CHAPTER CVI.

A FARTHER INSIGHT INTO THE KING'S BENCH.

At half-past seven o'clock on the following morning, the slip-shod waiter knocked at Mr. Curtis's door, exclaiming, "Please, sir, you must get up, and go down to the lobby by eight, 'cos you're wanted."

"Who want's me there?" demanded Frank, leaping from his bed, and suddenly animated by the hope that Sir Christopher had accidentally heard of his predicament and had come to pay his debts.

But the boy had hurried down stairs again; and Curtis was accordingly compelled to hurry over his toilette in a state of profound suspense. By the time his ablutions were performed and he was dressed, it was close upon eight o'clock; and he repaired to the gate, having bestowed _en passant_ a thundering knock with his clenched fist on the door of the captain's crib.

The gate of the lower lobby was not as yet opened; but in its immediate vicinity several of the prisoners were collected—some in dressing-gowns, others in their shirt-sleeves, and all having a certain air of seediness not observable elsewhere. At length, when the massive portal _did_ expand, in rushed a motley assortment of messengers, char-women, and such itinerant venders as milk-men, water-cress boys, and the fustian-clad individual who sold red herrings and shrimps.

When this influx of varied specimens of animated nature had passed, Frank Curtis entered the lobby and demanded of a one-armed turnkey standing before the fire, "who it was that required his presence?".

"Me and my partners, sir," was the reply.

"And what for?" enquired Frank.

"Just to take your likeness, sir," was the farther explanation given.

"My likeness!" cried the young gentleman, glancing rapidly around in the expectation of beholding an artist with pallet and brushes all ready; but, not perceiving any such individual, he began to look very ferocious indeed, under the impression that the turnkey had a mind to banter him.

"We call it taking the likeness of a new prisoner, sir," observed the one-armed functionary, who was really a very civil fellow, "when we have him here by day-light just to take a look at him—so that we may know him again," he added significantly. "You see, sir, there's between three and four hundred prisoners in the college—we call it a college, sir, sometimes—and it isn't a very easy thing to remember every new-comer, unless we have a good look at him."

"Oh! now I understand you," exclaimed Frank, laughing heartily at the idea of having his likeness taken in such a style.

While he was yet indulging in this expression of his mirth, the other turnkeys made their appearance, and, each individually wishing him a "good morning," they scanned him from head to foot—apparently committing to memory every one of his features _seriatim_. Frank tried to look as unconcerned as possible; but he nevertheless felt very uncomfortable, and was heartily glad when the operation, which lasted about five minutes, was over. The other turnkeys then withdrew; and Curtis remained alone with the one-armed official.

"Nice place this, sir, for a prison—ain't it?" asked the latter, taking his seat on a stool near the door, which stood open, and whence the eye commanded a view of the spacious racquet-ground and a small portion of the main building.

"Well—it might be a great deal worse," replied Frank. "You must have some strange characters here?" he added, enquiringly.

"I b'lieve ye!" exclaimed the turnkey, fixing his looks mysteriously upon the young gentleman in a species of dim intimation that it was indeed a very remarkable place. "You see that old feller in the rugged blue coat, a-rolling the fust racquet-ground there? Well—he come here to this prison twenty year ago in his carriage, and had his livery servants to wait upon him; and now he's glad to drag that roller every morning for a few pence."

"And can't he manage to get out?" asked Frank, with an ominous shudder.

"Lord bless you, sir," cried the turnkey, "he's his own prisoner!"

"His own prisoner!" repeated Curtis. "What—do you mean to say that he keeps himself in the Bench?"

"I do, sir—and a many does the same," continued the turnkey, in a low, mysterious tone. "These poor creaturs, sir, stay in prison so long that all their relations and friends dies off; and if they went out, they wouldn't have a soul to speak to, or a place to go to. So, if their creditors dies too and their discharge is sent 'em, they keep it in their pockets and never lodge it at the gate—'cos they prefer staying inside, where they have companions and can get a bit of something to eat in one way or another."

"This is the most extraordinary thing I ever heard in my life," said Frank.

"There's many things more stranger still _here_," returned his informant, who was pleased with the mysterious importance which his position as narrator of these marvels gave him. "What should you think of men putting themselves into prison, and making up their minds to stay here all their lives perhaps?"

"I should think you were joking if you said so," answered Curtis.

