This man was afflicted with the consumption. At the time with which
this account commences, he was wasted to almost a shadow; the paleness
of death was on his countenance--and his voice was feeble and
trembling. Though under the care of the physician, and taking medicine
every day, he was yet unable to get into the hospital, but was obliged
to spend his days either in his cell, where he could obtain but little
nourishment, or at his work in the shop. The scene now before me, was
in the cook room, a place partly under ground, to which he had retired
to rest himself, and find some relief from the pain which was
continually shooting through his breast. In this room I saw him, and
heard the following conversation between him and the Warden.
Ellis was lying on the brick hearth, with a block of wood for his
pillow, when the Warden came in, and his voice was the only indication
of life that he manifested. He intreated in the most moving language
to be removed to the hospital, and made comfortable what little time
he had to live.
_Warden._ If I thought you were sick, I would take care of you; but
nothing ails you. If there does, you have brought it on yourself to
get rid of work. I have been imposed on too often by those who pretend
to be sick, and I am not to be deceived any more. You are as well as I
am, and you shall not be treated as a sick man, till I have evidence
that you _are_ sick.
_Ellis._ I submit, sir; though whether you believe me sick or not
_now_, time will soon convince you, that I do not counterfeit this
appearance. I _am_ sick--I cannot live long, and all I desire is, that
I may receive proper attention, and be permitted to die in peace.
_Warden._ You are not sick; when you are, you shall have all necessary
attention. I am not to be imposed on any more by those who are too
lazy to work, and therefore pretend that they are sick.
Here the conversation ended; the Warden retired, and Ellis continued
to enjoy his repose on the brick hearth, and his pillow of wood. Too
weak to labour, and denied a place in the hospital, he continued in
this condition a few days longer, when forced by the unequivocal
indications of approaching dissolution, he was transported to the
proper place for the sick, and laid on a bed just in time to breathe
his last.
The death of a prisoner causes no tender feelings in the breasts of
some of the keepers, and when this death was announced, the eyes of
many were expressive of satisfaction; and Mr. F*** said, with an air
of malignant joy, "bad as he thought the place to be, he was not
willing to die; he struggled for breath, looked anxiously round, and
wanted to live longer."
Soon after his death was known in the yard, the Warden came into the
cook-room where I was, but I am unable to paint his confused
appearance. He well recollected what had passed in that room only a
few days before, when the dying man plead for an easy bed to die on,
but was denied. His head hung down, he turned every way to avoid
looking those in the face who had heard his savage insults to the poor
wretch who plead for mercy; at length he threw himself down on a seat
by one of the tables, and said, in a manner which I hope will never be
imitated--"Well, Ellis is dead." No one made any reply, and he added;
"he has fulfilled his word; he said he would never be any benefit to
us, and he never has."
The next day his remains were committed to the grave, where "the
prisoners rest together, and hear not the voice of the oppressors."
Dr. Torrey, the physician of the prison at this time, was highly
displeased at the cruel neglect and unmerciful treatment of Ellis; and
when prescribing, a few days after, for another prisoner, he said with
emotions that did him honor--"_This_ case must be _attended to_; it
must _not_ be _neglected_ as the _other_ was. _Shameful!_
DISGRACEFUL!"
Shameful and disgraceful it certainly was to treat a dying man in this
way. What man of ordinary feelings would have treated his dog, as the
Warden treated Ellis? Is that man fit for any office in a humane
Institution who could thus forget his kindred nature, and plant with
thorns the death-bed of a brother? And ought there not to be a place
for such monsters in human form, where they must drink of the cup
which they have filled for others, and experience the pains they have
inflicted? THERE IS JUST SUCH A PLACE.--There the rich man lifted up
his eyes being in torments. And if those will be doomed to this place,
of whom the Judge will say--"I was sick and in prison, and ye visited
me not," what must be the fate of this man, who locked up his _living_
prisoners in the cell of _despair_, and threw the _dying_ into a bed
of _embers_?