Part 17
Ludgate had ceased to exist, and the debtors were transferred to New Ludgate, in Bishopsgate Street. It was a comparatively aristocratic debtors’ prison, for it was only for debtors who were free of the City, for clergymen, proctors, and attorneys. Here, again, the generosity of the City stepped in; and, for an average number of prisoners of twenty-five, ten stone, or eighty pounds of beef, were given weekly, together with a daily penny loaf for each prisoner. The lord mayor and sheriffs sent them coals, and Messrs. Calvert, the brewers, sent weekly two barrels of small beer, besides which, there were some bequests.
The Poultry Compter was in the hands of a keeper who had bought the place for life, and was so crowded that some of the prisoners had to sleep on shelves over the others, and neither straw nor bedding was allowed them. The City gave a penny loaf daily to the prisoners, and remitted for their benefit the rent of thirty pounds annually; the Calverts also sent them beer. At Howard’s visits, eight men had their wives and children with them.
Wood Street Compter was not a pleasant abode, for Howard says the place swarmed with bugs. There were thirty-nine debtors, and their allowance was a daily penny loaf from the City, two barrels of beer weekly from the Calverts; the sheriffs gave them thirty-two pounds of beef on Saturdays, and for some years a benevolent baker sent them, weekly, a large leg and shin of beef.
At Whitechapel was a prison for debtors, in the liberty and manor of Stepney and Hackney, but it was only for very small debtors, those owing above two pounds, and under five. Howard’s story of this prison is a very sad one, the occupants being so very poor:
‘The Master’s-side Prisoners have four sizeable chambers fronting the road--_i.e._, two on each storey. They pay two shillings and sixpence a week, and lie two in a bed; two beds in a room. The Common-side Debtors are in two long rooms in the Court Yard, near the Tap-room. Men in one room, women in the other: the Court Yard in common. They hang out a begging-box from a little closet in the front of the House, and attend it in turn. It brings them only a few pence a day, and of this pittance none partake but those who, at entrance, have paid the keeper two shillings and sixpence, and treated the Prisoners with half a gallon of beer. The last time I was there, no more than three had purchased this privilege....
‘At my first visit there were, on the Common-side, two Prisoners in Hammocks, sick and very poor. No chaplain. A compassionate Man, who is not a regular Clergyman, sometimes preaches to them on Sunday, and gives them some small relief. Lady Townsend sends a Guinea twice a year, which her Servant distributes equally among the Prisoners.
‘As Debtors here are generally very poor, I was surprised to see, once, ten or twelve noisy men at skittles; but the Turnkey said they were only visitants. I found they were admitted here as at another public-house. No Prisoners were at play with them.’
At St. Catherine’s, without the Tower, was another small debtors’ prison. This parish was a ‘_peculiar_,’ the Bishop of London having no jurisdiction over it, and the place was under the especial patronage of the Queens of England ever since the time of Matilda, the wife of Stephen, who founded a hospital there, now removed to Regent’s Park. It was a wonderful little parish, for there people could take sanctuary--and there also were tried civil and ecclesiastical cases. Howard says that the prison for debtors had been rebuilt seven years before he wrote. It was a small house of two storeys; two rooms on a floor. In April, 1774, there was a keeper, but no prisoners. ‘I have since called two or three times, and always found the House uninhabited.’
No notice of debtors’ prisons would be complete without mention of the King’s Bench, which was in Southwark. Howard reports:
‘The Prisoners are numerous. At more than one of my visits, some had the Small Pox. It was so crowded this last summer, that a Prisoner paid five shillings a week for half a bed, and many lay in the chapel. In May, 1766, the number of Prisoners within the Walls was three hundred and ninety-five, and, by an accurate list which I procured, their wives (including a few only called so) were two hundred and seventy-nine, children seven hundred and twenty-five--total, one thousand and four; about two-thirds of these were in the Prison.’
The prisoners had, as in the Fleet, their weekly wine and beer clubs, and they also indulged in similar outdoor sports. The Marshalsea and Horsemonger Lane gaol complete the list of London debtors’ prisons.
Howard’s description of the county prisons is something appalling. Gaol-fever, distemper, or small-pox being recorded against most of them. At Chelmsford there had been no divine service for above a year past, except to condemned criminals. At Warwick the debtors’ common day-room was the hall, which was also used as a chapel. At Derby a person went about the country, at Christmas-time, to gentlemen’s houses, and begged for the benefit of the debtors. The donations were entered in a book, and signed by each donor. About fourteen pounds were generally collected in this manner.
Chesterfield gaol was the property of the Duke of Portland, and Howard describes it thus:
‘Only one room, with a cellar under it, to which the Prisoners occasionally descend through a hole in the floor. The cellar had not been cleaned for many months. The Prison door had not been opened for several weeks, when I was there first. There were four Prisoners, who told me they were almost starved; one of them said, with tears in his eyes, “he had not eaten a morsel that day,”--it was afternoon. They had borrowed a book of Dr. Manton’s; one of them was reading it to the rest. Each of them had a wife, and they had, in the whole, thirteen children, cast on their respective parishes. Two had their groats from the Creditors, and out of that pittance they relieved the other two. No allowance: no straw: no firing: water a halfpenny for about three gallons, put in (as other things are) at the window. Gaoler lives distant.’
At Salisbury gaol, just outside the prison gate, a round staple was fixed in the wall, through which was passed a chain, at each end of which was a debtor padlocked by the leg, who offered for sale to the passers-by, nets, laces, purses, etc., made in the prison. At Knaresborough the debtors’ prison is thus described:
‘Of difficult access; the door about four feet from the ground. Only one room, about fourteen feet by twelve. Earth floor: no fireplace: very offensive: a common sewer from the town running through it uncovered. I was informed that an Officer confined here some years since, for only a few days, took in with him a dog to defend him from vermin; but the dog was soon destroyed, and the Prisoner’s face much disfigured by them.’
The gaolers were not always the most gentle of men, as may be seen by the trial of one Acton, deputy-keeper and turnkey of the Marshalsea, for the murder of a prisoner named Thomas Bliss. The indictment will briefly tell the story:
‘That the said _William Acton_, being Deputy Keeper, under _John Darby_, of the said prison, being a person of inhuman and cruel disposition, did, on the 21st of October, in the Year of our Lord, 1726, cruelly, barbarously, and feloniously Beat, Assault, and Wound the said _Thomas Bliss_ in the said Prison, _viz._, in the Parish of Saint George’s-in-the-Fields, in the Borough of _Southwark_, in the County of _Surrey_, and did put Irons and Fetters of great and immense weight upon his legs, and an Iron Instrument, and Engine of Torture, upon the Head of the said _Thomas Bliss_, called the Scull-cap, and also Thumb-screws upon his Thumbs; and the said _Thomas Bliss_ was so wounded, fettered, tortured and tormented in the Strong Room of the said Prison (which is a dangerous, damp, noisome, filthy, and unwholesome place) did put, and him did there detain several days; by means of which excruciating Tortures, close Confinement, Duress, and cruel Abuses, the said _Thomas Bliss_ got so ill an Habit of Body, that he continued in a languishing Condition till the 25th Day of _March_ following, and then died.’
Although the facts of the indictment were fully borne out by the evidence, the jury acquitted Acton. I should mention that Bliss had twice attempted to escape from the prison.
Let us pass to a pleasanter theme, and see what was the inner life of a debtor’s prison about 1750, the story of which is told in a little book undated.[50] The foot-notes are taken from the book.
