{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_7076/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_7076","id":"gutenberg_7076","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/7076","summary":null,"tags":["Blasphemy","Category: Biographies","Category: History - British","Category: Law & Criminology","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Trials (Blasphemy) -- Great Britain"],"text":"Produced by Freethought Archives\n\n\n\n\n\nPRISONER FOR BLASPHEMY\n\nBy George William Foote\n\nOriginally published 1886\n\n\n     Persecution is not refutation, nor even triumph: the\n     \"wretched infidel\" as he is called, is probably happier in\n     his prison than the proudest of his assailants--BYRON.\n\n\n\n\n\n                London:\n                Progressive Publishing Company\n                28 Stonecutter Street, E.C.\n                1886\n\n\nCHAPTERS\n\nI. The Storm Brewing\n\nII. Our First Summons\n\nIII. Mr. Bradlaugh Included\n\nIV. Our Indictment\n\nV. Another Prosecution\n\nVI. Preparing for Trial\n\nVII. At the Old Bailey\n\nVIII. Newgate\n\nIX. The Second Trial\n\nX. \"Black Maria\"\n\nXI. Holloway Gaol\n\nXII. Prison Life\n\nXIII. Parson Plaford\n\nXIV. The Third Trial\n\nXV. Loss and Gain\n\nXVI. A Long Night\n\nXVII. Daylight\n\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE.\n\n\nThis little volume tells a strange and painful story; strange, because\nthe experiences of a prisoner for blasphemy are only known to three\nliving Englishmen; and painful, because their unmerited sufferings are a\nsad reflection on the boasted freedom of our age.\n\nMy own share in this misfortune is all I could pretend to describe with\nfidelity. Without (I hope) any meretricious display of fine writing,\nI have related the facts of my case, giving a precise account of\nmy prosecutions, and as vivid a narrative as memory allows of my\nimprisonment in Holloway Gaol. I have striven throughout to be truthful\nand accurate, nothing extenuating, nor setting down aught in malice;\nand I have tried to hit the happy mean between negligence and prolixity.\nWhether or not I have succeeded in the second respect the reader must\nbe the judge; and if he cannot be so in the former respect, he will at\nleast be able to decide whether the writer means to be candid and bears\nthe appearance of honesty.\n\nOne reason why I have striven to be exact is that my record may be of\nservice to the future historian of our time. It is always rash to\nappeal to the future, as a posturing English novelist did in one of his\nPrefaces; and it is well to remember the witticism of Voltaire, who,\non hearing an ambitious poeticule read his Ode to Posterity, doubted\nwhether it would reach its address. But it is the facts, and not\nmy personality, that are important in this case. My trial will be a\nconspicuous event in the history of the struggle for religious\nfreedom, and in consequence of Lord Coleridge's and Sir James Stephen's\nutterances, it may be of considerable moment in the history of the\nCriminal Law. It is more than possible that I shall be the last prisoner\nfor blasphemy in England. That alone is a circumstance of distinction,\nwhich gives my story a special character, quite apart from my\nindividuality. As a muddle-headed acquaintance said, intending to be\ncomplimentary, Some men are born to greatness, others achieve it, and I\nhad it thrust upon me.\n\nProsecutions for Blasphemy have not been frequent. Sir James Stephen was\nable to record nearly all of them in his \"History of the Criminal\nLaw.\" The last before mine occurred in 1857, when Thomas Pooley, a poor\nCornish well-sinker, was sentenced by the late Mr. Justice Coleridge to\ntwenty months' imprisonment for chalking some \"blasphemous\" words on\na gate-post. Fortunately this monstrous punishment excited public\nindignation. Mill, Buckle, and other eminent men, interested themselves\nin the case, and Pooley was released after undergoing a quarter of his\nsentence. From that time until my prosecution, that is for nearly a\nwhole generation, the odious law was allowed to slumber, although tons\nof \"blasphemy\" were published every year. This long desuetude induced\nSir James Stephen, in his \"Digest of the Criminal Law\" to regard it as\n\"practically obsolete.\" But the event has proved that no law is obsolete\nuntil it is repealed. It has also proved Lord Coleridge's observation\nthat there is, in the case of some laws, a \"discriminating laxity,\" as\nwell as Professor Hunter's remark that the Blasphemy Laws survive as a\ndangerous weapon in the hands of any fool or fanatic who likes to set\nthem in motion.\n\nIn the pamphlet entitled _Blasphemy No Crime_, which I published during\nmy prosecution, and which is still in print if anyone is curious to\nsee it, I contended that Blasphemy is only our old friend Heresy in\ndisguise, and that, we know, is a priestly manufacture. My view has\nsince been borne out by two high authorities. Lord Coleridge says that\n\"this law of blasphemous libel first appears in our books--at least the\ncases relating to it are first reported--shortly after the curtailment\nor abolition of the jurisdiction of the Ecclesiastical Courts in matters\ntemporal. Speaking broadly, before the time of Charles II. these things\nwould have been dealt with as heresy; and the libellers so-called of\nmore recent days would have suffered as heretics in earlier times.\"\n[Reference: _The Law of Blasphemous Libel_. The Summing-up in the case\nof Regina v. Foote and others. Revised with a Preface by the Lord Chief\nJustice of England. London, Stevens and Sons.] Sir James Stephen also,\nafter referring to the writ _De Heretico Comburendo_, under which heresy\nand blasphemy were punishable by burning alive, and which was abolished\nin 1677, without abridging the jurisdiction of Ecclesiastical Courts\n\"in cases of atheism, blasphemy, heresie, or schism, and other damnable\ndoctrines and opinions,\" adds that \"In this state of things, the Court\nof Queen's Bench took upon itself some of the functions of the old\nCourts of Star Chamber and High Commission, and treated as misdemeanours\nat common law many things which those courts had formerly punished...\nThis was the origin of the modern law as to blasphemy and blasphemous\nlibel.\" [Reference: _Blasphemy and Blasphemous Libel_. By Sir James\nStephen. _Fortnightly Review_, March, 1884.]\n\nLess than ten years after the \"glorious revolution\" of 1688 there was\npassed a statute, known as the 9 and 10 William III., c. 32, and\ncalled \"An Act for the more effectual suppressing of Blasphemy and\nProfaneness.\" This enacts that \"any person or persons having been\neducated in, or at any time having made profession of, the Christian\nreligion within this realm who shall, by writing, printing, teaching, or\nadvised speaking, deny any one of the persons in the Holy Trinity to be\nGod, or shall assert or maintain there are more gods than one, or shall\ndeny the Christian doctrine to be true, or the Holy Scriptures of the\nOld and New Testament to be of divine authority,\" shall upon conviction\nbe disabled from holding any ecclesiastical, civil, or military\nemployment, and on a second conviction be imprisoned for three years and\ndeprived for ever of all civil rights.\n\nLord Coleridge and Sir James Stephen call this statute \"ferocious,\" but\nas it is still unrepealed there is no legal reason why it should not\nbe enforced. Curiously, however, the reservation which was inserted to\nprotect the Jews has frustrated the whole purpose of the Act; at any\nrate, there never has been a single prosecution under it. So much of\nthe statute as affected the Unitarians was ostensibly repealed by the 53\nGeorge III., c. 160. But Lord Eldon in 1817 doubted whether it was\never repealed at all; and so late as 1867 Chief Baron Kelly and Lord\nBramwell, in the Court of Exchequer, held that a lecture on \"The\nCharacter and Teachings of Christ: the former defective, the latter\nmisleading\" was an offence against the statute. It is not so clear,\ntherefore, that Unitarians are out of danger; especially as the judges\nhave held that this Act was special, without in any way affecting\nthe common law of Blasphemy, under which all prosecutions have been\nconducted.\n\nDr. Blake Odgers, however, thinks the Unitarians are perfectly safe, and\nhe has informed them so in a memorandum on the Blasphemy Laws drawn\nup at their request. This gentleman has a right to his opinion, but no\nUnitarian of any courage will be proud of his advice. He deliberately\nrecommends the body to which he belongs to pay no attention to the\nBlasphemy Laws, and to lend no assistance to the agitation for repealing\nthem, on the ground that when you are safe yourself it is Quixotic to\ntrouble about another man's danger; which is, perhaps, the most cowardly\nand contemptible suggestion that could be made. Several Unitarians were\nburnt in Elizabeth's reign, two were burnt in the reign of James I., and\none narrowly escaped hanging under the Commonwealth. The whole body was\nexcluded from the Toleration Act of 1688, and included in the Blasphemy\nAct of William III. But Unitarians have since yielded the place of\ndanger to more advanced bodies, and they may congratulate themselves on\ntheir safety; but to make their own safety a reason for conniving at the\npersecution of others is a depth of baseness which Dr. Blake Odgers has\nfathomed, though happily without persuading the majority of his fellows\nto descend to the same ignominy.\n\nIt will be observed that the Act specifies certain heterodox _opinions_\nas blasphemous, and says nothing as to the _language_ in which they\nmay be couched. Evidently the crime lay not in the _manner_, but in\nthe _matter_. The Common Law has always held the same view, and my\nIndictment, like that of all my predecessors, charged me with bringing\nthe Holy Scriptures and the Christian religion \"into disbelief and\ncontempt.\" With all respect to Lord Coleridge's authority, I cannot but\nthink that Sir James Stephen is right in maintaining that the crime of\nblasphemy consists in the expression of certain opinions, and that it\nis only an _aggravation_ of the crime to express them in \"offensive\"\nlanguage.\n\nJudge North, on my first trial, plainly told the jury that any denial\nof the existence of Deity or of Providence was blasphemy; although on\nmy second trial, in order to procure a conviction, he narrowed his\ndefinition to \"any contumelious or profane scoffing at the Holy\nScriptures or the Christian religion.\" It is evident, therefore, what\nhis lordship believes the law to be. With a certain order of minds it is\nbest to deal sharply; their first statements are more likely to be\ntrue than their second. For the rest, Judge North is unworthy of\nconsideration. It is remarkable that, although he charged the jury\ntwice in my case, Sir James Stephen does not regard his views as worth a\nmention.\n\nLord Coleridge says the law of blasphemy \"is undoubtedly a disagreeable\nlaw,\" and in my opinion he lets humanity get the better of his legal\njudgment. He lays it down that \"if the decencies of controversy are\nobserved, even the fundamentals of religion may be attacked without a\nperson being guilty of blasphemous libel.\"\n\nNow such a decision can only be a stepping-stone to the abolition of the\nlaw. Who can define \"the decencies of controversy?\" Everyone has his own\ncriterion in such matters, which is usually unconscious and fluctuating.\nWhat shocks one man pleases another. Does not the proverb say that one\nman's meat is another man's poison? Lord Coleridge reduces Blasphemy to\na matter of taste, and _de gustibus non est disputandum_. According to\nthis view, the prosecution has simply to put any heretical work into the\nhands of a jury, and say, \"Gentlemen, do you like that? If you do, the\nprisoner is innocent; if you do not, you must find him guilty.\" Such\na law puts a rope round the neck of every writer who soars above\ncommonplace, or has any gift of wit or humor. It hands over the\ndiscussion of all important topics to pedants and blockheads, and bans\nthe _argumentum ad absurdum_ which has been employed by all the great\nsatirists from Aristophanes to Voltaire.\n\nWhen Bishop South was reproached by an Episcopal brother for being witty\nin the pulpit, he replied, \"My dear brother in the Lord, do you mean to\nsay that if God had given you any wit you wouldn't have used it?\" Let\nBishop South stand for the \"blasphemer,\" and his dull brother for the\northodox jury, and you have the moral at once.\n\n\"Such a law,\" says Sir James Stephen, \"would never work.\" You cannot\nreally distinguish between substance and style; you must either forbid\nor permit all attacks on Christianity. Great religious and political\nchanges are never made by calm and moderate language. Was any form of\nChristianity ever substituted either for Paganism or any other form of\nChristianity without heat, exaggeration, and fierce invective? Saint\nAugustine ridiculed one of the Roman gods in grossly indecent language.\nMen cannot discuss doctrines like eternal punishment as they do\nquestions in philology. And \"to say that you may discuss the truth\nof religion, but that you may not hold up its doctrines to contempt,\nridicule, or indignation, is either to take away with one hand what you\nconcede with the other, or to confine the discussion to a small and in\nmany ways uninfluential class of persons.\" Besides, Sir James Stephen\nsays,\n\n     \"There is one reflection which seems to me to prove with\n     conclusive force that the law upon this subject can be\n     explained and justified only on what I regard as its true\n     principle--the principle of persecution.  It is that if the\n     law were really impartial, and punished blasphemy only because\n     it offends the feelings of believers, it ought also to punish\n     such preaching as offends the feelings of unbelievers.  All\n     the more earnest and enthusiastic forms of religion are extremely\n     offensive to those who do not believe them.  Why should not\n     people who are not Christians be protected against the rough,\n     coarse, ignorant ferocity with which they are often told that\n     they and theirs are on the way to hell-fire for ever and ever?\n     Such a doctrine, though necessary to be known if true, is, if\n     false, revolting and mischievous to the last degree.  If the\n     law in no degree recognised these doctrines as true, if it were\n     as neutral as the Indian Penal Code is between Hindoos and\n     Mohametans, it would have to apply to the Salvation Army the\n     same rule as it applies to the _Freethinker_ and its contributors.\"\n\nExcellently put. I argued in the same way, though perhaps less tersely,\nin my defence. I pointed out that there is no law to protect the\n\"decencies of controversy\" in any but religious discussions, and this\nexception can only be defended on the ground that Christianity is\ntrue and must not be attacked. But Lord Coleridge holds that it may be\nattacked. How then can he ask that it shall only be attacked in polite\nlanguage? And if Freethinkers must only strike with kid gloves, why are\nChristians allowed to use not only the naked fist, but knuckle-dusters,\nbludgeons, and daggers? In the war of ideas, any party which imposes\nrestraints on others to which it does not subject itself, is guilty\nof persecution; and the finest phrases, and the most dexterous special\npleading, cannot alter the fact.\n\nSir James Stephen holds that the Blasphemy Laws are concerned with the\n_matter_ of publications, that \"a large part of the most serious\nand most important literature of the day is illegal,\" and that every\nbook-seller who sells, and everyone who lends to his friend, a copy of\nComte's _Positive Philosophy_, or of Renan's _Vie de Jesus_, commits a\ncrime punishable with fine and imprisonment. Sir James Stephen dislikes\nthe law profoundly, but he prefers \"stating it in its natural naked\ndeformity to explaining it away in such a manner as to prolong its\nexistence and give it an air of plausibility and humanity.\" To terminate\nthis mischievous law he has drafted a Bill, which many Liberal\nmembers of Parliament have promised to support, and which will soon be\nintroduced. Its text is as follows:\n\n     \"Whereas certain laws now in force and intended for the promotion\n     of religion are no longer suitable for that purpose and it is\n     expedient to repeal them,\n\n     \"Be it enacted as follows:\n\n     \"1. After the passing of this Act no criminal proceedings\n     shall be instituted in any Court whatever, against any person\n     whatever, for Atheism, blasphemy at common law, blasphemous\n     libel, heresy, or schism, except only criminal proceedings\n     instituted in Ecclesiastical Courts against clergymen of the\n     Church of England.\n\n     \"2. An Act passed in the first year of his late Majesty King\n     Edward VI., c. 1, intituled 'An Act against such as shall\n     unreverently speak against the sacrament of the body and blood\n     of Christ, commonly called the sacrament of the altar, and for\n     the receiving thereof in both kinds,' and an Act passed in the\n     9th and 10th year of his late Majesty King William III., c. 35,\n     intituled an Act for the more effectual suppressing of blasphemy\n     and profaneness are hereby repealed.\n\n     \"3. Provided that nothing herein contained shall be deemed\n     to affect the provisions of an Act passed in the nineteenth year\n     of his late Majesty King George II., c. 21, intituled 'An Act\n     more effectually to prevent profane cursing and swearing,' or\n     any other provision of any other Act of Parliament not hereby\n     expressly repealed.\"\n\nUntil this Bill is carried no heterodox writer is safe. Sir James\nStephen's view of the law may be shared by other judges, and if a bigot\nsat on the bench he might pass a heavy sentence on a distinguished\n\"blasphemer.\" Let it not be said that their _manner_ is so different\nfrom mine that no jury would convict; for when I read extracts from\nClifford, Swinburne, Maudsley, Matthew Arnold, James Thomson, Lord\nAmberley, Huxley, and other heretics whose works are circulated by\nMudie, Lord Coleridge remarked \"I confess, as I heard them, I had, and\nhave a difficulty in distinguishing them from the alleged libels. They\ndo appear to me to be open to the same charge, on the same grounds, as\nMr. Foote's writings.\"\n\nPersonally I understand the Blasphemy Laws well enough. They are the\nlast relics of religious persecution. What Lord Coleridge read from\nStarkie as the law of blasphemous libel, I regard with Sir James Stephen\nas \"flabby verbiage.\" Lord Coleridge is himself a master of style, and\nI suppose his admiration of Starkie's personal character has blinded his\njudgment. Starkie simply raises a cloud of words to hide the real nature\nof the Blasphemy Laws. He shows how Freethinkers may be punished without\navowing the principle of persecution. Instead of frankly saying that\nChristianity must not be attacked, he imputes to aggressive heretics \"a\nmalicious and mischievous intention,\" and \"apathy and indifference to\nthe interests of society;\" and he justifies their being punished, not\nfor their actions, but for their motives: a principle which, if it were\nintroduced into our jurisprudence, would produce a chaos.\n\nCould there be a more ridiculous assumption than that a man who braves\nobloquy, social ostracism, and imprisonment for his principles,\nis indifferent to the interest of society? Let Christianity strike\nFreethinkers if it will, but why add insult to injury? Why brand us as\ncowards when you martyr us? Why charge us with hypocrisy when we dare\nyour hate?\n\nPersecution, like superstition, dies hard, but it dies. What though I\nhave suffered the heaviest punishment inflicted on a Freethinker for a\nhundred and twenty years? Is not the night always darkest and coldest\nbefore the dawn? Is not the tiger's dying spring most fierce and\nterrible?\n\nMy sufferings, therefore, are not without the balm of consolation. I see\nthat the future is already brightening with a new hope. Without rising\nto the supreme height of Danton, who cried \"Let my name be blighted that\nFrance be free,\" I feel a humbler pleasure in reflecting that I may\nhave been instrumental in breaking the last fetter on the freedom of the\npress.\n\nG. W. FOOTE.\n\n_February 1st_, 1886.\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I. THE STORM BREWING.\n\n\nIn the merry month of May, 1881, I started a paper called the\n_Freethinker_, with the avowed object of waging \"relentless war against\nSuperstition in general and the Christian Superstition in particular.\" I\nstated in the first paragraph of the first number that this new journal\nwould have a new policy; that it would \"do its best to employ the\nresources of Science, Scholarship, Philosophy and Ethics against the\nclaims of the Bible as a Divine Revelation,\" and that it would \"not\nscruple to employ for the same purpose any weapons of ridicule or\nsarcasm that might be borrowed from the armoury of Common Sense.\"\n\nAs the _Freethinker_ was published at the people's price of a penny,\nand was always edited in a lively style, with a few short articles and\nplenty of racy paragraphs, it succeeded from the first; and becoming\nwell known, not through profuse advertisement, but through the\nrecommendation of its readers, its circulation increased every week.\nWithin a year of its birth it had outdistanced all its predecessors. No\nFreethought journal ever progressed with such amazing rapidity.\nTrue, this was largely due to the fact that the Freethought party had\nimmensely increased in numbers; but much of it was also due to the\npolicy of the paper, which supplied, as the advertising gentry say, \"a\nlong-felt want.\" Although the first clause of its original programme was\nnever wholly forgotten, we gradually paid the greatest attention to the\nsecond, indulging more and more in Ridicule and Sarcasm, and more and\nmore cultivating Common Sense. A dangerous policy, as I was sometimes\nwarned; but for that very reason all the more necessary. The more\nBigotry writhed and raged, the more I felt that our policy was telling.\nBorrowing a metaphor from Carlyle's \"Frederick,\" I likened Superstition\nto the boa, which defies all ponderous assaults, and will not yield to\nthe pounding of sledge-hammers, but sinks dead when some expert thrusts\nin a needle's point and punctures the spinal column.\n\nI had a further incentive. Mr. Bradlaugh's infamous treatment by the\nbigots had revolutionised my ideas of Freethought policy. Although never\ntimid, I was until then practically ignorant of the horrible spirit of\npersecution; and with the generous enthusiasm of youth I fondly imagined\nthat the period of combat was ended, that the liberty of platform and\npress was finally won, that Supernaturalism was hopelessly scotched\nalthough obviously not slain, and that Freethinkers should now devote\nthemselves to cultivating the fields they had won instead of raiding\ninto the enemy's territory. Alas for the illusions of hope! They were\nrudely dispelled by a few \"scenes\" in the House of Commons, and barred\nfrom all chance of re-gathering by the wild display of intolerance\noutside. I saw, in quite another sense than Garth Wilkinson's, the\nprofound truth of his saying that--\n\n     \"The Duke of Wellington's advice, Do not make a little war, is\n     applicable to internal conflicts against evil in society.  For\n     little wars have no background of resources, they do not know\n     the strength of the enemy, and the peace that follows them for\n     the most part leaves the evil in dispute nearly its whole territory;\n     perhaps is purchased by guaranteeing the evil by treaty; and\n     leaves the case of offence more difficult of attack by reason\n     of concession to wrong premises.\"\n     (\"Human Science and Divine Revelation,\" Preface, p. vi.)\n\nYes, the war with Superstition must be fought _a outrance_. We must\ndecline either treaty or truce. I hold that the one great work of our\ntime is the destruction of theology, the immemorial enemy of mankind,\nwhich has wasted in the chase of chimeras very much of the world's best\nintellect, fatally perverted our moral sentiments, fomented discord\nand division, supported all the tyranny of privilege and sanctioned all\ndebasement of the people. Far be it from me to argue this point with\nany dissident. I prefer to leave him to the logic of events, which has\nconvinced me, and may some day convince him.\n\nBut to recur. Before the _Freethinker_ had reached its third number I\nbegan to reflect on the advisability of illustrating it, and bringing in\nthe artist's pencil to aid the writer's pen. I soon resolved to do this,\nand the third and fourth numbers contained a woodcut on the front page.\nIn the fifth number there appeared an exquisite little burlesque sketch\nof the Calling of Samuel, by a skilful artist whose name I cannot\ndisclose. Although not ostensibly, it was actually, the first of those\nComic Bible Sketches for which the _Freethinker_ afterwards became\nfamous; and from that date, with the exception of occasional intervals\ndue to difficulties there is no need to explain, my little paper was\nregularly illustrated. During the whole twelve months of my imprisonment\nthe illustrations were discontinued by my express order. I was not\naverse to their appearing, but I knew the terrible obstacles and dangers\nmy temporary successor would have to meet, and I left him a written\nprohibition of them, which he was free to publish, in order to shield\nhim against the possible charge of cowardice. Since my release from\nprison they have been resumed, and they will be continued until I go to\nprison again, unless I see some better reason than Christian menace for\ntheir cessation.\n\nThe same fifth number of the _Freethinker_ contained an account of\nthe first part of \"La Bible Amusante,\" issued by the Anti-Clerical\npublishing house in the Rue des Ecoles. That notice was from my own pen,\nand I venture to reprint the opening paragraphs.\n\n     \"Voltaire's method of attacking Christianity has always approved\n     itself to French Freethinkers.  They regard the statement that\n     he treated religious questions in a spirit of levity as the\n     weak defence of those who know that irony and sarcasm are the\n     deadliest enemies of their faith.  Superstition dislikes argument,\n     but it hates laughter.  Nimble and far-flashing wit is more\n     potent against error than the slow dull logic of the schools;\n     and the great humorists and wits of the world have done far\n     more to clear its head and sweeten its heart than all its\n     sober philosophers from Aristotle to Kant.\n\n     \"We in England have Comic Histories, Comic Geographies, and\n     Comic Grammars, but a Comic Bible would horrify us.  At sight\n     of such blasphemy Bumble would stand aghast, and Mrs. Grundy\n     would scream with terror.  But Bumble and Mrs. Grundy are less\n     important personages in France, and so the country of Rabelais\n     and Voltaire produces what we are unable to tolerate in thought.\"\n\nI concluded by saying--\"We shall introduce the subsequent numbers to the\nattention of our readers, and, if possible, we shall reproduce in the\n_Freethinker_ some of the raciest plates. We shall be greeted with\nshrieks of pious wrath if we do so, but we are not easily frightened.\"\n\nThere was really more than editorial fashion in this \"we,\" for at\nthat time Mr. Ramsey was half proprietor of the _Freethinker_, and his\nconsent had of course to be obtained before I could undertake such a\ndangerous enterprise. I gladly avow that he showed no hesitation; on\nthe contrary, he heartily fell in with the project. He frankly left the\neditorial conduct of our paper in my hands, despised the accusation\nof Blasphemy, and defied its law. His half-proprietorship of the\n_Freethinker_ has terminated, but we still work together in our several\nways for the cause of Freethought. Mr. Ramsey went with me into the\nfurnace of persecution, and he bore his sufferings with manly fortitude.\n\nThe _Freethinker_ steadily progressed in circulation, and in January,\n1882, I was able to secure the services of my old friend, Joseph Mazzini\nWheeler, as sub-editor. He had for long years contributed gratuitously\nto my literary ventures, and those who ever turn over a file of the\n_Secularist_ or the _Liberal_ will see with what activity he wielded his\ntrenchant pen. When he became my paid sub-editor, our relations remained\nunchanged. We worked as loyal colleagues for a cause we both loved, and\ntreated as a mere accident the fact of my being his principal. The same\nfeeling animates us still, nor do I think it can ever suffer alteration.\n\nThe new year's number, dated January 1, 1882, referred to Mr. Wheeler's\naccession, and to that of Dr. Edward Aveling, who then became a\nmember of the regular staff. It also referred to the policy of the\n_Freethinker_, and to another subject of the gravest interest--namely,\nthe threats of prosecution which had appeared in several Christian\njournals. As \"pieces of justification,\" to use a French phrase, I quote\nthese two passages:\n\n     \"Our ill-wishers (what journal has none?) have been of two kinds.\n     In the first place, the Christians, disgusted with our \"blasphemy,\"\n     predicted a speedy failure.  The wish was father to the thought.\n     These latter-day prophets were just as false as their predecessors.\n     Now that they witness our indisputable success, they shake their\n     heads, look at us askance, mutter something like curses, and pray\n     the Lord to turn us from our evil ways.  One or two bigots, more\n     than ordinarily foolish, have threatened to suppress us with the\n     strong arm of the law.  We defy them to do their worst.  We have\n     no wish to play the martyr, but we should not object to take a\n     part in dragging the monster of persecution into the light of day,\n     even at the cost of some bites and scratches.  As the _Freethinker_\n     was intended to be a fighting organ, the savage hostility of the\n     enemy is its best praise.  We mean to incur their hatred more\n     and more.  The war with superstition should be ruthless.  We ask\n     no quarter and we shall give none.\n\n     \"Secondly, we have had to encounter the dislike of mealy-mouthed\n     Freethinkers, who want omelettes without breaking of eggs\n     and revolutions without shedding of blood.  They object to\n     ridiculing people who say that twice two are five.  They even\n     resent a dogmatic statement that twice two are four.  Perhaps\n     they think four and a half a very fair compromise.  Now this\n     is recreancy to truth, and therefore to progress.  No great\n     cause was ever won by the half-hearted.  Let us be faithful\n     to our convictions, and shun paltering in a double sense.\n     Truth, as Renan says, can dispense with politeness; and while\n     we shall never stoop to personal slander or innuendo, we shall\n     assail error without tenderness or mercy.  And if, as we believe,\n     ridicule is the most potent weapon against superstition, we\n     shall not scruple to use it.\"\n\nThese extracts from my old manifestoes may possess little other\nvalue, but they at least show this, that the peculiar policy of the\n_Freethinker_ was not adopted in a moment of levity, but was from the\nfirst deliberately pursued; and that while I held on the even tenor of\nmy way, I was fully conscious of its dangers.\n\nEarly in January there fell into my hands a copy of a circular to\nMembers of Parliament by Henry Varley, the Notting Hill revivalist.\nThis person was a notorious trader in scandal, and he still pursues\nthat avocation. Many of his discourses are \"delivered to men only,\"\nan advertisement which is sure to attract a large audience; and one\nof them, which he has published, is just on a level with the quack\npublications that are thrust into young men's hands in the street. Henry\nVarley had already issued one private circular about Mr. Bradlaugh,\nfull of the most brazen falsehoods and the grossest defamation; and\ncontaining, as it did, garbled extracts from Mr. Bradlaugh's writings,\nand artfully-manipulated quotations from books he had never written or\npublished, it undoubtedly did him a serious injury. The new circular was\nworthy of the author of the first. It was addressed \"To the Members\nof the House of Commons,\" and was \"for private circulation only.\" The\nindignant butcher, for that is his trade, wished \"to submit to their\nnotice the horrible blasphemies that are appended, and quoted from a new\nweekly publication issued from the office where Mr. Bradlaugh's weekly\njournal, the _National Reformer_, is published. The paper is entitled\nthe _Freethinker_, and is edited by G. W. Foote, one of Mr. Bradlaugh's\nprominent supporters, and one of his right hand men at the Hall of\nScience.\" The Commons of England were also requested to notice that\n\"Dr. Aveling, who for some years has been one of Mr. Bradlaugh's chief\nhelpers, is another contributor to this disgraceful product of Atheism.\"\nIn conclusion, they were called upon to \"devise means to stay this\nhideous prostitution of the liberty of the Press, by making these\nshameless blasphemers amenable to the existing law.\"\n\nIt is a curious thing that such a fervid champion of religion should\nalways attack unbelievers with private circulars. Yet this is the policy\nthat Henry Varley has always pursued. He is a religious bravo, who lurks\nin the dark, and strikes at Freethinkers with a poisoned dagger. More\nthan once he has flooded Northampton with the foulest libels on Mr.\nBradlaugh, invariably issued without the printer's name, in open\nviolation of the law. He is liable for a fine of five pounds for\nevery copy circulated, but the action must be initiated by the\nAttorney-General, and our Christian Government refuses to punish when\nthe offence is committed by one of their own creed, and the sufferer is\nonly an Atheist.\n\nVarley's circular served its evil purpose, for soon after Parliament\nassembled in February, Mr. C. K. Freshfield, member for Dover, asked\nthe Home Secretary whether the Government intended to prosecute the\n_Freethinker_.\n\nSir William Harcourt gave the following reply:\n\n     \"I am sorry to say my attention has been called to a paper\n     bearing the title of the _Freethinker_, published in Northampton,\n     and I agree that nothing can be more pernicious to the minds of\n     right-thinking people than publications of that description--\n     (cheers)--but I think it has been the view for a great many\n     years of all persons responsible in these matters, that more\n     harm than advantage is produced to public morals by Government\n     prosecutions in cases of this kind.  (Hear, hear).  I believe\n     they are better left to the reprobation which they will meet\n     in this country from all decent members of society.  (Cheers).\"\n\nThis highly disingenuous answer was characteristic of the member for\nDerby. His reference to the _Freethinker_ as published at Northampton,\nclearly proves that he had never seen it; and his unctuous allusions to\n\"public morals\" and \"decent members of society\" are further evidence\nin the same direction. The _Freethinker_ was accused of blasphemy,\nbut until Sir William Harcourt gave the cue not even its worst enemies\ncharged it with indecency. In a later stage of my narrative I shall\nhave to show that the \"Liberal\" Home Secretary has acted the part of an\nunscrupulous bigot, utterly regardless of truth, justice and honor.\n\nI thought it my duty to write an open letter to Sir William Harcourt on\nthe subject of his answer to Mr. Freshfield, in which I said--\"I tell\nyou that you could not suppress the _Freethinker_ if you tried. The\nmartyr spirit of Freethought is not dead, and the men who suffered\nimprisonment for liberty of speech a generation ago have not\nleft degenerate successors. Should the necessity arise, there are\nFreethinkers who will not shrink from the same sacrifice for the same\ncause.\" The sequel has shown that this was no idle boast.\n\nA few days later the _Freethinker_ was again the subject of a question\nin the House. Mr. Redmond, member for New Ross, asked the Home Secretary\n\"whether the Government had power to seize and summarily suppress\nnewspapers which they considered pernicious to public morals; and, if\nso, why that power was not exercised in the case of the _Freethinker_\nand other papers now published and circulated in England.\" Sir William\nHarcourt repeated the answer he gave to Mr. Freshfield, and added that\nit would not be discreet to say whether the Government had power to\nseize obnoxious publications.\n\nMr. Redmond's question was a fine piece of impudence. Assuming that he\nrepresented all the voters in New Ross, his constituents numbered two\nhundred and sixty-one; and they could all be conveyed to Westminster in\na tithe of the vehicles that brought people to Holloway Gaol to welcome\nme on the morning of my release. The total population of New Ross,\nincluding men, women and children, is less than seven thousand; a number\nthat fell far short of the readers of the _Freethinker_ even then.\nRepresenting a mere handful of people, Mr. Redmond had the audacity to\nask for the summary suppression of a journal which is read in every part\nof the English-speaking world.\n\nNothing further of an exciting nature in connexion with my case occurred\nuntil early in May, when a prosecution for Blasphemy was instituted at\nTunbridge Wells against Mr. Henry Seymour, Honorary Secretary of the\nlocal branch of the National Secular Society. This Branch had been the\nobject of continued outrage and persecution, chiefly instigated, I have\nreason to believe, by Canon Hoare. The printed announcements outside\ntheir meeting-place were frequently painted over in presence of the\npolice, who refused to interfere. Finally the police called on all the\nlocal bill-posters and warned them against exhibiting the Society's\nplacards. Stung by these disgraceful tactics, Mr. Seymour issued a\njocular programme of an evening's entertainment at the Society's hall,\none profane sentence of which, while it in no way disturbed the peace or\nserenity of the town, aroused intense indignation in the breasts of the\nprofessional guardians of religion and morality. They therefore cited\nMr. Seymour before the Justices of the Peace, and charged him with\npublishing a blasphemous libel. He was committed for trial at the next\nassizes, and in the meantime liberated on a hundred pounds bail. Acting\nunder advice, Mr. Seymour pleaded guilty, and was discharged on finding\nsureties for his appearance when called up for judgment. This grievous\nerror was a distinct encouragement to the bigots. Their appetite was\nwhetted by this morsel, and they immediately sought a full repast.\n\nMy own attitude was one of defiance. In the _Freethinker_ of May 14 I\ndenounced the bigots as cowards for pouncing on a comparatively obscure\nmember of the Freethought party, and I challenged them to attack its\nleaders before they assailed the rank and file. This challenge was cited\nagainst me on my own trial, but I do not regret it; and indeed I doubt\nif any man ever regretted that his sense of duty triumphed over his\nsense of danger.\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II. OUR FIRST SUMMONS.\n\n\nSome day in the first week of July (I fancy it was Thursday, the 6th,\nbut I cannot distinguish it with perfect precision, as some of my\nmemoranda were scattered by my imprisonment) I enjoyed one of those\nvery rare trips into the country which my engagements allowed. I\nwas accompanied by two old friends, Mr. J. M. Wheeler and Mr. John\nRobertson, the latter being then on a brief first visit to London. We\nwent up the river by boat, walked for hours about Kew and Richmond,\nand sat on the famous Terrace in the early evening, enjoying the lovely\nprospect, and discussing a long letter from Italy, written by one of our\nbest friends, who was spending a year in that poet's paradise. How we\nchattered all through that golden day on all subjects, in the heavens\nabove, on the earth beneath, and in the waters under the earth! With\nwhat fresh delight, in keeping with the scene, we compared our favorite\nauthors and capped each other's quotations! Rare Walt Whitman told Mr.\nConway that his _forte_ was \"loafing and writing poems.\" Well, we loafed\ntoo, and if we did not write poems, we startled the birds, the sheep,\nthe cattle, and stray pedestrians, by reciting them. I returned\nhome with that pleasant feeling of fatigue which is a good sign of\nhealth--with tired limbs and a clear brain, languid but not jaded.\nThrowing myself into the chair before my desk, I lit my pipe, and sat\ncalmly puffing, while the incidents of that happy day floated through my\nmemory as I watched the floating smoke-wreaths. Casually turning round,\nI noticed a queer-looking sheet of paper on the desk. I picked it up and\nread it. It was a summons from the Lord Mayor, commanding my attendance\nat the Mansion House on the following Tuesday, to answer a charge\nof Blasphemy. Strange ending to such a day! What a tragi-comedy life\nis--how full of contrasts and surprises, of laughter and tears.\n\nTwo others were summoned to appear with me: Mr. W. J. Ramsey, as\npublisher and proprietor, and Mr. E. W. Whittle, as printer. Mr.\nBradlaugh, who was not included in the prosecution until a later stage\nof the proceedings, rendered us ungrudging assistance. Mr. Lickfold, of\nthe well-known legal firm of Lewis and Lewis, was engaged to watch the\ncase on behalf of Mr. Whittle. As for my own defence, I resolved from\nthe very first to conduct it myself, a course for which I had excellent\nreasons, that were perfectly justified by subsequent events. In the\n_Freethinker_ of July 30, 1882, I wrote:\n\n     \"I have to defend a principle as well as myself.  The most\n     skilful counsel might be half-hearted and over-prudent.  Every\n     lawyer looks to himself as well as to his client.  When Erskine\n     made his great speech at the end of last century in a famous\n     trial for treason, Thomas Paine said it was a splendid speech\n     for Mr. Erskine, but a very poor defence of the \"Rights of Man.\"\n     If Freethought is attacked it must be defended, and the charge\n     of Blasphemy must be retorted on those who try to suppress\n     liberty in the name of God.  For my part, I would rather be\n     convicted after my own defence than after another man's; and\n     before I leave the court, for whatever destination, I will make\n     the ears of bigotry tingle, and shame the hypocrites who profess\n     and disbelieve.\"\n\nFor whatever destination! Yes, I avow that from the moment I read the\nsummons I never had a doubt as to my fate. I knew that prosecutions for\nBlasphemy had invariably succeeded. How, indeed, could they possibly\nfail? I might by skill or luck get one jury to disagree, but acquittal\nwas hopeless; and the prosecution could go on trying me until they found\na jury sufficiently orthodox to ensure a verdict of guilty. It was a\nforegone conclusion. The prosecution played, \"Heads I win, tails you\nlose.\"\n\nAnd now a word as to our prosecutor. Nominally, of course, we were\nprosecuted by the Crown; and Judge North had the ignorance or impudence\nto tell the Old Bailey jury that this was not only theory but fact. Lord\nColeridge, when he tried us two months later in the Court of Queen's\nBench, told the jury that although the nominal prosecutor was the Crown,\nthe actual prosecutor, the real plaintiff who set the Crown in motion,\nwas Sir Henry Tyler. _He_ provided all the necessary funds. Without his\ncash, nobody would have paid for the summons, and the pious lawyers,\nfrom Sir Hardinge Giffard downwards, who harangued the magistrates, the\njudge and the jury, would have held their venal tongues, and left poor\nReligion to defend herself as she could. And who is Sir Henry Tyler? or,\nrather, who was he? for after emerging into public notoriety by playing\nthe part of a prosecutor, he fell back into his natural obscurity.\nHe remained a Member of Parliament, but no one heard of him in that\ncapacity, except now and then when he asked a foolish question, like\nothers of his kind, who are mysteriously permitted to sit in our\nnational legislature. Three years ago, however, he was a more\nconspicuous personage. He was then chairman of the Board of Directors of\nthe Brush Light Company; and according to Henry Labouchere's statements\nin _Truth_, he was a \"notorious guinea-pig.\" He was certainly an adept\nin the profitable transfer of shares: so much so, indeed, that at length\nthe shareholders revolted against their pious chairman, and appointed a\ncommittee to investigate his proceedings. Whereupon this modern Knight\nof the Holy Ghost levanted, preferring to resign rather than face the\ninquiry. This is the man who asked in the House of Commons whether Mr.\nBradlaugh's daughters could not be deprived of their hard-earned\ngrants for their pupils who successfully passed the South Kensington\nexaminations! This is the man who posed as the amateur champion of\nomnipotence! Surely if deity wanted a champion, Sir Henry Tyler is about\nthe last person who would receive an application. Yet it is men of\nthis stamp who have usually set the Blasphemy Laws in operation. These\ninfamous laws are allowed to slumber for years, until some contemptible\nwretch, to gratify his private malice or a baser passion, rouses them\ninto vicious activity, and fastens their fangs on men whose characters\nare far superior to his own. With this fact before them, it is strange\nthat Christians should continue to regard these detestable laws as a\nbulwark of their faith, or in any way calculated to defend it against\nthe inroads of \"infidelity.\"\n\nSir Henry Tyler may after all have been a tool in the hands of others,\nfor the _St. Stephen's Review_ has admitted that the object of this\nprosecution was to cripple Mr. Bradlaugh in his parliamentary struggle,\nand we expected a prosecution long before it came, in consequence of\nsome conversation on the subject overheard in the Tea Room of the House\nof Commons. But this, if true, while it heightens his insignificance, in\nno wise lessens his infamy; and it certainly does not impair, but rather\nincreases, the force of my strictures on the Blasphemy Laws.\n\nLord Coleridge, in the Court of Queen's Bench, on the occasion of Mr.\nBradlaugh's trial, sarcastically alluded to Sir Henry Tyler as \"a person\nentirely unknown to me\"--a very polite way of saying, \"What does such\nan obscure person mean by assuming the _role_ of Defender of the Faith?\"\nHis lordship must also have had that individual in his mind when, on the\noccasion of my own trial with Mr. Ramsey in the same Court on April\n25, 1883, he delivered himself of these sentiments in the course of his\nfamous summing-up:\n\n     \"A difficult form of virtue is quietly and unostentatiously\n     to obey what you believe to be God's will in your own lives.\n     It is not very easy to do that, and if you do it, you don't\n     make much noise in the world.  It is very easy to turn upon\n     somebody who differs from you, and in the guise of zeal for\n     God's honor, to attack somebody who differs from you in point\n     of opinion, but whose life may be very much more pleasing to God,\n     whom you profess to honor, than your own.  When it is done by\n     persons whose own lives are full of pretending to be better\n     than their neighbors, and who take that particular form of zeal\n     for God which consists in putting the criminal law in force\n     against somebody else--that does not, in many people's minds,\n     create a sympathy with the prosecutor, but rather with the\n     defendant.  