"No, no, Br'er Moses, don' take it so hard, man. Mary said she put obea on you so strong that nothin' can't go well with you while she's away. So strong you can't never leave her, never, never, no matter what she do to you. But we won't believe that, Br'er Moses. Maybe her obea ain't good. Maybe it won't work. Be of good cheer, dear Br'er Moses. Our Father above gwine proteck us from our spiritual enemy and from everlastin' death -if we is clean of all sin. Is you clean of all sin, Br'er Moses, or has the Bad Man got his claws in you? His claws, an' his teef, an' his hot an' spiky tail? O-oh, Br'er Moses! O-oh, Br'er Moses! Pray, Br'er Moses, an' let us join in song. Seizing his guitar, the artist, with a few woful chords, broke into a marrowsearching wail: "Day of Wrath! that day of mournin', Sing! Sing with me, poor hunted soul!" But Moses lay groaning on the ground, face downward. Next morning, however, when the whistle rang through the happy valley, he trudged away to work cheerful enough under the bright influence of sun, breeze, and all well-being, his child's mind for the moment unclouded by memories of dread. But fate willed that he should begin the day heavily. It was a purple-heart, not large, but of formidable toughness. Many hours he hacked at it, he, the best chopper in the colony, before it fell. Then, ruefully feeling his axe-edge, chipped and toothed by the flinty wood, he swore he would not split the trunk by hand, and so began to bore for dynamite. His huge arms ached, his horny palms bled before the drill sufficed. Not till quitting-time could he fire the fuse. And even then, when he crawled from shelter after the explosion, his enemy lay before him scarcely scratched, one small spot of loosened fibre alone showing where the blast had passed. The thing was common enough; but now it seemed suspicious, to his mood. Was Mary's spell already acting? How many more holes must he drill, how many more days must he hew, to reduce this brute to firewood? In the worst of humors, the ne gro gathered his tools and started off for camp. Ten minutes later the next thing happened. In the bush trail a tapir met him. There she stood, big and fat and gray, like a wabble-nosed, low-lying Shetland pony-stood in the narrow path while sunset and leaf-shadows dappled her broad back mother-of-pearl-stood among treeferns, motionless, and stared at Moses. Motionless, Moses stared at her. But Moses moved first. "Well, auntie," said he, "sence you isn't in no haste, Ah beg you kin❜ly rest whe' you is till Moses get a gun.' "So Ah jumped over to camp an' lended a gun," he told the sympathetic Banknote by that night's fireside. "But when Ah returned, sir, what you t'ink? Bush-cow gone! Gone, sir! Couldn't wait dat one li'l' minute, an' she wid not'in' in all God's worl' to do! Scan'lous onreasonable ole outlaw!" "So true!" assented the sympathetic Banknote. "She was onnatural outlaw, vexin' a gen'leman like you. But"-and he sighed heavily-"Ah told you already, Ah sorry for you, Br'er Moses." "You ain't t'ink-" gasped Moses. Banknote, nodding his horror, stole away. That night the negro tossed restlessly. At dawn he rose dour and savage. Toward evening David, the kindest little mule on the placer, gave him the kick he deserved. "Is you goin' to endure it?" asked Banknote by the supper-pot, as Moses patched his barked shin. "Not from no mule," growled Moses. The cunning mulatto turned away to hide the joy in his eyes; Maclise kept scant mercy for the merciless to beasts. Then he made a suggestion.. And, in accord with that suggestion, when the two met next morning on their way to work he slid into the black man's hand some four inches of small steel cable, stubbed at either end till its stiff component wires rayed out like bristles in a brush. That very afternoon gentle little David trundled his cart around to Moses's clearing for a load of wood. Moses, with unprecedented interest, gave him a personal welcome, rubbing his head and ears, playing with his soft gray nose. But David, for the first time in history, fretted under caresses, stamped, jerked, lunged, and finally bolted clean away. At breakneck speed he fled toward camp, thrashing the emptying cart hither and yon against trees and bowlders, to plunge at last into his stable-yard kicking and screaming, wreckage awhirl at his heels. The frightened foreman, thinking him utterly mad, would have had him. forthwith shot, but Maclise, hastily called to the spot, pounced on the truth. "He's in pain," he cried; "let's get at his mouth." One glance told the story. The bristling barbs of the scrap of cable twisted around the bit, with its ends bent up and down, had cruelly lacerated tongue and gums and palate. The sight would have roused the angels. Maclise's face took on a look not difficult to read. Yet, negro-like, Moses could find no natural sequence in events that followed. "How de mahster could knowed Ah done it, widout de obea tell him? Why de mahster so outrageous fo' dat one li'l' foolish mule? Mules ain't got souls! Oh!" he groaned, when once again restored to his proper camp. Banknote, ministering in spirit only, rolled eyes of deep understanding. His victim, gray with fear, moaned on, rapidly jetsamming his own vitality. "Wai! wai! Ma haid killin' me! Ah cyant quench ma thirst! Ah gwine die, Ah gwine die! Obea compass me roun' an' roun'! De Bad Man draggin' me down!" Then Banknote played his trump: "Br'er Moses, raise up an' hearken to good tidin's. Last night in a dream it was told me how that white devil-hen ain't hatch pure white. She done growed three little gray feathers once, what Fitzjim pulled out. Br'er Moses, that obea can't work no more. You is free. You can leave Mary. You can leave her, leave her, hear? Br'er Moses, there's a Dutch girl down in town, too nice-too sweet-full black, like you. You say the word, an' I'll write