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Recollections of Windsor Prison;

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Title: Recollections of Windsor Prison;

Author: of Vermont John Reynolds


        
Release date: April 4, 2012 [eBook #39370]

Language: English

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  RECOLLECTIONS OF WINDSOR PRISON;

  Containing
  SKETCHES OF ITS HISTORY AND DISCIPLINE;

  With
  APPROPRIATE STRICTURES,

  And
  MORAL AND RELIGIOUS REFLECTIONS.


  BY JOHN REYNOLDS.




  Third Edition.
  BOSTON:
  PUBLISHED BY A. WRIGHT.
  1839.

  Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1834,
  BY ANDREW WRIGHT,
  in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts.




PREFACE.

  "Lest men suspect your tale untrue,
   Keep _probability_ in view."


In following this suggestion of the poet, I have been compelled to
"_extenuate_," and I have had no temptation to "set down aught in
malice." The world of gloomy horrors through which my memory has been
roving for the materials of this volume, cannot receive a deepening
shade from either reality or fiction; and my conscientious and
prudential object has been, to take the _brightest_ truths which my
subjects have required, and let the _darker_ ones remain untold. For
the correctness of the facts which I have recorded, as to all
essential points, I hold myself responsible; and as to my strictures
and reasonings, I am willing they should pass for just what they are
worth.

In sending these Recollections abroad, I am governed by principles
which are equally remote from the considerations of either hope or
fear. All my hopes, from my fellow men, are gone out in the cold and
gloomy damps of despair; and having long endured their _deepest_
scorn, I have nothing more to fear from _them_. My sole object is to
plead the cause of suffering humanity, and drag iniquity from her dark
retreats out into the view of mankind. I have also aimed to rend the
mask from spiritual wickedness; and rouse the energies of benevolence
in favor of the wretched. My cause is a good one--would to God it
could find an abler advocate!

In noticing the opinions of others, I have been unrestrained, but
candid; and in touching the _conduct_ of some, I have endeavored to
render to each his due--praise, to whom praise, and censure, to whom
censure--and I am willing to step into the same scale myself.

I am well aware that this book will create me enemies, and put the
tongue of slander in motion; but none of these things move me. The
bird that is wounded will flutter. On the other hand, I expect to
obtain some _friends_ by this work; but this has been no inducement
with me to publish it. Finally, I can assure both friends and foes,
that, if any good should result from this volume to the cause of
benevolence in any way, I may take my pen again. At any rate, I shall
have the satisfaction of having done my duty, and performed my vow;
and this satisfaction is of more value to me than any other reward
which may result from my labors.

                                                           THE AUTHOR.

_Boston, April_, 1834.




GEHENNA IN MINIATURE.

ORIGIN OF PRISONS.


Egypt is said to have been the cradle of letters; and happy had it
been for her history, if she had never cradled any thing worse. There
are the first and oldest pyramids, the sphynxes, and the labyrinths;
and there was erected the first prison of which history has taken
notice. A cruel and heartless people, they deserve the infamy of
corrupting the principles of penal justice, and of transforming their
prisons into theatres of the most fiend-like barbarity, and unhallowed
revenge.

With the same spirit which led the scholar to pry into the
hieroglyphic mysteries of this land of wonders, has the genius of her
prison discipline been copied by the nations of the earth, till the
whole world is filled with these terrestrial hells. But as this sketch
leads me rather to the contemplation of _Penitentiaries_ than prisons
in general, I shall turn my thoughts to them in _particular_.


ORIGIN AND DESIGN OF PENITENTIARIES, WITH A VIEW OF THEIR
IMPERFECTIONS.

These lurid and doleful mansions, owe their existence to the
sinfulness and depravity of man; and they are designed, by a mild and
salutary process, to reform the sons of guilt and crime. Long
experience had demonstrated, that sanguinary measures produced no
_good_ effect on the sufferers, but rather made them _worse_.
Humanity, too, recoiled from the cruelty of such inflictions as the
lash, and the brand; and as the effect of such severity was no
argument for its continuance, humane legislators devised the
_Penitentiary_ system, by which criminals are confined to labor, and
_should_ be allowed full opportunities of reflecting on their conduct,
and of reforming their lives. And as the design is to have them
treated with kindness, and allowed all the means of moral and
religious instruction and improvement, that man can furnish, the
benevolent hope of the community is, that their sufferings, thus
tempered with mercy and humanity, will be salutary and reforming in
its effects. Mercy and benevolence were the inspiring angels of this
system, and could it ever be brought practically to bear on offending
man, it would produce a salutary reform in his heart and life.

But the great difficulty with which this system has to contend, is,
the absolute impossibility of finding proper persons to carry it into
effect. The life and soul of it is unmingled mercy, and men, qualified
by gentleness of temper and benevolence of heart, to administer its
laws, are not to be found on earth. Man, in his ruined and fallen
nature, is a savage, and the milk of human tenderness was never drawn
from the breast of a tiger. To give a full practical demonstration of
the tendency and effects of the Penitentiary discipline, as it exists
in the speculations of the philanthropist, _God_ must become the
_director_, and _angels_ the ministering spirits of its
administration. Such a system, in the faultlessness of perfection, is
now in practical operation on the entire community of fallen and
impenitent spirits; and the success of the past demonstrates the
rationality of the expectation of universal success. On this the mind
rests with perfect pleasure, and is relieved by it from the
painfulness of witnessing the inefficiency of human means, to reform
the votaries of guilt.

There can be no moral truth more fully demonstrated than this, that
nothing but _goodness_ can beget goodness. Material substances
communicate their own properties to each other, and moral qualities
impregnate, with their own nature, the objects on which they exert an
influence.--Hence the baleful influence of tyranny on the human mind.
Hence the contagion of vice. And hence the reason of the truth, that
"we love God because he first loved us."

Where, in all history, can an instance be found of a single
reformation from guilt, by any other than gentle and clement means?
The blaze of retributive vengeance may awe the propensities to crime
into inaction; but it cannot uproot them. The _terrors_ of the Lord
may make men afraid, but it is the _goodness_ of God that leads to
reformation. This is the secret of the Lord, which is with them that
fear him. This is the golden key which opens the cause of that
success, which has, _visibly_, in so many cases, marked the progress
of the gospel of the _grace_ of God; and which is, in all others,
attaining the same happy result, by a process so _silent_ and _slow_,
as to evade the careless observation of the unreflecting multitude.
This is the philosophy of the divine administration, and it is one of
those simple sciences which the pride of man is reluctant to learn;
but which the humility of Christ will dispose him to receive, and by
which his nature is to be renewed and adorned.

A ray of this science darkened by the dusky medium through which it
passed, shot from the throne of blended goodness and intelligence, and
crossed the mind of that philanthropist who conceived the ideal theory
of an effective Penitentiary discipline, in the hands of man. A gleam
of sacred light seemed to spread over the anticipated results of the
embryo experiment, as he resolved it in his enthusiastic mind; but it
was like the gleam of the north, which shoots on the eye, and is
immediately lost in its vivid expansion. It is a vain and idle theory;
splendid, indeed, but impracticable; lovely, but visionary; and can
never go into perfect operation till the occasion for it shall have
ceased. In all but intelligent and sympathizing hands, this system of
benevolence must necessarily be perverted; and as "man's inhumanity to
man makes countless thousands mourn," the same uncomely traits of
character will continue, till the Spirit of God shall have humanized
mankind, and obviated the necessity of corrective discipline.

Another obstacle, not only to the exhibition of a _perfect_
Penitentiary, but to so good a one as _might_ exist, even in the
present state of human depravity, is, the well known fact, that
_merciful_ men cannot be obtained to enforce its discipline; none but
the true sons of an uncompromising and iron-hearted severity, will
consent to perform for any considerable time, the unenviable task of
inflicting pain on a fellow creature. Hence this duty is too
frequently assigned, from necessity, to those who find in it the
highest enjoyment of which their dreadful natures are capable. There
are numbers of very bright exceptions to this remark, and I shall
notice them with pleasure when I come to treat of the character of the
keepers. Could such men as may be found on earth--those brighter
fragments of ruined humanity, which are frequently to be met with,--be
placed at the head and in the offices of our Penitentiaries, and could
they be removed at that very hour when the too frequent perception of
suffering begins to corrupt and deaden their moral feelings, many of
the evils which now grow out of the perversion of those means of good,
might be obviated, even if no salutary results could be produced. And
this I am confident is an improvement in those places for which the
demand is impressive and thrilling.

Another reason why prisons do not effect more good, or prevent more
evil, is, the design of them is lost sight of. Instead of an altar to
God, the keepers erect one to Mammon; and among the sacrifices at this
altar are found the health, peace, and life of the convicts. Here,
surely, reform is called for in a voice as sacred as it is loud and
awful. Remove that altar; subsidize no longer the blood of souls in
the interdicted worship of an idol; but allow the subjects of penal
bondage time and opportunity for reflection; for reading the Holy
Bible; for prayer; for public and social worship;--and furnish them
with all the means and facilities of moral and religious improvement
which intelligent piety can suggest.




ORIGIN, CONSTRUCTION, GOVERNMENT,

AND

GENERAL HISTORY OF WINDSOR PRISON.


The foundation of this prison was laid in 1809. It is built of stone
throughout, has three stories, and thirty-five rooms or cells, with
strong and massy iron doors. The cells on the ground are small, with
small _apertures_ or windows; those in the second story are generally
larger, but with similar apertures; and those in the upper story are
all larger, and have grated windows, much larger than those in the
other stories. In this story are two rooms which are used as
hospitals. The furniture of the rooms are straw beds, with convenient
and comfortable clothing, small seats and a few books. The ground
story is for the prisoners when they first enter the prison. After
some time, if they conduct in a satisfactory manner, they are moved to
the second story; from which, in due time, if they merit the favor,
they are permitted to ascend to the third. If any of the prisoners, in
the second and third stories, transgress the laws, they are put down
_one_ story as a part of their punishment.

[Illustration: Windsor Prison.]

Some of the small cells in the first and second stories are used as
_solitary_ cells for the punishment of offenders. The apertures of
these are closed, so that they are as dark as midnight. While the
offender is in these, he has only one blanket to sleep on, in the
coldest weather in the winter, and in the summer, nothing but the
stone floor. His only sustenance is a piece of bread once a day,
weighing from four to six ounces. Some prisoners have been confined in
these places more than thirty days, though the usual time varies from
six to twelve. Many have frozen their feet there, and in many a
constitution, the seeds of decay and death have there been planted.

The furniture of the hospitals is of a piece with that of the other
parts of the prison, and only _one_ degree more comfortable. The beds
are straw; the clothes are clean; the food various, according to the
complaints of the sick, but never rises to the claims of humanity. In
the winter, the patients are blessed with a stove, and are kept
comfortably warm. This is the _dying_ place, but some are denied the
comfort of even this, and die before they can get admittance.
According to the laws of the prison, however, this is the only place
in which medicine must be given, and the appointed department for all
that are sick. But laws are only ropes of sand. The laws of the prison
are merciful, but neither the rains of spring, the dews of morning,
nor the sunbeams of heaven, can either soften or fertilize a rock.

It was the original design that the whole prison should be kept warm,
and large stoves were provided for this purpose; but it was found
impossible to do this by the means used, and after a few years, the
coldest part of the winter found not a spark of fire in any of the
halls. Much is suffered on account of the cold; but it is a place of
punishment, and this is the kind and feeling argument with which the
keepers meet the entreaties of the shivering prisoners. Many a time
have I made large balls by scraping the frost with my hand from the
stone sides of my cell; and thousands of times have my hands been so
chilled, that I had to tax my ingenuity to turn over the pages of my
bible.

Adjoining the prison is a large brick house, for the use of the
keepers and guard. At some distance in the rear, is a large brick
shop, in which the prisoners are employed during the day, at their
labor, which was at first making nails and other smith work, but has
since been changed to manufacturing cotton cloth, ginghams, plaids,
&c. This shop is kept warm and clean.

Another brick building between the shop and prison was erected for
store rooms, lumber rooms, &c., and for a chapel. This part of it was
very convenient, and spoke much for the pious feelings of the
individuals who erected it. It was used, however, only a few years for
the worship of God, when "a new king arose who knew not Joseph," and
the voice of the preacher and the utterance of prayer departed from
this temple, and the buyers and sellers, and money changers occupied
the place of the priest, and polluted the sacred altar. It was painful
to tread on these sacred ruins, and to hear the clack of looms where
the soul had hung with transport on the sacred sounds of instruction,
and been melted with the holy ardors of devotional feeling. "By what
spirit," I often asked, "was this ruin made? Was it the spirit of
piety?"--No! The genius of this change came not from Jordan's waves,
nor from Zion's holy hill; the hand that smote this altar of religion
and extinguished the last cheering light of the contrite soul was
nerved by the same spirit that led the guilty rabble to smite the
condemned Redeemer, and place on his innocent head a crown of thorns.

Another brick building east of this, used as an office for the master
weaver, and a carpenter's shop, &c. is all that had been erected
previously to the building of the new prison for solitary confinement,
in 1830. Around all these is a wall about sixteen feet high, and three
feet thick at the base, which completes the Establishment.

The government of the prison was, at first, vested in a Board of
Visiters, who appointed the subordinate officers, made the By-Laws of
the Institution, and made report of their doings to the Legislature
every year. The officers of their appointment were the head keeper and
three or more assistant keepers--five guard--a master weaver--a
physician--a chaplain--and a contractor. One of the Visiters attended
at the prison one day in every week to give directions about the work,
and to see that the By-Laws were obeyed and enforced.

After some years this form of the government was changed, and the duty
of the Board of Visiters committed to one man, denominated the
Superintendent. Another change soon after gave the appointment of a
Warden to the Legislature, and the appointment of the inferior
officers to him, leaving the Superintendent to act only as
_contractor_. After eight years the office of Warden was destroyed by
the Legislature, and all authority recommitted to the Superintendent.

These changes in the government did not effect, in any degree, the
_spirit_ by which the prison was governed; and while each form had its
peculiarities and excellencies, they all had their defects. The
principal defects were the investing of the Visiters and Wardens, and
Superintendents with the power to appoint _physicians_ and
_chaplains_. These are high and important offices, and ought not to be
answerable to any power but supreme. The physician, depending on the
pleasure of a petty officer for his appointment, is too often the mere
_tool_ of that officer, to the injury of his moral principles, and at
the expense of the health and life of too many of the prisoners.
Whereas if the physician held his office from the Legislature, he
would have power to _open_ and _shut_, which he has not now; and both
health and life, which are now lost, might be preserved.

The _Chaplain_, also, should hold his office from the highest source
in the state. In such a place, his is the most important office, and
he ought to have authority to do all things pertaining to it, without
any reference to the pleasure of a man who, perhaps, despises both
him and his office, and believes in no God higher than himself. The
gospel ought to be fully taught and explained, and exemplified by the
Chaplain; and he ought to be elevated, in his authority, above the
control of those who can now say to him--"Come at such a moment, or
not at all."

Another reason why the Legislature ought to appoint the Chaplain is,
that then, _sectarian policy_ would not have so much influence. The
Legislature is composed of members of all churches, and they would, as
they do their own chaplain, appoint without any reference to _sect_;
and then one man living in Windsor, could not consult the finances of
his own _party_, in appointing a clergyman for the prison.

The By-Laws of the prison have never been very materially altered,
since they were first composed. A copy of them is laid before the
Legislature every year, and being sanctioned by that body, they
become, virtually, the laws of the state for that Institution. They
are wisely adapted to the circumstances of the prison, and are as
merciful as they are wise; but they are disregarded, and never
adverted to but when they direct the infliction of punishment on the
prisoners. They are trampled under foot by every keeper and guard,
from the highest to the lowest. They are read once in every month to
the prisoners, but those parts which relate to the conduct of the
officers, are wisely omitted in reading, lest the prisoners should
know when _they_ err, and be able to convict them from the law. I do
not say this from conjecture, I know it; for the hand that is writing
this word, copied them every year, and I also read to the prisoners
the parts directed to be read; and I have often heard the keeper say,
that the prisoners ought _not_ to know what laws relate to the
officers. I shall have occasion, in the course of these sketches, to
quote largely from these By-Laws, and what has been written here will
suffice for my present purpose.

The prisoners go to their work at sunrise, and retire at sunset. They
have a task, and for what they do over it, they receive a
compensation. Their food is coarse, but good and wholesome. They wear
party-colored clothes, half green and half scarlet, and are kept
clean. They are not allowed to converse together while at work, nor
can they leave their employment and go into the yard, or any part of
the shop without permission of the keeper. When they are out of the
shops they are under the care of the guard on the wall, and they are
not suffered to ramble, but must do their errand and return into the
shop.

They can see their friends, when they call, in the presence of a
keeper, and write and receive letters, if they contain nothing
objected to by the Warden or head officer. They have such books as
they purchase for themselves, and once they had a social library,
which would have been more useful, if many very improper books had not
been in it. Why these were admitted, the guardians of the morals of
the place must answer. No newspapers were allowed to be introduced,
not even _religious_ ones; but tracts and religious pamphlets were not
objected to.

There is always a keeper in every shop while the prisoners are at
work, and he is armed with a sword. A guard is placed on the wall
during the day, armed with a gun, loaded with a ball and buck shot;
and at night there is one in the entrance of the prison to prevent
escapes.

