Chapter L: Noble (1)

This man could say from his own experience, that the way of the transgressor is hard, his whole life having been an alternation of crime and punishment. When out of prison he was ever in the act of, or in the preparation for, some violation of the law, but when in prison, he was orderly and submissive, and therefore deserved well of his keepers.

As sin had ruined his moral nature, so had intemperance his physical, and when his last sickness came upon him, his pain was as severe as humanity can suffer. His groans and shrieks echoed through the prison like the wailings of a lost spirit, but in vain was it that he begged for medicine; nor could he obtain a place in the hospital till a few hours before he died. The night before his death he mentioned a remedy which he had used in time past with effect, and desired to have it obtained for him, but could not prevail. After much importunity, however, the Warden promised him that he should have it on Monday. "But," said the dying man, "I cannot live till then, unless I obtain relief." This was on Saturday night, I think, and, on the evening after he was a corpse.

After his death, the chaplain was instructed that the death was sudden and unexpected; and he accordingly preached a sermon the following Sabbath, grounded on that information, and wove into his remarks a great deal of mercy which he said the dead man had experienced, in his last hours. I reflect not on the Chaplain, for he was so informed; but may God have mercy on that unfeeling tyrant, who denied medicine to a dying man; and pardon that hypocrisy which led him to cover his cruelty with the disguise of compassion. I wish him no greater suffering, than the recollection of _Noble_ will one day give to his soul.

QUARKENBUSH.

The case of this unhappy man will illustrate the danger and sin of permitting _ignorant_ men, who never read a page on the science of medicine, to prescribe for the sick. Quarkenbush was taken very suddenly with a complaint in the region of the stomach and bowels, attended with inflammation and the most excruciating pains. He applied to the keeper who had charge of the sick, and he gave him the very worst medicine he could find for his case, which not only increased its violence, but prevented the proper medicine from taking effect when the physician was called. He lingered through about thirty hours of as much misery as human nature can bear, and died one of the most dreadful deaths recorded in history. Such was the intensity of the inflammation, that his surface was black with mortification before he died, and with the last strength remaining in his system, he threw up the putrid contents of his stomach, black and offensive as imagination can conceive, with a violence and copiousness of which the records of disease can scarcely furnish a parallel. He was opened by a trio of doctors, who paid richly for the information they obtained from such a mass of putrefaction, and immediately buried.

The proper remedy for his disease was physic, which should have been given frequently, till a cure was effected; but the only medicine given _him_, was opium, the effect of which is directly against what the case required. This was given in large quantities till the physician came, when the proper remedy was administered, but as on many other occasions, the doctor came "a day too late," and the death of the patient was, in the estimation of the keepers, the _unimportant_ consequence.

Quarkenbush was a young man, and a wife and aged parents, with brothers and sisters, wept over his untimely grave. I was personally and intimately acquainted with him, and I know that his death was caused by an injudicious prescription. He was a victim to the _practical_ regulations of the prison; and as there was crime in his death, some one must answer for his blood.

CORLISS.

The work of the prison must be done, life or death; and as some part of this work can be done by only one man, _that_ man must never be _sick_. Corliss was the only man that could do correctly the work to which he was assigned, and as there was a call for him every hour in the day, so every hour in the day he _must_ work, sick or well. All men are liable to be sick, and there was no more exemption for him than for others; but he _must_ do his work whenever called for. The life of a prisoner is estimated in _cents_, and of his _happiness_, no account is made. His labor is all that renders him valuable, and to this he is ever goaded; and when he can do no more, then--"_poor old horse, let him die_."

Oppressed by constant toil, Corliss began at length to fail, and his countenance began to denote the nature of his disease; but he could gain no release from his work, and frequently was he called out of his cell, when his cough and deathly look should have admonished his keepers to prepare him a winding sheet, and forced to do the labor of a well man.

Finding at last that his working days were over, the keepers recommended him for a pardon, and he was released just in time to die. It is one of the practical regulations of the prison, to keep all the profitable prisoners as long as possible, and to pardon all such as are of no use. Another regulation is, that when the work requires a prisoner to be in a particular place, there he _must be at any rate_. This regulation has borne hard on many beside the subject of this sketch, and when it has crippled them for life, they are generally let out to die. The ghosts of many whom I saw nailed to this cross, are at this moment crossing my mind. I could fill a page with their names, and the pains that dart every hour through my shadowy form, admonish me that _my_ escape from the same doom was rather visionary than real.

SAVERY.

The subject of this sketch was a liberally educated, and highly esteemed clergyman of the Baptist denomination. Unhappily for his own peace and that of his family, and for the honor of Christianity, he fell a victim to the pressure of circumstances, and the force of temptation, and committed three distinct forgeries to a large amount, on one of which he was sentenced to the prison for seven years.

When he entered the prison he was an emblem of perfect health, and seemed to have a constitution that might smile at decay, and survive the ruins of an eternity. For some time no alteration in his appearance was visible, but the change of condition, from the pulpit to a dungeon, from respect to scorn, and from comfort to the want of all things, was more than he could endure, and disease began to admonish him that he was mortal.

He began now to learn a science that had not been taught him in college, and on which his divinity instructor had never lectured. He now for the first time in his life, had a practical demonstration of the solemn and humbling truth, that there is as much difference between the _profession_ and the _practice_ of piety, as there is between pedantry and real science; and that the priest and the Levite are the same now, as they were in the days of the good Samaritan. Christians left him to suffer without sympathy. Even the ministers of that holy religion which sends its votaries to the _sinner_ wherever he may be found--which espouses the cause of the _prisoner_--and which says to the _backsliding_, "Return;" treated him with as much severity as language can convey. One of these, who only a few months before had taken counsel with him, and walked to the house of God, addressed to him from the pulpit the very words I am going to record. "Thou hypocrite!" said he, "dressed in the specious semblance of piety, while thy heart was filled with all abominations, a just and righteous retribution has fallen on thy guilty head!" Awful words these for one poor sinful mortal to use to another. They are the flame of an angry soul, and ill become the servants of him who, even when he was reviled, reviled not again. But if this was the spirit of the _priest_, what might not have been expected of the _people_? Alas! "like _priest_ like people," for they too passed him in sullen silence, or with protruded lips.

Is this religion? If it is, away with it from the earth; it is the infamy and curse of the human race. Away with it and its votaries. It is worse than the religion of DAGON. If this is religion, I pray God that infidelity may banish it from the universe, of which it is the fellest scourge.

But this is _not_ the religion of the _Bible_, though it is that of too many who are proud to be called christians. Though the prophets of Baal be four hundred, there is, however, an Elijah and a seven thousand who have not knelt at the shrine of an idol; but they are known only to _God_ and his _suffering children_. The religion which they practice is compassion for the distressed; alms to the needy; charity for the wandering; and love to all men. Its walk is in stillness--its spirit is gentleness--and its home is the wayside, the hut of the poor, and the cell of the sufferer. This is religion, and none can tell better than the prisoner how much of this is on earth.

Reduced to this condition, Savery found in the conduct of professors so little of the spirit of their profession, that he frequently expressed to me his astonishment, and asked me if, with such specimens of christianity before them, the prisoners had not all become infidels. I know it will be said, that the prisoners are sinners, and they ought not to expect much kindness. True, they _are_ sinners, and experience has taught them that they _need not_ expect much tenderness; but, Christians, what is _your duty_ to them? Look at this, think of your conduct, and be dumb!

Savery's sickness was of a few months duration, and he felt that, in a prison, the sick can find neither proper treatment, nor the least degree of sympathy. Perfectly convinced that the evils incident to a sick bed in that place, would be more than he could endure, he prepared for the worst; and in a short time he gave back his spirit to God, and left this world of woe. By kind treatment from his keepers, and christian conduct on the part of his _christian_ acquaintances, his days might have been lengthened out for usefulness, both to the church and his family; but he is gone, and his unhappy fate says to every self-confident professor--"Let him that thinkest he standeth, take heed lest he fall."

OPPOSITION OF THE KEEPERS TO HAVING PREACHING IN THE PRISON.

Nothing can more strikingly demonstrate the opposition of the keepers to the means of grace in the prison, than the fact that twenty years after its foundation, nothing like a Sabbath school or Bible class, had ever been introduced--and that at no time had there been more than one short sermon in a week, and sometimes only one or two in the course of a year. Nor is it any to their credit as professors, that though there had always been men in the prison, who were fully qualified and desired to sing in meeting, not a solitary hymn were they permitted to sing in the chapel, till after the prison had been erected more than twelve years. The spirit of piety at one time reigned long enough to see a neat and very convenient chapel erected for the worship of God, but scarcely had the dust fallen on its seats, before it was converted into a place of daily labor, and the altar of religious worship set up in a cellar!

The captives began now to weep and hang their harps on the willows. No priest stood up to minister in holy things--the waters of life were shut out, and the last dying blaze went out on the altar. The triumph of Satan was now complete, and long did he hold his conquest in undisturbed and sullen peace. Those who have known what it is to sigh in vain for the ordinances of God's house, and pray and wait in vain to behold the face of him who publisheth salvation, can sympathize with the weeping prisoners, during the long "_dark age_" that followed. They bowed in submission to the calamity they could not avoid, but strove by every consistent and available means, to bring the long misery to an end. Like Michael and his angels fighting with the dragon and _his_ angels, this conflict between the powers of light and darkness was long and painful, but finally triumphant.

