the hospital is situated on top of the chapel, over the main entrance and hall of the prison.

two spacious rooms are dedicated to that purpose. the smaller one with a bathroom faces the brooklyn side and overlooks the mess hall, the keepers' dining room and kitchen, and is usually kept apart for the consumptives. the larger room, also with a bathroom, contains a dozen beds, a closet for underwear and clothes, another for the crockery, two tables, two medicine closets, chairs, and some small tables for patients near each bed.

six windows face towards east 55th street on the manhattan side. two higher windows look over the roof of the prison, across the queensboro bridge. the hardwood flooring, the small hospital cots, with[pg 70] mattresses, white pillows and spreads, all spotlessly clean, made the place look quite cheerful and sunny. every opening was heavily barred. a spacious, clean and airy prison, but still a prison, with a tantalizing outlook towards new york, which seemed so near that one could discern people on the other side of the river.

i

there are five sick men, plus three consumptives, in the two rooms; and our large room looks deserted.

the patients wear a cheap, white shirt, instead of the striped one, and slippers instead of shoes.

a bald-headed man with small, kindly gray eyes and a close-cropped mustache, keeps perfect discipline without raising his voice, using profane language, or bullying the patients. in character, breeding, morals, education, he is superior to the warden and[pg 71] to most of the keepers. his name is charles noonan.

between the hours of eight o'clock in the morning and four in the afternoon a uniformed hospital orderly attends to the distribution of medicine, takes temperatures, and reports to the doctor. at night another orderly takes his place.

the cleanliness of the two hospitals, the distribution of bedding, laundry and food, is in the hands of a convict, usually a patient; all the unpleasant tasks and irksome duties which the orderly is too proud or too lazy to perform the trusty is obliged to do.

servant and boss, scullion and diplomat, doctor's help and sick man, waiter and majordomo, the convict orderly is the last buffer in the line of authority, the expiatory goat of the penitentiary hospital, a suffering soul in a modern purgatory.

when a criticism drops from the lips of the supreme prison commissioner, the warden passes it along to the "dep," who[pg 72] calls down the hospital keeper, who in his turn upbraids the orderly, who in the end roasts the trusty.

the present trusty is an old man suffering from an eczema on his fat legs. tall, bloated, gray, pale, he is despised by the convicts for his avariciousness, his gluttony, his arrogant attitude. they suspect him of being a stool pigeon, and they revenge themselves by making his life miserable through a series of cruel persecutions.

another trusty who sleeps in a cell downstairs, and eats in the keeper's kitchen, is a famous pickpocket.

like all or nearly all the old timers, ed, as he is called, never gossips about his private affairs; he may joke and talk about other prisoners, but never does he say a word about his life outside. he is an old offender, but obedient, useful and energetic; and he is always welcomed back as a trusty or a tier man.

once inadvertently i asked him: "what[pg 73] do you do outside for a living, ed?" his laconic answer was, "oh, everybody!"

but one evening several weeks later, when we had become quite chummy, at the psychological moment when even the most silent and sullen crooks will sometimes confess and bare their hearts, he unfolded his life, his methods, his cynicism and his mental make-up.

it was an amazing story, interspersed with slang, picturesque phrases, and a callous, sordid philosophy. later, the testimony of other thieves proved that his story was true.

as he told his story, it seems that clever thieves organize themselves into trusts, or what they call "mobs," frequent the same "joints" and "hang-outs," and work in co-operation with detectives. when a fair, a holiday, or any extraordinary event is announced in any part of the state—or anywhere in the world, for that matter—they are "tipped off," or told about it by the "bulls."

[pg 74]

then when the event "comes off," and a great crowd is gathered, a whole gang of pickpockets, two or three score of them, arrive on the spot.

to save time one after another is sent to the fair authorities to inform them of the presence of pickpockets, and an official jumps on a platform or soap box, and shouts a warning to the crowd against thieves; and while this is going on the keen-eyed "dips" watch the astonished and frightened people place their hands on the pocket or the region which contains their valuables. with this knowledge they can work without blundering, and in teams of three or four, by rubbing or jostling against their victims, they soon relieve them of their money or jewelry.

watches are seldom stolen, as they are too easy of identification. often a prominent "sucker" discovers his loss before he leaves the fair, and starts kicking up a row. at[pg 75] once a detective offers to find and return the stolen goods for a reward.

then, after it is over, the result of the day's work is divided between the "bulls" and the "dips."

ed became a pickpocket right after he left school. from the reform school to the house of refuge, from the house of refuge to the state reformatory, from the reformatory to the penitentiary, he has climbed all the rungs of the ladder of crime.

he soon discovered that "lonesome," single-handed thieves were crushed in the struggle, so he joined the benevolent association for mutual protection of "dips" and "guns," paid his dues, and then when he was caught, he got off with a light sentence. his return to prison was part of the game; he came back philosophically, as a travelling salesman returns to his favorite hostelry, as an intermittent but familiar visitor, recognized by the keepers and convicts, and [pg 76]knowing all the ropes along the prison line of least resistance.

ed barely looks his age, although his face bears the stamp of his dissipated life and the mannerisms peculiar to his breed. he is a perfect fruit of the criminal system. sodden with all the sexual perversities acquired in prison, he has finally caught the white plague, is afflicted with several venereal diseases, and has become an inveterate dope fiend. although keen of intelligence, he seems to be without moral prop or ideal of any kind; coldly and cynically he surveys society as his natural prey, his rightful enemy, and an object of his revenge.

morally, intellectually and physically as crooked and shifty as a mountain trail, he seems utterly beyond redemption, human or divine.

[pg 77]

ii

the view from the hospital window shows the bridge on the right; in front, the row of cheap tenement houses and streets abutting on the river front from the forties to the sixties; and on the left, looming out of the city-scape, appears the metropolitan tower. behind the innumerable painted signs on the river front, the cathedral on fifth avenue, the plaza hotel and the st. regis can be seen distinctly; the times building is also vaguely outlined. in the daytime the sight is commonplace; but after the sun, like an enormous ball of fire, has dipped behind the city line back of the streets in the fifties, the scene becomes inspiring to a painter.

the shadows, full of greens and purples, cover as with a charitable veil all the ugly details of the river front; the skyline becomes darker, as if cut out with monster scissors; the sky appears more resplendent and luminous with gorgeous tints, until the[pg 78] fiery blaze slowly dies out, and bluish tints, gray and purple predominate; and then the city lights, those on the bridge and in the metropolitan tower, shimmer like innumerable stars.

sometimes with a clear sky, sometimes in fog, in a snow storm, in rain or in clear moonlight, every night for ten months i have watched an ever recurring picturesque metamorphosis.

through the north window i have watched the dawn come up behind the queensboro bridge, and seen the sun appear like an enormous japanese lantern of pure vermilion—a sight to gladden the heart of a claude monet.

boats pass constantly by, day and night; they are the one great source of amusement of the patients. the little, swift-sailing tug-boats announce their passage by angry and piercing whistles; the graceful yachts of the multi-millionaires sound melodious notes; the large excursion boats announce[pg 79] themselves by their stronger and more ringing whistlings; the largest ones, on their way to portland, are heard in the distance grunting like sonorous leviathans.

but the most amusing of all is the tiny boat that plies between the dock of the penitentiary and the foot of 54th street. the distance is about two or three minutes, but this diminutive craft goes two or three blocks up the river and comes back down the same number of blocks, to show that if it tried it really could navigate on the high seas.

should any vessel larger than this microcosm be seen from a distance trying to pass our little boat, it would start a series of angry, piercing toots, repeated in quick succession. we used to wonder and laugh—oh, we laugh, even in prison; how else could we live?—at the impertinence of this minnow of the river of new york, until we discovered that after a large boat like the yale passed by, the waves left in its wake almost[pg 80] upset the little craft, and it took all the efforts of the brave pilot to bring it tossing like a champagne cork on top of the waves, back safe to the dock.

in summer time the excursion boats, returning home with crowded decks, with all the lights lit, and the band playing and the passengers singing, "the island of blackwell," make us home-sick and pensive with longing for life and the world we are shut away from.

iii

the trusty in charge of the hospital is getting nervous as the day of his release approaches. a week before the release, no matter how disciplined and peaceful the prisoner may have been, he starts getting cranky and impertinent to the keepers. he acts like a man under great stress, and when he is disturbed he turns savagely round like an angry dog.

[pg 81]

the old trusty acted like a drunkard, talking and laughing incessantly, and we thought it was for joy at the thought of his near release. but the real reason was soon discovered. the old thief, fritz, had been operated on, and when the night orderly was ordered by the doctor to change the sick man's bandages every fifteen minutes, he bribed the old trusty with a long drink of whiskey to do the work for him.

the spectacle of the official orderly trying to do his duty was intensely amusing. in all the years of his work he had slept and snored peacefully and undisturbed. when the time came to change the bandages, he uncovered the patient and began gingerly removing the soaked bandages, holding them with two fingers, at a safe distance, and walking on tiptoe, as if expecting the whole thing to explode. when he saw the terrible, gaping wound he dropped everything back, saying: "i can't do it, it makes me sick!" and woke up the trusty to do the work for[pg 82] him. the next day he reported sick, and he never showed up again until he heard that the patient was dead.

in the meanwhile the old trusty left and i had to attend to the sick man. every fifteen minutes of twenty interminable days and nights i had to watch, and nurse, and answer the calls of that cranky old man. the wound was ghastly. the surgeons had made an incision twelve inches long right down into the bladder, wherein they had stuck a thick rubber tube.

the sight was sickening, the work exhausting and thankless, and if i had not known that the patient had only a few days to live, i think i would have applied for a job in the coal gang.

on the twentieth night, at about twelve o'clock, i was awakened by the moans of the dying man, who was calling in a faint voice. his face was flushed and it seemed as if all the blood had gone to his head; but[pg 83] he seemed suddenly to turn deadly white, and he lay back still.

a young boy sleeping next to him hid his head under the bed clothes in fright. i was sent to notify the doctor upstairs.

the young doctor declared him dead, and turning to me ordered me to dress him.

i looked at him puzzled and asked: "dress him up in his striped suit?"

