Dickens’s obsession with prisons appeared in his first novel and continued to haunt him through the years.Photograph from Alamy
In February of 1824, Charles Dickens watched in anguish as his father was arrested for debt and sent to the Marshalsea prison, just south of the Thames, in London. “I really believed at the time,” Dickens told his friend and biographer, John Forster, “that they had broken my heart.” Soon, Dickens’s mother and his younger siblings joined the father at Marshalsea, while a resentful Dickens earned money at a blacking factory, labelling pots of polish for shoes and boots. Although his father would be released within months, Dickens would never fully outrun the memory of his family’s incarceration. In her 2011 biography, Claire Tomalin notes that, in adulthood, Dickens became “an obsessive visitor of prisons.” In the autobiographical essay, “Night Walks,” he describes halting in the shadows of Newgate Prison, “touching its rough stone” and lingering “by that wicked little Debtors’ Door – shutting tighter than any other door one ever saw.” While touring America as a famous author, he made sure to go and see the prisons in Boston, New York, and Baltimore, among others.
Dickens’s obsession appeared in his first novel, “The Pickwick Papers,” and would continue to haunt his imagination through the years. In “Great Expectations,” the provincial hero Pip visits Newgate and thinks “how strange it was that I should be encompassed by all this taint of prison and crime . . . starting out like a stain that was faded but not gone; that, it should in this new way pervade my fortune and advancement.” Newgate isn’t just the setting of Pip’s queasy tour. It waits to enclose Fagin at the end of “Oliver Twist,” and, in “Barnaby Rudge,” the historical novel about the Gordon Riots of 1780, a mob breaks into the prison and burns it down. “A Tale of Two Cities” begins with the return of a Bastille prisoner to his family, and ends in La Force, where the French revolutionaries hold those condemned to die by guillotine. And “Little Dorrit,” which was serialized between 1855 and 1857, is set in the Marshalsea, an imagined return to the place where Dickens’s father was kept from him.
“Little Dorrit” is Dickens’s most harrowing prison novel, a plangent study of the costs of confinement. The Dorrits, like the Dickenses, are released when someone else pays their debts, but Dickens shows how Little Dorrit, who was born in the Marshalsea, has trouble distinguishing freedom from captivity. The Dorrits stamp their return to respectability with an ostentatious tour of Italy, but Little Dorrit can’t accept the truth of her liberty. She moves from one ornate lodging to the next, all passing before her vision as a procession of “unrealities.” She muses cynically on the similarities between prisoners and tourists: “They prowled about the churches and picture-galleries, much in the old, dreary, prison-yard manner.” From the balcony of her Venice apartment, she looks down over the dark water as if “it might run dry, and show her the prison again, and herself, and the old room, and the old inmates, and the old visitors: all lasting realities that had never changed.”2020 in Review
Flinging open a door, Dickens suggests, isn’t always enough to free someone. In fact, the prison is even more prevalent in his work as a metaphor than it is as a setting. Coketown, the fictional industrial locale of “Hard Times,” is a place “where Nature was as strongly bricked out as killing airs and gases were bricked in.” “A Tale of Two Cities” is packed with actual prisons, but even the novel’s bank, Tellson’s, is described as a dank oubliette. There are iron bars and a perpetual “dismal twilight,” and when a young man goes to work there, “they hid him somewhere till he was old.” Dickens, influenced by his days in the blacking factory, passionately exposed how employers entrap their workers, but he also sprinkled his prison-yard dust over his characters’ homes. In “Great Expectations,” Miss Havisham’s “dismal” dwelling, Satis House, has all the key features: “Some of the windows had been walled up; of those that remained, all the lower were rustily barred.”
As anyone in quarantine can tell you, a metaphoric prison needs a metaphoric prisoner. Dickens understood the ease with which we can become locked inside our own lives, whether through habit, circumstance, injustice, or the ever-tightening circuit of our obsessions. Several of his most memorable characters are in some way arrested. Miss Havisham, unable to forget being jilted at the altar, idles in her ruined mansion. (On meeting Pip, she asks: “You are not afraid of a woman who has never seen the sun since you were born?”) Then there’s Mrs. Clennam, from “Little Dorrit,” who, sitting in the standard-issue Gothic gloom, constantly broods on the past. Of these people, whose plight might seem familiar to us, Dickens writes: “To stop the clock of busy existence, at the hour when we were personally sequestered from it; to suppose mankind stricken motionless, when we were brought to a stand-still [. . .] is the mental unhealthiness of almost all recluses.”VIDEO FROM THE NEW YORKERYo-Yo Ma and Emanuel Ax Discuss the Optimism in Beethoven’s Work
For Dickens, imprisonment wasn’t just a stain on society; it was an aspect of the self. His flamboyant character names suggest that personality itself is a kind of cage. There is the unyielding Mr. Gradgrind, the foolish Mr. Bumble, and the miserly “Scrooge,” whose name is drawn from “screw” and “gouge,” both alluding to ruthless financial practices. Scrooge, who is “grasping” in his pursuit of money, is trapped by his own fixations—“secret and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster”—and Dickens makes clear that we all share something of his padlocked heart. Early in “A Tale of Two Cities,” he meditates on how distant and unknowable we are to one another. He imagines a “great city” at night, but instead of touring its prisons he asks us to consider that “every one of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret; that every room in every one of them encloses its own secret; that every beating heart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it!”
Dickens’s plots often depend on these secrets, which are variously withheld, traded, and revealed as the stories unfold. But they provide more than melodrama. The Dickensian secret, shut fast inside his characters’ chests, emphasizes our inherent separation from one another. There are, he proposes, always high walls between us.
This claustrophobic vision of selfhood is mirrored in Dickens’s broader social commentary. Although he wrote in the Victorian age, which saw the rise of advanced networks of communication and, via new railways, the improved circulation of people and goods, Dickens understood how the grand modernizing drive produced new kinds of imprisonment. Industrialization captured swaths of the population in repetitive factory work. The widening of London roads displaced the poor. Many of them lived in cramped, plagued slums like those in “Bleak House,” where “nothing is to be seen but the crazy houses, shut up and silent.”
All around him, Dickens saw sequestered lives, despite the liberating myth of progress. He placed much of the blame on the state, whose institutions, he felt, stifled citizens with bureaucracy. “Bleak House” is again a fine example, as it satirizes a legal system that pins people beneath its sluggish machinery. The novel’s central lawsuit, Jarndyce and Jarndyce, has lasted for decades, and potential beneficiaries are born and die before it is resolved in the Court of Chancery. Old Miss Flite, who believes that she has a stake in the case, keeps birds caged in her room, to be released when judgment finally comes. She refers to both the birds and the claimants of Jarndyce when she says: “Their lives, poor silly things, are so short in comparison with Chancery proceedings that, one by one, the whole collection has died over and over again. I doubt, do you know, whether one of these, though they are all young, will live to be free!” Such confinements cause a sickness both spiritual and literal; multiple characters contract an unnamed contagion resembling smallpox. In Dickens’s choked society, only disease circulates freely.
In 2019, a trove of letters from Edward Dutton Cook, a confidant of Dickens’s wife, Catherine, made the news. In one of the letters, Cook contends that Dickens resented Catherine for losing her looks, and that “he even tried to shut her up in a lunatic asylum, poor thing!” It had long been known that Dickens was an unkind husband, even a cruel one, but the letters recast the author as a sinister would-be jailer. How could the man who dramatized so many injustices of his era—the atrocious conditions of workers, the marriage market’s harm to women’s lives, the moral hypocrisy of the establishment—be so brutal in his relationships? He was clearly attuned to the terrors of imprisonment. In an early nonfiction sketch, “A Visit to Newgate,” Dickens tenderly imagines the dream of a prisoner condemned to die the next morning. “The night is dark and cold,” he writes, “the gates have been left open, and in an instant he is in the street, flying from the scene of imprisonment like the wind.”
There’s an echo of the author himself in these lines. On the page, Dickens accessed empathy in a way he couldn’t in life. Writing fiction liberated him financially, but it also offered him an escape from the prison of his personality. He became, in the production of his works, hundreds of people. And yet, just like Little Dorrit, his imagination spent its liberty by continually flying back inside the penitentiary walls. If Dickens’s ghost is now in handcuffs, the novels themselves, for the expansiveness and seriousness of their moral vision, can be cleared of their author’s crimes. The best art is the wiliest of escape artists. Mysteriously forging its own keys, it frees itself, and flies.