The prisoners, at first, humbly petitioned the officers to let them have the benefit of preaching as they had done in times past. At first the justice of their plea was acknowledged, but the difficulty was, that no preacher could be obtained. The officers said, that they had tried every where within proper distance of the prison, but could not get a single preacher to visit that place, and do the duty of Chaplain.

This it was thought would set the business at rest, but it did not. The government of the state had made provision for preaching, and the officers were respectfully informed, that the prisoners could not be deprived of it, while half a dozen preachers were within a few miles, and three within a few rods; and their petition was always on the table when the authority could be approached. The strong plea of right, and law, and scripture was used, and the important fact kept in view, that if they had the means of grace at all, they must be _brought_ to them, as they could not go where they were. All this was granted, but the same plea was eternally thrown over them all--"_We can't get any body._"

If they actually applied to the ministers, and could not prevail on them to attend, then the blame must fall on their heads. But did they? Rather did they not destroy the chapel to prevent their coming? And were they always admitted when they did come? Answer, you that can.

At length, one of the principal officers, and a very sanguine professor and church member, took a different stand and said in so many words--"PREACHING WILL DO NO GOOD HERE." Confounded to hear such language from such a source, and astonished to see the mask so fully thrown off, the prisoner who heard the expression, argued the officer out of his position, and sent him away penitently exclaiming--"O yes, it will do good, it will do good."

At another time, when this same man had been meeting the pleas of the prisoners for preaching by the old excuse--"I can't get any body"--one of them said to him, if he would permit _him_ to make _one_ trial, successful or unsuccessful, he would trouble him no more about preaching. Permit me, said he, to write an account of the destitution of the prison in respect to preaching, and the reasons of it, as you have assigned them, and send it to a Missionary Society in Boston, and I will never open my mouth again on this subject to you. "If that were _necessary_," said the officer, "I could do it _myself_." "Then," replied the prisoner, "I take it for granted, that you do not consider it _necessary_ for us to have preaching."

Frustrated in all their efforts to obtain a Chaplain, the prisoners tried another experiment; they applied to the "powers that were" for permission to have some christian man, from without, come in on the Lord's day and _read_ a sermon. In this they anticipated success, but met disappointment. It was every way reasonable and pious, and good might have grown out of it; but, alas for the piety of somebody, no good man could be found to go up to the help of the Lord against the mighty. Is it to be supposed that there was not ONE man in the pious village of Windsor, who would have delighted to perform that office of kindness and love to his fellow men? The question must be settled between the men of that village and the officer who brought the charge against them.

Undespairing yet, another course was suggested, and the prisoners petitioned to be allowed to meet in the chapel on the Sabbath, and conduct meeting themselves, by praying and singing, and reading a sermon. To this, as they promised to find all their own books, it was thought there could no objection be made. But the human heart is prodigiously fertile in excuses for what it does not like to perform, and one was easily found to bar this petition. It was this. Christianity, blush for thy votaries.--"IT WILL NOT LOOK WELL TO SEE A PRISONER PRAY IN PUBLIC!!" I hope the Gentleman will remember this when he thinks of death and heaven. Praying was then struck out of the petition, but it was equally improper for a prisoner to _read_ or _sing_ in public. Invention was now exhausted, and the case was given up. But to cap the climax, one of the keepers said that _he_ would read a sermon on the Sabbath, if _another_ one would pray.

The keeper who offered to read a sermon, was by no means a pattern of piety. Lucifer and he would be alike _in_ or _out_ of their places any where. But he took on him the office of priest for once, and assembled the prisoners in the chapel on the Sabbath, and went into the desk, and read _part_ of a sermon. There was no _praying_, for the one who had engaged to do that duty had fallen _back_, and _this_ one did not know how. The next Sabbath he finished the sermon, and resigned the priesthood.

To suffer such indignity was truly painful. It was enough to be denied every religious favor year after year, without having religion and all that the soul holds dear, thus openly and outrageously profaned and scoffed at; and the petitions which had been so often made, trampled under foot with such a sacrilegious _sneer_. This was the sole design of the officer in reading as he did. He had distanced the patience and invention of those who desired "to behold the beauty of the Lord, and to inquire in his temple;" and now he must insult their disappointed hope. His tongue was the organ of profanity; with him religion was a fable; and with one deliberate act to pollute the altar, and insult the worshippers of God, he took the place of holy men, and drank his licentious draught from a consecrated bowl. Why did not the fingers appear, and trace his doom upon the wall?

One reason for this opposition to the introduction of the means of grace into the prison, probably, was the _hatred_ which the keepers had to the holiness and purity of the gospel. I speak this with limitation, for there were always some who delighted in mercy, and who spoke well of religion. But the majority of the head ones were always with the priests of Baal.

Another reason was the _expense_. Every dime weighs something in the scale of their monied calculations, and every cent must be placed in the treasury. This did not _directly_ enrich any of the officers, but it did indirectly; it gave them the reputation of managing well for the state, and secured their re-election, with all its advantages. This was enough. "Self-love, the spring of motion, acts the soul." Personal advantage is consulted at the expense of all others.

