Never since the opening of Millbank, in 1817, had the spiritual welfare of the prisoners been forgotten, nor the hope abandoned of reforming them by religious influences. But now, and for years to come, the chaplain was to have the fullest scope. Whether much tangible benefit followed from his increasing ministrations, will be best shown in the later development of the narrative; but it cannot be denied that the efforts of Mr. Whitworth Russell, and of his successor, Mr. Nihil, who in himself combined the offices of governor and chaplain, were praiseworthy in the extreme. Speaking, however, with all due reverence, I cannot but think that their zeal was often misdirected; that conversion, such as it is, obtained by force almost, could never be either sincere or lasting; and in short, that the continued parade of sacred things tended rather to drag them into the mire, while the incessant religious exercises—the prayers, expositions, and genuflexions, were more in keeping with a monastery of monks than a gaol full of criminals.
There are numberless instances scattered up and down among the records of the sort of spirit in which the prisoners received their sacred instruction. It was the custom for a monitor, specially selected from among the prisoners, to read aloud the morning and evening service in each ward. He was frequently disturbed. Once when Balaam’s name appeared in the lesson, it was twisted into “Ba—a—Lamb!” and as such went echoing along with peals of laughter from cell to cell. The monitor was frequently called upon for a song just before he gave out the hymn; others mocked him as he sang, and sang ribald verses so loud as to drown the voices of the rest; many said they couldn’t sing, and nothing should compel them; often they would not join in the Lord’s Prayer—there was no law, they said, to make them say their prayers against their will. Then a certain Joseph Wells, an old offender, was reported for writing on his pint cup these lines:—
“Yor order is but mine is for me to go that I’ll go to to chapel, Hell first”;
and when remonstrated with, he merely laughed in the governor’s face. There was constant antagonism between the prisoners and their comrade the monitor, generally over the church catechism, in which, as a species of chaplain’s assistant, the latter had to instruct the others. “What’s your name?” he asked one. “George Ward; and you know it as well as I do,” replied the prisoner. Another read his answers out of the book. The monitor suggested that by this time he ought to know the catechism by heart. “Ah, every one hasn’t got the gift of the gab like you have. And look here, don’t talk to me again like that, or you’ll be sorry for it.” Again, as a proof of the glibness with which they could quote scriptural language, I must insert here a strange rhapsody found on a prisoner’s slate. He pretended to be dumb, and when spoken to, he merely shook his head and pointed to the writing, which was as follows: