# Scenes in my Native Land/Evening Devotions in a Prison

EVENING DEVOTIONS IN A PRISON.
The silent curtains of the night
 Our mournful cell surround,
God's dwelling is in perfect light,
 His mercy hath no bound.
His blessed sun, with cheering smile,
 Dispenses good to all,
Even on the sinful and the vile
 His daily bounties fall.
The way of wickedness is hard,
 Its bitter fruits we know, Shame in this world is its reward,  And in the future, woe.
Yet Thou, who see'st us while we pay
 Our penalty of pain,
Cast not our souls condemned away,
 Nor let our prayer be vain.
Deep root, within a soil subdued,
 Let true repentance take,
And be its fruits a life renewed,
 For the Redeemer's sake.
Uplift our spirits from the ground,  Give to our darkness, light;
Oh, Thou ! whose mercies have no bound,
 Preserve us safe this night.
All researches into the history of earlier ages, result in giving prominence to prisons as among the strongest engines of tyranny. Despotic princes found them convenient retreats for the conquered foe, the noble, whose estates they wished to confiscate, or the rival, whose eye was upon their throne. The legends of baronial dungeons sleep in the darkness of feudal times. In every age the oppressor hath, at his will, "held the body bound"; and none may compute the number of souls, whose only liberator was death. Though the progress of civilization and refinement mitigated the savage features of these penal institutions, yet it was long ere humanity dreamed of making their discipline salutary. Disregard to the moral health of those who, as a gangrene, had been divided from society, still prevailed; and promiscuous association rendered the novice in guilt, as hardened as the hoary offender.
For the praise of modern times, and for the mild ​nature of our own government, has been reserved that benevolence, which, in sequestrating the criminal, keeps before his eyes the bright image of returning virtue, and baptizes his place of punishment with the hope of heaven. If to appease the anger of an offended community, Justice must purge, as it were, with fire, the soul that hath sinned, Mercy forgets not to sit by as a refiner, pronouncing when the dross is fully separated, and, in the sacred words of inspiration, "counting the Law as a schoolmaster, that bringeth unto Christ." How would Howard have rejoiced had such a prospect dawned upon him, while hazarding his life, to "dive into the depth of dungeons, to plunge amid the infection of hospitals, to survey the mansions of sorrow and pain, to take the gage of misery, depression, and contempt, to remember the forgotten, to attend to the neglected, to visit the forsaken, to compare and collate the distresses of all men in all countries."
The pens of some of our distinguished writers have enforced the feasibility of making prisons adjuncts in the reformation of vice, and in several of our States buildings have been erected on this principle, and theories in some measure reduced to practice. Among these institutions, that at Wethersfield, Connecticut, stands conspicuous, in the opinion of foreigners as well as of natives, for the adaptation of its structure, the wisdom of its policy, and the results of its discipline.
It was at the close of a long, cloudless summer's ​day, when I first attended, with a small party of strangers and friends, its hour of evening prayer. The richness of the surrounding landscape, the beauty of the prospect from its lofty, mural promenade, the broad, quiet river, the distant, gliding sail, the waving foliage, the hallowed spire, embosomed amid graceful elms,—all seemed to soothe the mind into calm delight, rather than prepare it for painful contemplation. But the harsh sound of locks and bolts convinced us that guilt was near,—that guilt which defaces both the fair creation and the immortal soul.
A bell struck, and the convicts came from their respective work-shops, and arranged themselves in lines in the spacious and strongly enclosed area. There they underwent a strict examination from the guard, who ascertained that none had secreted about his person any weapon of destruction or offence. It was humiliating to see powerful and athletic men holding out their arms for this search with the subdued look of a helpless child. Methought, salutary lessons might here be gathered for the young and tempted, and they be taught to wage a firmer warfare with Vice, after thus witnessing its degradation and misery.
