The Mysteries of London (Vol. 1-4). George W. M. Reynolds
and a piece of bread for his supper. He slept in the same ward with a dozen other prisoners, also awaiting their trials: his couch was hard, cold, and wretched; and he was compelled to listen to the ribald talk and vaunts of villany of several of his companions. Their conversation was only varied by such remarks as these:—
"Well," said one, "I hope I shan't get before the Common-Serjeant: he's certain to give me toko for yam."
"I shall be sure to go up the first day of sessions, and most likely before the Recorder, as mine is rather a serious matter," observed a second. "He won't give me more than seven years of it, I know."
"For my part," said a third, "I'd much sooner wait till the Wednesday, when the Judges come down: they never give it so severe as them City beaks."
"I tell you what," exclaimed a fourth, "I shouldn't like to have my meat hashed at evening sittings before the Commissioner in the New Court. He's always so devilish sulky, because he has been disturbed at his wine."
"Well, you talk of the regular judges that come down on the Wednesday," cried a fifth; "I can only tell you that Baron Griffin and Justice Spikeman are on the rota for next sessions; and I'm blowed if I wouldn't sooner go before the Common-Serjeant a thousand times, than have old Griffin meddle in my case. Why—if you only look at him, he'll transport you for twenty years."
At this idea all the prisoners who had taken part in this conversation, burst out into a loud guffaw—but not a whit the more hearty for being so boisterous.
"Is it possible," asked Markham, who had listened with some interest to the above discourse—"is it possible that there can be any advantage to a prisoner to be tried by a particular judge?"
"Why, of course there is," answered one of the prisoners. "If a swell like you gets before Justice Spikeman, he'll let you off with half or a quarter of what the Recorder or Common-Serjeant would give you: but Baron Griffin would give you just double, because you happened to be well-dressed."
"Indeed!" ejaculated Markham, whose ideas of the marvellous equality and admirable even-handedness of English justice, were a little shocked by these revelations.
"Oh! yes," continued his informant, "all the world knows these things. If I go before Spikeman, I shall plead Guilty and whimper a bit, and he'll be very lenient indeed; but if I'm heard by Griffin I'll let the case take its chance, because he wouldn't be softened by any show of penitence. So you see, in these matters, one must shape one's conduct according to the judge that one goes before."
"I understand," said Markham: "even justice is influenced by all kinds of circumstances."
The conversation then turned upon the respective merits of the various counsel practising at the Central Criminal Court.
"I have secured Whiffins," said one: "he's a capital fellow—for if he can't make anything out of your case, he instantly begins to bully the judge."
"Ah! but that produces a bad effect," observed a second; "and old Griffin would soon put him down. I've got Chearnley—he's such a capital fellow to make the witnesses contradict themselves."
"Well, I prefer Barkson," exclaimed a third; "his voice alone frightens a prosecutor into fits."
"Smouch and Slike are the worst," said a fourth: "the judges always read the paper or fall asleep when they address them."
"Yes—because they are such low fellows, and will take a brief from any one," exclaimed a fifth; "whereas it is totally contrary to etiquette for a barrister to receive instructions from any one but an attorney."
"The fact is that such men as Smouch and Slike do a case more harm than good, with the judges," observed a sixth. "They haven't the ear of the Court—and that's the real truth of it."
These remarks diminished still more the immense respect which Markham had hitherto entertained for English justice; and he now saw that the barrister who detailed plain and simple facts, did not stand half such a good chance of saving his client as the favoured one "who possessed the ear of the Court."
By a very natural transition, the discourse turned upon petty juries.
"I think it will go hard with me," said one, "because I am tried in the City. I wish I had been committed for the Middlesex Sessions at Clerkenwell."
"Why so!" demanded another prisoner.
"Because, you see, I'm accused of robbing my master; and as all the jurymen are substantial shopkeepers, they're sure to convict a man in my position—even if the evidence isn't complete."
"I'm here for swindling tradesmen at the West-End of the town," said another.
"Well," exclaimed the first speaker, "the jury will let you off if there's the slightest pretence, because they're all City tradesmen, and hate the West-End ones."
"And I'm here for what is called 'a murderous assault upon a police-constable,'" said a third prisoner.
"Was he a Metropolitan or a City-Policeman?"
"A Metropolitan."
"Oh! well—you're safe enough; the jury are sure to believe that he assaulted you first."
"Thank God for that blessing!"
"I tell you what goes a good way with Old Bailey Juries—a good appearance. If a poor devil, clothed in rags and very ugly, appears at the bar, the Foreman of the Jury just says, 'Well, gentlemen, I think we may say Guilty; for my part I never saw such a hang-dog countenance in my life.' But if a well-dressed and good-looking fellow is placed in the dock, the Foreman is most likely to say, 'Well, gentlemen, far my part I never can nor will believe that the prisoner could be guilty of such meanness: so I suppose we may say Not Guilty, gentlemen.'"
"Can this be true?" ejaculated Markham.
"Certainly it is," was the reply. "I will tell you more, too. If a prisoner's counsel don't tip the jury plenty of soft sawder, and tell them that they are enlightened Englishmen, and that they are the main prop, not only of justice, but also of the crown itself, they will be certain to find a verdict of Guilty."
"What infamy!" cried Markham, perfectly astounded at these revelations.
"Ah! and what's worse still," added his informant, "is that Old Baily juries always, as a matter of course, convict those poor devils who have no counsel."
"And this is the vaunted palladium of justice and liberty!" said Richard.
In this way did the prisoners in Markham's ward contrive to pass away an hour or two, for they were allowed no candle and no fire, and had consequently been forced to retire to their wretched couches immediately after dusk.
The night was thus painfully long and wearisome.
Markham found upon enquiry that there were two methods of living in Newgate. One was to subsist upon the gaol allowance: the other to provide for oneself. Those who received the allowance were not permitted to have beer, nor were their friends suffered to add the slightest comfort to their sorry meals; and those who paid for their own food, were restricted as to quantity and quality.
Such is the treatment prisoners experience before they are tried;—and yet there is an old saying that every one must be deemed innocent until he be proved guilty. The old saying is a detestable mockery!
Of course Markham determined upon paying for his own food; and when Whittingham called in the morning, he was sent to make the necessary arrangements with the coffee-house keeper in the Old Bailey who enjoyed the monopoly of supplying that compartment of the prison.
The most painful ordeal which Richard had to undergo during his captivity in Newgate, was his first interview with Mr. Monroe. This gentleman was profoundly affected at the situation of his youthful ward, though not for one moment did he doubt his innocence.
And here let us mention another revolting humiliation and unnecessary cruelty to which the untried prisoner is compelled to submit. In each yard is a small enclosure,