THE POET OF THE PRISON.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XIII, Issue XV, 13 October 1894, Page 350

THE POET OF THE PRISON.

The prison world appears to have its * Occasional Poets,’ even as it can boast specimens of every other class of civilised and savage men. The other day I came across a sample of their work, for the publication of which an ex M. P., who at an earlier period in bis career had occupied a cell at Dartmoor, is responsible. Turning over the leaves of a prison library book he had found the following couplet scrawled on a blank page : — • Good-bye, Lucy. dear. I'm parted from you for seven long years.—Ai.krbi> Jones.’ This was simple, if touching, and the sad farewell to Miss Lucy would have been lost to the world had not the volume fallen into the hands of another poet whose soul was imbued with cynicism rather than sentiment. This is his reflection on Mr Jones’s verse :— • If Lucy dear is like most gals. She'll give few sighs or moans. Hut soon will find among your pals Another Alfred Jones!’ This specimen of prison poetry gave me a thirst for more, so I hunted up my friend the Major, and inquired whether he had ever had in his care such a contributor to the gaiety of gaols as Mr Alfred Jones or his critic. I doubted not that he would go one better ; nor was I disappointed. • Ebenezer Carey was one of them,’ said the ex gaoler ; * he had come to grief as a village schoolmaster, and had taken to vagrancy as a profession, for offences connected with which he was frequently sent to my prison. On one occasion he left his slate covered with verses. The idea seems to have been suggested by some hymn, though you could hardly call it a parody. I wish I could remember the whole of this lament for lament it was, caused by the snares and pitfalls set by ungrateful society to catch the erring “ moocher.” It began in this way : — • “ The night is very gloomy. The time is waxing late. And yet, by all that’s evil. The slop is at the gate; The slop who comes with moocher. The slop who comes with scamps ; The slop who comes with glorious capture Two half-starved, hungry tramps.” Then came a melancholy apostrophe to the prison itself : • “ Oh, home for careless cadger. Disgusted and forlorn. Where they shall dwell in sadness Until the fourteenth morn ” and so on. And with a rebellious wind up, showing that if his incarceration had been punitive it had not been deterrent ; — ‘ “ I know not, oh ! I know not, When I may next be there ; And to tell no lies about it. I’m d d sure I don’t care!’’ • That was the last I saw of Carey in prison, but I found out, quite by accident, that my poetical prisoner did on occasion try to earn a few shillings. I was in a country town about fifty miles from home, and had occasion to go to a certain watchmaker’s shop. On the counter I noticed a little heap of leaflets, and, taking one up, I found that there was printed on it a panegyric in verse on the proprietor ot the establishment and his workmanship. Something like this : — • “ Hark ! the long-hair'd poets sing, Time is ever on the wing : Little moments how they fly, Golden winged flitting by.” ‘ After morein the same strain, the “ long-hair’d poet ” got to business :— ’ “If you wish your erring watch Cleaned with science and despatch. Trust to one who knows his book— You will not have far too look.’’ ‘Then came some fulsome praise of the worthy tradesman behind the counter, and some local allusions; the ode, consisting of about fifty lines, ending : — ‘ “ And you'll certainly agree That, his time-piece surgery Well deserves his high renown As the foremost in the town !” ’ • ‘‘Are you a poet?” I inquired, as I put the paper down. • “ No, sir,” said the watchmaker, “ that was brought to me by a very disreputable tramp, who said that he had written it, and offered to sell it to me. He bothered me so much that at la°t I paid him for it.”

‘ ** What was the man like ?” ‘ And then Carey was described to m», my informant adding that he had since beard that he was a notorious scamp, and well known to the police. • In the out ile world the sensi ive spirit of the poet is often broken by the sneers and jibes of bis critics ; so, in prison, if an inmate is caught endeavouring to immortalise his sentiments on his cell wall or his dinner tin—indeed, anywhere at all—the detecting warder acts the part of publisher, and the governor, in the role of critic, puts on the extinguisher. Such an effort, for instance, as — ‘ “ My name is Billy, I don't like skilly!" will probably lead to its author being deprived even of that article of diet.’