Then each prisoner placed his hands upon the shoulders of the one who preceded him, and all marched rapidly, with the lock-step, towards the chapel. There, seated side by side, were seen the man of full strength, the boy of fourteen summers, and him of hoary hairs, who, sentenced for life, sur​veyed, motionless and passionless, objects to which his dim eye and seared heart had been long inured. I bent a scrutinizing glance upon the mass of heads and faces in this prison-home, to discover if possible some indication of talent or nobleness, for we know that the whirlwind of passion hath but too often driven into crime those whom nature and education had fitted for a higher destiny. But there was an absence of those lineaments which reveal the higher developments of intellect, or the promptings of a heavenward soul. Sin had been there with its levelling process, effacing mental elevation and spiritual beauty.
Every brow was raised to the Chaplain, as he simplified a portion of that Book, which is a "light to those who sit in darkness," and lifted up his prayer to Him who "blotteth out transgression." In that prolonged gaze, was there not some shadow of hope, that "where sin had abounded, grace might much more abound"? How impressive was the supplicating voice of that man of God, standing, as it were, like the prophet, with his censer, "between the living and the dead," that the plague might be stayed.
At the close of the devotional exercises, the prisoners passed out in order, to their several ranges of dormitories, each taking in his hand, at the proper depository, a wooden vessel, containing his coarse, but nutritious evening repast. These movements were made with such regularity and celerity, that one moment they might be seen each standing at the door of ​his solitary cell, the next all had vanished, and the sharp spring of more than a hundred locks was their vesper-tone, their sad "good-night."
Among the trains of thought that these scenes excited, was the consciousness, that each of these fallen beings had once a mother, to whom his infancy was inexpressibly dear. When she pressed his velvet lip to hers, or lulled him to rest upon her bosom, surely, her visions of delight had no imagery like this. Yet, could we read the secret soul of the erring tenants of this abode, might we not discover some maternal precept still maintaining a place in their memory? Perhaps striving to neutralize the black and bitter elements of evil?
Among the inmates of this institution, is one who has plunged into many varieties of sin, and been a wanderer over the face of the earth. Retribution met him in appalling forms, disgrace and suffering became his portion, but he passed through all with a hardened mind. Nothing, he affirms, in his whole life, has ever made him feel serious, but the last words of his mother. When a boy of twelve years old, he was summoned to her bed, to receive her dying counsel. In feeble and tender tones, she told him that she was about to leave him, and earnestly enjoined him to seek the Saviour, to take care of his soul, and to meet her in heaven. She continued clasping his hand, until her own was cold in death. For nearly half a century afterwards, this miserable being was pressing on ​through a course of crime, too revolting for description. Still he confesses that he was never able utterly to drive from his mind the admonitions of his mother, nor to think of them, amid his deepest obduracy, without emotion.
Is not this a peculiar point of view, from which to contemplate maternal influence? The good and the wise take pleasure in expressing their obligations to this hallowed source. Bacon traced back to it, as to a shaded fountain, his intellectual eminence. Washington acknowledged it as the teacher of his self-control, that rudiment of his greatness. Edwards referred the germ of his piety to the prayers of the saintly one who gave him birth. But here is a different suffrage, a voice as from the lower parts of the earth, bearing concurrent testimony. Such a disclosure gains force from its rare occurrence. Virtue and purity are willing to reveal the origin of those principles, which have guided them, but it is difficult to extort from wickedness, commendation and honor for the precepts which it has violated.
Here is an instance of a man plunging into the vortex of guilt, and laboring to dismiss from his mind everything just and holy. Still, by his side has walked, to his soul has clung, with his conscience has wrestled, the voice of a dying mother. It has prevailed sometimes to soften a heart, which was like a "piece of the nether millstone." May it not yet prove like the rod of Moses to the flinty rock of Horeb?
​ Mother! who with ineffable tenderness, art bending over the babe that heaven hath given thee, knowest thou what shall befall it in this evil world? Parents, who gaze with pride on the budding promise of the fair boy, whom you have nurtured, know ye what may be his lot in the latter days? Redouble your efforts, deepen your trust in the Eternal, that the evening prayer of your son rise not from the prison-house of guilt, when you are motionless in the grave.