"Willie Ferguson, from his mother.Springfield, Jan. 1, 18—."
"Willie Ferguson, from his mother.Springfield, Jan. 1, 18—."
Will—Fergus-on, Springfield,—18— Will—Springfield—from—his—mother. 18—Will, Willie, Will. Will Ferguson. He had sworn never to forget him. He is keeping his oath! Will—W-i-l-l F-e-r-g-u-s-o-n. There it is; on the walls, on the ceiling, up and down, over and across! Everywhere, everywhere, thename, the weary,wearyname!
He has spelt it, over and over, forward and backward, fast and slow, loud and softly, again and again, till his brain spins; and sparks, like wicked little sprites, dance before his strained eyes, and now, cowering among his pillows, he strives to hide from that terrible pursuing name. "Smothering? they mean to smother him, do they?" He starts from his pillow, and, wild and eager, peers about his chamber. Blood! blood everywhere! The bed-spread is dabbled with it; it trickles down the walls; it lies in clotted pools upon the floor! In the window sits an Angora cat, white, mottled with red; she laps hungrilyfrom an ever-brimming basin of blood! A knife is hanging yonder. It is a dirk-knife, bright and new. Its handle is lettered. With aching eyes he spells, "J-a-c-k, f-r-o-m W-i-l-l. C-a-n-t-o-n, 18—." Let him but reach that knife and hurl it into the sea! He is bound; he struggles; but cannot get free; and there still is the knife, horribly familiar, with thenamestaring at him from its heft, until every letter becomes a mocking serpent's tongue, hissing over and over in his tormented ear: "Will! Will! Will Ferguson!" He shivers; his brain is on fire; he can no longer look nor listen; he can but moan piteously: "Mercy! mercy! God have mercy!" They are putting a glass to his lips. He is terribly thirsty; and here is no blood; only an innocent saffron-tinged liquid. He drains it with eager lips. He is cooler now. The room grows dusky. He can no longer see that accursed dirk. Somebody had swabbed the floor, and they have unbound him.
A balmy evening wind, just the very idle land whisper that strayed among the leaves that night while he and Will sauntered through Boston Common, wanders in at the open casement. It winnows the hot air, itbreathes upon his fevered brow, "like the benediction that follows after prayer." He sleeps, and, in his dream, is again with Will, and on board theOhio. Becalmed in the Gulf Stream, hard by the lovely "Land of Flowers," lies the huge, idle craft. It is the Sabbath, and the sailors,—idle as the ship,—gathering in lazy groups, have pleasant talk of wives and sweethearts (for they are homeward bound). Will, half-reclined upon a coil of rope, reads aloud from his red pocket Testament. He has chanced upon this passage, from the dream of the Patmos seer: "And them that had gotten the victory ... stand on the sea of glass, having the harps of God." The "victory!" Ah! that is ahardthing to get! Shallhe, John Gravesend, ever hold in his hand a harp of God? While he turns the text over in his mind, looking wistfully far out across the glassy deep, Will silently rises, walks swiftly astern, and, without a farewell word, drops quietly into the sea. He strives to follow. In vain! His limbs are holden in leaden heaviness. Wrestling with this demon of slumber, he at last awakes. Springing to his feet, he searches eagerly the empty, moonlit room. He calls, softly, "Will, Will!"No answer! He fancies a gentle sigh beneath his window. Will is there, sure enough, waiting for him in the pleasant moonlight. He need but drop softly to the ground to join him. Slight iron bars cross the window; he is strong; he wrenches at them manfully. They yield! They are displaced, and now only this paltry sash and a bit of glass between him and Will! These are soon demolished. The window is low, and, noiselessly dropping into the yard beneath, he calls softly, "Will! Will!" No response. Strange! A moment ago he was there! It is cool and quiet out here beneath the summer moon, and Will cannot be far off,—over that wall, perhaps. He scales it. "Not here? Well, he will run on a bit, and come up with him." And run on he does. On and on, through that long summer night. Across dewy-scented garden-plots, over trim cut lawns, whose tender grass is as velvet to his bare, fleeting feet. Through moist, wide meadows, and across low, babbling brooks, till, at last, he is upon the long, white road. Fleet as a hound upon the flying scent, pausing but to listen, and whisper, huskily, to the heedless night, "Will! Will! Will!" he hurrieson. A half-clad, phantom-like form, breathlessly pursuing a phantom. The moon sets. The stars are paling in the still, sweet dawn, when, in the purlieu of a tangled wood, pale and spent, foam gathering on his lips, blood trickling from his torn feet, he pauses; and, tottering feebly into an odorous covert of blossoming underwood, falls prone upon the earth. An angel, with broad and kindly wing, the gentlest of all God's ministering host, descends to brood tenderly this desolate creature,—Sleep, messenger of peace, forerunner of that eternal quietude that somewhere stays for all earth's life-worn children!
On the ensuing morning, sensation craving readers of the BostonMorning Chronicleread, with characteristic relish, the following:
GREAT EXCITEMENT!!!A Murderer Pretends Insanity and Escapes!The citizens of Taunton and its vicinity were this morning startled by tidings of the escape of a patient from our State Lunatic Hospital. The man was entered, for treatment, from Charles Street Jail, and his name is John Gravesend.Our readers will, no doubt, recall him to memory as the abandoned wretch who, not long since, was arrested in this city for the murder of young Ferguson, a mere lad, whom he enticed into one of the North Street dens, and there, after robbing his victim of a large sum of money, butchered the ill-fated boy. The mother of Ferguson, as will be remembered, died soon after of a broken heart. While awaiting the award of his crime, Gravesend—having successfully feigned insanity—was consigned to the State asylum. On the night of the 15th, the asylum watchman making his round at ten o'clock, found Gravesend, as he supposed, in a sound sleep. At two, the rascal was gone. Being a man of great muscular power, he had displaced the grating of his window, and thus made good his escape. The wretch has been tracked for several miles, and we are informed that two efficient detectives, assisted by hospitalemployés, are now in full pursuit. Other outrages are imputed to this daring villain, and it is hinted that he is concerned in a certain mysterious murder, that yet thrills our community with horror. Great alarm prevails in the vicinity, and it is hoped that the fugitive will be speedily secured.