"Joking! Lord bless you, sir, I wouldn't joke about no such a thing," exclaimed the turnkey, with a spice of indignation in his manner. "But I'll tell you how it is. There—you see that stout man in the shooting-jacket a-bargaining for them bloaters with the chap that's sitting on the bench outside the Tap? Well—he committed a forgery, or summut of that kind; and, knowing there was a warrant against him, and not choosing to run away from London for fear of being took in the country, he got a friend to arrest him for debt. So he immediately passed over to the Bench by _habeas_; and the warrant for felony was lodged at the gate against him. But his debts must be paid before the warrant can be executed; and as you see he's in a manner his own detaining creditor—leastways, his friend outside is—he isn't likely to have his discharge till the felony business can be settled somehow or other."

"The Bench is then a most convenient place for people who ought to be in Newgate?" said Curtis. "But live and learn; and the more one sees of the world——"

"The more curiouser it is—ain't it?" cried the turnkey. "Well—now you see that tall, stout gentleman there, walking up and down in front of the State House with the stick in his hand? He's been here some years, and is wery likely to stay a many years longer. His creditors allows him three guineas a week for his kindness in remaining a prisoner in the Bench."

"What!" ejaculated Curtis, now more astonished than ever. "His _creditors_ pay him for staying _here_!"

"It's as true as you're alive, sir," was the reply; "and it's easy enough to explain, too. That gentleman has got a good landed estate, which is in the hands of his two or three principal creditors, who manage it and receive all the rents for the purpose of paying themselves their claims upon him. Well, now—if he went through the Insolvents' Court, _all_ the creditors would come in for their share of the proceeds of the estate; and so the two or three principals ones allow him three guineas a week to keep him here and prevent him going through the Court. It's a deuced good thing for him, I can tell you; and he's as happy as a King. He has his wife—leastways, his lady with him,—we call 'em all _wives_ here;—and he's got a batch of the loveliest and nicest children you ever see. There they are, sir—the little innocents—a-playing there in the mud, just as if there wasn't no such place as prison at all; and yet they was all born up in that room there in the State House, with the green safe at the window and the flower-pots."

"And who is that lame, elderly man, running about with newspapers in his hand?" enquired Frank.

"He's the newsman of the Bench—and a prisoner like the rest on 'em," was the answer. "Ah! some years ago he was a rich man, and in a flourishing way of business. But he got into Chancery, and that's the same as getting into the Bench; 'cos one always leads to t'other—for even to be a vinner in Chancery, one must pass at least a dozen years or so here fust. That seems to be the rule, as far as I can understand it. Well, sir—now that lame man is obliged to turn newsman; so you see there's a many rewerses in this world, sir. Ah! the world's a queer place, ain't it?—almost as queer as the Bench itself!"

What the turnkey's notions of the world might be, it is not easy to conceive: but they were evidently somewhat dim and misty—inasmuch as he seemed impressed with the belief that the Bench and the world were two distinct places:—but, then, the Bench was _his_ world, though not a prisoner there himself; and perhaps he established a distinction as existing between the "world within" and the "world without." Alas! many—many who _were_ prisoners did the same!

"Who are those two ladies that have just come down to walk on the gravel there, by the side of the racquet-ground?" enquired Frank Curtis, much amused by the turnkey's gossip.

"We call that gravel-walk _the parade_," observed the official. "Those ladies are mother and daughter; and it's the daughter that's a prisoner. She's a devilish fine gal; and the old woman stays with her to take care of her. But she and the Honourable Mr. Pettifer are deuced thick together; and the mother winks at it. Such things will happen in the best regilated families—particklerly in the Bench, where no one ain't over and above partickler. This isn't the shop for morals. Mr. Curtis: all the young single women that comes here, is sure to get corrupted. But that's no look-out of mine;"—and with this solacing conclusion, the turnkey hit the lock of the door a tremendous blow with his key.

"Be the power-rs! and is it afther staling a march upon me that ye are?" vociferated a well-known voice at this moment; and the captain stalked up to the gate, looking quite fresh and blooming after a good night's rest and copious ablutions.

"They had me down to take my likeness," cried Frank; "or else I dare say I should have slept on till now."

"Well—we'll just make the round of the Binch, me boy," exclaimed the captain; "and by that time the breakfast will be ready. I've orthered it—hot rolls and coffee, with kidneys, eggs, cresses, and such like thrifles; and a walk will give us an appetite."

Curtis accordingly took his friend's arm; and they set out on their limited ramble.

"That building on your right, Frank," said the captain, "is the State House, where Government prisoners and such like spalpeens are kept—or ought to be; but the prisoners for debt get hould of the rooms there, and the divil himself can't turn 'em out. But here's the Tap: and this is the first lion of the Binch."

