M---- C----.

The influence of a punishment, almost too great for human nature to bear, had destroyed this man's health, and thrown him into a decline from which his friends had little hope of his recovery. His labor was at shoe-making, an employment very weakening to the breast, where his complaint was seated. Not being able to perform his task, his only alternative was to stay in his room, and live on gruel or bread and crust coffee, which he did whenever his complaint rendered it necessary. This was by no means pleasing to his keepers, and every effort was made to confine him to his shoe bench. The most conspicuous agent in this conspiracy against the peace of a sick man was the Warden. Availing himself of his authority, he called at C's room and desired him to walk out, which he did; then conducting him to the door of one of the solitary cells, he said--"C. you are not sick, and I am going to give you a choice of two things,--take that handkerchief from your head, and go to your work, and live like the other prisoners, or go into this cell and _die_."

In the spirit of a christian, he obeyed the command of his unfeeling tormentor, and repaired to his work. His case created him friends who procured him medicine, and changed his employment, so that he was enabled to comply with all demands, and thus he outlived the tyrant's rage. He is now, if living, in the bosom of his friends, enjoying the sweets of liberty, and possessing the confidence of the church as a faithful minister of the gospel.

BENTON.

This is another victim of neglect and cruelty. He began to decline soon after he entered the prison, but he applied in vain for help.

_Work_ was the order of the day, and sick or well it must be done.

Every eye that saw this youth, the blasted hope of a widowed mother, observed the sure signs of a fixed consumption. His dry hacking cough, his sallow skin, his husky hair, his hollow cheeks, could not be un.o.bserved, nor their cause mistaken. Still he could get no help. Day after day of anxious suffering rolled heavily over his head, but no sympathy awoke for him in the b.r.e.a.s.t.s of his keepers. And it was not until all his strength was gone, and he was coughing up blood every day, that he could make them believe he was sick, and get a place in the hospital.

Removed to that place of death, the doctor called to see him--that doctor on whom he had called in vain for help when help was possible.

As soon as he entered, his patient said--"Doctor you have come too late; I threw myself into your hands when you might have saved me, but you would not, and now I must die!" The appeal fell on his conscience, and he acknowledged his fault, but it was too late. He did, it is true, all he could after this to save him, but to no effect, and he died in a few weeks, calm, reconciled and prepared.

After he was confined, his mother came to wait upon him, and watch his closing eyes.--There is no limit to the affections of a mother. Holy nature prompts her to the place where her child is suffering. The iron doors, the ma.s.sy walls, the dungeon's gloom, are no terrors to her imagination, if her son is there. Danger cannot intimidate; the world's scorn cannot deter; the crime and ingrat.i.tude of the child are forgotten. It is her _child_, and this omnipotent argument makes her forget herself to minister to the wants of her offspring. I could fill a volume with what my eyes have seen of a mother's fond, undying affection; and I cannot close this account of human suffering better, than by entreating all who have the power over young persons, to treat them in such a manner that their mothers may not be under the necessity of imputing the death of their children to their unfeeling neglect, and reckless severity.

SANDFORD.

I introduce this case to shew how sick men are often treated, after their keeper consents to give them medicine. He complained of not being very well, and was taken to his room, and ordered to take an emetic. This is a prescription for _every_ thing, and is designed as a punishment rather than a remedy. The room was cold, and he was left alone to undergo the medicine. The emetics are generally given in great and unusual quant.i.ties, that the effect may be the more painful, and how many have been killed by such prescriptions, the day of Judgment will publish. Sandford took his dose, and soon the effect convulsed him, and took away his senses. How long he had lain in this state no one knows. When the keeper entered his room he found him on the cold stone floor, and to all appearance dead. He was taken immediately to the hospital, and no one can imagine the acuteness of his sufferings, after he became sensible. He bled most profusely at the mouth, and it was evident that the convulsions into which he was thrown had ruptured some blood vessel in the region of the lungs, and for two years he was not able to leave the hospital, and never did he do another hour's work in the prison. How long he lived after he was released from the prison, I know not, but it is certain that he suffered more than to have died a thousand deaths, and it is not probable he ever enjoyed a well day after he took the fatal emetic.

