HUMOUR OF CONVICTS

Evening Star, Issue 21077, 14 April 1932, Page 11

HUMOUR OF CONVICTS

SOME QUAINT NOTIONS ALL IS DARK AT DARTMOOR It will perhaps come as a relief after the recent events at Dartmoor to read of another side of life in that institution. Not all the finer points of humanity have been stilled; there is that best of all saving graces—humour (writes the Rev. J. Cawley, recently chaplain at Dartmoor Prison, m the London ‘ Daily Telegraph.’ Many of the men there possess a real sense of humour, some of them impishly, which any prison chaplain can always find, provided ho himselt has it, too. As a matter of fact, a chaplain will not do much with the men without it. They love to tease and be teased. He sees the men privately in their cells, and many are the stories that he hears; some sad, others positively funny. , . , .... In a prison pulpit the chaplain is not “six feet above contradiction,” for should he say anything which is debatable he is sure to bo challenged. Indeed, I do not remember preaching a sermon without having to discuss it afterwards with some of the men. They had their own methods of interpretation. TARGET. FOR A JOKE. A chaplain has some responsibility by his office. He has also to deal with concerts, lectures, the library, and (at Dartmoor) tho band and choir, and a lew other odd things which give him real opportunity of getting to know the men. 1 was not without apprehension when I conducted Divine service for the first time. As I was about to enter the chapel whilst the bell was being tolled, one of the men sidled up to me, touched his cap, and said: “ Lurame, it’s the same old tune every Sunday—- ; Come, all yo faithful.’” My second sermon was based on the textj “Silver and gold have I none.” Its announcement was greeted with good-natured grins, in which I had Joined, knowing that I. had struck some unexpected and, I hoped, helpful train of thought. The parson, like everyone, was often the target for a joke. In their free hour I would find the men spinning yarns and exchanging compliments, and there would be a regular battle of wits. On one occasion one fellow was trying to prove that “ tiny fool can be .a parson.” Ho waxed eloquent for some moments—an art he claimed to have practised in Hyde Park. When he had finished it was my turn to ask: “If it is all so easy, why on earth did you not set out to be a parson?” The discussion ended in a roar ot laughter, when another of the party intervened; “Chaplain, if is cad was «tnffed with dvnamito instead of brains, and the ’ole lot blew up, the explosion wouldn’t raise ’is cap.” ATLANTIC SWIM. Convicts do not lack imagination, which often leads to strange obsessions. In his cell I found a long-sentence man working out on his slate an extraordinary problem. He assured me that bo was planning to make his fortune, and quite.“on the straight.” Ho thought it possible 'to swim the Atlantic: he was sure it could be done U only, ho could discover one secret* 1 '