They entered a low and dirty-looking place, in which there were several common tables of the roughest description, and the surfaces of which were completely carved out into names, initial letters, men hanging, and a variety of devices—these ingenious and very elaborate specimens of wood-engraving having been effected by penknives. A tremendous fire burnt in the grate, round which were assembled several of the poorer class of prisoners and the messengers, eating their breakfast;—and, at one of the tables just alluded to, the newsman was sorting his papers.

As the captain and Curtis were retracing their way from an inspection of the interior of the tap-room, the former stopped at the bar, exclaiming to the man in attendance, "Two half pints, Misther Vernon—and good mornin' to ye."

"You would not drink malt liquor so early, will you?" asked Frank, with a look of astonishment at his companion.

"Be Jasus! and it's for you to taste the porther, me boy!" exclaimed the captain. "Don't you remimber all I said yesterday in its praise? Come—dhrink!"

And Mr. Curtis was accordingly compelled to swallow half a pint of porter, though malt liquor before breakfast was somewhat repugnant to his taste. The beer was veritably of first-rate quality; and the captain was as proud to hear the young gentleman's eulogy on its merits, as if he had brewed it himself.

"Now let us continue our ramble," said he;—and away they went, arm-in-arm, the two or three poor prisoners who were lounging at the door of the Tap respectfully making room for them to pass.

Entering upon the parade, Frank now for the first time obtained a full view of the front of the main building—a long, gloomy, barrack-like structure, with half a dozen entrance-ways leading to the various staircases. Fixed to the ledges of many of the windows, were safes in which the prisoners kept their provisions; and in several instances these safes were covered with flower-pots containing sickly plants. Precisely in the centre of the building was the chapel; and over the chapel was the infirmary. Most of the rooms on the ground-floor were fitted up as little shops, the occupants being prisoners, and the business carried on being entirely in the "general line." The lumps of butter—wedges of cheese—red herrings—slices of bacon—matches—balls of twine—candles—racquet balls—sweet-stuff—loaves of bread—rolls—soap—eggs—and other articles of the nature usually sold in such magnificent marts of commerce, were arranged so as to make the best possible show, and carry out the spirit of competition which raged as fiercely in that little community as in the world without. A peep through the window of one of those miniature shops, showed the canisters of tea and the jars of tobacco and snuff standing orderly upon the shelves of three feet in length; and behind a counter, along which Tom Thumb could have walked in two strides, stood the stout proprietor of the concern, examining with rueful looks the wonderful increase of chalk-marks which the morning's sales had compelled him to make upon a slate against the honoured names of his customers.

"Now look this way, me frind," cried the captain, as he forced Frank to turn round towards the racquet-courts. "D'ye see nothing particular?"

"Nothing but the high wall, with the spikes on the top, and the netting to prevent the balls from going over," answered Curtis.

"There—there, me boy!" vociferated O'Blunderbuss, impatiently pointing in a particular direction. "Now d'ye see any thing worth looking at?"

"Well—I see the pump there," said Frank, vainly searching after a more interesting object.

"Be Jasus! and that's jist what I wanted ye to see," exclaimed the captain. "It's the Dolphin-pump, me boy—the finest pump in Eur-r-rope—the pride of the Binch——But, be the power-rs! ye shall taste the wather and judge for yourself!"

Curtis protested that he would rather not;—the captain was however resolute; and a tumbler was borrowed from a prisoner who was smoking an early pipe at one of the ground-floor windows. Then the captain began to pump away like a madman; and Frank was compelled to imbibe a deep draught of the ice-cold water, which would have been pronounced delicious by any one who did not admire alcoholic beverages much better than Adam's ale.

"Don't you mean to take a glass, captain?" enquired Frank.

"Be Jasus! and I know it of ould," returned that gallant gentleman: "so there's no need for me to pass an opinion upon it. Besides it's not to astonish my stomach with any unusual dhrink that I'd be afther, Frank: but you're a young man, and can stand wather better than me."

Curtis did not consider the reasoning altogether conclusive: he however refrained from farther argument;—and the two gentlemen resumed their walk.

Between the eastern extremity of the main-building and that part of the wall which looked directly upon the Borough, was the market-place,—an assemblage of miserable sheds, where a butcher, a fishmonger, a greengrocer, and a vender of coals carried on each his peculiar traffic—the said spirited traders being prisoners as well as the shopkeepers above alluded to.