"no," answered the doctor, smiling, "put the shroud on and make him ready for the morgue."

"but i have never dressed a corpse in my life and would not know how to go about it," i protested. so the doctor kindly volunteered to teach me.

first he closed the dead man's eyes; then we put on the shroud, which looked like a night-shirt with frills at the sleeves, and attached to it a conical fool's cap to cover his head; then his hands and feet were tied separately.

when we had done, we laid the body on[pg 84] an empty bed in the smaller hospital, very much to the dismay and terror of the three consumptives who slept there. but they kicked up such a row that they were allowed to sleep in our section.

the next morning when i went on an errand into the next room i stopped to gaze on the body of fritz. the change that had taken place was startling. during the few months that fritz had passed in the hospital, although disciplined and silent like most old convicts, he always wore a peculiarly shifty, sneering expression on his reddish face. now it was wax white, the eyelids had opened, and the pale blue eyes were staring at me with a peaceful, angelic expression. for an instant i gasped at the thought that he might have come back to life, and i called out: "fritz! fritz!" but no answer came, and only the gentle, inscrutable smile persisted. i touched his cheek. it was cold and hard. but i could not explain the almost miraculous change in the expression of[pg 85] the face. suddenly it dawned upon me that death had released the unclean spirit, and left the body to go back to mother earth as clean as it had been conceived.

soon four convicts came into the room; one, a gangster, with a broken nose, and beady, black eyes, asked me: "where is the stiff?" as in prison language "stiff" is also the name used for newspapers, i looked at him foolishly and answered that i had none. he added in explanation: "i mean the guy that croaked last night."

neither the keeper nor the convicts relished the post-prandial funeral.... death had come so suddenly and informally, and had left his victim in the enemy's camp, to be carried to the morgue, and later to be buried on a convict's island without benefit of clergy.

iv

before the old thief died the old trusty had gone, and i had to take his place. i did[pg 86] so only with great reluctance, and with many misgivings as to my peace of mind and body.

i had noticed how the convicts nagged and harassed the old trusty with insults and petty, malicious persecutions to revenge themselves for his greed and his authoritative, arrogant manner towards them.

i realized that life might be made unbearable for me, and that i might be forced to go downstairs to the cells before i had completed my cure.

when the old trusty received fruit he had sold it promptly to the convicts for money. he asked five cents for an apple, ten cents for an orange, so much for tobacco or for a pipe, another price for suspenders, handkerchiefs, or whatever he might have to sell or barter.

after his release the italian consumptive said that he had got only half portions of his special food that had been sent in for him,[pg 87] as the trusty cut the portions in half in order to sell the remainder to others.

i unconsciously sensed that the only successful method of taming the ferocious, revengeful natures of the convicts was by kindness and patience; by treating them as friends in misfortune, and not as enemies or inferiors.

when i received tobacco or fruit i divided it among the men who seldom if ever had any visits or mail; the magazines were distributed among them and later were carried downstairs from cell to cell, until the whole prison had read them. to my intense surprise, english, german, italian—even "high brow" magazines like the mercure de france and la revue were eagerly demanded and read by some of these strangely intellectual convicts.

the men who had considered me an aristocrat, and nicknamed me "the count," soon began to discover that my sympathy was for their troubles, their unhappiness, their [pg 88]helplessness, and not for the warden and the keepers.

i was fully repaid for my attitude. i was made their confidant, their confessor, the judge of their squabbles, a peacemaker and a go-between; when trouble and punishment were in sight, when some particularly unclean and revolting duty was to be performed, the convicts always asked to relieve me of it; and it came to pass that after a while i could devote most of my time to reading, and only attended to the less manual work, such as acting as assistant to the doctor.

among the patients there was a one-legged negro who was suffering from a painful and unmentionable disease. his big lips, square jaw and scowling countenance made him resemble a big, black bull-dog. even the keepers were in awe of him. in a fit of danger one day before the old trusty left he very nearly smashed the old man's skull with his crutch.

[pg 89]

the first morning that i was left in charge of the hospital i felt some trepidation as to the outcome of my policy of kindness.

the test came quickly. during lunch the negro ordered me, in a loud, angry voice, to bring him something. i went over to his bed and told him gently i was surprised that he had forgotten his good manners; that he had evidently made a mistake in thinking that i was either his keeper or his valet; that we were both convicts, both in trouble, and should treat each other like self-respecting men, helpfully and considerately.

he looked at me with a frown on his face, as he was not quite certain whether i was deriding him; but soon the frown disappeared, and then i said to him: "now, davis, what can i do for you?" he answered in a gentle and friendly voice: "excuse me, mister. i always been treated like a dog. will you please bring me a spoon?"

from that day on he was tamed; he became more talkative, and even polite. [pg 90]during the long winter evenings he broke the morose silences to tell us of his adventures, and to relate the story of his tragic and terrible life.

he had lost his leg in a railroad accident; and then he had spent several years in hospitals and more years in legal fights to try to collect a few hundred dollars which were never paid. then, jobless, hungry, destitute, desperate, he had begun to steal. always unlucky and awkward, he was invariably caught, arrested, and sentenced to jail. twenty years of his life he had spent in jails and prisons all over the country, and he had even had a taste of the horrible chain gangs of georgia. he described the punishments he had to undergo because of his inability to work in prison shops; the weeks passed in the "coolers"; the beatings, the tortures he had undergone at the hands of savage, ruthless wardens.

it was an awful, an almost incredible story! it seemed somehow impossible that[pg 91] a human being could go through such an ordeal, such harrowing brutalities, and come out alive and tell the story.

one day he said, "i ain't no good since my accident. never had a chance to learn a trade or be honest. if i don't come across to the 'bulls' they send me back to the 'pen' for a year. i'm sick of this life. next time i'll do something that'll send me to sing sing for life. this dump is rotten. i'd rather go up the river for two years than stay in here for six months."

v

the orderly asks me to attend to the consumptive, as he hates to do it himself. i have to bring him his food, i have to clean the cup which he uses as a cuspidor, and be careful to wash it in a solution of carbolic acid, and wash my hands each time afterwards.

[pg 92]

the poor boy flies into uncontrollable fits of anger over trifles; then his face becomes almost a livid green, and he seems to be foaming at the mouth—little flecks of foam and saliva—like a vicious horned toad. when in that state i usually speak to him in a low, monotonous voice, hoping to quiet him; and after a while he becomes calmer, his features relax, his body slowly unbends, and he finally slips under the bed sheets, going to sleep as if the effort had completely exhausted him.

it used to remind me of the snake charmers in india, taming angry and hissing cobras by the monotonous sound of a flute. suddenly the hoods would fold, the terrible fanged mouths close, and the snakes would wag their heads slowly to and fro, with little red tongues playfully wiggling in sign of delight until placed, harmless and hypnotized, in a capacious basket.

i do not know if it was my arguments or my voice that attained the object with my[pg 93] consumptive patient, but the result was evident after i had talked to the poor boy for a few minutes.

in great excitement he confessed to me one morning that he had made up his mind to commit suicide if his fine was not remitted, and he was not released after his one year term. i told the sister of mercy of his threat and she promised to see to it that the judge would remit the fine. when the day of his release came, much to my relief, he was freed.

i have reached some interesting conclusions as a result of my observations of the ways of the convicts and their attitudes towards one another.

life in a prison, under ignorant and often vicious wardens and keepers, although seemingly leveling the men's standard to the most degrading and contemptible measure allowed by law, does not eradicate the convict's idea of class. a class, or perhaps it[pg 94] would be better to say a caste system, exists here, as in all the jails all over the world, as well and as subtly graded as social life in manhattan, london, or benares.

the camorra, of naples, originated in the jails of the old kingdom of naples during the rule of the spaniards and bourbons, being invented by the convicts to protect themselves against the greed of the prison authorities. later it branched out and was organized outside. the same holds true in america, in the sense that convicts in prison plot and plan crimes before their release, and agree to continue their acquaintance and work on the outside. boys and young men serving their first term are easy prey for older and wiser criminals.

although the ideas of caste in prison are not the same, and are not formulated according to religious, financial, intellectual or aristocratic standards, nevertheless the principle is the same. in most societies the leaders are people with "blood," money, or [pg 95]privileges of some sort. in india the high caste brahmin is born to his station, and no amount of money or intellectual attainment can make one if he is not born to it.

in prison the ethical standard is as simple as the cave dweller's, or as that of savage tribes. caste among convicts is a sop to their vanity, to their outraged and primitive sense of justice; society made them outcasts, and they retaliate by creating a society of outcasts wherein they strive to become the leaders, the greatest, the bravest, the cleverest among the pariahs; and like the pariahs they consider other castes outside as lower than their own.

convicts admire physical prowess and brute strength, fearlessness, "nerve"; they look up to those who commit deeds of violence, such as gang men, bandits, burglars; men who will take their chances at killing or being killed rather than be arrested.

next to these in the order of caste come the more intelligent but less courageous[pg 96] types of crooks, such as confidence men, forgers, gamblers, dishonest bankers, embezzlers, lawyers, politicians. they represent the intellectual aristocracy of crime, to be approved of but not to be put on the same plane as the former.

to the third caste, even less brave, less cunning, belong the sneak thieves, the pickpockets, repeaters, bums; marking the border line on its downward course with such types as wife beaters, wandering tramps, bums, and dope fiends who steal only to satisfy their irresistible cravings for drugs. those individuals who live on white slavery, professional degenerates, and their like, are ridiculed and nagged by the upper castes; the effeminate "sissies" are also a constant butt for the jests and abuse not only of convicts, but of keepers as well.

on the lowest rung of the social ladder stand the stool pigeons and the detectives who are so unlucky as to be sent to prison. these latter are hated, abominated, [pg 97]despised, by their fellow prisoners with all the intensity, ferocity, and implacable hatred of which such men are capable. it sometimes happens, in spite of the vigilance of the keepers, that they are murdered in prison. in the minds of the other convicts these stool pigeons and detectives are their most dangerous foes, because of the intimate knowledge they possess of the technique of crime, and because of the similarity of their ways of living.

vi

the one-legged, bull-faced negro in the hospital was watching my assistant, who, of his own volition, and without being ordered to do it, was laboriously polishing the brass chandeliers hanging from the ceiling.

