not be putting you to too much inconvenience, madam, I would be 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, received _me_ once 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 executive will 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 acquainted with 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, _may_ exist among thieves, and, though he
obligingly informed the officers of the "bank," where _his_ share 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 thus ingeniously
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 shown _other_ symptoms 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 abused
the 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 for the 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 in number. 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--and _only he_--could.
For six kindly years, it was permitted me to 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 him _divine_ compassion by my _own_.
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 the _stronger_ the cheese was, the better.
He also preferred raw onions to Bartlett pears, and many a little
basket of that pungent vegetable have I conveyed to 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 yard _ad
libitum_. Poor Neilson! this comparative freedom had come too late. He
was now far gone 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
Latin motto, 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 on _that 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. He lay 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, _are_
you, Neilson." He opened wide his eyes, and, with a half-reproachful
glance, replied, distinctly, "Afraid! afraid of _God_! Ah, madam, I
wish I were _with_ Him 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, _have_ taken 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 permission to
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 committed it 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 his _friends_."
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 that
Neilson 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 Neilson _himself_ still 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 good
Will be the final goal of ill,
To pangs of nature, sins of will,
Defects of doubt, and taints of blood."
A DISASTROUS SLEIGH-RIDE.
It is 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 upon the 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.