THE CITY PRISON.
He was a man of simple heart,
Patient and meek, the Christian part
Came to his soul as came the air
That heaved his bosom; hope, despair,
Were chastened by a holy faith!--
Meek in his life he feared not death.
Perhaps in the whole world there is not a building where all the horror,
the wild poetry of sin and grief is so forcibly written out in black
shadows and hard stone, as in the city prison of New York. A stranger
passing that massive pile would unconsciously feel saddened, though
entirely ignorant of its painful uses, for the very atmosphere fills him
with a vague sensation of alarm. The Egyptian architecture, so heavy and
imposing; the thick walls which no sunshine can penetrate, and against
which cries of anguish might, unheard, exhaust themselves forever, chill
the very heart. The ponderous columns, lost in a perspective of black
shadows in the front entrance--piles of granite sweeping toward
Broadway, and interlocking with the black prison that rises up, like a
solid wall, gloomy, windowless, and penetrated only with loop-holes,
like a fort which has nothing but misery to protect--fills the
imagination with gloom.
The moment you come in sight of the building, your breath draws heavily;
the atmosphere seems humid with tears--oppressive with sighs--a storm of
human suffering appears gathering around. The air seems eddying with
curses which have exhausted their sound against those walls; you feel as
if sin, shame, and grief were palpable spirits, walking behind and
around you; and all this is the more terrible, because the waves of life
gather close up to the building, swelling against its walls on every
side.
The prison sits like a monster, crouching in the very heart of a great
city; the veins and arteries of social evil weave and coil close around
it, like serpents born in the same foul atmosphere with itself. Placed
on foundations lower than the graded walks, nestled in a dried up swamp
that has exchanged the miasma of decayed nature for the miasma of human
guilt; the neighborhood close at hand sunk, like this building, deep in
the grade of human existence; is there on earth another spot so eloquent
of suffering, so populous with sin?
"The Tombs," this name was given to the prison years ago, when its
foundations were first sunk in the swampy moisture of the soil. Then you
could see the vast structure sinking, day by day, into its murky
foundations, and enveloped in clouds of palpable miasma. There the poor
wretches huddled within its walls, died like herds of poisoned cattle;
pine coffins were constantly passing in and out of those ponderous
doors. Pauper death-carts might be seen every day lumbering up Centre
street, on their road to Potter's Field. The man, innocent or guilty,
who entered those walls, breathed his death warrant as he passed in.
This only continued for a season; it was not long before the tramp of
human feet, and the weight of that ponderous mass of stone crushed the
poisonous moisture from the earth, but the name which death had left
still remained--a name deeply and solemnly significant of the place to
all who deem moral evil and moral death as mournful as the physical
suffering which had baptized it.
The main building, which fronts on Centre street, opens to a dusky and
pillared vestibule, that leads to various rooms, occupied by the courts
and officials connected with the prison. At the right, as you enter, is
the police court, a spacious apartment, with deep casements. A raised
platform, railed in from the people, upon which the magistrates sit,
contains a desk or two, and beyond are several smaller rooms, used for
private examinations.
In one of these rooms, the smallest and most remote, sat a mournful
group, early one morning, before the magistrates had taken their seats
upon the bench. One was an old man, thin, haggard and care-worn, but
with a placid and even exalted cast of countenance, such as a stricken
man wears when he has learned "to suffer and be strong." He sat near a
round table covered with worn baize, upon which one elbow rested rather
heavily, for he had tasted little food for several days; and the languor
of habitual privation, joined to strong nervous reaction, after a scene
of horror, impressed his person even more than his face. That, as I have
said, was pale and worn, but tranquil and composed to a degree that
startled those who looked upon him, for the old man was waiting there to
be examined on a charge of murder, and men shuddered to see the calmness
upon his features. It seemed to them nothing but hardened indifference,
the composure of guilt that had ceased to feel its own enormity.
Close by this man sat two females, an old woman and a girl, not weeping,
they had no tears left, but they sat with heavy, mournful eyes gazing
upon the floor. Marks of terrible suffering were visible in their faces,
and in the dull, hopeless apathy of their motionless silence. Now and
then a low sigh rose and died upon the pale lips of the girl, but it was
faint as that which exhales from a flower which has been trodden to
death, and the poor girl was only conscious that the pain at her heart
was a little sharper that instant than it had been.