GREAT EXCITEMENT!!!
A Murderer Pretends Insanity and Escapes!
The citizens of Taunton and its vicinity were this morning startled by tidings of the escape of a patient from our State Lunatic Hospital. The man was entered, for treatment, from Charles Street Jail, and his name is John Gravesend.
Our readers will, no doubt, recall him to memory as the abandoned wretch who, not long since, was arrested in this city for the murder of young Ferguson, a mere lad, whom he enticed into one of the North Street dens, and there, after robbing his victim of a large sum of money, butchered the ill-fated boy. The mother of Ferguson, as will be remembered, died soon after of a broken heart. While awaiting the award of his crime, Gravesend—having successfully feigned insanity—was consigned to the State asylum. On the night of the 15th, the asylum watchman making his round at ten o'clock, found Gravesend, as he supposed, in a sound sleep. At two, the rascal was gone. Being a man of great muscular power, he had displaced the grating of his window, and thus made good his escape. The wretch has been tracked for several miles, and we are informed that two efficient detectives, assisted by hospitalemployés, are now in full pursuit. Other outrages are imputed to this daring villain, and it is hinted that he is concerned in a certain mysterious murder, that yet thrills our community with horror. Great alarm prevails in the vicinity, and it is hoped that the fugitive will be speedily secured.
This "bloodthirsty" monster was, on the afternoon succeeding his escape, found slumbering as placidly as the leaf-strewn "Babes in the Wood," in that flowery covert to which we have already tracked him.
From this long trance-like slumber—the crisis of his mental malady—John Gravesend awoke, with strained, aching limbs, and brain yet hazy from delirium. Restored to theasylum and treated for his malady, he gradually returned from that labyrinthian world in which, for more than two months, his mind had wearily wandered.
Mind and body in their normal condition, he was remanded to jail, and subsequently arraigned for the wilful destruction of a life dearer to him than his own. Pleading guilty, and legally condemned for manslaughter, he was sentenced to confinement for life in the State Prison. Unmoved, he hears the terrible mandate that dooms him to life-long banishment from God's wide, beautiful world. With him, the fatal Rubicon is already passed. He has slain the belovèd one. Life holds in reserve no heavier woe; and death has not in store a pang more terrible.
THERE'SNeilson, takin' his afternoon walk," said the good-natured turnkey, making a casual survey of the prison yard from the grated window near the guard-room door, which he was about to open for my exit. Neilson! and in the yard? At last, I must encounter that bad man! I was, be it known, on my way to the prison hospital, carrying a basket of Parma violets for distribution among a score or so of my fellow-sinners, now stretched upon hard beds, or wearily sitting on harder chairs, in that mildly penal department of the institution; and, no doubt, not eminently deserving of agreeable sniffs at Parma violets. At this unlooked-for announcement of the turnkey, a cold shiver ran down my back, for Neilson, even in prison circles, was accounted a desperate man. He was both robber and murderer; and for thelast fifteen years had been serving out a life sentence of solitary confinement in one of the dreary cells of the "Upper Arch."
Five of these awful years had he passed in uninterrupted solitude, but, since the advent of the present humane prison warden, Neilson had been permitted to take, daily, an hour's exercise in the prison yard, a sunny enclosure, opening on the workshops, the hospital wing, and indirectly on the "Upper Arch." In the centre of this court, "the new warden" had caused a cheery flower plot to be made, and now, in April, many-hued crocuses already brightened its borders.
It was just before the establishment of the beautiful and helpful Flower Mission that I undertook, not without some discouragement, to try the gracious effect of violets, roses, pinks, and heartsease, behind the bars. In mythenlimited experience, to be locked out of the friendly guard-room, and sent alone across the prison yard, had not been agreeable to me; and, in deference to my groundless fears, an officer had been detailed to accompany me from the main prison to the hospital wing. As the years went on, my social popularity in the State Prison became well assured,and some surprise at this needless precaution was expressed to me by the convicts; and one attached prison friend (a highway robber) had even assured me that "if anybody in that prison should lay a finger on me, he'd be torn to pieces by the men, afore you could say Jack Robinson."
Though scarcely convinced that the entire demolition of a fellow-being would indemnify me for such "scaith and scart" as might in themêléeaccrue to my own poor person, it was on this assurance that I decided to dispense with official escort to the wing. Thus far, my visits had been so happily timed that the dreaded "Solitary" had never once crossed my path. Looking anxiously from the window, I made a hasty survey of the yard. An officer was just stepping from the door of a distant workshop. Two or three convicts were, at various points of observation, shuffling across the yard. Well, it was too late to show the white feather. The turnkey had already unlocked the door, and stood waiting. I handed him a tiny nosegay (the good man adored flowers, and I never omitted this pretty "Sop to Cerberus"); and now, grasping tightly the handle of my flower basket, "with my heartin my mouth," I thanked him as he held back the heavy door for me, and passed trembling out.
With a hard iron clang, the door closed behind me. Descending a roomy flight of steps, I found myself in the prison yard, and, at the same moment, confronted by,—yes, it must be that dreadful fellow, Neilson, himself! And a sinister-visaged wretch he was, with his small, ferrety eyes, his coarse mouth, and heavy chin. He shuffled as he went, and, with an evil look, stared boldly in my face.