Such is the general history of the prison up to 1830, when a new
prison, on the plan of solitary confinement, was erected. This
contains about one hundred and seventy small cells, in which the
prisoners are confined separately during the night. No radical
alteration, I apprehend, has been made in the government of the place,
in any other respect. The design of this change was, to prevent the
prisoners from corrupting each other's minds by social intercourse.
The principle laid down by the votaries of this plan, is, that vice
is contagious, and wicked men become worse by association. The more
abandoned, it is said, will draw down others to their own degree of
guilt, if permitted to associate together, and thus baffle all the
efforts of piety and virtue for their reformation. Hence the
presumptive necessity for a prison on a new construction, and hence
the prison for solitary confinement in Windsor. I _hope_ it will be so
managed as to prove a less curse to humanity than the old one, though
it is like hoping _against_ hope. In respect to its _reforming_
effect, I shall say more in another article; but I will remark here,
that reformation is a _moral_ work, and depends not on the _shape_ of
the person's _room_. It is a work of _mercy_, and nothing but mercy
can _effect_ it. Man is a social being, and the laws of his nature are
violated by dooming him to solitude. The genius of crime dwells in the
dark places of retirement, and always communes with its followers
_alone_. Social life, on the contrary, is the garden of every virtue,
in which nothing but flowers are permitted to flourish, and nothing
but good fruit permitted to ripen when properly cultivated.




SOLITARY CONFINEMENT.


I ought to touch this subject with a delicate hand. Many giants of
speculation have been this way, and they have laid down principles
from which I am compelled to dissent. I am well aware of the charm of
greatness, and of the danger of appearing singular with those on whom
the mantle of popular veneration has been seen to fall; and I feel
that in the strictures which I am commencing, I shall gain no applause
from those who are kindly delivered from labor of thinking for
themselves. This weighs, however, but little with me. A being who has
visited the moon knows more about it than astronomers have ever
taught. A man who has burned his finger knows more of the effect of
fire on flesh, than the most eloquent lecturer who has had no
experience. Confident, then, that my own experience may be safely
trusted, I shall follow it cheerfully, whether it lead me _in_ the
path which speculation has trodden, or _across_ it. BACON lays it down
as a principle in philosophy, that man is ignorant of every thing
antecedent to observation, and that experience is at the bottom of all
our knowledge. To this principle I bow in submission, and take it for
granted that what I have experienced I know.

Sustained then by my own personal experience and observation, I say
_fearlessly_, that the solitary confinement plan, is an unwise,
unfeeling, and ruinous innovation upon the Penitentiary discipline.
Every body knows that it adds to the terror of such places; evinces a
cruel recklessness of the feelings and personal comfort of the
prisoner; and has the effect to convince him that the government is
not his friend. This destroys his confidence in its mercy, and creates
in him a disposition for revenge, which will eternally baffle all
efforts for his reformation. He may, indeed, be awed with the gloomy
horrors of the law, but cannot, by _such_ means, be regenerated into a
love of virtue. No; before you can do any thing towards reforming a
sinner, you must convince him of your real friendship for him, which
can be done only by _being_ friendly; and it is _not_ being friendly
to inflict pain without a benevolent motive. The construction of
ordinary prisons is full cruel enough to fill the soul with terror; no
_friend_ would build even such a place as Windsor prison _was_, for
one he loved, and no human being could suppose that love and
friendship for the human race, had any thing to do in forming its
plan. Should an angel from some happy world, in his flight near our
earth, pause and contemplate the old prison at Windsor, he would
hasten back and inform his companions that he had seen a _hell_. That
place was designed or ignorantly constructed, as a fit house in which
Revenge might feed in luxury on the tears of distress, and dance to
the groans of despair. Every prisoner could read the spirit of the
place in the massy walls--the iron grates and doors--and the noonday
twilight of the cells; and the impression on every mind was, that the
spirits of the infernal world had been erecting a very appropriate
Temple for their chief. This is neither fiction, fancy, nor poetry,
but solemn literal truth. The deathly chill which it threw on my
spirits when I entered it, makes me shudder to this hour. But the
_new_ prison caps the climax of relentless invention, and sets
description at defiance. Now, I say, that no prisoner can suppose by
any reach of rational candor, that the builders of this _new_ prison,
were his friends; and hence all efforts, purporting to spring from a
tender regard for his good, will be appreciated accordingly.

But it may be said, that the contagious nature of vice rendered it
necessary to separate the prisoners into small solitary cells, to
prevent their social intercourse, and its supposed consequence, their
reciprocal progression in vice. To this I reply, and I will appeal to
the facts in the case in support of my position, that the practical
effect of such a separation goes to prove, that it is only a
refinement of cruelty. The more completely you put one man into the
power of another, the more perfectly do you create a tyrant, and
prostrate a sufferer. Solitary cells and _flogging_, go hand in hand.
Thus, the more certainly is the sufferer convinced that the authority
is his enemy, and the more certainly is his reformation rendered
impossible. The evils of solitary cells are far greater than the evils
they were designed to remedy. I appeal to the experiment. I have only
one more observation to make on this head, and I make it with a design
to have it remembered. It is this--_Benevolence_ will _appear_
benevolence, and nothing _but_ apparent benevolence will turn a sinner
from the error of his ways, and lead him to purify his heart.




GENERAL CHARACTER OF THE OFFICERS.


The unanimous opinion of all ages and countries has been, that prison
keepers are _tyrants_. Regarding the prisons of earth and the prison
of gehenna, in the same light, the directors and servants of both have
been considered as drinking at the same fountain, and as possessing
the same traits of moral character. This opinion, however, like many
others which have obtained in the world, is not universally true, for
there are prison keepers who possess every moral excellence, and who
are more like angels of mercy, than fiends of darkness. But it is to
be lamented that these exceptions are rare, and that it is too
generally true, for the honor of humanity, that the term _gaoler_ is
synonymous with _despot_.

From this general truth, a very humbling inference necessarily
follows. We cannot resist the conclusion to which it leads the
reflecting mind, that cruelty is a radical element in the moral nature
of fallen man, and never fails to develop itself when circumstances
permit. Human nature is, in its fallen and unregenerate condition,
only a cluster of shapeless and uncomely fragments, and presents every
where the same bold and darkened _outlines_ of depravity; and to
adventitious circumstances is to be principally attributed the small
complexional difference in the _filling up_ of the picture. Like the
mouldering, moss-grown ruins of some temple, which was once the wonder
of the world, man is only the wreck of what he was when his heart was
the throne of Deity, and his soul the image of his glorious Creator.
_Then_, holiness was his element, but _now_ sin. _Then_, angels
sought, but _now_ they shun his society. _Then_, like a field warmed
by the sun, moistened by the rain, and fully prepared by the tiller's
hand, he brought forth fruit unto God; but _now_ he exhibits the
sterility of a desert, in respect to what is good, but the
fruitfulness of a garden in respect to evil. _Then_, mercy and
gentleness were the seraph principles of his conduct, but _now_ he is
the cruel and savage playmate of the tiger.

This, I am aware, is a very repulsive truth, and one to which the
pride of man will not readily subscribe. It is, notwithstanding, a
truth, stereotyped on every page of his moral history; and it applies
equally to the little Satan of a family and to the tyrant of a world.
The seeds are in every breast, and they never fail to germinate under
auspicious circumstances. Invest man with _authority_, and you
commission a _despot_; and nothing but the restraining principles of
the gospel, will prevent him from becoming a curse to those who are in
his hands. The history of Hazael fully confirms the truth of this
remark. He was sent to Elisha the prophet to inquire whether Benhadad
the king of Syria would recover from a disease with which he was
afflicted. As soon as he came into the presence of the prophet, Elisha
fastened his eyes steadfastly on his countenance and wept. The
astonished Syrian inquired the cause of his weeping. "I weep," said
the man of God, "because I know the evil that thou wilt do unto the
children of Israel; their strong holds wilt thou set on fire, and
their young men wilt thou slay with the sword; and wilt dash their
children, and rip up their women with child." Indignant at the
imputation of such monstrous cruelty to him, Hazael replied, "Is thy
servant a dog that he should do this great thing!" "But," said the
prophet, "the Lord hath shewed me that thou shall be king over Syria."
While he was only an inferior officer, Hazael's soul shuddered at the
bare mention of those cruelties which in a more elevated rank he was
going to commit; but when informed that he was to become the king of
Syria, the unhallowed principles of his nature began to quicken into
exercise. The first act of his life after this was the murder of his
master, and the language of the prophet is the history of his future
life.

This is by no means a solitary exemplification of the truth which I
have asserted. Nero, when he ascended the throne, is said to have been
a merciful man; and when he was called upon to sign a death warrant,
he is said to have expressed his regret that he had learned to write.
Such was Nero once, but what was his character afterwards? His history
is written in the blood of his murdered mother, and of Seneca his
tutor; and in the tears, and cries, and broiling flesh of a thousand
martyrs. Here is a fair specimen of the effect of unbridled authority
on the nature of man; and while it holds up a hydra monster to the
execration of all mankind, it says to all of us, in language of the
most thrilling import, "Let him that thinketh he standeth take heed
lest he fall."

Having made these general observations on the nature of man, and the
influence of circumstances upon him, I shall enter upon the subject of
this sketch.

Perhaps no prison on earth ever had better keepers than the one in
Windsor. Though many of these have been as bad as humanity under such
circumstances could possibly become, and though much of their conduct
cannot be contemplated without the deepest horror of soul, the number
of such monsters has been comparatively small. The frequent changes
which take place in the officers, and the shortness of their residence
there, are very fortunate circumstances, not at all favorable to the
production of perfect tyrants. The longer a keeper stays there, the
more cruel and heartless he becomes. This is a truth which experience
has taught to every observing prisoner. Hence it is equally true that
prisons grow worse as they grow older. They all had their origin in a
merciful design, but by the authority with which the officers are
clothed, they become little empires, and gradually sink down into the
gloom of unalleviated despotism.

There are but few of the keepers who continue there over one or two
years, some not so long, and but now and then one who stays five or
six years. These are invariably the most hardened, and having the most
power, they give tone to the conduct of the others and gradually
induce them towards their own degree of severity. Influenced by them,
many a young keeper and guard have been led to stain their souls with
deeds of cruelty, which they could not think of afterwards without
horror. The truth of the case is this--there are a few of the officers
who have fully reached that dark eminence of perfect inhumanity, which
is ascribed to a fallen spirit; and from this unenviable distinction
there is a gradual softening down to the common level of human
character.

These, according to their authority and moral temperament, exert a
malignant influence on the administration of the prison, and on the
peace and comfort of the prisoners. Generally taken from the very
humblest employments, illiterate, and destitute of a proper
acquaintance with mankind, and invested with an authority little less
than absolute, extending virtually to the life or death of their
subjects, they are intoxicated with their power, and seek every
possible occasion to display it. To speak civilly to a prisoner is
considered beneath their dignity; and their cup of joy is full only
when they can say--"I have sent the rascal to the solitary cell."
Armed with a sword, and placed over one of the shops, they ape the
monarch and claim the homage of a god.

The same spirit accompanies the stripling when he ascends the wall to
act the _soldier_ in his turn. Though serving for a stipend of eight
dollars a month, and doomed by a decree which he is unable to violate,
to the lowest walks in society, he fancies now that he is somebody,
and makes all who are under his shadow feel the full weight of his
self-importance. Over one entire quarter of an acre of this world,
strongly walled in, he holds divided empire with his brother on the
other side; he imagines that his bench is a throne, his gun a sceptre,
and the limit of his dominions the everlasting hills. It is not easy
to treat this subject with seriousness, and yet it is too solemn to be
trifled with. See him pacing his post like a private in the army. Be
careful how you smile, for he has the instrument of _death_ in his
hand, and he it was who took the life of _Fane_.[1]

[Footnote 1: A prisoner that was shot.]

But these servants of the prison are not only inhuman and vain, there
is no _meanness_ to which they will not stoop; and they delight in all
those little vexations with which they can perplex the prisoners. They
are employed in making little rules and regulations for the
prisoners, when they are in the yard, and these are so numerous, that
no one can remember them, and so contradictory, that to obey _one_, at
least _half a dozen_ must be violated. Their common language to their
subjects is--"Go here!--go there!--do this!--do that!--shut your
head!--mind your business!--what are you doing!--out of the
vault!--you shall go to the solitary for that!"

Nor is such mean and cruel conduct peculiar to the _subordinate_
powers, they often are found _in_, and are copied _from_, the
_highest_. I have seen those who occupied the chief seats in the
synagogue, try every expedient to vex the prisoners into a war of
words, and having accomplished their object, punish them for those
very words which they provoked them to utter. I have heard them insult
the prostrate objects of their power with words which I should blush
to write. I have know them authorize vexatious regulations which the
heart of Verres could not have enforced. I have seen one of these
gather a number of prisoners around him, and though he had a _wife_
and _daughters_, lead and give spirit to a conversation, which would
have imprinted a blush on the cheek of impurity itself.

This conduct is the more conspicuous from the fact, that the laws of
the prison require every officer, and the head one especially, to have
an especial reference, in all things, to the _good_ and _moral_
reformation of the prisoners. This also renders their conduct the more
_criminal_; and to this as one of the principal causes must be
referred the hardening effect of state-prison discipline upon its
subjects.--_They_ know the laws by which the keepers are bound; _they_
know that the community and the government of the state require them
to be merciful, and to treat the convicts as if they considered them
human beings; and when they see these officers so outrageously sinful
against the most solemn obligations, and the most sacred and
obligatory laws, and yet as cruel to _them_ for trifling and shadowy
offences, as if they themselves were immaculate, they cannot help
despising them in their hearts, and kindling with a flame which sets
reformation at defiance. And it is not too much to say, that many a
prisoner has been hardened in crime by the example of those very men
who were commissioned to reform him. If I had the power, and desired
to have the angel Gabriel become a devil, I would send him to Windsor
prison for three years.

But I should do violence to my own feelings, and injustice to this
part of my subject, were I not to give a very different character to
_some_ who have held offices in this Institution. As there are a few
who have reached the climax of depravity, so there are some who have
exhibited characters which do honor to human nature. Like stars in the
dark, they were the angel spirits of that "house of wo and pain." They
were warmed with the pure glow of benevolent and christian feeling;
and if all the keepers had manifested the same temper and sympathy for
the suffering, many a mountain of grief would have been rolled from
their bleeding breasts--many a refractory spirit would have been
charmed into obedience--many a hard heart would have been softened
into tenderness--many a guilty soul would have been washed into
purity--many a mother's heart would have been gladdened with the
return of a prodigal child--and many a wife would have been blessed
with a husband reclaimed. To these, I owed much of my comfort while I
was a prisoner. I remember them with gratitude, and I am sure that
they will have the blessing of the merciful.

From the account already given, it would readily be inferred, that the
officers of the prison are not professors of religion. This inference
would not be true unless a few exceptions should be made. I recollect
only four, however, among the inferior officers, to whom the inference
would not fully apply. In respect to these it is right to say, that
they exhibited as much of the spirit of their profession, as could be
intelligently expected from any in their situation. The same remark is
true of the head ones, many of whom had been baptized. Christians, as
well as others, are influenced by _circumstances_, and authority is
the _worst_ circumstance in which any _christian_ can be placed. A
small historic sketch will fully illustrate the influence of power,
even on _sanctified_ humanity. One of the prisoners was a
restorationist. A friend of his, a very respectable clergyman of that
faith, sent him a book in defence of the doctrine of future
retribution, against the writings of Rev. W. Balfour. He had received
many similar books from the same source, but _this_ was objected to,
and kept from him full six weeks, but not returned to the sender, nor
any information given either way. At length a keeper informed him that
there was a letter for him in the house, from Rev. S. C. Loveland, and
a book entitled "Hudson's Reply," which the officer at the head of
affairs refused to let him have. This keeper was a man of too noble a
soul to be cramped by the unfeeling regulations of a religious
exclusive, and he gave the prisoner an opportunity to read them and
then return them to him. After this he found means of obtaining them
on the express condition, that he would not lend them to any of his
fellow prisoners. This same man, at another time, refused to let a
prisoner have a book on the subject of religion, which was written and
sent to him by his father.

This officer must have had a very conscientious regard for the moral
and religious good of the prisoners; but how he could exclude
_religious_ books from them, and yet permit them to purchase and read
the _lowest_, _dirtiest_ and most _infamous_ books that ever corrupted
_either sex_, or disgraced the literature of any age or country, he
can tell as truly as I can conjecture. This is not a solitary instance
of religious inconsistency in the officers; I could mention more, but
my limits will not permit. It shews what mankind are--a selfish,
exclusive, unfeeling, and despotic community. Every view which we can
take of man, as he comes into contact with circumstances, goes to
confirm the maxim, that if he has _power_ he will _use_ it. From the
same volume we learn the impolicy of creating _spiritual_ superiors.
Christians are brethren. Among them is no allowable pre-eminence. They
are to call no man on earth either _master_, or _father_. This is the
command of Christ himself, and from the authority with which it is
clothed, is obvious the greatness of the crime of disobeying it. Hence
the fact that a spiritual despotism is the worst that can exist. Look
to Rome; look to England; look into the cells of the Inquisition. May
the Lord never, in his anger, curse these United States with a church
establishment. _Political_ tyranny is horrid enough, but from
_spiritual_ tyranny, good God deliver us!