The woman, pale, still, and grief-stricken in every feature and limb,
did not even sigh. It seemed as if the breath must have frozen upon her
cold lips, she seemed so utterly chilled, body and soul.
An officer of the police stood just within the room, not one of those
burly, white-coated characters we find always in English novels, but a
tall, slender and gentlemanly person, who regarded the group it had been
his duty to arrest with a grave and compassionate glance. True, he
searched the old man's face as those who have studied the human
lineaments strive to read the secrets of a soul in their expression--but
there was nothing rude either in his look or manner.
After awhile the officer remembered that his prisoners had not tasted
food since the day previous, and, with a pang of self-reproach, he
addressed them.
"You are worn out for want of food--I should have remembered this!" he
said, approaching the table; "I will order some coffee."
The old man raised his head, and turned his grateful eyes upon the
officer.
"Yes," he said, with a gentle smile, "they are hungry; a little coffee
will do them good."
The young female looked up and softly waved her head; but the other
continued motionless, she had heard nothing.
The officer whispered to a person outside the door, and then began to
pace up and down the room like a sentinel, but treading very lightly, as
if subdued by the silent grief over which he kept guard.
Directly the coffee was brought in, with bread and fragments of cold
meat.
"Come now," said the officer, cheerfully, "take something to give you
strength. The examination may be a long one, and I have seen powerful
men sink under a first examination--take something to keep you up, or
you will get nervous, and admit more than a wise man should."
"Yes," said the old man, meekly, "you are right, they will want
strength--so shall I." He took one of the tin-cups which had been
brought half full of coffee, and reached it toward the woman.
"Wife!" he said, bending toward her.
The poor woman started, and looked at him through her wild, heavy eyes.
"What is it, Wilcox? What is it you want of me?"
"You observe she is almost beside herself," said the old man addressing
the officer, and his face grew troubled--"what can I do?"
"Oh! these things are very common. She must be roused!" answered the
man, kindly. "Speak to her again."
The old man stooped over his wife, and laid his hand gently upon hers.
She did not move. He grasped her thin fingers, and tears stood in his
eyes; still she did not move. He stood a moment gazing in her face, the
tears running down his cheeks. He hesitated, looked at the officer half
timidly, and bending down, kissed the old woman on the forehead.
That kiss broke up the ice in her heart. She stood up and began to weep.
"You spoke to me, Wilcox--what was it you wanted? I am better now--quite
well. What is it you wanted me to do?"
"He only wishes you to eat and drink something," said the officer,
deeply moved.
"Eat and drink--have we got anything to eat and drink? That is always
his way when we are short, urging us, and hungry himself."
"But there is enough for all," said the old man. "See, I too will eat,
and Julia!"
"Why, if there is enough we will all eat, why not," said the poor woman,
with a dim smile.
She took the coffee, tasted it, and looked around the room with vague
curiosity.
"What is all this?--where are we now, Wilcox?" she said, in a low,
frightened voice.
The old man kept his eyes bent on hers, they were full of trouble, and
this stimulated her to question him again.
"Where are we? I remember walking, wading, it seemed to me, neck deep
through a crowd, trying to keep up with you. Some one said they were
taking us to prison; that I had done nothing, and they would not keep
me. That you and Julia would stay, but I must go into the street,
because a wife could not bear witness against her husband, but a
grandchild could. Have I been crazy, or walking in my sleep, Wilcox?"
"No, wife, you are worn out--frightened; drink some more of the coffee,
by and bye all will be clear to you."
The old woman obeyed him, and drank eagerly from the cup in her hand.
Then she looked on her husband, on Julia, and the officer, as if
striving to make out why they were all together in that strange place.
All at once she set down the cup and drew a heavy breath.
"I remember," she said, mournfully--"I remember now that dead man, with
his open eyes and white clenched teeth; I know who he was--I knew it at
first."
The officer drew a step nearer and listened, the spirit of his vocation
was strong within him. There might be important evidence in her words,
and for a moment the humane man was lost in the acute officer. The
prisoner remarked this movement, and looked on the man with an
expression of mild rebuke.
