Women of all classes are confined here; but beauty alone beams on the prison-yard from the windows of its cell. At this moment of writing, I hear voices from a room immediately below me; fair, the speakers possibly may be, but—judging from the fitful scraps of conversation that rise hither—they are assuredly very frail.
I think one of the most exasperating circumstances of this house of bondage, is the exceeding flimsiness of its defenses. Part of the inclosure of both yards consists of tall, thin boarding, full of cracks and crevices, that might be breached with no extraordinary exertion of foot or shoulder; and there is hardly any part of the stronghold out of which a man, of average ingenuity, armed with a common clasp-knife—if unwatched—could not make his way in a couple of hours. But, unwatched you never are. The passages are not more than thirty feet long, and there is a sentinel in each who can hear almost every sound from within. A State prisoner never stirs beyond his room, without an armed guard at his shoulder.
I soon heard that my reverend neighbor on the right contemplated evasion, and, considering his opportunities, I rather wondered at finding him here. In every cell there is a small closet, corresponding with those on the floor above and below. In this especial one the ceiling had fallen away, or been removed by some former prisoner; nothing but plain boards intercepted a passage to the unoccupied attic-story, where dormer windows opened on to the shingle roof. But, with all this, it took the parson a full month to make up his mind and preparations. I often communed with him through the tunnel aforesaid, and he amused me not a little sometimes.
He looked at all things through a magnifying glass of about eighteen power. I know that he was perfectly honest in the delusion of considering himself one of the most important State prisoners that had ever been confined here. He would have it that half Maryland was in mourning for him, and ready with ransom of untold gold, but was certain that the Government would never venture to set him free while the war should last. Upon the oath of allegiance being proposed to him, instead of simply declining, he defied the Judge to do his worst, expressing his readiness to confront either gallows or platoon. The risk of either was about equal to that of his being tortured at the stake, on the steps of the Capitol. In spite of all this simple vanity, and flightiness of brain, you could see that the parson had good strong principles, and held to them fast; and I believe that his nervous excitability would not have deterred him from encountering real danger. He appeared thoroughly courteous, generous, and good-natured; and my companion, to whose regiment he had been chaplain, told me that nothing could exceed his considerate kindness to the soldiers.
Albeit afflicted by occasional fits of depression, the reverend, as a rule, talked very cheerily; but, ah! me, how sorrowfully he would sing! There was one psalm—penitential I presume—of about twenty-two verses, an especial favorite. This was probably, the most soul-depressing melody that has been chanted since the days of The Captivity. The mournful tone bore you down irresistibly; Mark Tapley would have subsided into melancholy gloom, before the slow versicles were half dragged through. But the parson was not the only musical culprit, nor the worse, by many degrees. It would be absurd to expect much cheerfulness here; a hoarse roar breaks out now and then at some coarse practical joke; but a frank, honest laugh—never. Yet I do wish that imprisoned discontent would vent itself otherwise than in discordant, dismal howling. At this minute a cracked voice is droning out,
A little more cider;
it might be a Sioux chanting his death-song.
How well I remember, in what "stately home of England" I first listened to that pleasant ditty. I hear, now, the leader's rich, round tones, and I see quite plainly the fair faces of the youths and virgins that made up the choir. Bastá! it don't bear thinking about. If mine enemy were anywhere but round the corner, I would try if his music would stand a volley of orange-shot.
For three days or so, I could scarcely take up a paper without seeing my own unlucky name paraded in one or more paragraphs. As they all varied, it was somewhat remarkable that, in all alike, facts should have been so absurdly distorted. They were not content with drawing my own fancy portrait—imagine, if you please, the caricature—but they built a little romance about poor Falcon's assassin, giving him credit for much suffering for his country's sake, particularly for long imprisonment at Richmond, since which time he had devoted himself as an Avenger. I was gratified to observe that his name was seldom, if ever, correctly spelt. I did think of sending a contradictory note to one of the local journals, but decided against wasting ink and paper. Besides, it is a pity to abase oneself unnecessarily. "I ain't proud, 'cos its sinful," nor over careful with whom I try a fall; but I confess a preference for more creditable antagonists than American penny-a-liners. So, I let them—lie.
On the fourth evening of my imprisonment, there was an unusual stir in the building soon after nightfall. Intercourse between the different rooms is prevented as much as possible, but the channels of covert communication are many, and not easily cut off. In ten minutes every one was aware that the iron-clads which were to annihilate Charleston had recoiled, beaten and wounded. My mate rejoiced greatly after his saturnine fashion, and I—the fullness of listlessness being not yet—felt a brief glow of satisfaction. Others were more demonstrative. Loud came the pæan of the warlike priest through our mural speaking-trumpet; while the sturdy soldier on the left, after hearing the news, and taking a trough-full of "old rye," expressed himself "good for two months more of gaol." Some one at a lower window began to sing, softly at first, the National Anthem of the South; then voice after voice joined in, in spite of sentinels' warnings, till the full volume of the defiant chorus rolled out, ringingly: