Tag: Merthyr Express

Memories of Old Merthyr

We conclude our serialisation of the memories of Merthyr in the 1830’s by an un-named correspondent to the Merthyr Express, courtesy of Michael Donovan.

© William Menelaus (1818-1882); Hagarty, Parker; Cardiff University; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/william-menelaus-18181882-15929

To some it is probable that to say much of Dowlais and leave the name of Mr Wm. Menelaus not prominently mentioned is like enacting the play “Hamlet” and leave out Hamlet himself. To such it is fair to say my knowledge of the place is antecedent to meeting with that gentleman prior to his going there. That he did much to keep up the prestige of the place is truthfully admitted. That he did not accomplish all his desires is also a fact; his intention and actual conversion of some portion of the works to another branch of manufacture can be doubtless recalled by many. Let me bear my humble tribute to his memory. Wishing Dowlais well, I will now part with it, and hope its future will be prosperous.

Instead of returning to Merthyr by the road, let us take a pleasanter way, and, mounting some steps by the roadside at Gellifaelog, cross by the footpath over a field or two, and then take the lane (or maybe paved road) back, passing by Gwaunfarren across the limestone tramroad there (there was also a limekiln close by), and we are close to the Penydarren Park again.

Before making my congé, let me recall some things that are now gone, most probably gone forever. One is the ‘Merched y Wern’ from Neath; they were well known, Their vocation in life some 60 or 70 years ago was to go to Swansea Pottery, and, getting a large crate or basket, in reality of ware, return to Neath upon the next morning loaded with the ware, walk to Merthyr to dispose of it. They were necessarily hardy and masculine. During their walks shoes or boots, as well as stockings, were taken off, only to be put on when entering a populous place. They were generally reputed to be well able to protect themselves. Generally there were two, three or four together, and evil betide any who raised their wrath. There is a tale of a man having said something being induced to accompany them for awhile, when at a suitable place he was denuded of clothing and bound a la Mazeppa – not to a horse but to a tree. Cwm-ynys Minton, not far from the Gelly Tarw junction, is the locus in quo of the episode.

Another class that has passed away are the old butter carriers, who, with their cart and horse, took weekly journeys from various parts of Carmarthenshire. They travelled 36 or even 48 hours at a stretch. Occasionally two or three would be in company; at night, some were thus able to sleep in their carts.

Then again there were the sand girls who earned a livelihood by gathering the stones from the river, calcining them and by ‘pounding’ reduce them to sand for use for domestic purposes. There are some stones far more suitable than others for this purpose – those of the silicious kind being more in request. However clear of them the river might be occasionally, a heavy flood brought down another stock, and so it went on. I am not aware if any such an employment now exists, but formerly the river from Caepantywyll to the bottom of Caedraw was the hunting ground of the sand girls.

The River Taff below Jackson’s Bridge, possibly showing some sand girls collecting stones. Reproduced by permission of The National Library of Wales Creative Archive Licence

The produce of the works, too, has undergone a strange metamorphosis. Not only are there no iron bars now made for tin works, but split rods have ceased to be so, and, while formerly large cargoes of ‘cable iron’ went to the Grecian Archipelago and other places in the Mediterranean, in vain should I look in all of South Wales for a bar bent to the shape of the camel’s back for conveyance across the desert. Advisedly, I say thousands of tons have gone from Merthyr for such a mode of conveyance.

‘Cable’ iron was also made, but if made now cannot be made from similar materials to what it used to be. I do not know of any South Wales works making cold blast all mine iron, but, if there is such it certainly not contiguous to Merthyr, where it was at one time made. Do not, however, suppose I consider Merthyr drawing to the close of its career:

“For I doubt not through the ages an increasing purpose runs,
And the thoughts of men are widened by the process of the suns”

Here for the present do I close but if “The sunset of life gives me mystified life” and coming events cast their shadows before my brain, I may endeavour to say a few words respecting “What of the future?”

A Great Storm at Merthyr

100 years ago today, the Merthyr Express published the following pictures showing the damage caused to the Salvation Army Citadel earlier in the month.

Merthyr Express – 24 January 1925

The New Year in 1925 was ushered in with terrific storms which lasted for several weeks.

The bad weather began over the Christmas period and affected most of Wales and Southern England. On New Year’s Eve the storm intensified with high winds, thunder and lightning, torrential rain and hail. Lightning struck the winding plant at No 1 Pit at Deep Navigation Colliery in Treharris, damaging the the electric motor and compressor. Luckily no-one was injured, but several miners were trapped underground, eventually escaping via No 2 pit where the winding gear was steam powered. The plant was again hit by lightning on Sunday 4 January, damaging the turbine engine which was being used to supply electricity to the plant whilst the machinery damaged on New Year’s Eve was being repaired.

That same weekend saw the full force of the storm affecting other parts of Merthyr. Dozens of houses had slates blown off their roofs, and a large portion of the roof at Cyfarthfa Stables was torn away.

The worst damage was done when the Morlais Brook overwhelmed the culvert that carried it underneath the road next to the Salvation Army Citadel. The culvert collapsed and severely damaged the foundations of the building.

As a result, the Citadel, which had formerly been Morlais Chapel had to be demolished, and a new building was erected in its place.

The Dark Side of Convict Life – part 24

by Barrie Jones

Chapter XXI. Henry recounts the remainder of his journey from Parkhurst Prison and his arrival at Merthyr Tydfil station, where is met by his mother and two younger sisters.  

The Dark Side of Convict Life (Being the Account of the Career of Harry Williams, a Merthyr Man). Merthyr Express, 18th June 1910, page 11.

Chapter XXI

As stated in my last chapter, I changed at Newport Mon., and had to wait some time before the motor train came in, and while patrolling the platform I was accosted by a young woman, who with tears in her eyes, one of which was black and blue, told me a pitiful tale of how she had run away from her husband, a Spaniard, who had brutally ill-treated her. In addition to the black eye the wretch had evidently used a knife upon her, as one of her hands was also bandaged up. Seeing me in a blue pilot suit she took me for a sailor. “I suppose,” says she, “you’ve just come from sea?” I said “yes, and I’ve had rather a long spell of it, too.” It was quite true, for I had crossed from Cowes to Southampton, although it was only twelve miles of water.

Thinking I must be the possessor of some money she asked me if I would lend her 1s. 6d. as she wished to go to her mother, living at a certain place, and that she would leave me her wedding ring as a security, which she did not wish to pawn, and I did not like to take. Finally, I asked her whether her tale was bona-fide, and assuring me that it was, I gave her the money, although I had only a few shillings until I reached my home. She immediately flung her arms around my neck, and the smack of her lips sounded all over the station. You can imagine my feelings, for I blushed from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet, but it was her sudden joy, mixed with passion, that prompted her to do so, and I must confess that if it had not been for the wedding ring she wore I should have fallen in love with her there and then, passing over her black eye and damaged hand.

The train came in at last, and I stepped in the carriage, and just as the train was leaving the woman held out her hand and, of course, I shook it. She also made a daring attempt to repeat what she had already done, but she was too late, for she kissed the window instead, and I saw her wave her poor, bloodstained bandaged hand long after the train had left Newport. If you like, you can draw a moral from all this, for a man who ill-treats a woman, no matter what she has done, is a cad, and I’m not going to apologise for saying so, and I can assure you, all the way to my destination I resolved to lead  a better life, and with God’s help, to live down the past.

After a decent journey, the train arrived at Troedyrhiw. I said to myself, “Only one more station, Abercanaid, and then I shall soon be in Merthyr.” Looking out of the carriage window my eyes fell on the Gethin Colliery, then further up was the Cwm Pit, where I had met with the accident years ago, and where I little thought I should work again so soon.

Merthyr at last. I got out of the train leisurely walking up the platform, having  a good look out to see if I knew anyone. I had not gone far before I saw the backs of one aged and two young women, each of the latter nursing a child. I edged up a little nearer to them, and heard one say, “I wonder if that’s him over there,” pointing to another man. “No, he’s too tall to be him.” “But he might have grown, mam,” she answered.

I’m sure I should never have known them, if I had not heard the topic of their conversation. Nine years absence makes a great alteration. I thought it was about time for me to turn around, but no sooner had I done so and our eyes met, than the youngest woman, who was my sister Louisa, gave a shriek that could be heard in the Isle of Wight, so to speak, for there, half-laughing and half-crying, stood my darling old mother and two sisters.

“Whatever have you got there in the shawl?” says I to the youngest. “It’s a baby, Harry,” says she. “What! A baby?” says I. “You don’t mean to say you’re married?” says I. “For if you have done it, the best thing you can do is to go to the parson and tell him you only did it for a lark.” “I think,” says the witty little creature, “the best thing you can do is to come with us to the barber’s shop and get that beard taken off for really you look a fright.” And sure enough to a barber’s shop I did go, and got it off.