At a stall in the centre of the market, and at which vegetables, fruit, and fish were sold, stood a tall, thin, weather-beaten old woman, resembling a gipsey in dress as well as in complexion, and having an ancient bonnet perched most airily upon the top of her head. This respectable female was denominated "Old Nanny," and was in such wise greeted by Captain O'Blunderbuss, who informed Frank in a whisper that she was not a prisoner, and, in spite of competition, had pretty well the monopoly of the market.

"The fact is, me boy," he said, "she has the advantage of money. Those fellows in the sheds there, set up in business with a floating capital of eighteen-pence each, and can't afford to give credit: and a tradesman in the Binch who can't give credit, stands no more chance, be Jasus! of getting custom than if he began with an empty shop."

The captain now proceeded to show his friend the public kitchen, which was in the immediate vicinity of the market; and thence they passed up the back of the main building, O'Blunderbuss especially directing Frank's attention to that quarter which was denominated "the Poor-Side."

The Poor-Side!—Yes in every public establishment in England, is the line of demarcation drawn between the rich and the poor,—in the debtors' prison as well as in the church of God! Oh! what a disgraceful thing is poverty made in this country! Why—the contamination of Newgate, if borne by a man possessing a well-filled purse, will be overlooked in society; while the rags that an unsullied character wears, are a ban—a stigma—a reproach! "He has been in the workhouse," or "She has been on the parish," are taunts as bitter in meaning and as keen in spirit, as the phrase "He has been in Newgate," or "She has just come from the treadmill." Aye—and even amongst the lowest classes themselves, it is a deeper stain to associate a name with the workhouse, than to connect it with the felons' gaol! Such is the dreadful—demoralizing consequence of that example set by the upper classes, whose ideas of men's excellence and worth are guided chiefly by the standard of the purse.

The Poor-Side!—And for whom is the Poor-Side of debtors' prisons instituted? For those who go penniless to gaol,—the best proof that they have profited nothing by the losses of their creditors,—the best evidence that their liabilities were legitimately contracted! But the fashionable swindler—your man-about-town—your _roué_—your rake, who gets into debt wherever he can, and without the slightest intention of ever paying a single farthing,—_he_ drives down in his cab to the prison—treats the bailiff to wine upon the way—and takes with him into confinement all that remains to him of the plunder of duped tradesmen, there to spend it in riotous living and in the best room which the best quarter of the gaol can afford! If a debtors' prison have a _Poor-Side_, it ought also to have a _Swnidlers'-Side_.

No word in the English language is used so frequently and so contemptuously as the monosyllable _Poor_. "Oh! he is a poor devil!" is a far worse character to give of any one, than to say at once, "He is dishonest." From the latter sentence there is a hopeful appeal in the question—"But _can_ he pay?" "Yes—he can, if he chooses." "Oh! then, if he _can_, we will trust him and risk it." But from the former sentence there is no appeal; it is a judgment without qualification—a decision too positive and weighty to admit of a doubt. The objection—"Well, he may be poor; but he may also be honest," is never heard. The idea of poverty being honest! Why—in the estimation of an Englishman, _poverty_ is a word expressing all that is bad. To say that a man is _poor_, is at once to sum up his character as every thing unprincipled and roguish. Such magic is there in the word, that rich men, and men well-to-do in the world, instantly button up their breeches' pockets when they hear it applied to a person. They seem to consider that a poor wretch can have no other possible object in view than to get the better of them. Poverty, in their eyes, is something that goes about preying upon the rich—something to be loathed and shunned—something that ought not to intrude itself into respectable places. A man may just as well be leprous, as be poor!

So undeniable are these truths—so universally recognised are these facts, that designing individuals always endeavour to seem well off, even if they be insolvent. They dress well, because they know the sovereign influence of a good coat. They talk largely—because they see how necessary it is "to keep up appearances." They toss about their last few guineas, as the only means of baiting a hook to catch fresh dupes. It is impossible that a man, with fine clothes, well-polished boots, elegant guard-chain, and lemon coloured gloves,—it is impossible that such a man can be poor! Oh! no—trust him with anything! Why—what poor man would be perfumed as he is?—the aristocratic odour of wealth surrounds him as with an atmosphere peculiar to the rich. Trust him by all means!—But that poor-looking devil, who sneaks along the shady side of the way—who has a wife and half-a-dozen children at home—and who is struggling from morning to night to earn an honourable crust,—don't trust him—have nothing to do with him—don't assist him with the loan of a single sixpence—on the contrary, give him a thrust farther down into the mud, if you can;—because he is undisguisedly _poor_!