"A tough subject," I mentally determined; but "total depravity" is not an article of my creed, and Idobelieve in humanity. In a moment, I had dismissed all fear of Neilson, in my zeal for his reformation, and, stepping up to him with a friendly good-afternoon, into which I insinuated all the approval I could conscientiously bestow upon so forbidding a creature, I handed him, from my basket, a bunch of violets. He took them, and, with a clumsy nod, but not a word of thanks, passed on, leaving me with a lightened heart. And, now, I stopped a moment to exchange civilities with the officer whom I had descried from the guard-room window. We were fast friends,and I was indebted to him for many a kind turn. He glanced disparagingly at my flowers, and, as a relief to my chagrin, I said, "Well, I have just given Neilson a bunch of violets; do you imagine that he cares at all for them?"
"Neilson?" he questioned, in evident perplexity.
"Yes, Neilson," I replied, "that short, stout man yonder, there he isnow! going into that door!"
"Bless your heart, my good lady," exclaimed the officer, "that ain't Neilson! Thereheis; can't you see him, the tall fellow with his nose in the air, standing there by the crocus bed? If there's any flowers in the yard, Neilson's about sure to fetch up near 'em."
"Is he?" I said; and from that moment "a fellow-feeling made me kind." I felt sure of the ultimate good-will of Neilson. Meantime, having exhausted the attraction of the crocus bed, he was moving in my direction, but so slowly that I had time to make a critical survey of this famous personage,—a grave, quiet man of slender but firm build, and, even in his coarse prison uniform, bearing himself with a certain air of (if I may so express it) scholarly elegance.
Suitably clothed, he might have been taken for a clergyman, or a Harvard professor. Selecting the very choicest nosegay from my basket, I bade him, as we met, a cheerful good-afternoon, and, offering the flowers, said timidly (for I found this grave, lordly being somewhat unapproachable), "Would you like a bunch of violets to-day?" Absorbed in his own reflections, he had not, until now, observed me. He stopped, came out of his reverie, and, lifting his worn prison cap with a highly ceremonious bow, took the flowers from my hand, composedly smelt them, and said, slowly: "Thank you, madam, theywouldbe very refreshing." Though Neilson's demeanour was eminently stoical, his face was pitiably wan and thin, and in his faded blue eye there was a world of patient pathos that went straight to my heart.
As he was about to pass on, I detained him for a moment, and said, eagerly, "If you like flowers—if you—if you think they wouldhelpyou, I might bring you a few every Monday, as I come to the hospital."
"Flowers," he replied sententiously, "arerefreshing; and if it will not be putting you to too much inconvenience, madam, I wouldbe glad to receive a few from you every week." After this it was arranged with the obliging guard-room turnkey, that every Monday afternoon, along with his own buttonhole posy, a bouquet of "seasonable flowers" should be left on his desk, and should be sent by him to Neilson's cell. And, moreover, ascertaining that Neilson had no "visitor," I obtained permission of the warden to put his name on my visiting list, among those of some forty other unvisited convicts, who, in lieu of dearer company, receivedmeonce in three months, in the big guard-room. On these occasions, I was allowed to bring my sorry acquaintances flowers, fruit, drawing and writing materials, books, tracts and magazines, together with such sound moral advice as could be,—like the "sheep in the Vicar's family picture,"—"thrown in for nothing." In their turn, my friends confided to me such passages in their lives as might properly be told to a lady; acquainted me with their desires and aspirations, and, almost invariably, craved my intercession with the governor. (For, whatever his crime, each prison convict hopes that, with some friendly go-between to present his case, that mild-hearted executivewill promptly "pardon him out.") But of this service I was conscientiously chary. Gladly it was, however, that I undertook the sale of such inlaid boxes, photograph frames, and other articles as the men found time and material to fashion, the proceeds of which enabled them to subscribe for "Harper's," to own a book or two, or, better still, to make an occasional remittance to some dependent mother, wife or child, left in want by their own wicked folly. Of all the convicts on my list, none proved more satisfactory than Neilson. Our conversation, carried on, according to the prison rules, within earshot of an officer, related chiefly to literature; for this sometime robber and murderer was a man of no mean intellect; and his mental energies, now necessarily diverted from more deplorable channels, had, in these years of solitary leisure, been so well applied to self-improvement, that from almost utter ignorance he had come to be, after his own fashion, an educated man.
Before his last sentence (as he told me) he had been scarcely able to read, and could not even write his name. During his residence in the "Upper Arch," he had, single-handed,mastered reading and writing, and had made fair headway in grammar, geography, arithmetic, geometry, astronomy, and various other branches of education. For general reading he had a decided relish, and a correct appreciation of literary excellence. Fiction he held in supreme contempt, and could have had but a slight acquaintance with it, as he assured me that, in his whole life (he was now fifty years old), he had read but a single story, "The Vicar of Wakefield." As the prison library could not always supply Neilson's favourite mental food, I undertook to furnish him with such reading as he lacked; and his careful use, and prompt return of a book, with his fine appreciation of its contents, made this work a pleasure.
Neilson's story, part of which I had from his own lips and the remainder from the warden himself, runs thus:
An Englishman, born in a London slum, and growing up, as any ill weed must, at haphazard, he had, even in his first trousers, gravitated naturally to crime. A childhood of vagrancy and petty thieving ill-passed, in his early manhood he became a professional house-breaker. He had been made acquaintedwith many of the prisons of his native country, and had twice made his escape from "durance vile," when he was transported to Botany Bay, from whence he also escaped, along with another notorious burglar and robber, who had been his partner in the crime, for which they had both been expatriated.
On regaining their liberty, the pair had come to this country, and, in Boston, had together undertaken the robbery of a bank. For this crime, they were duly convicted, and sentenced to seven years in the State Prison. Before the removal from jail to prison, one of them managed to escape. The other, Neilson, had divided his booty with his accomplice. Neilson was the soul of honour, that very questionable honour, which, according to the adage,mayexist among thieves, and, though he obligingly informed the officers of the "bank," wherehisshare of the plunder was buried (which they recovered), and, in a subsequent interview with them in prison, slipped off his shoe, and took from his stocking, and further restored to them, a sum of about seven hundred dollars, which he had retained as pocket-money, and thusingeniously smuggled into prison, neither entreaty nor bribe could induce him to reveal anything in regard to the plunder of his accomplice.
It was affirmed of Neilson that, in the bad days above referred to, he never countenanced violence, but carried on his profession, for the most part, without personal injury to his victims, accomplishing his ends rather by strategy, than by brutality. And yet, strange as it was, this very man, on one fatal morning,—and, oddly enough, it was that of the very day when his sentence for the bank robbery had expired, and within a few hours he would have been discharged from the prison,—as the convicts were marching in file from the prison to the workshop, made a brutal and fatal attack upon an unoffending fellow convict. Reaching over the shoulder of the man next him in the ranks, he stabbed the unfortunate prisoner in the neck, with a shoe-knife, severing the jugular vein, and causing immediate death. There was no quarrel between the two, and no cause could be assigned for the murder, for which Neilson was, in due time, tried, convicted, and sentenced to be hanged.
All the arrangements for carrying out the sentence had been made, the gallows erected, the rope in its place, and the chaplain rendering the last service of his office, when a reprieve for thirty days was received from the governor.
On consideration, it was believed that Neilson must have been labouring under temporary insanity, and, as he was known to be a man of pacific character, and could assign no cause for the attack, though he had never shownothersymptoms of mental disturbance, he was given the benefit of a doubt, and his sentence commuted to solitary imprisonment for life. Thus he escaped the grave, only to be consigned to a living tomb. At the time of our first acquaintance, Neilson, all told, had been about twenty years in the —— State Prison. For the first years of his sentence, he was not once permitted to leave his cell, and but for the praiseworthy humanity of the new warden, he would never again have seen the sun.
The cells of the "Upper Arch" are not, like those in general use, on exhibition; but, one day, in consideration of my having never abusedthe privileges granted me by the authorities of the —— State Prison, I was kindly permitted to visit Neilson in his own apartment.
Following my guide, I passed through a damp, narrow corridor, gloomy to oppressiveness, and lined with grim iron doors, each stoutly secured with bar and padlock. Many of these cells are temporarily inhabited by refractory prisoners, and, as I went, a discordant chorus of groans, yells, and oaths, mingled with the dissonance of maniacal mirth from some ill-balanced wretch, gone mad in this horrible solitude, saluted my unwilling ear. On the extreme end of the doleful corridor, a narrow, cobwebbed window shed its feeble light. Pausing at the left-hand corner cell, my conductor fitted his key to the padlock, turned it, removed the heavy bar, and, throwing back the door, ushered me into Neilson's presence.
I found the cell somewhat larger than the ordinary private compartment of the prison, but indescribably damp, fetid, and dismal. A narrow loophole, glazed, grated and "hermetically sealed," admitted a dim glimmer of day. A small aperture, or wicket, near the bottom of its door, and evidently made forthe double purpose of admitting air and food, was now tightly closed.
For furniture, the place contained a rude bed, with mattress of straw, grimy sheets, and a meagre allowance of coarse gray blankets, with a pillow of husks, or straw, a rough table of pine, a shelf for books, and a stool. On the table stood a rusty tin cup, a bottle of vinegar, a pepper-box, and a cup of dingy salt. It also held two iron spoons, a horn-handled knife and fork, and a Bible. The shelf was well filled with books, and among them stood a glass pickle jar, now sacred to Neilson's bouquets, and still holding a few withered flowers.
Neilson, himself, was half reclined upon his bed, and intent upon a book. As I entered, he arose in some confusion. A call, with Neilson, was scarce a possible occurrence. His composure, however, was soon regained, and, bowing ceremoniously, he bade me good-day, and, with cordial dignity, did the honours of his cell.
He exhibited, with pride, his small library, and called my especial attention to the excellence of the shelf, which he had made for his precious volumes, about fifteen or twenty innumber. I had brought Neilson a modicum of that June, whose sunshine comes alike for God's good and evil children, in the shape of a great bunch of damask roses. Filling his jar from the rusty tin cup, he arranged them with tender care, and their grateful odour soon pervaded this dreary place. A box of ripe, red strawberries June had also, on this occasion, donated to her indifferent pensioner; and now, glad to leave behind me even this poor bit of summer, I took a last sad survey of the sorry place, and bade Neilson adieu. As I went gratefully back to God's daylight, musing upon the man and his dismal, lifelong abode, it seemed no wonder that, moping for fifteen years in this cheerless cell, his brain should, at times, have succumbed to the horrors of the situation, for the warden had told me that sometimes Neilson "went out of his head." It was then that, pursued by the avenging shade of "Morris," the man whom he had murdered, his shrieks aroused the night patrol, who must call the warden from his bed, to lay the poor phantom, as Neilson fancied that the warden—andonly he—could.
For six kindly years, it was permitted meto make life a little less dreary for Neilson, and to exhort him to bear with becoming fortitude the long penance justly accorded him, and, in my blundering, imperfect way, to suggest to himdivinecompassion by myown.
Though undoubtedly of plebeian parentage, some tiny runlet of gentle blood must have found its indirect way to Neilson's cockney veins. Never once, in all our intercourse, did he shock me by a coarse expression, or an ill-bred action. In his choice of words he was even finical, and his taste in the arrangement of flowers could scarcely have been impeached by the most fastidious person. He had, invariably, the bearing and instincts of a gentleman. His dietetic predilections, I grieve to record, were sometimes inelegant. Though eminently reticent in regard to his wants, he had made bold to solicit a bit of cheese as an accompaniment to the mince pie which on each State holiday (the legal pie-time in the prison) I gladly provided for him, and I was instructed that thestrongerthe cheese was, the better. He also preferred raw onions to Bartlett pears, and many a little basket of that pungent vegetable have I conveyedto him, to the sore disquiet of my own vexed olfactories. Pepper-grass, artichokes, and raw turnips, he held in high esteem.