After the operation they escorted me to the home of my childhood, where I had a kind welcome from most of the inhabitants, who had known me from a child. Although I had been  a wild one I was liked by all.

To be continued….

Memories of Old Merthyr

We continue our serialisation of the memories of Merthyr in the 1830’s by an un-named correspondent to the Merthyr Express, courtesy of Michael Donovan.

The men were from the Atlas Works (Sharp, Roberts & Co). Richard Roberts had previously been at Dowlais, and Lady Charlotte, in showing him around, took him into the church, where he remarked what a splendid fitting shop it would be.

The No 5 blast engine was, at the time of its erection, the largest ever made, and it had two steam cylinders – after the Hornblower or Woolf type, and to get all the valves to work properly, was then thought difficult – in fact, they did not work as well as desirable. Amongst the persons had for consultation was Mr Brunton from Hornsley. He it was that first brought the application of a fan for the ventilation of collieries into notice, I can recall his models and explanation. It was not readily adopted. Furnaces were very simple, and there was not much thought of economy of coal, but the furnace was dangerous. This was palliated by means of a dumb drift, but as far as I know, no colliery of any size uses a furnace for its ventilation.

Simple and efficient as the arrangement was for letting persons know the boiler was short of water it was not quite as perfect as the following will show.

Mr John Evans, on looking at the boilers of the furnace at the Ivor works, when everything was in full work, noticed the whistles (that is the only thing visible thing in the arrangement for making a noise if feed was low) were all covered, and speaking to the attendant, found he had designedly wrapped some ‘gasket’ around to prevent noise. With some cause Mr Evans was in a passion, so he ordered the man off at a moment’s notice, and sent for the writer, telling him to get the feed right. There were four boilers, and every one was in low water. The engine was doing its full work, and therefore taking steam; the fireman was firing as hard as usual to supply the necessary steam, but no water was going into the boilers to form the steam.

On examination, I found the bottom valve of the feed pump was deranged, and the anxiety and fear I experienced can be recalled now. Mr Evans, as soon as he told me, went off to the old works to send an attendant thence, but was more than an hour before he came, and in the interim, having got the valve right, the boilers were being replenished. Even then, however, danger was not over, for cold water going upon hot plates is apt to get into the molecular condition, and instead of taking up heat quietly, and get into a kind of bubble then explode. Boutigny has since done much to exemplify it, and in his work on “Heat a mode of motion”, Tyndall has fully explained it, but at that time neither had been heard of. The fact was known, but ascribed to another cause.

However, to my great relief, everything passed off safely, and without derangement of working. More than once I inclined to stop the engine. This would naturally draw all the furnace men about me, when it was likely that the imminence of danger would have caused all to get as far away and as quickly as ever they could. The experience of that hour has, however, never been forgotten.

To be continued at a later date…..

The Dark Side of Convict Life – part 23

by Barrie Jones

Chapter XX. Henry recounts the day of his discharge from Parkhurst Prison, after serving a period of imprisonment just three months short of his nine year sentence.  

The Dark Side of Convict Life (Being the Account of the Career of Harry Williams, a Merthyr Man). Merthyr Express, 11th June 1910, page 9.

Chapter XX

I do not think that, after the events related in my last chapter, you would care to hear more of them, so I will give an account of my liberation. I was released from Parkhurst Prison in August, 1907, having served eight years and nine months of my sentence, the remaining three was all I was granted. On the happy morning of my discharge I left the prison at 6.30, together with a gang of convicts who were escorted to Dartmoor Prison to serve the remainder of their time. We all got into a four-wheeler, which was to carry us to Cowes, and a nice journey it was, too, at least, for me – the other poor fellows had their chains on. After the six miles had been covered we arrived at Cowes pier-head, where we were taken into a waiting room. It was some time before the boat arrived which was to take us across to Southampton. She arrived at last, and the chained gang was led aboard, and I followed.

But how about my ticket-of-leave and the few shillings gratuity? This is where the stringent part of the rules governing discharged convicts comes into force.

No convicts are allowed to be in possession of anything until the boat moves from the landing stage, and not until then can a convict say he is a free man. An officer who accompanies him stands on the pier-head after seeing him safely on board, and as soon as the boat glides away from the side he stretches forth his arms and hands over to the convict his ticket-of-leave together with his gratuity sealed in a n envelope, and he is then left to fight in the world against sin. I can well remember when on board ship one of the convicts who was being escorted to Dartmoor asked me if I would pay for a drink for him. “Certainly,” I said, and going over to the bar where drinks were sold, I was on the point of ordering a glass for all six of them, when up came the  warder in charge saying, “Now, I cannot allow this, Williams; it is strictly against the rules.” It was a very hot day, and the poor fellows were almost dropping with thirst, so I up and said, “shall I order a cup of coffee for each of them.” “I have my rules, and I must obey them,” replied the officer, and at the same time he had a glass of beer before him. Certainly, he was on duty, and was not supposed to eat or drink while on duty, and he, knowing this, refused the poor fellows a drink. They would receive nothing till they arrived at Dartmoor Prison, and then it would only be a pint of water. one or two of the convicts when they heard this, called him cruel. Convicts are all accustomed to ill-treatment, and do not mind, especially at the time of escort, to pour some sweet words into the ears of the officer, and in the hearing of the public, and a good thing, too, if a newspaper reporter had been on board that day to have heard the request and refusal, and seen the officer enjoying his own glass.

Arriving at Southampton the gang bade me good-bye and wished me luck, and in return, I said, “Cheer up, for there will come your time someday,” and with that I left them. I arrived at the railway station, but had no sooner done so than two gentlemen who had seen me waving good-bye to the gang, entered into conversation with me, asking me if I had been serving time at Parkhurst, and several other questions, which I felt was no harm to answer. I had purchased a pipe and some tobacco and the gentlemen seeing me trying to burst myself at the first draw, asked me if I would like a nice cigar or two, which, of course, I accepted. Instead of smoking them I rolled one of them up in a small plug, and put it into my cheek, but I was sorry after that I had done so for they both gave way to a fit of laughter, which caused the other occupants of the carriage to do the same. Anyhow, I took it all in good part, and seeing that one of the gentlemen said to me, “Why do you chew it instead of smoking it?” “God bless you, sir,” says I, “this is the first chew of genuine stuff I have had for nine years.” They very nearly jumped from the seat of the carriage when they heard the sentence I had undergone and the offences I had committed. One said, “Poor fellow,” and turning to his friend said, “That’s where the injustice of the laws of this country come in. That poor chap has no earthly chance whatever.” I think they said it was a thing that wanted badly looking into. I received good advice from these gentlemen, and one of them left me his address, but somehow or other I dropped it.

Thus the train steaming into Newport Station put all end to our conversation, when they wished me good luck. I stepped out of the carriage on to the platform to await the motor train, which was to convey me to Merthyr Tydfil, and to the home of my childhood.

To be continued….

The Dark Side of Convict Life – part 22

by Barrie Jones

Chapter XIX. Henry recounts his association with the convict Samuel Blisset and how he helps pass on a message to Samuel’s daughter, Hannah Williams, following his release from Parkhurst. Blisset shot his wife Margaret on the 15th November 1894 outside her shop at 112 Ivor Street, Dowlais. Margaret a ‘well known’ greengrocer, died of her wounds on the following day. 

The Dark Side of Convict Life (Being the Account of the Career of Harry Williams, a Merthyr Man). Merthyr Express, 28th May 1910, page 11.

Chapter XIX

THE DOWLAIS TRADEGY RECALLED

During my stay in Parkhurst, I never got into much trouble, for though I was passed as perfectly sane, nevertheless, I was well treated by the doctors. Parkhurst is well known as the dead station; the last camping place it has been to many of the criminal class. Men suffering from all manner of diseases are to  found here – consumption, heart disease, pleurisy, dropsy, and a great many fit cases. I was in Parkhurst over three years, and during that time not one single week passed without some poor, unfortunate passing away to the unseen world.

I was surprised to see down there poor Samuel Blisset, who was sentenced to twenty years on the 12th of November, 1894, for the manslaughter of his wife, and I cannot help thinking that his case did not merit the heavy sentence passed upon him for, when all is said and done, it was more of an accident than a crime, and there is doubt that if had had been allowed to go into the witness box, as is done these days, and give his own evidence, then he might have cleared himself. I had not much of a chance beyond a passing word to speak to him, but I can well remember a few weeks before my liberation telling him that I would take a message to his daughter in Dowlais, and after some difficulty in searching I found her, and I received a great welcome. The poor woman had evidently been trying and trying to get her dear father’s sentence remitted, but the poor woman’s application each time met with a refusal. Samuel Blisset was fifty-four years of age at the time of his trial, and I suppose he was given the heavy sentence thinking he would not live to see it through. But what man proposes, God disposes, and Samuel Blisset now has his liberty, and is now restored to his daughter to live the remainder of his life in peace and happiness, and when the time comes he will not be buried in a convict’s grave, where no flowers nor headstones marks the place. Let us hope that Samuel Blisset will live with his daughter for many years yet. For a convict is a man who has a heart that can feel joy and sorrow just like another, so do not treat him worse because misfortune is his curse. But he is the son of some mother, remember.

Before closing this chapter I will give an account of a poor, week-minded lad, for he was far away from budding-manhood. This young fellow’s name was Calladine, and he was subject to fits, and very bad fits they were, too, which took him some time to get out of them. He was a light-hearted – although light-headed – friendly, little fellow, and many a chat we had together, but his conversation pointed strongly to brain trouble, for sometimes when speaking to one he would suddenly stop and look into the sky, as if looking for his next words. It was heart rending to hear him speak of his coming liberty, but the poor little chap never dreamt that in a few weeks’ time he would be laid to rest in the convict’s cemetery at Newport. One morning, coming over the steps of the Protestant Chapel, this poor fellow fell down in a  fit. He was taken to a hospital, and after recovering, he declined to stay there. While in the straight jacket I heard his shouts and cries, which were most pitiful to hear, and I was working at the time sweeping the gutters underneath the padded cells. The following night he was taken from the infirmary to the separate cells, ready to appear before the governor the next morning, but when the officer opened his cell door, poor Calladine was cold and stiff, having expired during the night.

To be continued…..

Memories of Old Merthyr

We continue our serialisation of the memories of Merthyr in the 1830’s by an un-named correspondent to the Merthyr Express, courtesy of Michael Donovan.

It was at the Dowlais Works the Bessemer process for the conversion of pig into malleable iron was tried, with the result, as told me by Sir Henry himself, “I was knocked down on my back, and for two years could not get up again”. The Bessemer process, as everyone knows, is to blow air through the molten metal and so burn the carbon out, but many years before that blowing steam through molten iron in the puddling was tried there. The furnace with the apparatus was seen in the upper forge – that is, between the Dowlais office and the fitting shop.

The Bessemer converter

Sir John himself conceived the idea of running the iron direct from the blast furnace into the refinery, so as to avoid the remelting usually followed. It was used for a while at the Ivor Works at the furnace next to the engine-house on the Pant side, but the refinery process itself was soon superseded to a great extent.

The Bessemer Converter at Dowlais Ironworks in 1896. Photo courtesy of the Alan George Archive

It was at Dowlais the very first steam whistle was made, and although the tale has been previously told, the use of the whistle for railway purposes is so extensive that it will be again told in the words of the inventor himself as told to me personally by him.

For the better understanding of it allow my saying that a column of water about 27 inches high gives a pressure of a pound for every square inch of its area, and for the feeding of his boilers James Watt had designed an automatic arrangement, based upon the weight above mentioned. Even up to 10lbs, a standpipe 270m inches high would suffice, but when it comes to 50lbs the pipe would be excessive, and as some little looking after is needed, it would be rather inconvenient, so that the regulation of the feed became dependent on the care of the stoker, he being guided by the use of gauge cocks. Stokers are human, and therefore remiss; the feed goes too low, overheating of the plates follows. This reduces their strength, perhaps, too, the steam pressure increases, and disaster follows.

Adrian Stephens inventor of the first steam whistle

Something of this kind happened, and Sir John asked Adrian Stephens if it were possible to arrange something to indicate that the feed was getting low. The upshot of the conversation was that one of the pipes from the organ in the house was sent for Stephens’ consideration. In Watts’ arrangement a float was used for governing the feed, and Stephens very naturally followed the idea. The idea of an inside valve was evolved, and by the passing of steam through the organ pipe sound was produced. It then occurred to Stephens that if the emission aperture were made all around the pipe it would be better, and he made it so.

It did not bring him profit, nor was he ever honoured as he should have been. Some Manchester workmen were then down with tools for the fitting-shop, and they either communicated or took the idea back there, and not as a regulator for feed, but as a means of calling attention the whistle became used in locomotion.

To be continued at a later date…..

The Dark Side of Convict Life – part 21

by Barrie Jones

Chapter XVIII. Henry recounts his removal from the asylum hall, and his work on a ‘labour privileged party’.