There is no doubt that will be so; and if they\n     should be men--I don't know anything about these persons--but\n     if they should be men who enjoy the wit of Voltaire, and who\n     do not turn away from the sneer of Gibbon, but rather relish\n     the irony of Hume--one's feelings do not go quite with the\n     prosecutor, but one's feelings are rather apt to sympathise\n     with the defendants.  It is still worse if the person who takes\n     this course takes it not from a kind of rough notion that God\n     wants his assistance, and that he can give it--less on his own\n     account than by prosecuting other--or if it is mixed up with\n     anything of a partisan or political nature.  Then it is impossible\n     that anything can be more foreign from one's notions of what is\n     high-minded, religious and noble.  Indeed, I must say it strikes\n     me that anyone who would do that, not for the honor of God, but for\n     his own purposes, is entitled to the most disdainful disapprobation\n     that the human mind can form.\"\n\nSome of the orthodox Tory journals censured Lord Coleridge for these\nscathing remarks, but his lordship is not easily frightened by anonymous\ncritics, and it is probable that, if he ever has to try another case\nlike ours, he may denounce the prosecutors in still stronger language\nif their motives are so obviously sinister as were those of Sir Henry\nTyler.\n\nThere was a great crowd of people outside the Mansion House on Tuesday\nmorning, May 11, and we were lustily cheered as we entered. Long before\nthe Lord Mayor, Sir Whittaker Ellis, took his seat on the Bench, every\ninch of standing space in the Justice Room was occupied. Mr. Bradlaugh\ntook a seat near Mr. Lickfold and frequently tendered us hints and\nadvice. Mr. Ramsey, Mr. Whittle, and I took our places in the dock as\nour names were called out by Mr. Gresham, the chief clerk of the court.\nOur summons alleged that we unlawfully did publish, or caused to\nbe published, certain blasphemous libels in a newspaper called the\n_Freethinker_, dated the 28th of May, 1882.\n\nMr. Maloney, who appeared for the prosecution, seemed fully impressed\nwith the gravity of his position, and when he rose he had the air of a\nman who bore the responsibility of defending in his single person the\nhonor, if not the very existence, of our national religion. His first\nproceeding was very characteristic of a gentleman with such a noble\ntask. He attempted to hand in as evidence against us several numbers\nof the _Freethinker_ not mentioned in the summons, and these would have\nbeen at once admitted by the Lord Mayor, who was apparently used\nto accepting evidence in an extremely free and easy fashion, as is\ngenerally the case with the \"great unpaid\"; but Mr. Lickfold promptly\nintervened, and his lordship, seeing the necessity of carefulness, then\nheld that it would be advisable to adhere to the one case that morning,\nand to take out fresh summonses for the other numbers. Mr. Maloney then\nproceeded to deal with the numbers before the Court. There were numerous\nblasphemies which, if we were committed for trial, would be set forth in\nthe indictment, but he would \"spare the ears of the Court.\" One passage,\nhowever, he did read, and it is well to put on record, for the sake\nof those who talk about our \"indecent\" attacks on Christianity, what a\nprosecuting barrister felt he could rely on to procure our committal.\nIt was as follows: \"As for the Freethinker, he will scorn to degrade\nhimself by going through the farce of reconciling his soul to a God whom\nhe justly regards as the embodiment of crime and ferocity.\" Those words\nwere not mine; they were from an article by one of my contributors;\nbut I ask any reasonable man whether it is not ludicrous to prate\nabout religious freedom in a country where writers run the risk\nof imprisonment for a sentence like that? As Mr. Maloney ended the\nquotation his voice sank to a supernatural whisper, he dropped the\npaper on the desk before him, and regarded his lordship with a look of\npathetic horror, which the worthy magistrate fully reciprocated. As I\ncontemplated these two voluntary augurs of our national faith, and at\nthe same time remembered that far stronger expressions might be found\nin the writings of Mill, Clifford, Amberley, Arnold, Newman, Conway,\nSwinburne, and other works in Mudie's circulating library, I could\nscarcely refrain from laughter.\n\nThe witnesses for the prosecution were of the ordinary type--policemen,\ndetectives, and lawyer's clerks--with the exception of Mr. Charles\nAlbert Watts, who by accident or design found himself in such\nquestionable company. This young gentleman is the son of Mr. Charles\nWatts and printer of the _Secular Review_, and he was called to prove\nthat I was the editor of the _Freethinker_. With the most cheerful\nalacrity he positively affirmed that I was, although he had absolutely\nno more _knowledge_ on the subject--as indeed he admitted on\ncross-examination--than any other member of the British public. His\nappearance in the witness-box is still half a mystery to me and I can\nonly ask, _Que le diable allait-il faire dans cette galere?_\n\nUltimately the case was remanded till the following Monday, Mr. Maloney\nintimating that he should apply for fresh summonses for other numbers\nof the _Freethinker_, as well as a summons against Mr. Bradlaugh for\ncomplicity in our crime.\n\nLet me here pause to consider how these prosecutions for blasphemy are\ninitiated. Under the Newspaper Libels Act no prosecution for libel\ncan be commenced against the editor, publisher or proprietor of any\nnewspaper, without the written fiat of the Public Prosecutor. This post\nis occupied by Sir John Maule, who enjoys a salary of L2,000 a year, and\nhas the assistance of a well-appointed office in his strenuous\nlabors. _Punch_ once pictured him fast asleep before the fire, with a\nhandkerchief over his face, while all sorts of unprosecuted criminals\nplied their nefarious trades; and Mr. Justice Hawkins (I think) has\ndenounced him as a pretentious farce. He is practically irresponsible,\nunlike the Attorney-General, who, being a member of the Government,\nis amenable to public opinion. Press laws, except in cases of personal\nlibel, ought not to be neglected or enforced at the discretion of such\nan official. Every interference with freedom of speech, whenever it is\ndeemed necessary, should be undertaken by the Government, or at least\nhave its express sanction. Nothing of the sort happened in our case. On\nthe contrary, Sir John Maule allowed our prosecution after Sir William\nHarcourt had condemned it. The Public Prosecutor set himself above the\nHome Secretary. Unfortunately the general press saw nothing anomalous\nor dangerous in such a state of things; for an official like Sir John\nMaule, while ready enough to sanction the prosecution of an unpopular\njournal, which presumably has few friends, is naturally reluctant, as\nevents have shown, to allow proceedings against a powerful journal whose\nfriends may be numerous and influential. Fortunately, however, a Select\nCommittee of the House of Commons has taken a more sensible view of the\nPublic Prosecutor and the duties he has so muddled, and recommended\nthe abolition of his office. Should this step be taken, his duties will\nprobably be performed by the Solicitor-General, and the press will be\nfreed from a danger it had not the sense or the courage to avert. As for\nSir John Maule, he will of course retire with a big pension, and live in\nfat ease for the rest of his sluggish life.\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III. MR. BRADLAUGH INCLUDED.\n\n\nMr. Maloney obtained his summons against Mr. Bradlaugh, whose name was\nincluded in a new document which was served on all of us. I have lost\nour first Summons, but I am able to give a copy of the second. It ran\nthus:\n\n     \"TO WILLIAM JAMES RAMSEY, of 28 Stonecutter Street, in the City\n     of London, and 20 Brownlow Street, Dalston, in the county of\n     Middlesex; GEORGE WILLIAM FOOTE, of 9 South Crescent, Bedford\n     Square, in the county of Middlesex; EDWARD WILLIAM WHITTLE, of\n     170 Saint John Street, Clerkenwell, in the county of Middlesex;\n     and CHARLES BRADLAUGH, of 20 Circus Road, Saint John's Wood, in\n     the county of Middlesex, and 28 Stonecutter Street, in the City\n     of London.\n\n     \"Whereas you have this day been charged before the under-signed,\n     the Lord Mayor of the City of London, being one of Her Majesty's\n     justices of the peace in and for the said City, and the liberties\n     thereof, by Sir Henry Tyler, of Dashwood House, 9 New Broad Street,\n     in the said City, for that you, in the said City, unlawfully did\n     publish, or cause and procure to be published, certain blasphemous\n     libels in a newspaper called the _Freethinker_, dated and published\n     on the days following--that is to say, on the 26th day of March,\n     1882, on the 9th, 23rd and 30th days of April, 1882, and on the\n     7th, 14th, 21st and 28th days of May, 1882, and on the 11th and\n     18th days of June, 1882, against the peace, etc.:\n\n     \"These are therefore to command you, in Her Majesty's name, to\n     be and appear before me, on Monday, the 17th day of July, 1882,\n     at eleven of the clock in the forenoon, at the Mansion House\n     Justice-Room, in the said City, or before such other justice\n     or justices of the peace for the same City as may then be there,\n     to answer to the said charge, and to be further dealt with\n     according to law.  Herein fail not.\n\n     \"Given under my hand and seal, this 12th day of July, in the\n     year of our Lord 1882, at the Mansion House Justice-Room,\n     aforesaid.\n                           \"WHITTAKER ELLIS, Lord Mayor, London.\"\n\nOn the following Monday, July 17, the junior Member for Northampton\nstood beside us in the Mansion House dock. The court was of course\ncrowded, and a great number of people stood outside waiting for a chance\nof admission. The Lord Mayor considerately allowed us seats on hearing\nthat the case would occupy a long time, a piece of attention which he\nmight also have displayed on the previous Tuesday. It seems extremely\nunjust that men who are defending themselves, who need all their\nstrength for the task, and who may after all be innocent, should be\nobliged to stand for hours in a crowded court in the dog-days, and waste\nhalf their energies in the perfectly gratuitous exertion of maintaining\ntheir physical equilibrium.\n\nI shall not describe the proceedings before the Lord Mayor on this\noccasion. Properly speaking, it was Mr. Bradlaugh's day, and some time\nor other its incidents will be recorded in his biography. Suffice it to\nsay that he showed his usual legal dexterity, sat on poor Mr. Maloney,\nand sadly puzzled the Lord Mayor. I must, however, refer to one point,\nas it illustrates the high Christian morality of our prosecutors. Mr.\nMaloney had obtained an illegal order from the Lord Mayor to inspect Mr.\nBradlaugh's bank account, and armed with this order, which, even if it\nwere legal, would not have extended beyond the limits of the City, this\nenterprising barrister had overhauled the books of the St. John's\nWood Branch of the London and South-Western Bank. Lord Coleridge's\nastonishment at this unheard-of proceeding was only equalled by his\ntrenchant sarcasm on the Lord Mayor as a legal functionary, and his\nbitter cold sneer at Mr. Maloney, who, it further appeared, had actually\nplayed the part of an amateur detective, by setting street policemen to\nwatch Mr. Bradlaugh's entries and exits from his publishing office.\n\nOn the following Friday, July 21, the hearing of our case was resumed.\nWe were all committed for trial at the Old Bailey, with the exception of\nMr. Whittle, the printer, against whom the prosecution was abandoned on\nthe ground that he had ceased to print the _Freethinker_. This was an\nunpleasant fact, and alas! it was only one of a good many I shall have\nto relate presently.\n\nBefore our committal I essayed to read a brief protest against the\nprosecution, which I had carefully prepared. In defiance of the statute,\nthe Lord Mayor refused to hear it. An altercation then ensued, and I\nshould have insisted on my right unless stopped by brute force; but\non his lordship promising that a copy should be attached to the\ndepositions, I yielded in order to let Mr. Bradlaugh have a full\nopportunity of stigmatising Sir Henry Tyler, who had left his\nquestionable business at Dashwood House during a part of the day, to\ngloat over the spectacle of his enemy in a criminal dock.\n\nSome portions of my half-suppressed protest ought not to be omitted\nin this history. After dealing in a few lines with the origin of the\nBlasphemy Laws, censuring the conduct of Sir Henry Tyler, and alluding\nto Sir. William Harcourt's reply to Mr. Freshfield, I expressed myself\nas follows:\n\n     \"What, indeed, do the prosecutors hope or expect to gain?\n     Freethought is no longer a weak, tentative, apologetic thing;\n     it is strong, bold, and aggressive; and no law could now suppress\n     it except one of extermination.  Every breach made in its ranks\n     by imprisonment would be instantly filled; and as punishment\n     is not eternal on this side of death, the imprisoned man would\n     some day return to his old place, fiercer than ever for the fight,\n     and inflamed with an unappeasable hatred of the religion whose\n     guardians prefer punishment to persuasion, and supplement the\n     weakness of argument by the force of brutality.\n\n     \"Blasphemy is a very general offence if we take even the lenient\n     definitions of Sir James Stephen in his 'Digest of the Criminal Law.'\n     All who publicly advocate the disestablishment of the Church\n     are guilty under one clause, and half the leading writers of\n     our age are guilty under another.  It is difficult to find a\n     book by any eminent scientist or thinker which does not contain\n     open or covert attacks on Christianity and Scripture, and the\n     Archbishop of Canterbury has pathetically complained that it\n     is dangerous to introduce high-class magazines to the family\n     circle, because they are nearly sure to contain a large quantity\n     of scepticism.  Why are these propagators of heresy never molested?\n     Because it would be perilous to touch them.  Prosecutions are\n     always reserved for those who are unprotected by wealth and\n     position.  Heresy in expensive books for the upper classes is\n     safe, but heresy in cheap publications for the people incurs\n     a terrible danger.  The one is flattered and conciliated, while\n     the other is liable at any moment to be put on its defence in\n     a criminal court, and is always at the mercy of any man who may\n     choose to indulge his political animosity, his social enmity,\n     or his private spite.\n\n     \"Blasphemy is entirely a matter of opinion.  What is blasphemy\n     in one country is piety in another.  Progress tends to reduce\n     it from a crime to an affair of taste.  To deal with it in the\n     bad spirit of the old laws, which are only unrepealed because\n     they have been treated as obsolete, is to outrage the conscience\n     of civilisation, and to violate that liberty of the press which\n     Bentham justly called 'the foundation of all other liberties.'\n     If opinions are not forced on people's attention, if they are\n     expressed in publications which are sold, which can be patronised\n     or neglected, and which must be deliberately sought before they\n     can be read; then, unless they contain incitements to crime,\n     they are entitled to immunity from molestation, and to interfere\n     with them is the height of gratuitous impertinence.\"\n\nIn the ordinary course our Indictment would have been tried at the Old\nBailey. The grand jury found a true bill against us, after being charged\nby the Recorder, Sir Thomas Chambers, who addressed them as fellow\nChristians, quite forgetful of the fact that Jews and Deists are\neligible as jurymen no less than orthodox believers. According to the\nnewspapers this bigot described our blasphemous libels as \"shocking,\"\nand said that \"it was impossible for any Christian man to read them\nwithout feeling that they came within that description, and they ought\nto return a true bill.\" This same Sir Thomas Chambers is a patron of\npiety, especially when it takes the form of aggressive polemics. Some\ntime afterwards he joined a committee, with the late Lord Shaftesbury,\nLord Mayor Fowler, and other religious worthies, whose object was to\nraise a testimonial to Samuel Kinns, an obscure author who has written a\nstupid volume on \"Moses and Geology\" for the purpose of showing that the\nbook of Genesis, to use Huxley's expression, contains the beginning and\nthe end of sound science. It thus appears that a Christian magistrate\nmay subscribe (or, which is quite as pious and far more economical,\ninduce others to subscribe) for the confutation of heretics, and\nafterwards send them to gaol for not being confuted. What a glorious\ncommentary on the great truth that England is a free country, and that\nChristianity relies entirely on the force of persuasion! Fortunately,\nhowever, our case was not tried at the Old Bailey. Mr. Bradlaugh\nobtained a writ of _certiorari_ removing the indictment to the Court\nof Queen's Bench, where our case was put in the Crown List, and did not\ncome on for hearing until two months after I was imprisoned on another\nindictment. Mr. Bradlaugh obtained the writ on July 29, 1882. It was\nduring the long vacation, and we had to appear before more than one\njudge in chambers, Mr. Justice Stephen being the one who granted the\nwrit. I remember roaming the Law Courts with Mr. Bradlaugh that morning.\nWe went from office to office in the most perplexing manner. Everything\nseemed designed to baffle suitors who conduct their own cases. Obsolete\ntechnicalities, only half intelligible even to experts, met one at every\nturn, and when I left the Law Courts I felt that the thing was indeed\ndone, but that it would almost puzzle omniscience to do it again in\nexactly the same way. Over seven pounds was spent in stamps, documents,\nand other items; and I was informed that a solicitor's charges for the\nmorning's work would have exceeded thirty pounds. Securities for costs\nwere required to the extent of six hundred pounds, and of course they\nhad to be given. Yet we were merely seeking justice and a fair trial! As\nI walked home I pondered the great truth that England is a free country,\nand that there is one law for the rich and the poor; yet I reflected\nthat as only the rich could afford it, the poor might as well have no\nlaw at all.\n\nI have already referred to our printer's defection. Acting under advice,\nMr. Whittle declined to print the Comic Bible Sketch in the number for\nJuly 16, and the following week he refused to print at all. He announced\nthis decision after all the type was set up and the \"formes\" were\nalmost ready for the press. Only forty-eight hours remained before the\n_Freethinker_ was due. During that period, in company with my friend and\nsub-editor, Mr. J. M. Wheeler, I made desperate efforts to get a printer\nto undertake the work. At last I discovered a Freethinker who placed his\ninadequate resources at my disposal. He could only set up four pages of\ntype, and only print copies with a hand-press. Even that was better than\nnothing; anything being preferable to lowering the flag in the heat of\nbattle. But alas! fate is stronger than gods or men. I was foiled at the\nlast moment, just as victory seemed within my grasp; _how_ I forbear\nto explain, although the incidents of that eventful day would form an\ninteresting chapter of my Autobiography. Enough copies were pulled\nto constitute a legal issue of the paper, and one of these is safely\ndeposited in the British Museum; but none were printed for the market,\nand it was everywhere reported that the _Freethinker_ was dead.\nChristian Evidence lecturers joyously announced the fact at their\nmeetings, and Mr. Maloney ironically alluded to it in Court. I bore all\nthese taunts with grim silence, which was at last broken, not by words,\nbut by deeds. These people did not know that the _Freethinker_, like the\nfounder of their faith, had disappeared one week only to reappear\nthe next. With the aid of Mr. Ramsey, who again stood by our side,\nwe succeeded in restoring our paper to the light of day. Type was\npurchased, compositors were engaged, and a little shop was taken in Harp\nAlley. The _Freethinker_ for July 30 struck astonishment into the souls\nof those who had rejoiced over its death when they saw no _Freethinker_\nfor July 23. From that moment our issue was never once suspended,\nalthough we had some desperate close shaves.\n\nIn the number for August 6, as I could not get our machiner to print any\nComic Bible Sketches just then, I published a serious one, reproduced\nfrom an old Dutch Bible of 1669. It represented Moses obtaining a\npanoramic view of Jehovah's back parts. Below the text I inserted the\nfollowing notice: \"As the bigots object to our Comic Bible Sketches, we\nshall publish a few Serious Bible Sketches, copied accurately from\nold Bibles of the ages of faith, to show what the Christians have done\nthemselves in the way of familiar interpretation. We hope the bigots\nwill like the change.\" By the next week, however, I had overcome our\nmachiner's scruples, and the Comic Bible Sketches were resumed and\ncontinued up to the day of my imprisonment.\n\nMy attitude towards the prosecution is amply expressed by these\nfacts, but a few words from my pen at that time may not be altogether\nsuperfluous. In an article entitled \"Crucify Him!\" in the _Freethinker_\nof August 6, 1882, I wrote:\n\n     \"We are charged with blasphemy, and so was Jesus Christ.  What\n     a grim joke it will be if the _Freethinker_ is found guilty and\n     punished for the same crime as the preacher of the Sermon on\n     the Mount!  Truly adversity makes us acquainted with strange\n     bedfellows.\n\n     \"Yet, whatever happens, we will not quail.  We will not vapor\n     about legions of angels, but trust in the living legions of\n     Freethought.  We will not yield to the weakness of an agony\n     and bloody sweat, nor pray that the cup may pass from us, nor\n     cry out that we are forsaken; for our sources of strength are\n     all within us, and cannot be taken away.  We have a sense of\n     truth, a conviction of right, and a spirit of courage, caught\n     from the gallant men who fought before.  Let the bigots do\n     their worst; they will not break our spirit nor extinguish our\n     cause.  Let the Christian mob clamor as loudly as they can,\n     'Crucify him, crucify him!'  They will not daunt us.  We look\n     with prophetic eyes over all the tumult, and see in the distance\n     the radiant form of Liberty, bearing in her left hand the olive\n     branch and in her right hand the sword, the holy victress,\n     destined by treaty or conquest to bring the whole world under\n     her sway.  And across all the din we hear her great rich voice,\n     banishing despair, inspiring hope, and infusing a joyous ardour\n     in every nerve.\"\n\nFrom the first I was sure that the Freethought party would support those\nwho were fighting its battle, and I was not deceived. The _Freethinker_\nDefence Fund was liberally subscribed to throughout the country, several\nworking men putting by a few pence every week for the purpose; and as I\ntravelled up and down on my lecturing tours I experienced everywhere\nthe heartiest greetings. I saw that the party's blood was up, and that\nhowever it might ultimately fare with me, the battle would be fought to\nthe bitter end.\n\nConsiderable controversy took place in the daily and weekly press.\nProfessor W. A. Hunter contributed a timely letter to the _Daily News_,\nin which he described the Blasphemy Laws as \"a weapon always ready to\nthe hand of mischievous fools or designing knaves.\" Mr. G. J. Holyoake\nwrote in his usual vein of covert attack on Freethinkers in danger. Mrs.\nBesant joined in the fray anonymously, and a letter appeared also\nfrom my own pen. There were articles on the subject in the provincial\nnewspapers, and amongst the London journals I must especially commend\nthe _Weekly Dispatch_, which never wavered in faithfulness to its\nLiberal traditions, and stood firm in its censure of our prosecution\nfrom first to last, even when other journals turned from the path of\nreligious liberty, proved traitors to their principles, and joined the\nbigots in their cry of \"To prison, to prison!\" against the obnoxious\nheretics.\n\nFor some time after this we pursued the even tenor of our way. Many of\nthe wholesale newsagents, who had been frightened when our prosecution\nwas initiated, regained confidence and resumed their orders. Early in\nOctober we removed from Harp Alley to 28 Stonecutter Street, which had\njust been vacated by the Freethought Publishing Company, and which has\never since been the publishing office of the _Freethinker_. About the\nsame time I issued a pamphlet entitled \"Blasphemy no Crime,\" a copy of\nwhich was sent to every newspaper in the United Kingdom. It traversed\nthe whole field of discussion, and gave a brief history of past\nprosecutions for Blasphemy, as well as the principal facts of our own\ncase. In November I announced the preparation of the second Christmas\nNumber of the _Freethinker_, the publication for which I paid the\npenalty of twelve months' imprisonment. Before, however, I deal fully\nwith that awful subject I will redeem my promise to inform my readers of\nthe nature of our indictment, and what were the actual charges preferred\nagainst us by Sir Henry Tyler on behalf of the insulted universe.\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV. OUR INDICTMENT.\n\n\nOur Indictment covered twenty-eight large folios, and contained sixteen\nCounts. Of course we had to pay for a copy of it; for although a\ncriminal is supposed to enjoy the utmost fair play, and according to\nlegal theory is entitled to every advantage in his defence, as a matter\nof fact, unless he is able to afford the cost of a copy, he has no right\nto know the contents of his Indictment until he stands in the dock to\nplead to it.\n\nIt was evidently drawn up by someone grossly ignorant of the Bible. The\nApocalypse was described as the \"Book of Revelations,\" and the Gadarean\nswine came out as Gadderean. Probably Sir Henry Tyler and Sir Hardinge\nGiffard knew as much of the Scriptures they strove to imprison us for\ndisputing as the person who drew up our Indictment. Mr. Cluer caused\nsome amusement in the Court of Queen's Bench when, in the gravest\nmanner, he drew attention to these errors. Lord Coleridge as gravely\nreplied that he could not take judicial cognisance of them. Whereupon\nMr. Cluer quietly observed that he was ready to produce the authorised\nversion of the Bible in court in a few minutes, as he had a copy in his\nchambers. This remark elicited a smile from Lord Coleridge, a broad grin\nfrom the lawyers in Court, and a titter from the crowd. It was perfectly\nunderstood that a gentleman of the long robe might prosecute anybody for\nblasphemy against the Bible and its Deity, but the idea of a barrister\nhaving a copy of the \"sacred volume\" in his chambers was really too\nabsurd for belief.\n\nThe preamble charged us, in the stock language of Indictments for\nBlasphemy, as may be seen on reference to Archibold, with \"being wicked\nand evil-disposed persons, and disregarding the laws and religion of the\nrealm, and wickedly and profanely devising and intending to asperse and\nvilify Almighty God, and to bring the Holy Scriptures and the Christian\nReligion into disbelief and contempt.\"\n\nThe first observation I have to make on this wordy jumble is, that\nit seems highly presumptuous on the part of weak men to defend the\ncharacter of \"Almighty God.\" Surely they might leave him to protect\nhimself. Omnipotence is _able_ to punish those who offend it, and\nOmniscience knows _when_ to punish. Man's interference is grossly\nimpertinent. When the emperor Tiberius was asked by an informer to allow\nproceedings against one who had \"blasphemed the gods,\" he replied: \"No,\nlet the gods defend their own honor.\" Christian rulers have not yet\nreached that level of justice and common sense.\n\nNext, it was flagrantly unjust to accuse us of aspersing and vilifying\nAlmighty God at all. The _Freethinker_ had simply assailed the\nreputation of the god of the Bible, a tribal deity of the Jews,\nsubsequently adopted by the Christians, whom James Mill had described\nas \"the most perfect conception of wickedness which the human mind\ncan devise.\" What difference, I ask, is there between that strong\ndescription and the sentence quoted from the _Freethinker_ in our\nIndictment, which declared the same being as \"cruel as a Bashi-Bazouk\nand bloodthirsty as a Bengal tiger\"? The one is an abstract and the\nother a concrete expression of the same view; the one is philosophical\nand the other popular; the one is a cold statement and the other a\nburning metaphor. To allow the one to circulate with impunity, and to\npunish the other with twelve months' imprisonment, is to turn a literary\ndifference into a criminal offence.\n\nFurther, as Sir James Stephen has observed, it is absurd to talk about\nbringing \"the Holy Scriptures and the Christian religion into disbelief\nand contempt.\" One of these words is clearly superfluous. Considering\nthe extraordinary pretensions of the Bible and Christianity, it\nis difficult to see how they could be brought into contempt more\neffectually than by bringing them into disbelief.\n\nBut greater absurdities remain. Our Indictment averred that we had\npublished certain Blasphemous Libels \"to the great displeasure of\nAlmighty God, to the scandal of the Christian religion and the Holy\nBible or Scriptures, and against the peace of our Lady the Queen, her\ncrown and dignity.\" Let us analyse this legal jargon.\n\nHow did our prosecutors learn that we displeased Almighty God? In what\nmanner did Sir Henry Tyler first become aware of the fact? Was it,\nin the ancient fashion, revealed to him in a dream, or did it come by\ndirect inspiration? What was the exact language of the aggrieved Deity?\nDid he give Sir Henry Tyler a power of attorney to defend his character\nby instituting a prosecution for libel? If so, where is the document,\nand who will prove the signature? And did the original party to the suit\nintimate his readiness to be subpoenaed as a witness at the trial? All\nthese are very important questions, but there is no likelihood of their\never being answered.\n\n\"The scandal of the Christian Religion\" is an impertinent joke.\nChristianity, as Lord Coleridge remarked, is no longer, as the old\njudges used to rule, part and parcel of the law of England. I argued the\nmatter at considerable length in addressing the jury, and his lordship\nsupported my contention with all the force of his high authority. After\npointing out that at one time Jews, Roman Catholics, and Nonconformists\nof all sorts--in fact every sect outside the State Church--were under\nheavy disabilities for religion and regarded as hardly having civil\nrights, and that undoubtedly at that time the doctrines of the\nEstablished religion were part and parcel of the law of the land, Lord\nColeridge observed, as I had done, that \"Parliament, which is supreme\nand binds us all, has enacted statutes which make that view of the law\nno longer applicable.\" I had also pointed out that there might be a Jew\non the jury. His lordship went further, and remarked that there might be\na Jew on the bench. His words were these:\n\n     \"Now, so far as I know, a Jew might be Lord Chancellor; most\n     certainly he might be Master of the Rolls.  The great and\n     illustrious lawyer [Sir George Jessel] whose loss the whole\n     profession is deploring, and in whom his friends know that they\n     lost a warm friend and a loyal colleague; he, but for the accident\n     of taking his office before the Judicature Act came into operation,\n     might have had to go circuit, might have sat in a criminal court\n     to try such a case as this, might have been called upon, if\n     the law really be that 'Christianity is part of the law of the\n     land' in the sense contended for, to lay it down as law to a jury,\n     amongst whom might have been Jews,--that it was an offence\n     against the law, as blasphemy, to deny that Jesus Christ was\n     the Messiah, a thing which he himself did deny, which Parliament\n     had allowed him to deny, and which it is just as much part of\n     the law that anyone may deny, as it is your right and mine, if\n     we believe it, to assert.\"\n\nClearly then, according to the dictum of the Lord Chief Justice, it\nis not a crime to publish anything \"to the scandal of the Christian\nReligion,\" although it was alleged against us as such in our Indictment.\n\nThe only real point that can be discussed and tested is in the last\nclause. I do not refer to the Queen's \"crown and dignity,\" which we were\naccused of endangering; for our offence could not possibly be construed\nas a political one, and it is hard to perceive how the Queen's dignity\ncould be imperilled by the act of any person except herself. What I\nrefer to is the statement that we had provoked a disturbance of the\npeace; a more hypocritical pretence than which was never advanced. I\nventure to quote here a passage from my address to the jury on my third\ntrial before Lord Coleridge:--\n\n     \"A word, gentlemen, about breach of the peace.  Mr. Justice\n     Stephen said well, that no temporal punishment should be inflicted\n     for blasphemy unless it led to a breach of the peace.  I have\n     no objection to that, provided we are indicted for a breach\n     of the peace.  Very little breach of the peace might make a\n     good case of blasphemy.  A breach of the peace in a case like\n     this must not be constructive; it must be actual.  They might\n     have put somebody in the witness-box who would have said that\n     reading the _Freethinker_ had impaired his digestion and disturbed\n     his sleep.  They might have even found somebody who said it\n     was thrust upon him, and that, he was induced to read it, not\n     knowing its character.  Gentlemen, they have not attempted to\n     prove that any special publicity was given to it outside the circle\n     of the people who approved it.  They have not even shown there\n     was an advertisement of it in any Christian or religious paper.\n     They have not even told you that any extravagant display was\n     made of it; and I undertake to say that you might never have\n     known of it if the prosecution had not advertised it.  How can\n     all this be construed as a breach of the peace?  Our Indictment\n     says we have done all this, to the great displeasure of Almighty\n     God, and to the danger of our Lady the Queen, her crown and dignity.\n     You must bear that in mind.  The law-books say again and again\n     that a blasphemous libel is punished, not because it throws\n     obloquy on the deity--the protection of whom would be absurd--\n     but because it tends to a breach of the peace.  It is preposterous\n     to say such a thing tends to a breach of the peace.  If you want\n     that you must go to the Salvation Army.  They have a perfect\n     right to their ideas--I have nothing to say about them; but\n     their policy has led to actual breaches of the peace; and even\n     in India, where, according to the law, no prosecution could\n     be started against a paper like the _Freethinker_, many are\n     sent to gaol because they will insist upon processions in\n     the street.  We have not caused tumult in the streets.  We\n     have not sent out men with banners and bands in which each\n     musician plays more or less his own tune.  We have not sent\n     out men who make hideous discord, and commit a common nuisance.\n     Nothing of the sort is alleged.  A paper like this had to be\n     bought and our utterances had to be sought.  We have not done\n     anything against the peace.  I give the Indictment an absolute\n     denial.  To talk of danger to the peace is only a mask to hide\n     the hideous and repulsive features of intolerance and persecution.\n     They don't want to punish us because we have assailed religion,\n     but because we have endangered the peace.  Take them at their\n     word, gentlemen.  Punish us if we have endangered the peace,\n     and not if we have assailed religion; and as you know we have\n     not endangered the peace, you will of course bring in a verdict\n     of Not Guilty.  Gentlemen, I hope you will by your verdict to-day\n     champion that great law of liberty which is challenged--the law\n     of liberty which implies the equal right of everyman, while he\n     does not trench upon the equal right of every other man, to print\n     what he pleases for people who choose to buy and read it, so\n     long as he does not libel men's characters or incite people\n     to the commission of crime.\"\n\nAppealing now to a far larger jury in the high court of public opinion,\nI ask whether Freethinkers are not one of the most orderly sections of\nthe community. Why should we resort to violence, or invoke it, or\neven countenance it, when our cardinal principle is the sovereignty of\nreason, and our hope of progress lies in the free play of mind on every\nsubject? We are perhaps more profoundly impressed than others with the\nidea that all institutions are the outward expression of inward thoughts\nand feelings, and that it is impossible to forestall the advance of\npublic sentiment by the most cunningly-devised machinery. We are _par\nexcellence_ the party of order, though not of stagnation. It is a\nstriking and pregnant fact that Freethought meetings are kept peaceful\nand orderly without any protection by the police. At St. James's Hall,\nLondon, the only demonstrations, I believe, for which the services of\na certain number of policemen are not charged for in the bill with the\nrent, are those convened by Mr. Bradlaugh and his friends.\n\nLord Coleridge, ostensibly but not actually following Michaelis, raised\nthe subtle argument that as people's feelings are very tender on the\nsubject of religion, and the populace is apt to take the law into its\nown hands when there is no legal method of expressing its anger and\nindignation, \"some sort of blasphemy laws reasonably enforced may be\nan advantage even to those who differ from the popular religion of\na country, and who desire to oppose and to deny it.\" But this is an\ninversion of the natural order of things. What reason is there in\nimprisoning an innocent man because some one meditates an assault\nupon him? Would it not be wiser and juster to restrain the intending\ncriminal, as is ordinarily done? I object to being punished because\nothers cannot keep their tempers; and I say further, that to punish a\nman, not because he has injured others, but for his own good, is the\nworst form of persecution. During the many years of my public advocacy\nof Freethought in all parts of Great Britain, both before and since my\nimprisonment, I have never been in a moment's danger of violence and\noutrage. I never witnessed any irritation which could not be allayed\nby a persuasive word, or any disturbance that could not be quelled by a\nwitticism. With all deference to Lord Coleridge, whom no one admires\nand respects more than I do, I would rather the law left me to my own\nresources, and only interfered to protect me when I need its assistance.\n\nNow for the counts of our Indictment. There is danger in writing about\nthem, as it is held that the publication of matter found blasphemous\nby a jury, except in a legal report for the profession, is itself\nblasphemy, and may be punished as such. I am not, however, likely to be\ndeterred from my purpose by this consideration. On the other hand, as\nthe incriminated passages were all carefully selected from many numbers\nof a journal never remarkable for its tender treatment of orthodoxy,\nI do not see any particular advantage to be derived from their\nrepublication. They are, of course, far more calculated to shock\nreligious susceptibilities (if these are to be considered) when they are\npicked out and ranked together than when they stand amid their\ncontext in their original places. Such a process of selection would be\nexceedingly hard on any paper or book handling very advanced ideas, and\nvery backward ones, in a spirit of great freedom. Nay, it would prove\na severe trial to most works of real value, whose scope extended beyond\nthe respectabilities. Not to mention Byron's caustic remarks on the\npeculiar expurgation of Martial in Don Juan's edition, it is obvious\nthat the Bible and Shakespeare could both be proved obscene by this\nprocess; and setting aside ancient literature altogether, half our own\nclassics, before the age of Wordsworth and Scott, would come under the\nsame condemnation. I know I am intruding among my betters; but I do not\nclaim equality with them; I merely ask the same liberal judgment. A man\nis no more to be judged by a few casual sentences from his pen, without\nany reference to all the rest, than he is to be judged by a few casual\nexpressions he may let fall in a year's conversation.\n\nCuriously, in all those twenty-eight folios of blasphemy, only three\nsentences were from my own pen, and two of them were extracted from long\narticles. One was a jocose reference to the Jewish tribal god, who, as\nKeunen allows, was carried about, probably as a stone fetish, in that\nwooden box known as the \"ark of the covenant.\" Another occurred in a\nlong review of Jules Soury's remarkable book on the subject of Jesus\nChrist's hallucinations and eccentricities, in which he endeavors to\nshow that the Prophet of Nazareth passed through certain recognised\nstages of brain disease. Referring to the close of his career, I wrote\nthat, \"When Jesus made his triumphant entry into Jerusalem he was\nplainly crazed.\" That one sentence was picked out from a long review,\nrunning through three numbers of the _Freethinker_, and filling six\ncolumns of print. The third sentence was a satirical comment on the\nsensational and blasphemous title of Dr. Parker's book on \"The Inner\nLife of Christ.\" I asked, \"How did he contrive to get inside his maker?\"\nThere was a fourth sentence I wrote for the _Freethinker_, but as it was\na verbatim report of some Bedlamite observations of a Salvationist at\nHalifax, published, as I said, \"to show what is being done and said in\nthe name of Christianity,\" I decline to be held responsible for it. Let\nGeneral Booth be answerable for the blasphemies of his own followers.\n\nAll the other passages in the Indictment were from the pens of\ncontributors, over whom, as they signed their articles, I never held\na tight rein. They were mostly amplifications of the sentence I have\nalready quoted about the cruel character of the Bible God. I did not,\nhowever, dwell on this fact in my address to the jury. I took the full\nresponsibility, and fought my contributors' battle as well my own. I\nbore their iniquities, the chastisement of their peace was upon me, and\nby my stripes they were healed.\n\nFour of the Comic Bible Sketches were included in the Indictment. They\nappeared in the _Freethinker_ on the following dates:--January 29, April\n23, May 28, and June 11 (1882). Readers who care to see what they were\nlike can refer to the file in the British Museum. Those illustrations\nhave not been declared blasphemous, for when the Indictment I have been\nexplaining was tried before Lord Coleridge, the jury, after several\nhours' deliberation, could not agree to a verdict of Guilty.\n\nThe Indictment on which I was found guilty, and sentenced to twelve\nmonths' imprisonment, was a later one. It was based on the Christmas\nNumber, 1882, to which I previously referred. Let me now give a brief\nhistory of my second prosecution.\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V. ANOTHER PROSECUTION.\n\n\nIn the month of November (1882) I announced my intention to bring out\na new monthly magazine entitled _Progress_. Several friends thought it\nimpolitic to launch my new venture in such troubled waters, and advised\nme to wait for the issue of the prosecution. But I resolved to act\nexactly as though the prosecution had never been initiated. It seemed to\nme the wisest course to go on with my work until I was stopped, and risk\nthe consequences whatever they might be. The result has proved that I\nwas right; but I do not wish to boast of my judgment, for when I was\nimprisoned all my interests were fearfully imperilled, and everything\ndepended on the loyal exertions of a few staunch Freethinkers (of whom\nmore anon) who stepped into the breach and defended them with great\ncourage and ability until I was able to resume my post. _Progress_\nmade its due appearance in January, 1883, and, notwithstanding the\nextraordinary vicissitudes of its career, it has flourished ever since\nwithout any solution of continuity.\n\nWhile I was advertising _Progress_ I was also preparing the second\nChristmas Number of the _Freethinker_. The announcement of its contents\ncaused a great deal of excitement, and I am prepared to admit that it\nwas, to use a common phrase, the \"warmest\" publication ever issued. It\nwas full from cover to cover of what the orthodox call blasphemy, and it\nwas speedily described by the Christian press as more \"outrageous\" than\nany of the ordinary numbers for which we were already prosecuted.\nThe description was perfectly correct. I had concluded that my wisest\npolicy, as it was certainly the most courageous, was to disregard the\nBlasphemy Laws and defy the bigots; to show that Freethought was not\nto be cowed or intimidated by threats of imprisonment. Facing the enemy\nboldly appeared to me better than running away; a course in which I\ncould see neither glory, honor, nor profit. Even if I had consulted my\nsafety above all things, I should have seen little wisdom in flight; and\nbeing shot in the back, while no less dangerous, is far more ignominious\nthan being shot in the front. I have paid the full penalty of my policy;\nI have suffered twelve months' torture in a Christian gaol; yet I do not\nrepent the course I took; and ever since my release from prison I\nhave felt it my duty to continue doing the very thing for which I was\npunished.\n\nBeing tastefully got-up, well printed, profusely illustrated, and\nextensively denounced by the organs of Toryism and piety, this Christmas\nNumber had a very large sale. Yet, strange as it may sound to some\nbigoted ears, Mr. Ramsey and I were after all several pounds out of\npocket by it, the expenses being altogether out of proportion to\nthe price, and our object being less material gain than the wide\ndissemination of our views. With the knowledge of this pecuniary loss\nin our minds, it may be imagined how grimly we smiled when the counsel\nsternly alluded to our \"nefarious profits.\"\n\nI shall have occasion to deal with the contents of this Christmas Number\nwhen I explain our second Indictment; which, I repeat, as there is\ngeneral misunderstanding on the subject, was tried before the first, and\nresulted in Judge North's atrocious and almost unparalleled sentence.