But the most important reason was, the keepers could not attend to it. Sunday is a day of relaxation, and they wanted to rove at large, and take the air. Confined all the week, they wanted to have their liberty on the Sabbath. And as the meeting could not be attended to unless they were present, they were as much opposed _to_ it, as the prisoners were anxious _for_ it.

They had now silenced every mouth, and were enjoying their triumph with much satisfaction. But the efforts to obtain for the prisoners what the law allowed them, though unobserved, were not dead nor sleeping. There was a higher authority than that of the prison, and arrangements were making to address a petition to the majesty of the public. To do this was perilous for the individual who should attempt it, and be found out; but magnanimity in a good cause is no crime. This noble spirit nerved the soul of one of the prisoners, and forgetting himself to serve his fellows, he wrote a piece for publication in one of the papers, and found a friend to convey it to the printer. This piece contained a brief history of the means of grace in the prison, of the ruin of the chapel, and of the fruitless efforts which had been made with the keepers; and concluded with a firm appeal to the people and the authorities in behalf of the prisoners.

This was printed in due time, and the effect was immediately visible in the prison. A Chaplain was found, and meetings were held every Sabbath, and no more occasion for complaint occurred.

This sketch presents the moral discipline of the prison in its true light. Jehovah is not the God of that Institution, but Mammon. The souls of the prisoners are not of so much value in the estimation of the keepers, as one hour of their labor. To the chink of their Idol's box they give most rapacious ears, and love no music half so well. Time and eternity, heaven and hell, peace and affliction, smiles and tears, life and death, are all lost sight of in the arithmetical liturgy of Mammon's worship. In their estimation the most pious prisoner is he who weaves the most cloth, and no organ has half so religious tones as the clack of a loom. The prisoner's _Draft-book_ is his only _Bible_, and _he_ is the most thorough and pious christian, who can weave the handsomest piece of diaper in the shortest time. I do not mean to treat the subject with lightness; it is too solemn; and I mean to be understood as being in solemn and emphatic earnest. These things are so, and I have witnesses of their truth among the living and the dead. From such a place then, who could hope to see a man go forth reformed, except from bad to worse?

RELIGIOUS OPINIONS OF THE PRISONERS.

It has been very often said, that the convicts in state-prisons are either atheists, deists, or universalists, than which, however, nothing can be farther from the truth. I have known as many as five hundred while they were in confinement, and I have always made it a practice to learn the religious opinions of all with whom I have conversed; and what I am going to write may be depended on as the actual result of my personal inquiries.

Those whom I have known have been educated in the doctrines of the endless punishment school, and but few have departed from these doctrines. I have found only _two_ atheists, not one deist, and but _one_ universalist. The doctrine of endless punishment is strongly and broadly speaking, the orthodoxy of state prisoners. I am confident of the truth of this statement, and I make it, not by way of _slur_, or _insinuation_, against any sect of christians, but as a fact which _all denominations_ may use as they may have occasion. Very many of the convicts have been members of churches, and a few of them have been preachers. This is a subject of painful reflection; it shows how extremely liable the _best_ of men are to be overcome by temptation, and says to those who glory in their own strength, "let him that thinketh he standeth, take heed lest he fall." It is no argument against religion, that some of its votaries disgrace it. There are faithful soldiers in an army, from which many desert; and christianity is from _heaven_, though many of her avowed friends appear to have come from _beneath_.

In respect to the religious _feelings_ of the prisoners, it is true to say, that each one manifests a very strong attachment to the faith in which he was brought up; and hence there are warm and zealous advocates for almost every creed. It is also proper to remark, that many of them evince a very uncommon acquaintance with the Sacred Scriptures, and a shrewdness and skill in defending their particular systems, which is truly astonishing; and it is not often that a convert can be made from his long cherished opinions. There is one point in which these disputants are unanimously agreed, and this is, that all the means of grace are confined to this life, and consequently, if a man die in sin, his doom is fixed in misery for ever. I know of only _three_ who entered the prison with a contrary opinion, and only _one_ who was converted from it afterwards.

I had an opportunity of witnessing a very general time of religious awakening among the prisoners, and of perceiving how firmly every mind clings to long fostered notions, even when it is under the process of genuine and reforming sorrow for sin. Among the _many_ converts, those who had been _Baptists_ by education, were Baptists _still_; _Methodist_ were Methodists _still_; and so of all the rest; but it was truly delightful to see how, notwithstanding these little complexional differences of opinion on some points, they all united in _one_ spirit in their religious exercises. Though I was not of the general belief in regard to endless suffering, still they knew no difference of feeling, and the happiest hours of my whole life were those which I spent with them, in the cementing feelings of universal brotherhood, and in mingling my voice with theirs in prayer and praise to the one God and Father of us all.