"Would you take advantage of her unsettled state, or of the words it
might wring from me?" he said.
"No," answered the officer, stepping back, abashed. "No, I would not do
anything of the kind, at least deliberately."
But this remonstrance had aroused distrust in the old woman, she drew
close to her husband, and whispered to him--
"I cannot quite make it out, Wilcox. The people--the crowd said over and
over again that they were taking us to prison. This is no prison!
carpets on the floor, chairs, window blinds, all so pretty and snug,
with us eating and drinking together. This is no prison, Wilcox, we have
not had so nice a home these ten years."
"This is only a room in the prison, not the one they will give me by and
bye!" answered the old man with a faint smile, "that will be smaller
yet."
"You say _me_!" said the wife, holding tight to the hand that clasped
hers. "Why do you not say that the room--let it be what it will--is
large enough for us both, husband? I say you did not mean that it will
not hold your wife too."
The old man turned away from those earnest eyes; he could not bear the
look of mingled terror and entreaty that filled them.
"Remember, Wilcox, we have not spent one night apart in thirty years!"
"I know it," answered the old man with quivering lips.
"And now will you let me stay with you?"
"Ask him," said the old man, turning his face away, "ask him!"
She let go her hold of the prisoner's hand with great reluctance, and
went up to the officer.
"You heard what he said, you must know what I want. We have lived
together a great many years, more than your whole life. We have had
trouble--great trouble, but always together. Tell me--can we stay
together yet?"
"I do not know," said the man, deeply moved. "Your husband is charged
with a crime that requires strict prison rules."
"I know, he is charged with murder! but you see how innocent he is,"
answered the wife, and all the holy faith, the pure, beautiful love born
in her youth and strengthened in her age, kindled over those wrinkled
features--"you see how innocent he is!"
The man checked a slight wave of the head, for he would not appear to
doubt that old man's innocence, strong as the evidence was against him.
"You will not send me away!" said the old woman, still regarding him
with great anxiety.
"I have no power--it is not for me to decide--such things have been
done. In minor offences, I have known wives to remain in prison, but
never in capital cases that I remember."
"But some one has the power. It is only for a little while--it cannot be
for more than a week or two that they will keep him, you know."
"It may be--from my heart I hope so--but I can answer for nothing, I
have no power."
"Who has the power?--what can we do?"
It was the young girl who spoke now. The entreaties of her
grandmother--the tremulous voice of her grandsire, at length aroused her
feelings from the icy stillness that had crept over them. The mist
cleared away from her eyes, and though heavy with sleeplessness and
grief, they began to kindle with aroused animation.
"No one at present, my poor girl--nothing can be done till after the
examination."
Julia had drawn close to her grandmother, and grasped a fold of her
faded dress with one hand. The officer could not turn his eyes from her
face, so sad, so mournfully beautiful. He was about to utter some vague
words of comfort, but while they were on his lips a door from the
police-court opened, and a man looked through, saying in a careless,
off-hand manner, "bring the old man in."
The court-room was crowded with witnesses ready to be examined, lawyers,
eager for employment, and others actuated by curiosity alone, all
crowded and jostled together outside the bar. As the prisoner entered,
the throng grew denser, pouring in through the open door, and spreading
out into the vestibule to the granite pillars, all pressing forward with
strained eyes to obtain a view of one feeble old man.
They made a line for him to pass, crushing against each other with their
heads thrown back, and staring in the old man's face as if he had been
some wild animal, till his thin hand clutched the bar. There he stood as
meek as a child, with all those bright, staring eyes bent upon him. A
faint crimson flush broke through the wrinkles on his forehead; and his
hand stirred upon the railing with a slight shiver, otherwise his gentle
composure was unbroken.
The crowd closed up as he passed, but the two females clinging together,
breathless and wild with fear, least they should be separated from him,
pressed close upon his steps, forcing their way impetuously one moment,
and looking helplessly around the next. Still resolutely following the
prisoner, they won some little space at each step, not once losing sight
of his grey head as it moved through the sea of faces, all turned, as
they thought, menacingly upon him. At length they stood close behind the
old man, and, unseen by the crowd, clung to his garments with their
hands.