Ordinarily peaceful and placid, Neilson could, at times, be aroused to extreme anger; and I well remember his furious protest against the prison chaplain, when that worthy had confiscated a work of James Freeman Clarke's, which he found in the possession of a theologically-minded convict, on the ground that it was "an infidel book," and improper reading for the prison.
As the slow years went on with Neilson, he became, gradually, a broken-down man. The "Arch" had well done its destructive work, and, about five years after I made his acquaintance, he was forever removed from its deleterious atmosphere, and permanently quartered in the prison hospital, where, in common with his fellow patients, he enjoyed all the legal immunities accorded to the invalid prisoner.
He could now get space for his cramped limbs, had some fellowship,sub rosa, with his kind, and leave to sun himself in the yardad libitum. Poor Neilson! this comparative freedom had come too late. He was now fargone in consumption, had Bright's disease, and the doctor had also discovered some serious disturbance with his heart. His brain, too, shared in this breaking up, and he had now abandoned reading, and employed his leisure, when free from pain, in dainty wood-carving or inlaying. His work, often fantastic in design, was always exquisite in finish, and sometimes absurdly elaborate where elaboration was quite unnecessary (for with Neilson, "the gods saw everywhere"). Hours of patient labour were devoted to the finish of the "unseen."
The unanimous good-will of instructors in the prison shops made the daintiest materials easily attainable to the poor fellow, and his ivory charms, his mother-of-pearl crosses, and inlaid satin-wood boxes, found, outside the prison, a ready market, and a price which enabled him, probably for the first time in his whole life, to become the possessor of money honestly earned. In the hospital it was that Neilson evolved, with fanciful ingenuity, for my poor self, the most remarkable of inkstands. The design embraced a camel standing on a platform wreathed with carven forget-me-nots, and inscribed with a Latinmotto, having some enigmatical reference to the foresighted habit of the creature. Unfortunately, the platform, the camel, with his two humps, the motto, and the forget-me-nots, made so large a figure in Neilson's design, that its main feature, the inkstand, had, virtually, to be omitted; and could only be hinted at by a shallow vessel, holding about one good thimbleful, and perched perilously upon the camel's irregular back. From time to time I was permitted to watch the progress of this remarkable creation, and was called upon for a pictured camel and some real forget-me-nots, as models.
The somewhat crotchety custodian of the hospital, from day to day, contemptuously taking note of the advancement of my inkstand, on its final completion grimly assured me that, "If Neilson had been paid by the day for his labour onthat thing, it would have cost about two hundred dollars!" Poor, patient fellow, it was almost his last work! He had now become too weak to crawl down the hospital stairs for his daily sun-bath. And by and by his seat in the saloon, where the men, who were able to be about, gathered on Mondays to listen to my reading, was empty. Helay now on his cot informally clad in a faded print shirt and patched trousers, both of which he wore with a dignity peculiarly his own. His head was adorned with a towering cotton nightcap. Whatever else he might lack, Neilson always stood out firmly for a nightcap. It was to him a sort of insignia of respectability. To his last hour he never for a moment lost that superiority of mien which distinguished him even amid the coarse and degrading surroundings of a prison. At the last he suffered great pain, but, as the end approached, his mind became wonderfully clear, and he listened intelligently to reading, and enjoyed conversation.
He gave little trouble to his attendants, detailed from among his fellow convicts to nurse him by day, or to watch with him at night, and, to the hour of his death, he was stoically patient.
It was to be feared that, in the bewilderment of his final moments, the shade of the murdered "Morris" might again torture him. On the day preceding his death, after reading from his prayer-book the services for the sick and dying, I sat painfully watching his laborious breathing, as he lay propped high with pillows,and with an expression of solemn expectancy on his awed face. From time to time a spasm of pain contracted his brow, already damp with the dew of death. I wiped tenderly his moist forehead, put a spoonful of water between his poor lips, and, still mindful of the avenger, "Morris," stooped to his ear, and whispered reassuringly, "You're not at all afraid,areyou, Neilson." He opened wide his eyes, and, with a half-reproachful glance, replied, distinctly, "Afraid! afraid ofGod! Ah, madam, I wish I werewithHim now!" That night Neilson's prayer was answered. With mighty throes (for he was originally a man of iron constitution, all his forebears, as he told me, having outlived their ninetieth year) his spirit was loosed from the body of its sin and suffering, to return to God who gave it.
Neilson's obsequies were attended with a ceremony unusual in the prison, where burials are, for the most part, but slight occasions, and, in certain exigencies,havetaken place without even the grace of a prayer from the chaplain.
This funeral was honoured by the attendance of both warden and chaplain. Some thirty men from the shops had obtained permissionto be present. One or two instructors and officers of "low degree" were also there, and I, too, had been invited. The chaplain gave a slight sketch of Neilson's prison life, winding up with some words of exhortation for the benefit of the convicts. The warden made a simple and kindly address. A prayer was offered, after which the men, with uncovered heads, filed reverently to the coffin's side for a last look at the tranquil white face of their comrade, and then, with sobered mien, and attended by their officers, left the hospital. While the warden and chaplain made some final arrangement with the hospital officer, I lingered by the coffin to place a bunch of fresh violets in Neilson's listless hand; then, bidding him a mute farewell, followed, with a slow step and a saddened heart, the warden and chaplain; and we passed together into the great guard-room.
