A Rogues Life | Page 8

a better understanding with brutal incivility, and treated me
soon afterward with a want of confidence which I may forgive, but can
never forget. One day, a dirty stranger touched me on the shoulder, and
showed me a dirty slip of paper which I at first presumed to be his card.
Before I could tell him what a vulgar document it looked like, two
more dirty strangers put me into a hackney coach. Before I could prove
to them that this proceeding was a gross infringement on the liberties of
the British subject, I found myself lodged within the walls of a prison.
Well! and what of that? Who am I that I should object to being in

prison, when so many of the royal personages and illustrious characters
of history have been there before me? Can I not carry on my vocation
in greater comfort here than I could in my father's house? Have I any
anxieties outside these walls? No: for my beloved sister is married--the
family net has landed Mr. Batterbury at last. No: for I read in the paper
the other day, that Doctor Softly (doubtless through the interest of Lady
Malkinshaw) has been appointed the
King's-Barber-Surgeon's-Deputy-Consulting Physician. My relatives
are comfortable in their sphere--let me proceed forthwith to make
myself comfortable in mine. Pen, ink, and paper, if you please, Mr.
Jailer: I wish to write to my esteemed publisher.

"DEAR SIR--Please advertise a series of twelve Racy Prints, from my
fertile pencil, entitled, 'Scenes of Modern Prison Life,' by Thersites
Junior. The two first designs will be ready by the end of the week, to be
paid for on delivery, according to the terms settled between us for my
previous publications of the same size.
"With great regard and esteem, faithfully yours,
FRANK SOFTLY."

Having thus provided for my support in prison, I was enabled to
introduce myself to my fellow-debtors, and to study character for the
new series of prints, on the very first day of my incarceration, with my
mind quite at ease.
If the reader desires to make acquaintance with the associates of my
captivity, I must refer him to "Scenes of Modern Prison Life," by
Thersites Junior, now doubtless extremely scarce, but producible to the
demands of patience and perseverance, I should imagine, if anybody
will be so obliging as to pass a week or so over the catalogue of the
British Museum. My fertile pencil has delineated the characters I met
with, at that period of my life, with a force and distinctness which my
pen cannot hope to rival--has portrayed them all more or less

prominently, with the one solitary exception of a prisoner called
Gentleman Jones. The reasons why I excluded him from my
portrait-gallery are so honorab le to both of us, that I must ask
permission briefly to record them.
My fellow-captives soon discovered that I was studying their personal
peculiarities for my own advantage and for the public amusement.
Some thought the thing a good joke; some objected to it, and quarreled
with me. Liberality in the matter of liquor and small loans, reconciled a
large proportion of the objectors to their fate; the sulky minority I
treated with contempt, and scourged avengingly with the smart lash of
caricature. I was at that time probably the most impudent man of my
age in all England, and the common flock of jail-birds quailed before
the magnificence of my assurance. One prisoner only set me and my
pencil successfully at defiance. That prisoner was Gentleman Jones.
He had received his name from the suavity of his countenance, the
inveterate politeness of his language, and the unassailable composure
of his manner. He was in the prime of life, but very bald--had been in
the army and the coal trade--wore very stiff collars and prodigiously
long wristbands--seldom laughed, but talked with remarkable glibness,
and was never known to lose his temper under the most aggravating
circumstances of prison existence.
He abstained from interfering with me and my studies, until it was
reported in our society, that in the sixth print of my series, Gentleman
Jones, highly caricatured, was to form one of the principal figures. He
then appealed to me personally and publicly, on the racket-ground, in
the following terms:
"Sir," said he, with his usual politeness and his unwavering smile, "you
will greatly oblige me by not caricaturing my personal peculiarities. I
am so unfortunate as not to possess a sense of humor; and if you did
my likeness, I am afraid I should not see the joke of it."
"Sir," I returned, with my customary impudence, "it is not of the
slightest importance whether you see the joke of it or not. The public
will--and that is enough for me."

With that civil speech, I turned on