The judge bent forward in his leathern easy-chair, and looked in the
prisoner's face, not harshly, not even with sternness. Had a lighter
offence been charged upon the old man, his face might have borne either
of these expressions, but the very magnitude of the charge under
investigation gave dignity to the judge, and true dignity is always
gentle.
He stooped forward, therefore, not smiling, but kindly in look and
voice, informed the prisoner of his right, and cautioned him not to
criminate himself ignorantly in any answer he might make to
interrogations of the court.
The old man raised his eyes, thanked the judge in a low voice, and
waited.
"Your name?"
"I am known in the city as Benjamin Warren, but it is not my real name."
"What is the real name then?"
"I would rather not answer."
The old man spoke mildly, but with great firmness. The judge bent his
head. A dozen pens could be heard at the reporters' desk taking down the
answer. A hush was on the crowd; every man leaned forward, breathless
and listening. Those even in the vestibule kept still while the old
man's reply ran among them in whispers.
"Did you know the man who was found dead in your house on the nineteenth
of this month?"
"Yes, I knew the man well!"
"Where and when had you met before!"
"I do not wish to answer!"
"Did you see him on the evening of the eighteenth?"
"No!"
"Did evil feeling exist between you?"
The old man turned a shade paler, and his hand shook upon the railing;
he hesitated as if at a loss for words which might convey an exact
answer.
"I cannot say what his feelings were--but of my own I can speak, having
asked this same question of my soul many times. William Leicester had
wronged me and mine--but I forgave the wrong; I had no evil feeling
against him."
"Were there not high words and angry defiance between you that
morning?"
"He was angry--I was not; agitated, alarmed, I was--but not angry."
"Were you alone with him?"
"Yes!"
"How long?"
"Maybe ten minutes!"
"Once more," said the judge; "once more let me remind you that in
another court these answers may be used to your prejudice. Now take
time, you have no counsel, so take time for reflection before you reply.
What business had Leicester with you?--what was the subject of
conversation between you?"
The old man bent his forehead to the railing, and thus stood motionless
without answering. His own honest sense told him that every question
that he refused to answer gave rise to doubt, and kindled some new
prejudice against him. His obvious course was silence, or a frank
statement of the truth. He raised his head, and addressed the judge
gently as he might have consulted with a friend.
"If I have a right to refuse answers to a part of what you ask me, may I
not, by the same right, remain silent?"
"There is no law which forces you to answer where a reply will prejudice
your cause."
"Will anything I can say help my cause?"
"No!"
"Then I will be silent. But I never lifted my hand against that
man--never, so help me God!"
The judge felt this to be a wise conclusion, and a faint gleam of
satisfaction came to his lips. The meek dignity of that old men, the
beautiful pale face now and then peering out from behind his
poverty-stricken garments--the feeble old woman crowding close to his
side, all had aroused his sympathy. It was impossible to look on that
group and believe any one of those feeble creatures guilty of the blood
that had reddened their poverty-stricken hearth, and yet the evidence
had been fearfully strong before the coroner's inquest.
Some commotion arose in the crowd after this. Men began to whisper
opinions to each other--now and then a rude joke or laugh rose from the
vestibule. People began to circulate in and out at the various doors,
and during all this several witnesses were examined. These persons had
seen a gentleman, well, nay, elegantly dressed, enter the miserable
basement occupied by the prisoner and his family, very early on the
morning of the nineteenth. One, a person who lived in the front
basement, testified to high words, and a sound as if some one had
stamped several times on the floor. Then he heard quick footsteps along
the entry; saw the stranger an instant in the front area, and then heard
him go back again. This excited considerable curiosity in the witness,
who opened the door of his own room and looked out. He caught a glimpse
of the stranger going, quickly, through the next door, and saw two
females.
The old woman and girl now standing behind the prisoner were crouching
in the back end of the entry, apparently much frightened, for both were
pale; and the old woman wrung her hands while the girl wept bitterly. A
little after, perhaps two minutes, this man heard a sound from the next
room, as if of some heavy body falling; this was followed by a _hush_
that made him shiver from head to foot. He went out and saw the two
females clinging together, and creeping pale and terror-stricken up to
the door, which the old woman tried to open, but could not, her hands
shook so violently.