"that boy ain't no thief," he remarked philosophically. "a thief is a thief 'cause he won't work, in or out of jail."

a crook will waste many days, nay, sometimes weeks and months, and take infinite[pg 98] pains to plan a robbery, the result of which he imagines is getting something for nothing. sometimes the prize is nothing, sometimes it is considerable; and then it is dissipated in gambling, dope, and riotous living. the fruit of legitimate work he considers a meagre result of foolish painstaking effort.

the mental calibre of these men is similar to that of naughty, precocious children, or of savages; they have streaks of yellow and streaks of insanity; they often have a strong will, but no morality; a keen intelligence, but no principle; a purpose, but no good or high-minded ambition. almost without exception they are gamblers; they lack imagination, but they are possessed of an over-weening, childish vanity; they have great stubbornnesses, but no sense of proportion or responsibility.

their ideals are wholly physical; they love fine clothes, jewelry, good food; they admire the fair sex, they crave money for all the[pg 99] physical results it will bring. they are very proud of their criminal successes, of their reputations as "tough guys," bad men with terrible records, fierce and relentless in their loathing for "squealers" and "bulls."

they consider their gallery of immortals as unique, and never sufficiently appreciated by those outside their world of life.

a complete lack of imagination prevents them from foreseeing the futility and the inevitable result of their lonesome battle against the united forces of society.

an almost unanimous characteristic is their cheap sentimentality, but at bottom they are nearly always kind hearted. they have, too, a keen sense of justice, and often they are willing to admit that they deserve their punishment; but they rebel savagely against the injustices, the inhuman treatment, the tortures, inflicted by prison authorities. it is the helplessness of these prisoners, and the indifference of the public towards them and their fate, that make prison[pg 100] authorities so cowardly and brutal. a healthy publicity in prison matters, and a more charitable and sympathetic attitude on the part of the public, would very soon change the attitude of the wardens and the keepers.

vii

in the beginning the reticence of the convicts puzzled me, even after i knew that they regarded me as a political prisoner and not as a stool pigeon. only after a long acquaintance, and then unwillingly, would they admit shamefacedly that their living was acquired by criminal methods. more than any other argument this proved to me that their criminal pride is only a bluff, their pose as "tough guys" only a pretence, and the supposed excitement of their profession only a misdirected and false energy. their vainglorious, strutting behaviour is really the result of the insulting, [pg 101]demoralizing, contemptuous attitude of the prison authorities, which seems to say: "we are virtuous men; you are only crooks and bums. we are paid by the authorities and the state to punish you and to break your spirit."

the convicts believe that few of the keepers are virtuous or honest men, and the constant revelations of prison graft only arouse their envy, and the galling thought that they are the helpless victims of a higher type of crooks. in seeming self-defense, therefore, they assume their attitude of revenge toward society, of stubbornness and pride and defiance toward the keepers. they soon discover, if they have not already learned, that humanity, charity, and justice are not to be expected from their oppressors; and that our justice is not christian, nor scientific nor human; but only vindictive, wasteful, idiotic and indeed blind. and so in despair these misguided men become more vicious, hardened and corrupt than they were before prison took a hand in their shaping.

[pg 102]

a prison term, which is supposed to reform them and to break their wills, is only a school for criminality, a higher school or university for the underworld, where confidences are exchanged, new alliances are formed, diseases and homosexual habits contracted. the spirit is tempered for future criminal records, instead of being broken, and the body strengthened for coming excesses.

the line of convicts which upon their release streams out of our prisons, is like a large sewer emptying its filth back into society; slowly corrupting, demoralizing and polluting everything it touches.

the stool pigeons are feared by the convicts as well as by the keepers. they keep the warden informed of the mysterious happenings, among the prisoners, and the illicit relations between the keepers and the convicts. in their turn the stool pigeons are rewarded with privileges, such for instance[pg 103] as not being punished for infractions of the rules, which would mean the terrible "cooler" to the ordinary convict. the wardens' greatest fear is that letters written by convicts relating some of the outrageous occurrences of every day in prison may reach the columns of a newspaper and bring about unpleasant notoriety, and even a more disagreeable investigation.

on very rare occasions some angry convict will write to a newspaper relating his unpleasant experiences, but the rule is that the sooner one forgets having been behind the bars the better it is.

a prisoner caught sending communications to the outside world by underground methods, without having his message read by the office, is punished with a few days in the dreaded "cooler."

this is what the "cooler" is: the convict is divested of all clothes except his underwear, and he is then taken to a cell which contains only a bucket and a wooden plank[pg 104] on the floor as a place of rest and sleep. the cell is hermetically closed by a door which keeps out all light and air. a little ventilation, just enough to keep him from suffocation, comes through a small hole in the wall. the darkness is like a solid mass; it is so intense that the prisoner cannot see his hand near his face. every twenty-four hours the cell is opened and the convict is given a thin slice of bread and about a thimble full of water, just enough to keep him alive. this performance is repeated according to the length of the punishment, that is to say, the door is opened only once in twenty-four hours, to permit the giving of food and water and the emptying of the bucket, whether the prisoner stays in that awful place one day or twenty-one. many prisoners have been known to stay in the cooler for weeks at a time.

after having lived in complete darkness for a long time, coming out into broad daylight causes untold agonies, and very often[pg 105] has tragic effects upon the eyes and eyesight of the prisoner; usually they have to be sent to the hospital to be treated for inflammation of the eyes or for partial blindness. men kept long in the cooler sometimes become driveling idiots; others go violently insane and have to be sent to matteawan for life.

the punishments are all inflicted by the warden, on the word of a stool pigeon, of a keeper, or of a man in charge of the workshops who seems to be a contractor of almost unlimited power in the prison, second only to the warden.

viii

the prison authorities are not supposed to abuse, vilify or use blasphemous language towards the prisoners; it is forbidden under penalty of the law.

of course, as far as the convict is concerned, such a law or rule is a dead letter.[pg 106] should a prisoner protest to the warden against vilification or profanity, he would only be laughed at; and should he insist on making his complaint to the prison commissioner, his letter would never be sent, and his persecution would begin at once.

the other day a quarrel broke out between two prisoners. a keeper tried to stop it by hitting one of the offenders with his stick, and at the same time calling him an unmentionable name. the convict retaliated with a punch on the jaw that floored the keeper.

the convict was punished with two days in the "cooler," but the offending keeper was not reprimanded by the warden. and when the man came out of the "cooler," the doctor found him suffering from an inflammation of the eyes which kept him in the hospital for two months.

when he asked for writing materials he was told that the punishment meted out to him automatically eliminated all the privileges of a convict; and he was not permitted[pg 107] to write home or to receive visitors for two months. the electric light in his cell was cut off and he was not allowed to read books or magazines, newspapers being always barred.

in the beginning of my stay in prison the use of profane language was, to put it mildly, quite prevalent; but it became rare soon after the election of mayor gaynor. even their sticks were taken away from the keepers for a while. and it was discovered that discipline did not suffer in the least from the lack either of foul language or the stick.

ix

the food, brought up by a convict from the keepers' kitchen to the hospital, is distributed by us thrice a day, on a long table covered by white linoleum and standing in the middle of the room.

we have to clean the bathroom and the[pg 108] spittoons, sweep the floor, empty the garbage can, get the ice, make the beds, give the medicine, take the temperatures, mark the charts, help the doctor, besides giving and receiving the laundry—in short, the immediate and dirty work of the hospital is in our hands. the one happy hour of the day is at nine in the morning, when we are privileged to empty the garbage can at the docks on the brooklyn side or go to a nearby oven to burn its contents.

for a few minutes, while filling a pail with water from the river to wash out the empty garbage can, we watch the tug boats, the canal boats, passenger boats or yachts pass by, and the people on board always greet us with a wave of the hand or a merry shout. but never have the passengers of the aristocratic yachts even condescended to look at us.

no matter if it rains or snows, or if fog hangs over the whole landscape, the few minutes alone, untrammelled by the [pg 109]presence of a keeper or the crisscross pattern of the bars, make us feel as if we were really free men; then we march reluctantly towards the ice house to the big chest containing the supply of ice for the different departments. the ice is cut and put into the empty and clean garbage can. when there are no keepers around we linger to talk to the "skin" gang, which is composed of a few convicts whose duty it is to peel potatoes, onions, carrots and cabbage for the kitchen.

it is a great place for the exchange of news of the day—of the gossip of new arrivals, the punishments, the petty incidents or the headliners of the most important events, the opinions of the convicts about the goodness or badness of the keepers; in short it is a sort of clearing house for information as to whatever is happening in the penitentiary.

one of the men in charge of the gang is a blond, powerful, fine-looking convict of german parentage. he belongs to the[pg 110] high caste among the prisoners, and shows it by his manner toward the lesser castes.

in the beginning he answered my questions in monosyllables, but after several months of daily intercourse, when he had thoroughly satisfied himself of my status, my attitude, and my antecedents, and when he learned that i was an aristocrat only in thought but a democrat in manners, he became talkative, and piece by piece, incident by incident, he told me of his life, until i was able to construct it almost as a whole.

he was the son of honest parents, who had started him in life as a skilled workingman. he lost his position during a strike, and one of his children died of starvation. fearing that his other child would meet a similar fate, and seeing no prospect of another job, he started on his career as a burglar. being a skilled mechanic, he found it easy to fashion tools for his trade, which, as he claimed, brought immediate and satisfactory results.