This delightful state of things, however, was of short duration. After a few months, arrangements were made for sabbath schools, and then the question of _doctrine_ came up. Every one was very anxious that nothing but the _truth_ should be taught, and much depended, for this, on the faith of the teachers. On looking over this subject with much solicitude, it was determined that no _heretic_ should be placed in the chair of instruction; and it was not difficult to draw the line between orthodoxy and heresy in the proper place. Those who were agreed in subscribing to the doctrine of eternal pain, how much soever they might differ in other things, were considered orthodox; and these were all the believers except _one_. This one had some time before espoused the doctrine of the _Restitution of all things_, and for this he was considered a heretic, and judged an unfit person to give religious instruction. This was all the crime that could be found against him; he was exemplary in all his conduct, had instructed many of the youthful convicts in the rudiments of science; was devoted to books, and to the study of the scriptures in particular; and all were fully persuaded that he meant in all things to keep a conscience void of offence; but he did not believe in endless misery, and this was crime enough. As soon as the opinion of the Chaplain was known to be against committing the care of a Sabbath school to a Restorationist, the whole orthodoxy of the prison was set in the same way, and the poor heretic was allowed no peace in the Temple.

I mention this as a historic fact for the use of christians. It shews that mankind are the same under all circumstances, and exhibit the same deformities of religious character in the dungeon as in the cathedral. Man is a fallen creature, and the fragments of ruined greatness are visible in every developement of his moral history. In that little circle of worshipping prisoners, I saw the same principles at work which have divided christians in every age and country--the same principles of perverted christianity which exalted an ambitious mortal to the throne of spiritual empire, and created the inquisition for the torture of heretics--the spirit of misguided zeal which has drawn the sword of conquest and drenched the earth with blood. In all these we see the consequences of sin, the actions of erring humanity; and I have not yet so perfectly rooted the principles from which they spring, from my own breast, that I can feel safe to bring an accusation against any of those whom I consider wrong. Nor dare I even call on the _Lord_ to rebuke them. If I have suffered, I freely pardon my enemies, and I hope that, in coming times, all these phenomena of christian character and conduct will cease, and all men be brethren in feeling and in conduct.

I desire also to inform those who are daily denouncing the doctrine of the _Restoration_ as tending to licentiousness and crime, that there are no _grounds_ for such denunciation. I was educated in the schools of Calvin and Wesley, and I had been in Windsor many years before I was convinced of my errors, and became a believer in God as the Saviour of all men. And of the five hundred who were, at different times, my companions, I never found over _three_ who were not firm believers in endless ruin. I do not say that the doctrine of endless punishment is immoral in its tendency, for I think very different from this; and I know that the _opposite_ sentiment is not. Nothing is more out of place, than the mutual charges of immorality which professors throw on each other's creed. The infidel smiles when he hears these mutual criminations; and who can blame him for not espousing a cause which, judging only from its effects on some of its professed votaries, is calculated to set friend against friend, and break up the harmony of social life? If he has never tasted for himself that the Lord is gracious, can we suppose he will be won over to the love of a principle, which appears from the exhibition before him, to be perfectly hateful? No. And not until the representatives of christianity represent her as she _is_, will the unbeliever condescend to give her claims to inspiration that solemn and respectful notice which they deserve. Let, then, all crimination, and recrimination, among professors be done away. Let no man be denounced on account of his religious creed, but let the test of every man's character be his _actions_, and his _life_; if these are good, the man is good, the anathemas of sectarian zeal to the contrary notwithstanding. "By their _fruits_ ye shall know them." The orthodoxy of Calvin can never sanctify his persecution of the martyr Servetus; nor did the ignorance of Cornelius in respect to the true faith prevent his prayers from ascending to God. If the _heart_ is right, if the man is _sincere_ and _honest_, no error in his creed can corrupt his principles, or stain the moral purity of his soul; and I would much rather do right and serve God by _chance_, than err and sin by _rule_.

To what extent the principles of religion are loved and cherished in the prison, it may not be easy to determine, though it is a truly melancholy fact, that the number of sincere and hopeful christians is very small. It must not, however, be inferred, that the great mass of mind, in that place, is totally depraved; for there are frequently discovered by the candid observer of that field of moral ruin, some bright and pleasing fragments,--some beautiful specimens of what is true, and lovely, and honest, and of good report. Like the beclouded heavens, in which a few cheering stars are still seen, or the mighty and varied desert in which a few green and fertile spots are visible, that waste of ruined virtue is specked over with some pleasing vestiges of what it once was--some green and flowery spots for the mind to repose on, and some stars to guide it, while wandering amidst the thick darkness and cheerless wastes of moral desolation. Indeed I never found there, amidst all those sons of guilt, a single mind in which the pulse of virtuous principles was not still beating, though feebly, and I doubt whether one can be found in the universe.

