this accursedplace, I would make an end of you.'
'Sir,' said Mr. Probus, at whose heels marched a turnkey, 'you do me aninjustice for which you will one day be sorry. Am I your detainingcreditor?'
The man cursed him again, I know not why, and turned on his heel.
Then I stepped forward. 'Did you come here to gloat over your work, Mr.Probus?'
'Mr. William? I hope you are well, Sir. The prison air, I find, is freshfrom the fields. You look better than I expected. To be sure it is earlydays. You are only just beginning.'
'You will be sorry to hear that I am very well.'
'I would have speech in a retired place, Mr. William.'
'You want once more to dangle your bribe before me. I understand, sir,very well, what you would say.'
'Then let me say it here. Your cousin, I may say, deplores deeply thisnew disgrace to the family. He earnestly desires to remove it. I amagain empowered to purchase an imaginary reversion. Mr. William, he willnow make it L4,000. Will that content you?'
'Nothing will content me. There is some secret reason for thispersecution. You want--you--not my cousin--to get access to this greatsum of money. Well, Mr. Probus, my opinion is that my cousin will diebefore me. And since I am firmly persuaded upon that point, and since Ibelieve that you think so too, my answer is the same as before.'
'Then,' he said, 'stay here and rot.' He looked round the prison. 'It isa pleasant place for a young man to spend his days, is it not? All hisdays--till an attack of gaol fever or small-pox visits the place. Eh?Eh? Eh? Then you will be sorry.'
'I shall never be sorry, Mr. Probus, to have frustrated any plots anddesigns of yours. Be assured of that--and for the rest, do your worst.'
He slowly walked away without a word. But all the devil in his soulflared in his eyes as he turned.
'You do wrong,' said the turnkey who had accompanied him. 'Tis thekeenest of his kind. Not another attorney in all London has brought us,not to speak of the Fleet and Newgate, more prisoners than Mr. Probus.For hunting up detainers and running up the costs he has no equal.'
'He is my detaining creditor,' I said.
The turnkey shrugged his shoulders.
'Young gentleman,' he said, 'I see that you are a gentleman, althoughyou are a fiddler--take advice. Agree with his terms quickly, whateverthey are. He made you an offer--take it, before he lands you in anothercourt with new writs and more costs.'
In fact, the very next day, I heard that there was another writ in thename of one John Merridew, Sheriff's officer, for fifty pounds allegedto have been lent to me by him. As for Mr. John Merridew, I knew noteven the name of the man, and I had never borrowed sixpence of anyone.
I showed the writ to my friend the turnkey. He read it with admiration.
'I told you so,' he said, 'what a man he is! And Merridew,too--Merridew! And you never borrowed the money, and never saw the man!What a man! What a man! Merridew, too, under his thumb! There's abilityfor you! There's resource!'
I murmured something not complimentary. Indeed, I knew nothing, at thattime, of Merridew.
'Ah! He means to keep you here until you accept his offer. Better takeit now, then he'll let you go for his costs. He won't give up the costs.What a man it is! And you've never set eyes on John Merridew, have you?What a man! He knows John Merridew, you see. Why, between them--'Helooked at me meaningly, and laid his hand upon my shoulder. 'Take myadvice, Sir. Take my advice, and accept that offer of his. Else--I don'tsay, mind, but Merridew--Merridew----'He placed his thumb upon the leftside of my neck, and pressed it. 'Many--many--have gone thatway--through Merridew. And Probus rules Merridew.'
END OF BOOK I
PART II
OUT OF THE FRYING PAN INTO THE FIRE