HUMOUR OF CONVICTS

Lake Wakatip Mail, Issue 4046, 26 April 1932, Page 7

HUMOUR OF CONVICTS

SOME QUAINT NOTIONS ALL IS NOT DARK AT DARTMOOR ll will perhaps come as a relief alter 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 Bev. J. Cawley, recently chaplain at Dartmoor Prison, in the London ‘ Daily Telegraph.’ Many of the men there possess a real sense 'of humour, some ol them impishly, which any prison chaplain can always find, provided he himself lias it, too. As a matter of fact, a chaplain will not do much with the men without it. Thev 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 tho chaplain is not “six feet above contradiction,” for should he say anything which is debatable he is sure to be 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) the band and choir, and a few other odd things which give him real opportunity of getting to know the men. I was not without apprehension when I conducted Divine service for tho 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: “ Liimine, it’s the same old tune every Sunday—‘Come, all ye faithful.’” My second sermon was based on the text, “Silver and gold have 1 none.” Its announcement was greeted with good-natured grins, in which 1 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 “any fool can be a parson.” He waxed eloquent for some moments —an art he claimed to have practised in Hyde Park. W hen he had finished it was my turn to ask: “If it is all so easy, why on earth did yon not set out to be a. parson?” The discussion ended in a roar ol laughter, when another of tho party intervened: “Chaplain, if ’is ’ead was stuffed with dynamite 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 he was planning to make his fortune, and quite “on the straight.” He thought it possible to swim the Atlantic: he was sure it could be done if only lie could discover one secret. 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, ha argued, of multiplying the Channel. “ They swam the Channel before they flew it,” he protested, “ and thcv’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 lor 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 me with some feeling of wounded pride from what a good, aristocratic, wealthy family lie had come. I listened sympathetically, and swelling with pride he proceeded: “You know, padre, apart from my house m town, I had two large country residences—one in_ Devonshire and the other in Hampshire.” it was all ton true —they were His Majesty’s prisons at Dartmoor and Winchester. THE PRISON BAND. Tho 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 1 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. 1 readily agreed, and asked for his suggestion. “ Mcll, mister, you couldn’t do 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 tho fiddle, and it's a good fiddle, too.” His mate agreed, and hazarded “ It looks like a Rembrandt. Tho first speaker patronisingly replied : “Yes, it is; you’re right ior once in your life.” We bad a good choir, too. Its ability to render certain items depended, ol course, on the comings and goings ot the men. It was great to hear them sing ‘ Martyrs of the Arena,’ or the ‘ Gloria,’ from Mozart’s ‘ Twelfth Mass.’ A perplexed man inquired one day: “ Chaplain, every Sunday the R.C.s parade in one place, the Weslcyans in another, and the C. of E. in another 1 suppose they're all making tor one place and hope to get there? ” I cautiously ventured: “ft is quite possible.” “ Well, tell nio this,” he persisted. “ What's going to happen to the bunch of us who got excused chapel? Once, and once only, did I parade in a suit of plus Fours. “ Pardon, sir. lias there been a fire? ” one convict asked, and his neighbour improved on it by saying: “ Did they gel the Moke 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 1113' entreaties to come to the class in which I taught illiterates to read and write. “ No, thank .von 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 yon 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 ol the poet; “ Stone walls do not a prison make. Nor iron bars a cage.” He looked bewildered. “ Lumme, guv’nor they ’aven’t ’art ’vpnotised me, then! ” Just as 1 had finished my pipe one day one of the convicts greeted me: “ Chaplain, I like the smell of your breath; what’s your baccy? ” 1 told him that it was just an ordinary mixture. “ Try mine,” ho offered. Aware of the limits of their indulgence, I was curious. “ What do you smoke? ' His twinkling eyes told me at once that I had been caught. “ Why, Four N us—none 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 sicF of their sombre lot. —“LOOKIN’ BOUND.”— 1 suppose 1 shall always bo running across my men of the moor, and will always be anxious to hear how they are faring in the struggle to “ go straight.’ ! have encountered one of them already outside the Public Library in yWell, no: I must not arouse I ear 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, ‘ Snuffy,’ what are you doing here? I asked, when I met him outside the Town Hall. “ Just havin’ a look round, guv’nor.’ 1 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.” He was grateful. “ Bight. Padre, I’ll beat it.” He was gone in a trice, down a side street. 1 shall always be looking for them. Once a padre always a padre! Tim e first few weeks ot the new treedom are the testing time. It is then that the men feel social pariahs; it is then that a helping word and hand count niO'i . and, indeed, are most wanted. Sueh ell urt. readily riven, is not wasted.