There was once an important officer in the prison who was a _Deist_.
He despised all religion, and even insulted and abused the Chaplain.
Frequently did he keep some of the prisoners employed in chopping wood
on the Sabbath; and when spoken to about this profanation of the
Christian's sacred day, his reply was--"_Monday_ is a good day,
_Tuesday_ is a good day, _Sunday_ is a good day, I see _no difference_
in them." There was not a single good thing in this man's official
conduct. He despised almost every thing that is called good. The
prisoners he regarded as an inferior race of animals, and rebuked the
Chaplain for calling them "_brethren_." He was too bad even for _that_
office, and as he purchased an ox for the prisoners to eat, which had
_died of disease in the heat of summer_, the Superintendent gave him a
very sudden and peremptory discharge. "I give you," said he, "till
to-morrow morning to clear out, and take away your things." This was
good tidings of great joy to all, and the prison rung with Jubilee.

I knew _another_ high officer in the prison, who was also a Deist; but
_he_ was a most excellent man, and by a kind and fatherly
administration, he endeared himself to every prisoner. His conduct
would have done honor to the highest professions of Christianity. He
adorned many of the doctrines of the gospel. He was not only an
_honest_ man, he was also a _benevolent_ one. In all things he was
influenced by _principle_, and did as he would be done by; and he did
more to bless the prisoners with the preaching of the gospel, than
many who prided themselves on their Christianity.

Among many of the inferior officers of the prison, who made no
profession of religion, there was but one sentiment in respect to
those prisoners who professed to be Christians, and this was, that
they were all _hypocrites_.--They dealt out to them a very superior
share of their contempt, and always ridiculed their professions. If
one of them was particular in reading the Scriptures, _that_ was made
the subject of light remark; and if in prayer one of them spoke so as
to be heard, he was impudently ordered to stop. And once, in
particular, a keeper told one of the serious convicts, that he would
act a more wise part, if he would say nothing about his religion, but
leave off praying and be like the other prisoners. Another prisoner
was put in the solitary cell for reading his bible in the shop, where
many a one had been allowed to read books, undisturbed, with which no
virtuous _female_ would pollute her fingers. The common vulgar cant,
with which the keepers used to assail the piety of the prisoners, was
as follows,--"They want to get _out_ I guess--they are _coming_ the
_religious_ lock--they are going to _pray_ themselves out--they are
mighty _pious_ just now, pity they had not thought of this _before_."
Such remarks as these were as frequent as the mention of the
prisoner's piety, or the sight of one who was known to read his bible
and pray; and not only the servants, but their _masters_ often joined
in such unmanly and inhuman sarcasms. "The tender mercies of the
wicked are cruel."




GENERAL CHARACTER AND HABITS OF THE PRISONERS.


This view presents human nature in its most degraded state, and in its
darkest complexion. Here is man _doubly fallen_; here are the
fragments of moral ruin in their most _hideous array_. A field, once
green with inspiring promise, but now withering under a second blight.
A splendid and glorious creation in baleful ruin. An ocean, once pure
as a dew drop and smooth as a sea of glass, but now torn by
conflicting waves, and casting up mire and dirt. The view is too
painful! My heart sickens within me!

But it affords some relief to the mind, in dwelling on this gloomy
prospect, to find here and there a ruin less ruined than others--a
lonely column not _fallen_; a prostrate pillar not covered with _moss_
nor buried in the _earth_. The soul of man is not susceptible of
_utter_ ruin. Immortal, it cannot _die_; the inspiration of the
Almighty, and glorious once in his own image, it may grow _dim_, but
not utterly _dark_; it may _sink_, but will _rise_ again; it may
_wander_, but will not be finally _lost_. My remarks on this subject,
therefore, will be designed to shew, that there are, in this mass of
dark, polluted, and fallen mind, some redeeming traits remaining
_unruined_; something to admire and commend--something to imitate and
love. In doing this, I shall relate some of the many historic
incidents, which will prove the existence, and illustrate the nature
of those moral and intellectual principles, which have hitherto
survived that annihilating process to which they have been exposed.

The first incidents which I shall relate, will show that the prisoners
have _sympathy_ for, and take pleasure in _relieving the distressed_.

A female who had a husband in the prison, came with her two children,
three hundred miles to see him. By the time she arrived, she had spent
all her money, and had suffered on the road. As soon as this was
known, the prisoners made up a purse of fourteen dollars, and gave it
to her, besides giving her cloth to dress both of her children.

Another time a father and mother came there to see their son, and
being destitute, a purse of eight dollars was made up for them.

Another occasion for the charity of the prisoners was as follows:--The
sentences of two of the prisoners had expired, but not having the
money to pay the cost of their prosecution, they were not permitted by
the keeper to leave the prison. When this was known, the sum required
was immediately made up and given to them, and they were discharged.

By another train of incidents, it will appear, that they are pleased
with religious worship, and love to hear the preaching of the gospel.

They always attend when there is preaching, and listen with a degree
of interest and earnestness, which no preacher has failed to notice.

When, after years of earnest application, they obtained leave to form
a choir of singers for religious purposes, they furnished their own
books and instruments, not being able to get them of the keepers.

On another occasion, a company of them bought a lot of tracts for
gratuitous distribution in the prison.

As an expression of their sense of the importance of preaching, and of
the faithfulness of their Chaplain, they gave him money to purchase
him a coat.

At another time, they contributed about twenty dollars to a society
which had been formed to send the gospel to prisons.

A cluster of promiscuous incidents which I am now going to group
together, will demonstrate the existence of _other_ excellent
qualities.

Husbands and children are particularly careful to keep their earnings,
and at convenient times, send them to their parents and families.
Others are diligent at work, that they may have the means of making a
decent appearance when they get their liberty. Some apply themselves
to books, and a few have made astonishing progress in the sciences. I
knew one who made himself master of Euclid's Elements, Ferguson's
Astronomy, Stuart's Intellectual and Paley's Moral Philosophy. Another
made himself acquainted with most of the branches in a liberal
education. And many others became very good common scholars. Not a few
of them are chaste and moral in their conversation, and civil and
exemplary in all their conduct. And that they are not so lost to the
virtues of our nature, as some who are in different circumstances, is
evident from the fact, that they are proverbially, an _industrious_
community.

I dwell with pleasure on these virtues, which still smile and diffuse
their fragrance in the midst of surrounding desolation; and some of
them are found in every breast of that unhappy multitude. The fact is,
there are a great many principles of moral excellence, which go to the
formation of a _perfect character_; and it is _never_ that _all_ of
these can be found destroyed, or uprooted, in any one individual.
That monster over whose breast has been hung the pall of every virtue,
never _was_ and never _can_ be found. Some seed, some root, some germ,
remains to repair the desolation, and to smile in perfect growth and
endless beauty, where ruin has been the deepest. Hence the hope of
reformation. Hence the strongest argument to attempt it, both in
ourselves and others. The pulse of spiritual or moral health is still
beating in all those guilty souls, and proper attention would soon
restore them to its blissful enjoyment.

On the other hand, they exhibit many of the very _worst_ passions and
principles of fallen nature, in their _worst_ and most _appalling_
light. Against this charge nothing can be said in their vindication.
My only object in introducing this sketch, is, to show, that though
many of the virtues of the upright heart have been destroyed from
theirs, _all_ of them have not. There are some good and excellent
qualities remaining in every one of them; and I wish to turn the
thoughts and efforts of our Benevolent Societies to their improvement.
This is an inviting field for them to labor in, and they could not
labor here in vain. Christ came from heaven to save _prisoners_, and
the servants of Christ ought to be willing to follow his example and
visit prisons too. He might have kept better company in heaven, or
gone on an embassy to less guilty worlds, but he came to us, to
sinners, to prisoners, to save us from sin, and free us from chains.




CRIMES AND PUNISHMENTS.


In a state prison, almost every action of the prisoners, not
particularly mentioned in the By-Laws, is either a crime or not,
according to the whim that happens to be in the breast of the keeper
at the time it is done. Hence there are many actions punished, and
sometimes very severely, which were not known to have been improper at
the time they were committed, but which, by a very common _post facto_
process, became crimes _afterwards_. Any thing which a prisoner does
or neglects to do, is, if the guard or keeper who notices it, has any
spite to gratify, dressed up in a criminal suit and made a pretext for
punishment. To smile or look sober, to speak or keep silence, to walk
or sit still, is alike criminal when convenience requires.

It is, also, a rule of conduct with the keepers, to punish _all_ for
the crime of _one_. Instances of this are very common. I will mention
some of them.

There was a little upstart dandy among the prisoners, who on one
occasion, had his hair cut by order of his keeper a little shorter
than his vanity desired. Displeased with this, he immediately had all
his hair cut down to one quarter of an inch; and on account of this
criminal vanity and resentment in him, every head in the prison was
scissored down to a quarter of an inch for more than two years.

To make his displeasure fall with full force on one of the prisoners,
the Warden once took every book out of the work shops and ordered that
no prisoner should rest from his work two minutes at a time, from
morning till night.

Because some of the prisoners have pretended that they were sick when
they were not, every sick man is neglected.

Another fact in relation to crimes is, that some of the keepers have
given their countenance and aid to the prisoners in the commission of
them, and shared with them the profits of their wickedness. It is well
known that some of the keepers have assisted the prisoners to get
materials into the cells for weaving suspenders; and when woven, they
have sold them and divided the money. Fine keepers! Fit men to reform
the guilty! Assist the prisoners to steal, and divide the plunder!

But when we come to those crimes which are specified in the By-Laws,
the most frequent grow out of the following sources:--

1. _Defects in the work._ For the smallest defect here, the prisoner
is often made to feel severely. What is so small that none but a
malignant eye would notice it, some variation in the shade, something
that could not have been avoided, is too often carried on to the books
as a great crime, for which only ten days in the solitary cell can
atone.

2. _Not keeping a proper distance in walking._ The laws require the
prisoners to keep six feet apart in going to and returning from their
cells and meals. This requires no small share of practical
_trigonometry_, and if a prisoner should not be pretty good to learn,
before he can possibly keep in the right spot, the guard will have an
opportunity to give him a number of _solitary_ lectures. Many a man,
who thought he was exactly right, not knowing so well as the more
learned guard, has been sent into punishment, and made to feel how sad
a thing it is, not to understand the six feet trigonometry.

3. _Insolence_ is another crime. This is committed very frequently, as
an _accent_ or _emphasis_ is sufficient for this purpose. The keepers
and guard are very tenacious of their dignity, and what the governor
of the state would consider respectful language, if addressed to him,
they consider _insolence_. If one should turn over the pages of the
_black book_, he would find this crime written to the sorrow of many a
prisoner.

4. _Not performing the task._ This crime is generally found against
learners, who have not had time to become masters of their work. This,
however, is no excuse, the task is fixed and must be done. Nor is it
of any avail that the materials have been poor, the complaint
is,--_the work is not done_, and nothing but the _grave_ can hide
from, or avert the penalty.

5. _Speaking together without liberty._ Many are punished for this
crime, and very justly in many instances no doubt, but not in all. If
a prisoner is seen to move his lips this crime is written against him,
and suffer he _must_.

6. The other crimes might be ranged under the heads of "_wasting the
materials_"--"_attempting to escape_"--"_resisting the authority_,"
&c., all of which are frequently found in the books against the
prisoners; and I know not that any criminal of these stamps has had
much reason to complain, that his sufferings have been too severe.

This is the proper place to state the absolute authority of the
keepers and guard over the destinies of the convicts. If one is
_reported_, he _must_ be punished, and that too without a _hearing_,
and often without knowing the crime alleged against him. If he should
ask the officer what his crime is, the answer would be, "_you_ know
what it is." After he finds out the crime, and desires to be released
from punishment, the one who reported him must be consulted; and after
_he_ is willing, the sufferer must avow that he is guilty, and promise
to reform, before he can get out. Innocent or guilty, it makes no
difference, he must say--"_I am guilty_," or he will plead in vain to
be released; and many a one has _lied_ by _compulsion_, in order to
get rid of further suffering. This was his only alternative, he must
spot his soul with falsehood, or die a martyr to truth.

The punishments are of different kinds; the most common is that of
confinement in the solitary cell. This is cruel and dreadful. The want
of food reduces the strength and takes away the flesh, so that when
the sufferer comes out, his face is often pale as death, his frame
only a skeleton, and he unable to walk without reeling. He has only a
small piece of bread once in twenty-four hours, with a pail of water;
and no bed but the rock. In the winter he has a blanket, but such is
the degree of cold to which he is exposed, that he has to keep walking
and stamping _night_ and _day_, to keep from freezing to death. And
having no proper nourishment to sustain him, he becomes, under the
joint influence of cold, fatigue, and hunger, a miracle of suffering,
over which Satan himself might weep. Day after day, and night after
night, he drags along his heavy and burdensome existence, friendless
and unpitied, the sport of his unfeeling keepers, and the victim of an
_eternity_ of torment. I know what this suffering is, for I have
experienced it. Seven days and seven nights, in the dead of winter, I
hung on the frozen mountain of this misery, and died a thousand
deaths. Every day was an eternity, and every night forever and ever;
and all this I endured because I incautiously smiled once in my life,
when I happened to feel less gloomy than usual. But _my_ suffering was
nothing compared with others. Some spend twelve, some twenty, and some
over thirty days there. My heart chills at the thought! If God is not
more merciful than man, what will become of us?

Another kind of punishment is _the block and chain_. This is a log of
wood, weighing from thirty to sixty pounds, to which a long chain is
fastened, the other end of which is fastened around the sufferer's
ancle. This he carries with him wherever he goes, and performs, with
it, his daily task. This is not much used, it being _less severe_
than the solitary cell. Some have carried these for several weeks, and
even months.

The _iron jacket_ is another form of punishment, inflicted only once
in a great while. This is a frame of iron which confines the arms
_down_, and _back_, and prevents the person from lying down with any
comfort. This is generally accompanied with one of the other kinds of
punishment, as it is not considered much inconvenience alone.

Connected with these several kinds of punishment is the putting the
convict down from one of the upper stories if he is up there. The
whole administration of the prison is clothed with terror, and there
is no end to its vengeance. The first _form_ of suffering is only the
first _lash_, and each _additional_ form comes in regular succession.
This is the second lash. The third is this--the number of times that
the prisoner has been in punishment, is always brought up when an
application is made for a pardon. The Reporter of characters takes a
full share of gratification in adverting to these, when a certificate
of the conduct is given. I cannot mention this man's conduct without
indignation. I hope he will find room for repentance, and obtain
pardon from his God for his many vexatious acts in relation to the
prisoners. I know of no man in whose breast so little humanity
prevails. Every prisoner will carry to judgment a charge against him.
One drop of human sympathy never flowed in his veins. A mountain of
ice has frozen around his heart. His acts of inhumanity would fill
volumes, and it would require years to record them. I pity him from my
soul, and though I have felt more than once, the weight of his
_mercy_, I freely pardon him. If he should ever look on this page, I
hope he will remember how unjustly he abused me, because he had the
_power_, and I could not _help_ myself. I wish also that he would
think of Plumley, and the three times convicted sufferer of WOODSTOCK
GREEN.

Besides those already mentioned, it may not be out of place to touch
on a few of what may be called _extra judicial_ inflictions, or those
which are felt by the prisoners without the usual process of a "report
in writing." These are--not sending their letters, nor admitting those
sent to them--adding a yard to the task of a man, who did not feel
like doing more than was _required_ of him, and making him use the
finest and most difficult materials--imposing the _worst_ work, and
allowing only the _poorest_ tools. These, and many other vexatious
practices, are as common as the return of day and night; so that the
prison at Windsor is one of those gloomy and dreadful places, which
image to the mind that house of woe and pain, where are weeping and
wailing, and gnashing of teeth; where the worm dieth not and the fire
is not quenched; and into which the wicked will be turned, and all the
nations that forget God.

That the reader may have a full view of this subject, I shall give in
the next chapter a multitude of cases, which will fully illustrate
this very important and affecting part of my sketches.


SAMUEL E. GODFREY.

The case of Samuel E. Godfrey is one of deep and thrilling interest to
every feeling heart. It is one of those numerous cases which stain the
records of humanity, in which the guilt of a criminal is extenuated by
the circumstances of its existence, and lost in the intensity of his
sufferings. The fertile regions of Fancy cannot produce a theme more
fruitful in incidents, and more painful in its melancholy details. It
presents to our minds two principal sufferers, one pure and stainless
as the mountain snow--a forlorn and destitute female; religion
warming her crimeless heart, and virtue sparkling in her tearful eyes,
she deserted not, in the hour of his afflictions, the companion of her
better days, but hung, like an angel of mercy, on the bosom of his
grief, and shared in every pang of his soul. The other claims not our
sympathies as for an innocent sufferer, for crime had been on his
hands, and guilt had made its stains on his heart. I do him no
injustice by this statement; but I should stain my own conscience were
I not to add, that he was a criminal by aggravation, and that had
others acted more in accordance with the dictates of either religion
or moral honesty, he would not have reddened his hands with the blood
of his fellow-man, nor ended his days on a gallows.

In rescuing the history of this unfortunate sufferer from the grave of
oblivion, I have but one motive, and this is, to do good. It contains
volumes of instruction, and much of this is needed at the present day.
Societies are formed and forming, with a view to improve the condition
of suffering criminals by such a change in the discipline of prisons,
as may conduce to their reformation; and these societies have a right
to such information, as may enable them to act intelligently and
efficiently. I also desire by this piece of history, to hold up the
yet unpunished authors of the most unearthly sufferings, to the
indignant scorn and righteous reprobation of all mankind. It is too
often the case that the crimes of men in authority are sanctified by
the duties of their office, and they screened from the arm of the law
and the force of public contempt, by the necessity of the case. But
the time has come to vindicate the sacred purity of public stations
from this charge, by taking the robe from every unworthy incumbent,
and inculcating the sentiment, both by precept and by practice, that
there is no sanctuary for crime, and no justification for guilt.