her a letter. An' when we all go down at Easter you passes your canister to she, eh?" geous crowd of girls, brown, yellow, and black, waited on Waterkant to greet them, and, as the men jumped ashore, squawks of welcome split the night. Awhile the clamor lasted. Then, one by one, out of the tumult of jubilation, each pair emerged and moved away, swinging a canister between them, until at last none remained save the solitary guard. "Where Big Mary?" marvelled he, as he curled down into the tarpaulins for his usual forbidden sleep. "Strange, Ah ain't seed Big Mary 'mongst de womens!" Yet Mary, in her cabin, had slaved since dawn, baking, brewing, scrubbing, setting the place in order for the great holiday of the year. Dusk caught her still at the cheerful task. And when at last it was done she threw herself flat upon the floor to rest till news of the boats should come. But the negro sleeps the sleep of the drugged. Easter Monday was pay-day. Gay in their holiday garments, the laborers gathered in the compound of Maclise's own house. With them came many women, to draw the wages of their absent mates. At first the crowd stood quiet and orderly, according to its respectful wont; but soon a hot excitement burned through the veil of calm. Two voices soared in altercation. Others quickly joined, till the air choked with outcry such as never before had shamed the dignity of the place. Nora Maclise, hurrying to her window, looked down. Below in the courtyard, lost to all law, the black folk swayed and screamed and scolded, with flapping hands and brandished fists and out-thrust chins. The thing was scandalous. And, strangest of all, there full in the midst sat MaryMary the arbiter, the order-maker, inactive in the heart of war. Amazed beyond all guessing, Nora called. Another moment and the great negress stood courtesying in the door. Her huge bulk loomed its biggest in spotless churchgoing white. The snuggest and godliest of turbans swathed her head. Her clasped hands enfolded a brilliant Easter card and a prayer-book and hymnal of the Church of England, a sprig of green marking the proper Psalms for the Day. An odor of extraordinary sanctity enveloped her as A gora cloud. Late on Easter Even the placer fishboats pulled into Paramaribo. VOL. LIV.-72 "Mary, what on earth do those people mean?" Timidly deprecatory, the giantess replied: "Li'l' mistress, dat ain't nuffin'. Dey's only exchanging dey opinions about me. "You see, li'l' mistress," she pursued, "it's lak dis: Easter mornin' Ah hear how Moses done come to town and gone off to live wid a Dutch girl. Now, endurin' of de day my time were all took up by my duties to my church partakin' of early sacrament, an' mornin' service, an' evensong and such. But when church outs at night, Ah say to myself, Ah say: ladies an' gen'lmens bofe. Dey was all proud, too. Yass'm. Extra proud. Ah sure was obliged to nick 'em up befo' Ah could calm dey spirits an' cut my Moses out. "But Ah brung him, yass'm. Oh, yass'm, Ah brung him! He safe at home now. Only, fo' de time bein' he feel mos' like restin' in baid. "So Ah jes' dropped in by myself, after service dis mornin' to wish de mistress an' de mahster de peace of dese holy days, an' to bring a Easter text, wid bofe our loves an' duties." Dropping her farewell courtesy, Mary turned to go; then, in a sudden burst of confidence and conviction, looked back for one final word: "Li'l' mistress, dat yellow boy, Banknote, are too simple! Why, Moses ain't want no Dutch girl! What Moses want is a good woman to work an' a handsome lady to walk wid. My Moses want ies' me!" THE GRIEF By Theodosia Garrison THE heart of me's an empty thing, that never stirs at all Gray Eyes and Black Hair, 'tis never you I blame; Gray Eyes and Black Hair-the grief is never this; But, oh, girl that tore my youth,-'tis this I have to bear,- 1 THE MAN BEHIND THE BARS By Winifred Louise Taylor THIRD PAPER T the time of my first visit to the penitentiary of my native State the warden surprised me by saying: 'Among the very best men in the prison are some of the 'life' men, the men here for murder." This statement is not difficult to unravel, and my study of the "life" men has convinced me of its truth. The law classes the killing of one person by another under three heads. The murder deliberately planned and executed is designated murder in the first degree, and for this in many of our States the penalty is still capital punishment; otherwise legal murder deliberately planned and officially executed, the penalty duplicating the offence in general outline. This is the popular conception of fitting the penalty to the crime; and its continuance ignores the obvious truth that just so long as the law justifies and sets the example of taking life under given circumstances the individual will justify himself in taking life under circumstances which seem to him to warrant it; the individual simply takes the law into his own hands. War and the death penalty are the two most potent sources of mental suggestion in the direction of murder. Statistics vary, but in the majority of countries and States in which capital punishment has been abolished, a decrease rather than an increase of murders has followed-a perfectly logical result. For years I was an advocate of capital punishment as a merciful alternative to life imprisonment. Knowing that the certainty of approaching death is likely to produce spiritual awakening, and to bring to the surface all that is best in a man, as in "the penitent thief" of scriptural fame; believing that death is the great liberator and the gateway to higher things; knowing that a man imprisoned for life may become mentally and spiri tually deadened by the hopeless tragedy of his fate, or may become so intent on excusing, palliating, or justifying his crime as in time to lose all sense of guilt, perhaps eventually to believe