Fayetteville observer. [volume] (Fayetteville, Tenn.) 1850-1966, 1869-11-11

4 y
Light. Here am /, say, arrested
! for THEFT. Grant the crimeI what
the use of denying it after your
judged? (And | will credit tn,
law this much: that / was neve
imprisoned unjustly in my life.)
am suddenly picked up from th'
street, and after brief trial {
would willingly dispense with ha
because my word goes for nothing
and / have no friends,) placed il
solitary confinement for sixmonths
a year, or two years. No person
sir, who has never undergone th'
punishment can even imagine th,
slow agony of solitary captivity
You could not stand it a year. |
who by this time should be pref
ty we'll used to it, will be able tt
stand it ten or twelve years long
er, when my ylife-imprisonment viii
cease. Save in the case of such
visits of yours, no human face il
seen by the prisoner. You, prob.
ABLY, wondered, when you entered
the cell, why work SO hard.
"When we first come here we
are given the choice of doing moth
ing or working. We always pre-
fer the former at first, but not
many days of thought--wild,
maddened, wearing, eternal, lonely
thought-one's own heart preying
upon itself in solitude-not many
are required TO force us to the lat
ter alternative; and we work SO
hard, necessarily and desperately,
to forget ourselves. And the au-
thorities make much more out of
US than they would from the labor
of honest workmen. They have
technical saying-and they say
it like a boast--that our labor is
not compulsory; and yet we are
forced to it by self.terror, a men
tai void of silence and solitude,
more dreadful than whip, or brand,
or any torture. You see we must
forget ourselves, and that is what
we try to do when we work so
hard.
"Well, suppose my term expires.
My cell door is opened; l am
conducted down stairs, change
these striped clothes for those re-
linquished at the time of my enter
ing the prison. and am shown in
to the street--free TO do as ! will.
Imagine my sensations. l have
not seen a human face, it may be,
for years; and now, suddenly, l
encounter thousands. / am just
as il / were translated into anoth-
er planet, or like Rip Van VIM
kle after his twenty years nap.
My clothes are out of fashion,
houses have been built where l
remember nothing but empty lots.
The myriad faces of men and wo-
men in the streets seem unreally
vivid and distinct. The roar and
rumble of the thoroughfares con-
fuse my brain. l am bewildered,
lost. The few dollars | may
have earned by overwork in the
prison are speedily expended for
necessities; | am penniless.
II is difficult, next to impossible,
to obtain honest employment Gre
dentials are almost always requir-
ed, and who would employ con-
vict? The only acquaintances |
meet are those whom / knew of
old--fellow rogues. From those
alone ! receive the cordial smile
of welcome, the warm hand-clasp
of friendship. In the universal
death of sympathy the sound of
their voices is sweet, the light of
their welcome tender and warm.
"IIowever deeply / may have
resolved on reformation, my old
unprincipled feelings repossess me.
l borrow money of thieves, visit
the old cribs mostly frequented by
thieves, meet and become intimate
with women-many of them very
pretty-who are also thieves, whom
! have known before. This is
my sympathy in the world.
There is nothing, most likely, in-