Here is a proof how little regard is paid to justice or mercy in giving medicine to the sick. No man who has the feelings of his nature about him, would treat a dog half so cruelly as some of the sick are treated in this prison. Here was a man in the perfection of his strength, and in the morning of his days, ruined for life, by the ignorant and reckless prescriptions of a man who knew no more about medicine than a dunce. An excuse may be borrowed for him, because he was _allowed_ to do so; but where is the excuse for the one who gave an ignorant and careless blockhead that authority?

A BLACKSMITH.

To say that this man was murdered, would be saying too much; but it will _not_ be too much to say, that his death was caused by a spirit of cruelty that would disgrace a Turk. He entered the prison, a picture of health, at the age of about twenty-seven. Being a blacksmith, he was put to that business; but falling sick, he was soon unable to work at it, and tried to be placed at some employment better suited to his feeble health. In this he failed. He then applied to the doctor, and was ordered into the hospital. It was evident to all, that a consumption was hovering over his lungs, and he soon began to exhibit the symptoms of that disease fully settled. He coughed very violently, and raised blood very often, and in large quant.i.ties; his flesh wasted away; his spirits sunk; and his strength departed. In this condition he was driven out to his shop and compelled to work, and not permitted to sleep in the hospital, but in a cell much less suited to his convenience. The excuse for this was, that he was fully able to do his work, and besides he was an ingenious smith, and might make tools to break out, if permitted to stay in the hospital during the night. The tyrant's plea is _necessity_. It is very convenient to have this, when no better can be found; but where is the necessity to torture a man because he is sick, and ingenious? This was the only plea, and on this he was driven out by a mean and unprincipled keeper, till a few days before he died; and when he went from his work the last time, he sunk down on the bed as soon as he reached the hospital, and never rose from it again.

The cry that he was able to work, and was counterfeiting his appearance, had been rung so long, that it triumphed over all the science and practice of the doctor, and led _him_ to neglect him under the impression that he was a hypocrite. At last, his suffering, and dying, and persecuted patient said,--"Doctor, I wish you would do something for me."--"I _will_ do something for you," was the significant and fatal reply; and he immediately ordered him large and frequent doses of calomel, which every novice in the medical art knew was a very fatal medicine to that complaint in its present confirmed stage. It was not long in doing its work, and the victim was laid in the earth. When the doctor was afterwards asked why he gave the calomel, he replied; "I knew its nature and effects, and I thought I would make short work of it."--I do not suppose that the physician intended to _kill_ the man, but I suppose he meant to try an _experiment_. His opinion was, that the effect would soon be apparent, and be _fatal_ if the disease were firmly seated; and I blame him for listening to those who had an interest in deceiving him, and not acting from his own _examination_, as he would in other cases.

The keeper who drove this dying man from the place provided for such sufferers, and made him labor when he ought to have been at rest, I knew _well_, and I have always considered him to be one of the most unfeeling, as well as ignorant, and unprincipled of the human race.

This is not the only case in which I shall present him to the contempt of the reader, for many are the dark records against him, and through many years was he an infernal spirit in the prison, a Satan to the sick, and a curse to the well.

A friend of mine watched with this man the night he died. Soon after he went into his room, he made an effort to rise. There was a remarkable expression in his countenance, and he was asked if the bell should be rung to call the keeper? He shook his head. His eyes opened very wide, and looked wishful and anxious. They then rolled back in his head and he lay a few minutes and then recovered. He said--"I thought I was going; if I have another such turn, send for the keeper." This was his last utterance. He lay for some time very still, and when the nurse went to him again he was dead.

In the bloom and strength of manhood, this unhappy man was hurried out of time, by those who should have been his friends and treated him kindly. No inscription is on his tomb. He sleeps in silent peace near the room in which he died; and his spirit is where the prisoners hear not the voice of oppressors.

LEVITT.

This young man had been under the influence of mental derangement a few years before he became a prisoner, and he had not yet so far recovered but that his mind was often very much depressed, and his ideas confused; and this induced an unhealthy and debilitated state of body. During one of these frequent seasons of disease, a phial of _nitric acid_ was given him by the doctor, of which he was directed to take a few drops in half a tumbler of water twice a day. This prescription he followed a few days; and then one morning, in a fit of delirium, he took all that remained in an equal quant.i.ty of water at once. The effect was immediate; he was senseless, and stiffened with convulsions, and in this condition was conveyed to the hospital, where he endured for several weeks as much bodily pain as human nature can suffer.

