THERE'S Neilson, takin' his afternoon walk," said the good-natured turnkey, making a casual survey of the prison yard from the grated window near the guard-room door, which he was about to open for my exit. Neilson! and in the yard? At last, I must encounter that bad man! I was, be it known, on my way to the prison hospital, carrying a basket of Parma violets for distribution among a score or so of my fellow-sinners, now stretched upon hard beds, or wearily sitting on harder chairs, in that mildly penal department of the institution; and, no doubt, not eminently deserving of agreeable sniffs at Parma violets. At this unlooked-for announcement of the turnkey, a cold shiver ran down my back, for Neilson, even in prison circles, was accounted a desperate man. He was both robber and murderer; and for the last fifteen years had been serving out a life sentence of solitary confinement in one of the dreary cells of the "Upper Arch."

Five of these awful years had he passed in uninterrupted solitude, but, since the advent of the present humane prison warden, Neilson had been permitted to take, daily, an hour's exercise in the prison yard, a sunny enclosure, opening on the workshops, the hospital wing, and indirectly on the "Upper Arch." In the centre of this court, "the new warden" had caused a cheery flower plot to be made, and now, in April, many-hued crocuses already brightened its borders.

It was just before the establishment of the beautiful and helpful Flower Mission that I undertook, not without some discouragement, to try the gracious effect of violets, roses, pinks, and heartsease, behind the bars. In my then limited experience, to be locked out of the friendly guard-room, and sent alone across the prison yard, had not been agreeable to me; and, in deference to my groundless fears, an officer had been detailed to accompany me from the main prison to the hospital wing. As the years went on, my social popularity in the State Prison became well assured, and some surprise at this needless precaution was expressed to me by the convicts; and one attached prison friend (a highway robber) had even assured me that "if anybody in that prison should lay a finger on me, he'd be torn to pieces by the men, afore you could say Jack Robinson."

Though scarcely convinced that the entire demolition of a fellow-being would indemnify me for such "scaith and scart" as might in the mÊlÉe accrue to my own poor person, it was on this assurance that I decided to dispense with official escort to the wing. Thus far, my visits had been so happily timed that the dreaded "Solitary" had never once crossed my path. Looking anxiously from the window, I made a hasty survey of the yard. An officer was just stepping from the door of a distant workshop. Two or three convicts were, at various points of observation, shuffling across the yard. Well, it was too late to show the white feather. The turnkey had already unlocked the door, and stood waiting. I handed him a tiny nosegay (the good man adored flowers, and I never omitted this pretty "Sop to Cerberus"); and now, grasping tightly the handle of my flower basket, "with my heart in my mouth," I thanked him as he held back the heavy door for me, and passed trembling out.

With a hard iron clang, the door closed behind me. Descending a roomy flight of steps, I found myself in the prison yard, and, at the same moment, confronted by,—yes, it must be that dreadful fellow, Neilson, himself! And a sinister-visaged wretch he was, with his small, ferrety eyes, his coarse mouth, and heavy chin. He shuffled as he went, and, with an evil look, stared boldly in my face.

"A tough subject," I mentally determined; but "total depravity" is not an article of my creed, and I do believe in humanity. In a moment, I had dismissed all fear of Neilson, in my zeal for his reformation, and, stepping up to him with a friendly good-afternoon, into which I insinuated all the approval I could conscientiously bestow upon so forbidding a creature, I handed him, from my basket, a bunch of violets. He took them, and, with a clumsy nod, but not a word of thanks, passed on, leaving me with a lightened heart. And, now, I stopped a moment to exchange civilities with the officer whom I had descried from the guard-room window. We were fast friends, and I was indebted to him for many a kind turn. He glanced disparagingly at my flowers, and, as a relief to my chagrin, I said, "Well, I have just given Neilson a bunch of violets; do you imagine that he cares at all for them?"

"Neilson?" he questioned, in evident perplexity.

"Yes, Neilson," I replied, "that short, stout man yonder, there he is now! going into that door!"

