TREATMENT OF THE SICK, AND BURIAL OF THE DEAD.

While a man is in health, he can endure hardship, and support himself under the pressure of almost any calamity; but when his health fails, he sinks down a nerveless victim, and lies exposed to the mercy of those evils he can no longer resist. It is the sick that, of all the sufferers in this world, most need the pity and compassion of their fellow mortals, and whose neglect and sufferings cry the loudest to heaven. To sickness, all are equally exposed, the high and the low, the virtuous and the vicious, the saint and the sinner; and not to compassionate and relieve them, is a crime which speaks the deep depravity of the heart, and which will by no means pass unpunished. But if the want of sympathy and tender feelings for the sick, is such a crime, what must be said of that man, who can sport with their misery, and take an infernal satisfaction in increasing it?

The sick in Windsor prison are considered as criminal in their sickness, and punished rather than comforted. It is not often that a prisoner can get into the place appointed for the sick, until his case is hopeless, and not always then, for many die before they can convince the keepers that they are sick. A very convenient excuse for this neglect is, that many have pretended to be sick, and have been treated as such, when they were perfectly well. This I know is true, and such hypocrites cannot be too severely dealt with; but this is no good reason why one who really needs attention, should be neglected. It is, however, another instance of visiting all for the crime of one.

The By-Laws require that "some fit person shall be appointed as a physician, whose duty shall be to visit the prison as often as once in every week, and oftener, if found necessary, to inquire into the health of the prisoners, to give directions relative to the conduct and regimen of the sick, and admit such patients into the hospital as he may judge necessary." Another regulation in the By-Laws, in respect to the sick, is, that they shall take no medicine in any part of the prison except the hospital, unless they are unable to be removed thither; and the obvious meaning of the Laws is, that no medicine shall be prescribed by any but the physician. It is equally obvious that the physician is to be called upon whenever a serious complaint is made by any of the prisoners. Nor is it less obviously implied, that the sick shall be treated kindly. Such is the Law; let us see the practice.

When complaint of sickness is made by any of the prisoners, the keeper who has the care of the sick is sent for, and if the person is unable to work, he is taken to his room and shut up there to get well. No physician is sent for, except, perhaps, in one case out of fifty; and the patient is allowed no food but a dish of crust coffee and a piece of bread, once in twenty-four hours. This is his diet while he remains sick. When he is first shut up, he has an emetic given him, or a blister applied to his breast. This is almost always done, no matter what the complaint is; and should the physician attend twenty times at the hospital, he can scarcely ever see him. Sometimes the patient is bled, and all this is done by a man who has no right to prescribe, and who is as ignorant of all medicine as he is of the feelings of a kind and generous sympathy; and done too in a place where the Law forbids the use of medicine. But what are laws to tyrants? If the person has a firm constitution he generally outlives such cruelty, and returns to his work; but if his complaint continues, after much time, he is handed over to the physician, and takes his chance for life or death in the hospital.

I do not mean to reflect, generally, on the conduct of the physicians. With but few serious, and a number of minor exceptions, their conduct has been alike honorable to themselves and ornamental to their profession. The great difficulty with them, is, they have no authority to do any thing; the most they can do is to advise, in no instance can they command; and their advice is followed or not, as best suits the convenience or disposition of their master. If any officer in a prison ought to have supreme authority, it is the physician. Life and death are in his hands, and he ought to have all the power necessary to the full discharge of his professional duty. His prescription should be something more than advice, and he should have authority to punish all disobedience to his orders, and all cruelty or inhumanity to the sick. If the physicians of Windsor prison had been invested with this power, such have been their general reputation for skill and humanity, that many an hour and month of keen distress would have been spared to the prisoners, and more than one life been preserved.