I was promised fifty-fifty in the fortune if I would help, and was promptly allotted the task of advertising and publicity. It was only a question of endurance, he argued, of multiplying the Channel. “ They swam the Channel before they flew it,” ho protested, “ and they’re always doing it now. They’ve found fools to fly the Atlantic; it’s easy to find another to swim it. Who wouldn’t be a fool for a fortune? ” Strange logic, scarcely alien to the poor fellow’s position at the moment. Sometimes imagination has its touch of subtlety. A rather witty inmate told mo with some feeling of wounded pride from what a good, aristocratic, wealthy family he had Borne. I listened sympathetically, and swelling with pride he proceeded: “ You know, padre, apart from my house in town, I had two large country residences —one in Devonshire and the other in Hampshire.” It was all too true—they were His Majesty’s prisons at Dartmoor and Winchester. THE PRISON BAND. The men love music, and the band at Dartmoor is extremely popular. It was my privilege to play the euphonium. A slight cold one day kept me out of the band room, and it was not long afterwards that I was amazed to hear that I was suffering from hydrophobia! That was the nearest to “ euphonium ” some illiterate gossiper had been able to manage. Another wag approached me with the suggestion that as we had a band we should also have a regular swan song or regimental ode. I readily agreed, and asked for his suggestion. “ Well, mister, you couldn’t d<# better than ‘ The Little Grey Home in the West,’ ” he said, with a mischievous grin at my expense. The most favoured instrument at Dartmoor is the violin. It is useless for a second-rate player to go there. Many celebrated violinists have played in Dartmoor —as visitors, of course. On one occasion a noted orchestra was playing, and I overheard this discussion: “ This is a good, band, and that’s a smart chap on the fiddle, and it’s a good fiddle, too.” His mate agreed, and hazarded ‘‘lt looks like a Rembrandt. The first speaker patromsmgly replied: “Yes. it is; you’re right for once in your life.” ~... We had a good choir, too. Its ability to render certain items depended, of course, on the comings and goings of the men. It was great to hear them sing ‘ Martyrs of the Arena ’ or the < Gloria,’ from Mozart s Twelfth A perplexed man inquired one day: “ Chaplain, every Sunday the R.L.s parade in one place, the Wesleyans in another, and the C. of E. m another. I suppose they’re all making for one place and hope to get there. 1 cantiously ventured: “It is quite posSlb “Well, tell me this,” lie persisted. “ What’s going to happen to the bunch of us who. get excused chapel? ” . Once, and once only, did 1 parade in a suit of plus fours. “ Pardon, sir, has there been a fire? ” one convict asked, and his neighbour improved on it by saying: “Did they get the bloke what knocked ’em off (stole them)? A third was more cryptic. Nobody with a scrap of religion would wear a suit like that.” It was my turn to wonder what was behind that burst of logic. One of the real veterans of the prison rejected all my entreaties to come to the class in which I taught illiteiates to read and write. “ No, thank you ; he said, “the schoolmaster is paid to think and spell for me, and his writing isn’t toe bad. I’ve lived a long while and managed pretty well. I may want you some day—it will be with the undertaker.” best tobacco. Another who claimed to know Dartmoor backwards decided that it was too late to make a change in his mode of life. I asked him to remember the words of the poet: “ Stone walls do not a prison make. Nor iron bars a cage.” He looked bewildered. “ Lumme, guv’nor, they ’aren’t ’arf ’ypnotised me, then! ” . Just as I had finished my pipe one dav one of the convicts greeted me: .“ Chaplain, 1 like the smell of jour

breath; what’s your baccy? ” I told him that it was just an. ordinary mixture. “ Try mine,” ho offered. Aware of the limits of their indulgence, 1 was curious. “ What do you smoke? ” His twinkling eyes told me at once that I had been caught. “ Why, Four N ns—hone nicer,, none yesterday, none today, and none to-morrow.” Yes, it is a chaplain’s job to make life more bearable. There may be some who apparently do not beenfit; but I know of many a man who has gone out with a changed outlook. They do not all seek favurs, but it is worth the doing to make them feel that there is another side of their sombre lot. —“ LOOKIN’ ROUND.” — I suppose I shall always he running across my men of the moor, and will always bo anxious to hear how they are faring in the struggle to “ go straight. I have encountered one of them already outside the Public Library in -• Well, no; I must not arouse fear in the minds of those who reside in one of London’s fashionable suburbs known to the fraternity at Dartmoor as “ Paradise ”! The truth is that recently this model suburb has had an epidemic of housebreaking and burglaries. ‘ Hello, ‘ Snuffv,’ what are you doing here? I asked, when I met him outside the Town Hall. “ Just havin' a look round, guv’nor.” I did not like the sound of it. Look here, ‘Snuffy,’ this place is red hot; I’ll wager you we’ll meet half a dozen ‘ busies ’ (plain-clothes men) between here and the station; you’re taking a big risk.” Ho was grateful. “ Eight, Padre, I’ll beat it.” He was gone in a trice, down a side street. I shall always be looking for them. Once a padre "always a padre! Those first few weeks of the new freedom, are the testing time. It is then that the men feel social pariahs: it is then that a helping word and hand count most, and, indeed, are most wanted. Such effort, readily given, is not wasted.