"Bless your heart, my good lady," exclaimed the officer, "that ain't Neilson! There he is; can't you see him, the tall fellow with his nose in the air, standing there by the crocus bed? If there's any flowers in the yard, Neilson's about sure to fetch up near 'em."

"Is he?" I said; and from that moment "a fellow-feeling made me kind." I felt sure of the ultimate good-will of Neilson. Meantime, having exhausted the attraction of the crocus bed, he was moving in my direction, but so slowly that I had time to make a critical survey of this famous personage,—a grave, quiet man of slender but firm build, and, even in his coarse prison uniform, bearing himself with a certain air of (if I may so express it) scholarly elegance.

Suitably clothed, he might have been taken for a clergyman, or a Harvard professor. Selecting the very choicest nosegay from my basket, I bade him, as we met, a cheerful good-afternoon, and, offering the flowers, said timidly (for I found this grave, lordly being somewhat unapproachable), "Would you like a bunch of violets to-day?" Absorbed in his own reflections, he had not, until now, observed me. He stopped, came out of his reverie, and, lifting his worn prison cap with a highly ceremonious bow, took the flowers from my hand, composedly smelt them, and said, slowly: "Thank you, madam, they would be very refreshing." Though Neilson's demeanour was eminently stoical, his face was pitiably wan and thin, and in his faded blue eye there was a world of patient pathos that went straight to my heart.

As he was about to pass on, I detained him for a moment, and said, eagerly, "If you like flowers—if you—if you think they would help you, I might bring you a few every Monday, as I come to the hospital."

"Flowers," he replied sententiously, "are refreshing; and if it will not be putting you to too much inconvenience, madam, I would be glad to receive a few from you every week." After this it was arranged with the obliging guard-room turnkey, that every Monday afternoon, along with his own buttonhole posy, a bouquet of "seasonable flowers" should be left on his desk, and should be sent by him to Neilson's cell. And, moreover, ascertaining that Neilson had no "visitor," I obtained permission of the warden to put his name on my visiting list, among those of some forty other unvisited convicts, who, in lieu of dearer company, received me once in three months, in the big guard-room. On these occasions, I was allowed to bring my sorry acquaintances flowers, fruit, drawing and writing materials, books, tracts and magazines, together with such sound moral advice as could be,—like the "sheep in the Vicar's family picture,"—"thrown in for nothing." In their turn, my friends confided to me such passages in their lives as might properly be told to a lady; acquainted me with their desires and aspirations, and, almost invariably, craved my intercession with the governor. (For, whatever his crime, each prison convict hopes that, with some friendly go-between to present his case, that mild-hearted executive will promptly "pardon him out.") But of this service I was conscientiously chary. Gladly it was, however, that I undertook the sale of such inlaid boxes, photograph frames, and other articles as the men found time and material to fashion, the proceeds of which enabled them to subscribe for "Harper's," to own a book or two, or, better still, to make an occasional remittance to some dependent mother, wife or child, left in want by their own wicked folly. Of all the convicts on my list, none proved more satisfactory than Neilson. Our conversation, carried on, according to the prison rules, within earshot of an officer, related chiefly to literature; for this sometime robber and murderer was a man of no mean intellect; and his mental energies, now necessarily diverted from more deplorable channels, had, in these years of solitary leisure, been so well applied to self-improvement, that from almost utter ignorance he had come to be, after his own fashion, an educated man.

Before his last sentence (as he told me) he had been scarcely able to read, and could not even write his name. During his residence in the "Upper Arch," he had, single-handed, mastered reading and writing, and had made fair headway in grammar, geography, arithmetic, geometry, astronomy, and various other branches of education. For general reading he had a decided relish, and a correct appreciation of literary excellence. Fiction he held in supreme contempt, and could have had but a slight acquaintance with it, as he assured me that, in his whole life (he was now fifty years old), he had read but a single story, "The Vicar of Wakefield." As the prison library could not always supply Neilson's favourite mental food, I undertook to furnish him with such reading as he lacked; and his careful use, and prompt return of a book, with his fine appreciation of its contents, made this work a pleasure.

