Sunday World - Sunday, April 21, 1895

LONDON ECHOES.
(BY THE "SUNDAY WORLD’S" SPECIAL CORRESPONDENT.)

London, Saturday.
OSCAR WILDE IN HOLLOWAY PRISON.

I have accidentally caught a glimpse of Mr Oscar Wilde in Holloway Prison, through the opening of a door leading to the exercise ground, while some prisoners in charge of warders were wheeling through some plants in a barrow. The playwright and poet was the cynosure of every eye on the exercise ground; and, as a remand prisoner, wore his own clothes. He had on a high glossy silk hat, a black frock coat faced with silk, and was walking in a circle with a short interval between him and the other inmates of his portion of the great London Penitentiary. As the majority in this exercise ground wear the prison garb, he was of course a very conspicuous figure; and it was a melancholy spectacle to see the group of men walking round and round, watched by warders, and not permitted to speak to each other. Discipline is very strict at Holloway, as indeed in most prisons, and the slightest departure from the rules is rebuked either by word of mouth or by the warder’s whistle. The apostle of Aestheticism, as an unconvicted prisoner, has availed himself of the privilege of hiring a private room. The difference between one of these apartments and an ordinary cell is that the floor is hoarded instead of concreted, and that it has a proper table—not a mere shelf in a corner of the wall. It has also a baize table-cloth, and one or two extra articles of furniture, while the vessels are somewhat better than in the ordinary cells. But here the difference ends, as it has the same heavy iron door, the same regulations as to locking at stated hours, and the occupant is obliged to clean it out and keep the various utensils for eating and drinking bright, like the other captives. He also has to wear the yellow felt badge, which bears his prison number, or rather the number of the cell he occupies; for the private room is really one of the numbered cells, exteriorly. This is, of course, a very conspicuous ornament to the dramatist’s fine frock coat. It is about the size of the metal insignia with number which is worn by a Dublin cabman, and affixed similarly to a button on the front of the coat. The "regime" at Holloway is as follows:—Shortly before six in the morning the day warders relieve the men on night duty, and a bell is rung by hand in each of the huge wings. This is the signal for the convicts and prisoners to arise from their hard beds. They have then to clean the vessels used for their food and water; to sweep out the cell, and scrub the floor about at least once per week. The cell door is then closed, and by about seven o’clock the prisoners are supposed to have washed themselves, drawn their supplies of water for drinking and ablutions for next day; folded up their sheets and blankets, after the regulation style; rolled up the mattress and pillow, and laid them together in their appointed places. Breakfast is then served by the warders in a tin with a top which holds the bread. Those who get supplies from outside are served in the same vessels as the ordinary prisoners, and the only article of delf in the cell is a plate. The dinner and breakfast must alike be eaten with a wooden spoon. Where a prisoner, however, gets his meals supplied from outside the prison, he is allowed to use a knife and fork, but it is carefully taken away the moment he has finished his repast. After breakfast the cells are unlocked, and the prisoners have to go to church or chapel every morning. From ten to twelve they go out to exercise; then dinner is served in the cells, which are locked again until two, when they go out again for exercise until five. Supper is then served in the same way as breakfast, and the cells are locked up for the night. On Sundays there are two longer church services, and the prisoners have to retire at four oclock in the afternoon. This is a long spell, and many of the captives find it wearisome. They are furnished with books of an instructive or religious character, which are changed at regular intervals; and they usually read in the cells as long as the waning daylight permits them to see the print, and then go to bed. There is no gas lit in the prisons after an early period in the year. Tobacco is absolutely forbidden, but prisoners supplying themselves are allowed to have in either a pint of beer, cider, or half a pint or eight ounces of wine per diem. That is the full extent of the privileges allowed to favoured or wealthy individuals awaiting trial like Mr Wilde.

It is estimated that Mr Wilde was making about ten thousand pounds per annum by royalties from his plays. In having three running at the one time in London he has certainly broken all previous records among English or Irish playwrights. His name has been removed from the theatre bills, but they are still running, and his royalties with them. The section of the Act of Parliament under which Mr Wilde will be tried is one for which the extreme penalty is two years’ hard labour. Among the prison officials it is said that "no man can do two years’ hard labour," which, on account of the diet and regulations, is much worse than five years’ penal servitude. Indeed, experienced medical officers in the prison service, and the prison governors, declare that the sentence is cruel. Certainly few ordinary mortals have constitutions equal to the terrible strain; for penal servitude convicts get meat very frequently, and necessarily so, their work being very hard. Ernest Jones, the Chartist, got two years’ hard labour, and died after his release. Few men live through the savage ordeal, and prison officials complain of judges imposing such sentences, saying no ordinary man is able to stand it, for if they do not break down before the time is up they are never the same men after it. Two years of hard toil and low diet will often kill the strongest men; and it is a matter which ought to be reformed, for to slowly torture men to death is really not much less than judicial murder. Sentences should be really twelve months’ hard labour, or three years’ penal servitude, as the latter sentence carries with it the superior diet, and convicts know this very well, which is the reason so many plead for heavy sentences. In our prisons the pangs of hunger tame the most violent prisoners more effectually than even the lash.