“Sceal chois tineadh o Dun na nGall. By Mo Athairmor
It was a Sunday night, many years ago, and just a month before Christmas. I was sitting by the fireside, my mind half made-up as to how I would spent the hours until bedtime. Thereupon someone knocked on the door, and when I opened it was my neighbor, Cathal Gillespie walked in.”A hundred welcomes,” I said. “I am damn glad to see you.””I know that,” said Cathal. “The nights are long and one doesn’t like to be alone. Wouldn’t it be the night for the pair of us to go Shamus Gallagher’s house and have a good night’s story-telling?””I am satisfied,” said I.I gave some milk to the cat, locked the door and we were both at Shamus’s ten minutes afterwards.There was nobody in the house when we entered except Shamus and his wife, and an old woman from behind the hill, whose name was “Red Nora.” Nora was afraid of ghosts and we were surprised to see her outside her own house after sunset. Shamus’s wife told us she came across the hill in daylight and that she was not going home until morning. “That’s true,” said Nora, “I would not go from here to the barn in the darkness if I were to get Derry City as a present.””It’s a long time now,” said Cathal, since Dennis and myself heard and old story from you. It isn’t possible, Shamus, that you have forgotten them.””I remember every old story I’ve ever heard,” said Shamus, “but I’ve told them so often that I am afraid you are tired of them.””Not so is the case,” said Cathal. “I would like to bet,” he said, “that you have stories that neither one of us ever heard.””I have one story that concerns me,” said Shamus, “and I don’t remember that i have told it for (past) twenty years. I don’t like to forget it, and for that reason I will tell it to-night to pass the time away.””If it has anything to do with ghosts,” said Nora, “I am sitting too close to the door. I’ll sit in the corner by the fire.””Woman dear,” said Shamus, “have no fear, I must say the story deals with ghosts and the very worst of them, but they will not come here tonight.” “That may be true,” said Nora, “but they are not to be trusted.”We all sat around the fire, and Shamus began the story as follows -About the time my story begins I was about seventeen years of age. My father bought a flock of sheep and they went astray among the hills. “Shamus” he said, “you must go in search of the sheep and do not come back without them.”It was getting late (in the afternoon) when I left the house (home). I was only about a mile or so on the other side of the hill that is to be seen from the door when a heavy fog crept in from the sea. I never saw mist in all my life to compare with it. It was so heavy (thick) that it would be possible to drive a nail in it, and I came to realize in a short time that i was lost completely. The darkness of the night came at last and I sat for a while on a rock. “Poor fellow,” said Nora.”Wait till you hear,” said Shamus. “There was a hole underneath the rock and I made up my mind to go in shelter. At that moment I saw a lantern light approaching and my heart left with joy. There was a man carrying the light, and when he came to the place where I was standing I observed he had a donkey’s head and a body shaped like a barrel.””King of Glory!” said Nora,”I am shivering from head to foot, It’s a pity I did not remain at home.””The best part of the story is yet to come,” said Shamus.”Carry on,” said Cathal.”You may be sure,” said Shamus, “that I was in a bad way.” “Come on,” said the ghost, “and spend the night in my house.”I knew very well that I could not escape from him, and I was obliged to follow him. We came to a house without windows, and when we entered the ghost closed the door behind him.”Do you know me,” said the ghost.”I don’t,” I said, “and I hope I won’t.” “Whom do I look like,” he said.”You look like the devil,” said I.”I was waiting for that,” said Nora, “It was the devil certainly.””You’re mistaken,” said Shamus. “I took off my coat and challenged the ghost to fight. I had a good stout stick in my hand, and I gave him a blow on top of the head. “The donkey’s head fell at his feet. “That will be enough Shamus,” he said, “until I get out of this barrel.””Who was it but Brian O’ Donnell’s son, the man who died in America about this time last year.”That’s a strange story,” said Cathal, “and I imagine the greater part of it is true.” “It’s all true,” said Shamus. “A tinker’s donkey died in the neighborhood, and Brian’s son took the skin from off the head and stuffed it with hay. He had no difficulty in doing a thing like that.” “I believe you now,” said Cathal.”The man who would play a trick of that kind,” said Nora, “ought to be drowned.” “I’ll not sleep a wink until morning,” she said.”There are no ghost’s in this country for some years past,” said Shamus. “When I was young” he said, “they were as plentiful as crows. I heard my father say, ‘I hope he is happy with the man above’ that they fought a battle among themselves in the old fort that is behind Nora’s house and that there weren’t many ghosts in Erin from that day to this.””If that is the case,” said Nora, “I’ll sell the house and the bit of land before Christmas. I’ll get a good price for the place and I’ll live like a lady.” “Whatever about the ghost,” said Shamus, “your sister would like to have you come and reside with her.” “What price are you asking?” “Is it worth two hundred pounds?” said Nora.”Not at all,” said Shamus, “You have only seven acres of land.” “Where is your daughter?” she said to Shamus.”She went to evening devotions,” said Shamus, “and she will soon be back.””Good enough,” said Nora. “If Alice permits me to select a husband for her, I’ll give her the house and land. I’ll only ask for a place in the corner, and it is unlikely that I’ll be many years in the way.Nora’s conversation surprised us all, and at that moment Alice walked in. Nora was glad to see her, and she said:”I am making a marriage alliance for you, Alice, and if you are satisfied my house and land belong to you.””Perhaps the man you have in mind would not be satisfied,” said Alice.”It’s easy to find that out,” said Nora. “The man I have in mind is sitting by the fireside.”There was no single man in the house except myself, and I almost fell from the chair. That is the end of the story, except to say that Alice and myself were married a few days afterwards. And Nora was at the wedding.