[pg 111]

x

one morning as a young convict was walking on an errand towards the shops, a letter dropped from his coat onto the ground in the yard. the warden, who was walking in the same direction, not far behind, picked up the letter and shouted to the man to stop. the convict turned back and appeared confused when he saw the warden with his letter in his hands. the warden flayed him with his heavy sarcasm, upbraided him for violating the rules about writing letters, and leered at him in malicious anticipation of the punishment to come. finally he condescended to read the letter, so as to fit the punishment with a few quotations from the letter.

but strange to relate, after he had read the letter, his frown disappeared, and with it his terrible anger. in a voice which had turned from a broken falsetto of anger to a gentle, low pitch, he inquired where the[pg 112] young man was working, how many more months he had yet to serve, and finally asked if he had a preference for any other place besides his present assignment. the young convict reluctantly admitted that he would prefer to work in the keeper's kitchen.

the same day he was transferred to his new duties, which are considered privileged by convicts because of the liberty and the better food they afford. the young convict, being disgusted with the prison fare, and the monotonous, unhealthy work in his shop, with a cunning almost machiavellian, had hit upon the original and brilliant idea of writing a letter to an imaginary friend in which he praised the penitentiary and lauded the warden in fulsome, enthusiastic, unstinted praise. he dropped the letter purposely, knowing that the warden was only a few paces behind him. the acting was done to perfection, the trick worked without a hitch, and our youthful ulysses got his job for a laudatory song.

[pg 113]

the tale went round the prison, and although it made the warden the laughing stock of the penitentiary, he never discovered the deception.

the warden, unlike the deputy warden, is very much disliked by the convicts. among themselves they call him the "old hyena." convicts as well as visitors all seem to be united in accusing him of brutality, coarseness, and intemperance of speech. visitors who have to support themselves with their daily work find that all kinds of difficulties are put in their way. they have to get a card at the commissioner's office at 20th street, then they must take a special boat, and when they arrive at the prison they are forced to wait an hour before they are searched.

thus nearly a whole day, from nine in the morning till two in the afternoon, is given just to see the object of all the trouble, and then, separated by a thick screen of wire, they are allowed only fifteen minutes.

[pg 114]

under the rules visitors are permitted only once a month, but twice by a card from the prison commissioner.

xi

one day a poor italian woman, after overcoming all the difficulties in actually getting to the gates of the prison, happened to arrive a few minutes late. the iron gates were banged in her face and she was ordered away.

she had come a long way to see her son, and she could not tear herself away from the neighborhood of the prison. she was poorly dressed, without even a hat. tears were streaming down her cheeks. in her ignorance she looked up to the barred windows of our hospital imagining that it contained her son. she waved her hand, smiling through her tears, hoping—perhaps thinking—that she could communicate to him that little, distant greeting. then a keeper came[pg 115] out, shook a stick at her and ordered her away.

she went back to the docks and onto the little boat that was to carry her back to new york. as the boat moved away she continued to wave a red bandanna handkerchief until she disappeared from view.

miss m—— came to see me one day but she was refused admittance because i had had another visitor in the same month. the warden asked her: "what do you want to see him for? are you his wife?" "no," answered miss m——, "i wouldn't visit him if he was my husband."

the warden is very punctilious and severe towards infractions of the rules relating to visits and visitors. his strict regard for the rules, however, did not deter him from allowing two detectives, sent by agents of the mexican government, to visit me without my permission; he even placed another detective on the line next to another visitor so that he could overhear our conversation.

[pg 116]

i had written to a friend that, as it was not only unwise, but impossible in my situation to put on paper certain matters of importance and of grave concern to me, i would wait for the day of his visit to communicate it orally.

on that day a red-headed detective was placed next in line to my visitor, ostensibly to talk to a convict; but the prisoner told me afterwards that he did not know the alleged visitor and that he had never seen him before.

i had to whisper my message in french so as to prevent the spy from overhearing and understanding it.

this proved to me that my letters were copied by somebody in the warden's office, and communicated to the american lawyers representing the mexican government; and also that somebody was powerful enough politically to give orders in the commissioner's office, which in its turn placed the detective at my visitor's side.

[pg 117]

but when two newspaper men asked permission to see me i was informed that i would not be permitted to stay in the hospital if i allowed reporters to visit me.

one day i heard the warden upbraid a girl who had come for the first time to see her brother. not being used to such ill-mannered treatment she began to weep, and that of course only made matters worse.

half an hour later the commissioner of prisons arrived on a visit of inspection. in the hospital he called the warden to task for something—but the warden was as mute as an oyster. together they went into the consumptive ward, where the warden began extolling the quality and quantity of the fresh air circulating in the room. the commissioner turned round and snapped impatiently: "and that's about all they ever get!" but the warden never said a word. this man, this mighty czar of the penitentiary, who is so brutal and so insolent to the convicts, so arrogant to the keepers, and[pg 118] so uncouth to the visitors, in the presence of the man who could take his good job away from him, was as meek as a lamb.

a keeper who knew the warden well remarked: "he has the soul of a valet, insulting to his inferiors and fawning to his superiors."

xii

about a dozen women convicts come twice a week to scrub the hardwood floor of the hospital. the majority of them are colored; the white women are either old and faded, or young and dissipated-looking. very few of them are either refined or good-looking. petty larceny is the crime for which most of them are sent to the prison.

two negro women, young and rather tough-looking, are scrubbing the floor. they are in prison for having held up and robbed a man in the streets of new york. the man never recovered his $800.

[pg 119]

as the convicts always attempt to joke and to flirt with the scrubbing women, they are usually ordered into the bathroom until the work is done, with the exception of the bedridden patients.

i discovered that quite a correspondence goes on between the men and women convicts. a young convict became quite enamored of a blonde, sporty-looking girl, and they took great risks to communicate their love notes. i was made the confidante in their love affair. some of the passages read thus: "i love you, i love you, where did youse put the tobacco?" ... "i dreams of you day and night.... get me some butter." ... "you was the best looker i ever seen.... don't forget to put the matches at the foot of the stairs."

the women do not get the weekly ration of tobacco allowed to the men, and as a consequence they must beg tobacco and matches from the men.

all the house work, such as making beds,[pg 120] sweeping, cooking and waiting on table, in the house of the warden, in the apartment of the deputy warden, and in the dormitories of the keepers and matrons, is performed by the women convicts.

an old irish woman while in prison took such loving care of the children of a former warden that whenever her time was up and she was discharged, her weakness was encouraged, and she was even purposely made drunk, then arrested and sentenced to the penitentiary again as an old offender, year after year, until the children of the warden grew big enough to take care of themselves.

before the present system of having a physician live in the prison came into vogue, doctors visited the patients once a day; the surgeons came over only for the operations. the operating room is always shown with great pride to visitors, but never the "cooler."

'twas told that one night, in the earlier period, when there was no resident physician,[pg 121] a woman convict startled the prison with piercing cries. she was in the throes of child-birth. the doctor and the warden being absent, the matrons did not dare to open the cell. later a young doctor from the city hospital was called in. he peered through the bars, then turned and declared that the woman would be all right in the morning. when the cell door was opened next day the woman was found unconscious and the child was dead, strangled or suffocated.

the other day i went for the first time into the women's section to take some medicines and carry away our laundry. the women's section is under the same roof as the old prison wherein i passed the first two nights. a wall divides them, but the cells and the system of tiers are the same.

the cells measure about 3 by 7 feet, with gray, damp, greasy, massive walls, without any ventilation.

as i was looking around i noticed many women sitting in their cells, some working[pg 122] outside, sewing or knitting, others sweeping or mopping the tiers or the floor.

my attention was attracted by two women with babies in their arms. a third, a young, quite delicate, fine-looking girl convict, was sitting on a chair sewing. near her, as if afraid to move, stood a little girl three or four years old, with dark, curly hair, red cheeks, and big, black serious eyes. she looked at me with the sad, wistful smile of some of da vinci's women.

my imagination carried me back to the trial room where the little girl had stood near her mother to hear the sentence; i thought of how she had shared with her the cell in the tombs; how she had been carried to the penitentiary in the "black maria," with her mother shackled to another convict; how every night she slept in the narrow, dark, foul cell, barred and locked; how she ate the prison food, and remained all day behind gray walls, without seeing the sun[pg 123] or the sky or any flowers—only striped convicts, matrons and steel bars.

the innocent child must have seen all these strange happenings, and wondered what it all meant. and some day, when she is grown to womanhood, or motherhood, she will remember it all, she will know that she lived with her mother in a prison. she will recall the infamy, the degradation—and the shame of it will be branded on her soul as long as she lives.

xiii

never a month passes but some convict is brought up to the hospital to be kept under observation to determine whether he is insane or faking insanity.

the warden and the keepers always suspect prisoners of faking sickness or feigning insanity. as a rule the convicts do not like to stay very long in the hospital, as they are not allowed to smoke, and the time is[pg 124] very slow and tedious without any kind of work.

a small, stocky, bearded, wild-looking italian was brought over from the tombs before his trial. he would not touch food, and the tombs keepers were afraid that he might die on their hands.