The Dark Side of Convict Life (Being the Account of the Career of Harry Williams, a Merthyr Man). Merthyr Express, 21st May 1910, page 9.

Chapter XVIII

After the event related in my last chapter I could not possibly remain in C Hall any longer, so I applied to the medical officer for a removal to another part of the prison, but my request was refused. After a further interview with the doctor, that worthy granted my request, and I was transferred to a prison known as A Hall, and placed among the intellectual convicts, that is to say the right-minded men. One morning early in the year 1907 I was told off parade to join No. 19 party. There were only eight men in this party, and our work was cut out for us, it being a first-class labour privileged party. We were occupied in drawing a coal cart, each man being supplied with a collar attached to a strong rope, after the manner of horses, and our work was to bring coal for the hospitals, blacksmiths, shoe maker’s shop, etc. In the afternoon of each day we went our round to the officers’ quarters, doctors, governor’s, chief and principal warders’ houses to clean and take away the refuse, and many a relic we often clapped our eyes and hands on when we got half a chance.

I must specially mention here that the wives of the officials were very kind to us in the shape of luxuries, as very often they would wrap up in a small piece of paper a bit of cake or meat, which we shared equally among the gang. Of course, we had to keep it all dark, and not even breath it to our boot laces. But no matter how careful we might be, there was always to be found a man in every gang who would bring it to the notice of the authorities, and, of course, they were duty bound to give the whole gang a special search, and then the poor fellow suffered as well as those they tried to get into trouble. The official in charge of the gang, to give him hid due, was not a bad sort of a , though strict. He was just, and there was no favouritism with him; for he would treat every man alike. He had a systematic way in working them, and when he saw one of his men doing all the work and others looking on he would say, “Now, come on, give this man a share of your strength.” I remember an argument once between two convicts, whose turn it was to lift a bag of coal. The officer, hearing the dispute, said, “Shall I lift the bag?” That was quite enough, for they both lifted it together. On another occasion two convicts were going to fight, and instead of reporting them, he separated them, remarking, “Now, I do not want any trouble with any of you, but from what I can see of it, you’re asking for it. You are like two little infants wrangling over a doll.”

This party was considered one of the best in the prison, also for seeing a bit of life, as on our journey back and fore to the prison we walked in close contact with free people along the country lanes, roads and fields. There was one thing our officer was down on us for, and that was tobacco. He would not have a single man of his stop to pick up fag ends, and when he himself saw any cigars or cigarette ends upon the ground he would either pick them up or put his foot on them. This was not for spite, but in order to keep temptation out of his man’s way. He was unlike some officials who would have allowed men to stoop and pick up things, and then pounce upon them for a report, which would mean three days’ bread and water, and perhaps eleven days remission. He was a different man altogether, and a Welshman, too. But no matter how careful he would be in keeping us out of trouble, one would sometimes drop right into it. An old game was to stick a bit of soap underneath the boot near the toe, and when they came across a bit of tobacco they would just put their foot on it, and it would stick to the soap.

I can well remember playing a good joke with our officer. We found some tissue paper, and one day got some dry dung, and made cigarettes of it. When walking along the road we dropped them one by one, and, of course, our officer, who possessed wonderful eyesight, would pick them up until he had nearly his pouch full. On arriving at the prison he would stop one of the senior officers, saying, “Look here, sir, I have picked up about a dozen cigarettes on the road, and I am sure somebody has been dropping them for the convicts. Now, this is only tempting my men.” “All right,” said the senior officer, “I will have a look around to see if there is anyone hanging about.” Shortly after, we were out again, and dropped some more, but the senior officer picked some up this time. Giving our gang the order to halt, he called our officer aside, and the both burst out laughing, for when looking at one of the cigarettes, they found out what they were. Never in all my life did I laugh so heartily.

On Easter Monday, 1907, our gang had a good feed of cakes, but I must confess we stole them. I myself did not steal them, but I received some of them, so I was quite as bad. It happened this way. Our regular officer went out on night duty, and for one whole week we had a substitute, He, too, was not a bad sort of a man. We were told off to go to the governor’s house to cart away the refuse. There are some trees at the back of the house, and near the trees is the larder and scullery, and in the larder were the cakes. Through the window we saw the cook cleaning some cabbage, the stumps of which she threw into a tub. Of course, we had arranged what to do. “What tree would you call that, sir,” said one of the gang to our officer, who turned round to look at the tree. Immediately one of the chaps slipped into the scullery, and filling his shirt full of hot scones, caught up the tub of stumps, which the cook had left, and was out again before the officer had turned his head. “Here you are, sir,” says he, “here’s the stumps.” Placing the tub in we hitched our collars on the rope, and away we went to the farm.