As I stood, with tearful eyes, waiting for the turnkey to let me out of the prison, the warden came to my side. "Well, Neilson is gone," he said, gravely. "He was an old resident, and will be missed in the prison; and, by the by, let me tell you that you are an heiress! Neilson made his will, and committedit to my care. All his little savings, thirty dollars, he has bequeathed to you. Poor fellow," he continued, "no doubt in his day he's done his share of harm, but, whatever he was, Neilson knew hisfriends."
One's first legacy, be it ever so small, is an event and often a surprise. Never before had my humble name been recorded in a will. I was not long, however, in determining the disposal of Neilson's pathetic request. It should be devoted to the erection of a simple stone to mark his last resting-place.
In common with all the unclaimed dead of the prison, he was carried to Tewksbury for interment in the pauper burying-ground.
At my request, the warden kindly wrote to the authorities there, asking them to designate the burial spot of Neilson, that I might be enabled to carry out my resolution. No reply having been vouchsafed, in my discouragement, I betook myself to the "Board of State Charities" for information in regard to Neilson's missing remains. Some inquiries into the matter were, I believe, made by that institution, but so indifferently were they pursued that nothing came of it, and I was finally compelled to the sad supposition thatNeilson had been denied that last cheap boon which even the poorest may claim of earth—a grave; and his legacy was, accordingly, consecrated to the procurement of fruit for the convict patients in hospital; and, perhaps, this disposition of his little savings would not have seemed unfitting to the poor fellow himself, had it been possible to consult him on this occasion.
All this happened twenty years ago; and no light having yet been thrown on the mysterious disappearance of Neilson's mortal part, it is reasonable to infer that it was long since dismembered in the interest of science; or, that, still partially intact, it now hangs fleshless and dishonored in some doctor's "skeleton closet."
From these gruesome conclusions one gladly takes refuge in the inspiriting hope that Neilsonhimselfstill lives; and that, in some phase of existence beyond the ken of our meagre psychology, his moral evolution now goes uninterruptedly on.
"For yet we trust that somehow goodWill be the final goal of ill,To pangs of nature, sins of will,Defects of doubt, and taints of blood."
"For yet we trust that somehow goodWill be the final goal of ill,To pangs of nature, sins of will,Defects of doubt, and taints of blood."
ITis nightfall in the prison. In these sombre precincts where day is never fairly admitted, night falls grimly, as if the entire procedure were, at best, but a poor bit of irony. The convicts are safe in their unsavoury lodging-rooms. In the chilly corridors, light feebly struggles with the surrounding gloom; and the cells are half in shadow; yet, here and there, an unquiet figure may be discerned, pacing its irksome bounds with short, sharp turns, or standing moodily at its grated door; an unknown outcast; a unit in an aggregate of sin-wrecked humanity; yet (as God knows) endowed with a heart akin to our own,—a heart that can ache, repent, endure, and break!
In the deserted guard-room silence reigns.The night turnkey is seated in his place. His bowed head gradually inclines toward his ample chest, and presently, losing its poise, is righted with an abrupt jerk. Rubbing his eyes, he makes a drowsy attempt at official scrutiny, and sinks supinely into untroubled slumber. Meantime, yonder, in the "North Wing," a sly whispering goes undisturbedly on.
Pat Doniver, the prison runner, whose hour of dismissal has not yet come, is, informally, interviewing his fellow-convicts. To all intents and purposes Pat is innocently resting upon a pine stool, subject to official order, and upon the very brink of falling asleep. Truth, however, compels the severe statement that, between Mr. Doniver's doing and his seeming, there is often a lamentable discrepancy; but, to get at the "true inwardness" of Pat, one must hear the story of that magnificent sleigh-ride, which, quite contrary to his intention, ultimately landed him in the State Prison.
Pat Doniver is an Irishman, although—as he will tell you—"not born in his own native counthry; but narrowly escapin' that same," having been prematurely hustled uponthe stage of life in the crowded steerage of an Atlantic steamer bound for Boston, and not yet fairly out of sight of Albion's chalky cliffs.
In form, Pat is lithe and trim; in face, a very Hibernian Apollo—if one may conceive an Apollo with a nose decidedly tip-tilted. All the same, Pat's facial development is good. His mouth is finely cut, with odd little smiles forever dimpling its handsome corners. His eyes are coal black, his hair ditto; and such curls! They are Pat's special weakness—the darlings of his heart! And it is known among the prison officers that Pat, having been bidden to submit these cherished raven wings to the initiatory prison shearing, had stoutly refused compliance to the "Powers that be;" and had actually endured the horrors of a three days' "Solitary" in defence of the inalienable right of an Irish-American citizen to the peaceful possession of his own hair!
In repose, Pat's visage has that air of demure mischief which lurks in the visage of a frolicsome kitten, dozing, with one eye open, in the sunshine. This is Pat's story; and looking into prison life, you will find it no uncommon one.
City-born, his juvenile days seem to have alternated unequally between chores and school, and to have exhibited long and frequent intervals of utter vagrancy. At twelve, he lost his mother (his father is a being entirely outside his knowledge), and, scrambling up to early manhood, as best he could, he finally rose to the dignity of a hack driver. Subsequently, Pat became an expert tippler. The two pursuits (as one must often have observed) do not in the least antagonize. Thus it eventually came to pass that, with Pat, to be tipsy was the general rule; to be sober, the rare exception. It was after the great snow-fall of 18—, that our hero resolved to "trate himself" to a sleigh-ride. Sleigh-rides, inhisline, were, to be sure, every-day occurrences, but this, as he explained, in his own rich brogue, was to be "a good social time, all aloon be meself."