It cannot have escaped the notice of any one who has seen the treatment of the sick, that the keepers consider them no better than dogs, and are determined that they shall have no peace, sick or well. The iron-hearted discipline of the place is enough to rive the stoutest soul, and crush a heart as hard as marble; and in not a single instance has a prisoner escaped from it, if he has been there three or four years, without a ruinous impression that will go with him to his grave. But by a refinement of torture, which would be patented in the Court of the Inquisition, this mountain of uncalled-for oppression is rolled over, with double weight, on the sinking frame, and fainting heart, and trembling soul of the sick and dying. And to cover all this unearthly and inhuman conduct with a mantle, starred with mercy, and serene with kindness, the By-Laws are sent up every year to the Legislature, breathing the spirit of heaven, and written with tears of heart-bleeding compassion. Heaven-daring hypocrisy! I appeal to the keepers themselves—to the angels who have hovered over the sick—to the ghosts of Ellis and Burnham, whether there is a single drop of human feeling in the treatment of the sick. Away with the By-Laws as evidence against the declarations I have just made. How often has liberty triumphed in the Statutes of an unhappy country, long after tyranny had fettered every hand and every tongue in the empire. How often has piety remained in the letter of the prayer book and liturgy, years and centuries after the spirit had gone up to heaven, and the snows of human guilt had extinguished the last spark of the altar.

Not only are the sick neglected and unpitied by the officers and servants of the prison, the Ministers, also, neglect them. I have known men lie six months in the hospital, and die, without being visited by a single clergyman, or having even one christian call to pray with them. This speaks but little for the piety of Windsor; but such is the fact. It ought however to be understood, that the clergymen of that town are always willing to attend to any of the duties of their office, as well in the prison as out of it, when they know that they are wanted. I make but one exception to this remark, and that is only a partial one, for Mr. How—d was not always what I am condemning. The great blow, then, must fall ultimately with the greatest weight on the keepers. But still, when the great and the pious men of the village were weeping over the miseries of sin in the far distant Isles of the Pacific, and in the lands of the rising and setting sun, and sending their property in Bibles, Tracts, and Missionaries to "the farthest verge of the green earth;" is it not a little wonderful that they should so have forgotten the "prison house," and the sin-ruined prisoners, famishing for the bread of life, in their own town, and within their own sight, as not to have blessed them with a single visit from their itinerant mercy? Would not a little attention to the wants of the neighborhood have been at least excused?

Neglected, however, as they are by Christians, many of the suffering tenants of that gloomy abode, have an arm to lean upon which bears them up, and a sun to shine around them, whose beams create their day. While the earth is disappearing, and their heart-strings are breaking, they can sing—

How sweet my minutes roll, A mortal paleness on my cheek, And glory in my soul!

It would gladden the hearts of christians to reflect on the happy deaths that have been witnessed in that place. There, religion appears in all her loveliness. When there is no kind friend to watch the fading cheek and close the sightless eye—when a mantle of everlasting black is falling on all the beauties of earth, and hiding the sun, moon, and stars for ever—when the blood is stopping, a cold and clammy sweat is gathering on the temples, and the heart is sinking down into the stillness of death; then it is that the value of that principle is appreciated, which charms all fears away, and calms the throbbing heart, and lights up in the soul the brightness of eternity. Then, in that immortal ecstacy that nothing but God can inspire, it enables the happy possessor to join with the millions who have gone before him, in this triumphant farewell to this vale of tears:—

On Jordan's stormy banks I stand, And cast a wishful eye To Canaan's fair and happy land, Where my possessions lie,

O the transporting rapt'rous scene, That rises to my sight; Sweet fields array'd in living green, And rivers of delight.

No chilling winds, nor pois'nous breath Can reach that healthful shore; Sickness and sorrow, pain and death, Are felt and fear'd no more.

Fill'd with delight, my raptur'd soul Can here no longer stay; Tho' Jordan's waves around me roll, Fearless I launch away.

After a prisoner dies, his friends can have his body if they wish it. If they do not call for it immediately, it is buried in the prison-yard; but if they should call for it any time afterwards, it would be disinterred and given to them.

The ceremony at the funeral is usually appropriate and solemn. Laid in a decent black coffin, the body is placed where all the prisoners can see the face, as they pass in Indian file by it. A clergyman always attends, makes some remarks, and then prays; after which the corpse is laid in the grave, and his memory is soon lost.

The house of the dead is no place to make a reflection, and the grave of the individual may be thought by many to be the place in which all that pertains to him should be buried. In general, perhaps, this is true, but not always; and I shall, before I leave the buried remains of the prisoners, record some facts which ought not be forgotten.