Throughout December, events have been taking place across Ireland in support of republican political prisoners. The following statement was issued by IRPWA-supported prisoners at Maghaberry.We the Republican Prisoners of Roe 3 & 4 Maghaberry Gaol send Christmas greetings to all our imprisoned comrades in Hydebank, Dóchas Centre and E3 & E4 Portlaoise Gaols.
We also send greetings to all revolutionary POW’s incarcerated throughout the world in their struggle for freedom; we salute each and everyone of you.
We also take this opportunity to thank our families for their continued support to us throughout the year, no matter what obstacles you faced. You are the unsung heroes of this struggle and we commend you for your resilience while we are held captive.
It’s been nine months since family visits were halted due to the Covid virus, this another burden to our families on top of everything else.
We thank all our comrades in the IRPWA and Saoradh, and we send seasons greetings to all of you. All throughout the year you worked tiresomely for us while facing continued harassment by Crown Force and Free State lackeys, but still you never let this derail your activism.
We also want to thank our friends and supporters across the world who write and send cards, to those who make donations through raffles or buy prison craft. We urge you all to keep up the good work, it doesn’t go unnoticed by us.
This year has seen Republicans face an onslaught by British Crown Forces as they embarked on legitimate political activism. In the gaols an MI5 led prison regime has tried to quash Republican Prisoners through forced strip searches, controlled movement and isolation.
Earlier this year our Palestinian comrade, Dr Issam Hijjawi, found himself the victim of isolation. This led Issam to take action and he embarked on a hunger strike which resulted in over 50 Irish Republican Prisoners across Ireland taking part. It was the first time in gaol history that this has happened. Our unified approach in our hunger strike sent a strong message to our enemies. We will not bow down to your brutal regime, nor will we be found wanton in the face of it. We will be to the forefront of struggle and resistance in Maghaberry Gaol.
We have, time and again, stood up to the British occupation of Ireland whether in gaol or not.
An attempt to stop the prosecution of a former British soldier for the murder of a child in Derry 48 years ago has been rejected.The anonymous ‘Soldier B’ had claimed the decision to charge him over the killing of Daniel Hegarty put him at heightened risk of sudden death due to ill health.
Fifteen-year-old Daniel (left) was shot twice in the head during an British Army operation in Creggan in July 1972.
In April 2019, it was announced that ‘Soldier B’ was to be charged with his murder, and of intentionally wounding Daniel’s cousin Christopher Hegarty, then aged 17, in the same incident.
The shootings happened during Operation Motorman, when British troops were deployed in Derry at the height of the conflict to impose British rule in liberated areas.
In 2011, an inquest jury unanimously found Daniel posed no risk and had been shot without warning.
A decision was taken not to prosecute Soldier B in 2016. But, in May 2018, the High Court quashed that determination following legal action by the Hegarty family.
Bloody Sunday campaigner John Kelly said the attempt to evade prosecution was “sickening” and said he looked forward to seeing justice for the Hegarty family.
DEATH OF HUGH JORDAN
Meanwhile, tributes have been paid following the death of Hugh Jordan (right), father of shoot-to-kill victim Pearse Jordan, who was shot dead by the RUC in 1992.
For the last 28 years the Jordan family have been tireless campaigners for the truth of what happened.
West Belfast MP Paul Maskey said that “like so many relatives seeking truth, Hugh has passed away without answers about his son’s death because of continuing attempts by the British government to block access to the truth about its role in the conflict.
“My thoughts and condolences are with Theresa and the Jordan family at this difficult time and we will continue to support them in their campaign for truth.”
Mark Thompson from victims’ group Relatives For Justice (RFJ) said Hugh Jordan spent “every single day” from the shooting of Pearse challenging the RUC and their version of events.
“He knew Pearse was unarmed and he knew that the RUC lied about killing him,” he said. “He brought that challenge from Belfast to Europe. Despite many setbacks he never faltered. He always believed the truth would out.
“Despite continual and vicious harassment by the RUC after Pearse’s death he and his wife Theresa never gave up. They had that inner strength that said they were right.”
Mr Thompson said that Hugh and Theresa were the backbone of social activities from the day RFJ opened its Falls Road office in 1999.
“Our hearts are heavy and sore. We can only express our heartfelt sympathy to Theresa agus clan. This has been a cruel year. And never was it ever truer said of anyone – ní bheidh a leithéid ann arís.”