The witness himself turned the latch and looked in, leaning over the
females, who, uttering a low cry, stood motionless, blocking up the
entrance. He saw the stranger lying upon the floor, stretched back in
the agony of a fierce death pang; his teeth were clenched; his eyes wide
open; the chin protruded upward; and both hands were groping and
clutching at the bare boards.
While the witness looked on, the limbs, half gathered up and strained
against the floor, gave way, and settled down like ridges of withered
grass. The room was badly lighted, but it seemed to the witness that
there was some faint motion, after this a shudder, or it might be a fold
of the dead man's clothes settling around him, but except this all signs
of life went out from the body.
Then the witness had time to see the other objects in the room. The
first thing that his eyes fell upon was the face of old Mr. Warren, the
palest, the most deathly face he ever saw on a living man; he was
stooping over the corpse, grasping what seemed a handful of snow,
stained through and through with blood which he pressed down upon the
dead man's side.
The witness grew wild with the terror of this scene. He pushed the two
females forward and went in. The prisoner looked up, still pressing his
hand upon the dead man; his lips moved, and he tried to speak, but could
not. On stooping down, the witness saw that the stained mass clenched in
the old man's fingers was one side of a white silk vest, clutched up
with masses of fine linen, which the dead man had worn. He also saw a
knife lying on the floor wet to the haft. After a minute or so, the
prisoner spoke, apparently feeling the body grow stiff under his hand;
he turned his head with a piteous look, and whispered--"What can we do?"
The witness stated that his answer was "Nothing--the man is dead!"
Then the old man got up, and went to a bed huddled on the floor in one
corner of the room, where his wife and grand-daughter had dropped, when
the witness pushed them with unconscious violence from the threshold. He
said something in a low voice to the woman, and she answered--
"Oh, Wilcox, tell me that you did not do it!"
The prisoner looked at her--at first he seemed amazed as if some horrid
thought had just struck him, then he looked grieved, wounded to the
heart. The expression that came upon his face was enough to make one
cry, but his voice, when he spoke, was even worse than the look; it
seemed choked up with tears, that he could not shed.
"My wife!" he said nothing more, but that was enough to make the old
woman cover her face with both hands and sob like a child. Julia, his
grandchild, who had been sitting white and still as death till then,
lifted her eyes to the old man's face, and you could see them deepen
with sorrowful astonishment, as if she too had been suddenly wounded.
The look of horror died on her features, leaving them full of
tenderness. She arose with the look of an angel, and clasping her hands
over the old man's arm, as he stood gazing mournfully upon his wife,
pressed her head against his side.
"Grandfather, she did not think it. It was the terror that spoke, not
her, not my grandmother!"
The old man would have laid his hand upon her head, but it was crimson
and wet. He saw this, and dropped it again.
The dim light, the pale faces, the man stark and dead upon the floor,
made the scene too painful even for a strong man. The witness went out
and aroused the neighborhood. He did not go back; more courageous men
would have shrunk from the scene as he did.
I have given this man's evidence, not in his own words. He was a German,
and spoke rude English; but the scene he described was only the more
graphic for that. It impressed the judges and the crowd; it gratified
that intense love of the horrible that is becoming a passion in the
masses, and yet softened it with touches of rude pathos, that also
gratified the populace. Here and there you saw a wet eye in the crowd.
Men who were strangers to each other, exchanged whispered wishes that
the prisoner might be found innocent. The old woman and her
grand-daughter became objects of unceasing curiosity. Men pressed
forward to get a sight at them. The reporters paused to study their
features, and to take an inventory of their poverty-stricken garments.
Other witnesses were called, all testifying to like facts, that served
to fasten the appearances of guilt more closely upon that fallen old
man. When all had been examined but the grand-daughter, the excitement
became intense; the crowd pressed closer to the bar; those in the
vestibule rushed in, filling every corner of the room.
The poor girl moved when her name was pronounced, and with difficulty
mounted the step which lifted her white face to a level with the judge.
The little hands grasped the railing till every drop of blood was driven
from the strained fingers; but for this she must have fallen to the
earth, for there was no strength in her limbs, no strength at her heart,
save that which one fixed solemn thought gave. There was something
deeper than the pallor of fear in those beautiful features--something
more sublime than sorrow in the clear violet eyes which she lifted to
the magistrate. He saw her lips move, and bent forward to catch the
sound of words that she seemed to be uttering,--
"I cannot answer any questions; don't ask me, sir, please don't!"
