One day, coming to a man's cell to hear a lesson, he said, "I have no lesson, I have been in the solitary. They did so and so to me, at which I got mad, and would not do as they wished, and they put me in there." I thought it likely, from the circumstances, that the impatience of an officer and his irritating course had much, too much, to do with the matter. But that was not for me to hint at, even. I rather said, "Well, you say you got mad and have been in the solitary. See what you have suffered for getting mad. How much better for you to govern your temper. You know where you are, what you did to bring yourself here. You understand what is required, and that refusal on your part is of no avail. Now, why not govern yourself, no matter what they say? If you really think they bear hard upon you, control your angry passions, and do what they require as cheerfully and promptly as possible. Thus, you can become accustomed here to governing yourself, that, when you go out, you will be the better able to meet the vexations of the world. Now, will you not try this course?" He replied, "I don't know, Chaplain, it is a hard case." In a few days he remarked, "Chaplain; I have been almost constantly thinking of what you said the other day, have come to the conclusion that your way is the best, and am resolved to attempt putting it in practice." With most hearty congratulations on his new resolve, I left him again. Some weeks after I received from his lips this satisfactory report: "Well, Chaplain, I have been practicing your method since our last conversation, and find it works like a charm. I have but little trouble now, and am determined to keep on as I have begun." Thus he proceeded till released. This man was naturally irritable and easily angered. He had not previously labored to control himself in regard to this important point; but now, when summoning all his better powers to the task, he resolutely addressed his mind to it, and a noble victory was his.
There was another man here who also could be easily aroused, but was perhaps still more stubborn, when angry. He, too, had been an inmate of the solitary more or less. To him I appealed in a manner similar to the above, and, after persistent labors, succeeded in inducing him to earnestly try the proposed course, and with like results. But he was a man who needed frequent encouragement to help him calmly endure the vexations and annoyances almost constantly surrounding him. Hence, he maintained his self-control and kept from trouble while he had one to labor for his continuance in well-doing, but afterwards he fell into difficulty again, and would consequently become an inmate of the solitary. Thus I proceeded, and, by assiduous efforts, robbed this dark abode of many hours of occupancy.
There were others not rendering themselves liable to the dungeon, but who would become filled with angry, revengeful emotions at what they were forced to endure. I would labor to induce these to use what they experienced as a means of self-culture, to leave the acts of others in the hands of God, submit calmly to what they could not avoid, do their own duties faithfully, and in all things keep themselves strictly in the right. Thus I was almost constantly called to speak a word here and a word there to a pacific end, and labored untiringly in that direction.
In the women's department, also, these efforts were found needed. One of the inmates, whom we will call K., had often caused them no little trouble. With all their efforts, she would contrive to keep almost a constant broil among them. Hence, I decided to see what could be done, in her case, by moral and religious efforts. Therefore, one Sabbath, after our usual service, I remained awhile for personal conversation with the inmates respecting their desires and feelings on the subject of reform, purposely coming to K. last. After conversing awhile with her on religious subjects, I came to the direct inquiry, "Now, K., will you not turn from your former course and seek to become a true Christian?" She looked upon me as though perfectly astonished at the question, and answered, "Why, Chaplain, that would be of no sort of use. Here I have been going on in my career of life these twenty years, and, should I attempt to turn now and become good, no one would put the least confidence in me. It is of no kind of use." I labored to assure her that she was mistaken in this idea, that would she truly repent and turn from evil, people would see it, and learn to confide in her the same as in others who had reformed, also asserting that she had the power for making of herself a most excellent, useful woman, if she would use it aright. I referred to what she might have been, what she had lost, how much she had suffered, the condition to which she had brought herself, and the prospect still before her, if she went on. At length the tears began to glisten in her eyes; she yielded and said, "Chaplain, I will try." The next Sabbath I asked her how she succeeded, with the answer, "Not much, but I am trying the best I can." Retiring from their room, I asked the attendant how they had prospered the past week. "Oh," said she, "first rate. We have had a perfect reformation. Everything has been peaceful and quiet, no fretting and scolding,—a perfect change." And so it was when I left the prison. But I learned that K., after my leaving, became discouraged, was thrown from the track and returned to her former habits. And no wonder, there was so great a lack of prudence and skill in managing there, so much of a vexatious character.
My position was one of difficulty, needing all the wisdom and discretion I could command. The prisoners were looking to me for direction on the one hand, while jealous watchfulness followed every step on the other.
Thus I went on, constantly doing what I could for the best good of the institution in whatever way practicable. No matter what course others took concerning me or the prison, my duty was to act with fidelity and in the fear of God, which I endeavored sacredly to do.
One rule I constantly carried with me, never deviating from it on any occasion, which rule was, not to give a word, or hint even, against any prison officer or prison move. This seemed essential to the best being of the prisoner. For, if really wronged, my deviation from that rule would tend to impress him more deeply, make him feel his wrong more keenly, and excite to greater irritability, resulting, on his part, perhaps, in more disorderly acts, and, consequently, greater trouble. Then, on my own part, such a deviation must be perfect suicide, so far as the plan might be concerned, showing the authorities conclusively that I was unfit for the position, and giving them the most urgent reasons for putting another in my place.
A moderate share of common sense would teach one to keep very wide of such deviation. Then it could be of no avail. If censurable things were being done in the prison management, the rulers were the parties for one to approach respecting them, those having the power to apply the remedy.
26. Death of Gideon Sylver. This man had been in the army, was a good soldier, strong and vigorous; very quiet and obedient; faithful to his task and never complaining, but seemed intent on doing the best he could to please those over him and thus share their good will. He was set to carrying lumber in and out of the dry room, exposed to extremes of heat and cold, at times perhaps having wet feet from want of proper shoes, till, failing in health, complaining of distress about the chest, the doctor ordered him to lighter and less exposed work, when he was set to running a planer, said, however, to be a very hard machine to run, though subsequently made easier by rollers attached. Here he grew no better, but had severe attacks. One day, in his distress, he fell on his knees, girding his arms about him and groaning repeatedly. The deputy took him from the shop and returned him relieved. But soon he wholly failed, was taken away for the last time and kept in his cell, part of the time quiet and then groaning more or less intensely. To my inquiry about the locality of his distress, he put his hand over the left lung. Sabbath evening, Feb. 10th, I think, his distress came on with great severity, he, making no little ado, said, to my inquiry whether he needed anything more, "I have a powder to take, which will no doubt relieve me," and appeared disposed to make the best of his condition. Meeting the steward, I asked if all was being done for the man that could be, with the answer, "Yes, I think there is. The fact is, not much ails him. He is nervous; thinks he is dreadful sick, and makes a great ado." I passed on, thinking that Sylver must be a very sick man notwithstanding these views, that, when one naturally so patient and quiet makes such demonstrations, there must be reason for immediate assistance. It seemed to me that the hospital was the proper place for him, and that he ought to be there receiving suitable warmth and close attention. But understanding that I might say no more, and meddle no farther, I retired, feeling that the man was in a forlorn condition.