ATTEMPTS TO ESCAPE, AND SUICIDES.

The prisoners have many inducements to attempt their escape. The eternal gloom that hangs over their minds--the regulations of their unfeeling rulers--the instinctive love of every human soul to liberty--and the deceptive appearance of the surrounding country, are constantly tempting them to some violent or crafty scheme to elude the grasp of their tormentors and be free. These, however, produce but little effect on calculating minds; but they keep the _rash_, the _young_, and the _romantic_ in a perpetual ferment; and I wonder that more attempts, of this kind, have not been made. The various insults of the keepers, are sometimes sufficient to inspire a rock with indignation, and call up the dead to resentment. The walls appear a trifling object when the mind is inflamed. What appears a boundless forest, inhabited only by tigers and untrodden by man, comes within a few rods of the prison, and nothing appears easier than to reach it. Why, then, more attempts are not made to escape, is to be accounted for only by presuming that the prisoners have more judgment than rashness. I shall mention a few of the attempts of the prisoners to effect their escape, for the purpose of making some remarks on them.

The first successful attempt of this kind, was made by a man named Palmer. The prison wall was not finished, and he found means of secreting himself, breaking off his fetters, and effecting his escape. He was not absent, however, over a year, when he was apprehended and brought back. He stayed _seven years_ after his return, and that completed his sentence.

Another, though unsuccessful attempt, was made by a man named Fitch. He went over the wall, and was fired on by the guard, the ball just missing him. He got but a few rods when he was arrested and returned to the prison. He was severely punished for his temerity.

An entire cell effected their escape one night by removing a large stone; and they kept the freedom which they regained at so much peril. At another time the hospital was broken, and an escape effected by four individuals, in a way which evinced the greatest wisdom of contrivance, and strength of limbs. Three of these got away, and one returned.

Soon after this, a violent rush was made over the wall by five men, who were determined to effect an escape by daylight. The guard fired on them, and wounded one slightly. They enjoyed their liberty only a few minutes, when they were all safely deposited in the solitary cells. They were punished according to the laws of the prison, and I know not that they ever found fault that they were punished too much.

A man named Banks contrived to escape one Sabbath, by climbing over the wall, and he was successful in getting into Canada; but committing a crime there and fleeing back into the state of Vermont, he was apprehended on an advertisement, and remanded to Windsor. After three or four years, he found means to repeat the same experiment, and like the raven from the ark, he returned not again.

Another attempt was made to escape from a cell without success; and another to force a flight over the wall. In this, one of the prisoners fired one of the buildings, and brought down on his head a weight of punishment that might have crushed the constitution of Lucifer. But he survived it, and lives a pleasing evidence of the fact, that the vilest of sinners may reform and become good men.

I know of no instance of attempts to escape, which might not have been prevented by the keepers. If they had done their duty, the chance of success would have been so small, that no mind would have indulged the thought for one moment. The guard can hear the least noise that is made in the cells, and the keepers can see all that is going on in the shops; and not an attempt has ever been made in which the officers have not been more or less criminal. They are not attentive to their duty. The guard often get asleep on the wall, and the keepers in the shops; and on these occasions the prisoners calculate and act, without which they would do neither.

But this is not the extent of the keepers' guilt. They not only nod on their posts, they also permit the plans of the prisoners to ripen into effect, when they know them, that they may shed blood, rivet fetters, and take life. Witness the case of P. Fane. Every incident in the history of that place, which fell under my notice, left an idea on my mind, that a _quorum_ of the keepers and guard are always contriving to multiply the miseries of the prisoners; and while I saw them sinning daily with impunity, in the sight of their superiors and of each other, and at the same time tormenting the convicts for the merest nothing, I often exclaimed in the language of Jacob--"O! my soul, come not thou into their secret, unto their assembly, mine honour, be not thou united."

The same process of cruelty often drives the convicts to desperation, and the commission of crimes which could exist under no other circumstances. They are often provoked to the utterance of harsh and angry expressions, for which they are sure to suffer. Sometimes they are driven through despair to the sick bed of a remediless delirium, and to the revolting recklessness of self-destruction. One of these instances I have already given in the case of Levett. The same attempt was made by Plumley, but he was discovered in season to save his life for more suffering, and for death by other hands. Several other attempts of the same kind transpired through the intolerable and incessant oppressions and aggravated inhumanity of the "powers that were." But the two who I am going to mention, effected their dreadful object, and I shall give each of them a brief notice.