After their death, very sympathetic letters are written by order of the keeper, or by the keeper himself, to the friends of the deceased, stating how kindly he was treated, and how peacefully he died. I was called upon to write one of these letters, and I have not forgotten what directions were given me by the very man whom the dying prisoner considered his murderer.

During the prisoner's sickness, he frequently writes to his friends; but as his letters are examined by the keeper, and not sent unless approved, he cannot state his real condition and treatment, but must, in order to have his letter sent, at least imply that he is treated kindly. Hence many a friend is led to feel grateful to the officers, when perhaps their cruelty has caused the very death they deplore.

The circumstance I am now going to relate, involves the clergyman who attended the funeral of an old prisoner, who had given no signs of repentance, it is true, nor had he been the greatest sinner on earth. The remarks made on the occasion were as follows, verbatim et literatem, for I recorded them in stenography at the time.—"As I was coming down here," said he, "I was thinking of an old slave of a southern planter. Returning home one day, he was told that his master had gone a long journey, from which he would never return. He asked where he had gone, and was told that he had gone to heaven. 'No, no,' said the slave, 'Massa no gone to heaven. When Massa go a journey he talk about it a great while before hand, and make great preparation, but me never hear him say any thing about going to heaven.' I know nothing," said the preacher, "about the man who is going to the grave, but these thoughts came into my mind as I was coming from my house, and they struck me as appropriate to this occasion. Let us pray."

No comment is necessary on such insulting language over the ashes of a fellow mortal. Such a polluted stream denotes the quality of the fountain from which it flowed.

The next chapter will contain a diversity of cases to illustrate the remarks in this.

ELLIS.

This man was afflicted with the consumption. At the time with which this account commences, he was wasted to almost a shadow; the paleness of death was on his countenance—and his voice was feeble and trembling. Though under the care of the physician, and taking medicine every day, he was yet unable to get into the hospital, but was obliged to spend his days either in his cell, where he could obtain but little nourishment, or at his work in the shop. The scene now before me, was in the cook room, a place partly under ground, to which he had retired to rest himself, and find some relief from the pain which was continually shooting through his breast. In this room I saw him, and heard the following conversation between him and the Warden.

Ellis was lying on the brick hearth, with a block of wood for his pillow, when the Warden came in, and his voice was the only indication of life that he manifested. He intreated in the most moving language to be removed to the hospital, and made comfortable what little time he had to live.

Warden. If I thought you were sick, I would take care of you; but nothing ails you. If there does, you have brought it on yourself to get rid of work. I have been imposed on too often by those who pretend to be sick, and I am not to be deceived any more. You are as well as I am, and you shall not be treated as a sick man, till I have evidence that you are sick.

Ellis. I submit, sir; though whether you believe me sick or not now, time will soon convince you, that I do not counterfeit this appearance. I am sick—I cannot live long, and all I desire is, that I may receive proper attention, and be permitted to die in peace.

Warden. You are not sick; when you are, you shall have all necessary attention. I am not to be imposed on any more by those who are too lazy to work, and therefore pretend that they are sick.

Here the conversation ended; the Warden retired, and Ellis continued to enjoy his repose on the brick hearth, and his pillow of wood. Too weak to labour, and denied a place in the hospital, he continued in this condition a few days longer, when forced by the unequivocal indications of approaching dissolution, he was transported to the proper place for the sick, and laid on a bed just in time to breathe his last.

The death of a prisoner causes no tender feelings in the breasts of some of the keepers, and when this death was announced, the eyes of many were expressive of satisfaction; and Mr. F*** said, with an air of malignant joy, "bad as he thought the place to be, he was not willing to die; he struggled for breath, looked anxiously round, and wanted to live longer."

Soon after his death was known in the yard, the Warden came into the cook-room where I was, but I am unable to paint his confused appearance. He well recollected what had passed in that room only a few days before, when the dying man plead for an easy bed to die on, but was denied. His head hung down, he turned every way to avoid looking those in the face who had heard his savage insults to the poor wretch who plead for mercy; at length he threw himself down on a seat by one of the tables, and said, in a manner which I hope will never be imitated—"Well, Ellis is dead." No one made any reply, and he added; "he has fulfilled his word; he said he would never be any benefit to us, and he never has."