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Close by the Borders of a slimy Flood, Which now in secret rumbles through the Mud; (Tho’ heretofore it roll’d expos’d to light, Obnoxious to th’ offended City’s Sight).[51]
Twin Arches now the sable Stream enclose, Upon whose Basis late a Fabrick rose; In whose extended oblong Boundaries, } Are Shops and Sheds, and Stalls of all Degrees, } For Fruit, Meat, Herbage, Trinkets, Pork and Peas. } A prudent City Scheme, and kindly meant; The Town’s oblig’d, their Worships touch the Rent. Near this commodious Market’s miry Verge, The Prince of Prisons stands, compact and large; Where by the Jigger’s[52] more than magick Charm, Kept from the Power of doing Good--or Harm, Relenting Captives inly ruminate Misconduct past, and curse their present State; Tho’ sorely griev’d, few are so void of Grace, As not to wear a seeming cheerful face: In Drink or Sports ungrateful Thoughts must die, For who can bear Heart-wounding Calumny? Therefore Cabals engage of various Sorts, To walk, to drink, or play at different Sports, Here oblong Table’s verdant Plain, The ivory Ball bounds and rebounds again[53]; There at Backgammon two sit _tête-à-tête_, And curse alternately their adverse fate; These are at Cribbage, those at Whist engag’d, And, as they lose, by turns become enrag’d; Some of more sedentary Temper, read Chance-medley Books, which duller Dulness breeds; Or Politick in Coffee-room, some pore The Papers and Advertisements thrice o’er; Warm’d with the Alderman,[54] some sit up late, To fix th’ Insolvent Bill, and Nation’s fate: Hence, Knotty Points at different Tables rise, And either Party’s wond’rous, wond’rous wise; Some of low Taste, ring Hand-Bells, direful Noise! And interrupt their Fellows’ harmless Joys; Disputes more noisy now a Quarrel breeds, And Fools on both Sides fall to Loggerheads; Till, wearied with persuasive Thumps and Blows, They drink, are Friends, as tho’ they ne’er were Foes. Without distinction, intermixed is seen, A ‘Squire dirty, and Mechanick clean: The Spendthrift Heir, who in his Chariot roll’d, All his Possessions gone, Reversions sold, Now mean, as one profuse, the stupid Sot Sits by a Runner’s Side,[55] and shules[56] a Pot.
Some Sots, ill-mannered, drunk, a harmless Flight! Rant noisy thro’ the Galleries all Night; For which, if Justice had been done of late, The Pump[57] had been three pretty Masters’ Fate, With Stomach’s empty, and Heads full of Care, Some Wretches swill the Pump, and walk the Bare.[58] Within whose ample Oval is a Court, } Where the more Active and Robust resort, } And glowing, exercise a manly Sport. } (Strong Exercise with mod’rate Food is good, It drives in sprightful Streams the circling Blood;) While these, with Rackets strike the flying Ball, Some play at Nine-pins, Wrestlers take a Fall; Beneath a Tent some drink, and some above Are slily in their Chambers making Love; Venus and Bacchus each keeps here a Shrine, And many Vot’ries have to Love and Wine.
Such the Amusements of this merry Jail, Which you’ll not reach, if Friends or Money fail; For e’er it’s threefold Gates it will unfold, The destin’d Captive must produce some Gold; Four Guineas at the least for diff’rent Fees, Compleats your _Habeas_, and commands the Keys; Which done, and safely in, no more you’re led, If you have Cash, you’ll find a Friend and Bed; But, that deficient, you’ll but ill betide, Lie in the Hall,[59] perhaps on Common Side.[60]
But now around you gazing Jiggers swarm,[61] To draw your Picture, that’s their usual Term; Your Form and Features strictly they survey, Then leave you (if you can) to run away.
To them succeeds the Chamberlain, to see } If you and he are likely to agree; } Whether you’ll tip,[62] and pay you’re Master’s Fee.[63] } Ask him how much? ‘Tis one Pound, six, and eight; And, if you want, he’ll not the Twopence bate; When paid, he puts on an important Face, And shows Mount-scoundrel[64] for a charming Place; You stand astonish’d at the darken’d Hole, Sighing, the Lord have Mercy on my Soul! And ask, Have you no other Rooms, Sir, pray? Perhaps inquire what Rent, too, you’re to pay: Entreating that he would a better seek; The Rent (cries gruffly) ‘s Half-a-Crown a Week. The Rooms have all a Price, some good, some bad, But pleasant ones, at present, can’t be had; This Room, in my Opinion’s not amiss; } Then cross his venal Palm with Half a Piece,[65] } He strait accosts you with another face. }
How your Affairs may stand, I do not know; But here, Sir, Cash does frequently run low. I’ll serve you--don’t be lavish--only mum! Take my Advice, I’ll help you to a Chum.[66] A Gentleman, Sir, see--and hear him speak, With him you’ll pay but fifteen Pence a Week,[67] Yet his Apartments on the Upper Floor,[68] Well-furnished, clean and nice; who’d wish for more? A Gentleman of Wit and Judgement too! Who knows the Place,[69] what’s what, and who is who; My Praise, alas! can’t equal his Deserts; In brief--you’ll find him, Sir, a Man of Parts.