\n\nDuring the interval between the publication of this \"budget of\nblasphemy\" and the date of our summons to answer a criminal charge\nfounded on it, I had several interviews with Mr. E. Truelove, a\ngentleman well known to all advanced people in London as a veteran\nchampion of the freedom as the press. At the age of seventy, after\na long life _sans peur et sans reproche_, this fine old reformer was\ndragged by the paid Secretary of the Society for the Suppression of Vice\n(or the Vice Society as Cobbett always called it) into a criminal court\nto answer a charge of obscenity. The objectionable matter was contained\nin an extremely mild, not to say mawkish, essay on the population\nquestion by Robert Dale Owen, a man of literary eminence in the United\nStates, and once an ambassador of the great Republic. Like ourselves,\nMr. Truelove was tried twice before a verdict of guilty could be\nobtained. His sentence was four months' imprisonment like a common\nfelon. Mr. Truelove was indisposed to reveal the secrets of his\nprison-house out of a tender regard for my feelings, but seeing that I\npreferred to know the worst, he told me all about the felon's cell,\nthe plank bed, the oakum picking, the wretched diet, and the horribly\nmonotonous life. My chief feeling on hearing this sad tale was one\nof indignation at the thought that a man of honest convictions and\nblameless life should be subjected to such privations and indignities.\nIt did not weaken my resolution; it only deepened my hatred of the\nsystem which sanctioned such iniquities.\n\nFrom America, however, came a piece of bitter-sweet news. Mr. D. M.\nBennett, editor of the New York _Truthseeker_, had just died. His\nend was hastened by the heart-disease he contracted while undergoing\nimprisonment for an \"offence\" similar to that of Mr. Truelove. Yet\nalmost at the moment of Mr. Bennett's death, another jury had found\nanother publisher of the very same work Not Guilty. I learned from the\nNew York papers that the acquittal was partly due to the impartiality\nof the judge, partly to the progress the public mind had made on the\npopulation question, and partly to the fact that the accused publisher\nconducted his own defence. Here was a gleam of hope. I also might\nmeet with an impartial judge, I also might find a jury reflecting an\nenlightened public opinion, and I also was resolved to defend myself.\nAlas! I did not know that I was to meet with the most bigoted judge\non the bench, and to plead to a jury exactly calculated to effect his\nvindictive purpose.\n\nOn Thursday, December 7, 1882, we published our second Christmas Number\nof the Freethinker. I will deal with its contents presently, when I have\nnarrated how it led to our second prosecution. Let it here suffice\nto say that it was undoubtedly a very \"warm\" publication, and well\ncalculated to arouse the slumbering Blasphemy Laws. Some Freethinkers\neven were astonished at its audacity. A few belonging to an\nold-fashioned school, and a few more who were assiduously courting\n\"respectability,\" resented our action; although, as the vast majority\nof our party were of an opposite opinion, they refrained from expressing\ntheir reprobation too loudly. In reply to their murmurs I wrote an\narticle in my paper on \"Superstitious Freethinkers.\" It appeared in the\nnumber for December 31, and thus appropriately closed a year of combat.\nA few passages are, perhaps, worth insertion here.\n\n     \"It has been said of Robert Burns that, although his head and\n     heart rejected Calvinism, he never quite got it out of his blood.\n     There is much truth in this metaphor.  Burns was, in religious\n     matters, one of a very large class.  Many men rid their intellects\n     of a superstition, without being able to resist its power over\n     their feelings.  Even so profound a sceptic as Renan has admitted\n     that his life is guided by a faith he no longer possesses.  And\n     we are all familiar with instances of the same thing...\"\n\n     \"Reverting to avowed Freethinkers, it is evident that some of\n     them who have lost belief in God are afraid to speak too loud\n     lest he should overhear them.  'How old are you, Monsieur\n     Fontenelle?' asked a pretty young French lady.  'Hush, not so\n     loud, dear Madame!' replied the witty nonagenarian, pointing\n     upwards.  What Fontenelle did as a piece of graceful wit, some\n     Freethinkers do without any wit at all.  They object to laughing\n     at the gods, whether Christian, Brahmanic or Mohammedan; and\n     perhaps they would extend the same friendly consideration to\n     Mumbo Jumbo.  Strange that people should be so tender about\n     ghosts!  Especially when they don't even believe them to be\n     real ghosts.  To the Atheist all gods are fancies, mere\n     delusions (not _illusions_), like the philosopher's stone,\n     witchcraft, astrology, holy water and miracles.  I am as much\n     entitled to ridicule the gods of Christianity as any other\n     Freethinker is entitled to ridicule the miracles at Lourdes;\n     and when 'taste' is dragged into the question, I simply reply\n     that there is as much ill taste in the one case as in the other.\n     All that this 'taste' can mean is that no devout delusion should\n     be ridiculed, which is itself one of the greatest pieces of\n     absurdity ever perpetrated.  It would shield every form of\n     'spiritual' lunacy in the world.\n\n     \"These squeamish Freethinkers don't object to ridicule in\n     politics, literature or social life.  They rather approve _Punch_\n     and the other comic journals, even when these satirise living\n     persons who feel the sting.  Why, then, do they object to ridicule\n     in religion?  Simply because they still _feel_ that there is\n     something sacred about it.  Now I insist that on the Atheist's\n     principles there can be no such sacredness, and I decline to\n     recognise it.  I take the full consequences and claim the full\n     liberty of my belief.\n\n     \"Christians may, of course, urge that their _feelings_ on such\n     a subject as religion _are sacred_, and a few superstitious\n     Freethinkers may concede this monstrous position.  I do not.\n     The feelings of a Christian about Father, Son and Holy Ghost,\n     are no more sacred than my feelings on any other subject.\n     I have no quarrel with persons, and I recognise how many are\n     hurt by satire.  But the world is not to be regulated by their\n     feelings, and much as I respect them, I have a greater respect\n     for truth.  Every mental weapon is valid against mental error.\n     And as ridicule has been found the most potent weapon of religious\n     enfranchisement, we are bound to use it against the wretched\n     superstitions which cumber the path of progress.  Intellectually,\n     it is as absurd to give quarter as it is absurd to expect it.\n\n     \"My answer to the Freethinkers who would coquet with Christianity,\n     and gain a fictitious respectability by courting compliments\n     from Christian teachers, is that they are playing with fire.\n     Let them ponder the lessons of history, and remember Clifford's\n     bitter word about the evil superstition which destroyed one\n     civilisation and nearly succeeded in destroying another.\n     Fortunately, however, the logic of things is against them.\n     Broad currents of thought go on their way without being deflected\n     by backwashes, or eddies or spurts into blind passages.\n     Freethought will sweep on with its main volume, and dash against\n     every impediment with all its effective force.\"\n\nWell, I exercised \"the full liberty of my belief,\" and I had to take\nits \"full consequences.\" Yet, looking back over my year's torture in a\nChristian gaol, my conscience approves that dangerous policy, and I do\nnot experience a single regret.\n\nIn the same number of the _Freethinker_ I referred at some length to\nTyler's prosecution, which was dragging along its slow course in a\nway that must have been very provoking to Mr. Bradlaugh's enemies. By\ndexterous manoeuvring and skilful pleading, that litigious man, as\nthe Tories call him, had managed to get two counts struck out of our\nIndictment. The result of this to Mr. Ramsey and myself was _nil_, but\nit brought great relief to Mr. Bradlaugh, and made his acquittal almost\na matter of certainty.\n\nMeanwhile our Christmas Number was selling rapidly. In a few weeks\nit had reached a far larger circulation than had been enjoyed by any\nFreethought publication before. Naturally the bigots were enraged,\nboth by its character and its success. Many religious journals, and\nespecially the _Rock_, clamored for legal protection against such\n\"blasphemy.\" Irate Christians called at our shop in Stonecutter Street,\npurchased copies of the obnoxious paper, and, flourishing them in the\nfaces of Mr. Ramsey and Mr. Kemp, declared that we should \"hear more of\nthis;\" to which pious salutation they usually replied by offering their\nminatory visitors \"a dozen or perhaps a quire at trade price.\" Similar\nbusybodies called at Mr. Cattell's shop in Fleet Street, and plied him\nwith cajoleries when menaces were futile. One of them, indeed, attempted\nbribery. He offered Mr. Cattell half a sovereign to remove our Christmas\nNumber from his window. What a wonderful bigot! That detestable\nfraternity has nearly always persecuted heresy at other people's\nexpense, but this man was willing to tax himself for that laudable\nobject. Surely he is phenomenal enough to deserve a memorial in\nWestminster Abbey, or at least an effigy at Madame Tussaud's.\n\nPresently our shop was visited by another class of men--plain-clothes\ndetectives. They came in couples, and it was easy to understand their\nbusiness. We were, therefore, not surprised when, on January 29, 1883,\nwe were severally served with the following summons:--\n\n     \"To GEORGE WILLIAM FOOTE, of No. 9 South Crescent, Bedford Square,\n     Middlesex; WILLIAM JAMES RAMSEY, of No. 28 Stonecutter Street,\n     in the City of London, and No. 20 Brownlow Street, Dalston,\n     Middlesex; and HENRY ARTHUR KEMP, of No. 28 Stonecutter Street,\n     aforesaid, and No. 15 Harp Alley, Farringdon Street, London, E.C.\n\n     _Whereas_ you have this day been charged before the undersigned,\n     the Lord Mayor of the City of London, being one of her Majesty's\n     Justices of the Peace in and for the said City and the Liberties\n     thereof, by JAMES MACDONALD, of No. 7 Burton Road, Brixton,\n     in the county of Surrey, for that you did in the said City\n     of London, on the 16th day December, in the year of Our Lord,\n     1882, and on divers other days, print and publish, and cause\n     and procure to be printed and published, a certain blasphemous\n     and impious libel in the Christmas Number for 1882 of a certain\n     newspaper called the _Freethinker_, against the peace of our\n     Lady the Queen, her crown and Dignity.  These are therefore\n     to command you, in her Majesty's name, to be and appear before\n     me on Friday, the second day of February, 1883, at eleven of\n     the clock in the forenoon, at the Mansion House Justice Room,\n     in the said City, or before such other Justice or Justices of\n     the Peace for the same City as may then be there, to answer\n     to the said charge, and to be further dealt with according to\n     law.  Herein fail not.  Given under my hand and seal, this\n     29th day of January, in the year of Our Lord, 1883, at the\n     Mansion House Justice-Room aforesaid.\n                                          \"HENRY E. KNIGHT,\n                                          \"Lord Mayor, London.\"\n\nThe James Macdonald of this summons, who played the part of a common\ninformer, turned out to be a police officer. In the ordinary way of\nbusiness he went to the Lord Mayor, complained of our blasphemy and his\nown lacerated feelings, and applied for a summons against us as a first\nstep towards punishing us for our sins. What a _reductio ad absurdum_\nof the Blasphemy Laws! Instead of ordinary Christians protesting against\nour outrages, and demanding our restraint in the interest of the peace,\na callous policeman has to do the work, without a scintilla of feeling\nabout the matter, just as he might proceed against any ordinary criminal\nfor theft or assault. The real mover in this business was Sir Thomas\nNelson, the City Solicitor, representing the richest and corruptest\nCorporation in the world.\n\nThe Corporation of the City of London might be described in the language\nwhich Jesus applied to the Town Council of Jerusalem eighteen centuries\nago--\"They devour widows' houses, and for a pretence make long prayers.\"\nWhat could be more hypocritical than such a body posing as the champions\nof religion, and especially of the religion of Christ! If the Prophet of\nNazareth were alive again to-day, who would expect to find him at a Lord\nMayor's banquet? Would he frequent the Stock Exchange, be at home in\nthe Guild-hall and the Mansion House, or select his disciples from the\nworshippers in the myriad temples of Mammon? Would he not rather hate\nand denounce these modern Pharisees as cordially as they would certainly\nhate and denounce him?\n\nIf the City Fathers meant to protect the honor of God, they were both\nabsurd and blasphemous. There is something ineffably ludicrous in the\nspectacle of a host of fat aldermen rushing out from their shops\nand offices to steady the tottering throne of Omnipotence. And what\npresumption on the part of these pigmies to undertake a defence of\ndeity! Surely Omnipotence is as _able_ to punish as Omniscience knows\n_when_ to punish. The theologians who, as Matthew Arnold says, talk\nfamiliarly of God, as though he were a man living in the next street,\nare modest in comparison with his self-elected body-guard.\n\nWould it not be better for these presumptuous mortals to mind their own\nbusiness? It will be time enough for them to supervise their neighbors\nwhen they have reformed themselves. With all their pretensions to\nsuperior piety and virtue, they are notoriously the greatest ring of\npublic thieves in the world, and they are at present lavishly expending\ntrust-monies in a desperate endeavor to justify their turpitude and\nprolong their plunder.\n\nAccording to our summons, Mr. Ramsey, Mr. Kemp, and I appeared at the\nMansion House on Friday, February 2, 1883. The Justice Room was thronged\nlong before the Lord Mayor took his seat on the Bench, and all the\napproaches were crowded by anxious sympathisers. All the evidence was of\na purely formal character. It was a foregone conclusion that we should\nbe committed for trial. We all three pleaded not guilty and reserved\nour defence. Before leaving the Court, however, notwithstanding his\nlordship's interruption, I protested against the revival of an old law\nwhich had fallen into desuetude, which had not been enforced in the City\nof London for over fifty years, and which was altogether alien to the\nspirit of the age. My remarks were greeted with loud applause by the\npublic in Court. Of course his lordship frowned, and the ushers shouted\n\"Silence!\" But the mischief was done. It was obvious that we had\nmany friends, that we were not going to be tried in a hole-and-corner\nfashion.\n\nOur case excited much interest in London. Most of the newspapers\ncontained a good report of the proceedings at the Mansion House; and\neven the Tory _Evening News_, which affirmed that we were three vulgar\nblasphemers undeserving of notice, had as the leading line on its\nplacard \"Prosecution of the _Freethinker_: Result!\"\n\nThe _Freethinker_ for February 11 contained an article from my pen on\nthe \"Infidel Hunt,\" and a very admirable article by Mr. Wheeler on \"The\nFight of Forty Years Ago,\" narrating the trials of Southwell, Holyoake,\nPaterson, and other brave heretics. Mr. Ramsey did not then quite\napprove my attitude of defiance, although he has changed his mind since.\nHe thought it more prudent to bend a little before the storm, instead\nof daring its utmost violence. He was also anxious to please those with\nwhom he had worked before his partial alliance with me, and who were not\nprepared to sanction his continued connexion with the _Freethinker_ if\nhe wished to remain with them. For these reasons he retired from our\npartnership, and I was at once registered as the sole proprietor of the\npaper. This step naturally added to the danger of my situation, and\nit was freely used against me at the trial. But I had no alternative,\nunless the _Freethinker_ was to go down, and that I had resolved\nto prevent at any cost. At the same time I engaged to take over Mr.\nRamsey's business at Stonecutter Street, and to recoup him for his heavy\ninvestment; and I am bound to admit that he behaved generously in\nall these arrangements. On February 11 the following editorial notice\nappeared in my paper:\n\n     \"With this number of the _Freethinker_ I assume a new position.\n     The full responsibility for everything in connexion with the\n     paper henceforth rests with me.  I am editor, proprietor,\n     printer and publisher.  My imprint will be put on every\n     publication issued from 28 Stonecutter Street, and all the\n     business done there will be transacted through me or my\n     representatives.  This exposes me to fresh perils, but it\n     simplifies matters.  Those who attack the _Freethinker_\n     after this week will have to attack me singly.  I never meant\n     to give in, and never will so long as my strength serves for\n     the fight.  Whoever else yields, I will submit to nothing but\n     physical compulsion.  If the _Freethinker_ should ever cease\n     to appear, the Freethought party will know that the fault\n     is not mine.  Certain parts of the mechanical process of\n     production are dependent on the firmness of others.  One\n     man cannot do everything.  But I pledge myself to keep\n     this Freethought flag flying at every hazard, and if I am\n     temporarily disabled I pledge myself to unfurl it again,\n     and if need be again, and again.  _De l'audace, et encore\n     de l'audace, et toujours de l'audace._\"\n\nMr. Wheeler stood loyally by me in this emergency. His efforts for\nour common object were untiring, and never was his pen wielded more\nbrilliantly. Perhaps, indeed he overstrained his energies, and thus led\nto the complete breakdown of his health soon after my imprisonment.\n\nA few days later Sir Thomas Nelson, the City Solicitor, served a summons\non Mr. H. C. Cattell of 84 Fleet Street, who had so annoyed the bigots\nby exposing the Christmas Number of the _Freethinker_ in his window.\nDetectives also visited other newsagents and threatened them with\nprosecution if they persisted in selling my paper. It was evident that\nthe City authorities were bent on utterly suppressing it. They tried\ntheir utmost and they failed.\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI. PREPARING FOR TRIAL.\n\n\nThere were many reasons why I did not wish to be tried at the Old\nBailey. First, it is an ordinary criminal court, with all the vulgar\ncharacteristics of such places: swarms of loud policemen, crowds of\nchattering witnesses, prison-warders bent on recognising old offenders,\nushers who look soured by long familiarity with crime, clerks who gabble\nover indictments with the voice and manner of a town-crier, barristers\nin and out of work, some caressing a brief and some awaiting one; and\na large sprinkling of idle persons, curious after a fresh sensation\nand eager to gratify a morbid appetite for the horrible. How could the\ngreatest orator hope to overcome the difficulties presented by such\nsurroundings? The most magnificent speech would be shorn of its\nsplendor, the most powerful robbed of more than half its due effect.\nIn the next place, I should have to appear in the dock, and address the\njury from a position which seems to require an apology in itself. And,\nfurther, that jury would be a common one, consisting almost entirely of\nsmall tradesmen, the very worst class to try such an indictment.\n\nFor these and other reasons I resolved to obtain, if possible, a\n_certiorari_ to remove our Indictment to the Court of Queen's Bench; and\nas the first Indictment had been so removed, I did not anticipate any\nserious difficulty. On Monday, February 19, after travelling by the\nnight train from Plymouth, where I had delivered three lectures the day\nbefore, I applied before Justices Manisty and Matthew, who granted me\na rule _nisi_. But on the Saturday Sir Hardinge Giffard moved that the\nrule should be taken out of its order in the Crown Paper, and argued on\nthe following Tuesday. Seeing that the Court was determined to assist\nhim, I acquiesced in the motion rather than waste my time in futile\nobstruction. On Tuesday, February 27, Sir Hardinge Giffard duly\nappeared, supported by two junior counsel, Mr. Poland and Mr. F. Lewis.\nThe judges, as on the previous Saturday, were Baron Huddleston and Mr.\nJustice North. The former displayed the intensest bigotry and prejudice,\nand the latter all that flippant insolence which he subsequently\ndisplayed at my trial, and which appears to be an inseparable part of\nhis character. When, for instance, I ventured to correct Sir Hardinge\nGiffard on a mere matter of fact, as is quite customary in such cases;\nwhen I sought to point out that the Indictment already removed included\nMr. Ramsey and myself, and not Mr. Bradlaugh only; Justice North stopped\nme with \"Not a word, sir, not a word.\"\n\nSir Hardinge Giffard made a very short speech, knowing that such judges\ndid not require much persuasion. He moved that the rule _nisi_ should be\ndischarged; put in a copy of the Christmas Number of the _Freethinker_,\nwhich he described as a gross and intentional outrage on the religious\nfeelings of the public; alleged, as was perfectly true, that it was\nstill being sold; and urged that the case was one that should be sent\nfor trial at once.\n\nMy reply was longer. After claiming the indulgence of the Court for\nhaving to appear in person, owing to my purse being shorter than the\nLondon Corporation's, I laid before their lordships my reasons for\nasking them to make the rule absolute. I argued that, as a press\noffence, our case was eminently one for a special jury; that the law\nof blasphemy, which had not been interpreted for a generation, was\nvery indefinite, and a common jury might be easily misled; that as\ncontradictory statements of the common law existed, it was highly\nadvisable to have an authoritative judgment in a superior Court; that\ngrave questions as to the relations of the statute and the common\nlaw might also arise; that it was manifestly unfair, while a sweeping\nIndictment for blasphemy was removed to a higher Court, that I should be\ncompelled to plead in a lower Court on a similar charge; and that it was\nunjust to try our case at the Old Bailey when the City Corporation was\nprosecuting us.\n\nTo none of these reasons, however, did their lordships vouchsafe a reply\nor extend a consideration. Baron Huddleston simply held the Christmas\nNumber of the _Freethinker_ up in Court, and declared that no sane man\ncould deny that it was a blasphemous libel--a contumelious reproach on\nour Blessed Savior. But that was not the point at issue. Whether the\nprosecuted publication was a blasphemous libel or not, was a question\nfor the jury at the proper time and in the proper place. All Baron\nHuddleston was concerned with was whether a fairer trial might be\nobtained in a higher Court than in a lower one, and before a special\njury than before a common one. That question he never touched, and the\none he did touch he was bound by legal and moral rules not to deal with\nat all.\n\nJustice North briefly concurred with his learned brother, and refrained\nfrom adding anything because he would probably have to try the case at\nthe Old Bailey himself. What a pity he did not reflect on the injustice\nof publicly branding as blasphemous the very men he was going to try for\nblasphemy within forty-eight hours!\n\nThe next morning, February 29, Mr. Ramsey, Mr. Kemp and I duly appeared\nat the Old Bailey. Before the regular business commenced, I asked his\nlordship (it was indeed Justice North) to postpone our trial until the\nnext sessions, on the ground that, as my application for a _certiorari_\nwas only decided the day before, there had been no time to prepare an\nadequate defence. His lordship refused to grant us an hour for that\nabsurd purpose. Directly I sat down Mr. Poland arose, and begged\nthat our trial might be deferred until the morrow, as his leader, Sir\nHardinge Giffard, was obliged to attend elsewhere. This request was\ngranted with a gracious smile and a bland, \"Of course, Mr. Poland.\" What\na spectacle! An English judge refusing a fellow-citizen a single hour\nfor the defence of his liberty and perhaps his life, and granting a\ndelay of twenty-four hours to enable a brother lawyer to earn his fee!\n\nI spent the rest of that day in preparations for the morrow--writing out\ndirections for Mr. Wheeler in case I should be sent to prison, arranging\nbooks and documents, and leaving messages with various friends; and\nI sat far into the night putting together finally the notes for my\ndefence. I was quite cool and collected; I neglected nothing I had time\nfor, and I was dead asleep five minutes after I laid my head on the\npillow. Only for a moment was I even perturbed. It was when I was giving\nMr. Wheeler his last instructions. Pointing to my book-shelves, I said:\n\"Now, Joe, remember that if Mrs. Foote has any need, or if there should\never be a hitch with the paper, you are to sell my books--all of them\nif necessary.\" A great sob shook my friend from head to foot. The bitter\ntruth seemed to strike him with startling force. Imprisonment, and all\nit involved, was no longer a dim possibility: it was a grim reality that\nmight have to be faced to-morrow. \"Tut, tut, Joe!\" I said, grasping\nhis arm and laughing. But the laugh was half a failure, and there was a\nsuspicious moisture in my eyes, which I turned my face away to conceal.\n\nDuring the day I had a last interview with Mr. Bradlaugh and Mrs. Besant\nat 63 Fleet Street. Mr. Bradlaugh told me he could find no flaw in\nour Indictment, and his air was that of a man who sees no hope, but is\nreluctant to say so. Mrs. Besant was full of quiet sympathy, proffering\nthis and that kindness, and showing how much her heart was greater than\nher opportunity of assistance.\n\nIn the evening I attended the monthly Council meeting of the National\nSecular Society. Mr. Ramsey was also present. We both expressed our\nbelief that we should not meet our fellow-councillors again for some\ntime, and solemnly wished them good-bye, with a hope that, if we were\nsent to prison, they would seize the opportunity, and initiate an\nagitation against the Blasphemy Laws. I then drove home, and finished\nthe notes for my defence.\n\nEarly the next morning I was at 28 Stonecutter Street. Being\napprehensive of a fine as well as imprisonment, I made hasty\narrangements for removing the whole of the printing plant to some empty\nrooms in a private house. Mr. A. Hilditch was the friend on whom I\nrelied in this emergency; and I am indebted to him for aid in many other\ndifficulties arising from my prosecution. My foreman printer, Mr. A.\nWatkin, superintended the removal. By the evening not a particle of\nour plant remained at the office. Mr. Watkin stuck loyally to his\nduty during my long absence, and on my return I found how much the\n_Freethinker_ owed to his unassuming devotion.\n\nOne ordeal was left. I had to say good-bye to my wife. It was a dreadful\nmoment. Reticence is wisdom in such cases. I will not inflict sentiment\non the reader, and I was never given to wearing my heart upon my sleeve.\nLet it suffice that I fought down even the last weakness. When I stepped\ninto the Old Bailey dock I was calm and collected. All my energies were\nstrung for one task--the defence of my own liberty and of the rights of\nFreethought.\n\nThat very morning the _Freethinker_ appeared with its usual\nillustration. It was the last number I edited for twelve months. My\nfinal article was entitled, \"No Surrender,\" and I venture to quote it\nin full, as exhibiting my attitude towards the prosecution within the\nshadow of the prison walls:--\n\n     \"The City Corporation is lavishly spending other people's money\n     in its attempt to put down the _Freethinker_.  Sir Thomas Nelson\n     is keeping the pot boiling.  He employs Sir Hardinge Giffard\n     and a tail of juniors in Court, and half the detectives of\n     London outside.  These surreptitious gentleman, who ought to\n     be engaged in detecting crime, are busily occupied in purchasing\n     the _Freethinker_, waylaying newsvendors' messengers, intimidating\n     shopkeepers, and serving notices on the defendants.  What money,\n     unscrupulously obtained and unscrupulously expended, can do is\n     being done.  But there is one thing it cannot do.  It cannot\n     damp our courage or alienate the sympathy of our friends.\n\n     \"There is evidently a widespread conspiracy against us.  We\n     have to stand on trial at the Old Bailey in company with rogues,\n     thieves, burglars, murderers, and other products of Christian\n     civilisation.  The company is not very agreeable, but then Jesus\n     himself was crucified between two thieves.  No doubt the Jews\n     thought him the worst of the three, just as pious Christians\n     will think us worse than the vilest criminal at the Old Bailey;\n     but posterity has reversed the judgment on him, and it will as\n     certainly reverse the judgment on us.\n\n     \"If a jury should give a verdict against us, which we trust\n     it will not, the prosecutors will probably strike again at\n     some other Freethought publication.  The appetite for persecution\n     grows by what it feeds on, and demands sacrifice after sacrifice\n     until it is checked by the aroused spirit of humanity.  After\n     a sleep of twenty-five years the great beast has roused itself,\n     and it may do considerable damage before it is driven back into\n     its lair.  We may witness a repetition of the scenes of fifty\n     and sixty years ago, when scores of brave men and women faced\n     fine and imprisonment for Freethought, tired out the very malice\n     of their persecutors; and made the Blasphemy Laws a dead letter\n     for a whole generation.  May our victory be as great as theirs,\n     even if our sufferings be less.\n\n     \"But will they be less?  Who knows?  They may even be greater.\n     Christian charity has grown so cold-blooded in its vindictiveness\n     since the 'pioneer days' that blasphemers are treated like\n     beasts rather than men.  There is a certain callous refinement\n     in the punishment awarded to heretics to-day.  Richard Carlile,\n     and other heroes of the struggle for a free press, were mostly\n     treated as first-class misdemeanants; they saw their friends\n     when they liked, had whatever fare they could paid for, were\n     allowed the free use of books and writing materials, and could\n     even edit their papers from gaol.  All that is changed now.\n     A 'blasphemer' who is sent to prison now gets a month of\n     Cross's plank-bed, is obliged to subsist on the miserable\n     prison fare, is dressed in the prison garb, is compelled to\n     submit to every kind of physical indignity, is shut out from\n     all communication with his relatives or friends except for one\n     visit during the second three months, is denied the use of pen\n     and ink, and debarred from all reading except the blessed Book.\n     England and Russia are the only countries in Europe that make\n     no distinction between press offenders and ordinary criminals.\n     The brutal treatment which was meted out to Mr. Truelove in\n     his seventieth year, when his grey hairs should have been his\n     protection, is what the outspoken sceptic must be prepared to\n     face.  After eighteen centuries of Christianity, and an interminable\n     procession of Christian 'evidences,' such is the reply of\n     orthodoxy to the challenge of its critics.\n\n     \"These things, however, cannot terrorise us.  We are prepared\n     to stand by our principles at all hazard.  Our motto is\n     No Surrender.  What we might concede to criticism we will never\n     yield to menace.  The _Freethinker_, we repeat again, will go\n     on whatever be the result of the present trial.  The flag will\n     not fall because one standard-bearer is stricken down; it will\n     be kept flying proudly and bravely as of old--shot-torn and\n     blood-stained perhaps, but flying, flying, flying!\"\n\nLet me now pause to say a few words about our Indictment. It was framed\non the model of the one I have already described charging us with being\nwicked and profane persons, instigated by the Devil to publish certain\nblasphemous libels in the Christmas Number of the _Freethinker_, to the\ndanger of the Queen's Crown and dignity and the public peace, and to the\ngreat displeasure of Almighty God. The various \"blasphemies\" were set\nforth in full, and my readers shall know what they were.\n\nMr. Wheeler's comic \"Trial for Blasphemy\" was one of the pieces.\nMatthew, Mark, Luke and John were accused of blasphemy in the Court of\nCommon Sense. They were charged with publishing all the absurdities in\nthe four gospels, and in especial with stating that a certain young Jew\nwas God Almighty himself. After the citation and examination of\nmany witnesses, Mr. Smart, Q.C., urged upon the jury that there was\nabsolutely no evidence against the prisoners. It was perfectly clear\nthat they were not the authors of the libels; their names had been used\nwithout their knowledge or sanction; and he confidently appealed to\nthe jury for a verdict of Not Guilty. \"After a brief consultation,\"\nconcluded this clever skit, \"the jury, who had carefully examined the\ndocuments, were of opinion that there was nothing to prove that the\nprisoners wrote the libels complained of. A verdict of acquittal was\naccordingly entered, and the prisoners were discharged.\"\n\nNow, every person acquainted with Biblical criticism knows that Mr.\nWheeler simply put the conclusions of nearly all reputable scholars in a\nbright, satirical way; and a century hence people will be astonished to\nlearn that such a piece of defensible irony, every line of which might\nbe justified by tons of learning, was included in an indictment for\nblasphemy, and considered heinous enough to merit severe punishment.\n\nThere were a few lines of verse picked out of long poems, and violently\nforced from their context; and also a few facetious \"Answers to\nCorrespondents,\" mangled in the same way. Certainly any publication\ncould be condemned on this plan. The Bible itself might be proved an\nobscene book.\n\nThen came eighteen illustrations, entitled \"A New Life of Christ.\" All\nthe chief miracles of his career were satirised, but not a single human\nincident was made the subject of ridicule. Now, if _miracles_ are\nnot objects of satire, I should like to know what are. If they never\nhappened, why should they enjoy more respect and protection than other\ndelusions? Why should one man be allowed to deny miracles, and\nanother man imprisoned for laughing at them? Must we regard long-faced\nscepticism as permissible heresy, and broad-faced scepticism as\npunishable blasphemy? And if so, why not set up a similar distinction\nbetween long and broad faces in every other department of thought? Why\nnot let _Punch_ and _Fun_ be suppressed, political cartoons be Anathema,\nand social satire a felony?\n\nAnother illustration was called \"A Back View.\" It represented Moses\nenjoying a panoramic view of Jahveh's \"back parts.\" Judge North did\nhis dirty worst to misrepresent this picture, and perhaps it was he\nwho induced the Home Secretary to believe that our publication was\n\"obscene.\" In reality the obscenity is in the Bible. The writer of\nExodus contemplated sheer nudity, but the _Freethinker_ dressed Jahveh\nin accordance with the more decent customs of the age of reason. I would\ncite on this point the judgment of Mr. Moncure D. Conway, the famous\nminister of South Place Chapel. He expressed himself as follows in a\ndiscourse on Blasphemous Libel immediately after our imprisonment, since\npublished in \"Lessons for the Day\":--\n\n     \"The prosecutor described the libels as 'indecent,' an ambiguous\n     word which might convey to the public an impression that there\n     was something obscene about the pictures or language, which\n     is not the fact.  The coarsest picture is a sidewise view of\n     a giant's form, in laborer's garb, the upper and lower part\n     veiled by a cloud.  Only when one knows that the figure is\n     meant for Jahveh could any shock be felt.  The worst sense\n     of the word 'indecent' was accentuated by the prosecutor's\n     saying that the libels were too bad for him to describe.\n     In this way they were withheld from the public intelligence\n     while exaggerated to its imagination.  The fact under this is\n     that some bigots wished to punish some Atheists, but could only\n     single them out beside eminent men equally guilty, and forestall\n     public sympathy by pretending they had committed a libel partly\n     obscene.  This is not English.\"\n\nFrederick the Great, being a king, was a privileged blasphemer. In some\nunquotable verses written after the battle of Rossbach, where he routed\nthe French and drove them off the field pell-mell, he sings, as Carlyle\nsays, \"with a wild burst of spiritual enthusiasm, the charms of the\nrearward part of certain men; and what a royal ecstatic felicity there\nis in indisputable survey of the same.\" \"He rises,\" adds Carlyle, \"to\nthe heights of Anti-Biblical profanity, quoting Moses on the Hill of\nVision.\" To Soubise and Company the poet of Potsdam sings--\n\n          \"Je vous ai vu comme Moise\n           Dans des ronces en certain lieu\n           Eut l'honneur de voir Dieu.\"\n\nFrederick's verse is halting enough, but it has \"a certain heartiness\nand epic greatness of cynicism\"; and so his biographer continues\njustifying this royal outburst of racy profanity with Rabelaisian\ngusto. I dare not follow him; but I am anxious to know why Carlyle's\n\"Frederick\" circulates with impunity and even applause, while the\n_Freethinker_ is condemned and denounced. Judge North may be ignorant\nof Carlyle's masterpiece, but I can hardly presume the same ignorance\nin Sir William Harcourt. He probably sinned against a greater light. Few\nworse outrages on public decency have been committed than his\ndescribing my publication as not only blasphemous, but obscene. And the\ncircumstances in which this slander was perpetrated served to heighten\nits criminality.\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII. AT THE OLD BAILEY.\n\n\n\"George William Foote, William James Ramsey, and Henry Arthur Kemp,\"\ncried the Clerk of the Court at the Old Bailey. It was Thursday morning,\nMarch 1, 1883, and as we stepped into the dock the clock registered five\nminutes past ten. We were provided with chairs, and there were pens and\nink on the narrow ledge before us. It was not large enough, however, to\nhold all my books, some of which had to be deposited on the floor,\nand fished up as I required them. Behind us stood two or three Newgate\nwarders, who took quite a benevolent interest in our case. Over their\nheads was a gallery crammed with sympathisers, and many more were seated\nin the body of the court. Mr. Wheeler occupied a seat just below me, in\nreadiness to convey any messages or hand me anything I might require.\nBetween us and the judge were several rows of seats, all occupied by\ngentlemen in wigs, eager to follow such an unusual case as ours. Sir\nHardinge Giffard lounged back with a well-practised air of superiority\nto the legal small-fry around him, and near him sat Mr. Poland and Mr.\nLewis, who were also retained by the prosecution. Justice North was\nhuddled in a raised chair on the bench, and owing perhaps to the\nunfortunate structure of the article, it seemed as though he was being\nshot out every time he leaned forward. His countenance was by no\nmeans assuring to the \"prisoners.\" He smiled knowingly to Sir Hardinge\nGiffard, and treated us with an insolent stare. Watching him closely\nthrough my eye-glass, I read my fate so far as he could decide it. His\nair was that of a man intent on peremptorily settling a troublesome\npiece of business; his strongest characteristic seemed infallibility,\nand his chief expression omniscience. I saw at once that we should soon\nfall foul of each other, as in fact we did in less than ten minutes. My\ncomportment was unusual in the Old Bailey dock; I did not look timid or\nsupplicating or depressed; I simply bore myself as though I were doing\nmy accustomed work. That was my first offence. Then I dared to defend\nmyself, which was a greater offence still; for his lordship had not only\nmade up his mind that I was guilty, but resolved to play the part of\nprosecuting counsel. We were bound to clash, and, if I am not mistaken,\nwe exchanged glances of defiance almost as soon as we faced each other.\nHis look said \"I will convict you,\" and mine answered \"We shall see.\"\n\nSir Hardinge Giffard's speech in opening the case for the prosecution\nwas brief, but remarkably astute. He troubled himself very little about\nthe law of Blasphemy, although the jury had probably never heard of\nit before. He simply appealed to their prejudices. He spoke with bated\nbreath of our ridiculing \"the most awful mysteries of the Christian\nfaith.\" He described our letterpress as an \"outrage on the feelings of\na Christian community,\" which he would not shock public decency\nby reading; and our woodcuts as \"the grossest and most disgusting\ncaricatures.\" And then, to catch any juryman who might not be a\nChristian, though perhaps a Theist, he declared that our blasphemous\nlibels would \"grieve the conscience of any sincere worshipper of the\ngreat God above us.\" This appeal was made with uplifted forefinger,\npointing to where that being might be supposed to reside, which I\ninferred was near the ceiling. Sir Hardinge Giffard finally resumed\nhis seat with a look of subdued horror on his wintry face. He tried\nto appear exhausted by his dreadful task, so profound was the emotion\nexcited even in his callous mind by our appalling wickedness. It was\nwell acted, and must, I fancy, have been well rehearsed. Yes, Sir\nHardinge Giffard is decidedly clever. It is not accident that has made\nhim legal scavenger for all the bigots in England.\n\nMr. Poland and Mr. Lewis then adduced the evidence against us. I need\nnot describe their performance. It occupied almost two hours, and it was\nnearly one o'clock when I rose to address the jury. That would have been\na convenient time for lunch, but his lordship told me I had better go\non till the usual hour. As I had only been speaking about thirty\nminutes when we did adjourn for lunch, I infer that his lordship was\nnot unwilling to spoil my defence. How different was the action of Lord\nColeridge when he presided at our third trial in the Court of Queen's\nBench! The case for the prosecution closed at one o'clock, exactly as it\ndid on our first trial at the Old Bailey. But the Lord Chief Justice\nof England, with the instinct of a gentleman and the consideration of a\njust judge, did not need to be reminded that an adjournment in half an\nhour would make an awkward break in our defence. Without any motion on\nour part, he said: \"If you would rather take your luncheon first, before\naddressing the jury, do so by all means.\" Mr. Ramsey, who preceded me\nthen, had just risen to read his address. After a double experience of\nJudge North, and two months' imprisonment like a common thief under his\nsentence, he was fairly staggered by Lord Coleridge's kindly proposal,\nand I confess I fully shared his emotion.\n\nSir Hardinge Giffard had grossly misled the jury on one point. He told\nthem that even in \"our great Indian dominions, where Christianity was by\nno means the creed of the majority of the population, it had been found\nnecessary to protect the freedom of conscience and the right of every\nman to hold his own faith, by making criminal offenders of those who,\nfor outrage and insult, thought it necessary to issue contumelious or\nscornful publications concerning any religious sect.\" In reply to this\nabsolute falsehood, I pointed out that the Indian law did not affect\npublications at all, but simply punished people for openly desecrating\nsacred places or railing at any sect in the public thoroughfare, on the\nground that such conduct tended to a breach of the peace; and that under\nthe very same law members of the Salvation Army had been arrested and\nimprisoned because they persisted in walking in procession through the\nstreets. Under the Indian law, no prosecution of the _Freethinker_ could\nhave been initiated; and, in support of this statement, I proceeded\nto quote from a letter by Professor W. A. Hunter, in the _Daily News_.\nJudge North doubtless knew that I could cite no higher authority, and\nseeing how badly his friend Sir Hardinge was faring, he prudently came\nto his assistance. Interrupting me very uncivilly, he inquired what\nProfessor Hunter's letter had to do with the subject, and remarked that\nthe jury had nothing to do with the law of India. \"Then, my lord,\" I\nretorted, \"I will discontinue my remarks on this point, only expressing\nmy regret that the learned counsel should have thought it necessary to\noccupy the time of the court with it.\" Whereat there was much laughter,\nand his lordship's face was covered with an angry flush.\n\nLater in my address I had a long altercation with his lordship. I\nwanted to show the jury that such heresy as I had published in the\n_Freethinker_ abounded in high-class publications, but Justice North\nendeavoured (vainly enough) to prevent me. The verbatim report of what\noccurred is so rich that I give it here instead of a summary version:\n\n     \"Now, gentlemen, I told you before that one of the reasons,\n     in my opinion, why the present prosecution was commenced,\n     was that the alleged blasphemous libels were published in a\n     cheap paper, and I asked you to bear in mind that there was\n     plenty of heresy in expensive books, published at 10s., 12s.,\n     and even as much as L1 and more.  I think I have a right to\n     ask that you should have some proof of this statement.  I think\n     I can show you that similar views are expressed by the leading\n     writers of to-day--not, perhaps, in precisely the same language--\n     for it is not to be expected that the paper which is addressed\n     to the many will be conducted on just the same level, either\n     intellectually or aesthetically speaking, as a publication,\n     in the form of an expensive book, which is only intended for\n     men of education, intelligence and leisure; but such views are\n     put before the public by the most prominent writers of the day.\n     You will, of course, expect to find differences in the mode of\n     expression, and as a matter of course, differences of taste; but\n     I submit that differences of taste affect the question very little\n     unless, as I have said, they actually lead to breaches of the\n     peace.  But in a case like this there ought to be no distinction\n     on grounds of taste.  Surely the man who says a thing in one\n     way is not to be punished, while the man who says the same\n     thing in another way is to go scot free.  You cannot make a\n     distinction between men on grounds of taste.  I can imagine\n     that if there were a parliament of aesthetic gentlemen, and\n     Mr. Oscar Wilde were made Prime Minister, some such arrangement\n     as that would find weight before the jury; but, in the present\n     state of enlightened opinion, I do not think that any such\n     arrangement would be accepted by you.  Now, gentleman, I shall\n     call your attention first of all to a book which is published\n     by no less a firm than the old and well-established house of\n     Longmans.  The author of the book----\n\n     Mr. Justice North: What is the name of the book?