With the history of Godfrey previous to the unhappy event which
conducted him to the scaffold, I have nothing to do. At this time he
was confined in the prison on a sentence of three years for a petty
crime committed in Burlington near the close of the war. He had served
about half of this term, and his conduct had been such as to justify
an expectation of pardon, an application for which was pending before
the executive, when the gloomy event transpired which sealed his
dreadful doom. His wife, one of the most amiable of women, had gone to
lay his petition before the Governor and Council, and plead the cause
of her husband. Hope was beginning to play around the darkness of his
cell, and the anticipations of liberty were beginning to inspire his
breast. His arms were almost thrown out to embrace the companion of
his bosom and the friends of his heart. In the ear of fancy he heard
the voice of his keeper saying--"GODFREY, YOU ARE FREE!" At this
moment, by a sudden turn in the scale of his destiny, all the future
was darkened, and the taper of life began to grow dim with despair.
Driven to desperation by the unjust and cruel treatment of a petty
officer of the prison, he committed the fatal deed, which gave rise to
that train of sufferings, and developed those traits of unfeeling
cruelty in his persecutors, which I am going to describe; and which
terminated his mortal existence on the gallows.

His employment was weaving; a given number of yards each day was his
task. At the time under consideration, he took what he had woven and
handed it over to his keeper, and as usual, he was found to have done
his task, and performed as much labor as was required of any of the
prisoners, and to have done his work well. While he was conversing
with the keeper on the subject of his labor he remarked that he had
done more than he meant to.--This gave offence, and he immediately
corrected the expression, and gave, as what he designed to say, that
he had wove more than he _thought_ he had. But this did not give
satisfaction; and the master weaver coming up at the time, a
consultation was held with him by the keeper, which resulted in a
complaint against Godfrey to the Warden, for "insolence." This
complaint was made by the advice of the master weaver, who wrote it
with his own hand, as he acknowledges in his testimony before the
court. "I advised Mr. Rodgers to report him, and wrote the report."
These are his own words, and as a reason for his conduct, he further
says; "I had understood that there was a combination among the
prisoners not to weave over a certain quantity."

Such was the crime alleged in the complaint, which I desire to have
noticed very particularly. It was not that he had not performed his
full task. It was not that his work was not _well_ done. But it was
that he said--"I have done more than I meant to," which he immediately
softened by saying--"I mean I have done more than I thought I had."
And when I shall have informed you what the consequence of such a
complaint was, what the punishment it procured, you will be able to
appreciate the character of those who entered the complaint, and the
greatness of the provocation it gave to the unhappy victim to commit
the assault which followed.

The laws of the prison were very severe. When any one was reported to
the Warden for any crime, he was, without any hearing, committed to a
solitary cell, as dark as a tomb, and confined there on bread and
water for a number of days, seldom less than a week, at the pleasure
of the keepers. The cell is stone; the prisoner is allowed no bed or
blanket, and only four ounces of bread a day; and before he can be
released from this grave of the living, he must humble himself, plead
guilty, whether he is or not, acknowledge the justice of his
sufferings, and promise to do better for the time to come. To such
suffering and ignominy was Godfrey doomed for that shadow of a crime,
and who can wonder at the rashness and desperation to which he was
driven.

Soon after the complaint was sent to the Warden the prisoners were
called to dinner, and Godfrey with the rest. After the tables were
dismissed, as Godfrey was going out of the dining room, the Warden,
who was present, ordered him to stop. Knowing by this that he was
reported, and the thought of the punishment to which he had been so
unjustly and unfeelingly devoted, crossing his mind, he became
enraged, and resolved to be avenged on his persecutor before he
submitted to the authority of the Warden.

Fired with this rash determination, he entered the shop, took a leg of
one of the loom seats, which he cut away with a knife that he had
taken for this purpose from a shoe-bench; and with the knife and club,
he went into an affray with Rodgers the keeper, who had complained of
him. He struck at him a few times, but without effect, his club
catching in some yarn which was hung overhead. Seeing the affray, Mr.
Hewlet, the Warden, went to the assistance of Rodgers, which brought
Godfrey between them. Armed with sharp and heavy swords, they began to
play upon their victim, and soon the floor began to drink the blood
which, with those instruments of death, they had drawn from his
mangled head. So unmercifully did they cut and bruise him that one of
the prisoners laid hold of Mr. Hewlet, and begged of him for God's
sake not to commit murder. It was during this struggle that Mr. Hewlet
received a stab in his side, but from what hand no one could say
positively, though no one doubts it was done by Godfrey. That it was
done, however, without malice, and that he had no recollection of the
act afterwards, ought not to be questioned after his dying testimony.
The first that was seen of the knife was when it was lying on the
floor in the blood. Faint with the blows he had endured, and from the
loss of blood, Godfrey sunk down from the unequal conflict on the sill
of a loom. Mr. Hewlet putting his hand up to his side, said he was
wounded, and was led into the house, and the affray ended.

Mr. Hewlet had been afflicted with the consumption for years, and no
one who knew him thought he would live long; and he was evidently
sensible himself that his end was nigh. He would frequently complain
of pains in his breast, on which he would often lay his hand and say,
"I am all gone." In this state of health, the wound he received in his
side inflaming, he lingered about six weeks and expired. From a post
mortem examination, it was found that the knife had entered in the
direction, and near the left lobe of the liver; and as that was
entirely consumed, it was the opinion of the surgeons, that the knife
had entered it, and produced an inflammation which was the cause of
his death. It was the unanimous opinion of the surgeons that Mr.
Hewlet's death was caused by the wound.

Godfrey was taken from the scene of the affray, and lodged in the
place of punishment, and no attention of any kind was paid to the
wounds in his head. No doubt many would have rejoiced if he had died,
and nothing but the utmost care on his part prevented his wounds
inflaming, and leading to a fatal result. He used to keep his head
bound up with a piece of cotton cloth, and constantly wet with urine,
the only medicine he could obtain; and by this means he preserved his
life to endure more indignity and suffering, and die under the hand of
the executioner.

As soon as Mr. Hewlet died, complaint was entered to the Grand Jury
against Godfrey and an indictment for murder found against him.
Immediately after this was done, the keepers and guard began to
torment him with the most unfeeling allusions to his anticipated
death. They insulted his sufferings--told him that they should soon
see him on the gallows--and exulted above measure when they could
kindle his worst feelings, and draw from him an angry expression. This
was the theme of their cruel tongues continually, and I here affirm,
without fear of contradiction, that greater outrage was never
practiced on the feelings of a criminal by a mean and unprincipled
mob, than Godfrey endured from those who had been placed over him as
guards, and who were under a solemn oath to treat all the prisoners
with kindness and humanity.

Nor was this feeling and disposition to torment a degraded sufferer,
confined to the petty servants of the prison; it marked the conduct of
all, and even the highest officers of the Institution seemed to take
an infernal satisfaction in creating terrors to harass his mind. At
one time they would dwell on the _certainty_ that he would be _hung_,
and at another inform him that his gallows should be erected over the
large gate of the prison-yard, and so high that all the prisoners and
all the village might see him. Surrounded by such fiends incarnate, he
groaned away his dreadful hours till the time arrived for his trial.

There were many individuals who felt an interest in the issue of this
trial, and who had serious doubts as to his being guilty of murder.
Among these were Messrs. Hutchinson and Marsh, who volunteered their
services as his counsel. They defended him with a zeal and eloquence
which did them honor. But the die was cast against him, and he was
condemned to suffer as a murderer. It was the opinion of some that he
would be found guilty of only manslaughter, and then his sentence
would be imprisonment for a great number of years or for life. This
was mentioned to him, as a source of comfort, by his friends, but he
always spoke of returning to the prison with the utmost horror. "No,"
said he, "not the prison, but the gallows,--if I cannot have liberty,
give me death,--I would rather die than go back to prison for six
months."

It is said that adversity is woman's hour--that female loveliness
shines brightest in the dark. I have no doubt that this is always the
case; in the present instance I know it was. Godfrey had a wife, and
the best man on earth never deserved a better one. With a fortitude
that affliction could not for a moment weaken, she hung around his
sorrows, and flew with angel swiftness to relieve his burdened soul.
She went to the governor and obtained a short reprieve for her
condemned husband; and his counsel interposed and obtained for him
another trial.

He was now remanded to the prison to wait a year before the court was
to meet and give him a re-hearing. I have no doubt that he would have
chosen death rather than this, had not the seraph tenderness of his
wife thrown a charm around his being.

During this year he experienced the same vexations that had attended
him before his trial. And the tiger hearts of his keepers even
improved on their former cruelty, and created in his mind the spectre
which haunted his midnight hours, and painted before his terrified
imagination his lifeless body quivering under the dissecting
knife.--They also most basely and falsely threw out to him
insinuations against the purity of his wife. And as if impatient for
his blood, they contrived to shed some of it before hand, as a kind of
first fruits to their unholy thirst for vengeance. This was done by
provoking him into a rage, and then falling upon him with a sharp
sword and forcing the edge of it by repeated blows against his hand,
with which he aimed to defend himself, and of which he then lost the
use.

At length the year rolled away, and he was placed again at the bar of
his country, to answer to a charge which involved his life. The same
noble spirits continued his counsel; but the verdict was given against
him, and sentence of death was again pronounced. Unwilling to abandon
him yet, his counsel obtained for him another hearing, at another
court which was to sit in one year from that time, and till then he
was obliged to return to the bosom of his tormentors.

During this year he found one friend in Mr. Adams, his keeper. This
man had the milk of human kindness in his breast, and he treated his
prisoner in such a manner as to obtain his warmest gratitude, and
deserve the respect of all mankind. During this year, few incidents
transpired worthy of notice. Godfrey had a good room, and was allowed
a few tools with which he manufactured some toys, the sale of which
gave him the means of supplying himself with such little articles of
comfort as his situation required. This was the last year of his life.
At the session of the court he was again convicted, and the sentence
of death was soon after executed upon him.

Previous to his execution he dictated a brief history of his life, and
his dying speech, which were printed and read with great avidity. In
his dying speech, he makes a solemn and earnest request, that his
remains may be permitted to rest in peace, and not be disturbed by
those "human vultures," who were anxious to do to his body what they
could not do to his soul. He had no fear of death, but he shuddered at
the thought of being dissected by the doctors. But those who had no
feelings of compassion for him while he was living, disregarded his
dying request, and his bones were afterwards found bleaching in the
storms of heaven, on a lonely spot where they had been thrown to avoid
detection.

His wife was with him during his last hours. He evinced no dread in
view of death, but with a composure almost super-human, he watched the
approach of the dreadful hour which was to release him from earth, and
as he firmly believed, introduce him to the joys of heaven. He was
treated very kindly by his humane keeper, of whom he speaks in the
highest terms in his last words. He received the different clergymen
with respect and affection, as they called to see him, and was fully
prepared, in his own mind, to leave the world. The morning of the
fatal day witnessed his parting with his wife, till they shall meet in
heaven. She entered his room--closely folded in each other's arms,
they seated themselves on the side of his bed, their tears mingling as
they fell, and neither of them able to speak a word. Their eyes were
rivetted on each other, and the expression of their looks might have
pierced a heart of marble. Lost in the dreadful reality of his doom,
they were insensible of the passing minutes, till the rattling of the
keys awoke them from their awful reverie, and signified that the last
moment had come, and that they must part. She tore away from his
clasping embrace--sighs were her only sounds, and her tears fell on
the cold stone floor of his prison as she with slow--reluctant--and
hesitating step, passed away from the object of her tenderest love.
His eyes followed her till she was far out of the room and out of his
sight. Then wiping his eyes, he said to his companions--"It is all
over--you will see no more tears from me. This is what I have long
dreaded; it is now past, and I shall die like a man."

He attended to the religious services with much propriety. After he
arrived on the gallows, he informed the concourse of people around him
that he had prepared his Farewell Speech which was in print, and that
they might obtain and read it. When the chaplain made the last prayer,
he knelt on the scaffold. After this, taking leave of his attendants,
and casting a calm look on the throng by which he was surrounded, then
on the near and more distant hills, and lastly on the clear blue
heavens, he told the officer that he was ready.--The cap was then
drawn--the scaffold was dropped--and his sufferings were ended.

In view of this melancholy history, the mind will naturally inquire,
what good reason had Rodgers and F*** for entering that complaint
which led to such direful results? what had Godfrey done? Is it a
crime deserving of punishment for a man to say, "I have done more than
I meant to," when he had done his full task, and done it well?
especially after he explained by saying, "I have wove more than I
thought I had"? Is this a crime? Was it right to treat a prisoner, who
had always behaved well, in such a manner as this? What excuse is
there for those who reported him? Let me, in concluding this sketch,
hold up to the notice of all men,--saints and sinners, bond and free,
the man who, in his testimony on the trial, said,--"I advised Mr.
Rodgers to report him, and wrote the report. I had understood that
there was a combination among the prisoners, not to weave over a
certain quantity."


ROWLEY.

This was an old man of near eighty. He had been worth a great fortune,
and was then in possession of property to the amount of about twenty
thousand dollars. In the prison he found no indulgence for age, no
compassion for the sick, no pity for the suffering, and he was
scarcely in it before he was put in punishment. There was at that time
a guard named French, who had been a soldier at Burlington, and who
said that he had been employed by Rowley, when he was not on army
duty, to cut corn stalks, and that he had cheated him out of his pay.
This he reported to the prisoners and keepers; and now he thought he
should have a good opportunity to be revenged. Accordingly he kept him
in the solitary cell, and wearing a block and chain, most of the time.
The old man could not look, speak, or walk, but French would report
him; and so well was it understood that he was suffering for this old
grudge, that when any one saw him going to the cell, the remark was
immediately made--"Rowley is paying French for the stalks."

The punishment thus begun, was carried on during the five years of his
sentence. He was the common mark for every little stripling, who
wished to get into the graces of his superiors, by doing some deed of
cruelty; and I presume he was in punishment three years out of the
five to which he was sentenced. No allowance was made for his
years--his want of sight--or his infirmities; he was in the power of
man, an unsocial crabbed old creature it is true, but _still_ a human
being, and entitled to the _common mercy_ of a state prison. But the
"_stalks_" were always green on the memory of his keepers, and they
could not endure to see him out of the cell. He lived, however, in
spite of them, to see the end of his sentence and to return to his
family, where he soon after died.

Much as French and others are to be blamed for their conduct towards
this man, the _burden_ of condemnation rests on those, who were bound
by the oath of their office, to protect the prisoners from "cruelty
and inhumanity" in the guard. Ought such personal feelings to be
indulged towards a prostrate victim? Can that man be worthy of any
office, who can stoop to such criminal meanness? I am told that French
has since become a christian, and I sincerely hope he has; for I am
well persuaded that it will require many years time, and many a bitter
tear, to purify his conscience from the iniquity of the "_corn
stalks_."


COLLIER.

This man entered the prison under the influence of a cold which he had
taken in gaol. He was in the bloom of youth, and as bright as young
men in general. Not feeling well, he did not always do so much work as
was required of him, and consequently soon began to feel that he was
in a prison. The iron storm of punishment began to beat upon him, and
he was so affected by it, that he lost the use of his limbs in a great
measure, of his speech for some time, and finally of his reason. The
treatment he received would make the records of the inquisition blush.
Starvation, chains, and the cold cell were the only mercies he
experienced. At a certain time when he was unable to speak, as he was
sitting in the cook-room, the Warden entered, and declared that he
would make him speak or kill him. To effect this, he took him by the
hair of his head, and dragged him round the room, pulling and jerking
him with all his might, and crying all the time, "speak or I'll kill
you!"--Reader, have you ever read Howard's Prisons of Europe? It was
in _Europe_ that _he_ found so much misery and cruelty; but this is in
_America_. Yet here, see that Warden of a prison, dragging a prisoner
by the hair of his head, and declaring his intention to kill him if he
did not speak. Inhuman man! where is your heart, if you have any? Will
God suffer you to go unpunished for thus trampling on His authority,
and abusing your fellow man?

After exhausting all his strength, the Warden gave up, without either
making him speak, or killing him. Every prisoner's heart burned within
him, when he saw what this poor unfortunate man was suffering, and
what might become his own doom. I wonder that every one of them did
not spring forward, and rescue the sufferer from the wicked hands of
that heartless tyrant. I wonder that the earth which bore up the
lion-hearted despot, did not open and destroy him. But this is not the
end of Collier's sufferings from the same man.

Reduced by disease, and unable to be in the yard, the doctor ordered
him to be put into the hospital, and properly attended to. While he
was there, the Warden went up to see him. Unkind visit! for he took
with him a horsewhip, and before he left him, he used it with lusty
arm about his naked back, until he was quite exhausted, and till
demons might have trembled at the superior depravity and heartlessness
of man. This visit was repeated _once_, and perhaps twice, and the
same medicine administered.