Woodbury was a man of feeble mind, but of very acute feelings and volatile spirits. To every nerve of his heart liberty was dear, and he was equally sensitive to his separation from his friends whom he tenderly loved. Scarcely had he entered the prison when his countenance began to indicate disease, and very soon he became a mere skeleton. His complaint assumed no definite character, and he could get no medicine to help him. In this condition he was kept at the most laborious work, and compelled to do his task. Anticipating the result, and dreading the usual passage to the grave amid the neglect, abuse, and insults of the keepers, he resolved on cutting short his sufferings and dying by his own hands. Accordingly he retired to his cell and hung himself--leaving on a slate this direction--"I wish you would open me, doctor Trask." This direction was complied with, but the doctor reported no indications of disease. That he was, however, sick, every prisoner and keeper knew; and that the fatal act was the consequence of the neglect of his keepers, and the cruelty of the master workman, is no problem with me, nor will it be with others, when every secret thing shall be made manifest.

Ham was a young man, whose prospects had been blighted in their bud, and a gloomy expression had settled on his countenance, which it was difficult to remove, even for a moment. His every look seemed audibly to say--"I am ruined!" He was a close observer of what passed, and when a convict was seen by him going into punishment, he would fall into an absence and reverie; and looking at times towards the walls and the green fields beyond them, the tear would gather in his eyes to tell the burden of his soul. His prison, he often said, looked like a resting place for eternity. Life became a burden to him, and he ended it by suicide.

PRISONERS' CORRESPONDENCE WITH THEIR FRIENDS.

To a certain extent, the prisoners have the privilege of corresponding with their friends. But this privilege, like many others, loses much of its value from the circumstances under which it is enjoyed. No prisoner is allowed to state his real condition, nor intimate that he is not kindly treated. Every letter must be examined before it is sent, and if a single word is too _significant_ for the pleasure of the keeper, it is destroyed. The same is true of all letters sent to the prisoners by their friends. I find no fault with the keepers examining all letters sent by or to the prisoners. This is perfectly right. And it would be equally right to suppress all letters not written in a respectful style, or containing information that might afford facilities for an escape from the prison; but to interrupt a prisoner's correspondence with his friends, merely to gratify the capricious disposition of an unfeeling keeper, is unjust, inhuman, and criminal.

In order to ensure a passport for their letters, the unmanly conduct of the keepers has driven the prisoners into a style of writing which must be disgusting to all but those who love to be flattered. They generally devote one paragraph to the praise of the keepers. This paragraph is usually a very fine one; and as it contains some high sounding words of commendation, it tickles the vanity of those who examine it, and finds its way abroad.

When a letter is condemned, the prisoner is sometimes permitted to try again, and sometimes he is left to guess its fate. Should any one write a true account of the place, its laws, and customs, and regulations, it would be as impossible for the letter to get into the Post Office, as it is for a guinea to pass by the fingers of a Jew. And it is a very frequent case that a man is most shamefully abused by his keeper, on account of some lines in his letters, which he penned as innocently as a martyr, but which did not happen to be worded according to the _grammar of the place_. I write this from experience; for I am the man. But I am not the _only_ man. Should any one ask the names of the others, I might answer--"_legions_," for they "_are many_." And for some offence innocently committed in this way, many have been marked for the arrows of vengeance, which have not lingered long on the string.

Should a letter to any prisoner be deemed inadmissible, he would not know that any had been sent to him. No matter how interesting it might be to him, the keeper destroys it and is silent. Many facts confirm this statement. I have now by me a letter which I recently received from my brother, in which he writes--"I received not one letter from you all the time you were there, though I wrote you many." Not one of _his_ letters ever reached me, and I wrote very many to him. This is not a singular case; I know of _many_ similar ones.

Another circumstance ought to be mentioned here.--There is no provision made to pay the postage on letters sent to the prisoners, and as they are generally destitute of money, it often happens that their letters are never taken out of the office. When any letter _is_ taken out of the Post office, the postage is charged to the prisoner, and he must pay it, whether he gets the letter or not.

All other communications are subject to the same vexatious rules as the letters are. If a prisoner wishes to send a petition to his friends for them to sign in his behalf, and forward to the Governor and Council; or if he wishes to send one to that body with his own signature, it must be worded _just so_, or it cannot be sent. The keeper of the prison takes it upon himself to decide what _is_ and what is _not_ proper to go before the Executive. He also, as if possessed of omniscience, knows all the _facts_ in the case, better than the man that has _experienced_ them; and as there is no law binding him but his own will, he acts in such cases, very frequently, as if there were no God to take notice of his conduct, and no judgment for the guilty.

