The work of the prison must be done, life or death; and as some part
of this work can be done by only one man, _that_ man must never be
_sick_. Corliss was the only man that could do correctly the work to
which he was assigned, and as there was a call for him every hour in
the day, so every hour in the day he _must_ work, sick or well. All
men are liable to be sick, and there was no more exemption for him
than for others; but he _must_ do his work whenever called for. The
life of a prisoner is estimated in _cents_, and of his _happiness_, no
account is made. His labor is all that renders him valuable, and to
this he is ever goaded; and when he can do no more, then--"_poor old
horse, let him die_."
Oppressed by constant toil, Corliss began at length to fail, and his
countenance began to denote the nature of his disease; but he could
gain no release from his work, and frequently was he called out of his
cell, when his cough and deathly look should have admonished his
keepers to prepare him a winding sheet, and forced to do the labor of
a well man.
Finding at last that his working days were over, the keepers
recommended him for a pardon, and he was released just in time to die.
It is one of the practical regulations of the prison, to keep all the
profitable prisoners as long as possible, and to pardon all such as
are of no use. Another regulation is, that when the work requires a
prisoner to be in a particular place, there he _must be at any rate_.
This regulation has borne hard on many beside the subject of this
sketch, and when it has crippled them for life, they are generally let
out to die. The ghosts of many whom I saw nailed to this cross, are at
this moment crossing my mind. I could fill a page with their names,
and the pains that dart every hour through my shadowy form, admonish
me that _my_ escape from the same doom was rather visionary than real.