Atlanta Georgian. [volume] (Atlanta, Ga.) 1912-1939, 1912-07-20
The Gates of Silence
BY Meta Smmfn5, Author Of "Hushed Up"

done. In the tea which had been allowed
him Luxuries for the condemned man
in the three weeks Of life that were left
to him. he would fare sumptuously in
comparison with the other men hemme0
In by prison walls who see the face Of
the sky only through a lattice OF iron
bars
In Brxton, while waiting his trial, Rim
ington had dsiked nothing more than the
daily chapel Not because he was irrelig
ious, but simply because there, more than
in any other place or In pursuit Of any
other occupation. IT seemed to him the
whole awful degradation was more clearly,
more bitterly brought home TO heart and
mind.
The rows OF convicts in their garb OF
varying hideousness, every evil character
istic OF facial shape and expression thrown
into strong relief by their shaven faces and
shorn heads; the attendant warders, who
naturally made no pretense Of devotion or
attention; the ugly basphemies Of the
prisoners made under cover of the sing.
ing. the ribald conversations carried on
under shelter of the responses-the
whole ugly Journalism Of It all had sick
ened him. II was no one $ fault-not the
fault OF the chaplain, who could not force
his office on any man without his own de-
sire; not the fault OF the officials, least Of
all the fault OF liturgy curtailed and mu
tilated though IT was merely the result
Of brutalized men herded together in a
CHASTITY wilderness Of silence making use
OF the only outlet for speech that they
possessed.
But this morning 1t was very different
this morning that was the ante chamber
to the day OF death Like man in a
4 ,{re roBo to he ohm 4.
like a man in a dream thinking nothing
OF how his presence there, man set
apart, added horror to those who shared
in the service with him, for these living,
fettered men who saw before them, in his
solitary state, the man who was to swing
IN three weeks time. For Remington
there was new life in the words the chap
lain read in his cultured voice that sound
ed so strangely thin and rarefed in con
trast to the robust, coarse volume of the
prisoners voices. The prayers passed
him like smoke; his own desire rose up.
formless and vaporous, minging with
them
FAMILIAR WORDS.
Familiar words sounded in his ear stir
ring long dead memories in his heart.
Lord. Thou hast been our refuge from
one generation to another ~ When
Thou art angry all our days are gone; we
bring our years to an end as it were a
tale that is told "
Memories stirring in his heart Of the
doomed man as he listens-memores OF
a little gray church in Suffolk village, of a
green churehyard within sound of the sea
memories that crystalline suddenly, over
whelmingly, into knowledge OF where
last he consciously heard those words-by
the side OF an open grave in that green
Gods Acre where they are burying a
woman, his mother. while he himself a
weeping, miserable boy of nine, sees all
his world crumbing in the clay they are
casting on the coffin.
The voice Of the chaplain continues.
and the rough voices of the prisoners
respond; but the man in the place OF
state, with his own attendant warder
sees nothing of the words in the great
black type at which he. is staring. He
has remembered now that this Is one
OF the Psalms from the Order for the
Burial of the Dead, and he is asking
himself will II be that which will be
read over him when he stands pnioned
with the white cap over his eyes above
the awful pit of death.
To Be Continued in Next Issue.