“Oh, strangers have only got to ask, they find their ways wherever they wish to go, and get along well enough.”
We “got along,” and one bright morning found our way to the university, a fine old, red-brick building, standing back far away from the shady street, in a quadrangle surrounded by tall red-brick houses, with rows of trees planted before and blooming gardens behind them; a few marauding geese are gobbling on the green, but there are no other signs of life, not even a stray dog in the inclosure, the wide quadrangle is empty of humanity; a soft breeze stirs the tall tree tops, rustling the leaves with a whispering sound, as though they had brought a message from some far-off lands. A cloistered stillness is about the place which is almost oppressive as we wander to and fro, looking up at the tall closed houses and pondering on the special history we know of some of them. We cannot gain admission to the college, as the doors are barred and we see no one to whom we could address an inquiry, so we turn away, and with echoless footsteps pass over the green sward out into the public high-road.
The next morning we drive out, in a rather rickety, shandrydan vehicle, over the broad sandy roads, past a pretty little valley or wild wooded basin, so called a “park,” to the penitentiary or State prison. We are received by a dignified-looking gentleman, the governor, and by him handed over to the military guard, who conducts us through the different wards.
No idling here—shoemakers, carpenters, blacksmiths, all hard at work, amidst profound silence so far as the human voice is concerned, for prisoners are not permitted to speak, even in answer to the visitors’ remarks addressed to them. The majority of both sexes are coloured, there is but a mere sprinkling of white convicts. Some Boston tourists, who have joined our party, sigh as they observe this. “Evidently the white man’s offences are condoned, while the poor negro is invariably convicted,” they say, shaking their heads deploringly. A good-natured, cheery-looking matron takes us through the women’s quarters, where all are busily engaged at sewing, stitching, or machine work; here, too, strict silence is preserved, they make their requirements known by dumb show; most of them keep their heads bent downwards as we enter, but one or two look up, and a smile, like a gleam of sunshine, breaks over their clouded faces, their eyes speak though their lips are mute, as they recognise their matron’s kindly face,—no need of words to tell of her popularity, for grateful glances follow her wherever she goes, even the brush of her skirts as she passes seems to do them good; she gives an encouraging pat here, a smile or kindly word there, and who knows but the seed one kind heart scatters among their barren lives may take root and help them to bear something better than prison fruit in the future. She passes on, doing a true Christian’s duty in smoothing the way of the unfortunate, who have fallen beyond the pale of human law, but not beyond the reach of God’s mercy.
The workrooms where they pass their days are light and airy, but the small, bare, white, vaulted cells, where they spend their time from six in the evening till six in the morning, look barren, cold, and silent as so many narrow graves. There are no windows, they are honeycombed into the wall, and air and light are only admitted through the iron-grated entrance door, which gives on to a wide whitewashed corridor, where the warder in charge keeps watch during the night.
The penitentiary is surrounded by very extensive grounds, laid out to supply the prison with vegetables, here a score or two of prisoners in striped, zebra-like clothing are at work digging potatoes or cultivating cabbages. A high wall surrounds this open space, a turret or watch-box stands in the centre on the top of each section, commanding every inch of the ground. These are occupied night and day by an armed guard, who have orders to shoot down any prisoner who attempts to escape.
“They don’t often miss their aim either,” observes our guide complacently.
On Sunday we attend service here. The barn-like building dedicated to divine worship is not nearly large enough to hold half the prisoners; they overflow outside the doors, swarm on the steps, and cling in groups outside the windows. Nearly all are coloured, some pure black. The leader of the choir, a tall, good-looking young fellow, we are told is a “lifer,” in for arson, a very common crime among the negroes. The southern laws seem to be far more rigorous than those of the north, capital punishment being enforced for some offences which are met only by imprisonment in the northern States. Amongst the crowd of coloured folk, we notice there are three or four white women, who, according to general custom, take precedence of the dark race; they enter first in the procession, and sit in the front row. One keeps her head determinedly bent down; we just see under the shadow of her calico poke-bonnet a young rounded chin, a fair smooth cheek with a peach-like bloom upon it; but her eyes and brow we never catch a glimpse of; she sits through the whole service with eyes and head bowed resolutely down out of our range of sight. What is her story? Somehow we feel it must be a pitiful one, and our sympathies go out to her. Does the sight of us “remind her of the state from which she fell?”—the descent so easy, the return so hard and almost impossible! Next her sits another woman, a striking contrast, an older woman with a powerful characteristic face, dark defiant eyes, close thin lips, she seems to look her fate in the face boldly, as though she had “dreed her weird,” and took her punishment without shrinking; a hard Ishmaelitish face it is; she looks as though she was against all the world, and the world was against her; no softening line, no gleam of sorrow or regret rested thereon. Whatever crime she had committed, she looks ready to go out and commit it again. Her hard cold eyes glare at us angrily, as though resenting our presence.
“What right have you to come out of your free sunny world to see us in our home of shame and misery?” they seem to say. We feel quite restless and uncomfortable beneath her stony gaze; we cannot avoid it, we cannot get away from it; it has a sort of magnetic attraction, a fascination for us; we turn our eyes away, and try to fix our attention on the preacher, but it is no use; there is some disturbing element in the air, and against our will our eyes are drawn back to that powerful face, with its lowering brow and rebellious lips.
We are glad when the service is over, and we get out into heaven’s sunshine and breathe the pure fresh air again. Still that face haunts us and casts a shadow on the sunlight, and at night those pale steely eyes flash out between the darkness and our dreams. Somehow, on that glorious Sabbath morning, we wish we had left our devotions undone. We feel that somewhere and at some future time we shall see that face again—we should know it, years hence, among a thousand.