Such was the conduct of the Warden, of whom the laws of the prison
say, that "with the powers entrusted to him it cannot be necessary for
him to _strike_ his prisoners; much less can it answer any _good_
purpose for him to give his command in a threatening tone, or
accompanied with oaths; but he shall give his commands with _kindness_
and dignity, and enforce them with promptitude and firmness."--"_He
shall never strike a prisoner_ except in self-defence, or in defence
of those assisting him in the discharge of his duty." With this part
of the laws of the prison before us, no comment on the acts of the
Warden, in the cases cited above, is necessary.

After wading through seas of affliction--after losing his
reason--after he had outlived the ability of his destroyers to torment
him further, he went home to his mother, a fair specimen of the
Warden's mercy.--His ruined form is before me--I see his vacant
look--I hear his unmeaning words--my soul sickens--my nerve
trembles--I can neither think nor write.


PERRY.

This man had led a very wicked life, and as the fruit of his sins, a
very unpleasant disease kept frequently reminding him that the
pleasures of sin are a lasting bitter.--With this complaint he was
often confined to his room. At length it was conjectured that he was
not so sick as he pretended, and a resolution was formed that he
should go into the shop and do his work like the other prisoners. To
this, however, he objected, declaring that he was sick, and not able
to be in the shop. But when the king commands, he must be obeyed; and
so a course of preparations was made to make Perry well and get him
out to work.

In the first place, a long board was provided, with straps to fasten
it on his back, by lashing the sides around his arms, and neck, and
body. This being properly adjusted, a rope was fastened round under
his arms, and he was drawn up by it as if under a gallows, so as to
just permit his toes to touch the ground. This was done in the yard,
before all the prisoners, and keepers, and spectators from without;
and it was repeated every day for as much as a week. After he had hung
there a suitable time, he was let down, and being unable to stand, he
would fall directly to the ground. Then the keepers would throw whole
buckets of water on him, drawn cold from the cistern. Often would they
dash these directly in his face. After this, they would hang him up
again, so that the medicine of the rope, the board, and the bucket,
had a fair opportunity to exert their sanative properties. The patient
lived through it, and so did St. John live through the boiling oil,
but the strength of human nature is no excuse for those who delight in
cruelty. The man who maliciously gives me poison is a murderer, though
my constitution is proof against it; and the fact that Perry outlived
this process, is no evidence that he was not sick.

I have not the least sympathy for this man on account of what he
suffered from his disease. I am glad that providence has appended to
the impure gratification of sensual desires, some dreadful recoil of
suffering; that when the loveliness of virtue cannot charm, the
deformity and wretchedness of vice may appeal. But I have copied this
sketch from my memorandum, to shew how men in office can descend to
what would degrade a savage. If Perry was as bad as sin itself, no one
had any right to torture him. I have copied it also as a specimen of
what _many_ sick men have had to endure.


ROBBINS.

There was among the keepers a man who cherished some feelings, which
accorded very illy with his christian profession. In his very
countenance there was a something which indicated the peculiar quality
of his soul. Resentment, jealousy, cruelty, and suspicion, like so
many infernal spirits, kennelled in his eyes, and growled through his
snarling voice. This human shape had,--unfortunately for her--a wife
who was a weaver; and he brought some yarn into the prison to have it
warped for her. Robbins was at this time the warper, and the unlucky
task of warping for this lady, fell to him. He performed the duty
assigned him with his usual correctness, and the warp was sent out to
Mrs. ----, to be woven.

In beaming it on her loom, she broke and tangled the warp to such a
degree, that she could not weave it; and then said that it was spoiled
in warping. This was enough for her husband; he had long had a spite
against Robbins, and now he had a fine opportunity to glut his pious
vengeance. Accordingly he wrote a complaint to the Warden, covering
the whole warp which his wife had spoiled, and many other crimes,
which were not of any consequence alone, but which added to the great
one of the warp, made it look quite black. This report, drawing an
appendix of consequential _et ceteras_, as long as the pen with which
they were written, was sent to the proper officer, and Robbins was
doomed to lie fourteen days and nights in a solitary cell, and live on
four ounces of bread for each twenty-four hours. What makes this
treatment of a helpless prisoner the more abominable is, that Robbins
was always known to do his work in the best manner possible. No
comment is necessary; and I leave that gentleman's conscience tangled
in that warp, till he makes restitution to abused humanity.


P. FANE.

Every line in the sketch that I am now going to transcribe from my
original record, ought to be written in letters of blood. It presents
a complication of crimes as foul as human wickedness can perpetrate,
and a society of criminals whose breath would pollute the atmosphere
of Paradise. I shall be very particular in noticing every important
circumstance in this case, and in suppressing those feelings of
indignation, which at this distance of time and place, kindle in my
breast, when the gushing blood and dying image of the victim rise up
before my mind.

Fane was an Irish youth of about twenty, and had no relatives,
acquaintances, or friends in this country. For some petty crime he was
sent to the prison for three years. He was of a sprightly but harmless
turn of mind, and he did not at all times keep a prudent check upon
his vivacity; which was the cause of his suffering now and then the
lashes of that authority, which, always frowning itself, could not
endure the sight of a smile. But the greatest difficulty was, he could
not perform so much labor as was required of him, and what he _did_
perform was not always so good as was expected by his rulers. Why it
should be thought a crime for a man not to learn a trade, so as to do
a full day's work at it, in the brief space of three months, I am
unable to say; and why any one should expect from a learner the
perfection of a master, is equally strange. But none of these
considerations entered into the purposes of his superiors, and he was
consequently in perpetual punishment, either in the solitary cell, or
in carrying round the yard and shop a large block of wood chained to
his ancle.

In one or the other of these states of suffering, Fane spent much of
the short time of life allotted to him after he entered the prison.
About the time of his bloody catastrophe, he was associated with
Plumley and two brothers by the name of Higgins, who were quite as
much under the frown of authority as himself; and at this time they
were all in chains, but compelled to do their daily task on the loom.
Spending their nights in the same room, and being equally rash and
reckless, they formed a resolution to attempt an escape by forcing
their way, by means of some planks and a ladder, over the wall. This
was to be done early in the morning, as soon as they were let out of
the room. A more foolish plan could not have been laid, for, with the
means they used, no one could have made his way over the high walls of
the prison. Such, however, was their plan, and each one having his
particular part assigned him, they were determined to try to effect
their escape.

To this rash act, the injustice and inhumanity of their sufferings, no
doubt prompted them; and it is a truth which will one day be made
manifest, that most of the enormities committed by prisoners, have
sprung from the same source. Should prisoners be treated with proper
tenderness, instead of being tortured as they are, _thirty_
reformations would take place where _one_ does not now. I speak this
from observation and experience; and I am constrained to add, that
many of the keepers are as far from amiable and virtuous principles,
and from morality of conduct, as the prisoners. I allude not to the
keepers as a _body_, for I am happy to know that there are some of
them, who are, in every sense of the terms, _benevolent_, _upright_
and _gentlemanly_. These condemn the conduct of the others as
severely as I _can_, and they ought to be respected as redeeming
spirits amidst the fallen and depraved ones with whom they are under
the necessity of associating. Their number, however, is comparatively
small, and they do not generally stay long.

Before Fane and his party could make their rash attempt, they were
under the necessity of delivering themselves from their chains, which
was an easy task. While they were doing this in their room, the night
before the time fixed upon to escape, they made some noise with their
file, which drew some of the keepers to the window of their room to
listen. By this means they learned the whole plan--heard them talk it
over--knew it was to be the next morning as soon as the doors were
opened--knew all the steps in contemplation--knew that they had freed
themselves from their chains, and were in perfect readiness for the
morning. All this was known to the authority of the prison the night
before, as I was often told by several of the keepers, and
particularly by the deputy keeper, with whom I conversed freely and
fully on the subject.

And here I should like to submit the question, whether, with this
knowledge in his possession, the Warden acted right in letting these
four men out of their room? Ought he not to have kept them in till the
other prisoners had got to their work, and then told them that their
plan was known, and that it was too late to make the attempt? Had he
done this, he would have been commended, and one of the most unhappy
events would have been prevented. If it is a true principle of law,
that he, who not only does not _prevent_, but virtually affords
facilities for the commission of a _crime_, is in some degree guilty
of that crime, then I will leave the Warden of the prison to answer
for the death of Fane.

In the morning, they were let out, and they went forward like madmen
to their fatal project. A lad of about seventeen was on the wall as
guard. Prepared for the event, he watched them as they advanced with
their plank, and placed it against the wall, but made no attempt to
fire. The first that went up were the Higginses and Plumley; Fane was
in another part of the yard after a small ladder, which he broke in
removing it from its place. Finding that the ladder was broken, and
that their other means were insufficient, they retired from the wall,
abandoned the attempt, and went behind the chapel. No shot was
discharged at either of _them_; but when Fane, who had not yet been at
the wall, ran up that way, before he got within three rods of it, the
guard levelled his musket at his head, as deliberately as if he were
going to shoot at game, and dropped him lifeless on the ground. The
ball passed through his temple, and a buck shot through his cheek; the
blood gushed out of his head in a large stream, and ran down on the
ground nearly a rod.

It has always appeared strange to me, that the guard did not fire on
one of the others, but reserved his death-shot for Fane. He was asked
this question once, and also why he fired _at all_, and his answer
was, that Fane was throwing stones at him, one of which, he said, hit
him on the cheek. This however, was not true: I saw Fane from the time
he came out of his room till he fell dead, and I saw him throw
nothing. Indeed he _could not_ have thrown any thing, for as he lay in
death, he had firmly clenched in one hand, the chain which he had cut
from his leg, and in the other, the knife which he had used as a saw
in cutting it. These I saw in his hands the minute he fell, and I know
that, with them, he could not have thrown a stone or any thing else.

But if Fane's throwing a stone at him was crime enough to deserve
death, why did he not deal out the same punishment to Higgins? He had
the same provocation from him that he pretended to have had from Fane,
for Higgins threw a club at him, after he had shot his friend, which,
if it had hit him, would have killed him; but he sent no shot at
_him_. The fact is, Fane was an Irishman, and there was no friend to
look after him, but the others had relatives near; and _if it was
determined that one of them should be killed to impress a dread on the
rest_, Fane was the _pre-determined_ victim. I do not say that such
_was_ the case, but if it was not, I should like to know why they were
let out of the room, when their plot was so well known? and, also, why
Fane, who was the least outrageous of the four, should have been shot,
and no attempt made on any of the others?

After he had committed this bloody crime, the guard began to be
alarmed, and thought of going off. That his conscience thundered, I
have no doubt; and that the sentiment of guilt which pierced his soul,
should array the gallows before him, was what might have been
expected. He was, however, consoled by his superiors, and the
coroner's verdict, that Fane came to his death in consequence of the
guard's doing his duty, calmed him completely, in respect to his
_legal_ apprehensions.

I have no disposition to censure the verdict of the jury of inquest;
they no doubt acted conscientiously. Still, I doubt very much whether
it was the _duty_ of the guard to _kill_ Patrick Fane. If it _was_, on
what account? Was there any danger of his escaping? No; this was not
pretended. Was the guard in any danger of personal violence? No. The
story of stones being thrown at him is destitute of all proof but the
guard's own assertion, and is confuted by a hundred eye witnesses.
What, then, rendered it his duty to kill his prisoner? It was _not_
his duty; neither the law nor the facts in the case made it so; and a
justification of that deathly act, can be found in no established
principle of jurisprudence, or of moral conduct. If he had fired
towards him merely to _alarm_ him, or if he had wounded him slightly
in his legs, he might have been excused; but to deal in death at once,
and that without any just cause, is a crime for which we shall seek in
vain for either excuse or extenuation.

I do not, however, mean to deal too severely with this young and
inexperienced guard; he was under authority, and he had orders to
obey. But I mean to exhort those who gave him such orders to settle
the case with their consciences, that they may die in peace. He has
suffered much since that fatal morning, and for many years his
countenance denoted that all was not peace within. I pity him, and
most sincerely do I hope, that no other promising young man will ever
listen to the voice of the aged, and do that which will bring the
blood of a fellow being on his soul.

After the alarm was over, Plumley and the Higginses were committed to
the solitary cells, and Fane was left weltering in his blood till
afternoon, in full view of all the prisoners, and of the hundreds of
citizens who came in to see him.

About this time, preparations began to be made to bury him. A
principal officer in the place told the carpenter to make a box of
rough boards not regarding the shape at all. "Don't," said he, "make a
coffin, but a _box_, and bury him in his clothes, just as he is." The
carpenter, however, took it upon himself to make a coffin, and to make
a very good one.

During the afternoon, a very remarkable alteration was made in the
funeral preparations. Instead of burying him in his clothes, as was
directed, he was dragged on the ground like a dead dog, round to the
other side of the chapel, and there stripped, laid on a board, and
washed all over with brine; his head cleaned, and his hair combed, and
then wrapped up in a clean sheet. This was paying his remains a degree
of respect which was never paid to a prisoner before, and the inquiry
was very naturally made--"What does it mean?" Some thought that the
hearts of the keepers began to relent, and that this was a sign of a
troubled conscience. Others thought _differently_, but it remained for
time to explain the mystery.

The burying place is in the yard of the prison, and close by the
building in which the prisoners sleep. There Fane was buried in the
neat and clean style described above. Those who buried him, thought
that his body _might_ be taken up and given to the doctors for
dissection, and to be _certain_, they marked the grave in such a way
that it could not be disturbed without their knowing it.

The next morning the grave was examined, but no alteration had taken
place; but the second morning, the grave was found to have been
opened, and the news went through the prison like a flash of
lightning. "What! is it not enough to murder him, must his body be
disturbed and given to the doctors?" was the indignant and wrathful
expression of every tongue. The whole prison was in a blaze, and the
united demand of the prisoners for an explanation was not trifled
with. At noon the principal officers came into the dining room, when
all the prisoners were assembled for dinner, and each of them made a
speech, touching the subject of the violated grave; and it is due to
them both, to give the reader their speeches unaltered, that he may
judge of their guilt or innocence from their own words.

The Warden said, that a suspicion appeared to exist, that Fane's body
had been taken away, but he thought without foundation. The grave did
not appear to him to have been touched. At any rate, if the body was
gone, _he_ knew nothing of it, and he did not think that any of the
keepers or guard did. He could not see how it could be dug up, and the
prisoners not hear it, as the grave was so near them. But if that
_could_ be done, he thought it could have been taken out of the yard
but by one of two ways, and if it went through either of these, the
noise of the great gates must have been heard. His opinion was, that
his body was still in the grave; but if it had been taken away, _he_
knew nothing about it, and he did not think that any of the rest of
the keepers did.

This was the poorest speech I ever heard that man make, and his
appearance told too plainly to be misunderstood, that from some cause
or other, his mind was troubled. I do not mean to say that he removed
the body himself, but when you hear the other speech, you will know
that the prisoners had reason to suspect something.

The Superintendent said: "I clear nobody. That grave has been
disturbed, and the body has evidently been removed. I did not once
dream of such a thing; if I had had the least suspicion of it, I would
have placed a guard there. It was his sacred bed till the morning of
the resurrection, and no one had any right to disturb him. I don't
know what to think, but I know that there is guilt somewhere, and, as
the Superintendent of the prison, I will spend five hundred dollars
but that I will find something about it."

This satisfied the prisoners of the innocence of the Superintendent,
but not of the Warden. They retired to work fully convinced that the
Warden knew about the removal of the body, and that conviction has not
been worn off, but confirmed by after reflection. The reasons for
supposing that the Warden was knowing to the disinterment of Fane's
body, I shall now state, leaving the reader to judge of their force.

1. The Warden had a son at that time studying in the medical college
at Hanover, only fourteen miles distant from the prison.

2. He ordered the body to be washed in brine, and laid out in a clean
sheet, a mark of respect not granted to other prisoners.

3. The body _was_ taken away, and it could not have been removed
without the knowledge of the guard, who was on duty that night; for he
passed directly by the grave every hour and a half all night, and sat
so near it at all the other times, that he could hear a nut shell fall
on it. It was then impossible for the body to be taken away without
his knowledge; it could not have been stolen away by any one in the
short time of an hour and a half, nor could the grave have been opened
and closed without giving alarm.

And it was equally impossible for _one_ of the guard to know this, and
be accessary to it, without letting others into the secret, for one
was on duty only an hour and a half, when he was relieved by another.

Nor could _all_ the guard have combined in this without the knowledge
of the deputy keeper, for the keys were all in his care. Nor would any
of the keepers or guard have dared to commit such an act, without the
Warden's instructions. Without his knowledge this could not.

4. The Warden's _guilty_ appearance; his effort to make it appear that
the grave had not been touched; and if it had been, that _he_ and all
the _keepers_ and _guard_ were innocent.

5. The fact that nothing was ever done by him to find the body--no
reward offered by him--no stir of any kind--but the business was
hushed up, and the prisoners not allowed to speak of it to their
friends, or mention it in any of their letters.

6. It became after a few years an undisputed report, that the Warden
permitted the body to be removed for the benefit of his son; and the
manner of the removal, and the persons engaged in it, were the
subjects of frequent conversation.

Such are the reasons for believing that the Warden was the principal
agent in the removal of the body. It is not my office to render
verdict on the evidence adduced, but I may be permitted to say that
_if_ he was guilty, he was not fit for his office. The crime,
according to the laws of that state, is severely punished; and
aggravated as it was, if _he_ was guilty, imprisonment for life would
not have been too great a penalty. He was an officer of high trust,
and he could not have been guilty of that crime without connecting it
with perjury and burglary. And if to these be added the crime of being
accessary to his death I would ask what can be wanting to cap the
climax of his iniquity?

