POTHOOKS AND PRISONS’ HUMOUR.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XVII, Issue II, 11 July 1896, Page 58

POTHOOKS AND PRISONS’ HUMOUR.

Stern as are our prison walls, they hide from us many strange humours, of which the great world never hears. We read our blue books—almost as forbidding, often, as grim gates and iron doors. Now and then a story or two leaks out in an after dinner speech ; but as a rule, the prison is a world unseen, unheard, unsung. From the pages of a recent publication by the Home Prison Commissioners we learn that for the future greater attention is to be paid to the education of our great army of criminals —that is, those who are luckily caught. There is little doubt that the preliminary investigations which the Commissioners will make before they set up a new educational establishment will yield much amusing material. A well-known prison chaplain once told us that one of his charges informed him that he was confirmed, and that the Bishop ‘ gave him a tap on the jaw.’ The Bishop may have been a muscular Christian, but there is surely food for the reformer here. The queer words and phrases which prisoners use are endless, and full of unsuspected humour. One lady complains that she has * propertation ’of the heart; one *is consumpted ; one has a fight which turned to a * chronicle ’ disease ; one, being quite * sillified ’ with drink, did *it ’ on the * impins of the momink one stole a ‘asthmacasser.’ Shades of Sheridan and Mbs Malaprop ! And we draw the attention of scholastic authorities to this elegant epistle which was addressed to a certain prisoner whose name we withhold :—

I have the pleasure to inform you that your mother-in-law snuffed it. She met with an accident and was conveyed to the London Hospital, where she remained weeping and grinding her teeth for seven long weeks. I have offered up a prayer tor her. and hope you will do the same, which no doubt you will. She was afterwards taken to her resting place at . and the weeping that was there was something extraordinary.

Now what a graphic reporter—the writer of this letter would have made if he (or she) bad had better chances in this striving world. The philosophers are surely right when they tell ns that opportunity is more than genius, or we should have beard of this descriptive writer before. But for epistolary charm we must award the palm to a letter which Mr Michael Davittone day found in his cell at Newgate : —

Deere Jim—it runs—i was in <iuoid, doin 14 days, when 1 heerd you was lagged. I blakked Polly 8 "s peepers, who called me names. She was fuddled, and hit me fust, when I kolered her nut and giv her a tine slugging and her mug was all over blud t he spiteful thing bit me she did. and funked tight, when we were both taken by the Kropper, and the beek only giv me 14 days, and her got 21 for hilten me fust and been fuddled, cheer up Jim i am sorry not you are lagged, and I wont pale with nobody wile your in quod. Good by Jim from your tru luv Sally.

Poor Sally ! She must have been to some sort of school, of course (or how did this most delightful letter ever come to be written?), bnt it is to be feared that she

remained in the lower standards—never rose much higher than pot-hooks. There is good work to be done in our prisons for such as Sally. That she has as tender a heart as any lady in the land is obvious, • From your true love.’ Can you not see her eyes (those blackened peepers) blurred with tears as she writes those simple letters JIM ? But then, on the other band, a polite account such as ours may well desire that Sally's fists should be employed to better purpose. Then, again, we should say that an ambitious professor of comparative philology would jump at a prison chair. This is the language in which some artful dodger tells ns how he picked a pocket:

’I was jogging down a blooming slum,' he says, ‘in the Chapel, when I butted areeler who was sporting a red slang. I broke off his jerry and boned the clock, which was a red one, but I was spotted by a copper, who claimed me. I was lugged before the beak, who gave me six doss in the Steel. The week after I was chucked up I did a snatch near St. Paul’s, was collared, lagged, and got this bit of seven stretch.’

We present it as a puzzle to our philological readers. Even though the unfortunate fellow might have received some elementary education, * lapse of time and habits of life had surely effaced all memory of it from his mind.’

On the other hand there is many a poet enclosed within prison walls—which, as the famous stanzas tell us, are no prison at all. Many a jingle is scratched with a stolen pin on the battered tinware, many a doleful ditty. For instance, what more pathetic than this quatrain scratched on the back of a cell-door with a pin-prick :— Old horse, old horse, what brought you here. After dragging a cart for many a year I They brought you here for some abuse, And cut you up for prison use !

And then the poet adds a foot note in plain prose : * That’s what we had for Friday’s dinner — Australian meat.’ In more heroic vein is the following, which, for lack of better material, was pinned on a dinner-plate:

Oh ! Liberty, how sweet you are You seem so near but yet so far! The heart for you does long again.

But still I am myself to blame. For gotten drunk and doing wrong Has brought me to thia doom so long. You see this prison Austin is penitent enough. The same chaplain whom we have alretJy quoted—is there any harm in saying that it was Mr Merrick, then of Millbank, now of Holloway ?—once showed us a letter which we beg to commend to the Com misionera. It is so very apropos. wrote to his wife and made the following remarks : * I must tell you I have made good use of my time, and found out to my surprise that there are pleasure and profit in being able to read and write. It has enlightened my mind and given me knowledge which tell me that such a life as this is of no use to me.’ Could any epistle be more convincing? But there is surely hope for one who cried indignantly, * I’m not so low as not to say my prayers.’ And for this erring daughter of Eve, who, as she was leaving the prison chapel after a harvest festival, stopped to admire the decorations. Some apples caught her eye. • God forgive me !’ cried she ; • but how I should like to have a bite !’ She is human still, and there is hope for her.