Neilson's story, part of which I had from his own lips and the remainder from the warden himself, runs thus:

An Englishman, born in a London slum, and growing up, as any ill weed must, at haphazard, he had, even in his first trousers, gravitated naturally to crime. A childhood of vagrancy and petty thieving ill-passed, in his early manhood he became a professional house-breaker. He had been made acquainted with many of the prisons of his native country, and had twice made his escape from "durance vile," when he was transported to Botany Bay, from whence he also escaped, along with another notorious burglar and robber, who had been his partner in the crime, for which they had both been expatriated.

On regaining their liberty, the pair had come to this country, and, in Boston, had together undertaken the robbery of a bank. For this crime, they were duly convicted, and sentenced to seven years in the State Prison. Before the removal from jail to prison, one of them managed to escape. The other, Neilson, had divided his booty with his accomplice. Neilson was the soul of honour, that very questionable honour, which, according to the adage, may exist among thieves, and, though he obligingly informed the officers of the "bank," where his share of the plunder was buried (which they recovered), and, in a subsequent interview with them in prison, slipped off his shoe, and took from his stocking, and further restored to them, a sum of about seven hundred dollars, which he had retained as pocket-money, and thus ingeniously smuggled into prison, neither entreaty nor bribe could induce him to reveal anything in regard to the plunder of his accomplice.

It was affirmed of Neilson that, in the bad days above referred to, he never countenanced violence, but carried on his profession, for the most part, without personal injury to his victims, accomplishing his ends rather by strategy, than by brutality. And yet, strange as it was, this very man, on one fatal morning,—and, oddly enough, it was that of the very day when his sentence for the bank robbery had expired, and within a few hours he would have been discharged from the prison,—as the convicts were marching in file from the prison to the workshop, made a brutal and fatal attack upon an unoffending fellow convict. Reaching over the shoulder of the man next him in the ranks, he stabbed the unfortunate prisoner in the neck, with a shoe-knife, severing the jugular vein, and causing immediate death. There was no quarrel between the two, and no cause could be assigned for the murder, for which Neilson was, in due time, tried, convicted, and sentenced to be hanged.

All the arrangements for carrying out the sentence had been made, the gallows erected, the rope in its place, and the chaplain rendering the last service of his office, when a reprieve for thirty days was received from the governor.

On consideration, it was believed that Neilson must have been labouring under temporary insanity, and, as he was known to be a man of pacific character, and could assign no cause for the attack, though he had never shown other symptoms of mental disturbance, he was given the benefit of a doubt, and his sentence commuted to solitary imprisonment for life. Thus he escaped the grave, only to be consigned to a living tomb. At the time of our first acquaintance, Neilson, all told, had been about twenty years in the —— State Prison. For the first years of his sentence, he was not once permitted to leave his cell, and but for the praiseworthy humanity of the new warden, he would never again have seen the sun.

The cells of the "Upper Arch" are not, like those in general use, on exhibition; but, one day, in consideration of my having never abused the privileges granted me by the authorities of the —— State Prison, I was kindly permitted to visit Neilson in his own apartment.

Following my guide, I passed through a damp, narrow corridor, gloomy to oppressiveness, and lined with grim iron doors, each stoutly secured with bar and padlock. Many of these cells are temporarily inhabited by refractory prisoners, and, as I went, a discordant chorus of groans, yells, and oaths, mingled with the dissonance of maniacal mirth from some ill-balanced wretch, gone mad in this horrible solitude, saluted my unwilling ear. On the extreme end of the doleful corridor, a narrow, cobwebbed window shed its feeble light. Pausing at the left-hand corner cell, my conductor fitted his key to the padlock, turned it, removed the heavy bar, and, throwing back the door, ushered me into Neilson's presence.

I found the cell somewhat larger than the ordinary private compartment of the prison, but indescribably damp, fetid, and dismal. A narrow loophole, glazed, grated and "hermetically sealed," admitted a dim glimmer of day. A small aperture, or wicket, near the bottom of its door, and evidently made for the double purpose of admitting air and food, was now tightly closed.