I do not say that any of these sins belong to him. He _may_ be
innocent, notwithstanding all these appearances and I could wish that
he were. There is darkness around the subject, too much for him if he
is not guilty, but not enough if he is. One thing is certain, it will
be known at some future day; and if he should finally have to plead
guilty before his God, his punishment will not linger then, though he
may escape it here. He had taken an oath to enforce the laws, and
abide by them himself, and in particular to treat his prisoners
tenderly and humanely; and if instead of doing so, he broke them, and
became the destroyer of life, and the disturber of the repose of the
dead, I envy him not his peace of mind in this world, nor his doom in
the next.

The Higginses and Plumley were confined in the solitary cells on bread
and water for thirty days, a punishment by many degrees more painful
than death. This was the second time that Plumley had endured that
punishment, and this laid the foundation for that disease which
carried him down a neglected and suffering victim to the grave. The
Higginses served their time out and were discharged.

Various reports were circulated about the guard who shot Fane. He left
that part of the country in a few years, and went to the West, where,
it was reported, he gave himself up to drinking, and became deranged.
For the truth of these reports I shall not vouch, though I firmly
believe them, and I am well assured that he never can think of PATRICK
FANE without remorse.

It escaped my recollection in the proper place, that one of the
prisoners was looking out of his cell window near the grave the night
that Fane's body was taken, and saw the deputy Warden so distinctly as
to be able to describe his dress and appearance, which he did in _his_
presence, before all the officers and prisoners. The deputy noticed
how particular the description was, and said, with a blushing
smile--"He has described me exactly." No doubt he felt the force of
his conduct, and conscience evidently was accusing him. This is
another evidence that the body was taken by permission of the
officers, and with their assistance.


A YOUTH.

From some cause unknown to me, the subject of this sketch had been
deranged some time before he was sent to prison, and the effect
produced on his mind was still visible in his looks and manners.
Naturally, he possessed bright and interesting traits of mind, and a
very amiable and engaging temper; but when reason abandoned him, he
became sullen, and if crossed in his wishes, was furious and
untameable.

Not long after his commitment, the frequent vexations he had to meet
with, and the unsympathizing temperament of his keepers, drove him to
distraction. In this situation he was a fine object for the relentless
severity of those, who should have treated him with the most humane
and tender regard. None but the most thoroughly hardened, could have
tortured a poor friendless and phrensied mortal, as he was tortured by
his guard and keepers.

In the first place, he was punished because he did not perform his
appointed labor, which, it was evident, was more than he _could_ have
accomplished, if he had been in his right mind. This threw him into
the most raging phrensy, and inspired the genius of cruelty with new
life and energy.

To confine him, an iron jacket was provided, which kept his arms close
to his body; and a new invention of iron, heavy and rough, brought his
hands together, and confined them across his breast. This needless and
inhuman contrivance wore the flesh from his hands and wrists, and kept
them constantly bleeding. Thus bound in iron, worse than fancy paints
the victims of Satanic sport in the world of wo, he was confined in a
small cell, to groan out his misery in doleful cries, or sit in silent
meditation on the _mercy_ of man to man.

I cannot think of this ruined lad without growing chill with horror. I
hear now his phrensied shrieks! His unearthly murmurings are still
falling with deathly emphasis on my soul!--O! my God! of what is the
heart of man composed! Days, weeks, and months, he filled that dungeon
with vocal misery; and yet no angel mercy drew near him to comfort or
to pity; but the tiger looks of heartless man were his only sunshine,
and frowns were his only music!

In this work of torture, one of the keepers gave himself an infernal
distinction over the rest. Not satisfied with contemplating in this
youth, the double ruin of body and mind, with a passion for torture
which I hope has returned to the breast of him whom alone it might not
disgrace, he used to beat him with his sword and his fist, and allow
him only a famishing morsel of food. So unmercifully did he abuse this
poor maniac, that he was mistaken by him for the _devil_--if indeed,
it was a mistake--and declared to be the terror of his waking, and the
odious spectre of his sleeping hours.


DEAN.

Only fourteen years had rolled over this boy's head, when he became a
prisoner in Windsor on a sentence of three years. Rude, but not
vicious--lively without design--and less experienced than a man of
sixty, he was a promising victim for the _irrespective_ discipline of
that dreary place. He soon took up his abode in the solitary cell, and
there, young as he was, he spent much of his time, both in summer and
winter. Fifteen days at a time has that little boy been in the cell in
the dead of winter, with only one blanket, and a piece of bread not
larger than his hand once in a day. All night long have I heard him
cry, and plead to be let out, that he might not freeze; but no reply
could he get from the keeper but--"Stop your noise--shut your
head--learn to keep out--I hope you'll freeze."

To say nothing about the impropriety and unmercifulness of such
conduct to _any_ prisoner, how does it appear in a man of sufficient
years to know better, towards a small boy. Would Lucifer himself have
treated even a young _christian_ so? Every one knew that Dean was by
no means a _bad_ boy; he was thoughtless and imprudent, but never did
he deserve such cruel treatment. Indeed such punishments as are
properly called _cruel_, cannot be _constitutionally_ inflicted on
_any_ one, much less on a boy; nor for any _offence_, much less for a
_trifle_. I here hold up to the view of humanity this tortured
youth--his ears frozen, his limbs shivering, his fingers numb and red
as blood, pinched with hunger, exhausted by exercise to prevent
freezing to death, and dying for want of sleep. I hold him up in this
predicament, amid the gloom of the solitary cell for some trifling
error, at the dark and silent hour of midnight, in the cold months of
winter, pleading for his life, and comforted only by this snarling
reply of the guard, "Stop your noise." Yes, I hold him up in such
circumstances, where I have often heard his piercing cries, and ask
the beholders to read in him the _common mercy_ of that "_merciful
Institution_."

This is a _penitentiary_. It was erected as such. The laws consider it
in this light. It is made the duty of the officers to have an especial
eye, in all their conduct, to the moral reformation of the prisoners.
How inconsistent, then, must such conduct be? Can such cruelty on any
person do him any good? Rather would not such treatment have the
effect, even on a saint, to make him a sinner? But look at the
punishment of this little boy. What he endured would have crushed a
giant. No account made of his age and inexperience--no thought of the
_kind_ and _degree_ of correction suited to him--no feelings of
compassion; but the steel-hearted man, who ought to have thought of
his own children of the same age, met this young unthinking trespasser
on some of the _minor_ rules of the limbo, like a hungry bear, and
threw him into the infernal machinery of his vengeance.


CHAMBERLAIN.

This man was a harmless lunatic. He never offered the least violence
to any one, and was as unfit a subject of punishment as is commonly
found. He did not, as might have been expected of any one in his
situation, attend very closely to his work, and what he _did_ do, was
not very _well_ done. By this he came under the letter of that common
law which makes no allowance for bodily or mental imperfections, and
was introduced to the solitary cell. He now found a home, and he soon
became perfectly acclimated, and seemed not to care whether he was in
the cell or out of it. When it was found that he was contented in that
place, he was let out, and doomed to wear a block and chain; and
between these two modes of suffering, he was kept in constant
vibration. There was no feeling in the hearts of his punishers. What
though God had set his mark on him in the ruin of his mind, and thus
by his own signet commended him to the sympathy and protection of his
fellow-men? What though no being on earth could give him a moment's
penal suffering without trampling on all the principles of right, and
propriety, and law, and insulting the majesty of Heaven in the abuse
of its subjects? They had the _power_, and they gloried in its
unfeeling and most outrageous abuse.

As an evidence of the manner in which this poor lunatic was used, I
will relate an illustrative circumstance.

He was lying one day on the ground, with his huge block and chain by
his side. The keeper went to him and said, "Chamberlain, you must go
into the solitary cell." "I must?" said he; "let me see. I have been
out--_one_--_two_--_three days_--yes, it is time; I have not been out
so long before this great while."

I would not dwell on these gloomy sketches--I could not prevail on
myself to torture the public mind by the recital of such abusive,
inhuman, and infamous acts, did I not hope, by this means, to do
something that may ultimately effect a _cure_ for these evils. This is
to be done _only_ by holding up the evils, in all their dimensions and
enormity, to the eye of the public; and painful as is the task, I hope
God will give me strength to support it, and to go on untiring, till
the object is accomplished. These representations of human misery
ought to elicit human sympathy, and inspire human effort for their
removal. I know the things that I write; I have tasted the wormwood
and the gall; and though my heart sickens at the remembrance of these
things, still I have put my hand to the plough, and I will not look
back.


MRS. BURNHAM.

Among those records of the past which fill the soul of man with the
keenest pain, and fix the darkest stain on the pages of human
guilt;--on that blood-red sheet that exhibits the mutual rage,
persecution, and burning of religious fanatics, I have found an
account of a woman who was doomed to the stake in such a situation
that in the midst of her sufferings in the flames, she became a
_mother_. The book dropped from my hand as I read this dreadful story,
and I regretted my relation to a race of beings, capable of such
iron-hearted cruelty and infernal guilt. But this was in ENGLAND, and
it was some consolation to my sickening heart to reflect that I was an
AMERICAN. I felt a sort of national pride, and wrapped myself up in
the delusion, in which too many are now slumbering, that such things
belong exclusively to the Old World, and will never blacken the
history of the New. How foolish are such national prejudices; how
absurd and contrary to all experience, to suppose that _local_
circumstances will alter the moral nature of man. The lion loses not
his ferocity by treading the soil or breathing the air of
Massachusetts; and the founder of Providence can testify, that the
pious settlers of New England caught the spirit of persecution as they
were flying from its faggots and fire. Man is _man_, wherever you find
him. By nature a tyrant, and ever glorying in the extension and
display of his authority, every human being is either a pope or a
Nero, and would become as offensive to God, and as dreadful to the
human race as they were, if placed in the same circumstances. With
the exception of those who are brought under the influence of the
spirit of the gospel, this is universally true; and all the
improvements of the arts and sciences and of civilization, are but so
many refined inventions in the rebellion of earth against heaven.
Christianity makes the only grand and radical difference among men.
This brings all who heartily embrace it back to the authority of
heaven, while all others are forcing themselves on to the perfection
of a character as opposed to God and mutual happiness, as Beelzebub is
to the Saviour of the world. I am now going to introduce a sketch
which will evince the aptness of Americans in imitating the cruelties
of Europe. "England _is_ what Athens _was_," says Phillips, and too
soon, I fear will America rival England in those things which she
professes to abhor. With how much reason I apprehend this, the
following account, among others, will shew.

Mrs. Burnham had committed a crime as foul as sin could inspire, and I
am not going to plead her cause. She ought to have been punished, and
that severely, but not at the _time_, nor in the manner she was. She
was married, and at the time of her trial and sentence, it was known
that in a short time she would need a _sort_ and _degree_ of
attention, which prisons were never designed to give; but no regard
was paid to her situation, and she was sentenced to be confined in the
State Prison, to hard labor for a number of years. What a child unborn
had done to be doomed to date its birth in a prison, I leave for those
to determine, who have read more law than I have.

The place of her abode was a small room, with one small and strongly
grated window. From every hall the noise and tumult of the prisoners
was forced directly upon her ears; and in the large space from which
her room was partitioned off, was placed a guard during every night.
Her food was such as the other prisoners had, and her other treatment
of the same kind.

In this place she spent her time till a few days before her
confinement; when she was taken into the keeper's house till her babe
was a few weeks old, and then sent back with it into her room. How she
fared while in the house, I know not, as no prisoner visited that
apartment at the time, to my knowledge; but the report is not at all
in favor of the family residing in the house at the time. How she
fared in the prison I need no one to inform me. One of the men who
attended her, is gone to the world of spirits, and I hope he has found
mercy of his God. Of another that had the care of her I can say, that
if they that _show_ no mercy _find_ none, it is high time for him to
agree with his adversary, lest he, in turn, shall find a small room
till he shall pay the utmost farthing. The insult which that woman had
to suffer--the indignity--the abuse--the oppression, are all recorded
in a book that will be opened in the day of Judgment, and if all men
shall be judged according to their actions, and receive according to
the deeds done in the body, many will regret their conduct towards
this afflicted and injured woman.

I might dwell with painful minuteness on this sketch, but from the
nature of its details, this is no place for them. The great facts are
_enough_ for my purpose, and _too much_ for the happiness or credit of
those who are concerned. The deeply infamous truth on which I wish to
fix the mind of the reader, is, the _situation_ of the woman when she
was sentenced. What the law in such cases may be I know not, but I
envy no man a station which compels him to such a deed as must carry
horror to every mind that has the least sense of propriety, humanity,
or justice. If the law makes no provision in such cases, then have we
attained to a degree of refinement that would disgrace a savage. But
if the law _does_ provide for such cases, where is that man's fitness
for his station who denied this woman all the benefit of that
provision, and inflicted on her a lash which made her unborn infant
bleed?

Another circumstance to be noticed is, her treatment in the prison.
The subject is too delicate to be treated here, with any degree of
particularity. Even the most corrupt of the prisoners was often
indignant at the low and vulgar insults that were offered to her by
those whose only excuse is, that they knew no better.

  "Immodest words admit of no defence,
   For want of decency is want of sense."

She survived this train of abuse and cruelty, and the Governor and
Council to their credit, and to the honor of the state, permitted her
to return to her husband and family, as soon as her case could come
before them.

I know not with what feelings the public mind will contemplate the
fact recorded in this sketch; but I hope, most devoutly, that it will
be universally reprobated. I shall carefully observe its effect, and
note it down as a sure indication of the tone of American morals and
American sentiment. My bosom will expand with national pride, or my
cheek redden with national shame, in the same proportion that such
conduct is condemned or sanctioned by public opinion. It is no excuse
for such conduct that the sufferer had sinned. I well know that she
merited the severest punishment; for the soul freezes at the thought
of her crime. But to every thing there is a proper season, and it is
_not_ the proper season to punish a sinning female when a child
_unborn_ is to be put in peril. As well might the Creator send an
unborn infant to hell with its sinful mother.




TREATMENT OF THE SICK, AND BURIAL OF THE DEAD.


While a man is in health, he can endure hardship, and support himself
under the pressure of almost any calamity; but when his health fails,
he sinks down a nerveless victim, and lies exposed to the mercy of
those evils he can no longer resist. It is the sick that, of all the
sufferers in this world, most need the pity and compassion of their
fellow mortals, and whose neglect and sufferings cry the loudest to
heaven. To sickness, all are equally exposed, the high and the low,
the virtuous and the vicious, the saint and the sinner; and not to
compassionate and relieve them, is a crime which speaks the deep
depravity of the heart, and which will by no means pass unpunished.
But if the want of sympathy and tender feelings for the sick, is such
a crime, what must be said of that man, who can sport with their
misery, and take an infernal satisfaction in increasing it?

The sick in Windsor prison are considered as _criminal_ in their
sickness, and _punished_ rather than comforted. It is not often that a
prisoner can get into the place appointed for the sick, until his case
is hopeless, and not always then, for many die before they can
convince the keepers that they are sick. A very convenient excuse for
this neglect is, that many have pretended to be sick, and have been
treated as such, when they were perfectly well. This I know is true,
and such hypocrites cannot be too severely dealt with; but this is no
good reason why one who really needs attention, should be neglected.
It is, however, another instance of visiting all for the crime of one.

The By-Laws require that "some fit person shall be appointed as a
physician, whose duty shall be to visit the prison as often as once in
every week, and oftener, if found necessary, to inquire into the
health of the prisoners, to give directions relative to the conduct
and regimen of the sick, and admit such patients into the hospital as
he may judge necessary." Another regulation in the By-Laws, in respect
to the sick, is, that they shall take no medicine in any part of the
prison except the hospital, unless they are unable to be removed
thither; and the obvious meaning of the Laws is, that no medicine
shall be prescribed by any but the physician. It is equally obvious
that the physician is to be called upon whenever a serious complaint
is made by any of the prisoners. Nor is it less obviously implied,
that the sick shall be treated kindly. Such is the Law; let us see the
practice.

When complaint of sickness is made by any of the prisoners, the keeper
who has the care of the sick is sent for, and if the person is unable
to work, he is taken to his room and shut up there to get well. No
physician is sent for, except, perhaps, in one case out of fifty; and
the patient is allowed no food but a dish of crust coffee and a piece
of bread, once in twenty-four hours. This is his diet while he remains
sick. When he is first shut up, he has an emetic given him, or a
blister applied to his breast. This is almost always done, no matter
what the complaint is; and should the physician attend twenty times at
the hospital, he can scarcely ever see him. Sometimes the patient is
bled, and all this is done by a man who has no _right_ to prescribe,
and who is as ignorant of all medicine as he is of the feelings of a
kind and generous sympathy; and done too in a place where the Law
_forbids_ the use of medicine. But what are laws to tyrants? If the
person has a firm constitution he generally outlives such cruelty, and
returns to his work; but if his complaint continues, after much time,
he is handed over to the physician, and takes his chance for life or
death in the hospital.

I do not mean to reflect, generally, on the conduct of the physicians.
With but few _serious_, and a number of _minor_ exceptions, their
conduct has been alike honorable to themselves and ornamental to their
profession. The great difficulty with them, is, they have no
_authority_ to do any thing; the most they _can_ do is to _advise_, in
no instance can they _command_; and their advice is followed or not,
as best suits the convenience or disposition of their master. If any
officer in a prison ought to have supreme authority, it is the
physician. Life and death are in his hands, and he ought to have all
the power necessary to the full discharge of his professional duty.
His prescription should be something more than _advice_, and he should
have authority to punish all disobedience to his orders, and all
cruelty or inhumanity to the sick. If the physicians of Windsor prison
had been invested with this power, such have been their general
reputation for skill and humanity, that many an hour and month of keen
distress would have been spared to the prisoners, and more than one
life been preserved.