himself a victim rather than a criminal; knowing the unspeakable suffering of the prisoner who abandons himself to lifelong remorse, and knowing how often the "life" man becomes a prey to insanity, in sheer pity for the criminal I came to regard the death penalty as a merciful means of escape from an incomparably worse fate. However, every other consideration becomes secondary to what measure will best protect human life. In my mind there is no question that in deliberately and in cold blood setting the example of the death penalty the state is justifying the taking of life. Still further, that in every execution within the walls of a penitentiary the suggestion of murder is sown broadcast among the other convicts, especially among the mentally unsound. If capital punishment is upheld as a measure necessary to the protection of society each State should have its State executioner, and executions should take place at the State capitol in the presence of the governor and of as many legislators as may be in the city. In relegating to the penitentiary the ugly office of Jack Ketch, we escape the realization of what it all is-how revolting, how barbarous-and we throw one more horror into the psychic atmosphere of prison life. Throughout the United States the legal penalty for murder in the second degree is imprisonment for life; then follows the crime called manslaughter, when the act is commited in self-defence or under other extenuating circumstances, the penalty for which is imprisonment for a varying but limited term of years. Practically there is no definite line dividing murder in the second degree from manslaughter. A clever, expert lawyer, whether on the side of the prosecution or the defence, has little difficulty in carrying his case over the border in the one direction or the other. Money and the social position of the accused are important factors in adjusting the delicate balance between murder in the second degree and manslaughter. Various are the pathways that lead to the illegal taking of life; terrible often the pressure brought to bear upon the man before the deed is done. Deadly fear, the fear common to humanity, has been the force that drove the hand of many a man to strike, stab, or shoot with fatal effect; while anger, righteous or unrighteous, the momentary impulse of intense emotional excitement to which we are all more or less liable, has gathered its host of victims and caused the tragic ruin of unnumbered men now wearing life away in our penitentiaries. And terribly true it is that some of the "life" men are among the best in our prisons-the "life" men, who are all indiscriminately called murderers. That some of them were murderers at heart and a menace to the community we cannot doubt; doubtless also some are innocent of any crime; and there are others for whom it would be better for all concerned if they were given liberty to-day. It seems to be assumed that a man unjustly imprisoned suffers more than the one who knows that he has only himself to blame. Much depends upon the nature of the man. Given two men of equally sound moral nature, while the one with a clear conscience may suffer intensely, from the sense of outrage and injustice, from the tearing of the heartstrings and the injury to business relations, his mental agony can hardly equal that of the man whose heart is eaten out with remorse. The best company any prisoner can have is his own self-respect, the best asset of a bankrupt life. I have been amazed to see for how much that counts in the peace and hope, and the great power of patience which makes for health and gives strength for endurance. On a lovely evening some thirty years ago, there was a jolly wedding at the home of a young Irish girl in a Western city. Tom Evans, the groom, a big-hearted, jovial fellow, was deeply in love with the girl of his choice. He was earning good wages and he intended to take good care of his wife. It was midnight, and the streets were flooded with brilliant moonlight when Evans started to take his bride from her home to his, accompanied on the way by Jim Maguire, Larry Flannigan, and Ned Foster, three of the wedding guests. They were not carriage folks, and were walking to the street-car when Jim Maguire, who had not been averse to the exhilarating liquids in hospitable circulation at the wedding-feast, became unduly hilarious and disported himself with song and dance along the sidewalk, a diversion in which the others took no part. This hilarity was summarily interrupted by a policeman, who attempted to arrest the young man for disorderly conduct, a proceeding vigorously resisted by Maguire. This was the beginning of an affray in which the policeman was killed; and the whole party were arrested and taken into custody. As the policeman was well known, one of the most popular men on the force, naturally public indignation ran high and the feeling against his slayers was bitter and violent. Tom Evans and Jim Maguire were held for murder, while Larry Flannigan, a boy of seventeen, and Ned Foster, as participants in the affair, were charged with manslaughter. The men were given fair trials separate trials, I believe, in different courts; but it was impossible to get at the facts of the case, as there were no actual witnesses outside of those directly affected by the outcome; while each lawyer for the defence did his best to clear his own client from direct responsibility for the death of the policeman regardless of the deserts of the others under accusation. And so it came to pass that Jim Maguire and Tom Evans were "sent up" for life, while the bride of an hour returned to her father's house and in the course of time became the bride of another. Larry Flannigan was sentenced to fourteen years' imprisonment. Ned Foster, having served a shorter sentence, was released previous to my acquaintance with the others. |