it took six men and one doctor, sitting on his arms, legs and stomach, to feed him a glass of milk by a rubber tube through his nostrils. it was a nauseating performance, and luckily it was not repeated.

we have to dress and undress him every morning and night. about six o'clock every morning he starts walking up and down from the bathroom to the bay window, a distance of about twenty-five paces; and he continues it all day long, without rest or pause, until nine o'clock at night. every fifteen minutes or so he calls out in a sing-song, southern dialect: "oh! giorgio washington! warden of this great prison! my dear wife! my beautiful little children!"[pg 125] and then he looks up at the clock and adds: "and the holy ghost of the clock!"

after he has been put to bed he covers his head with the bed sheets, but every hour he sticks his head out and like a cuckoo bird in a swiss clock he repeats his monotonous story.

everybody is kept awake, the patients as well as the keepers. the first night an old keeper who was on watch tried to hush him up, but without success; so he stood at the head of the bed watching for the moment when the man would uncover his head again and sing out.

we waited breathlessly, looking forward to the expected minute. suddenly the head appeared and the old keeper swiftly hit it a stinging whack with a wet towel, which cut the "giorgio washington" in two; the head went right back under the bed sheets for the rest of the night.

after two weeks the man was finally sent back to the tombs. although he had eaten[pg 126] only once in that time, it took half a dozen sturdy men to dress him up and turn him over to the sheriff.

once in a moment of lucidity he asked me to get him some food, for which he was willing to pay. then he begged me to write to his wife, and when the letter was written and addressed, he became mad again and tore it to little bits, and resumed his peripatetic, insane round.

a young pole, about twenty-five years old, is brought over from the workhouse. his face is blue and his lips are bleeding from blows. we have to dress and undress him also like a child. whenever food is brought, and he is told to eat, he weeps; whenever anybody speaks to him he weeps; and he whines and carries on like a frightened baby in a strange place. he has the body of a powerful longshoreman and the mentality of a new born baby.

there is a convict here afflicted with [pg 127]suicidal mania. those in the hospital who are not insane have been told to watch him and prevent him from harming himself. he is the same man who tried to drown himself by jumping into the river. we have to keep the medicine closet locked and the bread knife hidden.

one night he waited until everybody was asleep, then, sneaking into the bathroom, he took a bottle of medicine which had been left standing on top of the ice box, and gulped a great quantity before the bottle was torn from his lips. he was quite sick for two days. luckily the bottle only contained "cascara sagrada," a powerful cathartic.

another time he tried even to push the razor into his throat while a convict barber was shaving him. and yet, every time the barred door is locked or unlocked, he seems to be in mortal fear that somebody is coming to shoot him.

the other evening he sat near me while i was reading and suddenly he leaned over[pg 128] and, with quivering nostrils and in a hoarse terrified whisper, asked me, in german, if i was his friend.

"certainly," i answered. "what can i do for you?"

"they are going to shoot me to-night!" he said. "get me the bread knife so that i can cut my throat, or some poison to kill myself."

i tried to pacify him, but he was in a state of abject terror. so, thinking it best to do so, i offered him what he imagined to be poison. he drank it quickly and with great relish, waiting impatiently, with gleaming eyes and a sickly, malicious grin, for the death that was to come. but death did not come; the medicine was only a strong dose of salts. this second cathartic potion cured him effectively of his suicidal mania, for thus he came finally to the conclusion that all the alleged poisons in the hospital were only snares and delusions.

after a few months two men with papers[pg 129] came over from the asylum of matteawan and plied him with questions, his answers to which one of the men wrote down. the poor german cobbler was scared stiff, answering the queries as if his life depended on his replies.

among other things, he was asked why he had jumped into the river.

"to learn shwimming," was his quick retort.

while we were getting him ready to be taken to the insane asylum he was blubbering and sputtering, frightened and inarticulate; and the tears streamed down his round, fat, childish face.

xiv

the hospital has become a sort of observatory for the insane. but all the convicts who show signs of insanity are not brought up to the hospital.

confinement in the cells without work or[pg 130] exercise from saturday afternoon to monday morning, and the punishment in the "cooler," are responsible for most of the cases of insanity.

when the supposedly insane convicts do not try to commit suicide, or do not keep the prison section awake at night by their yells, they are usually kept in solitary confinement in a cell, sometimes for weeks at a time, until at last they are visited by doctors and declared insane.

an italian peddler who claimed to have been sentenced unjustly for buying stolen copper wire, was found within a few weeks after his arrival at the island with two tin cups in his cell. one cup had been left behind by a released convict, the other belonged to him. although he could not have known of the infraction of the rules, he was dragged to the wall by a keeper. when the warden came to dispense "justice," he heard the keeper's story and then asked the prisoner to explain. the man tried to explain in[pg 131] his broken english that he had found the cup in his cell; but the warden cut the gordian knot impatiently by saying: "none of your damned excuses! two days in the cooler!"

the result can be imagined. the unfortunate peddler, frantic already from the idea of having been unjustly sentenced, and worried sick over the fate of his helpless wife and children, could not stand this other bolt from the sky; this punishment for something he did not understand, in the form of terrible torture in a pitch dark cell, without food or water, for an infraction of unknown rules; and he broke down completely under the strain. when he came out of the "cooler" he was, as the keeper declared, "completely bug-house."

for some time we were kept busy watching the peddler; even his shoes had to be taken from under his bed as he tried to knock the heels into his skull.

much to my dismay, i was put to sleep near his bed. half a dozen times he tried[pg 132] to strangle himself, and on the morning of his release, while i was asleep with my back to him, he jumped on my bed like a cat, and with his two powerful hands tried to choke me to death. convicts came to my rescue; and when he was asked the reason for his attempt on my life, he calmly declared that it was because i had signed the warrant for his death at nine o'clock in the morning.

when we took him downstairs later, he refused to change his striped suit for his street clothes, and shouted that he had made up his mind to die in the "cooler" at nine o'clock. his wife had to be brought over from the 54th street side, and she induced him to dress and go home.

a religious maniac was put under our care a week before his release. his particular delusion was that he was preaching in the desert. when a keeper approached to silence him, he lifted his right arm and, with eyes popping out of their sockets and a terrified look on his face, he shouted in a [pg 133]stentorian voice: "vade retro satanas!" ("get thee behind me, satan!") "i say, for it is written, thou shalt worship the lord thy god, and him only shalt thou serve!"

in his sane moments he was silent and morose; and when told about his strange behaviour, he answered that he knew by the sudden rising of heat to his head when a fit was coming.

his religious sermons, which kept us awake several hours in the night, were interrupted by excursions under beds and tables, while he barked like a dog at any one who tried to stop him. he was then impersonating the champion bulldog, rodney stone.

another addition to our collection of the insane was a giant negro; but fortunately the expression of his derangement was only before meals, when he knelt at the table, saying grace, but refusing all food.

even matteawan sent us a man who was supposed to be cured. he was a muscular,[pg 134] low-browed german sailor who spoke bad, ungrammatical german and worse english. an accident to his leg brought him upstairs, and when the doctor undressed him we saw that his whole body was covered with blue and red tattoos, primitive and childish drawings of nude figures, which reminded me of some of matisse's masterpieces.

he asked us every few hours in a terrified whisper if we did not see the furniture and the walls rock as if in an earthquake. at night he would point a long finger to the ceiling, where he claimed to see a small opening out of which a keeper thrust his head, abusing him with vile names, and shouting that in a short time he would be electrocuted.

otherwise he was inoffensive; and sometimes he would amuse us by relating his adventures with the women in matteawan.

like most insane men, he slept very little, sitting up in his bed all night, holding two crutches tightly clutched, on the alert[pg 135] for the keeper who was going to electrocute him.

but an unwise threat to brain richard, the assistant, deprived him of the necessary but dangerous crutches.

xv

another patient was sent up by the doctor. he seemed so sick and weak it appeared a wonder that he could still walk. he was a poor jew, suffering from stomach trouble. emaciated, yellow, with an expression of intense suffering on his face, which was deeply furrowed by wrinkles, with a beard a week old, and his long, pointed nose, he looked like a sick vulture.

when he begged for special food, the orderly sarcastically offered him the choice between filet mignon with potatoes, or cutlets with french peas. the doctor, however, realized that unless he was put on a special diet, the man would die on his hands.

[pg 136]

he had been sentenced to two months in the penitentiary for stealing two packages of cigarettes, and the judge did not realize that it was his death sentence. the tenacity of the man in clinging to life was amazing; it exemplified anew the remarkable vitality of his race.

he was always disobeying the doctor's orders. he tried to get up from his bed one afternoon, but he fell, and the bed pan, with all its contents, emptied over him and all over the floor. i ran to assist him, but—i was never well in prison—the stench was so overpowering that i became sick and hesitated for a moment, and had to turn away. two convicts who had joined me saw my sickly face and smilingly said: "never mind, boss; you go to the window to get some fresh air. we'll clean up the mess for you."

everybody wondered how the poor man had managed to keep a flicker of life in a body which was mere bone and skin.

[pg 137]

one night in my sleep i imagined that i had heard him call. as i sat up in my cot i heard his rattling, hoarse whisper calling the night orderly: "oh, mr——, please give me some water! a glass of water! i am dying!"

the orderly, who had been sleeping with his feet on the desk, woke up, looked towards the patient, changed the position of his feet, and shouted: "ah, shut up, you kike!"

i got up and brought him a glass of water. he thanked me, and whispered: "i am dying! i don't want to die in jail!"

i tried to cheer him up with the thought that he would be released in two weeks; but he shook his head. terror was written on his ghastly features. "please, i don't want to die in jail," he said.

they were his last words.