\n\n     Mr. Foote: The book is the 'Autobiography of John Stuart Mill.'\n\n     Mr. Justice North: What are you going to refer to it for?\n\n     Mr. Foote: I am going to refer to one page of it, my lord.\n\n     Mr. Justice North: What for?\n\n     Mr. Foote: To show that identical views to those expressed in the\n     cheap paper before the court are expressed in expensive volumes.\n\n     Mr. Justice North: I shall not hear anything of that sort.  I am\n     not trying the question, nor are the jury, whether the views\n     expressed by other persons are sound or right.  The question is\n     whether you are guilty of a blasphemous libel.  I shall direct\n     them that it will be for them to say whether the facts are proved\n     in this case.\n\n     Mr. Foote: I will call your attention, my lord, to the remarks\n     of Lord Justice Cockburn in a similar case.\n\n     Mr. Justice North: I will hear anything relevant to the subject.\n     My reason for asking you was to find out whether you were going\n     to quote a law book.\n\n     Mr. Foote: I will quote a verbatim report.\n\n     Mr. Justice North: I can hear that.\n\n     Mr. Foote: It is the case against Charles Bradlaugh and Annie Besant.\n\n     Mr. Justice North: By whom is your report published?\n\n     Mr. Foote: It is a verbatim report published by the Freethought\n     Publishing Company--the shorthand notes of the full proceedings,\n     with the cross-examination and the judgment of the court.\n\n     Mr. Justice North: There is no evidence of that.  Did you hear it?\n\n     Mr. Foote: I did not personally hear it, but my co-defendants did.\n\n     Mr. Justice North: I will hear you state anything you suggest as\n     being said by Lord Chief Justice Cockburn.\n\n     Mr. Foote: Mrs. Besant was about to read a passage from\n     'Tristram Shandy'----\n\n     Mr. Justice North: You have not proved the publication.\n\n     Mr. Foote: Quite so, my lord; but although this is not formal\n     evidence, and only the report of a case, I thought your lordship\n     would not object to hear it.\n\n     [Mr. Foote here handed in a copy of the report to the judge,\n     and pointed out that the Lord Chief Justice had said he could\n     not prevent Mrs. Besant from committing a passage to memory,\n     or from reading books as if reciting from memory].\n\n     Mr. Justice North: I will allow you to go on, either quoting\n     from memory or reading from the book; but I cannot go into\n     the question of whether this is right or not.\n\n     Mr. Foote: I am not proposing that.  I am only going to show\n     that opinions like those expressed here extensively prevail.\n\n     Mr. Justice North: That is not the question at all.  If they\n     extensively prevail, so much the worse.  What somebody else\n     has said, whoever that person may be, cannot affect the question\n     in this case.\n\n     Mr. Foote: But, my lord, might it not affect the question of\n     whether a jury might not themselves, by an adverse verdict, be\n     far more contributing to a breach of the peace than the publication\n     on which they are asked to adjudicate?\n\n     Mr. Justice North: I think not, and it shall not do so if I\n     can help it.  It is a mere waste of time to attempt to justify\n     anything that has been said in the alleged libel by showing\n     that someone else has said the same thing.\n\n     Mr. Foote: In all trials the same process has been allowed.\n\n     Mr. Justice North: It will not be allowed on this occasion.\n\n     Mr. Foote: If your lordship will pardon me for calling attention\n     to the famous case of the King against William Hone, I would\n     point out that there Hone read extracts to the jury.\n\n     Mr. Justice North: Very possibly it might have been relevant\n     in that case.\n\n     Mr. Foote: But, my lord, it was precisely a similar case--it was\n     a case of blasphemous libel.  Lord Ellenborough sat on the bench.\n\n     Mr. Justice North: Possibly.\n\n     Mr. Foote: And Lord Ellenborough allowed Mr. Hone to read what\n     he considered justificatory of his own publication.  The same\n     thing occurred in the case of the Queen against Bradlaugh and Besant.\n\n     Mr. Justice North: We have nothing to do to-day with the\n     question whether any author has taken the views which are\n     taken in these libels, whoever the author was.\n\n     Mr. Foote: Does your lordship mean that I am to go on reading or not?\n\n     Mr. Justice North: Go on with your address to the jury, sir;\n     that's what I wish you to do.  But you cannot do what you were\n     about to do--refer to the book you mentioned for any such purpose\n     as you indicated.\n\n     Mr. Foote: I hope your lordship does not misunderstand me.  I am\n     simply defending myself against a very grave charge under an old law.\n\n     Mr. Justice North: Go on, go on, Foote.  I know that.  Go on with\n     your address.\n\n     Mr. Foote: Your lordship, these questions are part of my address.\n     Gentlemen (turning to the jury), no less a person than a brother\n     of one of our most distinguished judges has said----\n\n     Mr. Justice North: Now, again, I cannot have you quoting books\n     not in evidence, for the sake of putting before the jury the\n     matters they state.  The passage you referred to is one in which\n     the Lord Chief Justice pointed out that that could not be done.\n\n     Mr. Foote: But the action, my lord, of the Lord Chief Justice\n     did not put a stop to the reading.  He said he would allow\n     Mrs. Besant to quote any passage as a part of her address.\n\n     Mr. Justice North: Go on.\n\n     Mr. Foote: No less a person than the brother of one of our most\n     learned----\n\n     Mr. Justice North: Now did I not tell you that you could not do that?\n\n     Mr. Foote: Will your lordship give me a most distinct ruling in\n     this case?\n\n     Mr. Justice North: I am ruling that you cannot do what you are\n     trying to do now.\n\n     Mr. Foote: I am sorry, my lord, I cannot understand.\n\n     Mr. Justice North: I am sorry for it.  I have tried to make\n     myself clear.\n\n     Mr. Foote: Does your lordship mean that I am not to read from\n     anything to show justification of the libel?\n\n     Mr. Justice North: There is no justification in the case.  The\n     question the jury have to decide is whether you, and the persons\n     present with you, are guilty of a libel or not.  For that purpose\n     they will have to consider whether the matters in question are\n     a libel.  If so, they will have also to consider whether you\n     and the other defendants are guilty of having published it.\n     If they think it a libel, and that you have published it, they\n     will have answered the only two questions they will have to\n     put to themselves.\n\n     Mr. Foote: My lord, in an ordinary libel case justification can\n     be shown.\n\n     Mr. Justice North: Go on.\n\n     Mr. Foote: I do not wish to occupy the time of the court\n     unnecessarily, but really I think your lordship ought to\n     remember the grave position in which I stand, and not stand\n     in the way of anything which I consider to be of vital importance\n     to my defence.\n\n     Mr. Justice North: I have pointed out to you what I consider\n     to be the question the jury have got to decide.  I hope you\n     will not go outside the lines I have pointed out to you; but,\n     with these remarks, I am very reluctant to interfere with any\n     prisoner saying anything which he considers necessary, and I\n     will not stop you.  I hope you will not abuse the concession\n     I consider I am making to you.\n\n     Mr. Foote: I should be very sorry, my lord.  I am only stating\n     what I consider necessary.\"\n\nThis is a very fair specimen of his lordship's manners. Unfortunately,\nit is also a fair specimen of his lordship's law. When I read similar\nextracts in the Court of Queen's Bench, Lord Coleridge never interrupted\nme once; nay, he told the jury that I had very properly brought those\npassages before their notice, that I had a perfect right to do so, and\nthat it was a legitimate part of my defence. Since then I have conversed\nwith many gentlemen who were present, some of them belonging to the\nlegal profession, and I have heard but one opinion expressed as to Judge\nNorth's conduct. They all agree that it was utterly undignified, and a\nscandal to the bench. Perhaps it had something to do with his lordship's\nremoval, a few weeks afterwards, to the Chancery Court, where his\neccentricities, as the _Daily News_ remarked at the time, will no longer\nendanger the liberty and lives of his fellow-subjects.\n\nWhen I cited Fox's Libel Act and asked that my copy, purchased from the\nQueen's printers, might be handed to the jury for their guidance, his\nlordship sharply ordered the officer not to pass it to them. \"I shall\ntell them,\" he said, \"what points they have to decide,\" as though I\nhad no right to press my own view. He would never have dared to treat\na defending counsel in that way, and he ought to have known that a\ndefendant in person has all the rights of a counsel, the latter having\nabsolutely no standing in court except so far as he represents a first\nparty in a suit. \"May they not have a copy of the Act, my lord?\" I\ninquired. \"No,\" replied his lordship, \"they will take the law from the\ndirections I give them; not from reading Acts of Parliament.\" This is\ndirectly counter to the spirit and letter of Fox's Act; and I suspect\nthat Judge North would have expressed himself more guardedly in a higher\ncourt. If juries have nothing to do with Acts of Parliament, why are\nstatutes enacted? Judge North would be ashamed and afraid to speak in\nthat way before his superior brother judges at the Law Courts; but at\nthe Old Bailey he was absolute master of the situation, and he abused\nhis power. He knew there was no court of criminal appeal, and no danger\nof his being checked by either of the fat aldermen on the bench. They\nwere in fact our prosecutors, and they appeared to enjoy their paltry\ntriumph.\n\nAs I have said, I began my address to the jury at one o'clock, and at\nhalf-past we adjourned for lunch. Mr. Wheeler ran across the road and\nordered some refreshment for us, and pending its arrival we descended\nthe dock-stairs and entered a subterranean passage, which was lit by a\nsingle gas-jet. On each side there was a little den with an iron gate.\nOne of these was filled with prisoners awaiting trial or sentence, who\ngazed through the bars at us with mingled glee and astonishment. They\nwere chatting merrily, and I imagine from their free and easy manner\nthat most of them were old gaol-birds. Perhaps there were some forlorn,\nmiserable creatures cowering in the darkness behind, with throbbing\nbrows and hearts like lead, on whose ears the light laughter of their\ncallous companions grated even more harshly than it did on ours.\n\nThe left-hand den was empty, and into it we were ushered by the aged\njanitor, who regarded us with looks of mute reproach. He was\nevidently subdued to what he worked in. His world consisted of two\nclasses--criminals and police; and without any further ceremony of trial\nand sentence, the very fact of our descending into his Inferno was clear\nevidence that we belonged to the former class.\n\nAs the den was only illuminated by a few straggling gleams from the\ngas-jet outside, we were unable to discriminate any object until our\neyes grew accustomed to the gloom. While we were in this state of\nsemi-blindness, something stirred. I wondered whether it was a dog or a\nrat. The doubt was soon resolved. A human form reared itself up from the\nbench against the wall, where it had been lying, not asleep indeed, but\nhalf unconscious; and to our great surprise, it turned out to be Mr.\nCattell, who had surrendered to his bail at the same time as we did, and\nhad been shivering there ever since ten o'clock. After we left him he\ncontinued shivering for three or four hours longer in that black-hole\nof the Old Bailey, which struck a chill into our very bones even in the\nbrief period of our tenancy, and which could hardly be warmed by any\nconflagration short of the last. It appeared damp as well as cold, and\na sinister effluvium came from a place of necessity at the back. Six\nor seven hours' incarceration in such a place might injure a strong\nconstitution and seriously damage a weak one. Surely it is scandalous\nthat unconvicted prisoners, some of whom are eventually acquitted,\nshould suffer this unnecessary hardship and incur this unnecessary risk.\n\nPresently our lunch arrived. The platefuls of meat and vegetables had\na savory smell, our appetites were keen, and our stomachs empty. But\na difficulty arose. There were forks, but no knives; those lethal\ninstruments being forbidden lest prisoners should attempt to cut their\nthroats. I subsequently had the use of a tin knife in Newgate, but even\nthat, which used to be common in prisons, is now proscribed. The only\ncarving instruments allowed the guests in her Majesty's hotels is a\nwooden spoon, although the tin knife still lingers in the Houses of\nDetention. Among other elaborate precautions against suicide, I found\nthat the prisoners awaiting trial were furnished with quill pens. Steel\npens had been banished after the desperate exploit of one poor wretch,\nwho had stabbed away at his windpipe with one, and inflicted such grave\ninjuries that the officials had great difficulty in saying his life.\n\nBut _revenons a nos moutons_, or rather our forks. We disposed of the\nvegetables somehow, and as for the meat, we were obliged to split and\ngnaw it after the fashion of our primitive ancestors. We drank out of\nthe mouth of the claret bottle, passing it round till it was emptied. It\nwas probably a good honest bottle, but in the circumstances it seemed a\ndespicable fraud. We tried hard for another supply, but we failed. Being\nanxious to prevent a display of inebriety in the dock, or desirous\nto repress rather than stimulate our audacity, the venerable janitor\ninterposed the most effectual obstacles, and we were constrained to\nreason down the remnant of our thirst, which, if I may infer from my own\ncase, was almost as insensible to argument as the judge himself.\n\nFeeling very cold, we essayed a little exercise. The dimensions of\nour den, which were three steps each way, did not allow much play for\nindividuality. Erratic pedestrianism was clearly dangerous, so we\nrushed round in Indian file, like braves on the warpath; and, by way of\nrelieving the tedium, we speculated on the number of laps in a mile.\nOur proceedings seemed to strike the wild beasts in the opposite den as\nunaccountable imbecility. They grinned at us through the bars with as\nmuch delight as children might evince in the Zoological Gardens at\na performance of insane monkeys. But their amusement was suddenly\narrested. St. Peter appeared at the gate, flourishing his keys. It was\ntwo o'clock.\n\nWhat a strange sensation it was, mounting those dock stairs! More loudly\nthan my experiences below, it said--\"You are a prisoner.\" The court was\ndensely crowded, and as I emerged into it, the sea of faces, suddenly\ncaught _en masse_, seemed cold and alien. The feeling was only\nmomentary, but I fancy it resembled the weird thrill that must have\nswept through the ancient captive as he entered the Roman arena from his\ndark lair, and confronted the vague host of indifferent faces that were\nto watch his fight for life.\n\nI resumed my address to the jury at two o'clock, and concluded it at\nfour. A considerable portion of that time was spent in altercations with\nthe judge, of which I have already given some striking specimens. Let me\nnow give another. It excited great laughter in court, and I confess the\nsituation was so comic that I could scarcely preserve my own gravity.\nAfter quoting a number of \"blasphemous\" passages from the writings of\nProfessor Clifford, Lord Amberley, Matthew Arnold, the author of \"The\nEvolution of Christianity,\" Swinburne, Byron and Shelley, I proceeded\nthus: \"Now, gentlemen, I have given you a few illustrations of permitted\nblasphemy in expensive books, and I will now trouble you with a few\ninstances of permitted blasphemy in cheap publications, which are\nunmolested because they call themselves Christian, and because those\nwho conduct them are patronised by ecclesiastical dignitaries.\" Here\nI produced a copy of the _War Cry_, in which I had marked a piece of\nidiotic \"blasphemy.\" Judge North scented mischief, and gestured to the\nofficer behind me. But that functionary was too deeply interested in the\ncase to make much haste, and, not wishing to be frustrated, I read\nas rapidly as I could. Before he could arrest me I had finished the\nextract. My auditors were all convulsed with laughter, except the judge,\nwho was convulsed with rage. As soon as he could articulate he addressed\nme as follows:\n\n     Mr. Justice North: Now, Foote, I am going to put a stop to this.\n     I will not allow any more of these illustrations of what you\n     call permitted blasphemy in cheap publications.  I decline to\n     have any more of them put before me.\n\n     Mr. Foote: My Lord, I will use them for another purpose, if\n     you will allow me.\n\n     Mr. Justice North: You will not use them here at all, sir.\n\n     Mr. Foote: May they not be used, my lord to show that an\n     equally free use of religious symbols, and religious language,\n     prevails widely in all classes of literature and society?\n\n     Mr. Justice North: No they may not.  I decline to hear them\n     read.  They are not in evidence, and I refuse to allow you to\n     quote from such documents as part of your speech.\n\n     Mr. Foote: Well, gentlemen, I will now ask your attention\n     very briefly to another branch of the subject.\n\nThe fact is, I was perfectly satisfied. I had purposely kept the _War\nCry_ till the last. It naturally ended my list of citations, and his\nlordship's victory was entirely specious.\n\nThose who may wish to read my address in its entirety will find it in\n\"The Three Trials for Blasphemy.\" For those, however, who are not so\ncurious or so painstaking, I give here the peroration only, to show\nwhat sentiments I appealed to in the breasts of the jury, and how far my\ndefence was from boastfulness or servility:\n\n     \"Gentlemen,--I told you at the outset that you, are the last\n     Court of Appeal on all questions affecting the liberty of the\n     press and the right of free speech and Freethought.  When I say\n     Freethought, I do not refer to specific doctrines that may pass\n     under that name: I refer to the great right of Freethought, that\n     Freethought which is neither so low as a cottage nor so lofty\n     as a pyramid, but is like the soaring azure vault of heaven,\n     which over-arches both with equal case.  I ask you to affirm\n     the liberty of the press, to show by your verdict that you\n     are prepared to give to others the same freedom that you claim\n     for yourselves.  I ask you not to be misled by the statements\n     that have been thrown out by the prosecution, nor by the authority\n     and influence of the mighty and rich Corporation which commenced\n     this action, has found the money for it, and whose very solicitor\n     was bound over to prosecute.  I ask you not to be influenced\n     by these considerations, but rather to remember that this present\n     attack is made upon us probably because we are connected with\n     those who have been struck at again and again by some of the\n     very persons who are engaged in this prosecution; to remember\n     that England is growing day by day in its humanity and love\n     of freedom; and that, as blasphemy has been an offence less\n     and less proceeded against during the past century, so there\n     will probably be fewer and fewer proceedings against it in the next.\n     Indeed, there may never be another prosecution for blasphemy,\n     and I am sure you would not like to have it weigh on your minds\n     that you were the instruments of the last act of persecution--\n     that you were the last jury who sent to be caged like wild\n     beasts men against whose honesty there has been no charge.\n     I am quite sure you will not allow yourselves to be made the\n     agents of sending such men to herd with the lowest criminals,\n     and to be subjected to all the indignities such punishment involves.\n     I am sure you will send me, as well as my co-defendants, back\n     to our homes and friends, who do not think the worse of us\n     for the position in which we stand: that you will send us,\n     back to them unstained, giving a verdict of Not Guilty for me\n     and my co-defendants, instead of a verdict of Guilty for the\n     prosecution; and thus, as English juries have again and again\n     done before, vindicate the glorious principle of the freedom\n     of the press, against all the religious and political factions\n     that may seek to impugn it for their own ends.\"\n\nThe court officials could not stifle the burst of applause that greeted\nmy peroration. I had flung all my books and papers aside and faced the\njury. I spoke in passionate accents. My expression and gestures were\ndoubtless full of that dramatic power which comes of earnest sincerity.\nI felt every sentiment I uttered, and I believe I made the jury feel it\ntoo, for they were visibly impressed, and their emotion was obviously\nshared by the crowd of listeners who represented the greater jury of\npublic opinion.\n\nMr. Ramsey followed me with a speech which he read from manuscript. It\noccupied half an hour in delivery. It was terse and vigorous, and it\nreally covered most of the ground in debate. I listened to it with\npleasure as an admirable summary of our position. But it lost much of\nits force in being read instead of spoken extemporaneously, and its very\nvirtues as a paper were its defects as an address. The points wanted\nelaboration. Before they had fairly mastered one argument, the jury were\nhurried on to another. Mr. Ramsey is by no means incapable of making\na forcible speech, and I think he should have trusted to his power\nof improvisation. There was no need for a long effort. He might have\nconcentrated himself on a few salient points of our defence, and pressed\nthem on the jury with all his might. His own sentiments, naturally\nexpressed, in homely language, would have had a greater effect than any\nliterary composition. After an experience of three trials, I would give\nthis advice to every man who has to defend himself before a jury on\na charge of blasphemy or sedition--\"Write out on a sheet of paper the\nheads of your defence. Number them in the order you think they should\nbe treated, so that your address may have a logical continuity. Fill in\nyour sub-divisions, similarly numbered, under the chief heads, beginning\nthe lines half-way across the page, so as to catch the eye readily.\nThink every clause out carefully. Fix every illustration in your mind\nuntil it becomes almost a fact of memory. Don't write out fine passages\nand try to remember them verbally. Write nothing; it will only\nconfuse you, unless you have long practised that method. When you\nhave systematised your thoughts, and think your written arrangement is\ncomplete, ponder it clause by clause with the paper at hand for constant\nreference. No matter if your thoughts seem to wander, and the subject\nappears to grow vague; your mind is dwelling on it, and ideas will\nfructify in your mind unconsciously as seeds sprout in the dark. When\nthe hour of trial arrives, arm yourself with the familiar paper, trust\nto your own courage, and speak out. You will have thoughts, and nature\nwill find you words.\"\n\nJustice North's summing-up was simply a clever and unscrupulous bit\nof special pleading. Sir Hardinge Giffard had left the court, and his\nfriend on the bench conducted his case for him. He told the jury that I\nhad wasted their time, and indulged in a number of other insults, which\nmight be pardonable in a legal hack bent on earning his client's fee,\nbut were scarcely consistent with the dignity and impartiality of a\njudge. His tone was even worse than his words. He had no sympathy\nwith us in our desperate effort to defend our liberty against such\noverwhelming odds, nor did we solicit any; but we had a right to expect\nhim to refrain from constant expressions of antipathy. That, however,\nwas not the whole of his offence against the rules of justice. He\nrecurred to the bad old example of Lord Ellenborough in devoting most of\nhis time to answering my arguments. Lord Coleridge remarked in the Court\nof Queen's Bench that such a task was not for the judge, but for the\ncounsel on the other side of the case. I wish his lordship had read a\nlesson to Justice North on that subject before he presided at our trial.\n\nThere is only one passage of his summing-up that I wish to criticise\nfully. It contains his statement of the Law of Blasphemy. But as he made\na very different statement four days later on at our second trial, I\nprefer to wait until, by placing these discrepant utterances together, I\ncan give the reader a fair idea of Justice North's authority as a legal\noracle.\n\nThe jury retired at five o'clock. Justice North kept his seat, probably\nfancying they would soon agree to a verdict of Guilty. But as the\nminutes went by, and the result seemed after all dubious, he resorted\nto a paltry trick. Notwithstanding the late hour, he had Mr. Cattell\nbrought into the dock for trial. By procuring a verdict against _him_\nour jury might be influenced. According to theory, of course, the jury\nhold no communication with the world while in deliberation; but it is\nwell known that officers of the court have access to them, and tidings\nof Mr. Cattell's fate could be easily conveyed.\n\nWe stepped down the stairs, out of sight but not out of hearing, and\nmade way for Mr. Cattell to take our place in the dock. He was very pale\nwith cold and apprehension, and too timid to take a seat, he stood with\nhis hands resting on the top ledge. The evidence against him was very\nbrief. Instead of defending himself he had employed counsel. That\ngentleman admitted the \"horrible character of the publication, so\neloquently denounced by the learned judge.\" He said that his client\ncould not for a moment think of defending it; in fact, he had only sold\nit in ignorance, and he would never repeat the offence. On the ground of\nthat ignorance and that promise, it was hoped that the jury would return\na verdict of Not Guilty. Mr. Cattell declares that he never instructed\nhis counsel to say anything of the kind; but all I know is that it\n_was_ said, and that while our cheeks were tingling with shame and\nindignation, he heard it all without a word of protest.\n\nJudge North acted openly as counsel for the prosecution in this trial.\nThere was not the slightest disguise. He took the case completely\ninto his own hands, examined and cross-examined. His summing-up was a\ndisgusting exhibition. Naturally enough the jury returned a verdict of\nGuilty without leaving the box; but sentence was deferred until our jury\nhad also agreed.\n\nBy this time, I felt convinced they would _not_ agree, and every minute\nstrengthened my belief. While they deliberated we were all conducted\nto the subterranean den, where we kept each other in good spirits. St.\nPeter brought us some water to drink in a dirty tin can. We tasted it,\nfound that a little of it was more than enough, and declined to hazard\na further experiment on our health. At last, after two hours and ten\nminutes' waiting, we were summoned back to the dock. There was profound\nsilence in court, and as the jury filed into their seats a painful sense\nof expectation pervaded the assembly. His lordship said that he had\ncalled them into court to see whether he could assist them in any way,\nand especially by explaining the law to them again. The foreman, in a\nvery quiet, composed manner, replied that they all understood the law,\nbut there was no chance of their agreeing. His lordship invited them to\ntry a further consultation, to which the foreman replied that it would\nbe useless. \"Then,\" said his lordship, \"I am very sorry to say I must\ndischarge you, and have the case tried again.\" Then, turning to the\nClerk of Arraigns, he added, \"I will attend here on Monday and try the\ncase again with a different jury.\" This was against the ordinary rule of\nthe court, and the sessions had to be prolonged into the next week\nfor our sakes; but his lordship could not deny himself the luxury of\nsentencing us. He had set his heart on sending us to gaol, and would not\nbe baulked.\n\nWe naturally expected to be liberated till Monday, and I formally\napplied for a renewal of our bail. But his lordship refused my\napplication in the most peremptory and insulting manner. I pointed out\nthat I should require a proper opportunity to prepare another defence\nfor the second trial, to which his lordship replied, \"You will have the\nsame opportunity then that you have now.\" He then hurriedly left the\nbench, and we were in custody of the Governor of Newgate. Several\nfriends rushed forward to shake hands with us over the dock rail, and\nthere were loud cries of \"Bravo, jury!\" Presently we descended to the\nInferno again, from which we were conducted by a long subterranean\npassage to Newgate prison.\n\nJudge North's action was simply vindictive. Even if we were guilty\nour offence was only a misdemeanor. We had been out on bail from the\nbeginning of the prosecution, we had duly surrendered to trial, after\nthe jury's disagreement we really stood in a better position than\nbefore, and there was not the slightest reason to suppose that we might\nabscond. On the other hand, it was clear that we were fighting against\nlong odds. The rich City Corporation was prosecuting us regardless\nof expense, and their case was conducted by three of the most skilful\nlawyers in London. Reason, justice and humanity, alike demanded that we\nshould enjoy freedom and comfort while marshalling our resources for a\nfresh battle. Judge North, however, thought otherwise; in his opinion we\nrequired a different kind of \"opportunity.\" He locked us up in a prison\ncell, excluded us from light and air, deprived us of all communication\nwith each other, and debarred us from all intercourse with the outside\nworld except during fifteen minutes each day through an iron grating.\nSuch malignity is an unpardonable crime in a judge. There may have been\nsome bad criminals in Newgate when I entered it, but I would rather have\nembraced the worst of them than have touched the hand of Judge North.\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII. NEWGATE.\n\n\nThe subterranean passage through which Mr. Ramsey, Mr. Kemp, Mr.\nCattell, and I were conducted from the Old Bailey dock to Newgate\nprison, was long and tortuous, and two or three massive doors were\nunlocked and relocked for our transit before we emerged into the\ncourtyard. In the darkness the lofty walls looked grimly frowning, and\nI imagined what feelings must possess the ordinary criminal who passes\nunder their black shadow to his first night's taste of imprisonment.\nAnother massive door was opened in the wall of Newgate, and we were\nushered into what at first sight appeared a large hall. It was really\nthe interior of the prison. Glancing up, I saw dimly-lighted corridors,\nrunning round tier on tier of cell-doors, and connected by light,\ngraceful staircases; a clear view of every door being commanded from the\noffice at the west end of the ground-floor.\n\nWe were invited one by one into a side office, where we inscribed our\nnames in a big book. A dapper little officer, who treated me with a\nqueer mixture of authority and respectfulness, wrote out my description\nas though he were filling in a passport. I was very much amused, and\nfinding he was not too precise in his observations, I corrected and\nsupplemented them in a good-humored manner.\n\nAfter completing this task he requested me to deliver up the contents\nof my pockets. Having passed nearly all my money to Mr. Wheeler, I\nhad little to deposit. Some prisoners, however, are less careful. The\nofficer told me that he occasionally received as much as ten or twelve\npounds from one visitor, although the majority were almost penniless. My\nsmall change was carefully counted by us both, and when it was stowed in\nmy purse, I put my signature under the amount in the register.\n\nThen followed my other belongings. I had stupidly brought a bunch of\nkeys, which the officer eyed very suspiciously. Keys in a prison!\nThe official mind might well be alarmed. Next came some letters and\ntelegrams I had received while in Court, and a lead pencil, which I took\nfrom my breast-pocket.\n\n\"Anything more in that pocket?\" said the officer, catching hold of the\ncoat-lappet, and attempting to insert his hand.\n\n\"I beg pardon,\" I replied, disengaging his hand and stepping back; \"I\ncan do that myself. See!\" I said, turning my pocket inside out.\n\nHe was satisfied, but slightly annoyed. The man was simply doing his\nduty, and I daresay he showed me far more courtesy than other prisoners\nwere treated with. Yet the process of searching is unspeakably\nrevolting, and I shrank from it instinctively; taking care, however, by\nmy rapid gestures to render it unnecessary.\n\nPrisoners are regularly searched in Holloway Gaol, as well as in other\npenal establishments; and being under the ordinary prison regulations,\nlike other \"convicted criminals,\" I was of course subjected to the\nindignity. I must in candor admit that the officers made it as little\noffensive as possible in my case; yet the touch of a man's hand about\none's person is so repulsive, that I always had great difficulty in\nsuppressing my indignation. If an officer owes a prisoner a grudge, he\nis able (especially if the man is a little more refined than the general\nrun of his associates) to render the searching an almost intolerable\ninfliction. Sometimes the prisoners are stripped to their drawers or\nshirts, without any particular reason; and the process can even be\ncarried farther, until they are in a state of complete nudity. On one\noccasion this experiment was attempted on me, but I declined to submit\nto it, and the brace of officers (they always search in pairs, to\nprevent collusion) shrank from employing force.\n\nAll the requisite formalities being transacted, I was supplied with\na pair of sheets and a duster; and carrying these on my arm, I was\nconducted upstairs to my apartment. Before leaving, however, I shook\nhands with my companions, although it was in direct defiance of the\n\"rules and regulations.\"\n\nMy cell was Number One. It was considered the place of honor. I was\ninformed that it was once tenanted by the elder of two famous brother\nforgers, who spent three weeks there preparing his defence and writing\nan extraordinary number of letters. This information was communicated\nto me with an air of solemnity as though so eminent a criminal had\nleft behind him the flavor of his greatness, and had in some measure\nconsecrated the spot.\n\nThe gas was lit, and the officer withdrew, banging the door as he went.\nHe seemed to love the sound, and I subsequently discovered that this was\na characteristic of his tribe. Only two men in Holloway Gaol ever shut\nmy door gently. They were the gallant Governor and a clerical _locum\ntenens_ who officiated during the chaplain's frequent absence in\nsearch of recreation or health. Colonel Milman closed the door like\na gentleman. Mr. Stubbs closed it like an undertaker. He was the most\nnervous man I ever met. But I must not anticipate. More of him anon.\n\nPrison cells, I had always known, are rather narrow apartments, but the\nrealisation was nevertheless a rough one. My domicile, which included\nkitchen, bedroom, sitting-room and water-closet, was about ten feet\nlong, six feet wide, and nine feet high. At the end opposite the door\nthere was a window, containing perhaps three square feet of thick opaque\nglass. Attached to the wall on the left side was a flap-table, about two\nfeet by one, and under it a low stool. In the right corner, behind the\ndoor, were a couple of narrow semi-circular shelves, containing a wooden\nsalt-cellar full of ancient salt, protected from the air and dust by a\nbrown paper lid, through which a piece of knotted string was passed to\nserve as a knob. The walls were whitewashed, and hanging against them\nwere a pair of printed cards, which on examination I found to be the\ndietary scale and the rules and regulations. The floor was black and\nshiny. It was probably concreted, and I discovered the next day that it\nwas blackleaded and polished. Finally I detected an iron ring in each\nwall, facing each other, about two feet from the ground. \"What are these\nfor?\" I thought. \"They would be convenient for hanging if they were\nthree feet higher. Perhaps they are placed there to tantalise desperate\nunfortunates who might be disposed to terminate their misery and wish\nthe world an eternal 'Good Night!'\"\n\nAs I paced up and down my cell, full of the thought, \"I am in prison,\nthen,\" my curiosity was excited by a large urn-looking object in the\nright corner under the window, just below a water-tap and copper basin.\nI had noticed it before, but I fancied it was some antique relic of\nOld Newgate. Examining it closely, I found it had a hinged lid, and on\nlifting this my nose was assailed by a powerful smell, which struck\nme as about the most ancient I had ever encountered. This earthenware\nfixture was in reality a water-closet, and I imagined it must have\ncommunicated direct with the main drainage. A more unwholesome and\ndisgusting companion in one's room is difficult to conceive. I believe\nthese filthy monstrosities still exist in Newgate, although they\nare abolished in other prisons. Yet it puzzles one to understand\nwhy prisoners awaiting trial should be poisoned by such a diabolical\ninvention any more than prisoners who have been convicted and sentenced.\n\nJust as I finished inspecting this monument of official ingenuity,\nI heard a heavy footstep along the corridor, and presently a key was\ninserted in my lock. It \"grated harsh thunder\" as it turned. The door\nwas flung open abruptly, without any consideration whether I might be\nstanding near it, and an official entered, who turned out to be the\nchief warder. He was a polite, handsome man of five-and-forty, with\na fine pair of dark eyes and a handsome black beard. During my brief\nresidence in Newgate he treated me with marked civility, and sometimes\nengaged in a few minutes' conversation. In one of these brief interviews\nhe told me that he had officiated at fourteen executions, and devoutly\nhoped he might never witness another, his feelings on every occasion\nhaving been of the most horrible character. I also found that he was\nfond of a book, although he had little leisure for reading or any other\nrecreation. He looked longingly at my well-printed copy of Byron;\nbut what impressed him most was my little collection of law books,\nespecially Folkard's fat \"Law of Libel,\" which he regarded with the awe\nand veneration of a bibliolater, suddenly confronting a gigantic mystery\nof erudition.\n\nThis worthy officer came to tell me that my \"friend with the big head\"\nhad just called to see what he could do for us. \"Big-head\" was\nMr. Bradlaugh. The description was facetious but by no means\nuncomplimentary. Our meals had been ordered in from \"over the way,\" and\nI might expect some refreshment shortly. While he was speaking it was\nbrought up. He then left me, and I devoured the coffee and toast with\ngreat avidity. My appetite was far from appeased, but I had to content\nmyself with what was given me, for prison warders look as surprised as\nBumble himself at a request for \"more.\"\n\nWhen the slender meal was dispatched, the chief warder paid me another\nvisit to instruct me how to roost. Under his tuition I received my\nfirst lesson in prison bed-making. A strip of thick canvas was stretched\nacross the cell and fastened at each end by leather straps running\nthrough those mysterious rings. A coarse sheet was spread on this, then\na rough blanket, and finally a sieve-like counterpane; the whole\nforming a very fair imitation of a ship's hammock. It had by no means an\nuncomfortable appearance, and being extremely fagged, I thought I would\nretire to rest. But directly I essayed to do so my troubles began. When\nI tried to get on the bed it canted over and deposited me on the floor.\nSlightly shaken, but nothing daunted, I made another attempt with a\nsimilar result. The third time was lucky. I circumvented the obstinate\nenemy by mounting the stool and slowly insinuating myself between the\nsheets, until at length I was fairly ensconced, lying straight on my\nback like a prone statue or a corpse. For a few moments I remained\nperfectly still enjoying my triumph. Presently, however, I felt rather\ncold at the feet, and on glancing down I saw that my lower extremities\nwere sticking out. I raised myself slightly in order to cover them, but\nthe movement was fatal; the bed canted and I was again at large. This\ntime I had serious thoughts of sleeping on the floor, but as it was hard\nand cold I abandoned the idea. I laboriously regained my lost position,\ntaking due precautions for my feet. After a while I grew accustomed\nto the oscillation, but I had to face another evil. The clothes kept\nslipping off, and more than once I followed in trying to recover them.\nAt last, I found a firm position, where I lay still, clutching the\nrefractory sheets and blankets. But I soon experienced a fresh evil.\nThe canvas strip was very narrow, and as my shoulders were _not_, they\nabutted on each side, courting the cold. Even this difficulty I finally\nconquered by gymnastic subtleties. Warmth and comfort produced their\nnatural effect. My brain was busy for a few minutes. Thoughts of my wife\nand the few I loved best made me womanish, but a recollection of\nthe malignant judge hardened me and I clenched my teeth. Then Nature\nasserted her sway. Weary eyelids drooped over weary eyes, and through a\nphantasmagoria of the trial I gradually sank into a feverish sleep.\n\nI was aroused in the morning by the six o'clock bell. It was pitch dark\nin my cell except for the faint glimmer of a distant lamp through the\nthick window-panes. A few minutes later a little square flap in the\ncentre of my door was let down with a startling bang; a small hand-lamp\nwas thrust through the aperture, and a gruff voice cried \"Now, then,\nget up and light your gas: look sharp.\" I cannot say that I made any\nindecent haste. My gas was lit very leisurely, and as I returned the\nlamp I saw a scowling visage outside. The man was evidently exasperated\nby my \"passive resistance.\"\n\nMy ablutions were performed in a copper basin not much larger than a\nporridge bowl; indeed, it was impossible to insert both hands at once.\nThere was, of course, no looking-glass, and as the three-inch comb\nwas densely clogged with old deposits, my toilet was completed under\nconsiderable difficulties. I never combed my hair with my fingers\nbefore, but on that occasion I was obliged to resort to those primitive\nrakes.\n\nWhen I was finally ready, the chief warder summoned me downstairs to be\nweighed and measured. My height was five feet ten in my shoes, and my\nweight twelve stone nine and a half in my clothes.\n\nAt eight o'clock breakfast came. It consisted of coffee, eggs and toast.\nAt half-past eight we were taken out to exercise. What a delight it was\nto see each other's faces again! And how refreshing to breathe even the\natmosphere of a City courtyard after being locked up for so many hours\nin a stifling cell.\n\nThe other prisoners were already outside, and we had to pass through\nthe court in which they were exercising to reach the one considerately\nallotted for our special use. They presented a cheerless spectacle.\nSilently and sadly, with drooping heads, they skirted the walls in\nIndian file; a couple of officers standing in the centre to see that no\ncommunication went on between them. Many eyes were lifted to gaze at us\nas we passed. Some winked, and a few looked insolent contempt, but the\nmajority expressed nothing but curiosity.\n\nOur courtyard was about thirty feet by twenty. It was stone-paved, with\na door leading to the Old Bailey at one end, and a row of high iron bars\nat the other. The air was brisk, and the sky tolerably clear for the\nplace and season. Our pent-up energies required a vent, and we rushed\nround like caged animals suddenly loosened. \"Gently,\" cried our\ngood-natured custodian; but we paid little heed to his admonition;\nour blood was up, and we raced each other until we were wearied of the\npastime.\n\nPresently I heard my name called, and on advancing to the spot whence\nthe voice issued, I saw Mr. Bradlaugh's face through the iron bars.\nAfter a few minutes' conversation he made way for Mrs. Besant. She was\nquite unprepared for such an interview. Her idea was that she would be\nable to shake hands; I, however, knew better, and for that reason I had\nforbidden my wife to visit me, preferring her letters to her company in\nsuch wretched circumstances. Mrs. Besant was particularly cordial. \"We\nare all proud,\" she said, \"of the brave fight you made yesterday.\"\nHow the time slipped by! When she retired it seemed as though our\nconversation had but just opened.\n\nI was only entitled to receive two visitors, but by a generous\narithmetic Mr. Bradlaugh and Mrs. Besant were counted as one. Mr.\nWheeler was therefore able to see me on business. We had much to\narrange, and the result was that I enjoyed scarcely more than half an\nhour's exercise. Surely it is a grievous wrong that a prisoner awaiting\ntrial should be allowed such brief interviews with his friends,\nespecially when he is defending himself, and may require to consult\nthem. And is it not a still more grievous wrong that these interviews\nshould take place during the exercise hour? There is no reason why they\nshould not be kept separate; indeed there is no reason why the inmates\nof Newgate should not be allowed to exercise twice a day. No work is\ndone in the prison, and marshalling the prisoners is not so laborious a\ntask that it cannot be performed more than once in twenty-four hours.\n\nAt the expiration of our miserable sixty minutes we were marched back to\nour cells; but we were scarcely under lock and key again before we were\nsummoned to the Old Bailey, the officer telling us that he thought they\nwere going to grant us bail. We were conducted through the subterranean\npassage to the Old Bailey dock-stairs. Standing out of sight, but not\nout of hearing, we listened to Mr. Avory's application for bail on\nbehalf of Mr. Kemp. Judge North refused in cold, vindictive tones; he\nhad evidently let the sun go down on his wrath, and rise on it again.\nMr. Avory thereupon asked whether he made no difference between\nconvicted and unconvicted prisoners. \"None in this case,\" was his\nlordship's brutal and supercilious answer; and then we were hurried back\nto our cells.\n\nMy apartment was execrably dark. It was situated in an angle of the\nbuilding; there was a wall on the right and another in front, so that\nonly a little light fell on the right wall of my cell near the window.\nAfter severely trying my eyes for two or three hours, I was obliged to\nmake an application for gas, which, after some hesitation, was granted.