The next day his remains were committed to the grave, where "the prisoners rest together, and hear not the voice of the oppressors." Dr. Torrey, the physician of the prison at this time, was highly displeased at the cruel neglect and unmerciful treatment of Ellis; and when prescribing, a few days after, for another prisoner, he said with emotions that did him honor—"This case must be attended to; it must not be neglected as the other was. Shameful! DISGRACEFUL!"

Shameful and disgraceful it certainly was to treat a dying man in this way. What man of ordinary feelings would have treated his dog, as the Warden treated Ellis? Is that man fit for any office in a humane Institution who could thus forget his kindred nature, and plant with thorns the death-bed of a brother? And ought there not to be a place for such monsters in human form, where they must drink of the cup which they have filled for others, and experience the pains they have inflicted? There is just such a place.—There the rich man lifted up his eyes being in torments. And if those will be doomed to this place, of whom the Judge will say—"I was sick and in prison, and ye visited me not," what must be the fate of this man, who locked up his living prisoners in the cell of despair, and threw the dying into a bed of embers?

A—— W——.

This young man was of a very feeble constitution, and was frequently a proper subject of medical treatment.—When a prisoner complained of being sick, he was very often permitted very kindly to take his choice of three things; 1, to take an emetic; 2, to go and do his usual task; or 3, to go into the cell and live on bread and water, and sleep on a stone floor. A. W. was taken sick and this choice was given to him; he took the emetic, remarking that he "might as well die one way as another." He was now left in his room, and for three days received no further attention. After this the physician visited him, and immediately ordered him to be moved into the hospital, where he suffered a severe course of fever.

Mr. Woodruff was the keeper who gave him the emetic, and he was much displeased when the physician rescued him from his hands. After the fever left him, and he went to his work, he was so weak that he applied to the physician for relief, and some bark and wine were ordered for him; but Mr. Woodruff thought fit to refuse the wine, and gave him only a small quantity of bark, and that of the poorest kind.

At another time when he was sick, and unable to do his task, I got some bark for him at my own expense, and wove as much over my task as he fell short of his, and caused it to be placed to his credit, to keep him out of punishment. This was done with the master weaver's knowledge, and was the only arrangement I could make to save him. It was nothing in his favor that he was sick; his task was required, and it must be done by himself or some one else.

The cruel man who allowed this youth no peace in his sickness, was very soon after doomed, in his turn, to a sickness which admitted of no comfort for him. His conduct in this instance is only a specimen of what it generally was. And when he became the prey to disease, he became sullen, unsocial, and desponding; evidently the victim of his own self-condemning reflections, and of that retributive justice which never suffers the wicked to go unpunished. Let the other tyrants of that little world of cruelty, think of this, and remember that the cry of the oppressed is always heard in heaven.

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 unobserved, 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 breasts 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 massy 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 ingratitude 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 quantities, 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 quantities; 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 quantity 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 glass, 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 hell was worse than the suffering dreaded, I resolved to know the worst, and hang no longer on the rack of anticipated 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 God, 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 God 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 compassion 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 entitled to his kindness, and there is no excuse for that neglect and cruel torture, which he received at his hand. The laws of God 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 pass 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 God—when the sufferings of a criminal are magnified beyond the laws, and rendered intense to a degree surpassing 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 entitled 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 circumstances. 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 passed 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 passing 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 anticipated 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 class 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 pass, that he had very often to suffer for the guilt of others.

These sufferings which were always severe, and sometimes extremely cruel, began finally to undermine his iron constitution, and open the way for disease. The last complaint he made was of pain and swelling of the left breast, accompanied with inflammation. He applied very frequently to the keeper and to the physician for medicine, and particularly, for a change or suspension of his employment, but to no purpose. Some medicinal drops were given him from time to time, but he could obtain no mercy in respect to his daily task. It was to no effect that he exhibited the occular demonstration of his infirmity; his swollen and inflamed breast and side were considered no evidence of inability, and he was informed that he must either do his task or be punished.

Thus doomed to unpitied suffering, he made a virtue of necessity, and bore up under his calamity as well as he could, toiling all day, and writhing in keen distress all night, till death, more merciful than his keepers, kindly removed him from the power of their anger. Up to the last moment of his life, the full amount of labor was demanded of him; and he had been from his own work but a few hours, when the pulse of life stopped, and put an end to his misery.

