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, in _his_ line, 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, the drinks 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 count _at all_ is 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 he _not_ worsted them,
unaided and alone, he would probably have perished. Destiny, however,
having better (and also _worse_) things in store for Mr. Doniver, he
did, at last, worst them, and, when the day for 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-natured Pat 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 certain water-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 in _bona-fide_ crime, had in no wise proved disastrous to
the aforesaid progenitor, whose bones crumbled 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 sent yawning 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 clothes _do_, 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 to _keep 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
conception of 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 cabinet
purposes, 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 vinegar
from 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 poor _broth_ indade, that its
own _cook_ cannot 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 is _said_ to
have run for Congress. ("Why," queried the rural observer, "do the
_little_ rogues go to prison, and the _big_ ones 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.
TUCKERED OUT.
Hiram Fisher was "in for life," and had already served out twenty
years of this hopeless term, when I made his acquaintance. From his
forebears--a long line of Cape Cod fishermen--Hiram has inherited an
inexhaustible stock of good nature, a well-knit frame, the muscle of
an ox, and such an embarrassment of vitality, that even twenty years
of bad air, meagre diet, and tiresome monotony, had not perceptibly
loosened his grip on existence. For the last ten years of his term, he
had been a "runner" in the prison, the right-hand man of the warden,
the well approved of inferior officials, the universal favourite of
convicts, and head singer in the chapel choir; and in all that time
had never once broken a rule of the prison! A convict _could_ no more;
an angel _might_ have accomplished less!
By what occult process a murderer had been evolved from material so
seemingly impracticable--from a man of whom it might reasonably be
predicated that he would not, of malice prepense, destroy a fly--let
the sages tell us; the riddle is far beyond my poor reading. All the
same, it was for murder, and in the first degree, that Hiram Fisher
had been sentenced. The particulars of his crime were to be had for
the asking, of any garrulous prison official, yet I was too incurious
of detail to ask for them.
If "accidents"--as the proverb goes--"happen in the _best_ of
families," the worst may not hope to escape; and, one day, by some
luckless misstep on the iron stairway of the prison, Hiram got a fall
which, had Destiny consented, might have broken his neck. As it was,
he was picked up in the corridor, unconscious and much bruised in
body, and taken for repair to the prison hospital; and it was there
that we became fast friends. It was to relieve the tedium of a long
bout of reclining, with one leg inflexibly incased in plaster, that I
undertook, for Hiram's sole benefit, the reading of a Dickens's
Christmas Carol, which had found great favour with the convalescents
gathered about the stove for the weekly hospital reading.
Before I had gone through the first half dozen pages, it became
evident that Hiram, though, like most New Englanders of his class,
tolerably conversant with the three Rs, had no possible use for
literature of any sort. I went on half-heartedly to the bitter end,
and closing the book, to his apparent relief, resolved, in my after
intercourse with the patient, to confine myself strictly to
conversation. After this we changed places. Hiram held forth, and I
became the much entertained listener. With that easy yarn-spinning
felicity, inherent in the born sailor, the patient reeled off for me
so interminable a string of incident, anecdote, and heart-moving
outside adventure, with such rare and racy sketches of prison life,
that my Mondays (Monday was hospital day with me) became, throughout
his entire convalescence, like an unbroken series of "Arabian Nights."
Notable among Hiram's hospital recitals was the little sketch which
follows, and which I have attempted to reproduce (as nearly as is
possible from memory) in his own quaint and homely dialect.
THE TUCKERED-OUT MAN.
"Well, arter I'd been in the 'palace'[1] somewhere 'bout ten year, I
got a leetle peaked-like, an' the doctor he overhauled me, an' sent me
up t' the hospital for a spell. I wa'n't sick enough to be in bed, so,
daytimes, I sot in the big room, 'round the stove, along with half a
dozen mates who was 'bout in the same condition.
[1] Convicts' term for prison.
"It was winter weather, an' pesky cold, too, I _tell_ you! We wa'n't
none on us gin leave to talk, which, to be sure, was all right enough,
though I must say it dooz come pleggy hard to set long side o' folks
all day long 'thout openin' your head. But, anyhows, we wa'n't
blindfolded, and didn't have our ears plugged neither.
"So while I sot there days, dull as a hoe, an' fur all the world like
the man in the Scriptur', that had a dumb devil, I used naterally to
twig what was goin' on in most parts o' the buildin'. Well, long 'bout
that time we had a new chaplain t' the 'palace,' an' a middlin' good
Christian he was, too, I should say; an' bein' a bran-new broom, he
naterally swep' cleaner than the old one. Now the _old_ chaplain, he
was a master hand at prayin', an' sich like.
"Why, to hear him pray fur that instertooshing would melt a heart o'
stun! and his sermons, I will say, was spun out be-eutiful! Arter
that, he 'peared 'bout blowed out, an', week-days, we mostly had to
look arter our own souls. Well, the new chaplain, you see, _he_ was
different. He b'leeved in keeping up steam right straight along, so he
used ter visit the men in their cells, an' kinder try to keep 'em on a
slant towards the kingdom, all the week round.
"He was mighty good to the sick, too, an' there wa'n't a man in that
hospital so bad 'at he wouldn't do him a good turn; an' besides
writin' letters fur the men (which is no more'n 's expected on him),
he used to do little arrants fur 'em outside, sich as lookin' arter
their children, or huntin' up their relations, when they happened to
lose the run on 'em. I heerd the warden, one day, a sayin' to one o'
the inspectors, 'Our chaplain's too kind-hearted, he'll wear hisself
out.' Thinks I ter myself, 'No, he won't, you _bet_! fur, arter a
spell, he'll git callous like all the rest on yer.' A prison, ye see,
's a master place fur makin' folks callous. But I'm gittin' ahead o'
my story.
"Well, one day I sot there by the stove, squintin' round, an' with
both ears open, an' I see the new chaplain come in. He shook hands
with us fellers in the big room, an' then he went round to all the
cells an' talked with the patients. I see him look into No. --; the
bed was made up spic an' span, an' no signs o' anybody inside, so he
come away, an' sot down t'other side o' the room, a talkin' to the
hospital super.
"I kinder kep' my eye on that cell, fur I knowed there'd been a feller
brought up that mornin', an' ef I wa'n't very much mistaken he'd been
put in No. --. Well, by'm by, I seed suthin' away over in the furder
corner of No .--, an' pooty soon it riz up.
"Lord sakes! how I should a hollered, ef I'd 'a' dared, when that
creetur stood on its two feet, an' tiptoed forrard into the light, the
very spawn o' one o' them little bogles my granny used to tell about!
I should say he wa'n't more'n four feet six, in his shoes, an' bein' a
good deal bent up, he didn't look nigh so tall as he was; an' sich
eyes I never _did_ see in a man's head! Black as coals, an' bright as
beads; an' sich a hankerin' look, a way down in 'em, as ef he'd been a
s'archin' fur somethin' he wanted ever sence the flood, an' hadn't
found it yit, an' didn't 'spect to find it in this world nor t'other!
"Well, he looked round a spell, kinder skeert, an' then he skulked out
inter the passage an' come down-stairs, an' arter he'd twigged a
minnit he comes straight up to the chaplain, an' teches him on the
shoulder. The chaplain he turned round an' kinder gin a start, an'
then sez he to the super, 'What's the matter with this poor feller?'
sez he. Afore he could answer, the little bogle he steps forrard, an'
sez he, 'Doctor, don't give _me_ any o' your physic, keep it for _t'
others_. Doctor-stuff won't do _me_ no good. _I'm tuckered out!_'
"The super he teched his forrard, an' gin the chaplain a side look,
an' sez he, 'Ah, yes, I see!' An' then, willin' to pacify the poor
creetur, he turns to him as pleasant as can be, an' sez he, 'You
mistake me, my friend, I'm not the doctor, but all the same I've come
here to help you, an' what may I do fur you to-day?' The little feller
looked at him a minnit, kinder troubled like, an' then he fetched a
sigh, and shook his head, an' sez he, 'Physic's _no use_, I'm
_tuckered out_!' 'But mebbe now,' sez the chaplain, 'I may be able to
do some little thing fur you outside. Ain't there some one there you'd
like a visit from now?' sez he.
"'Outside?--_out--side?_' sez the little man, puttin' his skinny hand
to his forrard, as ef he wanted to remember suthin', but couldn't fur
the life on him. 'Out--_side_--o-u-t--side? Du tell, is it there,
_now_? I wouldn't 'a' thought it, though; I ain't heerd nothin' on it
fur--fur'--countin' his lean fingers, an' rubbin' his forrard
again--'fur fifteen year!
"'_Outside, eh?_ an' is Deely there now? She was a hansum gal when I
merried her. I sot the world by Deely! Le's see; she was goin' to
Californy, Deely was. I wonder if she's got there yit? I hain't heerd
a word from her fur fifteen year. But Benjy knows all about her.
Benjy's my fust cousin, doctor. He said he'd come an' see me, but he
hain't come yit. He's busy, I s'pose, and can't git time.' An' arter
he'd fumbled a spell in his breast-pocket, he pulled out a dirty scrap
o' paper with some writin' on it, an' handin' on it to the chaplain,
sez he, '_That's_ where Benjy lives, doctor. He said he'd come an'
see me, an' let me know 'bout _her_; an' I've waited fifteen year,
doctor, an' all that time I hain't heerd a word from Deely! Mebbe,'
sez he, lookin' into the chaplain's face kinder wishful, 'Mebbe
sometime you'd go an' see Benjy _fur_ me, and ask him if he's ever
heerd from Deely sence she started for Californy. Fifteen year's a
long spell to wait,' sez he, heavin' another sigh, 'an' I'm clean
_tuckered out_.' I seen a tear drop on to the chaplain's white
necktie, an' sez I to myself, 'he's a thinkin' o' his _own_ wife' (a
pretty, chipper little lady she was, too,--I see her one day in
chapel), an' sez I, '_he'll go!_'
"Well, the super, he told the little tuckered-out creetur to go back
to his cell. So he crep' back, as still as a mouse. He didn't lay
down, fur I watched him. He skulked into a corner, an' crouched down
on the floor ezackly as ef he was tryin' to tie himself up into a hard
knot, an' there he staid, as still as a stun image. Arter that, I
heerd the super tellin' the chaplain that the man had turns o' bein'
out o' his head, an' he'd come up to be treated fur it.