\nBut I found the remedy almost worse than the evil. Sitting all day at\nthe little lap-table, with my head about ten inches from the gas-light,\nmade me feel sick and dizzy. Mr. Ramsey, as I afterwards discovered, was\nmade quite ill by a similar nuisance, and the chief warder was obliged\nto release him for a brief walk in the open air. I applied the next\nmorning for a fresh cell, and was duly accommodated. My new apartment\nwas very much lighter, but the change was in other respects a\ndisadvantage. The closet was fouler, and as the lid was a remarkably bad\nfit, it emitted a more obtrusive smell. The copper basin also was filled\nwith dirty water, which would not flow away, as the waste-pipe was\nstopped up. To remedy these defects they brought the engineer, who\nstrenuously exercised his intellect on the subject for three days; but\nas he exercised nothing on the waste-pipe, I insisted on having the\ncopper basin baled out, and secured a bucket for my ablutions.\n\nDuring my first day in Newgate, the officers occasionally dropped in for\na minute's chat with such an unusual prisoner. I found them for the\nmost part \"good fellows,\" and singularly free from the bigotry of their\n\"betters.\" The morning papers also helped to wile away the time. I was\npleased to see that the _Daily News_ rebuked the scandalous severity\nof the judge, and that the reports of our trial were reasonably fair,\nalthough very inadequate. The _Daily Chronicle_ was under an embargo,\nand could not be obtained for love or money; the reason being, I\nbelieve, that many years ago it commented severely on some prison\nscandal, and provoked the high and mighty Commissioners into laying\ntheir august proscription upon it. All the weekly papers, or at least\nthe Radical ones I inquired for, were under a similar embargo, for what\nreason I could never discover. Perhaps the Commissioners, who enjoy a\nreputation for piety, exclude Radical and heterodox journals lest they\nshould impair the Christianity and Toryism of the gaol-birds.\n\nMany letters reached me and were answered, so that my time was well\noccupied until twelve, when dinner was brought in from \"over the way.\"\nBeing well-nigh ravenous, I dispatched it with great celerity, washing\nit down with a little mild ale. Prisoners awaiting trial are allowed (if\nthey can pay for it) a pint of that beverage, or half a pint of wine.\n\nAfter dinner I felt drowsy, and as there was no sofa or chair, and no\nback to the little three-legged stool, I was obliged to dispense with a\nnap. I walked up and down my splendid hall instead, longing desperately\nfor a mouthful of fresh air by way of dessert, or a few minutes' chat\nwith my friends, who I dare say were in exactly the same predicament.\n\nTea, which came at five, brightened me up, and as Mr. Wheeler had by\nthis time sent in all my books and papers, I settled down to three\nhours' hard work. The worthy Governor, a tall sedate man, did not like\nthe titles of some of my books, and inquired whether I really wanted\nthem for my defence. I replied that I did. \"Then,\" said he to the chief\nwarder, \"they may all be brought up, but you must take care they don't\nget about.\" At half-past eight, according to the rules, I retired to\nmy precarious and uncomfortable couch; a few minutes later my gas was\nturned off, and I was left in almost total darkness to seek the sleep\nwhich I soon found. Thus ended my first day in Newgate.\n\nMy second day in Newgate passed like the first. Prison life affords few\nvariations; the days roll by with drear monotony like wave after wave\nover a spent swimmer's head. We enjoyed Judge North's \"opportunity\" to\nprepare our fresh defence in the way I have already described. We were\nlocked up in our brick vaults twenty-three hours out of the twenty-four;\nwe walked for an hour after breakfast in the courtyard; and the fifteen\nminutes allowed for the \"interview with two visitors\" was, as before,\nreligiously deducted from the sixty minutes allowed for \"exercise.\"\nMr. Wheeler sent in more books and papers, and I devoted my whole time,\nexcept that occupied in answering letters, to preparing another speech\nfor Monday.\n\nSunday was a miserably dull day. No visits are allowed in that sacred\ninterval, a regulation which presses with great severity on the poorer\nprisoners, whose relatives and friends are freer to visit them on Sunday\nthan during the week.\n\nThe confinement was beginning to tell on me. My life had been\nexceptionally active, physically and mentally, and this prison life was\nas stagnant as the air of my cell. Thus \"cabin'd cribbed, confined,\"\nI felt all my vital functions half arrested. Dejection I did not\nexperience; my spirits were light and fresh; but the body revolted\nagainst its ill-treatment, and recorded its protest on the conscious\nbrain.\n\nHow grateful was the brief hour's exercise on the Sunday morning! The\nmuffled roar of the great city was hushed, and the silence served to\nemphasise every visual phenomenon. Even the air of that city courtyard,\nhemmed in by lofty walls, seemed a breath of Paradise. I threw back my\nshoulders, expanding the chest through mouth and nostrils, and lifted my\nface to the sky. A pale gleam of sunshine pierced through the canopy of\nLondon smoke. It might have looked ghastly to a resident in the country,\nunused to the light London calls day, but to one immured in a prison\ncell it was an irradiation of glory. The mind expanded under the\nlustre; imagination preened its wings, and sped beyond the haze into the\neverlasting blue.\n\nGallant Lovelace, in durance vile, boasted his unfettered mind, and\nsang--\n\n          \"Stone walls do not a prison make,\n               Nor iron bars a cage.\"\n\nTrue, but the model prison was not invented then, nor was the silent\nsystem in vogue. Lovelace's apartment was, perhaps, not so scrupulously\nclean as mine, but it commanded a finer prospect. He knew nothing of the\nhorror of opaque windows, and his iron bars did not exclude the air and\nlight.\n\nAt eleven o'clock my cell door was opened, and an officer asked me if I\nwould like to go to chapel. \"Yes,\" I replied, for I was curious to see\nwhat a religious service in Newgate was like, and any interruption of\nthe day's monotony was welcome.\n\nStanding outside my cell door, I perceived Mr. Ramsey, Mr. Kemp, and Mr.\nCattell already outside theirs. The few other prisoners still remaining\nin Newgate (they are transferred to other prisons as soon as possible\nafter sentence) were ranged in a similar manner. A file was then formed,\nand we marched, accompanied by officers, through a passage on the\nground floor to the chapel, passing on our way the glass boxes in which\nprisoners hold communication with their solicitors. An officer stands\noutside during the interview: he can hear nothing, but he is able to\nsee every motion of the occupants; the object of this mechanism being to\nguard against the passage of any interdicted articles.\n\nThe chapel was small, lighted by a large window on the left side\nfrom the door, and warmed by a mountainous stove in the centre. A few\nbackless forms were provided on the floor for unconvicted prisoners.\nWe were accommodated with the front bench, and requested to sit two\nor three feet apart from each other, the few other prisoners occupying\nseats behind us being separated in the same way. The convicted prisoners\nsit in a railed-off part of the chapel, and I believe there is a gallery\nfor the women. On our right, facing the window, was a pulpit, below\nwhich was the clerk's desk, flanked on the right by the Governor's box\nand on the left by a seat for the officers.\n\nAfter waiting some time, we heard footsteps at the door. In strode the\ntall Governor and the Chaplain, the one entering his box, and the other\ngoing to the clerk's desk, where he read the service, which was rushed\nthrough at the rate of sixty miles an hour. Mr. Duffeld started the\nhymns, but his voice is not melodious, and he has little sense of tune.\nThe singing, indeed, would have broken down if it had not been for the\nFrancatelli of the establishment, who had exchanged his kitchen costume\nfor the official uniform, and sang with the fervor and emphasis of a\nMethodist leader or a captain in the Salvation Army.\n\nMr. Duffeld mounted the pulpit to read his sermon. His text was Matthew\nvii., 21: \"Not everyone that saith unto me Lord, Lord, shall enter into\nthe kingdom of heaven; but he that doeth the will of my father which is\nin heaven.\" This text caused me a pleasant surprise. I had heard of Mr.\nDuffeld as a member of, or a sympathiser with, the Guild of St. Matthew;\nand I fancied that he meant to condemn our prosecution, not directly, so\nas to offend his employers, but indirectly, so as to justify himself and\nsatisfy us. I was, however, greviously mistaken. Mr. Duffeld's sermon\nwas directed against the large order of \"professing Christians,\" who\nmanage a pretty easy compromise between God and Mammon, between\nJesus Christ and the world and the flesh, if not the Devil. It had no\nreference to us, and it was entirely inappropriate to the rest of the\ncongregation, who, I must say, from the casual glimpses I caught of\nthem, were glancing about aimless as monkeys, or staring listless like\nmelancholy monomaniacs.\n\nWhen the benediction was pronounced, Mr. Duffeld marched swiftly away;\nthe tall Governor strode after him, and the prisoners filed in silence\nthrough the doorway back to their cells. What a commentary it was on\n\"Our Father!\" It was a ghastly mockery, a blasphemous farce, a satire on\nChristianity infinitely more sardonic and mordant than anything I ever\nwrote or published. Soon after returning to my cell I was glad of the\nsubstantial dinner and drowsy ale to deaden the bitter edge of my scorn.\n\nAfter tea I settled down to the final preparations for my defence. My\ngas was left on for an extra hour to afford me the time I required. It\nwas half-past nine when I retired to my hammock. Everything was then\nfinished except the interview I had requested with my co-defendants.\nThis the Governor was powerless to grant. He had applied to the visiting\nmagistrates, who protested the same inability. A \"petition\" had then\nbeen forwarded to the Home Secretary, but no answer had been received.\nWhile I was pondering this difficulty, my cell door was suddenly opened,\nand the Governor entered. Apologising for disturbing me unceremoniously\nat that unseasonable hour, he informed me that a messenger from the Home\nOffice had brought the necessary permission for our interview. It took\nplace the next morning. We had just thirty minutes to arrange our plan\nfor the approaching battle, the consultation being held in the courtyard\nbefore breakfast. The time was of course absurdly inadequate. We had\na just claim to better treatment, Mr. Ramsey, Mr. Kemp and I; we were\ncharged with the same offence; we pleaded to a common indictment; we\nstood together in the same dock; we were involved in the same fate; and\nwitnesses would be called against us all three indifferently. Surely,\nthen, as the jury had disagreed once, and we had to defend ourselves\nafresh, we were entitled to proper conference with our papers before us.\nThis _al fresco_ chat was the last of Judge North's \"opportunities.\" At\nten o'clock we were once more in the Old Bailey dock, fronting the judge\nand jury, surrounded by an eager crowd, and beginning a second fight for\nliberty and perhaps for life.\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX. THE SECOND TRIAL.\n\n\nBefore I had been in the Old Bailey dock two minutes on the morning of\nmy second trial, I found that our case was hopeless. The names of no\nless than four jurymen were handed to me by friends in court, every one\nof whom had been heard to declare that he meant to bring in a verdict of\nGuilty. One of these impartial guardians of English liberty had stated,\nin a public-house, his intention to \"make it hot for the Freethinkers.\"\nHow many more had uttered similar sentiments it is impossible to say,\nbut it is reasonable to suppose that, if four were discovered by my\nfriends, there were others who had escaped their detection. One of\nthe four, a Mr. Thomas Jackson, was called on the jury list. I at once\nchallenged him. He was then put into the witness-box, and on examination\nhe admitted that he \"had expressed an opinion adverse to the defendants\nin this case.\"\n\nThen ensued a bit of comedy between Judge North and Sir Hardinge\nGiffard, who both assumed a wonderful air of impartiality.\n\n     \"Judge North: Sir Hardinge, is it not better to withdraw this\n     juryman at once?  Whatever the verdict of the jury, I should be\n     sorry to have a man among them who had expressed himself as\n     prejudiced.\n\n     Sir Hardinge Giffard: Oh yes, my lord; I withdraw him.  It will\n     be much more satisfactory to the Crown and everybody else concerned.\"\n\n\"I withdraw him,\" says Sir Hardinge; \"I should be sorry to have him,\"\nsays the Judge; both evidently feeling that they were making a generous\nconcession in the interests of justice. But as a matter of fact they had\nno choice. Mr. Thomas Jackson could no more sit on that jury after my\nchallenge than he could fly over the moon. I smiled at the pretended\ngenerosity of these legal cronies, and said to myself, \"Thank you for\nnothing.\"\n\nMr. Thomas Jackson's exit made no practical difference. I felt, I will\nnot say that the jury was packed, but that it was admirably adapted to\nthe end in view. Ours being the only case for trial that day, it was not\ndifficult to accomplish this result. A friend of mine said to one of the\nofficers of the court before I entered the dock, \"Well, how is the case\ngoing to-day?\" \"Oh,\" was the prompt reply, \"they are sure to convict.\"\nHe knew the character of the jury.\n\nSome of the \"twelve men and true\" had not even the decency to attend\nto the proceedings. One was timed by a friend in court--dead asleep for\nsixty minutes. When that juryman awoke his mind was made up on the case.\nAt the conclusion of a trial that lasted over six hours they did not\neven retire for consultation. They stood up, faced each other, muttered\ntogether for about a minute, nodded their heads affirmatively, and then\nsat down and gave a verdict of guilty.\n\nSeveral of the jury, however, I am bound to admit, had no idea that\nJudge North would inflict upon us such infamous sentences, and they\nwere quite shocked at the consequences of their verdict. Four of them\nsubsequently signed the memorial for our release. A fifth juryman\nvehemently declined to do so. \"No,\" he said, \"not I. I'm a man of\nprinciple! They got off too easy. Two years' hard labor wouldn't have\nbeen a bit too much.\" This pious gentleman is a publican in Soho, and\nbears the name of a famous murderer, Wainwright.\n\nBut to return. Mr. Ramsey and I were represented this time on all legal\npoints by counsel. Mr. Cluer watched our interests vigilantly, and\nperformed a difficult task with great courage and judgment. He bore\nJudge North's insults with wonderful patience. \"Don't mind what you\nthink about, it, Mr. Cluer,\" \"I don't want you to tell me what you\nthink;\" such were the flowers of courtesy strewed from the bench upon\nMr. Cluer's path. Our counsel's colleague in the case was Mr. Horace\nAvory, who represented Mr. Kemp. He also had a somewhat onerous duty to\nperform.\n\nThere is no need to deal with the technical evidence against us. It was\nof the usual character, and we merely cross-examined the witnesses as\na matter of form. One thing was brought out clearly. Sir Henry Tyler's\nsolicitors were aiding Sir Thomas Nelson, and their clerks were produced\nas witnesses against us.\n\nJudge North's reception of evidence was peculiar. Knowing that there was\nno Court of Criminal Appeal, he set the rules of procedure at defiance.\nAny tittle-tattle was admitted, and postmen and servants were allowed to\nswear as to the directions on unproduced documents alleged to have been\naddressed to me. When, several weeks later, I was tried a third time\nin the Court of Queen's Bench, I heard Lord Coleridge rebuke the\nprosecuting counsel for attempting to put questions against which Judge\nNorth would hear no objection. I understand now how much prisoners\nare at the mercy of judges, and I feel how much truth there was in the\nremark I once heard from a prisoner in Holloway Gaol, that \"it's often a\ntoss up whether you get one year or seven.\"\n\nLet me here also ask why Mr. Fawcett, the late Postmaster General,\nallowed his letter-carriers to be employed as detectives in such a\ncase. It was proved in evidence that a policeman had called at the\nWest-Central Post Office, and obtained an interview with the manager,\nafter which the letter-carriers were instructed to spy upon my\ncorrespondence. Mr. Fawcett subsequently denied that the letter-carriers\nhad ever been so instructed; but in that case the Post Office witnesses\nmust have committed perjury. I do not believe it. I am confident that\nthey merely obeyed orders, and that the scandalous abuse of a public\ntrust must be charged upon the district postmaster, who probably thinks\nany weapon is legitimate against Freethinkers. As Mr. Fawcett refused to\ncensure the postmaster for exceeding his duty, or the letter-carrier\nfor committing perjury, I cannot hold him altogether guiltless in the\nmatter.\n\nIn opening my defence I took care to accentuate my appreciation of Judge\nNorth's kindness, as the following passage will show:\n\n     \"Gentlemen of the Jury,--I stand in a position of great difficulty\n     and disadvantage.  On Thursday last I defended myself against\n     the very same charges in the very same indictment.  The case\n     lasted nearly seven hours, and the jury retired for more than\n     two hours without being able to come to an agreement.  They\n     were then discharged, and the learned judge said he would try\n     the case again on Monday with a new jury.  As I had been out\n     on bail from my committal, and as I stood in the same position\n     after that abortive trial as before it commenced, I asked the\n     learned judge to renew my bail, but he refused.  I pleaded that\n     I should have no opportunity to prepare my defence, and I was\n     peremptorily told I should have the same opportunity as I had\n     had that day.  Well, gentlemen, I have enjoyed the learned judge's\n     opportunity.  I have spent all the weary hours since Thursday,\n     with the exception of the three allowed for bodily exercise\n     during the whole interval, in a small prison cell six feet wide,\n     and so dark that I could neither write nor read at midday without\n     the aid of gaslight.  There was around me no sign of the animated\n     life I am accustomed to, nothing but the loathsome sights and\n     sounds of prison life.  And in these trying and depressing\n     circumstances I have had to prepare to defend myself in a new\n     trial against two junior counsel and a senior counsel, who have\n     had no difficulties to contend with, who have behind them the\n     wealth and authority of the greatest and richest Corporation\n     in the world, and who might even walk out of court in the\n     perfect assurance that the prosecution would not be allowed\n     to suffer in their absence.\"\n\nThose who wish to read the whole of my defence, which lasted over two\nhours, will find it in the \"Three Trials for Blasphemy.\" One portion of\nit, at least, is likely to be of permanent interest. With Mr. Wheeler's\naid I drew up a long list of the abusive epithets applied by Christian\ncontroversialists to their Pagan opponents or to each other. It fills\nmore than two pages of small type, and pretty nearly exhausts the\nvocabulary of vituperation. I added a few pearls of orthodox abuse\nof Atheism, and then asked the jury whether Christians had taught\nFreethinkers to show respect for their opponents' feelings. \"Nobody in\nthis country,\" I continued, \"whatever his religion, is called upon to\nrespect the feelings of anybody else. It is only the Freethinker who\nis told to respect the feelings of people from whom he differs. And to\nrespect them how? Not when he enters their places of worship, not when\nhe stands side by side with them in the business and pleasures of life,\nbut when he reads what is written for Freethinkers without knowing that\na pair of Christian eyes will ever scan the page.\"\n\nIt may be asked why I adopted a course so little likely to conciliate\nmy judges. My reply is that I did not try to conciliate them. Feeling\nconvinced that their verdict was already settled, and that my fate was\nsealed, I cast all such considerations aside, and deliberately made a\nspeech for my own party. I was resolved that my loss should be the gain\nof Freethought. The peroration is the only other part of my defence I\nshall venture to quote. It ran as follows:\n\n     \"Gentlemen, carry your minds back across the chasm of eighteen\n     centuries and a half.  You are in Jerusalem.  A young Jew is\n     haled along the street to the place of judgment.  He stands\n     before his judge; he is accused--of what, gentlemen?  You\n     know what he is accused of--the word must be springing to\n     your lips--Blasphemy!  Every Christian among you knows that\n     your founder, Jesus Christ, was crucified after being charged\n     with blasphemy.  Gentlemen, it seems to me that no Christian\n     should ever find a man guilty of blasphemy after that, but\n     that the very word ought to be wiped from your vocabulary,\n     as a reproach and a scandal.  Christians, your founder was\n     murdered as a blasphemer, for, although done judicially, it\n     was still a murder.  Surely then you will not, when you have\n     secured the possession of power, imitate the bad example of\n     those who killed your founder, violate men's liberties, rob\n     them of all that is perhaps dearest to them, and brand them\n     with a stigma of public infamy by a verdict from the jury-box!\n     Surely gentlemen, it is impossible that you can do that!  Who\n     are we?  Three poor men.  Are we wicked?  No, there is no proof\n     of the charge.  Our honor and honesty are unimpeached.  It is\n     not for us to play the Pharisee and say that we are better than\n     other men.  We only say that we are no worse.  What have we\n     done to be classed with thieves and felons, dragged from our\n     homes and submitted to the indignities of a life so loathsome\n     and hideous, that it is even revolting to the spirits of the men\n     who have to exercise authority within the precincts of the gaol?\n     You know we have done nothing to merit such a punishment.\n     Gentlemen, you ought to return a verdict of Not Guilty against\n     us, because the prosecution have not given you sufficient\n     evidence as to the fact; because whatever legal bigotry is\n     gained from the decisions of judges in the past must be treated\n     as obsolete, as the London magistrate treated the law of\n     Maintenance; because we have done nothing, as the indictment\n     states, against the peace; because our proceedings have led\n     to no tumult in the streets, no interference with the liberty\n     of any man, his person or property; because no evidence has\n     been tendered to you of any malice in our case; because there\n     is no wicked motive in anything we have done; because the\n     founder of your own creed was murdered on a very similar charge\n     to that of which we stand accused now; and, lastly, because\n     you should in this third quarter of the nineteenth century\n     assert once and for ever the great principle of the absolute\n     freedom of each man, unless he trench on the equal freedom of\n     others.  I ask you to assert the great principle of the liberty\n     of the press, liberty of the platform, liberty of thought and\n     liberty of speech; I ask you to prevent such prosecutions as\n     are hinted at in the _Times_ this morning; I ask you not to\n     allow sects once more to be hurling anathemas against each other,\n     and flying to the magistrates to settle questions which should\n     be settled by intellectual and moral suasion; I ask you not\n     to open a discreditable chapter of English history that ought\n     to have been closed for ever; I ask you to give us a verdict\n     of Not Guilty, to send us back to our homes and to stamp your\n     brand of disapprobation on this prosecution, which is degrading\n     religion by associating it with all that is penal, obstructive,\n     and loathsome; I ask you to let us go away from here free men,\n     and so make it impossible that there ever should again be a\n     prosecution for blasphemy; I ask you to have your names inscribed\n     in history as the last jury that decided for ever that great\n     and grand principle of liberty which is broader than all the\n     skies; a principle so high that no temple could be lofty enough\n     for its worship; that grand principle which should rule over\n     all--the principle of the equal right and the equal liberty\n     of all men.  That is the principle I ask you to assert by your\n     verdict of Not Guilty.  Gentlemen, I ask you to close this\n     discreditable chapter of persecution once and for ever, and\n     associate your names on the page of history with liberty,\n     progress, and everything that is dignified, noble and dear\n     to the consciences and hearts of men.\"\n\nWhen I sat down there was a burst of applause, which the court officials\nwere unable to suppress. Mr. Ramsey followed with another written\nspeech, well composed and very much to the point. I noticed some of\nhis auditors outside the jury-box choking down their emotion as he\ntouchingly referred to his sleepless nights in Newgate through thinking\nof wife and child. His Lordship, I observed only smiled bitterly.\n\nJudge North's summing up was a fraudulent performance. He told the jury\nthat the consent of the Attorney-General had to be obtained for our\nprosecution, as well as that of the Public Prosecutor, which was a\ndownright falsehood, unless it was a piece of sheer ignorance. He\npretended to read the whole chapter on Offences against Religion in\nSir James Stephen's \"Digest of the Criminal Law,\" while in reality he\ndeliberately omitted the very paragraph which damned his contention and\nsupported mine. He also produced a new statement of the Law of Blasphemy\nto suit the occasion. On the previous Thursday he told the jury that any\ndenial of the existence of Deity or of Providence was blasphemy. But in\nthe meantime the public press had condemned this interpretation of\nthe law as dangerous to high-class heretics. His lordship, therefore,\nexpounded the law afresh, so as to exempt them while including us.\nThe only question he now submitted to the jury was, \"Are any of those\npassages put before you calculated to expose to ridicule, contempt or\nderision the Holy Scriptures or the Christian religion?\" This amended\nstatement of the Law of Blasphemy went directly in the teeth of our\nIndictment, which charged us with bringing Holy Scripture and the\nChristian Religion into _disbelief_ as well as contempt. The fact is,\nblasphemy is a judge-made crime, and the \"blasphemer's\" fate depends\nvery largely on who tries him. Lord Coleridge holds one view of the law,\nSir James Stephen another, and Justice North another still. Nay,\nthe last judge differs even from himself. He can give two various\ndefinitions of the law in five days, no doubt on the principle that\ncircumstances alter cases, and that what is true for one purpose may be\nfalse for another.\n\nI have said that the jury, with indecent haste, returned a verdict of\nGuilty. The crowd of people in court were evidently surprised at the\nresult, although I was not, and they gave vent to groans and hisses.\nThe tumult was indescribable. Suddenly there rang out from the gallery\noverhead the agonising cry of my young wife, whom I had implored not to\ncome, and whose presence there I never suspected. She had crept in and\nlistened all day to my trial, never leaving her seat for fear of losing\nit; and now, overwearied and faint for want of food, she reeled under\nthe heavy blow. My heart leaped at the sound; my brain reeled; the scene\naround me swam in confusion--judge, jury, lawyers and spectators\nall shifting like the pieces in a kaleidoscope; my very frame seemed\nexpanding and dissolving in space. The feeling lasted only a moment. Yet\nto me how long! With a tremendous effort I crushed down my emotions, and\nthe next moment I was mentally as calm as an Alp, although physically\nI quivered like a race-horse sharply reined up in mid-gallop by an iron\nhand. My wife I could not help, but I could still maintain the honor and\ndignity of Freethought.\n\nOrder was at length restored after his lordship had threatened to clear\nthe court. Mr. Avory then asked him to deal leniently with Mr. Kemp,\nwho was merely a paid servant of ours, and in no other way actually\nresponsible for the incriminated publication. Justice North listened\nwith ill-concealed impatience. He was obviously anxious to flesh the\nsword of justice in his helpless victims. Directly Mr. Avory finished\nhe began to pronounce the following sentence on me, and while he spoke\nthere was deadly silence in that crowded court:--\n\n     \"George William Foote, you have been found Guilty by the jury\n     of publishing these blasphemous libels.  This trial has been\n     to me a very painful one.  I regret extremely to find a person\n     of your undoubted intelligence, a man gifted by God with such\n     great ability, should have chosen to prostitute his talents to\n     the service of the Devil.  I consider this paper totally different\n     from any of the works you have brought before me in every way,\n     and the sentence I now pass upon you is one of imprisonment for\n     twelve calendar months.\"\n\nTwelve months! It was longer than I expected, but what matter? My\nindifference, however, was not shared by the crowd. They rose, and as\nthe reporter said, \"burst forth into a storm of hissing, groaning, and\nderisive cries.\" \"Damn Christianity!\" I heard one shout, and \"Scroggs\"\nand \"Jeffries\" were flung at the judge, who seemed at first to enjoy\nthe scene, although he grew alarmed as the tumult increased. \"Clear the\ngallery,\" he cried, and the police burst in among the people. But before\nthey did their work something happened. From the first I resolved, if\nI were found guilty and sentenced to imprisonment, that I would say\nsomething before leaving the dock. My first impulse was to hurl at the\njudge a few words of passionate indignation. But I reflected \"No! I\nhave been tried and condemned for ridiculing superstition. Sarcasm is\nBlasphemy. Well then, let me sustain my character to the end. I will\nleave with a stinging _Freethinker_ sentence on my lips.\" Raising my\nhand, I obtained a moment's silence. Then I folded my arms and surveyed\nthe judge. Our eyes flashed mutual enmity for a few seconds, until\nwith a scornful smile and a mock bow I said, \"_Thank you, my lord; the\nsentence is worthy of your creed._\"\n\nThat retort has frequently been cited. It was a happy inspiration, and\nthe more I ponder it the more profoundly I feel that it was exactly the\nright thing to say.\n\nThe officers behind gave me a pressing invitation to descend the dock\nstairs, and I complied. For a long time I waited in one of the little\ndens I have already described, pacing up and down, revolving many\nthoughts, and wondering what detained my companions. The fact is, the\npolice had a great deal of trouble in executing the judge's orders,\nand some time elapsed before he could strike Mr. Ramsey and Mr. Kemp.\nMeanwhile I could hear through the earth and the brick walls the roar of\nthat indignant crowd which filled the street and suspended traffic,\nand I knew it was the first sound of public opinion reversing my unjust\nsentence.\n\nConsider it for a moment. There is no allusion to outraged feelings,\nmuch less any suggestion of \"indecency.\" It is a plain declaration of\ntheological hatred; it breathes the spirit which animated the Grand\nInquisitors when they sentenced heretics to be burnt to ashes at the\nstake. \"Listen,\" says the judge. \"I am on God's side. You are on the\nDevil's. God doesn't see you, but I do; God doesn't punish you, but\nI will. We have hells on earth for you Freethinkers, in the shape of\nChristian gaols, and to hell you go!\"\n\nPresently Mr. Ramsey came down with nine months on his back, and then\nMr. Kemp with three. They had my sentence between them. Mr. Cattell\nafterwards joined us without any sentence. He was ordered to enter into\nhis own recognisances in L200, and to find one surety in L100, to come\nup for judgment when called upon.\n\nPeople have wondered on what principle Judge North determined our\nsentences. One theory is that he punished us according to the amount of\nhis time we occupied. I made a long speech and got twelve months; Mr.\nRamsey made a short speech and got nine; Mr. Kemp made no speech and\ngot only three; while Mr. Cattell cried _Peccavi_ and got off with a\ncaution.\n\n\"Ready,\" cried the old janitor, in response to a distant voice. Our den\nwas unlocked and we were marched back to Newgate for the last time.\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X. \"BLACK MARIA.\"\n\n\nWhen we entered Newgate as \"condemned criminals,\" we were theoretically\nunder severe discipline, but the officers considerately allowed us a few\nminutes' conversation in the great hall before we marched to our\ncells. We shook hands with Mr. Cattell, whom I rather contemptuously\ncongratulated on his good fortune. He went into the office to receive\nback his effects, and that was the last we saw of him. Vanishing from\nsight, he vanished from mind. During my imprisonment I scarcely ever\nthought of him in connexion with our case, and in writing this history I\nhave had to tax my memory to record his insignificant _role_.\n\nAccording to the \"rules and regulations,\" all our privileges ended on\nour sentence. We were therefore entitled to nothing but prison fare\nafter leaving the Old Bailey. But the hour was late, the cook was\nprobably off duty, and our tea and toast had been waiting for us since\nfive o'clock; so the head warder decided that we might postpone our\ntrial of the prison _menu_ until the morning. When it was brought to me,\nmy toast (to use an Hibernicism) proved to be bread-and-butter. There\nwere three slices. I ate two, but could not consume the third, my\nappetite being spoiled by excitement and the tepid tea.\n\nThe officer who acted as waiter informed me that the Old Bailey Street\nhad been thronged all the afternoon, and was still crowded. \"We all\nthought,\" he said, \"that you would get off after that speech--and you\nwould have with another judge. But you won't be in long. They're sure to\nget you out soon.\" I shook my head. \"Take my word for it,\" he answered.\nThanking him for his kindness, I told him I had no hope, and was\nreconciled to my fate. Twelve months was a long time, but I was\nyoung and strong, and should pull through it. \"Yes,\" he said, with an\nappreciative look from head to feet, \"there isn't much the matter with\nyou now. But you'll be out soon, sir, mark my word.\"\n\nI have learnt since that the crowd waited to give Judge North a warm\nreception. But they were disappointed. His lordship went home, I\nunderstand, _via_ Newgate Street, and thus baffled their enthusiasm. Mr.\nCattell was, I believe, less fortunate. He was hooted and jeered by the\nmultitude, and obliged to take ignominious shelter in a cab.\n\nStrange as it may seem, my last night in Newgate was one of profound\nrepose. I was wearied, exhausted; and spent nature claimed an interval\nof rest. For a few minutes I lay in my hammock, listening to the faint\nsound of distant voices and footsteps. Memory and fancy were inert; only\nthe senses were faintly alive. Consciousness gradually contracted to\na dim vision of the narrow cell, then to a haze, in which the gaslight\nshone like a star, and finally died out. But by one of those fantastic\ntricks the imps of dreaming play us, the last patch of consciousness\nchanged into my wife's face. It was too dim and distant to stir grief or\nregret; like the vague vision of a beloved face hovering over eyes that\nare waning in death.\n\nIn the morning I was awakened as usual by the officer bringing the light\nfor my gas. At eight o'clock the little square flap in my door was let\ndown with the customary bang, and, on looking through the aperture,\nI perceived a big pan containing a curious clotted mixture, which\nresembled bill-stickers' paste. Behind the utensil I saw part of an\nofficer's uniform. This worthy stirred the mixture with a ladle, while\nhe jocosely inquired, \"D'ye want any of this?\" I did not. \"Come,\" he\ncontinued, \"put out your tin and I'll give you some.\" I told him my\nappetite was not robust enough for his hospitality, and he passed on,\nprobably feeling sure I should not eat the prison fare, and thinking the\nstuff too good to be wasted. I took the little brown loaf he offered\nme and examined it closely. It was very hard, and apparently very dry.\nDepositing it on the shelf, I breakfasted on cold water and the slice of\nbread-and-butter left over night.\n\nAfter this sumptuous repast I was let out for exercise. This time the\nthree \"condemned\" blasphemers were not taken to a separate court. We\nparaded the common yard with the other prisoners. They were few in\nnumber, but they showed many varieties of disposition. One hung his\nhead, and doggedly tramped round the wretched enclosure; another walked\nerect and stiff, with an air of defiance; another shuffled along with a\nvacant stare, as though dazed by his fate; another looked as indifferent\nas though he were walking along the street; and another leered at his\ncompanions in misfortune, as though the whole thing were an elaborate\njoke. For a few minutes I trotted behind Mr. Ramsey, with whom I\nexchanged a few cheerful words, but the vigilant officers soon separated\nus. \"How long have ye got?\" was the constant question of the man at my\nrear, until the officers detected, and removed him. I was surprised\nand annoyed at this easy familiarity, but I grew accustomed to it\nafterwards. The rules of civilised society naturally lapse in prison.\nTalking is strictly prohibited, \"pals\" are rigorously kept apart, nobody\nknows who will be next him in the exercise ring, and any man who wants\nto wag his tongue must strike up a conversation with his immediate\nneighbor. \"How long are ye doing?\" is almost invariably the\nintroduction. This muttered question brings a muttered answer.\nConfidences are exchanged, and the conversation grows animated, until at\nlast the speakers forget prudence, and betray themselves to the eyes or\nears of an officer, who immediately parts them, or makes them both fall\nout, and reports them to the Governor for violating the rules. The old\nstagers acquire a knack of talking without moving their lips, so that\nthe words just reach the man in front or behind. If an officer suspects\none of these worthies, he calls out, \"Now then, seventeen, I see ye!\"\n\"See me what?\" says the indignant innocent. \"Talking,\" replies the\nofficer. \"Why, I never opened my lips,\" says the prisoner, and his\ndefence is perfectly true.\n\nOn returning from the exercise yard to our cells, we were furnished\nwith a sheet of paper and an envelope to write the last letter which\n\"condemned criminals\" are permitted to send from prison after their\nsentence. The privilege is almost a mockery, for no answer is allowed,\nand there is little consolation in flinging a final word into the\nvast silence, which seems deaf because unresponsive. A last interview,\nhowever brief, would be far more merciful.\n\nWe were summoned from our cells at eleven o'clock for conveyance to\nHolloway Gaol. All our effects were handed over to us, and we formally\nsigned a receipt for them in the big book. While this process was going\non the officers allowed us to chat, and endeavoured to console us by\ninsisting that we should \"soon be out.\" One of them, with a practical\nturn of mind, recollecting that I had complained of my apartment,\ninformed me that there were some beautiful cells at Holloway.\n\nHaving pocketed our belongings, we were conducted through the\nsubterranean passage I have several times mentioned to the great\ncourtyard. The head-warder conversed with us very genially, but when we\nemerged into daylight and faced the prison van drawn up to receive us,\nhis manner changed. Holding a formidable document, he called out our\nnames and descriptions, officially satisfying himself that we were the\npersons under sentence. I told him, with mock solemnity, that I had no\ndoubt I was the George William Foote described on the blue paper, and my\nfellow prisoners gave him a similar assurance.\n\nIt was a critical moment. Will they, I thought, try to handcuff us? I\nhoped not, for I had resolved not to submit tamely to any gratuitous\nindignities, and I should have felt it necessary to offer what\nresistance I could to such a flagrant insult. Happily the handcuffs were\nkept out of sight. One by one we ascended the steps, entered the narrow\npassage in the van, and huddled ourselves into the narrower boxes. They\nwere so small that no ordinary-sized man could sit upon the little bench\nat the back. I was obliged to crouch on one ham diagonally, my shoulders\nstretching from corner to corner. Half a dozen holes were bored through\nthe floor, and there was a space between the side of the box and\nthe roof of the van, which sloped away like an eave. Probably\nthe ventilation was ample, yet I felt stifled, and so powerful is\nimagination that I breathed heavily and irregularly. But reason soon\ncame to my assistance and allayed my apprehensions, although a remnant\nof fancy still speculated on what would happen if the vehicle upset.\n\nPresently the door was banged, and \"Black Maria\" started with her\nliving freight. We had the conveyance, or rather its interior, all to\nourselves. Surely the boxes we were pent in never held such company\nbefore. Three \"blasphemers,\" who had never injured man, woman or child,\nwere travelling to gaol under a collective sentence of two years'\nimprisonment, for no other crime than honestly criticising a dishonest\ncreed. We were going to spend weary days and months among the refuse of\nsociety. We were doomed to associate with the criminality which\nstill curses civilisation, after eighteen centuries of the gospel\nof redemption. Posterity would condemn our sentence as a crime, but\nmeanwhile we were fated to suffer.\n\nRattle, rattle, rattle! How the wretched machine _did_ rattle! Even\nthe roar of the streets we traversed was inaudible, quenched in the\nfrightful din. All I could do was to inspect the memorials of my\npredecessors in that box. The sides were scrawled over with their names\n(or nicknames) and sentences. Their brief observations had a jovial\ntone. I suppose the miserable passengers in that black ferry-boat to\nHades are too full of care to indulge in such trifling, and only wanton\nlarrikins and old stagers employ their pencils in illustrating the\nplanks.\n\nAfter a long drive we entered an archway and stopped. A heavy door was\nclosed behind us, and another opened in front. The van moved forward a\nfew yards and turned round. Then the door was opened, and looking out I\nsaw the front of Holloway Gaol.\n\nSeveral minutes elapsed before we descended from the prison van. During\nthis interval I chatted freely with my fellow-prisoners, although we\ncould not see each other. But I have always found, as one of George\nMeredith's characters says, that observation is perhaps the most abiding\npleasure in life, and I watched with great amusement the antics of a\nsprucely-dressed young fellow who sat on the step behind, and held a\nfacetious conversation with the pleasant officer who \"delivered\" us at\nHolloway. This natty blade was, I presumed, our driver. His talk was\nof horses and drinking, and I wondered how he obtained the money\nto purchase all the liquors which he boasted of having imbibed that\nmorning. He seemed to possess a sort of right divine to enjoyment on\nthis earth, and I felt strongly tempted to offer him the few shillings\nI had in my pocket. The money was useless to me in prison, but it\nwould serve as buoyant air to the wings of this human butterfly. What a\ncontrast between our lots! His head was untroubled with thought, he knew\nnothing of convictions (except legal ones), and sacrifices for principle\nhad probably never entered within the range of his imagination. He\nchattered away like a garrulous daw, perched upon the step; while we\nthree in the van were just leaving the sunlight of life for the darkness\nof imprisonment. Our devotion to principle seemed almost folly, and our\npassion for reforming the world a species of madness. So it must have\nappeared eighteen centuries ago, when the Prophet of Nazareth stood\nin the hall of a palace in Jerusalem. The men and damsels who warmed\nthemselves at the fire must have marvelled at the infatuation of Jesus\nas he courted the shadow of death.\n\nWhen \"Black Maria\" disgorged her breakfast, we were ushered into the\ngreat hall of Holloway prison. The Deputy-Governor at once accosted\nus, and told us to wait, standing against the wall, until he could\n\"see about us.\" Forgetting the rules and regulations, we resumed our\nconversation, until we attracted the attention of an underling, who\nmarched up with a lordly air and sternly ordered us to stop talking.\nPresently two figures leisurely descended the flight of stone steps\nleading to the offices and the interior of the prison. I recognised one\nof these as the Governor of Newgate. He had evidently come to introduce\nus. His companion was Colonel Milman, the Governor of Holloway. After a\nfew minutes' conversation, of which I inferred from their looks that we\nwere the object, they parted, and Colonel Milman then advanced\ntowards us with a genial smile. He busied himself about us in the most\nhospitable manner, as though we were ornaments to the establishment.\nInterrogating us as to our occupations, he found that only Mr. Ramsey\nwas acquainted with any mechanical work. In his younger days he had\npractised the noble art of St. Crispin, but he found that no shoes were\nmade in the place, and he had little taste for cobbling. Relying on\nsome information he had received in Newgate, he inquired, with an air\nof childlike sincerity, whether there was not some work to do in the\nGovernor's garden. Colonel Milman smiled expressively as he answered\nthat he was \"afraid not.\"\n\nThe gallant Governor then went into an office, and as I wanted to\nspeak to him before we were marched off, I walked in after him. \"Hi!\"\nexclaimed the officious underling, \"you mustn't go in there.\" But I went\nin, nevertheless, followed by the fussy officer, who was quietly told\nby the Governor that he \"needn't trouble.\" I explained to Colonel Milman\nthat my position was peculiar. \"Yes,\" he said, \"I know; I saw you at the\nOld Bailey yesterday,\" and his look expressed the rest. I then stated\nthat, as there was no Court of Criminal Appeal, I wished to make\nrepresentations to the Home Office as to the character our trial and the\nalmost unprecedented nature of our sentence; in particular, I wished the\nHome Secretary to say whether he would sanction our being classed with\ncommon thieves for a press offence. I was told that I could have an\nofficial form for this purpose; and, thanking the Governor, I withdrew\nto join my companions.\n\nLet me here thank Colonel Milman for his unvarying kindness. During the\nwhole of my imprisonment he never once addressed me in any other way\nthan he would have addressed me outside; and although he had to carry\nout a harsh sentence, it was obvious that he shrank from the duty. But\nthis eulogium is too personal. I hasten, therefore, to say that I never\nheard Colonel Milman speak harshly to a prisoner, or saw a forbidding\nlook on his fine face. One of nature's gentlemen, he could hardly be\nuncivil to the lowest of the low.