It cannot have escaped the notice of any one who has seen the
treatment of the sick, that the keepers consider them no better than
dogs, and are determined that they shall have no peace, sick or well.
The iron-hearted discipline of the place is enough to rive the
stoutest soul, and crush a heart as hard as marble; and in not a
single instance has a prisoner escaped from it, if he has been there
three or four years, without a ruinous impression that will go with
him to his grave. But by a refinement of torture, which would be
patented in the Court of the Inquisition, this mountain of
uncalled-for oppression is rolled over, with double weight, on the
sinking frame, and fainting heart, and trembling soul of the sick and
dying. And to cover all this unearthly and inhuman conduct with a
mantle, starred with _mercy_, and serene with _kindness_, the By-Laws
are sent up every year to the Legislature, breathing the spirit of
heaven, and written with tears of heart-bleeding compassion.
Heaven-daring hypocrisy! I appeal to the keepers themselves--to the
angels who have hovered over the sick--to the ghosts of Ellis and
Burnham, whether there is a single drop of human feeling in the
treatment of the sick. Away with the By-Laws as evidence against the
declarations I have just made. How often has liberty triumphed in the
Statutes of an unhappy country, long after tyranny had fettered every
hand and every tongue in the empire. How often has piety remained in
the letter of the prayer book and liturgy, years and centuries after
the _spirit_ had gone up to heaven, and the snows of human guilt had
extinguished the last spark of the altar.

Not only are the sick neglected and unpitied by the officers and
servants of the prison, the _Ministers_, also, neglect them. I have
known men lie six months in the hospital, and die, without being
visited by a single clergyman, or having even one christian call to
pray with them. This speaks but little for the piety of Windsor; but
such is the fact. It ought however to be understood, that the
clergymen of that town are always willing to attend to any of the
duties of their office, as well _in_ the prison as _out_ of it, when
they know that they are wanted. I make but one exception to this
remark, and that is only a _partial_ one, for Mr. How--d was not
_always_ what I am condemning. The great blow, then, must fall
ultimately with the greatest weight on the keepers. But still, when
the great and the pious men of the village were weeping over the
miseries of sin in the far distant Isles of the Pacific, and in the
lands of the rising and setting sun, and sending their property in
Bibles, Tracts, and Missionaries to "the farthest verge of the green
earth;" is it not a little wonderful that they should so have
forgotten the "prison house," and the sin-ruined prisoners, famishing
for the bread of life, in their own town, and within their own sight,
as not to have blessed them with a single visit from their itinerant
mercy? Would not a little attention to the wants of the neighborhood
have been at least _excused_?

Neglected, however, as they are by Christians, many of the suffering
tenants of that gloomy abode, have an arm to lean upon which bears
them up, and a sun to shine around them, whose beams create their day.
While the earth is disappearing, and their heart-strings are breaking,
they can sing--

    How sweet my minutes roll,
  A mortal paleness on my cheek,
    And glory in my soul!

It would gladden the hearts of christians to reflect on the happy
deaths that have been witnessed in that place. There, religion appears
in all her loveliness. When there is no kind friend to watch the
fading cheek and close the sightless eye--when a mantle of everlasting
black is falling on all the beauties of earth, and hiding the sun,
moon, and stars for ever--when the blood is stopping, a cold and
clammy sweat is gathering on the temples, and the heart is sinking
down into the stillness of death; then it is that the value of that
principle is appreciated, which charms all fears away, and calms the
throbbing heart, and lights up in the soul the brightness of eternity.
Then, in that immortal ecstacy that nothing but God can inspire, it
enables the happy possessor to join with the millions who have gone
before him, in this triumphant farewell to this vale of tears:--

  On Jordan's stormy banks I stand,
    And cast a wishful eye
  To Canaan's fair and happy land,
    Where my possessions lie,

  O the transporting rapt'rous scene,
    That rises to my sight;
  Sweet fields array'd in living green,
    And rivers of delight.

  No chilling winds, nor pois'nous breath
    Can reach that healthful shore;
  Sickness and sorrow, pain and death,
    Are felt and fear'd no more.

  Fill'd with delight, my raptur'd soul
    Can here no longer stay;
  Tho' Jordan's waves around me roll,
    Fearless I launch away.

After a prisoner dies, his friends can have his body if they wish it.
If they do not call for it immediately, it is buried in the
prison-yard; but if they should call for it any time afterwards, it
would be disinterred and given to them.

The ceremony at the funeral is usually appropriate and solemn. Laid in
a decent black coffin, the body is placed where all the prisoners can
see the face, as they pass in Indian file by it. A clergyman always
attends, makes some remarks, and then prays; after which the corpse is
laid in the grave, and his memory is soon lost.

The house of the dead is no place to make a reflection, and the grave
of the individual may be thought by many to be the place in which all
that pertains to him should be buried. In general, perhaps, this is
true, but not always; and I shall, before I leave the buried remains
of the prisoners, record some facts which ought not be forgotten.

After their death, very sympathetic letters are written by order of
the keeper, or by the keeper himself, to the friends of the deceased,
stating how kindly he was treated, and how peacefully he died. I was
called upon to write one of these letters, and I have not forgotten
what directions were given me by the very man whom the dying prisoner
considered his murderer.

During the prisoner's sickness, he frequently writes to his friends;
but as his letters are examined by the keeper, and not sent unless
approved, he cannot state his real condition and treatment, but must,
in order to have his letter sent, at least _imply_ that he is treated
kindly. Hence many a friend is led to feel grateful to the officers,
when perhaps their cruelty has caused the very death they deplore.

The circumstance I am now going to relate, involves the clergyman who
attended the funeral of an old prisoner, who had given no signs of
repentance, it is true, nor had he been the greatest sinner on earth.
The remarks made on the occasion were as follows, verbatim et
literatem, for I recorded them in stenography at the time.--"As I was
coming down here," said he, "I was thinking of an old slave of a
southern planter. Returning home one day, he was told that his master
had gone a long journey, from which he would never return. He asked
where he had gone, and was told that he had gone to heaven. 'No, no,'
said the slave, 'Massa no gone to heaven. When Massa go a journey he
talk about it a great while before hand, and make great preparation,
but me never hear him say any thing about going to heaven.' I know
nothing," said the preacher, "about the man who is going to the grave,
but these thoughts came into my mind as I was coming from my house,
and they struck me as appropriate to this occasion. Let us pray."

No comment is necessary on such insulting language over the ashes of a
fellow mortal. Such a polluted stream denotes the quality of the
fountain from which it flowed.

The next chapter will contain a diversity of cases to illustrate the
remarks in this.


ELLIS.

This man was afflicted with the consumption. At the time with which
this account commences, he was wasted to almost a shadow; the paleness
of death was on his countenance--and his voice was feeble and
trembling. Though under the care of the physician, and taking medicine
every day, he was yet unable to get into the hospital, but was obliged
to spend his days either in his cell, where he could obtain but little
nourishment, or at his work in the shop. The scene now before me, was
in the cook room, a place partly under ground, to which he had retired
to rest himself, and find some relief from the pain which was
continually shooting through his breast. In this room I saw him, and
heard the following conversation between him and the Warden.

Ellis was lying on the brick hearth, with a block of wood for his
pillow, when the Warden came in, and his voice was the only indication
of life that he manifested. He intreated in the most moving language
to be removed to the hospital, and made comfortable what little time
he had to live.

_Warden._ If I thought you were sick, I would take care of you; but
nothing ails you. If there does, you have brought it on yourself to
get rid of work. I have been imposed on too often by those who pretend
to be sick, and I am not to be deceived any more. You are as well as I
am, and you shall not be treated as a sick man, till I have evidence
that you _are_ sick.

_Ellis._ I submit, sir; though whether you believe me sick or not
_now_, time will soon convince you, that I do not counterfeit this
appearance. I _am_ sick--I cannot live long, and all I desire is, that
I may receive proper attention, and be permitted to die in peace.

_Warden._ You are not sick; when you are, you shall have all necessary
attention. I am not to be imposed on any more by those who are too
lazy to work, and therefore pretend that they are sick.

Here the conversation ended; the Warden retired, and Ellis continued
to enjoy his repose on the brick hearth, and his pillow of wood. Too
weak to labour, and denied a place in the hospital, he continued in
this condition a few days longer, when forced by the unequivocal
indications of approaching dissolution, he was transported to the
proper place for the sick, and laid on a bed just in time to breathe
his last.

The death of a prisoner causes no tender feelings in the breasts of
some of the keepers, and when this death was announced, the eyes of
many were expressive of satisfaction; and Mr. F*** said, with an air
of malignant joy, "bad as he thought the place to be, he was not
willing to die; he struggled for breath, looked anxiously round, and
wanted to live longer."

Soon after his death was known in the yard, the Warden came into the
cook-room where I was, but I am unable to paint his confused
appearance. He well recollected what had passed in that room only a
few days before, when the dying man plead for an easy bed to die on,
but was denied. His head hung down, he turned every way to avoid
looking those in the face who had heard his savage insults to the poor
wretch who plead for mercy; at length he threw himself down on a seat
by one of the tables, and said, in a manner which I hope will never be
imitated--"Well, Ellis is dead." No one made any reply, and he added;
"he has fulfilled his word; he said he would never be any benefit to
us, and he never has."

The next day his remains were committed to the grave, where "the
prisoners rest together, and hear not the voice of the oppressors."
Dr. Torrey, the physician of the prison at this time, was highly
displeased at the cruel neglect and unmerciful treatment of Ellis; and
when prescribing, a few days after, for another prisoner, he said with
emotions that did him honor--"_This_ case must be _attended to_; it
must _not_ be _neglected_ as the _other_ was. _Shameful!_
DISGRACEFUL!"

Shameful and disgraceful it certainly was to treat a dying man in this
way. What man of ordinary feelings would have treated his dog, as the
Warden treated Ellis? Is that man fit for any office in a humane
Institution who could thus forget his kindred nature, and plant with
thorns the death-bed of a brother? And ought there not to be a place
for such monsters in human form, where they must drink of the cup
which they have filled for others, and experience the pains they have
inflicted? THERE IS JUST SUCH A PLACE.--There the rich man lifted up
his eyes being in torments. And if those will be doomed to this place,
of whom the Judge will say--"I was sick and in prison, and ye visited
me not," what must be the fate of this man, who locked up his _living_
prisoners in the cell of _despair_, and threw the _dying_ into a bed
of _embers_?


A---- W----.

This young man was of a very feeble constitution, and was frequently a
proper subject of medical treatment.--When a prisoner complained of
being sick, he was very often permitted very kindly to take his choice
of three things; 1, to take an emetic; 2, to go and do his usual task;
or 3, to go into the cell and live on bread and water, and sleep on a
stone floor. A. W. was taken sick and this choice was given to him; he
took the emetic, remarking that he "might as well die one way as
another." He was now left in his room, and for three days received no
further attention. After this the physician visited him, and
immediately ordered him to be moved into the hospital, where he
suffered a severe course of fever.

Mr. Woodruff was the keeper who gave him the emetic, and he was much
displeased when the physician rescued him from his hands. After the
fever left him, and he went to his work, he was so weak that he
applied to the physician for relief, and some bark and wine were
ordered for him; but Mr. Woodruff thought fit to refuse the wine, and
gave him only a small quantity of bark, and that of the poorest kind.

At another time when he was sick, and unable to do his task, I got
some bark for him at my own expense, and wove as much over my task as
he fell short of his, and caused it to be placed to his credit, to
keep him out of punishment. This was done with the master weaver's
knowledge, and was the only arrangement I could make to save him. It
was nothing in his favor that he was sick; his task was required, and
it must be done by himself or some one else.

The cruel man who allowed this youth no peace in his sickness, was
very soon after doomed, in his turn, to a sickness which admitted of
no comfort for him. His conduct in this instance is only a specimen of
what it _generally_ was. And when he became the prey to disease, he
became sullen, unsocial, and desponding; evidently the victim of his
own self-condemning reflections, and of that _retributive justice_
which never suffers the wicked to go unpunished. Let the other tyrants
of that little world of cruelty, think of this, and remember that the
cry of the oppressed is always heard in heaven.


M---- C----.

The influence of a punishment, almost too great for human nature to
bear, had destroyed this man's health, and thrown him into a decline
from which his friends had little hope of his recovery. His labor was
at shoe-making, an employment very weakening to the breast, where his
complaint was seated. Not being able to perform his task, his only
alternative was to stay in his room, and live on gruel or bread and
crust coffee, which he did whenever his complaint rendered it
necessary. This was by no means pleasing to his keepers, and every
effort was made to confine him to his shoe bench. The most conspicuous
agent in this conspiracy against the peace of a sick man was the
Warden. Availing himself of his authority, he called at C's room and
desired him to walk out, which he did; then conducting him to the door
of one of the solitary cells, he said--"C. you are not sick, and I am
going to give you a choice of two things,--take that handkerchief from
your head, and go to your work, and live like the other prisoners, or
go into this cell and _die_."

In the spirit of a christian, he obeyed the command of his unfeeling
tormentor, and repaired to his work. His case created him friends who
procured him medicine, and changed his employment, so that he was
enabled to comply with all demands, and thus he outlived the tyrant's
rage. He is now, if living, in the bosom of his friends, enjoying the
sweets of liberty, and possessing the confidence of the church as a
faithful minister of the gospel.


BENTON.

This is another victim of neglect and cruelty. He began to decline
soon after he entered the prison, but he applied in vain for help.
_Work_ was the order of the day, and sick or well it must be done.
Every eye that saw this youth, the blasted hope of a widowed mother,
observed the sure signs of a fixed consumption. His dry hacking cough,
his sallow skin, his husky hair, his hollow cheeks, could not be
unobserved, nor their cause mistaken. Still he could get no help. Day
after day of anxious suffering rolled heavily over his head, but no
sympathy awoke for him in the breasts of his keepers. And it was not
until all his strength was gone, and he was coughing up blood every
day, that he could make them believe he was sick, and get a place in
the hospital.

Removed to that place of death, the doctor called to see him--that
doctor on whom he had called in vain for help when help was possible.
As soon as he entered, his patient said--"Doctor you have come too
late; I threw myself into your hands when you might have saved me, but
you would not, and now I must die!" The appeal fell on his conscience,
and he acknowledged his fault, but it was too late. He did, it is
true, all he could after this to save him, but to no effect, and he
died in a few weeks, calm, reconciled and prepared.

After he was confined, his mother came to wait upon him, and watch his
closing eyes.--There is no limit to the affections of a mother. Holy
nature prompts her to the place where her child is suffering. The iron
doors, the massy walls, the dungeon's gloom, are no terrors to her
imagination, if her son is there. Danger cannot intimidate; the
world's scorn cannot deter; the crime and ingratitude of the child are
forgotten. It is her _child_, and this omnipotent argument makes her
forget herself to minister to the wants of her offspring. I could fill
a volume with what my eyes have seen of a mother's fond, undying
affection; and I cannot close this account of human suffering better,
than by entreating all who have the power over young persons, to treat
them in such a manner that their mothers may not be under the
necessity of imputing the death of their children to their unfeeling
neglect, and reckless severity.


SANDFORD.

I introduce this case to shew how sick men are often treated, after
their keeper consents to give them medicine. He complained of not
being very well, and was taken to his room, and ordered to take an
emetic. This is a prescription for _every_ thing, and is designed as a
punishment rather than a remedy. The room was cold, and he was left
alone to undergo the medicine. The emetics are generally given in
great and unusual quantities, that the effect may be the more painful,
and how many have been killed by such prescriptions, the day of
Judgment will publish. Sandford took his dose, and soon the effect
convulsed him, and took away his senses. How long he had lain in this
state no one knows. When the keeper entered his room he found him on
the cold stone floor, and to all appearance dead. He was taken
immediately to the hospital, and no one can imagine the acuteness of
his sufferings, after he became sensible. He bled most profusely at
the mouth, and it was evident that the convulsions into which he was
thrown had ruptured some blood vessel in the region of the lungs, and
for two years he was not able to leave the hospital, and never did he
do another hour's work in the prison. How long he lived after he was
released from the prison, I know not, but it is certain that he
suffered more than to have died a thousand deaths, and it is not
probable he ever enjoyed a well day after he took the fatal emetic.

Here is a proof how little regard is paid to justice or mercy in
giving medicine to the sick. No man who has the feelings of his
nature about him, would treat a dog half so cruelly as some of the
sick are treated in this prison. Here was a man in the perfection of
his strength, and in the morning of his days, ruined for life, by the
ignorant and reckless prescriptions of a man who knew no more about
medicine than a dunce. An excuse may be borrowed for him, because he
was _allowed_ to do so; but where is the excuse for the one who gave
an ignorant and careless blockhead that authority?


A BLACKSMITH.