[pg 138]

xvi

a boy with blond hair, blue eyes, pink and white as a girl, modest as a nun, gentlemanly and soft spoken as lord fauntleroy, came upstairs to be operated on for a tumor. a sentence of two and a half years had been inflicted on him for selling cocaine. this deadly drug was furnished to him by a friend once when he was suffering from a cold. he did not know what it was, but he felt a wonderful exhilaration and a new strength come upon him, so that his illness seemed to vanish. the reaction was terrific, but he became addicted to the drug; and as he could not afford to buy the stuff, he began selling it, both for the profit and to be able to acquire it. his youth, and his already weak will, made him an easy prey to the evil company into which he was soon thrown. his father and mother and sisters were respectable and law abiding people of the middle class, but they did not seem able[pg 139] to cope with the peculiar conditions into which he had fallen.

now that he is behind the bars he seems to realize the danger of his weakness, and he speaks of going back home to work among his own people.

after he was well again they sent him downstairs to work in the machine shop. within two months he was back again in the hospital to be operated on for another tumor.

what a transformation! instead of the gentle, well-mannered, repentant young sinner, we found a pale-faced young tough, with a sneering grin, walking with stooped shoulders, chin forward, arms curved, closed fists, in imitation of "gorillas" looking for trouble.

in his speech there was also a great change. where there had been little personality or color, there was now a picturesque wealth of blasphemies; names and adjectives and punctuation were expressed by short but intensely vile words.

[pg 140]

when we remarked at the astonishing change, he answered, speaking through one side of his mouth: "ah, quit your kiddin'! you talk like a preacher. i ain't no sissy no more. when i gets out o' here i'll pull something big that'll knock you stiff. you get me?" and he spat sideways on the floor in supreme contempt. but when we laughed at his pretence and strutting, he blushed in anger and disappointment.

it seems that when he was sent downstairs after his first operation he was "doubled up" with a notorious burglar, who undertook to educate him and train him, with a view to using the lad to assist him in his work after his release. a few weeks later his mentor joined him in the hospital, but unlike his talkative pupil, who was quickly ordered to "shut his mug," he was reserved and secretive as to his life and plans.

but one evening at dusk, as we were both watching the new york skyline from the[pg 141] barred windows, the reserve gave way, and the cracksman told me of his life.

it was one of those rare moments when even a strong and evil spirit will waver and doubt; when his heart will overflow with disgust and the hopelessness of his earthly quest. the attitude of contrition dissipated like smoke when he was asked if it was not possible to make a living in an honest way.

"nothing doing," he said. "the bulls won't give me a chance. they'll spot me and job me if i don't put up the dough. it's a fight to a finish. at the other end there is either sing sing or the death chair. there ain't no hope. i'll live and die a crook."

two years later i read that my friend the cracksman and his pals had been caught trying to blow up a safe in a most daring and scientific manner. and the whole gang was sentenced to sing sing for a long term.

[pg 142]

xvii

a jewish pickpocket is one of the patients who is under suspicion of faking. the young doctor suggested my watching him, and when i reported, he declared that he was satisfied in his suspicion, but did not send him to his cell at once, as he would have been punished.

meanwhile he helps and amuses us with stories of his checkered career. at first i could not make out what was the matter with him. he couldn't walk any distance without jerking his head backwards. i thought he suffered from some peculiar nervous trouble in the muscles of the neck. when i asked him about it he confessed that it was a habit formed by years of unconscious but very useful watching to see if he was followed by detectives. even in the hospital, when he knew that he was not followed, he would throw his head in quick glances backwards.

[pg 143]

he told us that the last time he had been caught by the detectives he was taken to headquarters and given a taste of the third degree. as he wouldn't confess, the brave detectives, wearing masks, beat him until he was insensible, and even broke two of his front teeth. the generous head of the detectives promised that if he did not make a complaint to the newspapers he would see to it that he would be sent for only a year to the penitentiary instead of up the river for several years.

we have several pickpockets in the hospital. one of them has grown a beard; he is a jew, tall, thin but muscular, and when he walks to the bathroom in his night shirt, he seems like a caricature of one of the prophets of his faith.

he volunteered to rub sulphur ointment on my body as the doctor had ordered. the strength of his muscles, and the vise-like grip of his hands, was almost beyond belief. when he took hold of my arm to massage it[pg 144] i felt that he could easily have broken it with a quick blow; but he was very gentle and kind withal.

a red-headed consumptive, who killed his wife and child in a fit of anger and jealousy, was sent over from the tombs while waiting for trial. he ordered me in a peremptory manner to do something for him. i repeated to him the lecture i had read to the bulldog negro, but he lost his temper, and began foaming at the mouth and abusing me in a violent and insane fit of anger.

i did not answer, as i felt that he was not responsible for his actions; and left him alone. fifteen minutes later he came into the bathroom, where i was cleaning some medicine bottles. i fully expected to have to defend myself against an attack. instead of that, however, he began apologizing for his unwarranted behaviour, adding that when he lost his temper he did not know what he was saying or doing; that anger went to his head like poison and completely[pg 145] overcame his reason. he begged me to forgive him and accept his apology.

this is the third time that a convict has offered an apology for having lost his temper and used profane language to me.

i asked one of the convicts who had apologized if he thought i had kept silent because i was afraid of him. "no," he said. "the man who loses his temper is the one who is afraid. the one who never becomes angry is never afraid; he is the better man of the two."

xviii

i had been three months in the hospital before i began to suspect that i would never get over my skin disease so long as i wore the tattered and patched striped trousers which had been handed to me on my arrival. therefore i begged the hospital keeper for permission to get a new or at least a clean pair. he told me to go downstairs to the[pg 146] head keeper's desk. the reception i got from the head keeper was not surprising, but his sudden burst of anger and his intemperate language puzzled me not a little. as soon as i approached him he turned around sharply and shouted: "what the h—— do you want?"

before i had time to complete my request he interrupted me, and shaking his fist at me, yelled: "a pair of trousers! what do you think of that dude in the hospital wanting a new pair of trousers! go on back to your hospital, you dirty bum. you ——! get out!"

i turned back slowly without answering, trying meanwhile to puzzle out how i could represent two such different social extremes in the mind of the irate keeper—a dude and a dirty bum!

when i related the incident to my hospital keeper, he shook his head and declared the head keeper an uncouth, stupid animal, and promised to speak about it to the [pg 147]deputy. next day a runner brought me a brand new pair of striped trousers, which looked quite becoming and a good fit after the rags i had worn for so long.

xix

a great many doctors come to visit the hospital. sometimes the young students from the city hospital, then the aristocratic and famous surgeons who operate on desperate cases, specialists, all grades and classes of physicians, enter accompanied by the little doctor who lives upstairs on the top floor. his name is b. davidson. he is so small that he seems almost a schoolboy; his eye-glasses are the only elderly thing about him. but he is very efficient, scrupulous and—a marvelous thing in prison—humane in his treatment of the convicts.

the warden and the keepers hamper him continually in his work, as he will not listen[pg 148] to their opinion about convicts who, according to them, are all fakers. they have the temerity to place their ignorance, and their hatred of the prisoners, against the professional knowledge and humanity of the doctor.

the boy who had a tumor on his back was kept a week locked in a cell, and was not allowed to see a doctor, because the keeper claimed that he was faking. the doctor laughed when he related the story. "imagine anybody faking a tumor the size of a cocoanut!"

in the opinion of most prison keepers, every man who reports on the sick list is an incipient faker. the sick man has to inform his own keeper and he is then reported to the head keeper. should they diagnose the case as a fake, then the prisoner is shoved back gently to the line; but should the convict in spite of their verdict insist that he is sick, he is locked up in a cell to get well[pg 149] without a doctor, or to rot in it, until even the doctor's help is of no avail.

most cases of consumption, paralysis, insanity, or any internal disorder, are considered fake cases. only when a man breaks a limb or splits his head open, or when some disease "breaks out" on him, is he believed to be sincere.

the sturdy young sailor who had worked at my side in the tailor shop was brought to the hospital. he was so changed that i hardly recognized him. i had to ask him his name, and if he remembered having worked in the same shop with me, before i became convinced that he was the same man.

they kept him locked up in a cell a whole week before the doctor was permitted to visit him, and then they discovered that he was suffering from typhoid fever. meanwhile he had been eating food from tin plates which were washed in the kitchen.

a convict who was in perfect agony from[pg 150] neuralgia of the teeth was visited twice. as no cavity could be discovered, they punished him by extracting forcibly three perfectly healthy teeth from his jaw.

this incident was related as a great joke by a young assistant to a doctor, to two companions who were preparing a patient for an operation.

a pair of prison-made shoes, with a nail sticking up inside the heel, was forced on a new-comer by the head keeper. when he protested, he was abused, insulted and threatened with punishment if he did not put on that particular pair of shoes. for two days the unfortunate man hobbled about, working in the kitchen, trying as best he could to ease the intense pain on his heel inflicted by a rusty nail. his foot began swelling and, made desperate by the pain, he finally refused to work until he had seen a doctor. when the doctor examined him, he discovered that he was suffering from[pg 151] blood poisoning of the foot, and he had to be kept over two months in the hospital.

a boy was discovered, by accident, working in the bakery suffering from a loathsome venereal disease.

the young doctor could not stand the persecution of the system, and he left in disgust.

the new doctor is a sallow-faced, green-eyed individual, evidently a dope fiend. he leaves morphine hypodermic syringes lying all over the place; and any one who wants an injection can have it for the asking. luckily for us, he did not stay very long.

one night we were kept awake by heart-rending, piercing howls, which came from the apartment occupied by the doctor on the top floor. he had, as we found out later, taken an overdose of morphine.