\n\nColonel Milman always dressed well, and the little color he always\naffected was in harmony with his exuberant figure. It was refreshing to\nsee him occasionally in one's weariness of the dingy prison. He usually\nstood at the wing-gate as the men filed in from exercise, and answered\ntheir salutes, with a word for this one and a smile for that. One day\nI heard a handsome eulogy on him by a prisoner. He was standing in the\nopen air outside the gate. It was a pleasant summer morning, and he was\nradiantly happy. A man behind me was evidently struck by the Governor's\nappearance, for I heard him mutter to his neighbor, \"Good old boy, ain't\nhe?\" \"Yes,\" said the other, \"you're right.\" \"Fat, ain't he?\" rejoined\nnumber one. \"Yes,\" said number two, \"like a top. It do yer good to see\n_somebody_ as ain't thin.\"\n\nFrom the great hall of Holloway prison we were conducted through a\npassage under the staircase to the basement of the reception wing. Our\npockets were emptied, but not searched, and every article stowed away\nin a little bag. One by one we went into an office, where a clerkly\nofficial wrote our descriptions in a book. \"What religion?\" he inquired,\nwhen he came to the theological department. \"None,\" I replied. \"What!\"\nhe rejoined, \"surely you're Catholic or Protestant or something.\" Then,\nwith a flourish of the pen, and an air of finality, he put the question\nagain more decisively, \"What religion?\" \"None,\" I said. He stared,\ngave me up as a bad job, and wrote down \"Religion none.\" That extremely\nsuccinct description figured for twelve months on the card outside my\ncell door, and I have heard prisoners speculating as to what sort of\nreligion \"none\" was. It was the name of a sect they had never heard of.\n\nThe prisoners' cards, affixed to their cell doors, and containing their\nname, age, crime, sentence, class and creed, were of two colors--white\n(the emblem of purity) for the Protestants, and red (the symbol of sin)\nfor the Catholics. These criminal members of the two great divisions of\nChristendom, like their better or more fortunate co-religionists out\nof doors, do not mix in their devotions. They worship God at different\ntimes, although, alas! the same building has to serve for both. No\nspecial color has been found requisite for Freethinkers, who seldom\ntrouble the prison officials, although this fact is only another proof\nof their uncommon obstinacy; for it is clear that, according to their\nprinciples, they ought to fill our gaols, yet they perversely refrain\nfrom those crimes which every principle of consistency obliges them to\ncommit.\n\nAfter this ceremony we were conducted upstairs to our cells in the\nreception wing, to await an opportunity of washing and changing our\nclothes. We passed several prisoners at work in the corridors. All were\nsilent and stolid, and I could hardly resist the impression that I was\nin a lunatic asylum. We were handed over to a red-haired and red-bearded\nwarder, who locked us up in separate cells. Before closing my door, he\nasked whether I was a German, and had any connection with Herr Most. I\nexplained that the _Freiheit_ and the _Freethinker_ were very different\npapers. \"What's your sentence?\" he said. \"Twelve months.\" \"Whew! but\nit's a long time.\" Yes, my red-headed friend, you were quite right. It\nwas indeed _a long time!_\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI. HOLLOWAY GAOL.\n\n\nA few minutes afterwards the red-haired warder returned with what he\ncalled \"some dinner.\" It consisted of a little brown loaf, two or three\ncoarse potatoes, and a dirty-looking tin of pea-soup. I was hungry, but\nI could not tackle this food. From my earliest childhood I have always\nhad a physical antipathy to pea-soup. The very sight of it raises my\ngorge. Nor have I any special relish for potatoes, unless they are of\ngood quality and well cooked. I therefore munched the brown bread,\nand washed it down with cold water. It was a Spartan meal, but a very\nindigestible one, as I can certify from painful experience. Why a\nprisoner's stomach should be so grossly abused by a sudden change\nof diet passes my comprehension. Surely it would not be difficult to\nintroduce the prison fare gradually. There is real danger in a shock\nto the basic organ of life when all the other organs are painfully\naccommodating themselves to a radical change of environment. Weak men\nare sometimes shattered by it. Those who talk about the healthiness of\nprisons (a subject on which I shall have something to say by-and-bye)\nwould be astonished at the quantity of physic dispensed by the doctor.\nMy constitution is a strong one, and a dyspeptic old friend used to envy\nmy \"treble-distilled gastric juice.\" Before I went to Holloway Gaol I\nscarcely knew, except inferentially, that I had a stomach; and while I\nwas there I scarcely knew I had anything else.\n\nAfter dining I walked up and down my cell--tramp, tramp, tramp. How the\ntime crawled, weary hour on hour, like a slow serpent over desert sands.\nThere was nothing to read, nothing to do, nothing to hear, and nothing\nto see. I was steeped in nothing. And as the senses were unexercised,\nthought worked on memory till the brain seemed gnawing itself, as\na shipwrecked man might assuage his thirst at his own veins. Then\nimagination, the magician, lovely in weal but terrible in woe, began to\nweave his spell, and visions arose of dear loved ones agonising beyond\nthe prison walls, to whom my heart yearned through the dividing space\nwith an intense passion that seemed as though its potency might almost\nannihilate our barriers. Alas! hearts yearn in vain. Nothing avails but\nstrength, and what we cannot achieve the Fates never bestow. My cell\nwalls stood cold and impassable around me, like sentinels of destiny,\ntoo vigilant for evasion and too strong for resistance. Brute force\novermatches even genius and divinity in the ultimate appeal. Prometheus\nlies chained to his Caucasian rock, in eternal pain though in eternal\ndefiance; and Napoleon frets away his mighty life at St. Helena watched\nby the callous eyes of Sir Hudson Lowe.\n\nAbout three o'clock my cell door was again unlocked and I was invited to\ntake a bath. In the corridor I met my two fellow prisoners, and we were\nall three marched back to the reception room. Three good baths of warm\nwater were awaiting us. What a glorious luxury after the six days'\nconfinement, without any means of washing one's skin! Some of the\nprisoners, I understand, regard the first bath as the worst part of the\npunishment. They are brought up in dirt, and love it; like the Italian\nwho deserted the English girl he was engaged to, and justified himself\nby saying: \"Oh, if I marry her, she wash me, and then I die.\" We,\nhowever, splashed about in our baths, uttering ejaculations of pleasure,\nand congratulating each other on at least one pleasant bit of prison\nexperience.\n\nThe doors of our bath-rooms were about five feet high, with an open\nspace of nine or ten inches between the bottom and the floor. Over the\ntop of these an officer passed us each a couple of shirts (under and\nover), a pair of drawers, a pair of trousers, and worsted stockings.\nThe drawers and the under-shirt were woollen, and the outer-shirt coarse\nstriped cotton. The trousers seemed a mixture of cotton and wool. They\nare brown when new, but they wash white, and look then very much like\ncanvas. My pair was a terrible misfit, and had to be exchanged for\nanother nearly twice the size. We were also provided with a net bag to\nput our own clothes in. My good black suit, dirty linen, hat and boots,\nwere all crushed in together After this performance the bags are hung\nup, and either the next day, or at their leisure, the officials make an\ninventory of the contents, and stow them away until the day before the\nprisoner leaves, when they are taken out in readiness for donning on the\nblessed morning of release.\n\nClad in shirt, trousers and stockings, we walked from our baths to the\nreception room, where we found several officers and the Governor and\nDeputy-Governor, who had apparently come to superintend our toilet. Each\nof us was fitted with a new pair of shoes, a waistcoat and a coat. These\narrangements were the subject of a good deal of pleasantry. Our garments\nwere not of a Bond Street pattern; indeed, it takes a very handsome man\nto cut an elegant figure in a prison suit. I maliciously remarked to Mr.\nRamsey that he looked like a gentleman out yachting; but somehow he\nwas unable to see himself in that light. My own clothes were sadly\ndefective. The biggest shirt-collar they had would not button round my\nthroat, and the longest stock was so inadequate that a special one had\nto be made for me. Nor would the biggest coat fasten across my chest.\nA broad expanse of waistcoat yawned between the button and the\nbutton-hole. Fancying that my complaint was merely fractious, the\nDeputy-Governor--a tall, powerful man--tried to pull them together, and\nmiserably failed. \"Well,\" he said, \"it's the largest in stock, and we\ncan't give you what we haven't got.\" \"Yes,\" I exclaimed, \"that's all\nvery well; but if I go about with an open throat like this I shall get\nan attack of bronchitis. Pray let me have a stock as soon as possible.\nAnd do you really mean that you can't possibly find me a bigger coat?\"\nThe Deputy-Governor eyed me smilingly as he said, \"Come, Mr. Foote,\ndon't be so particular; the clothes don't quite fit you now, but they\n_will_.\" And the worst of it was _they did_. My coat, however, was\nalways tight across the chest. I changed my trousers and waistcoat as I\ngrew slimmer, but the solid structure of my back and chest (built up by\nathletics in youth and sustained by lecturing in manhood) always taxed\nthe resources of the establishment in the matter of coats.\n\nOne by one we went into the booking-clerk's office again, where we were\nscaled and our weights entered in a book. Then we had an interview\nwith the doctor, whose duty it was to examine us to see whether we were\nsuffering from any complaint. I was pronounced quite sound. Dr. Gordon\nspoke pleasantly then, as he always did afterwards. \"I suppose you've\nlived pretty well?\" he said. \"Not epicureanly,\" I answered, \"but still\nwell.\" \"I'm afraid you won't like our hospitality,\" he rejoined. \"I\nsuppose not,\" I replied grimly. \"However,\" he continued, \"I shall put\nyou on third-class diet at once, and order you a mattress.\" What the\nthird-class diet was the reader shall learn presently. The second-class\ndiet, which I should otherwise have had for the first month, consists of\nnothing but bread and sloppy meal-and-water, three times a day. Mr. Kemp\nhad to put up with this wretched fare for a while, and he tells me he\nwas ravenously hungry morning and night, so that it was a luxury to pick\nup a chance piece of bread from a dinner-tin in the corridor or from a\nfriendly prisoner \"off his feed.\"\n\nBathing, clothing, and doctoring over, we were marched back to our\ncells, each loaded with a new mattress and a pair of clean sheets. A few\nminutes later I was summoned to the schoolroom with Mr. Ramsey, where\nwe were furnished with pen and ink and a sheet of foolscap to write our\n\"petition\" to the Home Secretary. The schoolmaster officiated on this\noccasion. He was a tall, pleasant-looking man, something over forty,\nwith a tendency to baldness. I believe he instructs prisoners who cannot\nread or write in those useful arts. But his general duty is to play\nfactotum to the chaplain. He takes the singing class, leads the music\nin chapel, plays the harmonium (the chaplain always calls it the organ),\nacts as parson's clerk, and reads the lessons when his superior's throat\nis hoarse with raving. He has a clear and powerful voice, which often\nserves him in good stead. The congregation has a knack of getting out\nof time and tune when the melody is unfamiliar; this, in turn, distracts\nthe choir, who flounder hopelessly, until the schoolmaster drags them\nback by putting full steam on the harmonium and singing at the top of\nhis voice. Every Sunday afternoon, at least, he was obliged to display\nhis vocal prowess in this manner. After every one of the commandments\nread out by the parson the prisoners chanted the response, \"Lord have\nmercy upon us, and incline our hearts to keep this law.\" Nine times they\nchanted thus, gathering momentum as they went along, so that they took\nthe tenth in brave style. But, alas! the tenth was different. \"Lord have\nmercy upon us, and write all these thy laws in our hearts, we beseech\nthee,\" were the words, and the tune was correspondingly altered.\nFortunately, just at the point of change, there was a strong\n_crescendo_, which gave the schoolmaster a fine opportunity of asserting\nhimself. Dragging them back was impossible, so he drowned them, and\nconcluded with the solemn _diminuendo_ amid the breathless admiration\nof the audience, who went wrong and wondered at his going right every\nSunday with the most astonishing regularity.\n\nLooking after the library was the part of the schoolmaster's duty which\nbrought him in frequent contact with me. I always found him very civil\nand obliging; and from all I could ascertain he was not only generally\nliked in the prison, but considered a better gentleman than the\nchaplain.\n\nMy \"petition\" to the Home Secretary was a lengthy document. I assigned\nmany reasons for considering our sentence atrocious. I will not recite\nthem, because they will easily suggest themselves to the readers who\nhave followed my narrative. In conclusion I asked, if our release was\nimpossible, that we might be treated as first-class misdemeanants,\naccording to the general European custom in the case of press offenders,\nor at least supplied with books and writing materials. Sir William\nHarcourt sent no answer for a month. At the end of that interval the\nGovernor called me into his office and read out the brutal reply: \"The\nHome Secretary requests Colonel Milman to inform Foote and Ramsey that\nhe sees no reason for acceding to their request.\"\n\nThat was the only instruction Colonel Milman ever received from the Home\nOffice concerning us. Two months later, when public opinion was more\nfully aroused in our favor, Sir William Harcourt allowed paragraphs to\ncirculate in the papers, stating that orders were given for our being\ngranted every indulgence consistent with our safe custody. It was a\nbrazen lie, which we were prevented from contradicting by the prison\nrules. So carefully is every regulation contrived for shielding\nofficials that a prisoner is not allowed, in his quarterly letter,\nto give any particulars of his treatment. Sir William Harcourt also\npermitted the newspapers to announce that our health would not be\nallowed to suffer. Another lie! When, after six weeks' incessant\ndiarrhoea, I complained that my stomach would not accommodate itself\nto the prison food, and asked to be shifted to the civil side, where I\ncould provide my own, Sir William Harcourt did not even condescend to\nreply, although he was duly informed that if Mr. Ramsey and I had been\nfound Guilty at the Court of Queen's Bench, on our third trial, Lord\nColeridge would not only have made his sentence concurrent with that\nof Judge North, but also have removed us from the criminal-wards to the\ndebtors' wing. Nay, more. When Mr. Kemp had to be taken to the hospital,\nwhere he was confined to his bed, and so weakened that he had to be\nassisted to the carriage on the morning of his release, Sir William\nHarcourt would not remit a day of his sentence, or take any notice of\nhis representations. It is well that the public should know this, and\ncontrast Sir William Harcourt's treatment of us with his treatment of\nMr. Edmund Yates. From the first I had no expectation of release. I told\nColonel Milman that Sir William Harcourt was merely a politician, who\ncared for nothing but keeping in office; and that unless our friends\ncould threaten some Liberal seats, or seriously affect a division in\nthe House of Commons, he would keep us in to please the bigots and the\nTories.\n\nOur \"petition\" to the Home Secretary being finished, we returned to our\ncells, where tea was served at six o'clock. It consisted of gruel, or,\nin prison parlance, \"skilly,\" and another little brown loaf. The liquid\nportion of this repast was too suggestive of bill-stickers' paste to be\ntempting, so I made a second meal of bread and water.\n\nThe red-haired warder gave me a lesson in bed-making before he locked\nme up for the night. Hammocks had been dispensed with in Holloway\never since Sir Richard Cross groaned in the travail of invention, and\nproduced his masterpiece and monument--the plank bed. Yet so slow is the\nofficial mind, that the rings still lingered in some of the cells.\nThe plank bed is constructed of three eight-inch deals, held together\nlaterally by transverse wooden bars, which serve to lift it two or three\ninches from the floor. At the head there is a raised portion of flat\nwood, slightly sloping, to serve as a bolster. For the first month (such\nis Sir Richard Cross's brilliant idea) every prisoner, no matter what\nhis age or his offence, must sleep on this plank bed without a mattress,\nunless the doctor sees a special reason for ordering him one. During the\nsecond month he sleeps on the plank bed three nights a week, and during\nthe third month one night. Sleeps! The very word is a mockery. Scores\nof prisoners do _not_ sleep, but pass night after night in broken and\nrestless slumber. Fancy a man delicately brought up, as some prisoners\nare, suddenly pitched on one of these vile inventions. He tosses about\nhour after hour, and rises in the morning sore and weary. He has no\nappetite for breakfast, and is low all day. The next night comes with\nrenewed torture, and on the following day he is still worse. He then\napplies to see the doctor, who gives him a bottle of physic, which\nforces an appetite for a while. But it is soon powerless against the\neffects of nervous exhaustion, and before the poor devil can obtain\nrelief, he is sometimes reduced to the most pitiable condition. I\nhave seen robust men in Holloway, by means of this plank bed and other\nsuperfluous tortures of our prison system, brought to the very verge\nof the grave; and I can scarcely control my indignation when I remember\nthat Mr. Truelove, at the age of seventy, was subjected to this\natrocious discipline.\n\nThe mattresses are stuffed with fibre. They are tolerable at first,\nbut in a few weeks the stuffing runs into lumps, and your mattress gets\nnearly as hard as the plank. Shaking is no good; I tried it, and found\nit only shifted the lumps out of the places my body had forced them in,\nand left me to repose on a series of hillocks. I got my mattress changed\nonce or twice, but ordinary prisoners are seldom so fortunate.\n\nI retired to rest early that first evening in Holloway. The day had been\neventful, and I slept heavily. Breakfast the next morning was a second\nedition of the tea--bread and skilly; and again I refreshed myself with\nthe little loaf and cold water.\n\nSoon after breakfast I was invited to attend chapel. It was a welcome\nsummons, for the cell is so drearily monotonous that any change is\nagreeable. The corner of the chapel we entered was partitioned off\nfrom the rest of the building, and capable of seating twenty or thirty\nprisoners. Besides ourselves, there were present ten or twelve boys,\nthree or four old men, and two or three persons who looked slightly\nimbecile. The service was read by the chaplain, whose voice was loud,\nauthoritative, and repellant. Some people would call it gruff. It was\ncertainly the most unpersuasive voice I ever heard. As I listened to\nits domineering tones I could hardly refrain from laughing, for they\nelicited an old story from the depths of memory. An aged pauper lay\ndying, and in the parson's absence the master officiated at the sinner's\nexit from this world. \"Well, Tom,\" he began, \"you've been a dreadful\nfellow, and I fear you are going to hell.\" \"Oh, sir,\" said the poor old\nfellow, \"you don't say so.\" \"Yes, Tom,\" the master rejoined, \"I do say\nso; and you ought to be thankful there's a hell to go to.\"\n\nAfter chapel we spent an hour or so in our cells, and were then\nconducted to the basement of the reception wing, where we met the\nGovernor, who conducted us through several dark passages that led to the\nfoot of a spiral iron staircase. We ascended this, and found ourselves\non the ground floor of the criminal side of the prison. Four wings\nradiated from a common centre, distinguished by the first four letters\nof the alphabet. I was taken to the first cell in the first wing, Mr.\nRamsey to the second cell in the second wing, and Mr. Kemp to the second\ncell in the third wing; our numbers being A 2, 1--B 2, 2--and C 2, 2.\nColonel Milman personally placed me in charge of a warder who has since\nleft the prison, and I believe the service. He was a good, kind-hearted\nfellow, who never spoke harshly to anybody. Following me into my cell,\nhe took pains to \"put me through the ropes.\" Before leaving he said,\n\"I'm very sorry to see you here, Mr. Foote. I've been reading your\ncase in the papers. It's a great shame. But I'll do my best to make you\ncomfortable while you're with me.\" And I must say he did.\n\nThere were several prisoners standing mute in the corridor outside, and\nI remarked that they were a pale looking crew. \"Yes,\" said the warder\nsadly, \"confinement tells on a man.\" Then he gently closed and locked\nthe door, leaving me alone to begin my long ordeal, with the words\nhumming in my ears like the whisper of a fiend--Confinement tells on a\nman!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII. PRISON LIFE.\n\n\nWhen I found myself alone in my permanent cell, I sat down on the little\nthree-legged stool and examined the furniture. There was a flap-table,\ntwo feet by one, fixed on the right wall. In the left corner behind\nthe door were three minute quarter-circle shelves, containing a roll\nof bedding, a wooden salt-cellar, a wooden spoon, and a comb and brush,\neach about four inches long. In the opposite corner under the window\nstood the plank bed, and on the floor were three tin utensils--a\ndust-pan, a water-can, and a nondescript lidded article for baser uses.\nFortunately, the urn-shaped abomination I found in the Newgate cells,\nand have already described, was absent in Holloway. When a prisoner\nwished to visit the water-closet, he rang his bell, and sooner or\nlater (often later) he was let out. Each wing had two closets in a deep\nrecess, the door shielding the occupant's person from mid-leg to\nbreast. During the night the nondescript lidded article was brought\ninto requisition. When the cell doors were opened at six o'clock in the\nmorning every prisoner put out his \"slops,\" which were emptied by the\ncleaners. This scavenger's work must be very distasteful, but so anxious\nare the prisoners to get out of their cells that there are always plenty\nof candidates for the office. The tins are kept clean by means of brick\nand whitening, which are passed into the cells every evening in little\ncotton bags. My dust-pan, at least, was always well polished, for I\nused it as a mirror to see how I was looking, being naturally anxious to\nascertain what _visible_ effect the prison life had upon me. One of\nthe warders put me up to a very useful \"wrinkle.\" By well cleaning the\ndust-pan with whitening, rubbing it up well with the clean rag until it\nhad a nice surface, and then lightly passing a rag saturated with dubbin\nover it, you could produce a beautiful polish by a few slight touches of\nthe \"finisher.\" After this artistic process the dust-pan shone like an\noriental mirror, and might have served a belle at her toilette.\n\nEvery article of furniture has now been described, excepting the stool.\nIt was a miniature tripod, fifteen inches high, with a round top about\neight inches in diameter. A more uncomfortable seat could hardly be\ndevised. There was no support for the back, and the legs had to be\nstretched out at full length. If you bent them you threw your body\nforward, and ran the risk of contracting round shoulders. Whenever I\nwanted a little ease, especially after dinner, when a V-shaped body is\nnot conducive to digestion, I used to rest against the upright plank\nbed, extend my legs luxuriously, and dream of the cigar which was just\nthe one thing required to complete a picture of comfort.\n\nSuch was the furniture of my apartment in Her Majesty's Holloway Hotel.\nScantier appointments were impossible. Yet, to my surprise, an officer\ncame in one day with an inventory, to see if anything was missing.\nRather a superfluous check, when the iron cell door was constantly\nlocked and there was no opening to the window! A prisoner could hardly\nbury his furniture in a concrete floor, and the most ferocious appetite\nwould surely quail before deal planks and tin pans.\n\nThe cell itself was similar to the one I have already described. The\nventilation was provided by an iron grating over the door, communicating\nwith a shaft that carried off the foul air; and another iron grating\nunder the window, which admitted the fresh air from outside. This\ngrating, however, did not communicate _directly_ with the atmosphere,\nfor the prison is built with double walls. Eighteen inches or so below\nit was another grating in the outer wall. This arrangement prevented the\nprisoners from getting a glimpse of the grounds, as well as the air from\nrushing in too rawly. My cell was one of the old ones. In the new cells\nthere is a slightly different method of ventilation. Two of the small\npanes of glass are removed from the window, and a little frame is placed\ninside, consisting of wood at the sides and fluted glass in the front.\nFlush with the window-sill at the bottom, it inclines inward at an angle\nof twenty degrees, so that there is room at the top for a six-inch flap,\nwhich works on hinges, and is elevated or lowered by a chain. This is an\nimprovement on the old system, because the fresh air comes in straight,\nand you can regulate the inflow. But in both cases the fresh air has to\n_ascend_, and unless there is a wind blowing you get very little of it\non a hot summer day. The ventilation depending entirely on temperature,\nwithout being assisted by a draught, if the outside temperature, as is\noften the case in the summer, happens to be higher than that of your\ncell, your atmosphere is stagnant, and you live in a tank of foul air.\nThis defect might be partially remedied by leaving the cell doors open\nwhen the prisoners are out at exercise or chapel, and, as it were,\nrefilling the tank. But keys are a fetish in prison, and the officials\nthink it quite as necessary to lock up an empty cell as an occupied one.\n\nThe cell floor, I have said, was blackleaded and polished. A small fibre\nbrush was supplied for sweeping up the dust, and a tight roll of black\ncloth for polishing. I used both these at first, but I soon dispensed\nwith the latter. Having a slight cold, I found my expectoration black,\na circumstance that slightly alarmed me until I reflected that my lungs\nwere in excellent order, and that the discoloration must be due to some\nextrinsic cause. This I discovered to be the blacklead from the floor.\nIt wears off under your tread, and as there is no draught to carry the\ndust away, it floats in the air and is inhaled. The only remedy was to\navoid the blacklead altogether. When, therefore, the bucket containing\na quantity in solution was next brought round, I declined to have any.\n\"But you must,\" said the officer. \"Well, I object,\" I answered, \"and I\ncertainly shall not put it on. If you like to do it yourself of course\nI cannot prevent you.\" He did not like to do it himself and disappeared,\nsaying he would come again directly, which he forgot to do. Several days\nafterwards the Deputy-Governor came on a tour of inspection. Noticing\nthat my floor was neither black nor polished, he attempted a mild\nreproof. I repeated my objection. \"Well, you know,\" he replied, \"you\nmust keep your cell clean.\" \"Yes,\" I rejoined, \"and I _do_ keep it\nclean for my own sake; but your blacklead is _dirt_.\" That ended the\nconversation, and the blacklead question was never agitated again,\nalthough once or twice, during my absence from the cell, the obnoxious\nstuff was put on the floor and polished up by one of the cleaners.\nLet me add that in the new cells the floors are all boarded, and the\nblacklead nuisance is there unknown.\n\nWhile I was meditating on my luxurious surroundings, the warder entered\nagain with a prisoner, who carried a bag. \"Well, Mr. Foote,\" said the\ngenial officer, \"how are you getting on? I've brought you some work. It\nisn't hard, and you needn't task yourself; you'll find it help to pass\naway the time.\" Some of the contents of the bag were then emptied on the\nfloor. They consisted of fibre-rope clipped into short lengths. These\nhad to be picked abroad. The work was light, but very monotonous. It did\nhelp to kill time, and it was less troublesome than picking oakum.\nMr. Truelove tells me that they made him pick oakum in prison till\nhis fingers were raw, and laughed at him for complaining. He was then\nseventy years old! Think of it, reader, and reflect on the tender\nmercies of the religion of charity.\n\nDuring my imprisonment I never worked at anything but fibre-picking.\nGladly would I have wheeled a barrow in the open air, but that is a\nprivilege reserved for felons; misdemeanants are locked up in their\ncells night and day. Once there was an attempt made to instruct me in\nthe art of brush-making, but it egregiously failed. An officer from the\nD wing, where the mats and brushes are made, opened my cell door one\nafternoon, and shouted, \"Come along!\" \"Where?\" I asked, not liking his\nmanner. \"Where!\" he ejaculated, \"Come along.\" \"Thank you,\" I said, \"but\nyou must please tell me where.\" He was very much annoyed by my freezing\ncivility, which I always found the best represser of impertinence;\nbut recognising his mistake, he changed his tone, and vouchsafed an\nexplanation. \"The Governor,\" he said, \"wants you to come and see how\nbrushes are made.\" \"Oh, of course,\" I said, and marched after him.\n\nArriving at the D wing, I was silently introduced to a prisoner sitting\non a stool, who had been brought out of his cell to give me lessons\nin brush-making. He worked and I watched. Presently the officer had to\nattend to some other business a few yards off. Directly his back was\nturned the prisoner eagerly whispered, \"How long are ye doin'?\" I told\nhim. \"I'm doin' fifteen months,\" he confidingly said. Then he added,\nwith look half positive and half interrogative, \"Time's damned long,\nain't it?\" I agreed. Forgetting his work, he spliced a bit of rope\nbadly. \"See,\" I said, \"that splice is wrong.\" \"Ah,\" he replied, his face\nbrightening, \"you're a salt un too, are ye? Hanged if I didn't think\nyou was a barnacle.\" He informed me that he had been in the English\nand American navies, and all round the world. Where had I been? I was\nobliged to explain that I was a journalist. Quill-driving, as he called\nit, was evidently, in his opinion, an ignominious employment. However\ndid I learn splicing! When I explained that I was bred at the seaside,\nand passionately loved boating, his sailor's heart warmed towards me\nagain. \"This work ain't hard,\" he said; \"you can make two brushes in an\nhour and a half, and I makes a dozen a week.\" I smiled. It was a fine\nillustration of what is called prison labor. Resuming, he said: \"I'm\nthe only one as makes 'em now, and I s'pose they wants more. The chap\nas made 'em afore me used to do three dozen a week. Wasn't he a darned\nfool? Now, don't you go makin' more than two a day, or you'll put my\nnose out of joint.\" \"No,\" I promised, \"I won't make _more_ than two a\nday.\" \"Ah,\" he said, looking at me with a comical twinkle of the eyes,\n\"I see you ain't a goin' to make brushes.\"\n\nAt this point the warder stepped up, and invited me to try my hand.\n\"Thank you,\" I replied; \"the Governor told you to let me see how brushes\nare made, and I have seen how brushes are made.\" Then bowing slightly,\nI walked straight back to my cell, leaving the officer almost petrified\nwith astonishment. I heard no more of brush-making.\n\nMy objection to the work was simple. It was more interesting than\npicking fibre, but it necessitated stooping, the brush being held, like\na shoe, between the knees. As a lecturer, I knew too well the value of a\nsound chest to engage in such employment.\n\nI come now to the diet. Third-class fare, to which I was entitled by\nthe doctor's order, was almost entirely farinaceous, and miserably\nmonotonous. Breakfast and tea (or supper), served at eight and six\nrespectively, consisted of six ounces of brown bread and three quarters\nof a pint of gruel, or \"skilly.\" The latter was frequently so fluid\nthat spooning was unnecessary. The dinners, served punctually at twelve\no'clock, were more varied. Brown bread and browner potatoes were\nthe staple of each mid-day meal. The bread was always excellent. The\npotatoes were abominable. I have said that they were browner than the\nbread, and I may add that the color was not caused by cooking, but\npurely original. As the old potatoes were leaving the market, and the\nnew ones were too expensive for prisoners, the most robust appetite\nmust have turned with disgust from the supply which fell to our share. I\nshould imagine that every swine's trough around the metropolis must have\nbeen plundered to provision Holloway Gaol.\n\nThe variable part of the dinner was as follows. Pea-soup, to which, as I\nhave already said, I had a physical antipathy, was served up three days\nout of every seven--on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. And such\npea-soup! The mixture used to rise as I swallowed it, and I have often\ngrasped my throat to keep it down, knowing that if I did not eat,\nhowever nauseous the food, my health would necessarily suffer. It was\nnot pea-soup before the joint, but pea-soup without it, and in that case\nthe quality of the compound is an important matter. When I read the\nBook of Job afresh in my cell, I found in the sixth chapter, and seventh\nverse, a text which admirably suited my situation: \"The things that my\nsoul refused to touch are as my sorrowful meat.\" Three days a week I\ncould have preached a better, or at least a more feeling, sermon on that\ntext than any parson in the kingdom.\n\nOn Sundays and Wednesdays, instead of the pea-soup, I was served with\nsix ounces of suet pudding baked in a separate tin. I never saw such\npudding, and I never smelt such suet. Brown meal was used for the dough,\nand the suet lay on the top in yellow greasy streaks. I can liken the\ncompound to nothing but a linseed poultice. The resemblance was so\nobvious that it struck many other prisoners. I have heard the\nterm poultice applied to the suet pudding more than once in casual\nconversations in the exercise ground. Twice a week I was entitled to\nmeat. On Friday, instead of the pea-soup or suet pudding, there was\nthree ounces of Australian beef; and on Mondays _three-quarters of an\nounce_ of fat bacon with some white beans. The subtle humorist who drew\nup the diet scale had appended a note that \"all meats were to be weighed\nwithout bone.\"\n\nA good tale hangs by that bacon and beans. While I was awaiting the\nsecond trial in Newgate, and providing my own food, I studied the\ndiet scale which hangs up in each cell, and was fascinated by this\nextravagant quantity of pork, which seemed to evidence an unimagined\ndisplay of prison hospitality. One of the officers to whom I mentioned\nthe matter said, \"Ah, Mr. Foote, I wish you would show that diet up\nwhen you get out. Untried prisoners have the same fare as condemned\ncriminals, only they get less of it. There are lusty chaps come in here,\nsome of them quite innocent, who could eat twice as much, and look\nround for the man that cooked it. I'll tell you a story about that\nthree-quarters of an ounce. A fellow rang his bell one day after the\ndinner was served. 'Well,' I said, 'what's the matter?' 'I want's my\nbacon,' said he. 'Well, you've got it,' said I. 'No I aint,' said he.\n'It's in your tin,' said I. 'Taint in my tin,' said he. Then I fetched\nup the cook. We all three searched, and at last we found the bacon in\none of the shucks of the beans.\"\n\nThe worthy fellow laughed, and so did I, as he ended his story. There\nmight have been some exaggeration in it, but you would not find it so\nhard to believe if you had ever sat down to dine on three-quarters of an\nounce of fat bacon.\n\nI was confined in my cell twenty-three hours out of every twenty-four,\nand during the first week my one hour's exercise was mostly taken in the\ncorridor instead of in the open air. The prison authorities are careless\nabout a man's health being subtly undermined, but they do not like\nhim to catch cold, which may produce visible and audible consequences.\nWhenever it is snowing or raining, or whenever the ground is wet, the\nprisoners exercise in the corridors, where the air is scarcely purer\nthan in their cells. During the first week, the weather being bad,\nI only went out once. On Saturday, which was cleaning day, I had no\nexercise at all, and on Sunday I was entitled to none--prisoners not\nbeing allowed that privilege on the blessed Sabbath until a month of\ntheir sentence has expired. I was therefore confined to my cell without\nexercise or fresh air from Friday morning until Monday morning, or\nthree clear days. The exercise out of doors is a delightful relief from\nsolitary confinement in a brick vault. The prisoners walk in Indian file\nin circles: a regular thieves' procession, the Rogue's March without\nthe music. The new comers, who violate the rule of silence, are soon\ndetected by the vigilant officers, but the old hands, as I have said,\nacquire a habit of speaking without moving the lips, and in a tone\nwhich just reaches their next neighbor. Ten days or so after I entered\nHolloway I overheard the following conversation behind me:--\n\n\"Who's that bloke in front o' you?\" \"Dunno,\" was the reply. \"Queer\nlookin' bloke, aint he?\"--\"How long's he doin'?\"--\"A stretch,\" which in\nprison language means twelve months, and having served that term, I know\nthat it _is_ a stretch. \"What's he in for?\"--\"Dunno, but I hear he\nput somethin' in a paper they didn't like.\"--\"What, a stretch for\nthat!\"--And I venture to assert that, although the prisoner who uttered\nthis ejaculation was on the wrong side of a gaol, his unsophisticated\ncommon sense on this point was infinitely superior to the bigotry of\nGiffard, Harcourt, and North, and of the jury who assisted in sending us\nto gaol for \"putting something in a paper they didn't like.\"\n\nDuring my first week's residence in Holloway Gaol, owing to the bad\nweather, I exercised in the corridor with the other inmates of the A\nwing. There is little more room between the cell doors and the railing\noverlooking the well than suffices for the passage of a single person.\nThe prisoners therefore walked in Indian file, and as they were\npractically beyond supervision except when they came abreast of one of\nthe three or four officers in charge, a great deal of conversation went\non, and I wondered why the chief warder below did not hear the loud hum\nof so many voices. I afterwards discovered the reason. When you stand\nunder the procession you can hear nothing but the trampling of dozens of\nfeet, which reverberates through the wing, and drowns every other sound.\n\nAt first I marched as stiff as a poker, drawing myself together, as\nit were, into the smallest compass, to avoid the contamination of\nthe company, most of whom were poor, repulsive specimens of humanity,\nsurvivals in our civilised age of the lower types of barbarous or savage\ntimes. Most of them were young and had a reckless bearing, but a few\nwere middle-aged, and some were obviously old hands who \"knew the\nropes,\" were reconciled to their fate, and resolved on making the best\nof the situation. Tramp, tramp, tramp! My very life seemed reduced to\nthis monotonous shuffle. I half fancied myself in a new kind of hell,\nranked in an everlasting procession of aimless feet, mechanically\nfollowing a convict's coat in front of me, and as mechanically followed\nby the wearer of a similar coat behind. But as I passed the great window\nat the end of the wing the blessed light of the silvery winter sun\nsometimes streamed through the dense glass upon my face, rays of\nthe eternal splendor coming so many millions of miles from the\ngreat fire-fount, how indifferent, as Perdita saw, to the artificial\ndistinctions of men! I felt refreshed, but the feeling wore off as I\nreturned to the gloomy corridor, skirting cells on the right, and on the\nleft a low rail that offered the suicide a tempting leap into the arms\nof Death. All this time I was living an intense inward life, but\nI suppose there was a far-away look in my eyes, for now and then a\nprisoner would say \"Cheer up, sir.\" I smiled at this consolatory effort,\nfor although I was disgusted, I was not despondent. Occasionally\nan attempt was made to drag me into conversation, but I parried all\nadvances with as little offence as possible. One dirty short man,\ngrievously afflicted with scurvy, or something worse, several times\nmanoeuvred to get behind me, and at last he succeeded. \"How long ye\ndoin', mate?\" No answer. \"I say, mate, how long ye doin'?\" No answer. \"A\ndamned long time, _I_ know, or they wouldn' give ye a ---- new suit like\nthat, ye stuck-up ------.\"\n\nWhat oaths I heard in that wretched gaol! No abomination of human speech\nis unknown to me. One particularly vile expletive was fashionable during\nmy imprisonment; it seasoned every phrase, and preceded every adjective.\nIts constant iteration was sickening, until long experience made me\ncallous. How thankful I should be to Judge North for trying to purify\nme in that mud-bath of rascality. I can never forget the debt of\ngratitude--and I never will!\n\nAmong the prisoners I noticed one of robust physique and martial\nbearing. Seldom had I seen so fine a figure. Within six months I saw\nthat man reduced almost to a skeleton by solitary confinement, wearily\ntrailing one limb after the other, and looking out despairingly from\ncavernous, moribund eyes. Well did Lord Fitzgerald (I think) in a recent\nspeech in the House of Lords describe this torture as the worst ever\ndevised by the brain of man. His lordship added that the Governor of a\ngreat prison told him that he never knew a man undergo twelve months\nof such punishment without severe suffering, or two years of it without\nbeing terribly shaken, or three years without being physically and\nmentally wrecked. In the penal servitude establishments the discipline\nhas to be relaxed, or the prisoners would die or go mad before their\nterms expired. They work out of their cells in the daytime, and on\ncertain occasions (Sundays, I believe) they are allowed to walk in\ncouples and exercise their faculty of speech.\n\nThe poor fellow I refer to, fearing that he would die, and having learnt\nthat I was a public man, managed to tell me something of his case. He\nhad been a warder in Coldbath Fields Prison, where he officiated as\nmaster-tailor. In an evil moment he \"cabbaged\" some cloth, was detected,\ntried, condemned, and sentenced to twenty months' imprisonment. He had\nbeen in the army for over twenty years without a scratch of the pen\nagainst his name, and his officers had given him excellent characters;\nbut the judge would hear of nothing in mitigation of sentence, although\nhe knew it deprived the man of a pension of thirty-six pounds a year,\nwhich he had earned by long service in India, where the enemy's blades\nhad drunk deeply of his blood. His wife and children had gone to a\nwork-house in Leicestershire, and as they had no money for travelling,\nhe had never received a visit. He pined away in his miserable cell until\nhe became a pitiable spectacle which excited the compassion of the whole\nprison. The doctor ordered him out of his cell, but the authorities\nwould not allow it. He told me how much he had lost round the chest and\ncalf, but I have forgotten the precise figures. One fact, however, I\nrecollect distinctly; he had lost _eight inches round the thigh_, and\nhis flesh was like a child's. Eventually the doctor peremptorily\nordered him into the hospital, and the Prison Commissioners and Visiting\nMagistrates were reluctantly obliged to let him save the man's life.\n\n\nDreary indeed was the life in my prison cell, sitting on the\nthree-legged stool picking fibre, or walking up and down the twelve-foot\nfloor. I used frequently to stand under the window for long intervals,\nresting my hand on the sloping sill. It was impossible to see through\nthe heavy-fluted panes, but outside was light, liberty and life.\nSometimes, especially on Saturdays, when I had been accustomed to run\ndown to the North, the Midlands or the West, to fulfil a lecturing\nengagement, the muffled shriek of a distant railway whistle went through\nme like the clash of steel.\n\nMy library, during the first three months, consisted of a Bible, a\nPrayer Book and a Hymn Book. Although I was really there for knowing too\nmuch about the \"blessed book\" already, I read it right through in the\nfirst month, and again in the second, besides reading it discursively\nafterwards. And still, I am a sincerely impenitent Freethinker! You may\nknock a man down with the Bible, and make an impression on his skull;\nbut when he picks himself up again, you find you have made no impression\non his mind, except that his opinion of _you_ is altered. I remember\nthe chaplain calling to see me one day as I was just concluding my\ninspection of what Heine calls the menagerie of the Apocalypse. He could\nnot help seeing the Bible, for when it lay open there was very little\ntable visible. \"Ah,\" he said, \"I see you have been reading the holy\nScripture.\" \"Yes,\" I replied, \"I've read it through this month, and I\nbelieve I'm the only man in the place who has done it--including the\nchaplain.\"\n\nBy and by the schoolmaster hunted me out a French Bible, the only one in\nthe prison. It was an old one, and contained some scratches by a\nGallic prisoner, who had been twice immured for smuggling (_pour\ncontrabandier_), and who pathetically called on God to help him. _Cette\nvie est vie amere_, he had written. Yes, my poor French friend, it was\nbitter indeed! As for the hymn book, it contained two or three good\npieces, like Newman's \"Lead, Kindly Light,\" but for the rest it was the\nscraggiest collection I ever met with--evangelical and wooden, with an\noccasional dash of weak music and washy sentiment.\n\nThe monotony of my existence was not even broken by visits to chapel.\nAfter the first day's attendance at \"divine worship\" for some reason I\nwas not let out at the hour of devotion. After a few days, however, one\nof the principal officers said to me \"Wouldn't you like to go to chapel,\nMr. Foote. There's nothing irksome in it, and you'll find it breaks the\nmonotony.\" \"With pleasure,\" I replied, \"but I have not till now received\nan invitation.\" \"What!\" he exclaimed. Then, calling up a young Irish\nofficer in my wing, he asked \"How is this? Why hasn't Mr. Foote been\ninvited to chapel?\" \"Well, sir,\" answered the culprit, scratching his\nhead and looking sheepish, \"I knew Mr. Foote was a Freethinker, and I\ndidn't want to insult his opinions.\" Good! I thought. Why was not this\nworthy fellow on the jury, or better still, on the bench? I told him I\nwas very much obliged for his intended kindness, but at the same time I\npreferred going to chapel, as I wished to see all I could for my money.