St. Paul daily globe. [volume] (Saint Paul, Minn.) 1884-1896, 1885-11-15
WARnN SING SING.

He deserves all that he gets and we know
it, yet one cannot refrain from feeling a
touch of pity as he reads the accounts of
FERDINAND WARDS prison life. When
we 60 back less than two years ago and see
him surrounded with all the elegance and
comforts OF his luxurious home, and then
look at him in his prison garb tOiling away
day after day at his work of grinding
stove castings and putting them together,
we realize how easy it is, when once the
start is made on the downward road, to de-
scend from the top to the bottom of human
experience. Two years ago WARDS
check was good for million. Now he
couldn't buy postage stamp. Then his
dainty appetite was satisfied with all the
deicacies that money could buy. Now he
eagerly gulps down the coarse fare served
to prison convicts. Then his as
sociates were bank presidents and
ex-presidents of the United States. Now
his companions are burglars and murderers.
And all within the short space OF eighteen
months. a reporter of the New York
World, who accompanied the officials who
conveyed WARD to Sing Sing, graphically
describes the whlom NAPOLEON of Wall
street the first Sunday in prison. He says:
A peaceful Sabbath morning as FERDINAND
WARD sees the morning light for the first
time in his stony cell at Sing Sing. Even the
cooling of the doves on the huge gray walls cam
not be heard within. Thirteen hundred tired
convicts are swelling the matutinal anthem
of sleep. But there is one weary brain that
does not rest and one white, troubled face,
with colo, gray eyes, that does not soften.
narrow forehead pinched nose, bloodleSs
lips and hard, fine lines about the mouth.
Even the stern guard looks in through the
thick iron bars with pity at the lean, lonely
man sitting on his little cot and picking at his
rumpled livery of disgrace.
Now there is wild clamor as the prison
bell is jerked roughly by keeper. Hun
dreds of feet begin to shuttle and stamp,
heavy doors open and shut with startling ac-
compartments of chain rafting. Suddenly
all the cell doors in the five long, gloomy
tiers are opened and the whole thirteen hun
dred silent men step out and put their hands
upon each others shoulders as they form in
line. WARD is there. He puts the tips of
his long, thin fingers on the back of the sullen
man ahead of him. and shivers as he realizes
that his companions hands have been red
with human blood
The slow march begins, and the sound as of
the washing of the sea in the hours of the
night, changes to the tramp of an army.
WARD is at the end of the stove mounters'
gang. If he were in the middle his awkward
attempts at the lock-step would break up the
line. Past hundreds of dark, yawning cells
he goes along the lofty tier, and then down,
down, down. four steep flights of iron stairs
and out into the open yard with its soft green
lawns and frowning walls. Ali 1t is good
to breathe the open air and to look at the sky,
even if it is dark with clouds. WARD turns
his cold gray eyes upward and signs.
Into the great dim messroom, with its scores
of benches and hundreds of tin cups and
platters, the long line of speechless prisoners
go. At one end of the room are the scamper-
ing cooks and at the other is Chief Keeper
CoNNAUGHTON, tall grim and keen eyed, with
one hand toying with his chin and the other
grasping heavy black-thorn club. There is
a loud rap, and LOTS men sit down with
suddenneSS that makes WARDS hair bristle as
he stands alone. Then he sits down slowly
and bends over plate of hash. Daintily, as
if dissecting the tender flesh of young part
ridge, the whilom millionaire picks at the
substantial but depressingly unheroic food.
1t is slow work, but finally the tin plate is
emptied. WARD reaches for his quart cup of
steaming coffee and takes gulp. Then his
features writhe as the plebeiau bootleg CUR
giles down his delicate throat. Burned bread
mixed with the real bean doesn't compare at
all with the delicious draughts of fragrant
Java furnished at DelmoDico's and the Lud-
low street jail. Still, coffee is coffee and hun
ger is hunger. WARD chews loathingly at
slice of bread: then he looks pleased. The
bread is sweet and good. He eats another
slice, and then he folds his hands and bows
his peaked face upon his breast. All the low
browed, thick-necked ruffians in the room are
glaring stealthily at him. When WARD be-
comes aware of the battery of glancss he
looks uneasy and passes his hand YEARLY
across his face.
Two quick, hard raps. Everybod is on his
feet and the line begins to march. The Catho-
lies wheel out and proceed to the laundry.
All the rest trudge slowly up flight of steps
to the Methodist chapel. The sound of an
organ, low and sweet, steals softly through
the shadows. Then it breaks out into loud
strains. But all through it is the sound OF
marching men. At the door of the chapel