To say that this man was murdered, would be saying too much; but it
will _not_ be too much to say, that his death was caused by a spirit
of cruelty that would disgrace a Turk. He entered the prison, a
picture of health, at the age of about twenty-seven. Being a
blacksmith, he was put to that business; but falling sick, he was soon
unable to work at it, and tried to be placed at some employment better
suited to his feeble health. In this he failed. He then applied to the
doctor, and was ordered into the hospital. It was evident to all, that
a consumption was hovering over his lungs, and he soon began to
exhibit the symptoms of that disease fully settled. He coughed very
violently, and raised blood very often, and in large quantities; his
flesh wasted away; his spirits sunk; and his strength departed. In
this condition he was driven out to his shop and compelled to work,
and not permitted to sleep in the hospital, but in a cell much less
suited to his convenience. The excuse for this was, that he was fully
able to do his work, and besides he was an ingenious smith, and might
make tools to break out, if permitted to stay in the hospital during
the night. The tyrant's plea is _necessity_. It is very convenient to
have this, when no better can be found; but where is the necessity to
torture a man because he is sick, and ingenious? This was the only
plea, and on this he was driven out by a mean and unprincipled keeper,
till a few days before he died; and when he went from his work the
last time, he sunk down on the bed as soon as he reached the hospital,
and never rose from it again.

The cry that he was able to work, and was counterfeiting his
appearance, had been rung so long, that it triumphed over all the
science and practice of the doctor, and led _him_ to neglect him under
the impression that he was a hypocrite. At last, his suffering, and
dying, and persecuted patient said,--"Doctor, I wish you would do
something for me."--"I _will_ do something for you," was the
significant and fatal reply; and he immediately ordered him large and
frequent doses of calomel, which every novice in the medical art knew
was a very fatal medicine to that complaint in its present confirmed
stage. It was not long in doing its work, and the victim was laid in
the earth. When the doctor was afterwards asked why he gave the
calomel, he replied; "I knew its nature and effects, and I thought I
would make short work of it."--I do not suppose that the physician
intended to _kill_ the man, but I suppose he meant to try an
_experiment_. His opinion was, that the effect would soon be apparent,
and be _fatal_ if the disease were firmly seated; and I blame him for
listening to those who had an interest in deceiving him, and not
acting from his own _examination_, as he would in other cases.

The keeper who drove this dying man from the place provided for such
sufferers, and made him labor when he ought to have been at rest, I
knew _well_, and I have always considered him to be one of the most
unfeeling, as well as ignorant, and unprincipled of the human race.
This is not the only case in which I shall present him to the contempt
of the reader, for many are the dark records against him, and through
many years was he an infernal spirit in the prison, a Satan to the
sick, and a curse to the well.

A friend of mine watched with this man the night he died. Soon after
he went into his room, he made an effort to rise. There was a
remarkable expression in his countenance, and he was asked if the bell
should be rung to call the keeper? He shook his head. His eyes opened
very wide, and looked wishful and anxious. They then rolled back in
his head and he lay a few minutes and then recovered. He said--"I
thought I was going; if I have another such turn, send for the
keeper." This was his last utterance. He lay for some time very still,
and when the nurse went to him again he was dead.

In the bloom and strength of manhood, this unhappy man was hurried out
of time, by those who should have been his friends and treated him
kindly. No inscription is on his tomb. He sleeps in silent peace near
the room in which he died; and his spirit is where the prisoners hear
not the voice of oppressors.


LEVITT.

This young man had been under the influence of mental derangement a
few years before he became a prisoner, and he had not yet so far
recovered but that his mind was often very much depressed, and his
ideas confused; and this induced an unhealthy and debilitated state of
body. During one of these frequent seasons of disease, a phial of
_nitric acid_ was given him by the doctor, of which he was directed to
take a few drops in half a tumbler of water twice a day. This
prescription he followed a few days; and then one morning, in a fit of
delirium, he took all that remained in an equal quantity of water at
once. The effect was immediate; he was senseless, and stiffened with
convulsions, and in this condition was conveyed to the hospital,
where he endured for several weeks as much bodily pain as human nature
can suffer.

For three or four weeks he was perfectly senseless to all appearance;
he breathed, but almost imperceptibly; he could neither see nor hear;
and the only indications of life were his feeble pulse and his feebler
breath. While he lay in this condition, he was so shamefully
neglected, that _certain living creatures_ began to inhabit his eyes!
His clothes were not changed, his face was not washed, and all that
was done for him was to administer the medicine prescribed and pour a
little gruel into his mouth. No one supposed it possible for him to
live, and he was left, in utter neglect, to die. His rash act was the
theme of unfeeling and inhuman sport; and it was said that, as he
wanted to die, it was a pity that he should not have his wish.

After a few weeks, however, contrary to all expectations, he began to
give evidence of returning life. His head began to move, and it became
apparent that he could hear; but he could not speak louder than the
lowest whisper, and he could see nothing distinctly. At this time his
iron-hearted keeper, in the luxury of his unearthly feelings, would
move the candle before his eyes in order to draw his attention, and
when he seemed not to notice it, he would thrust it close up to his
face until he burned off all his eye brows.

By slow degrees he so far regained his health as to be able to walk
about and perform some labor, though his voice was nothing but an
audible whisper, and his eye-sight would not, with the best glass,
enable him to read.

When he returned to his work, I had an opportunity of conversing with
him, and I learned from his own lips the cause of his attempt at
suicide, and his bodily feelings under the effect of the medicine he
so rashly took. He said that life had lost all its charms to him; he
had lost the confidence and respect of mankind, and nothing awaited
him but ignominy, and the keen rebuke of a guilty conscience, which he
was unable to bear. He dreaded to die, but he dreaded _more_ to live.
He had thought on the crime of suicide; he had thought also on the
crimes of which he had _already_ been guilty; and his conclusion was
that the door of mercy was closed against him. "A guilty conscience!
despair of the mercy of heaven! these," said he, "kept me in awful
dread of the pains of eternal death; and convinced that this _dread_
of hell was _worse_ than the suffering dreaded, I resolved to know the
_worst_, and hang no longer on the rack of anticipated destruction."

After taking the acid, he said that he had no distinct recollection of
any thing till he began to recover. Then it seemed as if he was
awaking from a long and dreadful sleep, and the only impression that
he brought up with him, in respect to his sufferings, was, that his
breast had been a sea of fire, rolling to and fro, as if vexed by a
tremendous tempest. Under this sea of fire, he was fixed in motionless
agony, and it was not until the last flaming billow had rolled over
him, that he could move or know whether he was living or dead.

The last time I had an opportunity of conversing with him, he told me
that his views in respect to the mercy of God, were changed. "I now
believe," said he, "that my Maker will have mercy on me, sinful as I
am, and I mean to love him, and serve him, and '_wait_ all the days of
my appointed time till my change come.'" And I was delighted to hear
him speak, in the simplicity of his soul, of that great goodness of
which he was the living and speaking monument; and to observe how
scrupulously conscientious he was in all his words and actions. What
his future life has been I know not, but I well remember his pleasing
change of mind, and I could not help believing that it was the
_goodness_ of God that led him to repentance.

How awfully certain is it that "the way of the transgressor is hard!"
_This_ poor sufferer found it so; and as no iniquity can go
unpunished, there must be a dreadful retribution for the man, who, not
only shut up his bowels of compassion from him, in the day of his
afflictions, but sported, like a demon, with his dreadful condition.
This prostrate sufferer had never injured his keeper, but was entitled
to his kindness, and there is no excuse for that neglect and cruel
torture, which he received at his hand. The laws of God and man, the
laws of humanity, and even the laws of the prison, which demand for
every prisoner, kindness, and for the sick, the best and most
affectionate attention, were wantonly outraged by such conduct, which
must in the estimation of every feeling heart, fix a lasting stain,
not only on the guilty author of it, but on his _superiors_ who
suffered such iniquity to pass in silent approbation.


BURNHAM.

The crime for which this man was sentenced to imprisonment was so
base, and so revolting to all the feelings of humanity, that I almost
dread to describe his sufferings, lest the sympathies of the reader
should lead him to forget the greatness of the crime, in contemplating
the miseries of the criminal. But it is possible for the worst man on
earth to be abused, and murder would be murder still, though the
victim were deserving of death. My design, then, in publishing this
sketch, is, not to whiten the scarlet of crime with the tears of pity,
but to hold up to public execration, a series of oppressions which
could not be justified, nor their authors shielded from the just
contempt of all good men, even if Satan himself had been the one
oppressed.

The crime of Burnham ought never to be named; it is of too dreadful a
character to be thought upon by any unperverted soul, without the
utmost pain. Let it suffice to say, that a _conspiracy_ was the means
of effecting his infernal purpose; that this conspiracy had two
_females_ joined with him, to the everlasting infamy of their names;
and that _another_ female, _young_, _innocent_, and _amiable_ was the
_victim_. For this crime, he was justly doomed to a long confinement
in the State Prison, and a similar doom was soon awarded to one of his
female conspirators.

Every heart was glad that such a righteous retribution fell on this
man's guilty head. I presume no tears were shed for him by any, except
his wife and two children; and he has none to blame but himself, if
this universal indignation bore hard upon him. His crime was
_outrageous_; and the outraged morals of the land, and the insulted
dignity of the laws, are sure to measure out their indignation
according to the nature of the outrage. This is natural, and it is
right; and if this reaction of a man's sins upon his own pate, should
be marked by something extravagant and cruel, he who gave occasion for
this extravagance and cruelty, should be the last one to complain. But
when the expressions of public execration trample on all the rights of
humanity, and violate the laws of nature, of the land, and of
God--when the sufferings of a criminal are magnified _beyond_ the
laws, and rendered intense to a degree surpassing endurance--when, in
fact, crime is punished at the expense of every principle of justice,
humanity and religion, it is time to speak out, and inquire to what
extent public indignation at crime may innocently go.

Every man is entitled to the protection of the laws as long as he
obeys them; and every transgressor may be legally punished according
to the law he has violated; and if the law is a _reasonable_ one, no
fault can be found with any one for duly and fully executing it. But
no punishment ought ever to be inflicted on any person, until he has
been found guilty of a crime by the proper court; and then it must not
exceed the sentence provided in the law. The sentence ought to be
strictly legal, and then it is perfectly right that the criminal, in
ordinary cases, should suffer it; but to go _beyond_ the obvious
meaning and spirit of the legal sentence in inflicting suffering for
any crime, is alike unjust and cruel. If these views are correct, we
can readily apply them in the case under consideration.

The sentence against Burnham was just, and it was the duty of his
keepers to inflict it up to the letter. This sentence required him to
be confined in the prison at hard labor, and treated according to the
laws of the place. These laws require the prisoners to be kept
constantly employed by the keeper, due regard being paid to their age,
strength and circumstances. When any one is sick, it is the duty of
the keeper to call the physician, and if the patient requires
medicine, it must be administered to him in the hospital, if he is
able to be moved there, as no prescription is to be made in any other
apartment, unless the patient is unable to be conveyed to that. No
fault can be found with the laws and regulations, authorized by the
Legislature, for the government of the prison; and those which provide
for the sick are such as _mercy herself_ would approve. The only
fault, then, which any one can find with them, is, that they are not
complied with by the keepers, and the prisoner is not allowed the care
and attention which they provide for him.

Burnham was soon taken sick. Bad as he was, he had some _feelings_;
and _shame_, _regret_ and _disappointment_, filled his soul with such
distress, that his body began to feel the effect of his mental agony,
and his strength, flesh, and spirits, began to vanish together. He
applied to the physician, but was told that nothing ailed him. He was
driven out from his room and compelled to work, when he had scarcely
strength to stand. His knees trembled under the weight of his body,
and the floor shook when he attempted to walk over it. Still, _he was
not sick_! He was _cunning_, it was said, and was feigning his
appearance, to avoid work, and get his liberty; and as the _doctor_
said this, though every one who saw him knew better, the keepers had
some pretext for neglecting him, and treating him with severity, in
which they took a most infernal satisfaction.

One morning he was driven out to the shop, and as he was inquiring of
the keeper where he should go to work, that mean and despicable
upstart gave him a sudden and violent blow with his hand, which threw
him headlong on the brick floor of the shop. It was in vain that he
attempted to rise; he had not strength enough to turn over when lying
on his back; and the keeper indulged his inhuman feelings by striking
him on his legs with his sword, and ordering him to get up. After some
time, he obtained help and made out to get on his feet, and go to the
place appointed for his labor.

In this way he passed through a few doleful weeks, suffering the
greatest pain of body and of mind without sharing in the pity of any
human being, but was made the _sport_ of those who should have treated
him with tenderness and humanity. As he moved through the yard, he
appeared like a walking skeleton, a living death; and yet he could not
get the smallest degree of the attention due to a sick man, for the
voice of the doctor was against him. But the cup of his calamity was
beginning to run over; nature was sinking under the mighty load of his
afflictions; and aware of his approaching dissolution, he prepared to
meet it, and left directions with some of his fellow prisoners to be
sent to his son, where he wished to be buried. Thus composed, he
waited but a few days, and death released him from earthly suffering.

It was on Sunday evening that he died. He went out to the cook-room,
with the other prisoners, to supper, trembling and reeling through the
yard like a drunken shadow; and when he returned into the prison after
supper, scarcely had the last door been bolted when the cry was heard
from his cell--"Burnham is dead!" At this moment the doctor was
passing the prison, and hearing the cry, he came in. As he entered the
hall, Burnham was brought out of his cell, and laid on the floor
before him.--"Is he dead?" said this unworthy son of Galen, "I said
yesterday that he was not sick, but it is evident he was." Yes, it is
evident he was sick, but doctor, this is not the last of it. The man
is _dead_, and the guilt of his death lies on your soul, and if you do
not repent of this great wickedness, you will, in your turn, call for
mercy, and find despair.

He was laid out in the hospital, where he was kept two days, till his
friends came and took his body, and conveyed it to Woodstock for
interment. During this time, the blood was almost continually running
out of his mouth and nostrils, and a more dreadful picture of death
was never seen.

On this case I have but few remarks to make, and in these, perhaps, I
have been anticipated by the feeling reader.

One fact is obvious to every one who has read this account with
attention--and this is, that Burnham was hastened to the grave, by the
injustice and cruelty of the doctor and keepers. Had he been treated
according to the spirit and letter of the laws, he might have been
living now.

The laws of humanity should lead us to forget the crimes of a sick man
in tender and sympathetic care and solicitude for his recovery; and he
who can calmly hand over a fellow-being to the tormentors, when he
knows that he needs that relief which it is his professed and sworn
duty to impart, cannot be far from finished depravity. The truth of
this remark is obvious, and while I have such a sense of Burnham's
guilt, that I have scarcely a heart to pity him, I cannot help
condemning, in the bitterest terms, that infernal process by which he
was deliberately hastened to the grave.

       *       *       *       *       *

[This is the man about whom the anti-masons of Vermont made such a
stir. They caused a story to be reported that Burnham was a mason;
that he had bribed his keepers, who were also masons; and was still
living in the city of New-York. Strange as it may seem, this story was
believed, and persons were found who declared that they had _seen_
him, and learned from his own lips the fact of the bribery, and how
the deathly farce was acted for him to get out of prison. He said,
according to report, that he gave a thousand dollars, and that at the
time he was supposed to have died, according to a previous plan which
was mutually agreed upon, he pretended to die, and was carried into
the hall in a blanket, when a corpse about his size was brought to
take his place. The doors being open, this corpse was thrown into the
blanket, and he was permitted to walk off. Such was the story, and
thousands believed it; and into such a ferment was the public mind
thrown, that the Legislature took up the business, and sent one of the
Council to New-York to ascertain the fact. He was faithful to his
commission, and the story soon died. During the excitement, however,
Burnham's body was dug up twice and examined.]


PLUMLEY.

"Man's inhumanity to man, makes countless thousands mourn." This
poetic sentiment cannot find a more appropriate application, than in
the case which I am going to relate. Plumley was one of that class of
human beings, on whom nature had not been profusely lavish of her
endowments, and he was, consequently, a fit tool for the master
spirits of iniquity to practice upon. Only tell Plumley to do any
thing, good or bad, right or wrong, it made no difference, and he
would promptly obey, entirely reckless of the consequence; and hence
it came to pass, that he had very often to suffer for the guilt of
others.

These sufferings which were always severe, and sometimes extremely
cruel, began finally to undermine his iron constitution, and open the
way for disease. The last complaint he made was of pain and swelling
of the left breast, accompanied with inflammation. He applied very
frequently to the keeper and to the physician for medicine, and
particularly, for a change or suspension of his employment, but to no
purpose. Some medicinal drops were given him from time to time, but he
could obtain no mercy in respect to his daily task. It was to no
effect that he exhibited the _occular demonstration_ of his infirmity;
his swollen and inflamed breast and side were considered no evidence
of inability, and he was informed that he must either do his task or
be _punished_.

Thus doomed to unpitied suffering, he made a virtue of necessity, and
bore up under his calamity as well as he could, toiling all day, and
writhing in keen distress all night, till death, more merciful than
his keepers, kindly removed him from the power of their anger. Up to
the last moment of his life, the full amount of labor was demanded of
him; and he had been from his own work but a few hours, when the pulse
of life stopped, and put an end to his misery.

After death his body was dissected and the most unequivocal
indications of disease were discovered, both internally and
externally,--but no _remorse_ was discovered in his _oppressors_. His
life was considered of no more account than that of a dog, and his
memory was thrown into the grave with his _mangled_ body. No tear of
pity was dropped at his funeral--no "heart warmed with the glow of
humanity"--but the "dust went to the dust as it was," without the
least kindred sympathy in a single bosom, "and the soul to the God who
gave it," to meet its tormentors in the great and terrible day of the
Lord.


L. NOBLE.

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,

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