\nAfter that I went to the house of prayer like any church-going belle\n(this is what Cowper must have meant, for how could a _bell_ go to\nchurch?) every Sunday, and every other day during the week. Had the\nchapel been of larger dimensions I should have gone daily, but it was\ntoo small to hold all the prisoners, who were therefore divided into two\ncongregations, each approaching the, holy altar on alternate days. What\nI saw and heard in the sacred edifice will be related in a separate\nchapter.\n\nAt the end of my second month I was entitled to a school-book and a\nslate and pencil. These articles were promptly brought to me by the\nobliging school-master. Two copies of Colenso's Arithmetic had been\nprocured; one was given to me, and the other, as I afterwards learned,\nto Mr. Ramsey. The fly-leaf was cut out, I noticed; the object being to\nprevent us from obtaining a bit of paper to write on. This, I may\nadd, is the general rule in the prison library, every book being thus\nmutilated. It is a silly precaution, for if a prisoner can succeed in\ncarrying on a correspondence with his friends outside, he is obviously\nnot dependent on the library for materials, and he would be the veriest\nfool to excite suspicion by amputating the leaves of a book.\n\nKnowing that I should have no better school-book during my long\nimprisonment, I determined to make Colenso last as long as possible. I\nsteadily went through it from beginning to end. Working the addition\nand subtraction sums was certainly tedious, but I wanted to keep the\ninteresting problems, as you reserve the daintier portions of a repast,\ntill the end. Curiously enough, it was the sober and serious Colenso\nwho gave me my one restless night in Holloway Gaol. I puzzled over one\npretty problem, and the bed-bell rang before I could solve it. Directly\nmy gas was turned out the method of solution flashed on my mind, and\nI was so vexed at being unable to work it out immediately that it\nwas hours before I could fall asleep. During that time my brain made\ndesperate but futile efforts to reach the answer by mental arithmetic,\nand when I woke in the morning I felt thoroughly fagged.\n\nHaving had no writing materials for two months the slate and pencil\nlooked very inviting. I composed a few pieces of verse, including a\nsonnet on Giordano Bruno and some epigrams on Parson Plaford, Judge\nNorth, Sir Hardinge Giffard, and other distasteful personages. But as\nevery piece written on the slate had to be rubbed out to make room for\nthe next, I soon sickened of composition. It was murdering one bantling\nto make place for another.\n\nSometimes the dulness of my incarceration was relieved by overhearing\nwhispered conversations outside my cell door. Until we became well\nknown, there was considerable speculation among the prisoners as to\nwho we were, and what we were there for. One day a couple of fellows,\nengaged in cleaning the corridor, worked themselves near together, one\nstanding on either side of my door. \"Who's the bloke in yer?\" I heard\nqueried. \"Dunno,\" said the other, \"I b'lieve he's a Fenian.\" Another\ntime I heard the answer, \"Oh, he's one of Bradlaugh's pals; and\nBradlaugh's coming up next week\"--a next week which happily never\narrived.\n\nMr. Ramsey tells me that similar speculations went on outside his door.\nLike mine, his card specified \"misdr.\" (misdemeanor) as the offence, the\nofficials perhaps not liking to write blasphemy. Like me also, he\nwas put down as a Fenian. \"Why there,\" said a prisoner, who had just\nenounced this opinion, \"look at his card; see--murder!\" The \"misdr.\"\nwas not written too plainly, and \"murder\" was his interpretation of the\nhieroglyph.\n\nLet me here interpolate another good story in connexion with Mr. Ramsey.\nHe was confidently asked by an old hand what he was in for. \"Blasphemy,\"\nsaid Mr. Ramsey. \"Blasphemy! What the hell's that?\" said the fellow.\nHere was a confirmed criminal who had never heard of this crime before;\nit was not in the catalogue known to his fraternity; and on learning\nthat all which could be got from it was nine months' imprisonment if you\nwere found out, and nothing if you were not, he concluded that he would\nnever patronize that line of business.\n\nFrom the description already given of my cell, the reader has seen that\nmy domestic accommodations were exceedingly limited. All my ablutions\nwere performed with the aid of a tin bowl, holding about a quart. This\nsufficed for hands and face, but how was I to get a wash all over? I\nbroached this question one day to warder Smith, who informed me that\nthe bathing appliances of the establishment were scanty, and that the\nprisoners were only \"tubbed\" once a fortnight. I explained to him that I\nwas not used to such uncleanliness; but of course he could not help me.\nThen I laid the matter before the Deputy-Governor, who told an officer\nto take me to the bath-room at the base of the debtor's wing, where I\nenjoyed a good scrub. On returning to the criminal part of the prison I\nhad my hair cut, a prisoner officiating as barber. Despite the rule of\nsilence, I gave him verbal instructions how to proceed, otherwise he\nwould have given me the regular prison crop. During the rest of my term\nI always had my hair trimmed in my own fashion. The prison crop, I may\nobserve, is rather a custom than a rule; the regulations require\nonly such hair-cutting and shaving as is necessary for health and\ncleanliness, but the criminal population affect short hair, and the\ndifficulty is not to bring them under, but to keep them out of, the\nbarber's hands.\n\nPrison barbers are generally amateurs. Of course the officers are above\nsuch work, and unless a member of the tonsorial profession happens to\nbe in residence, the scissors are wielded by the first man who fancies\nhimself a natural adept at the business. The last barber I saw in\nHolloway Gaol was a coachman, whose only qualification for the work was\nthat he had clipped horses' legs. He wore a blue apron round a corpulent\nwaist, and looked remarkably like a pork-butcher. He walked round the\nvictim like an artist engaged on a bust, and his habit was to work\nsteadily away at one spot until the skin showed like a piece of white\nplaster, after which he labored at another spot, and so on, until the\ntask was finished. Seeing on my head an uncommon mass of hair, he made\nmany desperate solicitations to be allowed an opportunity of displaying\nhis skill, but I steadily resisted the appeal, although it evidently cut\nhim to the quick.\n\nThe bathing-house for the criminal prisoners has eight compartments. In\nthe ordinary course, I should have formed one of a detachment of that\nnumber, but an exception was made in my case, and I was always taken to\nbathe alone. Behind the bath-room were the dark cells. I was allowed to\ninspect these miserable, black holes. They were damp and fetid, and when\nthe door was closed you were in Egyptian darkness. I cannot conceive\nthat such horrid punishment is necessary or justifiable. The prison\nauthorities have every inmate absolutely in their power, and if they are\nobliged to resort to the black-hole, it must be from want of foresight\nor the general imbecility of the system.\n\nThe flogging was always done outside the black-hole, in the bath-room\nat the foot of the D wing. I have often heard screaming wretches\ndragged along the corridor, and their cries of agony as their backs were\nlacerated by the cat. Singularly, the dinner hour was always selected\nfor this performance, which must have been a great stimulus to the\nappetites of new comers. One man who was lashed told me it was weeks\nbefore his flesh healed. I do not believe that the cat and the dark\nhole are necessary to prison discipline. They brutalise and degrade both\nprisoners and officials.\n\nThe doctor was astonished one morning by my application for a\ntooth-brush. Such a thing was never seen or heard of in a prison. I\nwas obliged therefore to use my middle finger, which I found a very\ninefficient substitute. Another difficulty arose on the shirt question.\nThe prisoners are allowed a clean outer shirt every week, and a clean\ninner shirt every fortnight. I explained that I would prefer the\norder reversed, but was told that I could not be accommodated. But I\npersisted. I wearied the upper officials with applications, and finally\nobtained a clean kit weekly. Even then I found it necessary to badger\nthem still further. The fortnightly intervals between the baths were too\nlong, and at last I got the Governor to let me have a tub of cold water\nin my cell every night. This luxury of cleanliness was the best feature\nin the programme, although my fellow-prisoners appeared to regard it as\nan unaccountable fad.\n\nOne or two brief conversations with the Governor were also an agreeable\nvariation. I found him to be a disciple and friend of the late F. D.\nMaurice, one of whose books he offered to lend me. He was astonished\nto find that I had read it, as well as other works by the same author,\nwhich he had _not_ read. Colonel Milman expressed a good deal of\nadmiration for Mr. George Jacob Holyoake, and he was still more\nastonished when I told him that this gentleman had occupied a\nblasphemer's cell in the old stirring days, when he fiercely attacked\nChristianity instead of flattering it. \"Nothing would give me greater\npleasure,\" said the gallant Governor, \"than to hear from you some day as\na believer.\" \"Sir,\" I replied, \"I would not have you entertain any such\nhope, for it will never be realised. My Freethought is not a hobby, but\na conviction. You must remember that I have been a Christian, that I\nknow all that can be said in defence of your creed, and that I am well\nacquainted with all your best writers. I am a Freethinker in spite\nof this; I might say _because_ of it. And can you suppose that my\nimprisonment will induce me to regard Christianity with a more friendly\neye? On the contrary, it confirms my belief that your creed, to which\nyou are personally so superior, is a curse, and carries the spirit of\npersecution in its heart of hearts.\"\n\nColonel Milman smiled sadly. He began to see that the sceptical disease\nin me was beyond the reach of physic.\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER. XIII. PARSON PLAFORD.\n\n\nThe Gospel of Holloway Gaol, with which Judge North essayed my\nconversion, produced the opposite effect. Parson Plaford, the prison\nchaplain, was admirably adapted by nature to preach it. I have already\nreferred to his gruff voice. He generally taxed it in his sermon, and I\nfrequently heard his thunderous accents in the depths of my cell, when\nhe was preaching to the other half of the establishment. His personal\nappearance harmonised with his voice. His countenance was austere, and\nhis manner overbearing. The latter trait may have been intensified by\nhis low stature. It is a fact of general observation that there is no\npomposity like the pomposity of littleness. Parson Plaford may be five\nfeet four, but I would lay anything he is not five feet five. I will,\nhowever, do him the justice of saying that he read the lessons with\nclearness and good emphasis, and that he strove to prevent his criminal\ncongregation from enjoying the luxury of a stealthy nap. He occasionally\nfurnished them with some amusement by attempting to lead the singing.\nThe melody of his voice, which suggested the croak of an asthmatical\nraven, threw them into transports of sinister appreciation; and\nthe remarkable manner in which he sometimes displayed the graces of\nChristian courtesy to the schoolmaster afforded them an opportunity of\ncontrasting the chaplain with the Governor.\n\nParson Plaford's deity was an almighty gaoler. The reverend gentlemen\ntook a prison view of everything. He had a habit, as I learned, of\nasking new comers what was their sentence, and informing them that it\nought to have been twice as long. In his opinion, God had providentially\nsent them there to be converted from sin by the power of his ministry.\nI cannot say, however, that the divine experiment was attended with much\nsuccess. The chaplain frequently told us from the pulpit that he had\nsome very promising cases in the prison, but we never heard that any\nof them ripened to maturity. When he informed us of these hopeful\napprentices to conversion, I noticed that the prisoners near me eyed him\nas I fancy the Spanish gypsies eyed George Borrow when they heard him\nread the Bible. Their silence was respectful, but there was an eloquent\ncriticism in their squint.\n\nAfter one of his frequent absences in search of health, Parson Plaford\nrelated with great gusto a real case of conversion. On one particular\nmorning a prisoner was released, who expressed sincere repentance for\nhis sins, and the chaplain's _locum tenens_ had written in the discharge\nbook that he believed it was \"a real case of conversion to God.\" That\nvery morning, I found by comparing notes, also witnessed the release of\nMr. Kemp. All the parson-power of Holloway Gaol had failed to shake\nhis Freethought. _His_ conversion would have been a feather in the\nchaplain's hat, but it could not be accomplished. The utmost that could\nbe achieved was the conversion of a Christian to Christianity.\n\nOn another occasion, Parson Plaford ingenuously illustrated the\ncharacter of prison conversions. An old hand, a well-known criminal who\nhad visited the establishment with wearisome frequency, was near his\ndischarge. He had an interview with the chaplain and begged assistance.\n\"Sir,\" he said, \"I've told you I was converted before, and you helped\nme. It wasn't true, I know; but I am really converted this time. God\nknows it sir.\" But the chaplain would not be imposed upon again. He\ndeclined to furnish the man with the assistance he solicited. \"And\nthen,\" said the preacher, with tears in his voice, \"he cursed and swore;\nhe called me the vilest names, which I should blush to repeat, and I had\nto order him out of the room.\" \"Oh,\" he continued, \"it is an ungrateful\nworld. But holy scripture says that in the latter days unthankfulness\nshall abound, and these things are signs that the end is approaching.\nBlessed be God, some of us are ready to meet him.\" These lachrymose\nutterances were the precursors of a long disquisition on his favorite\ntopic--the end of the world, the grand wind-up of the Lord's business.\nWe were duly initiated into the mysteries of prophecy, a subject which,\nas South said, either finds a man cracked or leaves him so. The latter\ndays and the last days were accurately distinguished, and it was\nobscurely hinted that we were within measurable distance of the flaming\ncatastrophe.\n\nOver forty sermons fell from Parson Plaford's lips into my critical\nears, and I never detected a grain of sense in any of them. Nor could\nI gather that he had read any other book than the Bible. Even that he\nappeared to have read villainously, for he seemed ignorant of much of\nits contents, and he told us many things that are not in it. He placed\na _pen_ in the fingers of the man's hand which disturbed Belshazzar's\nfeast, and gave us many similar additions to holy writ. Yet he was\nsingularly devoid of imagination. He took everything in the Bible\nliterally, even the story of the descent of the Holy Ghost upon the\napostles in the shape of cloven tongues of fire. \"They were like this,\"\nhe said, making an angle with the knuckles of his forefinger on the top\nof his bald head, and looking at us with a pathetic air of sincerity. It\nwas the most ludicrous spectacle I ever witnessed.\n\nDuring the few visits he paid me, Parson Plaford was fairly civil.\nMr. Ramsey seems to have been the subject of his impertinence. My\nfellow-prisoner was informed that we deserved transportation for life.\nYet at that time the chaplain had not even _seen_ the publication\nfor which we were imprisoned! However, his son had, and he was \"a\ntrustworthy young man.\" Towards the end of his term Mr. Ramsey found\nthe charitable heart of the man of God relent so far as to allow that\ntransportation for life was rather too heavy a punishment for our\noffence, which only deserved perpetual detention in a lunatic asylum.\n\nFor the last ten months of my term Parson Plaford neither honoured nor\ndishonored my cell with his presence. Soon after I was domiciled in\nthe A wing he called to see me. I rose from my stool and made him\na satirical bow. This greeting, however, was too freezing for his\neffusiveness. Notwithstanding the opinion of us he had expressed to Mr.\nRamsey, and with which I was of course unacquainted, he extended his\nhand as though he had known me for years.\n\n\"Ah,\" he said, \"this is a sorry sight. Your trouble is mental I know. I\nwish I could help you, but I cannot. You are here for breaking the law,\nyou know.\" \"Yes,\" I replied, \"such as it is. But the law is broken every\nweek. Millions of people abstain from attending church on Sunday, yet\nthere is an unrepealed law which commands them to.\"\n\n\"Yes, and I'd make them,\" was the fiery answer from the little man, as\nthe bigot flamed in his eyes.\n\n\"Come now,\" I said, \"you couldn't if you tried.\"\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"you've got to suffer. But even if you are a martyr,\nyou don't suffer what _our_ martyrs did.\"\n\n\"Perhaps not,\" I retorted, \"but I suffer all your creed is able\nto inflict. Doesn't it occur to you as strange and monstrous that\nChristianity, which boasts so of its own martyrs, should in turn\npersecute all who differ from it? Suppose Freethought had the upper\nhand, and served you as you serve us: wouldn't you think it shameful?\"\n\n\"Of course,\" he blurted. Then, correcting himself, he added: \"But you\nnever will get the upper hand.\"\n\n\"How do you know?\" I asked. \"Freethought _has_ the upper hand in\nFrance.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he replied, \"but that is an infidel country. It will never be so\nhere.\"\n\n\"But suppose,\" I continued, \"it _were_ so here, and we imprisoned you\nfor deriding our opinions as you imprison us for deriding yours. Would\nyou not say you were persecuted?\"\n\n\"Oh,\" he said, \"that's a different thing.\"\n\nMr. Bradlaugh was then mentioned.\n\n\"By the way, you're remarkably like him,\" said the chaplain.\n\nI thought it a brilliant discovery, and still more so when I learned, a\nfew minutes later, that he had not seen Mr. Bradlaugh for thirty years.\n\nDarwin was referred to next.\n\n\"I suppose you know he's been disproved,\" said the chaplain,\ncomplacently.\n\n\"No, I don't,\" I answered; \"nor do I quite understand what you mean.\n_What_ has been disproved?\"\n\n\"Why,\" he said, \"I mean that man isn't a monkey.\"\n\n\"Indeed!\" I rejoined; \"I am not aware that Darwin ever said that man\n_is_ a monkey. Nor do I think so myself--except in some extreme cases.\"\n\nWhether this was construed as a personality or not I am unable to\ndecide, but our interview soon terminated. Parson Plaford called on\nme two or three times during the next few weeks, promised me some good\nbooks to read as soon as the regulations permitted, and fulfilled his\npromise by never visiting me again.\n\nMr. Ramsey was nursed a little longer. I suppose the chaplain had hopes\nof him. But he finally relinquished them when Mr. Ramsey said one Monday\nmorning, on being asked what he thought of yesterday's sermon, \"I wonder\nhow you could talk such nonsense. Why, I could preach a better sermon\nmyself.\"\n\n\"Could you?\" bristled the little man. And from that moment he gave Mr.\nRamsey up for lost.\n\nOne day the chaplain ran full butt against Mr. Kemp in the corridor.\n\"Ah,\" he said, \"how are you getting on?\" Mr. Kemp made a curt reply. The\nfact was, he was chewing a small piece of tobacco, an article which does\nsomehow creep into the prison in minute quantities, and is swapped for\nlarge pieces of bread. Mr. Kemp was enjoying the luxury, although it\nwould have been nauseous in other circumstances; for the prison fare\nis so insipid that even a dose of medicine is an agreeable change. Now\nParson Plaford and Mr. Kemp are about the same height, and lest the\nchaplain should see or smell the tobacco, the little blasphemer was\nobliged to turn his head aside, hoping the conversation would soon\nend. But the little parson happened to be in a loquacious mood, and the\ninterview was painfully prolonged. Next Sunday there was a withering\nsermon on \"infidels,\" who were described as miserable persons that \"dare\nnot look you in the face.\"\n\nParson Plaford seemed to be on very intimate terms with his maker. If\nhis little finger ached, the Lord meant something by it. Yet, although\nhe was always ready to be called home, he was still more ready to accept\nthe doctor's advice to take a holiday when he felt unwell. The last\nsermon I heard him preach was delivered through a sore throat, a chronic\nmalady which he exasperated by bawling. He told us that the work and\nworry were too much for him, and the doctor had ordered him rest, if he\nwished to live. He was going away for a week or two to see what the\nLord meant to do with him; and I afterwards heard some of the prisoners\nwonder what the Lord _was_ doing with him. \"I speak to you as a dying\nman,\" said the chaplain, as he had said several times before when he\nfelt unwell; and as it might be the last time he would ever preach\nthere, he besought somebody, as a special act of gratitude, to get saved\nthat very day.\n\nOne of the prisoners offered a different reason for the chaplain's\ntemporary retirement. \"He ain't ill, sir. I knows what 'tis. I was down\nat the front when your friend Mr. Ramsey went out. There was a lot of\ncoaches and people, and the parson looked as white as a ghost. He thinks\nther'll be more coaches and people when you goes out, and he's gone off\nsooner than see 'em.\"\n\nDuring the chaplain's absences his _locum tenens_ was usually a\ngentleman of very opposite characteristics. He was tall, thin, modest,\nand even diffident. He slipped into your cell, as I said before, with\nthe deferential air of an undertaker. His speech was extremely soft and\nrapid, although he stuttered a little now and then from nervousness.\n\"I suppose you know,\" I asked on his first visit, \"what I am here for?\"\n\"Y-e-s,\" he stammered, with something like a blush. I said no more, for\nit was evident he wished to avoid the subject, and I really think he\nwas sorry to see me persecuted in the name of Christ. He had called, he\nsaid, to see whether he could do anything for me. Could he lend me any\nbooks? I thanked him for the proffered kindness, but I had my own books\nto read by that time. Mr. Stubbs's sermons were much superior to Mr.\nPlaford's. They were almost too good for the congregation. He dwelt with\nfondness on the tender side of Christ's character, and seemed to look\nforward to a heaven which would ultimately contain everybody.\n\nOn one occasion we had a phenomenal old gentleman in the pulpit. He was\nwhite-haired but florid. His appearance was remarkably youthful, and\nhis voice sonorous. I heard that he was assistant chaplain at one of the\nother London prisons. With the most exemplary fidelity he went through\nthe morning service, omitting nothing; unlike Parson Plaford, who\nshortened it to leave time for his sermon. I wondered whether he would\nget through it by dinner-time, or whether he would continue it in the\nafternoon. But he just managed to secure ten minutes for his sermon,\nwhich began with these extraordinary words, that were sung out at the\ntop of his voice: \"When the philosopher observes zoophyte formations on\nthe tops of mountains, he,\" etc. How singularly appropriate it was to\nthe congregation. The sermon was not exactly \"Greek\" to them, but it was\nall \"zoophyte.\" I heard some of them wonder when that funny old boy was\ncoming again.\n\nThe prisoners sit in chapel on backless benches, tier above tier, from\nthe rails in front of the clerk's desk almost to the roof behind. Two\ncorners are boarded off within the rails, one for the F wing and the\nother for the debtors' wing. Above them is a long gallery, with private\nboxes for the governor, the doctor and the chief warder, and a pulpit\nfor the chaplain. Parson Plaford used to make a great noise in closing\nthe heavy door behind the pulpit, leading to the front of the prison;\nand he rattled the keys as though he loved the sound. He placed them on\nthe desk beside the \"sacred volume,\" and I used to think that the Bible\nand the keys went well together. In offering his first private prayer,\nas well as in his last after the benediction, he always covered his\nface with the sleeve of his robe, lest, I suppose, the glory of his\ncountenance, while communicating with his maker, should afflict us as\nthe insufferable splendor of the face of Moses afflicted the Jews at\nMount Sinai. His audible prayers were made kneeling with clasped hands\nand upturned face. His eyes were closed tightly, his features were\npainfully contracted, and his voice was a falsetto squeak. I fancy the\nGovernor must have sighed at the performance. The doctor never troubled\nto attend it.\n\nThe prisoners were supposed to cross their hands in front while in\nchapel. Several unsuccessful attempts were made to induce me to conform\nto the regulation. I declined to strike prescribed attitudes. Another\nrule, pretty rigorously enforced, was that the prisoners should look\nstraight before them. If a head was turned aside, an officer bawled\nout \"Look to your front.\" I once heard the injunction ludicrously\ninterpolated in the service. \"Dearly beloved brethren,\" said the\nchaplain. \"Look to your front,\" growled the officer. It was text and\ncomment.\n\nOnly once did I see a prisoner impressed. The man sat next to me; his\nface was red, and he stared at the chaplain with a pair of goggle\neyes. Surely, I thought, the parson is producing an effect. As we were\nmarching back to our cells I heard a sigh. Turning round, I saw my\nharvest-moon-faced friend in an ecstacy. It was Sunday morning, and near\ndinner time. Raising his hands, while his goggle eyes gleamed like wet\npebbles, the fellow ejaculated--\"Pudden next.\"\n\nI have already referred to the chapel music, in which the schoolmaster\nplayed such a distinguished part. A few more notes on this subject may\nnot be out of place. There was a choir of a dozen or so prisoners, most\nof whom were long-term men in some position of trust. Short-timers\nare not, I believe, eligible for membership; indeed, the whole public\nopinion of the establishment is against these unfortunates, who have\ncommitted no crime worth speaking of; and I still remember with what\na look of disgust the worthy schoolmaster once described them to me\nas \"Mere parasites, here to-day and gone to-morrow.\" Having a bit of\na voice, I was invited to join the sweet psalmists of Holloway; but I\nexplained that I was only a spectator of the chapel performances, and\ncould not possibly become an assistant. The privileges enjoyed by the\nchoristers are not, however, to be despised. They drop their work two or\nthree times a week for practice, and they have an advantage in matters\nwhich are trifling enough outside, but very important in prison. In\nchapel they sit together on the front benches, and if they smile and\nwhisper they are not so sharply reprimanded as the common herd behind\nthem.\n\nAnother privileged class were the cooks, who occupied the last bench,\nand rested their backs against the wall. They were easily distinguished\nby their hair being greased, no other prisoners having fat enough to\nwaste on such a luxury.\n\nSaturday morning's chapel hour was devoted to general practice, which\nwas known as the cat's chorus. Imagine three or four hundred prisoners\nall learning a new tune! Some of the loudest voices were the most\nunmusical, and the warblers at the rear were generally behind in time as\nwell as in space. How they floundered, gasped, broke down, got up again,\nand shuffled along as before till the next collapse! Sometimes they gave\nit up as hopeless, a few first, and then others, until some silly fellow\nwas left shrilling alone, when he too would suddenly stop, as though\nfrightened at the sound of his own voice.\n\nI noticed, however, that whenever an evangelical hymn was sung to an\nold familiar tune, they all joined in, and rattled through it with great\nsatisfaction. This confirmed the notion I had acquired from previous\nreading, that nine out of every ten prisoners in our English gaols\nhave been Sunday-school children, or attendants at church or chapel.\nScepticism has not led them to gaol, and religion has not kept them out\nof it.\n\nParson Plaford, as I have said, never visited me after the second month.\nHe heard my defence on the third trial before Lord Coleridge, and sadly\nconfessed to Mr. Ramsey that he was afraid I was a hardened sinner. He\nappears to have had some hopes of my fellow prisoner, whom he continued\nto visit for another month. Mr. Ramsey encouraged him in doing so, for\na conversation with anyone and on anything is a welcome break in the\nmonotony of silence. But when he got books to read there was less\nneed of these interviews, and they soon ceased. Mr. Ramsey informs me,\nhowever, that the chaplain called on him just before he left, and asked\nwhether he could offer any suggestions as to the \"system.\" The old\ngentleman admitted that he had been operating on prisoners for over\ntwenty years without the least success.\n\nThe chaplain often confided to us in his sermons that prisoners came to\nhim pretending they had derived great good from his ministrations, only\nin order to gain some little privilege. I learned, also, from casual\nconversations in the exercise-ground, that the old gentleman had his\nfavorites, who were not always held in the same esteem and affection by\ntheir companions. They were generally regarded as spies and tell-tales,\nand the men were very cautious of what they said and did in the presence\nof these elect. Piety was looked upon as a species of humbug, although\n(so persistent is human nature) a really good, generous man would have\nbeen liked and respected. \"I could be pious for a pound a day,\" said one\nprisoner in my hearing, with reference to the chaplain's salary. \"Yes,\"\nsaid the man he spoke to, \"so could I, or 'arf of it.\"\n\nOne Sunday the lesson was the story of Peter's miraculous rescue from\nprison. \"Ah,\" said an old fellow to his pal, \"that was a good yarn we\nheard this morning. I'd like to see th' angel git 'im out o' Holloway.\"\n\nParson Plaford was evangelical, but a thorough Churchman, and he had a\nstrong preference for those of his own sect. There was in the prison a\nyoung fellow, the son of a wealthy member of Parliament, whose name\nI need not disclose. He was doing eighteen months for getting into\ndifficulties on the turf, and mistaking his father's name for his own.\nHaving plenty of money, he was able to establish communication with\nhis friends outside; and this being detected, the Governor kept him\nconstantly on the move from wing to wing, and corridor to corridor,\nso that he might have no time to grow familiar with the officers\nand corrupt their integrity. The plan was a good one, but it did not\nsucceed. Young officers, who work ninety or a hundred hours a week, with\nonly two off Sundays in three months, for twenty-three shillings, cannot\nalways be expected to resist a bribe.\n\nThe young scapegrace I refer to was very anxious to get out of his cell,\nand he applied to the chaplain for the post of schoolmaster's assistant.\nThe duties of this office are to help bind the books and keep the\nlibrary catalogue, and to carry the basket of literature when the\nschoolmaster goes the round. Parson Plaford would not entertain the\napplication. \"No,\" he said, \"I begin to think your religious notions\nare very unsound. I must have a good Churchman for the post.\" Well, the\nchaplain got his good Churchman; it was an old hand, sentenced twice\nbefore to long terms for felony, and then doing another five or seven\nyears for burglary and assault.\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV. THE THIRD TRIAL.\n\n\nPrison life is monotonous. Day follows day in weary succession. Except\nfor the card on your door you might lose count of the weeks and forget\nthe date. I went on eating my miserable food with such appetite as\nI had; I crawled between heaven and earth for one hour in every\ntwenty-four; I picked my fibre to kill the time; and I waded through my\nonly book, the Bible, with the patience of a mule. Weeks rolled by with\nonly one remarkable feature, and that was Good Friday. The \"sacred day\"\nwas observed as a Sabbath. There was no work and no play. Christians\noutside were celebrating the Passion of their Redeemer with plenteous\neating and copious drinking, and dance and song; while I and my two\nfellow-prisoners, who had no special cause for sadness on that day,\nwere compelled to spend it like hermits. Chapel hours brought the only\nrelief. Parson Plaford thought it an auspicious occasion for preaching\none of his silliest sermons, and when I returned to my cell I was\ngreatly refreshed. Opening my Bible, I read the four accounts of the\nCrucifixion, and marvelled how so many millions of people could regard\nthem as consistent histories, until I reflected that they never took the\ntrouble to read them one after another at a single sitting.\n\nOnce or twice I caught a glimpse of Mr. Ramsey in chapel, and I\noccasionally saw Mr. Kemp in the exercise-ground. But I knew nothing\nof what was going on outside. One day, however, the outer silence was\nbroken. The Governor entered my cell in the morning, and told me he\nhad received a letter from Mr. Bradlaugh, stating that our original\nIndictment (in which he was included) would be tried in a few days,\nand that he had an order from the Home Office to see Mr. Ramsey and me\nseparately. It was some day early in April; I forget exactly when. But\nI recollect that Mr. Bradlaugh came up the same afternoon. He saw me\nin the Governor's office. We shook hands heartily, and plunged into\nconversation, while the Governor sat turning over papers at his desk.\n\nMr. Bradlaugh told me how our Indictment stood. It would be tried very\nsoon. He was going to insist on being tried separately, and had no doubt\nhe should be. In that event, his case would precede ours. What did I\nintend to do? His advice was that I should plead inability to defend\nmyself while in prison, and ask for a postponement until after my\nrelease. If that were done he believed I should never hear of the\nIndictment again.\n\nMy view was different. I doubted whether another conviction would add\nto my sentence, and I was anxious to secure the moral advantage of a\ncareful and spirited defence in the Court of Queen's Bench before the\nLord Chief Justice of England. The Governor had already supplied me with\nwriting materials, and I had begun to draw up a list of books I might\nrequire, which I intended to send to Mr. Wheeler.\n\n\"Oh,\" said Mr. Bradlaugh, brusquely, \"you need not send anything to Mr.\nWheeler; he's gone insane.\"\n\n\"What!\" I gasped. The room darkened to my vision as though the sun had\nbeen blotted out. The blow went to my heart like a dagger.\n\n\"Come,\" said Mr. Bradlaugh in a kinder tone, \"if you take the news in\nthat way I shall tell you no more.\"\n\n\"It is over,\" I answered. \"Pray go on.\"\n\nI crushed down my feelings, but it was not over. Mr. Bradlaugh did not\nknow the nature of my friendship with Mr. Wheeler; how old and deep it\nwas, how inwrought with the roots of my being. When I returned to my\ncell I went through my agony and bloody sweat. I know not how long it\nlasted. For awhile I stood like a stone image; anon I paced up and down\nlike a caged tiger. One word burned like a lurid sun through a bloody\nmist. Mad! The school-master called on business. \"Don't speak,\" I said.\nHe cast a frightened look at my face and retired. At length relief came.\nThe thunder-cloud of grief poured itself in a torrent of tears, the only\nones my persecutors ever wrung from me. Over the flood of sorrow rose\nthe rainbow of hope. He is only broken down, I thought; his delicate\norganisation has succumbed to a trial too great for its strength; rest\nand generous attention will restore him. Courage! All will be well.\n\nAnd all is well. My friend is by my side again. He had relapses after\nhis first recovery, for it was an awful blow; but I was in time to\nshield him from the worst of these. Scientific treatment, and a long\nstay at the seaside, renovated his frame. He has worked with me daily\nsince at our old task, and I trust we shall labor together till there\ncomes \"The poppied sleep, the end of all.\"\n\nI spent the next few days in preparing a new defence for my third trial\nfor Blasphemy. During that time I was allowed an interview with two\nfriends every afternoon. Mrs. Besant was one of my earliest visitors. I\nlearned that the _Freethinker_ was still appearing under the editorship\nof Dr. E. B. Aveling, who conducted it until my release; and that the\nbusiness affairs of Mr. Ramsey and myself were being ably and vigilantly\nsuperintended by a committee consisting of Mrs. Besant, and Messrs. R.\nO. Smith, A. Hilditch, J. Grout, G. Standring and C. Herbert. There was,\nin addition, a Prisoners' Aid Fund opened and liberally subscribed to,\nout of which our wives and families were provided for.\n\nOn the morning of April 10, soon after breakfast, and while the\nprisoners were marshalling for chapel, I was conducted to a cell\nin front of the gaol, and permitted to array myself once more in a\ncivilized costume. My clothes, like myself, were none the better for\ntheir imprisonment; but I felt a new man as I donned them, and trolled\noperatic airs, while warder Smith cried, \"Hush!\"\n\nMr. Ramsey went through a similar process. We met in the great hall, and\nin defiance of all rules and regulations, I shook him heartily by the\nhand. He looked thin, pale, and careworn; and the new growth of hair\non his chin did not add to his good looks. After our third trial he\ngot stout again, and it was I who scaled less and less. Perhaps his\nshoemaking gave him a better appetite; and perhaps I studied too much\nfor the quantity and quality of prison blood.\n\nEach of was accommodated with a four-wheeler, and a warder armed with a\ncutlass to guard us from all danger. It was a beautiful spring morning,\nand the sunlight looked glorious as we rattled down the Caledonian Road.\nI felt new-born. The early flowers in the street barrows were miracles\nof loveliness, and the very vegetables had a supernal charm. Tradesmen's\nnames over their shops were wonderfully vivid. Every letter seemed\nfresh-painted, and after the dinginess of prison, the crude decorations\nstruck me as worthy of the old masters.\n\nArriving at the rear of the Law Courts, we found many friends awaiting\nus. Colonel Milman was obliged to protect us from their demonstrations\nof welcome. Everyone of them seemed desirous to wring off an arm as a\nsouvenir of the occasion. Inside I met Mr. Bradlaugh, Mrs. Besant, Dr.\nAveling, and a host of other friends. My wife looked pale and haggard.\nShe had evidently suffered much. But seeing me again was a great relief,\nand she bore the remainder of her long trial with more cheerfulness.\n\nMr. Bradlaugh's trial lasted three days, and we were brought up on each\noccasion. It was what the Americans call a fine time. A grateful country\nfound us in cabs and attendants, and our friends found us in dinner.\nWhen the first day's adjournment came at one o'clock, my counsel, Mr.\nCluer, asked what he should order for us. \"What a question!\" we cried.\n\"Something soon, and plenty of it.\" It was boiled mutton, turnips, and\npotatoes. We proved ourselves excellent trenchermen, for it was our\nfirst square meal for weeks; and a group, including some of the jury,\nwatched us feed.\n\nLord Coleridge's summing up in Mr. Bradlaugh's case was a wonderful\npiece of art. The even beauty of his voice, the dignity of his manner,\nthe pathetic gravity with which he appealed to the jury to cast aside\nall prejudice against the defendant, combined to render his charge one\nof the great memories of my life.\n\nThe jury retired for half an hour, and returned with a verdict of Not\nGuilty! Mr. Bradlaugh was deeply affected. I shook his hand without a\nword, for I was speechless. I was inexpressibly glad that the enemy\nhad not crippled him in his parliamentary struggle, and that his recent\nvictory in the House of Lords, after years of litigation, was crowned by\na happy escape from their worst design.\n\nOur trial took place the next week, and lasted only two days, as we had\nno technical points to argue. Mr. Wheeler came up from Worcestershire\nto see me. He was still very weak, and obviously suffering from intense\nexcitement. Still it was a pleasure to see his face and clasp his hand.\n\nSir Hardinge Giffard gloomed on us with his wintry face, but he left the\nconduct of the case almost entirely to Mr. Maloney. The evidence against\nus was overpowering, and we did not seriously contest it. Mr. Ramsey\nread a brief speech after lunch, and precisely at two o'clock I rose to\nmake my defence, which lasted two hours and forty minutes.\n\nThe table before me was crowded with books and papers, and I held a\nsheet of references that looked like a brief. My first step was to pay\nJudge North an instalment of the debt I owed him.\n\n     \"My lord, and gentlemen of the jury,--I am very happy, not to\n     stand in this position, but to learn what I had not learned\n     before--how a criminal trial should be conducted, notwithstanding\n     that two months ago I was tried in another court, and before\n     another judge.  Fortunately, the learned counsel, who are conducting\n     this prosecution have not now a judge who will allow them to\n     walk out of court while he argues their brief for them in\n     their absence.\"\n\nLord Coleridge interrupted me. \"You must learn one more lesson, Mr.\nFoote, and that is, that one judge cannot hear another judge censured,\nor even commended.\"\n\nI was checkmated, but taking it with a good grace, I said:\n\n     \"My lord, thank you for the correction.  And I will simply\n     confine the observations I might have made on that subject to\n     the emphatic statement that I have learnt to-day, for the first\n     time--although this is the second time I have had to answer a\n     criminal charge--how a criminal trial should be conducted.\"\n\nHis lordship did not interrupt me again. During the whole of my long\ndefence he leaned his head upon his hand, and looked steadily at me,\nwithout once shifting his gaze.\n\nTo put the jury in a good frame of mind I told them that two months\nbefore I fell among thieves, and congratulated myself on being able to\ntalk to twelve honest men. In order, also, that they might be disabused\nof the idea that we were being treated as first-class misdemeanants, I\ninformed them of the discipline we were really subjected to; and I saw\nthat this aroused their sympathy.\n\nThose who wish to read my defence _in extenso_ will find it in the\n\"Three Trials for Blasphemy.\" I shall content myself here with a few\npoints. I quoted heretical, and, as I contended, blasphemous passages\nfrom the writings of Professor Huxley, Dr. Maudsley, Herbert Spencer,\nJohn Stuart Mill, Matthew Arnold, Lord Amberly, the Duke of Somerset,\nShelley, Byron, James Thomson, Algernon Swinburne, and others; and\nI urged that the only difference between these passages and the\nincriminated parts of my paper consisted in the price t which they were\npublished. Why, I asked, should the high-class blasphemer be petted by\nsociety, and the low-class blasphemer be made to bear their sins, and\ndriven forth into the wilderness of Holloway Gaol?\n\nLord Coleridge, in his summing up, supported my view, and his admission\nis so important that I venture to give it in full.\n\n     \"With regard to some of the others from whom Mr. Foote\n     quoted passages, I heard many of them for the first time.\n     I do not at all question that Mr. Foote read them correctly.\n     They are passages which, hearing them only from him for the\n     first time, I confess I have a difficulty in distinguishing\n     from the incriminated publication.  They do appear to me to\n     be open to exactly the same charge and the same grounds of\n     observation that Mr. Foote's publications are.  He says--and\n     I don't call upon him to prove it, I am quite willing to take\n     his word--he says many of these things are written in expensive\n     books, published by publishers of known eminence, and that\n     they circulate in the drawing-rooms, studies, and libraries\n     of persons of position.  It may be so.  All I can say here is--\n     and so far I can answer for myself--I would make no distinction\n     between Mr. Foote and anybody else; and if there are persons,\n     however eminent they may be, who used language, not fairly\n     distinguishable from that used by Mr. Foote, and if they are\n     ever brought before me--which I hope they never may be, for\n     a more troublesome or disagreeable business can never be\n     inflicted upon me--if they come before me, so far as my poor\n     powers go they shall have neither more nor less than the\n     justice I am trying to do to Mr. Foote; and if they offend\n     the Blasphemy Laws they shall find that so long as these laws\n     exist--whatever I may think about their wisdom--they will have\n     but one rule of law laid down in this court.\"\n\nAnother point I raised, which I neglected in my previous defences, was\nthis. What is it that men have a right to at law?\n\n     \"Every man has a right to three things--protection for person,\n     property and character, and all that can be legitimately\n     derived from these.  The ordinary law of libel gives a man\n     protection for his character, but it is surely monstrous that\n     he should claim protection for his opinions and tastes.  All\n     that he can claim is that his taste shall not be violently\n     outraged against his will.  I hope, gentlemen, you will take\n     that rational view of the question.  We have libelled no man's\n     character, we have invaded no man's person or property.  This\n     crime is a constructed crime, originally manufactured by priests\n     in the interest of their own order to put down dissent and heresy.\n     It now lingers amongst us as a legacy utterly alien to the spirit\n     of our age, which unfortunately we have not resolution enough to\n     cast among those absurdities which Time holds in his wallet of\n     oblivion.\"\n\nMy peroration is the only other part of the defence which I shall\nextract.\n\n     \"Gentlemen, I have more than a personal interest in the result\n     of this trial.  I am anxious for the rights and liberties of\n     thousands of my countrymen.  Young as I am, I have for many\n     years fought for my principles, taken soldier's wages when\n     there were any, and gone cheerfully without when there were\n     none, and fought on all the same, as I mean to do to the end;\n     and I am doomed to the torture of twelve months' imprisonment\n     by the verdict and judgment of thirteen men, whose sacrifices\n     for conviction may not equal mine.  The bitterness of my fate\n     can scarcely be enhanced by your verdict.  Yet this does not\n     diminish my solicitude as to its character.  If, after the recent\n     scandalous proceedings in another court, you, as a special jury\n     in this High Court of Justice, bring in a verdict of Guilty\n     against me and my co-defendant, you will decisively inaugurate\n     a new era of persecution, in which no advantage can accrue to\n     truth or morality, but in which fierce passions will be kindled,\n     oppression and resistance matched against each other, and the\n     land perhaps disgraced with violence and stained with blood.