next day he appeared in the hospital, staggering sideways, breathing heavily and with a hollow sound, like a damaged bellows. his body shook as if with the palsy,[pg 152] his hands trembled as they groped for support; and all the while he was moaning, whining, grunting. he fell into a sitting posture on the floor, and began catching imaginary flies on his sleeves.

we had to carry him upstairs and put him to bed. he went away the next day.

the doctor who succeeded him is a young man who seems sympathetic and efficient, but he has to keep his job, and so he takes orders from the consulting keepers, who diagnose cases before he is allowed to see them or to send them to the hospital.

xx

the conversation at our meals in the hospital table d'h?te, although carried on in an undertone, is very often amusing and enlivened by quite witty repartee. the table manners of the men are not as bad as might be expected from the motley crowd which adorns our board. all the nationalities and[pg 153] races and classes of this wide world have been waited upon by us: negroes, chinamen, mexicans, slavs, italians, jews, hungarians, arabs, syrians, hindus; members of all the different professions, such as waiters, lawyers, hold-up men, capitalists, fortune tellers, doctors, sneak thieves, bankers, bums, dentists, burglars, "sky pilots," grafters, butchers, gamblers, street car conductors, confidence men, tailors, insane men, tramps, crooks, horse poisoners, saloon keepers—everybody and everything!

in a restaurant, in a public café, in a barroom, one meets or sees many people whose profession or real status is a mystery, and often a secret; but here everybody's profession, character, antecedents, sentence, criminal record, are known, judged and commented upon. here nobody can put on airs because he has a fat bank account, finer clothes, more expensive jewelry, better family connections, or greater political influence. a man is judged by his character,[pg 154] his personality, his attitude toward the prisoners and the keepers. this is one place where fine feathers do not make fine birds.

the appetite of the men, with the exception of the sick, is always of the best. they are very particular about the quantity as well as the quality of the food. there is no reason to complain about it, except the coffee, which is served downstairs, and which is no coffee at all, but roasted bread crust which spoils the water in which it is soaked. many a man would prefer pure water to the unsweetened, light-brown mixture, called "bootleg." it isn't even near coffee, but it is insidiously named "coffee," so as to prove to the public that the convicts are pampered and spoiled.

one day a member of the prison commission who was visiting the penitentiary picked up a tin cup of "coffee" which was standing in the mess hall, where the convicts were watching the visitors testing the food which had been picked out for that purpose.[pg 155] the commissioner drank half a mouthful of the "bootleg," and then, with a wry face, swiftly spat it on the floor. the convicts did not laugh; they were too well disciplined for that; but an almost imperceptible whispering titter swept all over the mess hall like a june breeze wafting over a wheat field.

xxi

the other day a man was brought up to the hospital to have his broken arm bandaged. he had got up in the mess hall and started to voice a protest against the rotten meat. two keepers jumped on him with their sticks and beat him until he was insensible. later the "dep" came upstairs to look him over, and said: "so you think you are a tough guy!" the man kept silent; but later he was sent to the "cooler."

there is an old italian tailor in the hospital who has become popular because he[pg 156] mends our socks and makes pockets in our trousers. he eats enormous quantities of food, and after he is through he wipes his mouth with the crust of bread which does service for him as a napkin!

a dope fiend, who had kept us awake five nights: in succession, was allowed to sit at the table after he had broken his fast with milk. he was warned to eat sparingly. one friday, as fish was served and i knew only two pieces had been eaten, i was wondering where it all had gone when i emptied the dishes in the garbage can. out of sixteen pieces of fish that had been served, only two could be accounted for. i turned to look over the room, and i noticed our dope fiend still chewing away at something. then i noticed the shirt round his belt bulging in an unusual fashion across his very lean body; and i was surprised to discover what had happened to the missing portions of fish.

not satisfied with having eaten two pieces[pg 157] of fish, our dope fiend had stuffed the other fourteen pieces inside his shirt, so as to make sure that he would have enough food to last him through the night.

for five consecutive nights he had kept us awake with his moaning and raving, sitting upright in his bed, swinging his body back and forth pendulum fashion. he could not keep anything in his stomach, either food or water. he begged piteously for an injection of morphine, but the new doctor was obdurate; he said that it was either cure or kill. when the morphine was eliminated he became himself again, and he was cured of his habit. some morphine fiends die from the stoppage of the supply, but many of them are effectively cured.

a bald-headed, consumptive negro keeps us in constant laughter—when prison lets us laugh—with wonderful and never ending stories of his adventurous life. even the doctor will stand by the hour listening to his quaint speech and stories. although he[pg 158] is an old rascal and an old offender, one cannot help liking him for his cheerful, gay attitude towards life.

he related how one time, after serving a term in the reformatory, he went back to his wife in new york. she lived in an apartment on the ground floor, and she seemed to be happy to see him again. she inquired about his health and asked about his future prospects. while they were talking he heard somebody opening the front door with a latch key. he became quite nervous, and asked his wife who it was that dared to come in without ringing the bell. "dat's de husband i'se married while you was in jail; and he's a big black coon," she said.

he jumped hastily through the window, he confessed to us, so as not to embarrass husband number two, and leaving behind a grip with his clothes. he came back next night to get his belongings, and he used the window this time as a means of entrance.[pg 159] but fate was against him. as he emerged from the window again he fell into the arms of a watchful policeman, who promptly arrested him. being an ex-convict, he was sentenced to a year in the penitentiary, as he said, for stealing his own pants!

a tall, blond pole behaved in such a disgusting manner at the table that the keeper ordered him back to his bed.

the first two weeks that he was in bed we could not induce him to get up to perform the most normal animal functions. but, as there did not seem to be anything the matter with him, he was finally forced to get up and go to the bathroom.

for more than two weeks we had plied him with questions—myself, the doctors, and all the convicts who knew different languages. he looked at us with his big, blue eyes, shaking his head as if he did not understand what we were talking about. we finally came to the conclusion that he either[pg 160] spoke some unknown language, or that maybe he was deaf and mute.

one day richard, the young assistant, made him get up, but instead of walking, he crept on all fours to the bathroom. then he got up like a human being and started drinking water from the faucet. richard took him to task for his uncleanliness. he said to him: "wash your face, you dirty pig!" and to the utter amazement of richard, the supposed deaf mute turned round angrily and said, in perfect english: "you go to hell, will you!" a few weeks later he was taken to matteawan.

later i gathered from another pole who had talked to him and succeeded in making him answer, that he had been a petty officer in the russian navy, and that he had mutinied, and later had succeeded in escaping to america.

he had hit upon the idea of feigning insanity in order to foil the vigilant russian secret service agents, who would be on the[pg 161] lookout for him upon his release from the island; he feared that they would create an opportunity to "shanghai" him on board a russian ship, and he knew that they would hang him if he ever was returned to the fatherland. he had been sentenced to sixty days on the island for vagrancy.

xxii

protestant clergymen, catholic priests, rabbis, sisters of mercy, missionaries and even a theosophist preacher, visit the prison and the hospital regularly. saturday afternoon is a very busy time for the "sky pilots."

one "sky pilot" comes only during the lunch hour and, walking to the busy table, invariably asks: "well, boys, how goes it?" he has never been known to change his query in years—and that is the only service he has ever done for the souls of the convicts.

[pg 162]

a tall, thin, spectacled, protestant missionary devotes a great deal of his time to what he calls "saving souls from eternal damnation"; his way of doing this mysterious thing is by leaving tracts on our beds. they contain startling headlines, such, for instance, as this: "be with jesus. he is your only pal!"

when i laughed at one of his quotations from the bible, which i claimed was incorrect, he retorted by saying that my spirit was full of unclean devils. i answered by saying that i would rather be a real devil than a false saint of his type, and he at once proved the truth of my assertion by calling me unseemly and unchristian epithets, greatly to the merriment of the listening convicts and the keeper. i told him to go away from me and let me alone, but fifteen minutes later he came back and apologized for his offensive and undignified behaviour, adding that he had looked up the quotation in a bible at the keeper's desk and[pg 163] to his great astonishment found that he had been mistaken.

although i am not of his faith, the rabbi comes to speak to me every week. he has taken a great interest in my case, and he offers his services to get me a pardon, deploring my attitude in wasting time behind the bars and in the vain hope that my appeal will be successful.

but he is surprised when i inform him that i do not expect to succeed in my appeal, and that i have made up my mind not to accept any favors from the parties who were responsible for my prosecution and imprisonment, so that i can keep my hands free to act in case there are further revelations.

a few weeks later another rabbi takes his place. a kinder and gentler soul it would be difficult to meet.

the sisters of mercy appear every month or so; they are loved and venerated by the convicts. i have noticed that, unlike the other missionaries who take care of our[pg 164] spiritual welfare, the sisters never ask a convict: "what crime did you commit?" but always: "how long must you serve?" "have you mother, sister, wife, or children?" "what can we do to help them?"

the sisters never argue, discuss or theorize about religion, but they help the convicts in the only practical, useful and efficient ways; they visit and appeal to judges and district attorneys; they call on the families of the convicts and their friends; they furnish money to needy relatives and to the men themselves when they come penniless out of prison.

the protestant clergymen, the catholic priests, the rabbis, the missionaries, as a rule talk only to the men of their own faith. but the sisters of mercy speak to everybody, no matter to what race or faith they may belong. they never inquire into a man's crimes; all they ask is to be told of his troubles and worries and to be allowed to do what they can to relieve them.

