I come to tell you how the author sat
And looked upon the picture of his love.
He spoke to her—you know he could do that—
And she replied. But this you must believe.
Although no ears received her charming words,
Nor keenest eyes saw her sweet lips pronounce—
It was her heart which spoke to his and said
What none but they may know. ’Twas thus she brought him
Of love and faith and joy and merriment.
The last alone he has set down because
No tongue or pen can tell the other three.
But they, God bless them, knew it in their souls,
And so do I—for, would you think it,
I’m that happy man. Is there another
Half so blessed—“Once in a Hundred Years?”
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_CHAPTER XVIII_
_Impressions—The Last Night and the Next Morning—The Last Night_
There are unwritten laws and canons for all important occurrences in the
Death-Chamber. I do not mean the prison rules; but the way “we” have of
doing things. For instance, the new arrival, after he has passed through
all formalities at the officials’ hands, and they are many, is initiated
by “us” on the first night passed in our society.
This is an ancient and honorable custom, and like all initiations, a
secret. These fixed ceremonies occur all through his long and brutal
life in the Death-Chamber.[1] Long, for even a short stay in it makes
him old; brutal, because his punishment is—death. Is that not enough?
And to add thereto years of solitary confinement is to kill him not
once, but over and over again. The system is all wrong. Oh, the years in
the Death-Chamber! The loneliness, the quiet. Hell must be a quiet
place.
Footnote 1:
See the very humane recommendations of the Hon. Cornelius V. Collins,
Superintendent of State Prisons, in his report for 1901.
When at last it is drawing to a close, when the Governor has refused to
interfere, the officials proceed in this manner: On Saturday the
“fortunate one” on stepping from his bath is ordered into a new cell—the
one next to the “little door” leading to the execution chamber. Here he
receives everything new: new bedding, new clothes from head to foot, and
then his knick-knacks, pipe, tobacco, boxes, books, and the packages of
letters from home, ragged and blurred from reading and rereading; all
have been very carefully searched. He receives something else, for this
change in itself is his notice that one week from the following Monday
he will be moved again. No questions are ever asked; he has seen it all
before; but should he ask, the only reply will be, “I don’t know.”
From that moment a certain unwritten etiquette among us is never
violated. His own way in everything, as far as we can possibly
comprehend it, is our law. Does he ask for a song or story, his demand
is acquiesced with at once. Will he play checkers? He may choose his
opponent, and he will always win. We send him our oranges, the top layer
from the box of cigars one has purchased. We do anything, everything we
can to please him. Has there been a quarrel between him and another, it
is completely forgotten. On his part, he must make the ghastly
regulation jokes during the week. These are two in number, one with the
keeper about the new suit of clothes: “I suppose _you_ will be wearing
this week after next.” Number two is with the barber: “Don’t forget to
cut my hair short on top.” From now on the “death watch” (two keepers)
sits in front of his cage every night. During this week occurs the
greatest horror we are called upon to bear, _i.e._, to hear the last
farewells of our companion to mother, wife, sister, or child. While
listening to their cries we anticipate the agony in store for those _we_
love. My heart bleeds when I remember what I have heard in the
Death-Chamber. It is unspeakable. I cannot write of it.
Then comes the last night. Everything must be done very exactly now. Our
code prescribes for everything; nothing must be omitted, no custom may
be violated. The early evening passes as usual. Generally he asks for
songs, perhaps he will sing one himself. That is as it may be. But at
midnight the last rites among us of the Death-Chamber take place. The
keeper comes to my cell carrying, perhaps, the little paper box my
departing friend has kept his tobacco in so long; one that he made and
decorated himself.
“Keep that to remember me by,” I hear from the direction of the little
door.
“Thank you,” I reply.
“Good-by. I hope you have luck and get out,” is the next part of the
ritual.