\n     But if, as I hope, you return a verdict of Not Guilty, you\n     will check that spirit of bigotry and fanaticism which is\n     fully aroused and eagerly awaiting the signal to begin its\n     evil work; you will close a melancholy and discreditable\n     chapter of history; you will proclaim that henceforth the\n     press shall be absolutely free, unless it libel men's characters\n     or contain incitements to crime, and that all offences against\n     belief and taste shall be left to the great jury of public\n     opinion; you will earn the gratitude of all who value liberty\n     as the jewel of their souls, and independence as the crown\n     of their manhood; you will save your country from becoming\n     ridiculous in the eyes of nations that we are accustomed to\n     consider as less enlightened and free; and you will earn for\n     yourselves a proud place in the annals of its freedom, its\n     progress, and its glory.\"\n\nI delivered this appeal to the jury as impressively as I could. There\nwas a solemn silence in court. A storm cloud gathered while I spoke, and\nheavy drops of rain fell on the roof as I concluded.\n\nLord Coleridge lifted his elbow from his desk, and addressed the jury:\n\n     \"Gentlemen, I should have been glad to have summed up this\n     evening, but the truth is, I am not very strong, and I propose\n     to address you in the morning, and that will give you a full\n     opportunity of reflecting calmly on the very striking and able\n     speech you have just heard.\"\n\nMy defence was a great effort, and it exhausted me. Until I had to\nexert myself I did not know how the confinement and the prison fare had\nweakened me. The reader will understand the position better if I remind\nhim that the only material preparation I had in the morning for the task\nof defending myself against Sir Hardinge Giffard and Mr. Maloney was\nsix ounces of dry bread and a little thin cocoa, which the doctor had\nordered instead of the \"skilly\" to stop my diarrhoea. The Governor\nkindly allowed one of my friends to fetch me a little brandy. Then we\ndrove back to prison, where I had some more dry bread and thin cocoa.\nThe next morning, after an exactly similar meal, we drove down again to\nthe court.\n\nLord Coleridge's summing-up lasted nearly two hours, and, like my\ndefence, it was listened to by a crowded court, which included a large\nnumber of gentlemen of the wig and gown. His lordship's address is\nreported at length in the \"Three Trials for Blasphemy,\" and a revised\ncopy was published by himself. His view of the law has been dealt with\nalready in my Preface. What I wish to say here is, that Lord Coleridge's\ndemeanor was in marked contrast with Judge North's. I cannot do better\nthan quote a few passages from an open letter I addressed to his\nlordship soon after my release:\n\n     \"How were my feelings modified by your lordship's lofty\n     bearing!  I found myself in the presence of a judge who was\n     a gentleman.  You treated me with impartiality, and a generous\n     consideration for my misfortunes.  No one could doubt your\n     sincerity when, in the midst of a legal illustration which might\n     be construed as a reflection on my character, you suddenly\n     checked yourself, and said, 'I mean no offence to Mr. Foote.\n     I should be unworthy of my position if I insulted anyone in his.'\n     You were scrupulously, almost painfully, careful to say nothing\n     that could assist the prosecution or wound my susceptibilities.\n     You appeared to tremble lest your own convictions should\n     prejudice you, and the jury through you, against me and my\n     fellow prisoner.  You listened with the deepest attention to\n     my long address to the jury.  You discussed all my arguments\n     that you considered essential in your summing-up; and you\n     strengthened some of them, while deprecating others, with a\n     logical force and beauty of expression which were at once my\n     admiration and my despair.  You paid me such handsome compliments\n     on my defence in the most trying circumstances as dispelled at\n     once the orthodox theory that I was a mere vulgar criminal.\n     In brief, my lord, you displayed such a lofty spirit of justice,\n     such a tenderness of humanity, and such a dignity of bearing,\n     that you commanded my admiration, my reverence and my love;\n     and if the jury had convicted me, and your lordship had felt\n     obliged by the 'unpleasant law' to inflict upon me some measure of\n     punishment, I could still have kissed the hand that dealt the blow.\n\n     \"I know how repulsive flattery must be to a nature like yours,\n     but your lordship will pardon one who is no sycophant, who\n     seeks neither to avert your frown nor to gain your favor, who\n     has no sinister object in view, but simply speaks from the\n     fulness of a grateful heart.  And you will pardon me if I say\n     that my sentiments are shared by thousands, who hate your creed\n     but respect your character.  They watched you throughout my\n     trial with the keenest interest, and they rejoiced when they\n     saw in you those noble human qualities which transcend all\n     dogmas and creeds, and dwarf all differences of opinion into\n     absolute insignificance.\"\n\nLord Coleridge also deserves my thanks for the handsome manner in which\nhe seconded my efforts to repudiate the odious charge of \"indecency,\"\nwhich had been manufactured by the bigots after my imprisonment. These\nare his lordship's words:\n\n    \"Mr. Foote is anxious to have it impressed on your minds that\n    he is not a licentious writer, and that this word does not fairly\n    apply to his publications.  You will have the documents before\n    you, and you must judge for yourselves.  I should say that he\n    is right.  He may be blasphemous, but he certainly is not licentious,\n    in the ordinary sense of the word; and you do not find him\n    pandering to the bad passions of mankind.\"\n\nI ask my readers to notice these clear and emphatic sentences, for we\nshall recur to them in the next chapter.\n\nThe jury retired at twenty minutes past twelve. At three minutes past\nfive they were discharged, being unable to agree. It was a glorious\nvictory. Acquittal was hopeless, but no verdict amounted practically to\nthe same thing. Two juries out of three had already disagreed, and as\nthe verdict of Guilty by the third had been won through the scandalous\npartiality and mean artifices of a bigoted judge, the results of our\nprosecution afforded little encouragement to fresh attacks on the\nliberty of the press.\n\nI have since had the pleasure of conversing with one of the jury.\nHimself and two others held out against a verdict of Guilty, and he told\nme that the discussion was extremely animated. My informant acted\non principle. He confessed he did not like my caricatures, and he\nconsidered my attacks on the Bible too severe; but he held that I had a\nperfect right to ridicule Christianity if I thought fit, and he refused\nto treat any method of attacking opinions as a crime. Of the other two\njurors, one was convinced by my address, and the other declared that\nhe was not going to assist in imprisoning like a thief \"a man who could\nmake a speech like that.\"\n\nThe next day I asked Lord Coleridge not to try the case again for a few\ndays, as I was physically unable to conduct my defence. His lordship\nsaid:\n\n     \"I have just been informed, and I hardly knew it before, what\n     such imprisonment as yours means, and what, in the form it has\n     been inflicted on you, it must mean; but now that I do know of\n     it, I will take care that the proper authorities know of it also,\n     and I will see that you have proper support.\"\n\nHis lordship added that he would see I had proper food, and he would\ntake the defence whenever I pleased. We fixed the following Tuesday.\nDuring the interim our meals were provided from the public-house\nopposite the prison gates. My diarrhoea ceased at once, and I so far\nrecovered my old form that I felt ready to fight twenty Giffards. But\nwe did not encounter each other again. Feeling assured that if Lord\nColeridge continued to try the case, as he obviously meant to until\nit was disposed of, they would never obtain a verdict, the prosecution\nsecured a _nolle prosequi_ from the Attorney-General. It was procured\nby means of an affidavit, containing what his lordship branded as an\nabsolute falsehood. So the prosecution, which began in bigotry and\nmalice, ended appropriately in a lie.\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV. LOSS AND GAIN.\n\n\nOur victory in the Court of Queen's Bench was an unmitigated loss to Sir\nHenry Tyler and his backers, for it threw upon them the whole costs of\nthe prosecution. It was also a loss to ourselves; for I have it on the\nbest authority that, if we had been found guilty, Lord Coleridge would\nhave made his sentence concurrent with Judge North's, and shifted us\nfrom the criminal to the civil side of the prison, where we should have\nenjoyed each other's society, worn our own clothes, eaten our own food,\nseen our friends frequently, received and answered letters, and spent\nour time in rational occupations. To the Freethought cause, however, our\nvictory was a pure gain. As I had anticipated, the press gave our new\ntrial a good deal of attention. The _Daily News_ printed a leading\narticle on the case, calling on the Home Secretary to remit the rest of\nour sentence. The _Times_ published a long and admirable report of my\ndefence, as well as of Lord Coleridge's summing-up, and predicted\nthat the trial would be historical, \"chiefly because of the remarkable\ndefence made by one of the defendants.\" A similar prediction appeared in\nthe Manchester _Weekly Times_, according to which \"the defendant Foote\nargued his case with consummate skill.\" Across the Atlantic, the _New\nYork World_ said that \"Mr. Foote, in particular, delivered a speech\nwhich, for closeness of argument and vividness of presentation, has not\noften been equalled.\" Even the grave and reverend _Westminster Review_\nfound \"after reading what the Lord Chief Justice himself characterises\nas Mr. Foote's very striking and able speech, that the editor of the\n_Freethinker_ is very far from being the vulgar and uneducated disputant\nwhich the _Spectator_ appears to have supposed him.\" Other Liberal\npapers, like the _Pall Mall Gazette_ and the _Referee_, that had at\nfirst joined in the chorus of execration over the fallen \"blasphemer,\"\nnow found that my sentence was \"monstrous.\"\n\nSo true is it that nothing succeeds like success! I did not let these\ncompliments turn my head. My speeches at the Old Bailey were little,\nif anything, inferior to the one I made in the Court of Queen's Bench.\nThere was no change in me, but only in the platform I spoke from. The\ngreat fact to my mind was this, that given an impartial judge, and a\nfair trial, it was difficult to convict any Freethinker of \"blasphemy\"\nif he could only defend himself with some courage and address. This fact\nshone like a star of hope in the night of my suffering. As I said in\none of my three letters from prison: \"For the first time juries have\ndisagreed, and chances are already slightly against a verdict of Guilty.\nNow the jury is the hand by which the enemy grasps us, and when we have\nabsolutely secured the twelfth man we shall have amputated the _thumb_.\"\n\nOn May 1 the following letter from Admiral Maxse appeared in the _Daily\nNews_:\n\n               \"TO THE EDITOR OF THE 'DAILY NEWS.'\n\n     SIR,--Foote's brilliant defence last week will probably have\n     awakened some fastidious critics to their error in having depicted\n     him as a low and coarse controversialist, while Lord Coleridge's\n     judgment will have convinced the public that had Lord Coleridge\n     occupied the place of Justice North, the defendant would have\n     escaped with a mild penalty.  In the meantime, Mr. Foote continues\n     to undergo what is virtually 'solitary confinement' in a cell,\n     and is condemned to this punishment for a year.  A more wicked\n     sentence, or a more wicked law, than the one which Mr. Foote\n     and his companions suffer from, is, in my opinion, impossible\n     to conceive, that is to say in a country which professes to\n     enjoy religious liberty.  His crime consisted in caricaturing\n     a grotesque representation of a religion which has certainly\n     a higher side.  People who are truly religious should be obliged\n     to Mr. Foote, if he managed to shock some people concerning any\n     feature of religion which is gross and degrading to that religion.\n     I know something of Mr. Foote, and I am quite certain he would\n     not say anything to shock a refined interpretation of religion.\n     Refined Christians are anxious themselves to get rid of the\n     excrescences of their creed.  The question at issue really is\n     as to whether a coarse picture of religion, and of one religion\n     only, is to be protected by the State from caricature, and from\n     caricature alone; because it seems to be granted that an\n     intellectual absurdity may be intellectually impeached.  It is\n     impossible such a monstrous doctrine as this can stand.  It will\n     pass away, and probably in a few years it will be remembered\n     with some astonishment; but oppressive and persecuting laws\n     are only got rid of by the spectacle of an impaled victim.\n     'By the light of burning heretics Christ's bleeding feet I track.'\n     The impaled victim is now Mr. Foote.  It is a disgrace to England\n     that his solitary confinement--twenty-three out of the twenty-four\n     hours are solitary--or indeed, that any punishment whatever is\n     possible for a man's style in religious controversy; and to a\n     Liberal it is profoundly humiliating that such a proceeding\n     takes place under a Liberal Government and without one word of\n     remonstrance in the House of Commons.  Where are the Radicals?--\n     Yours obediently,                               FREDK. A. MAXSE.\n     \"April 30th.\"\n\nLet me take this opportunity of thanking Admiral Maxse for his\ncourageous generosity on my behalf. Directly he heard of my infamous\nsentence he wrote me a brave letter, which the prison rules forbade my\nreceiving, stating that he would join in any agitation for my release,\nor for the repeal of the wretched law under which I was suffering \"the\nutmost martyrdom which society can at present impose.\" I have always\nregarded Admiral Maxse as one of the purest and noblest of our public\nmen, and I valued his sympathy even more than his assistance.\n\nFurther correspondence appeared in the _Daily News_, and the Liberal\npapers called on Sir William Harcourt to intervene. Memorials for our\nrelease flowed in from all parts of the country. One of these deserves\nespecial mention. The signatures were procured, at great expense of time\nand labor, by Dr. E. B. Aveling and an eminent psychologist who desired\nto avoid publicity. Among them I find the following names:--\n\nAdmiral Maxse George Bullen C. Crompton, Q.C. George Du Maurier Charles\nMaclaren, M.P. George Dixon Dr. G. J. Romanes Henry Sidgwick. Dr.\nCharlton Bastian Herbert Spencer Dr. Edward Clodd Hon. E. Lyulph\nStanley, M.P. Dr. E. B. Tylor J. Cotter Morison Dr. W. Aldis Wright\nJonathan Hutchinson Dr. Macallister John Collier Dr. E. Bond John Pettie\nDr. J. H. Jackson James Sully Dr. H. Maudsley Leslie Stephen Editor\n_Daily News_ Lient.-Col. Osborne Editor _Spectator_ P. A. Taylor, M.P.\nEditor _Academy_ Professor Alexander Bain Editor _Manchester Examiner_\nProfessor Huxley Editor _Liverpool Daily Post_ Professor Tyndall Francis\nGalton Professor Knight F. Guthrie, F.R.S. Professor E. S. Beesly\nFrederick Harrison Professor H. S. Foxwell G. H. Darwin Professor R.\nAdamson Professor G. Croom Robertson Rev. Dr. Fairbairn Professor E. Ray\nLancaster Rev. R. Glover Professor Drummond Rev. J. G. Rogers Professor\nT. Rhys Davids Rev. J. Aldis R. H. Moncrieff Rev. Charles Beard Rev. J.\nLlewellyn Davies Rev. Dr. Crosskey Rev. Dr. Abbot S. H. Vines Rev. A.\nAinger The Mayor of Birmingham Rev. Stopford A. Brooke\n\n\nI doubt whether such a memorial, signed by so many illustrious men,\nwas ever before presented to a Home Secretary for the release of any\nprisoners. But it made no impression on Sir William Harcourt, for the\nsimple reason that the signatories were not politicians, but only men of\ngenius. As the _Weekly Dispatch_ said, \"Sir William Harcourt never does\nthe right thing when he has a chance of going wrong.\" The _Echo_\nalso \"regretted\" the Home Secretary's decision, while the _Pall Mall\nGazette_, then under the editorship of Mr. John Morley, concluded its\narticle on the subject by saying, \"The fact remains that Mr. Foote is\nsuffering a scandalously excessive punishment, and that the Home Office\nmust now share the general condemnation that has hitherto been confined\nto the judge.\"\n\nOn July 11 a mass meeting was held in St. James's Hall to protest\nagainst our continued imprisonment. Despite the summer weather, the\nhuge building was crammed with people, every inch of standing room being\noccupied, and thousands turned away from the doors. Letters of sympathy\nwere sent by Canon Shuttleworth, Admiral Maxse and Mr. P. A. Taylor M.P.\nAmong the speakers were the Rev. W. Sharman, the Rev. S. D. Headlam, the\nRev. E. M. Geldart, Mr. C. Bradlaugh M.P., Mrs. Annie Besant, Dr. E. B.\nAveling, Mr. Joseph Symes, Mr. Moncure D. Conway and Mr. H. Burrows.\nThe greatest enthusiasm prevailed, and the resolutions were carried with\nonly two dissentients.\n\nStill Sir William Harcourt made no sign. At last Mr. Peter Taylor, the\nhonored member for Leicester, publicly interrogated the Home Secretary\nin the House of Commons. Mr. Taylor's question was as follows:\n\n     \"Mr. P. A. TAYLOR asked the Secretary of State for the Home\n     Department whether he had received memorials from many\n     thousands of persons, including clergymen of the Church of\n     England, Nonconformist ministers, and persons of high literary\n     and scientific position, asking for a mitigation of the sentences\n     of George William Foote and William James Ramsey, now imprisoned\n     in Holloway Gaol on a charge of blasphemy; whether they have\n     already suffered five months' imprisonment, involving until\n     lately confinement in their respective cells for twenty-three\n     hours out of every twenty-four, and now involving twenty-two\n     hours of such solitary confinement out of each 24; and whether\n     he will advise the remission of the remainder of their sentences.\"\n\nThereupon Sir William Harcourt reared his unblushing front and gave this\nanswer:\n\n     \"Sir WILLIAM HARCOURT--The question of my hon. friend is founded\n     upon misconception of the duties and rights of the Secretary of\n     State in reference to sentences of the law, which I have often\n     endeavoured to remove, but apparently with entire want of success.\n     It is perfectly true that I have received many memorials on this\n     subject, most of them founded on misconception of the law on\n     which the sentence rested.  This is not a matter I can take into\n     consideration, either upon my own opinion or upon that of 'clergymen\n     of the Church of England, Nonconformist ministers, and persons of\n     high literary and scientific position.'  I am bound to assume that\n     until Parliament alters the law that law is right, and that those\n     who administer the law administer it rightly.  If I took any other\n     course, outside my opinion--if I had one upon this subject--I should\n     be interfering with the making and with the administration of the law,\n     and transferring it from Parliament to the Executive and to a Minister\n     of the Crown.  I am quite sure my hon. friend would not like that\n     course.  It has been said, \"Oh, but you can deal with sentences.\"\n     (Hear, hear.)  Sentences must be dealt with not upon the assumption\n     that the law was wrong, and that the jury and judge were wrong,\n     but upon special circumstances applicable to the particular case\n     which would justify a Minister in recommending to the Crown a\n     remission of sentence.  What are the circumstances?  Nobody--I do\n     not care whether legal persons or belonging to the classes mentioned\n     in this question--who has not seen the publication can judge of\n     the matter.  I have seen it, and I have no hesitation in saying\n     that it is in the most strict sense of the word an obscene libel.\n     It is a scandalous outrage upon public decency.  (Opposition cheers.)\n     That being so, the law has declared that it is punishable by law.\n     I have no authority to declare that the law shall not be obeyed;\n     nor do I think that within less than half the period of the punishment\n     awarded by the Court, if I were to advise the Crown to remit the\n     sentence, I should be discharging the responsibility which rests\n     upon me with a sound or sober judgment.  (Opposition cheers, and\n     murmurs below the gangway.)\"\n\nThe Tory cheers which greeted this malicious reply suffice to condemn\nit. Sir William Harcourt has told many lies in his time, but this was\nthe most brazen of all. He knew we were not prosecuted for obscenity; he\nknew there was not a suggestion of indecency in our indictment; and\nhe had before him the distinct language of the Lord Chief Justice of\nEngland, exonerating us from the slander. Yet he deliberately libelled\nus, in a place where his utterances are privileged, in order to\nconciliate the Tories and please the bigots. Some of the Radical papers\nprotested against this wanton misrepresentation, but I am not aware that\na single Christian journal censured the lie which was used to justify\npersecution.\n\nFreethinkers have not forgotten Sir William Harcourt, nor have I. Some\nday we may be able to punish him for the insult. Meanwhile, I venture to\nthink that if the member for Derby and the editor of the _Freethinker_\nwere placed side by side, an unprejudiced stranger would have little\ndifficulty in deciding which of the two was the more likely to be\nbestial.\n\nPoor Mr. Ramsey, not knowing his man, innocently petitioned the Home\nSecretary from prison, pointing out that he was tried and imprisoned for\n_blasphemy_, asking to be released at once, and offering to supply Sir\nWilliam Harcourt with fresh copies of our Christmas Number for a new\ntrial for _obscenity_. Of course he received no reply.\n\nMy counsel, Mr. Cluer, gallantly defended my reputation in the columns\nof the _Daily News_, and he was supported by one of the Jury, who wrote\nas follows:\n\n     \"SIR,--From the reference in your short leader on the subject,\n     it appears that the Home Secretary, in answer to Mr. Taylor,\n     declined to consent to the release of Messrs. Foote and Ramsey,\n     on the ground that they had published an obscene libel.  On\n     the late trial before the Lord Chief Justice, certain numbers\n     of the _Freethinker_, on which the prisoners were being tried,\n     were charged by the prosecution with being (_inter alia_) blasphemous\n     and indecent.  The judge in the course of his remarks said, the\n     articles inculpated might be blasphemous, but assuredly they\n     were not indecent.  The opinion of Sir William Harcourt,\n     consequently, though in harmony with that of the junior counsel\n     for the prosecution, is altogether opposed to that of Lord Coleridge,\n     who was the judge in the case.\"\n\nThe _Daily News_ itself put the matter very clearly. \"Mr. Foote and\nMr. Ramsey,\" it said, \"were sent to prison by Mr. Justice North for\npublishing a blasphemous libel. Sir William Harcourt declines to release\nthem on the ground that they have published an obscene libel. It is not\nusual to keep Englishmen in gaol on the ground that they committed an\noffence of which they have not been convicted, and against which they\nhave had no opportunity of defending themselves.\" But Sir William\nHarcourt thought otherwise, and kept us in prison, acting at once as\nprosecutor, witness, jury and judge.\n\nMr. Gladstone was appealed to, but he \"regretted he could do nothing,\"\npresumably because we were only Englishmen and not Bulgarians. An answer\nto this piece of callous hypocrisy came from the London clubs. One\nresolution passed by the Combined Radical Clubs of Chelsea, representing\nthousands of working men, characterised our continued imprisonment as an\nindelible stigma on the Liberal Government.\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI. A LONG NIGHT.\n\n\nFeeling there was no prospect of release, and resigned to my fate, I\nsettled down to endure it, with a resolution to avail myself of every\npossible mitigation. Colonel Milman included us among the special\nexercise men, and we enjoyed the luxury of two outings every day; our\nsolitary confinement being thus reduced to twenty-two hours instead of\ntwenty-three. By finessing I also managed to get an old feather pillow\nfrom the store-room, which proved a comfortable addition to the wooden\nbolster. The alteration in our food I have already mentioned.\n\nSir William Harcourt did absolutely nothing for us, but the Secretary of\nthe Prison Commissioners gave instructions that we were to be treated\nas kindly as possible, so that \"nothing might happen\" to us. One of\nthe upper officers, whom I have seen since, told me we were a source\nof great anxiety to the authorities, and they were very glad to see our\nbacks.\n\nMr. Anderson called on me in my cell and asked what he could do for me.\n\n\"Open the front door,\" I answered.\n\nWith a pleasant smile he regretted his inability to do that.\n\n\"Well then,\" I continued, \"let me have something to read.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, \"I can do that. There are many books in the prison\nlibrary.\"\n\n\"But not one,\" I retorted, \"fit for an educated man to read. They are\nall selected by the chaplain.\"\n\n\"Well,\" he answered, \"I cannot give you what we haven't got.\"\n\n\"But why not let me have my own books to read?\" I asked.\n\nMr. Anderson replied that such a thing was unheard of, but I persisted\nin my plea, which Colonel Milman generously supported.\n\n\"Well,\" said Mr. Anderson, \"I suppose we must. Your own books may be\nsent in, and the Governor can let you have them two at a time. But, you\nknow, you mustn't have such writings as you are here for.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" I replied, \"you have the power to check that. They will all pass\nthrough the Governor's hands, and I will order in nothing but what\nColonel Milman might read himself.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said Mr. Anderson, with a humorous smile, which the Governor and\nthe Inspector shared, \"I can't say what Colonel Milman might like to\nread.\"\n\nThe interview ended and my books came. What a joy they were! I read\nGibbon and Mosheim right through again, with Carlyle's \"Frederick,\"\n\"French Revolution\" and \"Cromwell,\" Forster's \"Statesmen of the\nCommonwealth,\" and a mass of literature on the Rebellion and the\nProtectorate. I dug deep into the literature of Evolution. I read over\nagain all Shakespeare, Shelley, Spenser, Swift and Byron, besides a\nnumber of more modern writers. French books were not debarred, so I\nread Diderot, Voltaire, Paul Louis Courier, and the whole of Flaubert,\nincluding \"L'Education Sentimentale,\" which I never attacked before, but\nwhich I found, after conquering the apparent dullness of the first half\nof the first volume, to be one of the greatest of his triumphs. Mr.\nGerald Massey, then on a visit to England, was churlishly refused a\nvisiting order from the Home Office, but he sent me his two magnificent\nvolumes on \"Natural Genesis,\" and a note to the interim editor of the\n_Freethinker_, requesting him to tell me that I had his sympathy. \"I\nfight the same battle as himself,\" said Mr. Massey, \"although with a\nsomewhat different weapon.\" I was also favored with a presentation copy\nof verses by the one writer I most admire, whose genius I reverenced\nlong before the public and its critics discovered it. It would gratify\nmy vanity rather than my prudence to reveal his name.\n\nAgreeably to the proverb that if you give some men an inch they will\ntake an ell, I induced the Governor to let me pursue my study of\nItalian. First he allowed me a Grammar, then a Conversation Book, then\na Dictionary, then a Prose Reading Book, and then a Poetical Anthology.\nThese volumes, being an addition to the two ordinary ones, gave my\nlittle domicile a civilised appearance. Cleaners sometimes, when my\ndoor was opened, looked in from the corridor with an expression of awe.\n\"Why,\" I heard one say, \"he's got a cell like a bookshop.\"\n\nWith my books, my Italian, and my Colenso, I managed to kill the\ntime; and although the snake-like days were still long, they were less\nvenomous. Yet the remainder of my sentence was a terrible ordeal. I\nnever lost heart, but I lost strength. My brain was miraculously clear,\nbut it grew weaker as the body languished; and before my release I could\nhardly read more than an hour or two a day.\n\nThe only break in the monotony of my life was when I received a visit.\nMrs. Besant, Dr. Aveling, Mr. Wheeler and my wife, saw me occasionally;\neither in the ordinary way, at the end of every three months, or by\nspecial order from the Home Office. I saw my visitors in the prison\ncages, only our faces being visible to each other through a narrow\nslit. We stood about six feet apart, with a warder between us to stop\n\"improper conversation.\" I could not shake a friend's hand or kiss\nmy wife. The interviews lasted only half an hour. In the middle of a\nsentence \"Time!\" was shouted, the keys rattled, and the little oasis had\nto be left for another journey over the desert sand.\n\nEvery three months I wrote a letter on a prison sheet. Two sides were\nprinted on, and the others ruled wide, with a notice that nothing was to\nbe written between the lines. No doubt the authorities were anxious to\nsave the prisoners the pain of too much mental exertion. I foiled them\nby writing small, and abbreviating nearly every word. My letters were of\ncourse read before they were sent out, and the answers read before they\nreached me. No respect being shown for the privacies of affection,\nI addressed my letters to Dr. Aveling for publication in the\n_Freethinker_.\n\nOne of these documents lies before me as I write. It was the extra\nletter I sent to my wife before leaving, and contains directions as\nto clothes and other domestic matters. I venture to reproduce the\nadvertisement, which occupies the whole front page:\n\n     \"A prisoner is permitted to write and receive a Letter after\n     three months of his sentence have expired, provided his\n     conduct and industry have been satisfactory during that time,\n     and the same privilege will be continued afterwards on the same\n     conditions and at the same intervals.\n\n     \"All Letters of an improper or idle tendency, either to or\n     from Prisoners, or containing slang or other objectionable\n     expressions, will be suppressed.  The permission to write and\n     receive letters is given to the Prisoners for the purpose of\n     enabling them to keep up a connexion with their respectable\n     friends, and not that they may hear the news of the day.\n\n     \"All Letters are read by the Authorities of the Prison,\n     and must be legibly written, and not crossed.\n\n     \"Neither clothes, money, nor any other articles, are allowed\n     to be received by any Officers of the Prison for the use of\n     Prisoners; all parcels containing such articles intended for\n     Prisoners on discharge must bear outside the name of the\n     Prisoner, and be sent to the Governor, or they will not be\n     received.  Persons attempting otherwise to introduce any article\n     to or for a prisoner, are liable to a fine or imprisonment, and\n     the Prisoner concerned may be severely punished.\"\n\nThe authorities are not so careful about the letter being legible by its\nrecipient. They do not insert it in an envelope, but just fold it up\nand fasten it with a little gum, so that the letter is nearly sure to be\ntorn in the opening. The address is written on the back by the prisoner\nhimself, before the sheet is folded. Lines are provided for the purpose,\nand it is pretty easy to see what the letter is. Surely a little more\nconsideration might be shown for a prisoner's friends. _They_ are not\ncriminals, and as the prison authorities incur the expense of postage,\nthey might throw in a cheap envelope without ruining the nation.\n\nMr. Kemp was released on May 25 in a state of exhaustion. It is doubtful\nif he could have survived another three months' torture. What illness in\nthe frightful solitude of a prison cell is I know. I once caught a bad\ncold, and for the first time in my life had the toothache. It came on\nabout two o'clock in the afternoon, and as applications for the doctor\nare only received before breakfast, I had to wait until the next day\nbefore I could obtain relief. It arrived of itself about one o'clock.\nThe doctor had considerately left my case till last, in order to give me\nproper attention.\n\nMr. Ramsey was released on November 24. He was welcomed at the prison\ngates by a crowd of sympathisers, and entertained at a breakfast in the\nHall of Science, where he made an interesting speech. By a whimsical\ncalculation, I reckoned that I had still to swallow twenty-one gallons\nof prison tea and twelve prison sermons.\n\nChristmas Day was the only variation in the remainder of my \"term.\"\nBeing regarded as a Sabbath, it was a day of idleness. The fibre was\nremoved from my cell, my apartment was clean and tidy, a bit of dubbin\ngave an air of newness to my old shoes, and after a good wash and an\nenergetic use of my three-inch comb, I was ready for the festivities of\nthe season. After a sumptuous breakfast on dry bread, and sweet water\nmisnamed tea, I took a walk in the yard; and on returning to my cell I\nsat down and wondered how my poor wife was spending the auspicious day.\nWhat a \"merry Christmas\" for a woman whose husband was eating his heart\nout in gaol! The chapel-bell roused me from phantasy. While the other\nhalf of the prison was engaged in \"devotion,\" I did an hour's grinding\nat Italian, and read a chapter of Gibbon; after which I heard the\n\"miserable sinners\" return from the chapel to their cells.\n\nMy Christmas dinner consisted of the usual diet, and after eating it I\nwent for another brief tramp in the yard. The officers seemed to relax\ntheir usual rigor, and many of the prisoners exchanged greetings. \"How\ndid yer like the figgy duff?\" \"Did the beef stick in yer ribs?\" Such\nwere the flowers of conversation. From the talk I overheard, I gathered\nthat under the old management, while Holloway Gaol was the City Prison,\nall the inmates had a \"blow-out\" on Christmas Day, in the shape of beef,\nvegetables, plum-pudding, and a pint of beer. Some of the old hands,\nwho remembered those happy days, bitterly bewailed the decay of prison\nhospitality. Their lamentations were worthy of a Conservative orator at\na rural meeting. The present was a poor thing compared with the past,\nand they sighed for \"the tender grace of a day that is dead.\"\n\nAfter exercise I went to chapel. Parson Plaford preached a seasonable\nsermon, which would have been more heartily relished on a full stomach.\nHe told us what a blessed time Christmas was, and that people did\nwell to be joyful on the anniversary of their Savior's birth. Before\ndismissing us with his blessing to our \"little rooms,\" which was his\nhabitual euphemism for our cells, he remarked that he could not wish\nus a happy Christmas in our unhappy condition, but he would wish us a\npeaceful Christmas; and he ventured to promise us that boon if, after\nleaving chapel, we fell on our knees and besought pardon for our sins.\nMost of the prisoners received this advice with a grin, for their cell\nfloors were black-leaded, and genuflexions in their \"little rooms\" gave\nthem too much knee-cap to their trousers.\n\nAt six o'clock I had my third instalment of Christmas fare, the last\nmouthfuls being consumed to the accompaniment of church bells. The\nneighboring Bethels were announcing their evening performance, and the\nsound penetrated into my cell. True believers were wending their way\nto church, while the heretic, who had dared to deride their creed and\ndenounce their hypocrisy, was regaling himself on dry bread in one of\ntheir dungeons. The bells rang out against each other with a wild\nglee as I paced my narrow floor. They seemed mad with intoxication of\nvictory; they mocked me with a bacchanalian frenzy of triumph. Yet I\nsmiled grimly, for their clamor was no more than the ancient fool's\nshout, \"Great is Diana of the Ephesians.\" Great Christ has had his day\nsince, but he in turn is dead; dead in man's intellect, dead in man's\nheart, dead in man's life; a mere phantom, flitting about the aisles\nof churches, where priestly mummers go through the rites of a phantom\ncreed.\n\nI took my prison Bible and read the story of Christ's birth in Matthew\nand Luke, Mark and John having never heard of it or forgotten it. What\nan incongruous jumble of absurdities! A poor fairy tale of the world's\nchildhood, utterly insignificant beside the stupendous revelations\nof science. From the fanciful story of the Magi following a star to\nShelley's \"World on worlds are rolling ever,\" what an advance! As I\nretired to sleep on my plank-bed my mind was full of these reflections,\nand when the gas was turned out, and I was left in darkness and silence,\nI felt serene and almost happy.\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII. DAYLIGHT.\n\n\nA new day dawned for me on the twenty-fifth of February. I rose as usual\na few minutes before six. It was the morning of my release, or in prison\nlanguage my \"discharge.\" Yet I felt no excitement. I was as calm as my\ncell walls. \"Strange!\" the reader will say. Yet not so strange after\nall. Every day had been filled with expectancy, and anticipation had\ndiscounted the reality.\n\nInstead of waiting till eight o'clock, the usual breakfast hour,\nsuperintendent Burchell brought my last prison meal at seven. I wondered\nat his haste, but when he came again, a few minutes later, to see if I\nhad done, I saw through the game. The authorities wished to \"discharge\"\nme rapidly, before the hour when my friends would assemble at the prison\ngates, and so lessen the force of the demonstration. I slackened speed\nat once, drank my tea in sips, and munched my dry bread with great\ndeliberation. \"Come,\" said superintendent Burchell, \"you're very slow\nthis morning.\" \"Oh,\" I replied, \"there's no hurry; after twelve months\nof it a few minutes make little difference.\" Burchell put the words and\nmy smile together, and gave the game up.\n\nDown in the bathroom at the foot of the debtors' wing my clothes were\nset out, and some kind hand had spread a piece of bright carpet for my\nfeet. I dressed very leisurely. With equal tardiness I went through the\nceremony of receiving my effects, carefully checking every article,\nand counting the money coin by coin. The Governor tendered me half a\nsovereign, the highest sum a prisoner can earn. \"Thank you,\" I said,\n\"but I can't take their money.\" We had to go through the farce.\n\nIn the little gate-house I met Mr. Bradlaugh, Mrs. Besant, and my wife.\nColonel Milman wished us good-bye, the gate opened, and a mighty shout\nbroke from the huge crowd outside. From all parts of London they had\nwended in the early morning to greet me, and there they stood in their\nthousands. Yet I felt rather sad than elated. The world was so full of\nwrong, though the hearts of those men and women beat so true!\n\nAs our open carriage crawled through the dense crowd I saw men's lips\ntwitching and women shedding tears. They crowded round us, eager for\na shake of the hand, a word, a look. At length we got free, and drove\ntowards the Hall of Science, followed by a procession of brakes and\nother vehicles over half a mile long.\n\nThere was a public breakfast, at which hundreds sat down. I took a cup\nof tea, but ate nothing. After a long imprisonment I could not trust my\nstomach, and I had to make a speech.\n\nAfter Mr. Bradlaugh, Mrs. Besant and the Rev. W. Sharman (secretary of\nthe Society for the Repeal of the Blasphemy Laws), had made speeches,\nwhich I should blush to transcribe, I rose to respond. It was a ticklish\nmoment. But I found I had a voice still, and the words came readily\nenough. Concluding my address I said: \"I thank you for your greeting.\nI am not played out. I am thinner. The doctor told me I had lost two\nstone, and I believe it. But after all I do not think the ship's timbers\nare much injured. The rogues ran me aground, but they never made me haul\ndown the flag. Now I am floated again I mean to let the old flag stream\nout on the wind as of yore. I mean to join the rest of our fleet in\nfighting the pirates and slavers on the high seas of thought.\"\n\nAn hour afterwards my feet were on my own fender. I was _home_ again.\nWhat a delicious sensation after twelve months in a prison cell!\n\nFriends prescribed a rest at the seaside for me, but I felt that the\nbest tonic was work. In less than three days I settled everything. I\nresumed the editorship of the _Freethinker_ at once, and began filling\nup my list of engagements. On meeting the Committee, who had managed our\naffairs in our absence, I found everything in perfect order, besides a\nconsiderable profit at the banker's. Messrs. A. Hilditch, R. O. Smith,\nJ., Grout and G. Standring had given ungrudgingly of their time; Mr.\nC. Herbert, acting as treasurer, had kept the accounts with painstaking\nprecision; and Mrs. Besant had proved how a woman could take the lead of\nmen. Nor must I forget Mr. Robert Forder, the Secretary of the National\nSecular Society, who acted as shopman at our publishing office, and\nsustained the business by his assiduity. I had also to thank Dr. Aveling\nfor his interim editorship of the _Freethinker_, and the admirable\nmanner in which he had conducted _Progress_.\n\nThe first number of the _Freethinker_ under my fresh editorship appeared\non the following Thursday. In concluding my introductory address I said:\n\n     \"I promise the readers of the _Freethinker_ that they shall,\n     so far as my powers avail, find no diminution in the vigor and\n     vivacity of its attacks on the shams and superstitions of our age.\n     Not only the writer's pen, but the artist's pencil, shall be busy\n     in this good work; and the absurdities of faith shall, if possible,\n     be slain with laughter.  Priests and fools are, as Goldsmith said,\n     the two classes who dread ridicule, and we are pledged to an\n     implacable war with both.\"\n\nThe artist's pencil! Yes, I had resolved to repeat what I was punished\nfor. I left written instructions against the publication of Comic Bible\nSketches in the _Freethinker_ during my imprisonment; but although I\nwould not impose the risk on others, I was determined to face it myself.\nA fortnight after my release the Sketches were resumed, and they have\nbeen continued ever since. My reasons for this decision were expressed\nat a public banquet in the Hall of Science on March 12. I then said:\n\n     \"Mr. Bradlaugh has said that the Freethought party--which no\n     one will dispute his right to speak for--looks to me, among\n     others, after my imprisonment, to maintain with dignity whatever\n     position I have won.  I hope I shall not disappoint the expectation.\n     But I should like it to be clearly understood that I consider\n     the most dignified attitude for a man who has just left gaol\n     after suffering a cruel and unjust sentence, for no crime except\n     that of thinking and speaking freely, is to stand again for the\n     same right he exercised before, to pursue the very policy for\n     which he was attacked, precisely because he _was_ attacked,\n     and to flinch no hair's breadth from the line he pursued before,\n     at least until the opposition resorts to suasion instead of\n     force, and tries to win by criticism what it will never win\n     by the gaol.  It is my intention to-morrow morning to drive\n     to the West of London, and to leave the first copy of this week's\n     _Freethinker_ pulled from the press at Judge North's house with\n     my compliments and my card.\"\n\nProlonged applause greeted this announcement, and I kept my word. Judge\nNorth had the first copy of the re-illustrated _Freethinker_ and I\nhope he relished. At any rate, it showed him, as John Bright says, that\n\"force is no remedy.\"\n\nAt the banquet I refer to I was presented with a purse of gold, in\ncommon with Mr. Ramsey, and an Illuminated Address, which ran as\nfollows:\n\n     \"To GEORGE WILLIAM FOOTE, Vice-President of the National Secular\n     Society, who suffered for twelve months in Holloway Gaol for the\n     so-called offence of Blasphemy.\n\n     \"In offering you on your release this illuminated address, and\n     the accompanying purse of gold, we do not seek to give you\n     recompense for the sufferings and insults which have been\n     heaped upon you.  We bring them only as a symbol of our thanks\n     to you--thanks, because, on your trial, you spoke nobly for\n     the right of free speech on religious questions; thanks,\n     because you bore, without a sign of flinching, a sentence\n     at once cruel and unjust; thanks, because you have carried\n     on our days the traditions of a Freethought faithful in the\n     prison as on the platform.\n\n     \"Signed on behalf of the National Secular Society\n     C. BRADLAUGH, President.\n     R. FORDER, Secretary.\"\n\n\nGreatly also did I value the greeting I received, with my two fellow\nprisoners, from the working men of East London. At a crowded meeting in\nthe large hall of the Haggerston Road Club, attended by representatives\nof other associations, I was presented with the following address:\n\n     \"The Political Council of the Borough of Hackney Workmen's Club\n     present this testimonial to George William Foote as a token of\n     admiration of the courage displayed by him in the advocacy of\n     free speech, and in sympathy for the sufferings endured during\n     twelve months' imprisonment for the same under barbarous laws\n     unfitted for the spirit of a free people.\n\n     \"Signed on behalf of the Council\n     ALFRED PIKE, President.\n     CHAS. KNIGHT, Secretary.\"\n\n\nThe largest audience that ever assembled at the Hall of Science listened\nto my first lecture, at which Mr. Bradlaugh presided, two days after my\nrelease. Seventeen hundred people crowded into a room that seats nine\nhundred, and as many were unable to gain admission. Similar welcomes\nawaited me in the provinces; and ever since my audiences, as well as\nthe sale of my journal and writings, have been far larger than before\nmy imprisonment. Hundreds of people, as they have told me, have\nbeen converted to Freethought by my sufferings, my lectures, and my\npamphlets. I hope Judge North is satisfied.\n\nTo prevent a break-down in case of another prosecution, Mr. Ramsey and\nI clubbed our resources, and purchased printing plant and machinery,\nso that the production of the _Freethinker_ and other \"blasphemous\"\nliterature might be done under our own root. The bigots had proved\nthemselves unable to intimidate us, and as we were no longer at\nthe mercy of printers they gave up the idea of molesting us. May\nFreethinkers ever act in this spirit, and be true to the great\ntraditions of our cause!\n\n\n                         F I N I S","title":"Prisoner for Blasphemy","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":65138}