Such appear to be the rules of conduct in this enlightened and glorious country. God help the poor!—for poverty is a terrible crime in "merry England!"

The Poor-Side of the King's Bench struck Frank Curtis as being particularly miserable:—it quite gave him the horrors! And no wonder;—for the architect—a knowing fellow was he!—had so arranged the building, that the windows of the Poor-Side should look upon the dust-bins and the conveniences. Yes—a knowing fellow was that architect! _He_ understood what the poor are worth in this free and civilised land,—_he_ saw in a moment where they ought to be put;—and therefore he arranged for their use a number of dens where the atmosphere was certain to be one incessant pestilential odour; and where he would have been sorry,—very sorry to have placed the kennel of his favourite hound!

Yes:—well might Frank Curtis feel the horrors—callous and indifferent as the young man naturally was—on beholding the Poor-Side. The ground-floor rooms were even at mid-day in a state of twilight, the colossal wall being only a few feet distant:—the windows were blackened with dirt; and from the upper ones hung a few rags—the miserable duds of the miserable, miserable inmates. Half-starved, pale, and emaciated women—the wives or daughters of those poor prisoners—were loitering at the doorways,—some with children in their arms—children, Oh! so wan and wasted—so sickly and so death-like—that it must have made their parents' hearts bleed to feel how light they were, and how famine-struck they seemed! And yet those little, starving children had their innocent winning ways, as well as the offspring of the rich; and they threw their skeleton arms around their mother's necks—and their lips sent forth those infantile sounds so sweet to mothers' ears;—but still the little beings seemed to be pining rapidly away through actual want and in the prison atmosphere! "God help the poor," we said ere now: but, Oh! with tearful eyes and beating heart do we exclaim—"God help the children of the poor!"

Frank Curtis and the captain, having now completed their walk round the prison, entered the parlour of the Coffee-house, where an excellent breakfast awaited them, and to which they did ample justice.

The repast being disposed of, Captain O'Blunderbuss took a temporary leave of Frank Curtis, it being arranged that the gallant officer should proceed to Baker Street in order to induce the men in possession, either by means of bribes or menaces, to allow Mrs. Curtis to remove as many valuables from the house as possible; and, this notable aim being achieved, the captain was to pay his respects to Sir Christopher Blunt.

Frank Curtis, being now temporarily thrown upon his own resources for amusement, strolled out upon the parade, and was gazing at the racquet-players, when Mr. Prout accosted him.

"Good morning, sir. Have you taken a survey of the Bench yet?" said the Chancery prisoner.

"I have been round the building, and seen all that's worth seeing, I believe," replied Curtis. "But the Poor-Side appears to be a wretched place."

"Wretched!" cried Prout, in a bitter tone: "ah! you may well make that observation, sir! But if my affairs do not end in a speedy settlement, I shall have to move to that quarter myself."

"How is that?" enquired Frank.

"Do you not know—have you not yet learned that you must pay even to have a room in this prison—a place to which you do not come of your own accord?" said Prout. "A shilling a week is the room-rent; and he who cannot pay it, must go over to the Poor-Side. This is English justice, Mr. Curtis! You must pay to live in a prison!"

"It seems to me monstrously unfair——"

"Unfair! 'tis vile—rascally!" cried the Chancery prisoner. "But, talking of the Poor-Side puts me in mind of a strange story connected with that quarter of the Bench; and if you have nothing better to do for an hour or so, and will step up to my room——"

"I shall have great pleasure," interrupted Curtis; "for, to tell you the truth, the time does hang rather heavy on my hands;—and till my friends the Marquis of Aldersgate and the Prince of Paris, who is staying in London, come over to see me, I may just as well amuse myself with your story."

Prout accordingly led the way to his room, which was in the front of the building and commanded a view of the parade and racquet-grounds. It was very plainly furnished, but neat and clean; and its owner informed Curtis that he had a married daughter who visited him every day, was very kind to him, and superintended his little domestic concerns.

"But I will not detain you longer than I can help, sir," observed Prout; "and I can promise you that you are about to hear a true tale of deep interest. I have thought of it so often, and have so frequently repeated its details to myself, in the solitude of this chamber, that I am enabled to give you the whole story in a connected form; although it was not in the same continuous manner that the vicissitudes I am about to relate, became known to me. Alas! 'tis a sad—sad tale, sir; but I am afraid that, bad as it is, it still is not the worst that might be told of human nature."

Frank Curtis seated himself opposite to the old man, who, after a short pause, commenced his narrative in the following words.