For three or four weeks he was perfectly senseless to all appearance; he breathed, but almost imperceptibly; he could neither see nor hear; and the only indications of life were his feeble pulse and his feebler breath. While he lay in this condition, he was so shamefully neglected, that _certain living creatures_ began to inhabit his eyes!

His clothes were not changed, his face was not washed, and all that was done for him was to administer the medicine prescribed and pour a little gruel into his mouth. No one supposed it possible for him to live, and he was left, in utter neglect, to die. His rash act was the theme of unfeeling and inhuman sport; and it was said that, as he wanted to die, it was a pity that he should not have his wish.

After a few weeks, however, contrary to all expectations, he began to give evidence of returning life. His head began to move, and it became apparent that he could hear; but he could not speak louder than the lowest whisper, and he could see nothing distinctly. At this time his iron-hearted keeper, in the luxury of his unearthly feelings, would move the candle before his eyes in order to draw his attention, and when he seemed not to notice it, he would thrust it close up to his face until he burned off all his eye brows.

By slow degrees he so far regained his health as to be able to walk about and perform some labor, though his voice was nothing but an audible whisper, and his eye-sight would not, with the best gla.s.s, enable him to read.

When he returned to his work, I had an opportunity of conversing with him, and I learned from his own lips the cause of his attempt at suicide, and his bodily feelings under the effect of the medicine he so rashly took. He said that life had lost all its charms to him; he had lost the confidence and respect of mankind, and nothing awaited him but ignominy, and the keen rebuke of a guilty conscience, which he was unable to bear. He dreaded to die, but he dreaded _more_ to live.

He had thought on the crime of suicide; he had thought also on the crimes of which he had _already_ been guilty; and his conclusion was that the door of mercy was closed against him. "A guilty conscience!

despair of the mercy of heaven! these," said he, "kept me in awful dread of the pains of eternal death; and convinced that this _dread_ of h.e.l.l was _worse_ than the suffering dreaded, I resolved to know the _worst_, and hang no longer on the rack of antic.i.p.ated destruction."

After taking the acid, he said that he had no distinct recollection of any thing till he began to recover. Then it seemed as if he was awaking from a long and dreadful sleep, and the only impression that he brought up with him, in respect to his sufferings, was, that his breast had been a sea of fire, rolling to and fro, as if vexed by a tremendous tempest. Under this sea of fire, he was fixed in motionless agony, and it was not until the last flaming billow had rolled over him, that he could move or know whether he was living or dead.

The last time I had an opportunity of conversing with him, he told me that his views in respect to the mercy of G.o.d, were changed. "I now believe," said he, "that my Maker will have mercy on me, sinful as I am, and I mean to love him, and serve him, and '_wait_ all the days of my appointed time till my change come.'" And I was delighted to hear him speak, in the simplicity of his soul, of that great goodness of which he was the living and speaking monument; and to observe how scrupulously conscientious he was in all his words and actions. What his future life has been I know not, but I well remember his pleasing change of mind, and I could not help believing that it was the _goodness_ of G.o.d that led him to repentance.

How awfully certain is it that "the way of the transgressor is hard!"

_This_ poor sufferer found it so; and as no iniquity can go unpunished, there must be a dreadful retribution for the man, who, not only shut up his bowels of compa.s.sion from him, in the day of his afflictions, but sported, like a demon, with his dreadful condition.

This prostrate sufferer had never injured his keeper, but was ent.i.tled to his kindness, and there is no excuse for that neglect and cruel torture, which he received at his hand. The laws of G.o.d and man, the laws of humanity, and even the laws of the prison, which demand for every prisoner, kindness, and for the sick, the best and most affectionate attention, were wantonly outraged by such conduct, which must in the estimation of every feeling heart, fix a lasting stain, not only on the guilty author of it, but on his _superiors_ who suffered such iniquity to pa.s.s in silent approbation.

BURNHAM.

The crime for which this man was sentenced to imprisonment was so base, and so revolting to all the feelings of humanity, that I almost dread to describe his sufferings, lest the sympathies of the reader should lead him to forget the greatness of the crime, in contemplating the miseries of the criminal. But it is possible for the worst man on earth to be abused, and murder would be murder still, though the victim were deserving of death. My design, then, in publishing this sketch, is, not to whiten the scarlet of crime with the tears of pity, but to hold up to public execration, a series of oppressions which could not be justified, nor their authors shielded from the just contempt of all good men, even if Satan himself had been the one oppressed.

The crime of Burnham ought never to be named; it is of too dreadful a character to be thought upon by any unperverted soul, without the utmost pain. Let it suffice to say, that a _conspiracy_ was the means of effecting his infernal purpose; that this conspiracy had two _females_ joined with him, to the everlasting infamy of their names; and that _another_ female, _young_, _innocent_, and _amiable_ was the _victim_. For this crime, he was justly doomed to a long confinement in the State Prison, and a similar doom was soon awarded to one of his female conspirators.

Every heart was glad that such a righteous retribution fell on this man's guilty head. I presume no tears were shed for him by any, except his wife and two children; and he has none to blame but himself, if this universal indignation bore hard upon him. His crime was _outrageous_; and the outraged morals of the land, and the insulted dignity of the laws, are sure to measure out their indignation according to the nature of the outrage. This is natural, and it is right; and if this reaction of a man's sins upon his own pate, should be marked by something extravagant and cruel, he who gave occasion for this extravagance and cruelty, should be the last one to complain. But when the expressions of public execration trample on all the rights of humanity, and violate the laws of nature, of the land, and of G.o.d--when the sufferings of a criminal are magnified _beyond_ the laws, and rendered intense to a degree surpa.s.sing endurance--when, in fact, crime is punished at the expense of every principle of justice, humanity and religion, it is time to speak out, and inquire to what extent public indignation at crime may innocently go.

Every man is ent.i.tled to the protection of the laws as long as he obeys them; and every transgressor may be legally punished according to the law he has violated; and if the law is a _reasonable_ one, no fault can be found with any one for duly and fully executing it. But no punishment ought ever to be inflicted on any person, until he has been found guilty of a crime by the proper court; and then it must not exceed the sentence provided in the law. The sentence ought to be strictly legal, and then it is perfectly right that the criminal, in ordinary cases, should suffer it; but to go _beyond_ the obvious meaning and spirit of the legal sentence in inflicting suffering for any crime, is alike unjust and cruel. If these views are correct, we can readily apply them in the case under consideration.

The sentence against Burnham was just, and it was the duty of his keepers to inflict it up to the letter. This sentence required him to be confined in the prison at hard labor, and treated according to the laws of the place. These laws require the prisoners to be kept constantly employed by the keeper, due regard being paid to their age, strength and circ.u.mstances. When any one is sick, it is the duty of the keeper to call the physician, and if the patient requires medicine, it must be administered to him in the hospital, if he is able to be moved there, as no prescription is to be made in any other apartment, unless the patient is unable to be conveyed to that. No fault can be found with the laws and regulations, authorized by the Legislature, for the government of the prison; and those which provide for the sick are such as _mercy herself_ would approve. The only fault, then, which any one can find with them, is, that they are not complied with by the keepers, and the prisoner is not allowed the care and attention which they provide for him.

Burnham was soon taken sick. Bad as he was, he had some _feelings_; and _shame_, _regret_ and _disappointment_, filled his soul with such distress, that his body began to feel the effect of his mental agony, and his strength, flesh, and spirits, began to vanish together. He applied to the physician, but was told that nothing ailed him. He was driven out from his room and compelled to work, when he had scarcely strength to stand. His knees trembled under the weight of his body, and the floor shook when he attempted to walk over it. Still, _he was not sick_! He was _cunning_, it was said, and was feigning his appearance, to avoid work, and get his liberty; and as the _doctor_ said this, though every one who saw him knew better, the keepers had some pretext for neglecting him, and treating him with severity, in which they took a most infernal satisfaction.