He caught these words. He saw the look of meek courage that spoke even
more forcibly than the tremulous lips. No one saw the look, or heard the
voice, but himself, not even the prisoner; for age had somewhat dulled
his ear. The face, the look, the gentle bearing of this poor girl,
filled the judge with compassion. It is a horrible thing for any law to
force evidence from one loving heart that may cast another into the
grave. The magistrate had never felt the cruelty so much before. The
questions that he should have propounded sunk back upon his heart. It
seemed like torturing a lamb with all the flock looking on.
Still, the magistrates of our courts learn hard lessons even of juvenile
depravity; not to be suspicious would, in them, be a living miracle.
This girl might be prompted by advice, and thus artfully acting as the
tool of some lawyer. You would not look in her eyes and believe it, but
soft eyes sometimes brood over falsehood that would make you tremble. No
one is better aware of this than the acute magistrate; still there is
something in pure simplicity that convinces the heart long before the
judgment has power to act.
"Who told you not to answer my questions?" he said, in a low voice.
"No one!"
"Then why refuse?"
"Because my grandfather never killed the man, but what I should say,
might make it seem as if he did."
"But do you know that is contempt of court--a punishable offence."
"I did not know it!"
"That I have power to make you answer?"
A faint beautiful smile flitted across her face. You might fancy a
youthful martyr smiling thus when threatened with death by fire. It
disturbed in no degree the humility of her demeanor, but that one gleam
of the strength within her satisfied the magistrate.
Not even the reporters had been able to catch a word of the
conversation. His dignity was in no way committed. He resolved to waive
the cruel power, which would have wrung accusation from that helpless
creature unnecessarily; for the evidence that had gone before was quite
sufficient to justify a commitment.
"We shall not require the evidence of this young girl," he said,
addressing a fellow-magistrate, who had been writing quietly during the
proceedings.
"No," answered the magistrate, without checking his pen or raising his
head, "what is the use? The story of that German was enough. I should
have committed him after that. The poor girl is frightened to death. Let
her go!"
"But in the other court, there she will be wanted!"
"True, she must be kept safe. Anybody forthcoming with the bonds?"
"I fear not. It seems hard to keep the poor thing in prison!"
"Like caging a blackbird!" answered the man, racing over the paper with
his gold-mounted pen. "Hard, but necessary; bad laws must be kept the
same as good ones, my dear fellow! Disgrace to civilization, and all
that, but the majesty of the law must be maintained, even though it
does shut up nice little girls with the offscourings of the earth."
"It goes against my heart!" answered the sitting magistrate with a sigh.
"It seems like casting newly fallen snow before a herd of wild animals.
I never hated to sign my name so much!"
"Must be done though. You have stretched a point to save her. Just now,
the reporters were eyeing you. Another step of leniency, and down comes
the press!"
"I shall act rightly according to my own judgment, notwithstanding the
press."
"A beautiful sentiment, only don't let those chaps hear it. Would not
appreciate the thing at all!"
The sitting magistrate spoke the truth. Never in his life had he signed
papers of commitment so reluctantly; but they were made out at length,
and handed to the officer. The old man was conducted from the bar one
way, and a strange officer took Julia by the hand, forcing her through
the crowd in another direction. At first she supposed that they were
going with her grandfather. When they were separated in the crowd, she
began to struggle; a faint wail broke from her lips, and the officer was
compelled to cast his arm around her waist, thus half carrying her
through the crowd.
The woman had followed her husband and grandchild mechanically, but when
they were separated, the cry that broke from Julia's lips made her turn
and rush back; the crowd closed in around her; she cast one wild look
after the prisoner, another toward the spot whence the wail came. They
both were lost through a door in the dark vistas of the prison. She saw
an arm flung wildly up as if beckoning her, and rushed forward, blindly
struggling against the crowd. In the press of people, she was hurried
forth into the vestibule, and there leaning, in dreary helplessness,
against one of the massy stone pillars, she stood looking vaguely around
for her husband and child. It was a heart-rending sight, but every day
those ponderous walls witness scenes equally mournful.