To be continued…..

The Dark Side of Convict Life – part 20

by Barrie Jones

Chapter XVII. Henry recounts his experiences of some of the inmates in Parkhurst Prison asylum.

The Dark Side of Convict Life (Being the Account of the Career of Harry Williams, a Merthyr Man). Merthyr Express, 14th May 1910, page 12.

Chapter XVII

I was not long in the hospital in Parkhurst Prison, for I was only admitted there for a few days for medical observation. They could have saved a great deal of trouble, as I repeatedly told the doctors there was nothing the matter with my intellect. But they would not have it, and they passed me as weak minded, though there was no harm in acting a bit “barmy.” It was understood thing if a convict says he is not “barmy” that they think he is. If he says he is “barmy” then they put it down as a bit of a swank, or what they call “putting it on.” They treated me kindly, and, of course, I had to work in conjunction with their opinion. I do not think you will think me any the worse for that, so just for the sake of argument I will be “barmy” to the end of my narrative.

I was discharged from the hospital, and taken to a prison known as “C” Hall, and a place set apart especially for convicts suffering from derangement: and, indeed, some sad types of humanity were to be found there. One poor chap I came in contact with, whose name was Parsons, was undergoing a term of 20 years for setting fire to a haystack, and when I first knew him he had already completed over fifteen years. The authorities would not give him his liberty because he was not fit to be at large. This poor fellow was suffering from religious mania, and his actions, though laughable, were extremely sad to behold. He would sometimes enter into a conversation with me, but only on points of religion, and I was greatly astonished at what he knew of the Bible; I do really believe that he knew it all by heart, from the first chapter of Genesis to the end of Revelations. I have known convicts to stop him and put a question to him about the Scripture, and he would answer them quite correctly. I can well remember in 1905 speaking to this poor unfortunate, and while he was in the middle of a chapter in the book of Deuteronomy all of sudden the sun came out from behind a cloud, and he made off at a run, throwing out his arms wildly, and calling the sun his God. I cannot forget this poor chap, and I have often thought that his case might have been one of a far worse description than a religious mania. At any rate, if he was mad, he had the right kind of madness – the knowledge and love of God in his heart.

I will compare this case with another lunatic who was as dangerous as the other was harmless. I will not give his name here, sufficient to say that he was one of the worst specimens of humanity I’d ever seen, and well worth a corner in Madam Tussaud’s Chamber of Horrors. It was on a Sunday in 1905 that we were marching back to our cells, when suddenly this man caught hold of an empty zinc bucket and brought it down with terrible force upon the head of a fellow convict, until the poor fellow was streaming with blood, and had to be taken to the infirmary. On another occasion he used the heel of his boot on another man, and one night he was carrying the can of cocoa at supper time, and threw the whole of its contents in the face of a fellow convict. For each of these offences he was taken to the hospital, and placed in a padded cell, and put into a straight jacket. The very “Nick” himself was this man, and it was never safe to look at him, much less get anywhere near him. Finally, they got him into the new asylum, which was opened at Parkhurst in August, 1906, where by all accounts he had a lively time of it in the India rubber cells. A man who was really insane, I must confess, is treated with every possible attention. I know this for a fact, for I have been employed attending in this asylum myself with the lunatics daily rations, and I knew what food they are given to eat.

It is a great mistake for some to suppose that a convict lunatic asylum is different to that of a public lunatic asylum, for it is precisely the same thing, and the inmates are treated in very much the same way. I have heard of a poor chap who was taken very ill in the small hours of the morning. He eventually got out of bed and rang his bell. Again and again this poor fellow rang for assistance, but there was no response, and afterwards all was quiet. But at seven o’clock when the day officer in charge of the ward was unlocking the cells, one of the convicts who was carrying the slop tub, shouted out in the casual way, “slops,” but there was no answer. Naturally, thinking something was wrong, he called the attention of the assistant warder, who immediately went into the cell, and found him half dressed, and lying across the bed quite dead. The official at once phoned to the infirmary, and the doctor arrived, and ordered the body to be carried to the mortuary.

To be continued……