One morning he was driven out to the shop, and as he was inquiring of the keeper where he should go to work, that mean and despicable upstart gave him a sudden and violent blow with his hand, which threw him headlong on the brick floor of the shop. It was in vain that he attempted to rise; he had not strength enough to turn over when lying on his back; and the keeper indulged his inhuman feelings by striking him on his legs with his sword, and ordering him to get up. After some time, he obtained help and made out to get on his feet, and go to the place appointed for his labor.

In this way he pa.s.sed through a few doleful weeks, suffering the greatest pain of body and of mind without sharing in the pity of any human being, but was made the _sport_ of those who should have treated him with tenderness and humanity. As he moved through the yard, he appeared like a walking skeleton, a living death; and yet he could not get the smallest degree of the attention due to a sick man, for the voice of the doctor was against him. But the cup of his calamity was beginning to run over; nature was sinking under the mighty load of his afflictions; and aware of his approaching dissolution, he prepared to meet it, and left directions with some of his fellow prisoners to be sent to his son, where he wished to be buried. Thus composed, he waited but a few days, and death released him from earthly suffering.

It was on Sunday evening that he died. He went out to the cook-room, with the other prisoners, to supper, trembling and reeling through the yard like a drunken shadow; and when he returned into the prison after supper, scarcely had the last door been bolted when the cry was heard from his cell--"Burnham is dead!" At this moment the doctor was pa.s.sing the prison, and hearing the cry, he came in. As he entered the hall, Burnham was brought out of his cell, and laid on the floor before him.--"Is he dead?" said this unworthy son of Galen, "I said yesterday that he was not sick, but it is evident he was." Yes, it is evident he was sick, but doctor, this is not the last of it. The man is _dead_, and the guilt of his death lies on your soul, and if you do not repent of this great wickedness, you will, in your turn, call for mercy, and find despair.

He was laid out in the hospital, where he was kept two days, till his friends came and took his body, and conveyed it to Woodstock for interment. During this time, the blood was almost continually running out of his mouth and nostrils, and a more dreadful picture of death was never seen.

On this case I have but few remarks to make, and in these, perhaps, I have been antic.i.p.ated by the feeling reader.

One fact is obvious to every one who has read this account with attention--and this is, that Burnham was hastened to the grave, by the injustice and cruelty of the doctor and keepers. Had he been treated according to the spirit and letter of the laws, he might have been living now.

The laws of humanity should lead us to forget the crimes of a sick man in tender and sympathetic care and solicitude for his recovery; and he who can calmly hand over a fellow-being to the tormentors, when he knows that he needs that relief which it is his professed and sworn duty to impart, cannot be far from finished depravity. The truth of this remark is obvious, and while I have such a sense of Burnham's guilt, that I have scarcely a heart to pity him, I cannot help condemning, in the bitterest terms, that infernal process by which he was deliberately hastened to the grave.

[This is the man about whom the anti-masons of Vermont made such a stir. They caused a story to be reported that Burnham was a mason; that he had bribed his keepers, who were also masons; and was still living in the city of New-York. Strange as it may seem, this story was believed, and persons were found who declared that they had _seen_ him, and learned from his own lips the fact of the bribery, and how the deathly farce was acted for him to get out of prison. He said, according to report, that he gave a thousand dollars, and that at the time he was supposed to have died, according to a previous plan which was mutually agreed upon, he pretended to die, and was carried into the hall in a blanket, when a corpse about his size was brought to take his place. The doors being open, this corpse was thrown into the blanket, and he was permitted to walk off. Such was the story, and thousands believed it; and into such a ferment was the public mind thrown, that the Legislature took up the business, and sent one of the Council to New-York to ascertain the fact. He was faithful to his commission, and the story soon died. During the excitement, however, Burnham's body was dug up twice and examined.]

PLUMLEY.

"Man's inhumanity to man, makes countless thousands mourn." This poetic sentiment cannot find a more appropriate application, than in the case which I am going to relate. Plumley was one of that cla.s.s of human beings, on whom nature had not been profusely lavish of her endowments, and he was, consequently, a fit tool for the master spirits of iniquity to practice upon. Only tell Plumley to do any thing, good or bad, right or wrong, it made no difference, and he would promptly obey, entirely reckless of the consequence; and hence it came to pa.s.s, that he had very often to suffer for the guilt of others.