After death his body was dissected and the most unequivocal indications of disease were discovered, both internally and externally,—but no remorse was discovered in his oppressors. His life was considered of no more account than that of a dog, and his memory was thrown into the grave with his mangled body. No tear of pity was dropped at his funeral—no "heart warmed with the glow of humanity"—but the "dust went to the dust as it was," without the least kindred sympathy in a single bosom, "and the soul to the God who gave it," to meet its tormentors in the great and terrible day of the Lord.

L. NOBLE.

This man could say from his own experience, that the way of the transgressor is hard, his whole life having been an alternation of crime and punishment. When out of prison he was ever in the act of, or in the preparation for, some violation of the law, but when in prison, he was orderly and submissive, and therefore deserved well of his keepers.

As sin had ruined his moral nature, so had intemperance his physical, and when his last sickness came upon him, his pain was as severe as humanity can suffer. His groans and shrieks echoed through the prison like the wailings of a lost spirit, but in vain was it that he begged for medicine; nor could he obtain a place in the hospital till a few hours before he died. The night before his death he mentioned a remedy which he had used in time past with effect, and desired to have it obtained for him, but could not prevail. After much importunity, however, the Warden promised him that he should have it on Monday. "But," said the dying man, "I cannot live till then, unless I obtain relief." This was on Saturday night, I think, and, on the evening after he was a corpse.

After his death, the chaplain was instructed that the death was sudden and unexpected; and he accordingly preached a sermon the following Sabbath, grounded on that information, and wove into his remarks a great deal of mercy which he said the dead man had experienced, in his last hours. I reflect not on the Chaplain, for he was so informed; but may God have mercy on that unfeeling tyrant, who denied medicine to a dying man; and pardon that hypocrisy which led him to cover his cruelty with the disguise of compassion. I wish him no greater suffering, than the recollection of Noble will one day give to his soul.

QUARKENBUSH.

The case of this unhappy man will illustrate the danger and sin of permitting ignorant men, who never read a page on the science of medicine, to prescribe for the sick. Quarkenbush was taken very suddenly with a complaint in the region of the stomach and bowels, attended with inflammation and the most excruciating pains. He applied to the keeper who had charge of the sick, and he gave him the very worst medicine he could find for his case, which not only increased its violence, but prevented the proper medicine from taking effect when the physician was called. He lingered through about thirty hours of as much misery as human nature can bear, and died one of the most dreadful deaths recorded in history. Such was the intensity of the inflammation, that his surface was black with mortification before he died, and with the last strength remaining in his system, he threw up the putrid contents of his stomach, black and offensive as imagination can conceive, with a violence and copiousness of which the records of disease can scarcely furnish a parallel. He was opened by a trio of doctors, who paid richly for the information they obtained from such a mass of putrefaction, and immediately buried.

The proper remedy for his disease was physic, which should have been given frequently, till a cure was effected; but the only medicine given him, was opium, the effect of which is directly against what the case required. This was given in large quantities till the physician came, when the proper remedy was administered, but as on many other occasions, the doctor came "a day too late," and the death of the patient was, in the estimation of the keepers, the unimportant consequence.

Quarkenbush was a young man, and a wife and aged parents, with brothers and sisters, wept over his untimely grave. I was personally and intimately acquainted with him, and I know that his death was caused by an injudicious prescription. He was a victim to the practical regulations of the prison; and as there was crime in his death, some one must answer for his blood.

CORLISS.

The work of the prison must be done, life or death; and as some part of this work can be done by only one man, that man must never be sick. Corliss was the only man that could do correctly the work to which he was assigned, and as there was a call for him every hour in the day, so every hour in the day he must work, sick or well. All men are liable to be sick, and there was no more exemption for him than for others; but he must do his work whenever called for. The life of a prisoner is estimated in cents, and of his happiness, no account is made. His labor is all that renders him valuable, and to this he is ever goaded; and when he can do no more, then—"poor old horse, let him die."

Oppressed by constant toil, Corliss began at length to fail, and his countenance began to denote the nature of his disease; but he could gain no release from his work, and frequently was he called out of his cell, when his cough and deathly look should have admonished his keepers to prepare him a winding sheet, and forced to do the labor of a well man.

Finding at last that his working days were over, the keepers recommended him for a pardon, and he was released just in time to die. It is one of the practical regulations of the prison, to keep all the profitable prisoners as long as possible, and to pardon all such as are of no use. Another regulation is, that when the work requires a prisoner to be in a particular place, there he must be at any rate. This regulation has borne hard on many beside the subject of this sketch, and when it has crippled them for life, they are generally let out to die. The ghosts of many whom I saw nailed to this cross, are at this moment crossing my mind. I could fill a page with their names, and the pains that dart every hour through my shadowy form, admonish me that my escape from the same doom was rather visionary than real.

SAVERY.

The subject of this sketch was a liberally educated, and highly esteemed clergyman of the Baptist denomination. Unhappily for his own peace and that of his family, and for the honor of Christianity, he fell a victim to the pressure of circumstances, and the force of temptation, and committed three distinct forgeries to a large amount, on one of which he was sentenced to the prison for seven years.

When he entered the prison he was an emblem of perfect health, and seemed to have a constitution that might smile at decay, and survive the ruins of an eternity. For some time no alteration in his appearance was visible, but the change of condition, from the pulpit to a dungeon, from respect to scorn, and from comfort to the want of all things, was more than he could endure, and disease began to admonish him that he was mortal.

He began now to learn a science that had not been taught him in college, and on which his divinity instructor had never lectured. He now for the first time in his life, had a practical demonstration of the solemn and humbling truth, that there is as much difference between the profession and the practice of piety, as there is between pedantry and real science; and that the priest and the Levite are the same now, as they were in the days of the good Samaritan. Christians left him to suffer without sympathy. Even the ministers of that holy religion which sends its votaries to the sinner wherever he may be found—which espouses the cause of the prisoner—and which says to the backsliding, "Return;" treated him with as much severity as language can convey. One of these, who only a few months before had taken counsel with him, and walked to the house of God, addressed to him from the pulpit the very words I am going to record. "Thou hypocrite!" said he, "dressed in the specious semblance of piety, while thy heart was filled with all abominations, a just and righteous retribution has fallen on thy guilty head!" Awful words these for one poor sinful mortal to use to another. They are the flame of an angry soul, and ill become the servants of him who, even when he was reviled, reviled not again. But if this was the spirit of the priest, what might not have been expected of the people? Alas! "like priest like people," for they too passed him in sullen silence, or with protruded lips.

Is this religion? If it is, away with it from the earth; it is the infamy and curse of the human race. Away with it and its votaries. It is worse than the religion of Dagon. If this is religion, I pray God that infidelity may banish it from the universe, of which it is the fellest scourge.

But this is not the religion of the Bible, though it is that of too many who are proud to be called christians. Though the prophets of Baal be four hundred, there is, however, an Elijah and a seven thousand who have not knelt at the shrine of an idol; but they are known only to God and his suffering children. The religion which they practice is compassion for the distressed; alms to the needy; charity for the wandering; and love to all men. Its walk is in stillness—its spirit is gentleness—and its home is the wayside, the hut of the poor, and the cell of the sufferer. This is religion, and none can tell better than the prisoner how much of this is on earth.

Reduced to this condition, Savery found in the conduct of professors so little of the spirit of their profession, that he frequently expressed to me his astonishment, and asked me if, with such specimens of christianity before them, the prisoners had not all become infidels. I know it will be said, that the prisoners are sinners, and they ought not to expect much kindness. True, they are sinners, and experience has taught them that they need not expect much tenderness; but, Christians, what is your duty to them? Look at this, think of your conduct, and be dumb!

Savery's sickness was of a few months duration, and he felt that, in a prison, the sick can find neither proper treatment, nor the least degree of sympathy. Perfectly convinced that the evils incident to a sick bed in that place, would be more than he could endure, he prepared for the worst; and in a short time he gave back his spirit to God, and left this world of woe. By kind treatment from his keepers, and christian conduct on the part of his christian acquaintances, his days might have been lengthened out for usefulness, both to the church and his family; but he is gone, and his unhappy fate says to every self-confident professor—"Let him that thinkest he standeth, take heed lest he fall."