That the conduct of the keepers in respect to the correspondence of the prisoners is highly improper, no one will attempt to deny. That correspondence is sacred, and no unfeeling or capricious regulations ought ever to interrupt it. The tender sympathies of friendship are not destroyed, though the heart that contains them is chilled by a dungeon's damps and a prison's gloom. A father is a father still. A husband is a husband still. And dear to the heart are the thoughts of his children, and the recollections of his wife. These are as imperishable as his nature, and who that ever had a heart could touch lightly the sacred ark of his happiness? How infernal must be the nature of that man who can wantonly crucify the holy sympathies of a trembling sufferer? But it is not the _sinner_ alone who suffers by this conduct of men in power, it is the _innocent_ too; and who but a fiend would punish the innocent with the guilty? It would denote a moral and perfect fitness for any place but heaven, to take pleasure in afflicting, unnecessarily, even the vilest sinner; what then must be the moral complexion of that man's soul, who can sport with the unmerited sufferings of the crimeless, and take an unearthly satisfaction in multiplying the tears and agony of the innocent wife and the stainless orphan? But such men there are, and well I know them.

COURTSHIP IN PRISON.

The age of romance has not yet passed away, and an incident that might have originated a Poem in the days of Ovid, or a Novel in the land of Sir Walter, transpired in the beautiful and romantic village of Windsor; and though it may not chime very harmoniously with the other tones of my book, yet as it contains a moral, much needed at this period of the world, I will gratify the reader with an account of it.

S. was one of those very common specimens of our race, on which a graceful and captivating exterior is lavished at the expense of the more valuable and lasting graces of the mind. Every eye that saw him gave evidence that it was contemplating something in which there was no blemish; and this evident satisfaction continued till he spoke--_then_, the contrast between external beauty and mental poverty was so great, that the charm vanished and the angel departed. For some crime or other, he became one of the inhabitants of the prison, where his personal charms fastened on the heart of a female who afterwards became his wife.

This lady belonged to a respectable family and was esteemed by all her acquaintances, and in giving herself to S. she committed the only fault of her life.

A friend of hers was an officer of the prison, and she spent some of her time in his family. In that place, she could see all the prisoners every day, and there she first saw her future husband. Love is said to be blind, and there is some reason for the opinion. Why an esteemed and virtuous young lady, should permit herself to be captivated by a _prisoner_, cannot be accounted for but by supposing that love can steal the march of reason, and that wisdom and prudence are feeble springs against the force of passion.

"Veni, vidi, vici," said the Roman Conqueror, when he had vanquished his foes; but this victim of thoughtless passion had occasion to say in the sequel--"I saw, I loved, and I was ruined."

She found means, after she became a _prisoner_ to his charms, to communicate her wishes to the idol of her breast, by proxy at first, and afterwards by personal interviews. The proxy was an old man who used to go into the keeper's room to wash and clean the floor, and his appearance was enough to have frightened love to distraction. But necessity compelled them, and many a bundle of soft sighs did he carry between these romantic lovers.

After some time she found an opportunity of taking his hand in hers, and of telling him all that was in her heart. Willing to be loved, though incapable of that warm emotion himself, he followed as she led, and the sweet promises were made, which were to bind them heart and hand for life.

And now, warm with visionary bliss, she had only to wait a _few years_ for his sentence to expire, for the consummation of her desires. _A few years!_ Love is impatient, and to look through _years_, when _days_ are _months_, before the anticipated joy can be realized, was too much, and, therefore, effort must be used to get him pardoned. It would have been cruel in the extreme, not to have pardoned the charming idol under such circumstances, and as the Executive was composed of feeling hearts, her desire was granted, and she took the object of her adoration to her nuptial arms, the day that his pardon reached him.

I have heard that she suffered much from this rash and imprudent surrender of herself into the arms of a stranger, who had nothing but a pretty face to recommend him, and every thing against him.

If I had any fears that _others_ would be ruined in this way, I should dwell longer on this part of my sketches; but it will be sufficient to say in conclusion, that marriages in which nothing but passion and fancy are concerned, never lead to peace, and this instance is a melancholy proof of it. Ladies ought always to act prudently in an engagement of so much importance to their future happiness, and never commit themselves into the arms of any man whose reputation is stained, or who is not known to be virtuous and good. Particularly, let it be remembered, that the graces of the mind are of priceless value, and for the want of them, no charms of form or countenance can atone.

MR. STRICKLIN.

I have introduced the name of this amiable and lamented young man, to illustrate some other parts of that deformed and dreadful character in which so many of the keepers glory. Having experienced the hardening effect of that awful place on their moral feelings, they take an infamous delight in accelerating the same effect on all who enter into the service of the prison. To accomplish this, they give them to understand that the prisoners are a malicious, bloodthirsty, and hellish pack, whom they must treat with perfect hatred and the most jealous and wakeful suspicion. They are taught to keep their swords always sharp as a scythe, and fastened to their wrists by a strong leather strap. It is impressed on their minds that they are as insecure when with the prisoners, as if they were among a clan of Arabs or a gang of pirates. To make these instructions the more efficacious, the keepers try all schemes which they can think of, to find their pupils off their guard, and to make them believe that the prisoners are on the eve of some dreadful plot. Under such masters, and such a course of education, the new servants enter upon their duty; and who can wonder to find them becoming in a short time as hateful as their teachers.