Thus, while his fav’rite Friend he recommends, He compasses at once their several Ends; The new-come Guest is pleas’d that he shou’d meet So kind a Chamberlain, a Chum so neat; But, as conversing thus, they nearer come, Behold before his Door the destin’d Chum. Why he stood there, himself you’d scarcely tell, But there he had not stood had Things gone well; Had one poor Half-penny but blest his Fob, } Or if in prospect he had seen a Job, } H’ had strain’d his Credit for a Dram of Bob.[70] } But now, in pensive Mood, with Head downcast, His Eyes transfix’d as tho’ they look’d their last; One Hand his open Bosom lightly held, And one an empty Breeches Pocket fill’d; His Dowlas Shirt no Stock, nor Cravat, bore, And on his Head, no Hat, nor Wig he wore, But a once black shag Cap, surcharg’d with Sweat; His Collar, here a Hole, and there a Pleat, Both grown alike in Colour, that--alack! This neither now was White, nor was that Black, But matched his dirty yellow Beard so true, They form’d a threefold Cast of Brickdust Hue. Meagre his Look, and in his nether Jaw Was stuff’d an eleemosynary Chaw.[71] (Whose Juice serves present Hunger to asswage, Which yet returns again with tenfold Rage.) His Coat, which catch’d the Droppings from his Chin, Was clos’d, at Bottom, with a Corking Pin;
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Loose were his Knee-bands, and unty’d his Hose, Coax’d[72] in the Heel, in pulling o’er his Toes; Which, spite of all his circumspective Care, Did thro’ his broken, dirty Shoes appear.
Just in this hapless Trim, and pensive Plight, The old Collegian[73] stood confess’d to Sight; Whom, when our new-come Guest at first beheld, He started back, with great Amazement fill’d; Turns to the Chamberlain, says, Bless my Eyes! } Is this the Man you told me was so nice? } I meant, his Room was so, Sir, he replies; } The Man is now in Dishabille and Dirt, He shaves To-morrow, tho’, and turns his Shirt; Stand not at Distance, I’ll present you--Come, My Friend, how is’t? I’ve brought you here a Chum; One that’s a Gentleman; a worthy Man, And you’ll oblige me, serve him all you can.
The Chums salute, the old Collegian first, Bending his Body almost to the Dust; Upon his Face unusual Smiles appear, And long-abandon’d Hope his Spirits cheer; Thought he, Relief’s at hand, and I shall eat; } Will you walk in, good Sir, and take a seat? } We have what’s decent here, though not compleat. } As for myself, I scandalize the Room, But you’ll consider, Sir, that I’m at Home; Tho’ had I thought a Stranger to have seen, I should have ordered Matters to’ve been clean; But here, amongst ourselves, we never mind, Borrow or lend--reciprocally kind; Regard not Dress, tho’, Sir, I have a Friend Has Shirts enough, and, if you please, I’ll send. No Ceremony, Sir,--You give me Pain, I have a clean Shirt, Sir, but have you twain? Oh yes, and twain to boot, and those twice told, Besides, I thank my Stars, a Piece of Gold. Why then, I’ll be so free, Sir, as to borrow, I mean a Shirt, Sir--only till To-morrow. You’re welcome, Sir;--I’m glad you are so free; Then turns the old Collegian round with Glee, Whispers the Chamberlain with secret Joy, We live To-night!--I’m sure he’ll pay his Foy; Turns to his Chum again with Eagerness, And thus bespeaks him with his best Address:
See, Sir, how pleasant, what a Prospect’s there; Below you see them sporting on the Bare; Above, the Sun, Moon, Stars, engage the Eye, And those Abroad can’t see beyond the Sky; These Rooms are better far than those beneath, A clearer Light, a sweeter Air we breathe; A decent Garden does our Window grace With Plants untainted, undisturb’d the Glass; In short, Sir, nothing can be well more sweet; But I forgot--perhaps you chuse to eat, Tho’, for my Part, I’ve nothing of my own, To-day I scraped my Yesterday’s Blade-bone; But we can send--Ay, Sir, with all my Heart, (Then, very opportunely, enters Smart[74]) Oh, here’s our Cook, he dresses all Things well; Will you sup here, or do you chuse the Cell? There’s mighty good Accommodations there, Rooms plenty, or a Box in Bartholm’[75] Fair; There, too, we can divert you, and may show Some Characters are worth your while to know. Replies the new Collegian, Nothing more } I wish to see, be pleas’d to go before; } And, Smart, provide a handsome Dish for Four. }
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But I forget; the Stranger and his Chum, With t’other two, to Barth’lomew Fair are come; Where, being seated, and the supper past, They drink so deep, and put about so fast, That, e’re the warning Watchman walks about, With dismal tone Repeating, Who goes out?[76] Ere St. Paul’s Clock no longer will withold From striking Ten, and the voice cries--All told;[77] Ere this, our new Companions, everyone In roaring Mirth and Wine so far were gone, That ev’ry Sense from ev’ry Part was fled, And were with Difficulty got to Bed; Where, in the Morn, recover’d from his Drink, The new Collegian may have Time to think; And recollecting how he spent the Night, Explore his Pockets, and not find a Doit.