[pg 165]

one of the sisters is said to be responsible for the elimination of stripes in sing sing.

xxiii

convicts have a cunning and peculiar way of revenging themselves on bad and cruel keepers. when one of that type is put on night duty, following a prearranged sign the whole section suddenly starts a tremendous hullabaloo. several hundred convicts, acting in unison, begin yelling, cat-calling, grunting, roaring, whistling, stamping their feet, beating the bars of their cages with tin cups and pail covers. the enraged keeper jumps up and down the tiers in a vain effort to catch the arch offenders, but on his coming a signal is passed to the whole tier, which suddenly becomes silent, the other sections in the meanwhile increasing the noise and disturbance until the warden appears. his presence seems only to put more zest, energy and lung power into the [pg 166]demonstration. revolvers are fired to intimidate the men and they are threatened with dire punishment, but nothing seems to be able to quell the rebellion, and it is continued every night until the offending keeper is shifted.

these prearranged, noisy riots are rare and as a rule they occur only in cases when bad food or a series of persecutions have goaded the prisoners to the only real expression of protest which can be effective.

one night during the hudson-fulton celebration in new york, when all the city was gaily illuminated, and all the bridges were picked out in electric lights, and music and shouts could be heard in the distance, a rumpus started on a magnificent scale after the convicts had been locked up in their cells.

the whole prison seemed literally to have gone insane. the pandemonium let loose was so terrific that it could be heard both from the new york and the brooklyn sides of the river. the warden and the keepers[pg 167] were perfectly helpless; they could not subdue the prisoners, who kept up their infernal racket for hour after hour, and stopped only from exhaustion, when there was no more lung power to draw on. this noisy and turbulent protest of a whole prison defying one of the strictest rules of jail law was a strange psychological curiosity; a mad, reckless, stentorian rebellion against the rules of silence when the great metropolis was heard noisily rejoicing across the river.

prisoners are very quick to find out a bad or a good keeper, an honest or a grafting keeper.

humane keepers always and invariably get the best results. they maintain discipline with very little effort, and the prisoners themselves see to it that the attitude of such keepers is not changed or embittered by malicious and silly conduct on their part or that of their companions. the foul-mouthed, brutal keeper never seems to be[pg 168] able to maintain discipline, and when he revenges himself by inflicting unjust punishments the men retaliate by all kinds of persecutions.

an unjust and exceedingly brutal keeper was waylaid one night on his way home by some released convicts, who "beat him up" in such a manner that he was sent to a hospital for almost a month.

the jewish and italian convicts are often victims of the persecutions of some keepers, who heap ridicule and injustice and punishment upon them. the "guineas," the "wops," the "sheenies" and "kikes," find no mercy at the hands of these keepers, who consider men of these races as inferior, fit only to be brutalized, slowly but surely, into superior races.

an irish keeper said jokingly to an italian convict who could not understand something in connection with his work:

"let an irishman show you. you dagoes don't know nothing. how does it come that[pg 169] they pick popes from among the wops, i wonder?"

"yes, sir," answered the italian, "and never in two thousand years did they pick out an irish pope."

xxiv

the outlook from the windows of our hospital is a source of never ending interest.

we can watch the grass grow and the trees, the birds hunting for food, the hospital cat waiting patiently under a bush for a stray sparrow, the orderly of the warden, haughty and always in a hurry, followed by a yellow dog. another orderly is a red-headed young man who is called a "sugar man." he and two other men are the "goats" for the higher officials of the sugar trust.

we watch the visitors come in from the boats; the doctors, the officials, the prisoners arriving escorted by the sheriffs. the [pg 170]average prisoner is well dressed; some of them are quite dandified in their appearance, while others are poorly dressed, some of them even without an overcoat in winter time. one day a bum came, escorted by a sheriff, all alone, with a straw hat, at the height of the winter season.

the other morning a big, square-shouldered tramp was following the sheriff in a lazy, shuffling manner. there was no hat on his long, dishevelled mop of reddish hair; his beard was of enormous proportions; his face was brick red, as well as the hands, from dirt and exposure to the air. a coat and trousers which almost dropped from his body, so ragged were they; no shirt, no underwear, and a pair of shoes through which his toes peeped smilingly, completed his wardrobe. a sudden gust of wind would have divested him of all covering.

half an hour later i happened to pass near the head keeper's desk, and i could hardly believe my eyes when i beheld that[pg 171] tramp. in his case the transformation was highly creditable to prison methods. they had clipped his hair, cut his beard, given him a bath, covered him with a striped shirt and a striped suit, and he was standing in brand-new, prison-made shoes. he looked indeed like a gentleman as compared with his former wild, dirty, disreputable and pitiful appearance.

on sunday droves of visitors come to the island on the 23rd street boat. the women are more numerous than the men; poorly dressed women are in the majority; often flashily dressed women with expensive fur coats and stylish hats are seen elbowing old and homely women wearing shawls and with babies on their arms. almost everybody carries packages of fruit to the inmates. little boys and girls often accompany the women, and handkerchiefs are often raised to wipe away tears. it is a tragic, fateful, unhappy procession.

[pg 172]

xxv

the first and the last week seem longest in the term of imprisonment. during the rest of the time the hours pass in swift succession, as the work and the regular hours help to shorten the time; there is a spirit of patience, and the mind becomes more and more introspective and philosophical.

but in the last week all the thoughts, the plans, the ambitions, the discoveries of a new future, seem to be concentrated. the minutes drag by with a laborious and torpid slowness, and there is an intensity of time which seems to crowd sixty hours into one single hour by the clock. the ordinary patient, often of a cheerful habit of mind, is of a sudden transformed into a cranky, impatient, unruly, violent attitude.

during that last week i very nearly got into trouble, for the first time in my ten months of imprisonment "with good behaviour;" and this when an impertinent [pg 173]answer might have kept me two months longer within this barred prison.

a keeper known and hated for his brutal and insulting attitude towards the prisoners was relieving our own hospital keeper during the lunch hour. he was watching the prisoners file into the room at the opposite end of the hospital to wait for the arrival of the dentist. a belated man came in holding a handkerchief close to his mouth as if he were suffering from an agonizing toothache.

the keeper spoke: "who is that dirty bum?"

"what do you mean?" i said.

"i mean who is that dirty bum who just came in?" he repeated.

"i don't understand you," i rejoined, angry at his remark.

"i see you're rather particular about expressions," he said in a surprised tone.

"yes," i retorted, "and i don't see what right you have to call an inoffensive convict[pg 174] a dirty bum, when if it wasn't for us dirty bums you wouldn't be sitting here now."

the situation was saved by an old irish keeper who added laughingly, "that's right, you wouldn't be getting twenty-five per a week to keep a chair from flying out of a window, if it wasn't for those dirty bums."

xxvi

only after a long while did the influence, the pernicious influx of the thought waves emanating from hundreds of convict minds, begin to play on my mind. i never imagined that convict habits and thoughts could touch me or have any effect on my inmost thoughts, my better self. during the day, in fact, when the conscious mind was active, nothing seemed to effect my habitual, set and crystallized character, my old trend of mental, moral and intellectual associations.

only in the last month, during my sleep[pg 175] or half-sleep, did i recognize the ascendency of the magnetic, unhealthy, collective thoughts of the prison. they arose slowly, like poisonous miasmas, insidious and permeating, with a persistency that amazed my startled and thoroughly alarmed consciousness.

thoughts, images, desires, which i had been used from my youth and all through my life to consider unhealthy, degenerate or simply unworthy of my attention, came sneaking into my subconscious mind, in the form of disgusting, appalling, terrifying dreams. the back yard of my mind had begun to register and absorb all the wretched, unclean, monstrous, unmentionable yearnings, desires and actions of the collective prison dreams; it was inhaling the moral stench which arose as from a "cloaca maxima."

i thought of all the weak, unbalanced, receptive young minds which must have been corrupted by this intangible, powerful[pg 176] magnetism; and of how this unnatural, abnormal, degrading prison life began in any absorbent or indifferent temperament a slow corrosion and led to a complete and effective disruption and destruction of all moral and intellectual integrity.

i felt as if hundreds of unspeakable and undreamed of sins, taking shape of gliding snakes, noiseless and black, with glittering eyes and fiery tongues, were descending upon me, winding round my body and my legs and arms, fastening their pin-like fangs in my flesh to poison my brain and body.

and i thanked my stars and my fate and my power of will when the last night of my sentence arrived to relieve me of an oppressive, suffocating succession of nightmares.

i did not sleep one solitary wink, but how rosy, exquisite, exhilarating, radiant, were the thoughts that filled me on that prison cot, how transparent those bars seemed on that last night, never to be forgotten, like[pg 177] the first night i spent in that horrible dungeon.

xxvii

i am finally called downstairs. the sun streaming through the narrow bars gives the gloomy prison almost a bright appearance. hastily i put on my street clothes. i feel like a man putting on a strange, exotic costume for a fancy dress ball; the collar and necktie seem to choke me with a kind of joy and affection. accompanied by my lawyer, i walk out of the fateful gates, and then i turn to look back, and to glance upwards to the hospital windows where the patients and the old keeper wave a friendly salute and farewell.

friends are waiting to greet me at the other side of the river. i look in wonder and amaze at the people in the streets. everything is so interesting; the most commonplace and sordid sights are delightful and picturesque. the men; the women,[pg 178] with their wonderful clothes; the sky, the houses, the cars, the signs, everything, seem so novel, so friendly; every minute so precious, so full of surprises and possibilities.

i have grown fat and pale in prison, but my spirit is as light and quick as the spirit of a humming bird. everybody greets me as a traveller returned from a strange, unknown, and very distant land—and yet all the while i have been living in the very heart of the metropolis. everybody seems to realize and to reassure me that the acceptance of a pardon would have been a grievous mistake. to refuse it meant a great sacrifice, but making that sacrifice has confirmed a general suspicion that unfair methods, dangerous to american traditions, have been used against me.

the day of reckoning will come in time. meanwhile, how beautiful, perfect, intoxicating is the sense of untrammelled liberty! it repays me for many a dark, tragic hour.