To this end (temporarily entrusting his hack to a friendly fellow Jehu) Mr. Doniver hired a fine horse and cutter, and, with the same, "to kape himself warrum," a big buffalo robe. Thus amply equipped, and having his pockets well lined with small coin, Pat set merrily forth. The day was bitterly cold, thedrinks delightfully warm, and, somehow, he took by the way more refreshment than he had, at the outset, counted on. Indeed, if truth must be told, at an early period in this jolly excursion Pat had reached that complex mental condition in which to countat allis a most difficult matter, and, as the day wore on,—save a confused consciousness of more drinks in sundry bars than cash in a certain pocket,—Pat altogether lost his reckoning. In this awkward dilemma, it naturally occurred to our thirsty excursionist to dispose of certain marketable personal effects immediately at hand. Having at various halting-places drunk out his big silver watch, a huge pencil of the same salable metal, his new red silk bandanna, his pocketbook and pocket-comb, a smart new necktie, bought expressly for this superb occasion, and, last of all, his drab, many-caped overcoat, it now became obvious to his mind that, in the increasing warmth of temperature,—consequent upon infinite potations,—a buffalo robe was but the merest of superfluities. Having arrived at this stoical conclusion, Pat, thereafter, retains but a confused recollection of this disastrous excursion. "An obleegin'gintlemun," as he remembers, had the goodness to exchange whiskey for wild buffaloes, which he, Pat, proposed to hunt and drive hither in countless herds. Pat awoke the next morning, to find himself in the lock-up, charged with drunkenness and the theft of a buffalo robe.
The smart cutter, with its unconscious occupant, had been obligingly delivered by the fagged but sagacious steed to its proprietor, who, minus his buffalo robe, had, in turn, delivered Pat to the police.
On this count, deposited in jail, Patrick passed the sorry interval between commitment and trial in fighting the blue devils, whose onsets, at this advanced stage of alcoholic excess, were not, as one may imagine, few or far between.
Pat had, however, a genuine Irish constitution, and no lack of Irish combativeness. And, unaided and alone, he grappled vigourously with the fierce devils of delirium tremens, and, had henotworsted them, unaided and alone, he would probably have perished. Destiny, however, having better (and alsoworse) things in store for Mr. Doniver, he did, at last, worst them, and, when the dayfor his trial came, he was—for once in his adult existence—austerely sober.
And now it would not have gone hard with the fellow, since this petty larceny might have been expiated by a short term in the House of Correction, had not one of those mischievous birds who carry tales whispered in court that Pat Doniver was a notorious drunkard.
"Inebriation," severely remarked the judge to the counsel on his left, whose breath exhaled an unmistakable odour of brandy, "inebriation, sir, is becoming rampant in our community, and I shall find it my duty to make of the case before me an impressive example;" and thereupon, the jury having already returned a verdict of guilty, the judge, fidgeting in his seat (his dinner hour being long since passed, and his temper somewhat choleric), looked straight at Pat, thought of the alarming increase of drunkenness in our midst, and gave him five years in the State Prison.
Having thus judicially finished Pat Doniver, with a sigh of relief, the judge dismissed the case, and went to dinner.
In the prison, as elsewhere, good-naturedPat won general favour, and, in the second year of his incarceration, Warden Flint gave him the easy and comparatively agreeable position of runner.
Hitherto, the sluggish current of Mr. Doniver's prison life had pursued the dull, even tenor of its way. Now, Destiny had graciously widened the sphere of his activities. Without an atom of downright viciousness in his composition, Pat was an inborn rogue, and it was his prime delight to outwit the sharp-eyed officers of the prison; to plan and execute under their very noses an endless variety of harmless mischief. Often, in the kindness of his warm Irish heart, he did mischief "that good might come;" oftener, he wrought it for its own relishing sake.
One of the duties consequent upon Pat's vocation was the conveyance of meals to certain unruly prison spirits, who,—choosing, like Milton's Devil, rather to "reign in darkness than serve in light,"—consume in penal solitude their scanty dole of bread and water; many a sly bit of relishing pork, saved from his own meagre portion, and snugly sandwiched between coarse slices of bread, solaced these hungry wretches. Often did a certainwater-proof tin box,—conveyed for this sinful purpose to our tricksy purveyor, by that underground express whose mysteries only the initiated may penetrate,—often did this box, neatly ensconced in the innocent depths of a water-bucket, empty its savoury contents into the hollow maws of refractory sinners! Pat's position in the prison also afforded him countless opportunities for that surreptitious intercourse, which, at this time, constituted the whole social interchange of the place; and, in the capacity of newsmonger and go-between, he had come to be a very popular and highly important personage in this restricted community. Who but he could adroitly snatch that propitious moment to whisper at the grating of some eager magpie of the big cage that racy bit of outside gossip, deftly gleaned from the thoughtless chat of loquacious officers?
When the "nate young gintlemun" in No. —, whose deceased great grandsire had unluckily bequeathed him certain erratic views respecting the ancient pronouns, "Meum et tuum," which, never quite developing inbona-fidecrime, had in no wise proved disastrous to the aforesaid progenitor, whose bonescrumbled in the family vault as reputably as might those of that elusive "honest man," for whom the Grecian cynic, lantern in hand, is known to have vainly scoured this naughty world;—when the "nate young gintlemun,"—with the ugly heirloom which Nature, amplifying by the way, had carried disastrously on to the third generation,—sat moping and repenting alone in his prison cell, who but Pat Doniver, dropping for a bit of rest on that pine stool "forninst" the grating, would empty,sotto voce, in the prisoner's ear, such a budget of fun, news, and anecdote (the latter a trifle stale, but still racy) as would send this dejected young forger to his dreary cot with a cheered and comforted heart?