Too thoughtless Man! to lavish thus away A Week’s support in less than half a Day, But ’tis a Curse attends this wretched Place, To pay for dear-bought Wit in little Space, Till Time shall come when this new Tenant here, Will in his turn shule for a Pot of Beer, Repent the melting of his Cash too fast, And Snap at Strangers for a Night’s Repast.
JONAS HANWAY.
If Jonas Hanway had lived before Fuller, he certainly would have been enshrined among his ‘Worthies;’ and it is astonishing to find how comparatively ignorant of him and his works are even well-read men. Ask one about him, and he will reply that he was a philanthropist, but he will hardly be able to say in what way he was philanthropic: ask another, and the reply will be that he was the man who introduced umbrellas into England--but it is very questionable if he could tell whence he got the umbrella to introduce. But in his time he was a man of mark, and his memory deserves more than a short notice in ‘Chalmers,’ the ‘Biographie Universelle,’ or any other biographical dictionary.
He was born at Portsmouth on the 12th of August, 1712, in the reign of ‘good Queen Anne.’ History is silent as to his pedigree, save and except that his father was connected with the navy, and was for some years store-keeper to the dockyard at Portsmouth, and his uncle by the father’s side was a Major John Hanway, who translated some odes of Horace, &c. His father died whilst Jonas was still a boy, and Mrs. Hanway had much trouble to bring up her young family, who all turned out well, and were prosperous in after life: one son, Thomas, filling the post of commander-in-chief of his Majesty’s ships at Plymouth, and afterwards commissioner of the dockyard at Chatham.
On his father’s death, his mother removed to London, where, somehow or other, she brought up her children by her own exertions, and with such care and affection that Jonas never spoke, or wrote, of his mother but in terms of the highest reverence and gratitude. He was sent to school, where he was not only educated commercially, but classically. Still, he had his bread to win, and, when he was seventeen years of age, he was sent to Lisbon, which he reached June, 1729, and was bound apprentice to a merchant, under whose auspices he developed the business qualities which afterwards stood him in good stead. At the end of his apprenticeship he set up in business for himself in Lisbon, but soon removed to the wider field of London. What pursuit he followed there, neither he, nor any biographer of his, has told us, but in 1743 he accepted the offer of a partnership in Mr. Dingley’s house at St. Petersburg.
What a difference in the voyage from London to St. Petersburg, then and now! Now, overland: it only takes two days and a half.
Then, in April, 1743, he embarked on the Thames in a crazy old tub, bound for Riga, and got to Elsinore in May. As everything then was done in a leisurely manner, they stopped there for some days, arriving at Riga by the end of May, having taken twenty-six days to go from Elsinore to Riga, now done by steam, under fair conditions, in two days.
Here he found, as most people do, the Russian spring as hot as he ever remembered summer in Portugal, and was most hospitably entertained by the British factors. But Russia was at war with Sweden, and, although he had plenty of letters of recommendation, the Governor of Riga would not allow him to proceed on his journey, until he had communicated with the authorities at St. Petersburg, thus causing a delay of a fortnight, and he did not leave until the 7th of June. His sojourn at Riga, however, was not lost, for he kept his eyes open, and looked about him.
Travelling by post in Russia, even now, is not a luxury; it must have been ten times worse then, when he started on his journey in his sleeping-wagon, which was ‘made of leather, resembling a cradle, and hung upon braces,’ and his report of his journey was that ‘the post-horses are exceedingly bad, but as the stages are short, and the houses clean, the inconvenience is supportable.’ He made the journey in four days.