Do funny things happen in the Tombs? Lord bless you, yes! Why, you have only to visit it to meet the prince of humorists. Come! He will be at the door to meet you; in fact he is “laying” for you, and will show you through the entire institution and out again—which is not a detail. He is affable to a degree, and you would be vastly amused if, like us, you were on the “inside.” But you will probably listen seriously; and although you will not lose a word of his remarks, you will lose all their exquisite humor. It is Old John who has the fun all to himself, for he is a wag in his way, and combines business with pleasure. He is a true story-teller. How I envy him his imagination! What tales I would tell if it were mine! I could—yes, I would write several novels and do five-act plays, dozens of them. Old John could easily be a poet or a writer. He certainly is an actor. No tragedian who I have ever heard can put such horror into his voice. His sepulchral tones, with just the proper amount of tremolo in them, would make the fortune of any Thespian. Of course it is impossible for type to reproduce it.
Old John shows you through the main building, the Women’s Prison and Boys’ Prison, together with the New Prison, the Ten-Day House, the Hospital, Kitchen, et al. He romances with the ardor of a born raconteur; he knows you will pay him something, but were that not so, I believe he would do it for the love of his art.
“Do you see that man? He’s in for m-u-r-d-e-r!” You shudder and turn away, saying “poor fellow” perhaps, and the sweet girl you are escorting gets a little closer to your strong right arm; and immediately you are vastly interested in this subject, and determined to thoroughly discuss, to exhaust the topic. And yet the unfortunate man may have committed no more heinous crime than the theft of a door mat, or that equally felonious one of peddling clams without a license. Yet I am sure you would readily condone this departure from the exact truth, even were you aware of it. Old John selects the crime to fit the physiognomy of his subject and enjoys your curiosity immensely, but he never smiles. A neat little gloved hand may have slipped into yours, or more likely you have appropriated it—I have known it to be done—and to prolong the moment you ask, “Where is Molineux?” The question is not altogether an unfamiliar one; it has been asked so often that Old John has given it very considerable thought; and in his answer he rises to a high dramatic effect. “I dasn’t show you!” he quavers. “I dasn’t even go near where he is my own self”—each tone is a triumph of horror, the descending cadence drives the blood back into your heart, and that pretty girl—bless her!—imagines a Molineux eight feet tall, who eats raw meat, and can neither read nor write. He winks at me if I am standing by and overhear. How does he keep from laughing?
Oh, the fund of information he will impart to you as he guides you around! “Yes, the men is allowed to walk up and down in their cells or to sit on the bed daily.” All this on one tone and in one breath. What an engineer John is! Listen to his description of the mighty wall which encloses the Tombs: “That high wall around the prison was built at great expense of money, time, and men, so as to put the yard inside of it.” And an architect! “This building and that building isn’t the same building at all.” Ah, there is method in it all! He is leading, as every great dramatist does, up to his climax. Old John approaches it with reverential awe: this great beam of wood, lying in the yard, what stories it could tell! But John anticipates any superfluous remarks this obsolete institution might make for itself.
“Do you see that beam of wood? That’s the last piece of the old gallows; all the rest has been cut up for relics; here the rope was tied.” Old John’s monologue, which follows, closes with these words: “And here you see the marks made by the axe in the hands of the hangman when it cut the rope that sprung the trap, launching the unhappy wretch into eternity. They do not hang yet any more, they make them sit in a chair up at Sing Sing, and kills them with nobody knows what.” He never says electrocution, it’s too much for him; perhaps he does not believe in it—neither do I.
We suspect that every now and then John freshens up these marks himself; should this part of the old apparatus be painted, John would lose half his income—those chips, not his face, are his fortune. How little a quarter must seem, how good is life to a visitor after hearing John and seeing the old gallows! Old John is a judge of human nature: if he thinks you will stand it, he points to a black stone in the side of the old Tombs and tells you it is where a colored man dashed his brains out long ago rather than be hung, and how the successive wardens have tried unsuccessfully to remove the stain.
I remove my hat to his genius when I recall an instance of John’s impromptus. One afternoon a well-known clergyman called and joined me in my walk over the cobblestones in the prison yard. We talked long and earnestly—the dominie and I—and smoked large black cigars. Old John arrived with a party of eager visitors. Old John was in a state of prime satisfaction; business was good and his pilgrims were appreciative. After pointing me out, he was asked if the minister was Molineux’s spiritual adviser. Oh, John, what inspired you to sin, and have you ever confessed it? Was it the dominie’s cigar? “Do you see that reverend gentleman? He was arrested this morning for throwing his mother-in-law out of the third-story window; he will get twenty years at least.” The horror-stricken visitors looked at the calm, intellectual face at my side and gasped. Not one of them had curiosity about me after that. I was a poor worm in comparison with my more awful companion. I wonder what they will say should they enter Dr. ----’s beautiful church some Sunday and see him in the pulpit.
John never “smiles.” Wait a minute! Hold on about that! About once a month he is missed over night; they say he does “smile” periodically, and then very frequently indeed; the next morning every one in the Tombs accuses him of gallantry. No wonder; John has a very handsome goatee, and knows it. We accuse him of gallantry. How immensely pleased he is, and how modestly he protests! “Methinks he doth protest too much.” I asked him once about the matter. “Is it true, John, these things I hear about you?” This was his reply: “Some says I do and some says I don’t.” You will never get Old John to compromise himself. I suspect he has, like many of us, taken the “third degree” at some time during his long life. I said to him, “John, you have been here a long time, and must have acquired quite a lot of money; why don’t you go home and settle down?” Could Solomon excel the reply? “Because they would take away the little I have and send me back for more.” I shall not be more definite about my friend’s age, for two reasons. The first is that he would not like it; the second, that I do not know it—no one does, no one remembers when he first came. There is much speculation in the Tombs as to Old John’s financial status; on this question he keeps his own counsel; he can always change a $50 bill; perhaps he is your landlord.
There is another matter upon which he imparts information to visitors—the most important one—it comes like the catastrophe of a play, just before the curtain is rung down. “Do you see that man all dressed up in brass buttons?” (pointing to a keeper). “He’s a keeper, he gets paid a salary for his services. But I only gets what the kind visitors gives me, and all I gets over a dollar I buys tobacco with for the poor unfortunate men you see dressed up in stripes, who have no money!” Whew! Old John (the rascal) will give the tobacco in the next world—perhaps! and a light with it—maybe.
Out of consideration for many years’ sojourn with Old John, I will not state his salary. But if I ever get out of here (which I never will), and Old John should die (which he never will), I shall apply for his position. Come and see the old Tombs for yourself, where so many good fellows have lived and died, before it is too late. Come and listen to Old John, and pay him well, for it’s worth the money.