Is the prison runner giving a coffee-party to-night, or, like his fine old countrywoman, inaugurating "a saries of tays?" One, two, three, four tin cups! they were all handed empty through the grating; and, by some deft legerdemain of Pat, they all go back full! But whist! there comes the turnkey! Pat and his stool become instantly motionless, and, in the twinkling of an eye, he is sound asleep. The officer—not without many vigorous shakes—awakens him, and he is sentyawning and stumbling to his cell. There, administering to himself a slight dose of his mysterious beverage, he pulls a face of extreme disgust, and thereafter, tightly holding his sides, rolls for a time on the floor of his dormitory, convulsed with suppressed laughter.
And now, in explanation of the evening's occurrence, one must bring upon the scene no less a personage than Jehaziel Green, Esq., sometime postmaster of Pinkertown, deacon of the First Church, proprietor of Pinkertown corner grocery, and overseer of its poor.
Mr. Green has, of late, fallen upon evil times. In consequence of sundry openings of plethoric letters on their passage through Pinkertown post-office, he has become a regular resident of the —— State Prison.
As, according to the physiologists, man is atomically changed but once in seven years, Jehaziel Green—having existed but one year and three months behind the bars—is still, to all intents and purposes, chemically the same Jehaziel Green; and no whit more or less mean, selfish and unscrupulous than when he dealt out to Pinkertown sanded sugar, watered molasses and washy milk;when he snubbed and starved the parish poor, relieved the over-weighted contribution box in the church vestry, and pried open the fat letters in the post-office.
In outward appearance he is, indeed, somewhat altered, since, at Pinkertown, his every-day suit was of fine Scotch tweed, and his Sunday attire of black broadcloth; while here, his secular and Sabbatical array is not only one and the same, but (queer freak of fancy!) it is parti-colored, red, yellow, and blue! Outside a prison a man's clothesdo, more or less, affect his claim to favourable consideration. Behind the bars a less superficial standard holds. The elegant art of dress has been reduced to democratic simplicity.
For what saith "the Board?" "The convict's clothes are to be so calculated as tokeep him warm."
They are not, let it be observed, to minister to his freakish taste, or to pamper his personal pride. Their sole purpose is "to keep him warm." Having thus defined the prison toilet, the worthy commissioners add—as an ethical afterthought—"they ought to be so arranged as to be considered a means of punishment." This seemingly original conceptionof the penal uses of clothes is not, however, peculiarly "the Board's," since, outside of prison circles, men's clothes are often "so arranged" by fashion as "to be considered a means of punishment." Be that as it may, Jehaziel Green, still true to himself, is no less Jehaziel, in red, yellow, and blue, than in gray or black.
In the prison, money is necessarily scarce; yet—under the rose—there is always a deal of swapping. Mr. Green hiding his accomplishments in the prison cabinet-making department, relieves the dull routine of existence by lively attention to that especial mode of traffic.
Purloining bits of plush, of damask, rosewood, and black walnut, and pilfering varnish and glue, he swaps these commodities,—much desired for inlaid boxes, picture frames, etc., by ingenious fellow convicts,—for fruit, tobacco, and other coveted luxuries. In process of time, the unique conception of establishing a "liquor concern" behind the bars dawns upon the alert mind of the ex-postmaster. For the furtherance of this bold scheme he subtracts, from time to time, small quantities of the alcohol, used in his shop for cabinetpurposes, until, by unwearied effort, he has pilfered of this fiery liquid a sufficiency to set him up in trade. Under the circumstances, Mr. Green is compelled to transact by proxy; and Patrick Doniver, having been appointed his sole agent, is, to-night, "travelling for the Firm."
Let it not be supposed that our unmercenary runner is a salaried agent of the House of Green. Far from it! This risky service is not undertaken for filthy lucre; it is but a gratuitous kind office on the part of Mr. Doniver, mischievous enough to be undertaken for its own satisfying self—and its relish vastly enhanced by the good-natured reflection that "a bit of the crathur'll put a warrum linin' in 'em—poor sowls!" And a terrible warm lining, say we, would such a hot "crathur" impart! But Pat has anticipated us; for well aware that he is not catering for Salamanders, he does not once dream of subjecting Mr. Green's customers to "an ordeal by fire." Carefully diluting his alcohol with innocent water, he flavors it well with essence of peppermint,—saved up from a medicinal allotment for a bygone stomach-ache,—sweetens with molasses, and, adding a sup of vinegarfrom his private bottle, he produces a mixture which, if not delicious, is, undoubtedly, unique.
Having already disposed of several quarts of this mildly intoxicating beverage, Pat, recovered from his late apoplectic symptoms, prudently administers to himself, as a sedative, the balance of this rare "tap," and having, with many wry faces, drained his tin cup to the bitter dregs, composes himself to rest. On the ensuing morning several fresh patients are allowed to report themselves at hospital; and it is feared that an unfamiliar epidemic may prevail in the prison. Some half dozen convicts have been unaccountably attacked with severe vomiting, followed by extreme lassitude, and intense loathing of food. Pat Doniver is of the number, and is said to be very ill. These perplexing cases are vigorously treated by the mystified doctor, and, speedily yielding to his hit-or-miss prescriptions, the patients convalesce, and the alarm subsides. So also does the prison liquor business.
The residue of that fiery consignment,—harboured with great fear and trembling, in the innermost recesses of Mr. Doniver's straw mattress,—is,at the earliest opportunity, handed over to "the Firm;" Pat—transposing for the occasion a wise old saw—judiciously observes to his employer, that "it's a poorbrothindade, that its owncookcannot drink!"
Jehaziel Green—impervious to the "sweet uses of adversity"—pilfered and swapped to the end of his prison chapter. Then, migrating to the far West, he became a prosperous wholesale grocer, and issaidto have run for Congress. ("Why," queried the rural observer, "do thelittlerogues go to prison, and thebigones to Congress?")
After serving out his five years, Pat Doniver had the luck to be "taken on" again as hack man; and, as the outcome of his wild sleigh-ride, he lived, ever after, a wiser and a soberer man.