By his account, a parsimony in every point appears to be the great desideratum aimed at. Speaking of the chaplain to the institution, he says:—
“Small blame to him; I honour and respect the man, though I laugh at the preacher. And I say, that seven hundred and thirty sermons per annum, for three hundred dollars and a weekly dinner, are quite pork enough for a shilling. No man goeth a warfare on his own charges, and the labourer is worthy of his hire. I do not see how he can justify such wear and tear of his pulmonary leather, for so small a sum, to his conscience. What is a sixpenny razor or a nine-shilling sermon? Neither can be expected to cut—not but his sermons would be very good for the use of glorified saints—but, alas! there are none such in the House of Correction. What is the inspiration of a penny-a-liner? I will suppose that one of the hearers is a sailor, who would relish and appreciate a sausage or a lobscouse. Mr — sets blanc mange before him.—Messrs of the city government give your chaplain two thousand dollars a-year, so that he may reside in the house of correction, without leaving his family to starvation; let him visit each individual, learn his circumstances and character, and sympathise with him in all his sorrows, and, my word for it, Mr — will have the love and confidence of all. He will be an instrument of great good by his counsel and exhortations. But as for his public preaching, this truly good, pious, and learned man might as well sing psalms to a mad horse. Fishes will not throng to St. Anthony, or swine listen to the exorcism of an apostle, in these godless days. If you think he will be overpaid for his services, you may braze the duty of a schoolmaster, who is very much needed, to that of a ghostly adviser.
“Mr — never fails to pray strenuously that the master and officers may be supported and sustained, which has given rise to the following tin-pot epigram:—
“Support the master and the overseers,
O Lord! so runs our chaplain’s weekly ditty;
Unreasonable prayers God never hears,
He knows that they’re supported by the city.”
He complains bitterly of the convicts not being permitted the use of any books but the Bible and temperance Almanac. It is rather strange, but he says that he supposes that a full half of the inmates of the house of correction can neither read nor write.
“Is it pleasant to look back on follies, vices, crimes; presently on blasted hopes, iron bars, and unrequited labour; and forward upon misery, starvation, and a world’s scorn? In some degree the malice of this regulation, which ought only to be inscribed on the statute-book of hell, is impotent. The small glimpse of earth, sea, and sky a convict can command, a spider crawling upon the wall, the very corners of his cell, will serve, by a strong effort, for occupation for his thoughts. Read the following tea-pot-graven monologue, written by some mentally-suffering convict, and reflect upon it:—
“Stone walls and iron bars my frame confine,
But the full liberty of thought is mine,
Sad privilege! the mental glance to cast
O’er crimes, o’er follies, and misconduct past.
Oh wretched tenant of a guarded cell,
Thy very freedom makes thy mind a hell.
Come, blessed death; thy grinded dart to me,
Shall the bless’d signal of deliverance be;
With thy worst agonies were cheaply bought,
A last release, a final rest from thought.”
“If the pains of a prison be not enough for you, I will teach you a lesson in the art of torture which I learned from our chaplain, or one of his substitutes.—‘Make your cells round and smooth; let there be no prominent point for the eye to rest upon, so that it must necessarily turn inward, and I will warrant that you will soon have the pleasure of seeing your victim frantic.’ Look well to the temperance trash you physic us with, and you will find, in the Almanac for 1837, a serious attempt to make Napoleon Bonaparte out a drunkard, and to prove that a rum-bottle lost him the battle of Waterloo. The author must himself have been drunk when he wrote it. Are you not ashamed to set such pitiful cant, I will not say such wilful falsehood and slander, before any rational creature? Did you not know that an overcharged gun would knock the musketeer over by its recoil? I do not tell you to give the convicts all and any books they may desire; but pray what harm would an arithmetic do, unless it taught them to refute the statistics of your lying almanac, which gravely advises farmers to feed their hogs with apples, to prevent folks from getting drunk on cider? Why not tell them to feed their cattle with barley and wheat for the same reason? What mind was ever corrupted by Murray’s Grammar, or Washington Irving’s Columbus? When was ever falsehood the successful pioneer of truth!”
His remarks upon visitors being permitted to see the convicts are good.
“Among the annoyances, which others as well as myself felt most galling, was the frequent intrusion of visitors, who had no object but the gratification of a morbid curiosity. Know all persons, that the most debased convict has human feelings, and does not like to be seen in a parti-coloured jacket. If you want to see any convict for any good reason, ask the master to let you meet him in his office; and even there, you may rely upon it, your visit will be painful enough; to be stared at by the ignorant and the mean with feelings of pity, as if one were some monster of Ind, was intolerable. I hope a certain connexion of mine, who came to see me unasked and unwelcome, and brought a stranger with him to witness my disgrace, may never feel the pain he inflicted on me. To a kind-hearted ‘Mac,’ who came in a proper and delicate way to comfort when I thought all the world had forsaken me, I tender my most grateful thanks. His kindness shall be remembered by me while memory holds her seat. Let the throng of uninvited fools who swarmed about us, accept the following sally of the house of correction muse, from the pen, or rather the fork, of a fellow convict. It may operate to edification.