For furniture, the place contained a rude bed, with mattress of straw, grimy sheets, and a meagre allowance of coarse gray blankets, with a pillow of husks, or straw, a rough table of pine, a shelf for books, and a stool. On the table stood a rusty tin cup, a bottle of vinegar, a pepper-box, and a cup of dingy salt. It also held two iron spoons, a horn-handled knife and fork, and a Bible. The shelf was well filled with books, and among them stood a glass pickle jar, now sacred to Neilson's bouquets, and still holding a few withered flowers.

Neilson, himself, was half reclined upon his bed, and intent upon a book. As I entered, he arose in some confusion. A call, with Neilson, was scarce a possible occurrence. His composure, however, was soon regained, and, bowing ceremoniously, he bade me good-day, and, with cordial dignity, did the honours of his cell.

He exhibited, with pride, his small library, and called my especial attention to the excellence of the shelf, which he had made for his precious volumes, about fifteen or twenty in number. I had brought Neilson a modicum of that June, whose sunshine comes alike for God's good and evil children, in the shape of a great bunch of damask roses. Filling his jar from the rusty tin cup, he arranged them with tender care, and their grateful odour soon pervaded this dreary place. A box of ripe, red strawberries June had also, on this occasion, donated to her indifferent pensioner; and now, glad to leave behind me even this poor bit of summer, I took a last sad survey of the sorry place, and bade Neilson adieu. As I went gratefully back to God's daylight, musing upon the man and his dismal, lifelong abode, it seemed no wonder that, moping for fifteen years in this cheerless cell, his brain should, at times, have succumbed to the horrors of the situation, for the warden had told me that sometimes Neilson "went out of his head." It was then that, pursued by the avenging shade of "Morris," the man whom he had murdered, his shrieks aroused the night patrol, who must call the warden from his bed, to lay the poor phantom, as Neilson fancied that the warden—and only he—could.

For six kindly years, it was permitted me to make life a little less dreary for Neilson, and to exhort him to bear with becoming fortitude the long penance justly accorded him, and, in my blundering, imperfect way, to suggest to him divine compassion by my own.

Though undoubtedly of plebeian parentage, some tiny runlet of gentle blood must have found its indirect way to Neilson's cockney veins. Never once, in all our intercourse, did he shock me by a coarse expression, or an ill-bred action. In his choice of words he was even finical, and his taste in the arrangement of flowers could scarcely have been impeached by the most fastidious person. He had, invariably, the bearing and instincts of a gentleman. His dietetic predilections, I grieve to record, were sometimes inelegant. Though eminently reticent in regard to his wants, he had made bold to solicit a bit of cheese as an accompaniment to the mince pie which on each State holiday (the legal pie-time in the prison) I gladly provided for him, and I was instructed that the stronger the cheese was, the better. He also preferred raw onions to Bartlett pears, and many a little basket of that pungent vegetable have I conveyed to him, to the sore disquiet of my own vexed olfactories. Pepper-grass, artichokes, and raw turnips, he held in high esteem.

Ordinarily peaceful and placid, Neilson could, at times, be aroused to extreme anger; and I well remember his furious protest against the prison chaplain, when that worthy had confiscated a work of James Freeman Clarke's, which he found in the possession of a theologically-minded convict, on the ground that it was "an infidel book," and improper reading for the prison.

As the slow years went on with Neilson, he became, gradually, a broken-down man. The "Arch" had well done its destructive work, and, about five years after I made his acquaintance, he was forever removed from its deleterious atmosphere, and permanently quartered in the prison hospital, where, in common with his fellow patients, he enjoyed all the legal immunities accorded to the invalid prisoner.

He could now get space for his cramped limbs, had some fellowship, sub rosa, with his kind, and leave to sun himself in the yard ad libitum. Poor Neilson! this comparative freedom had come too late. He was now far gone in consumption, had Bright's disease, and the doctor had also discovered some serious disturbance with his heart. His brain, too, shared in this breaking up, and he had now abandoned reading, and employed his leisure, when free from pain, in dainty wood-carving or inlaying. His work, often fantastic in design, was always exquisite in finish, and sometimes absurdly elaborate where elaboration was quite unnecessary (for with Neilson, "the gods saw everywhere"). Hours of patient labour were devoted to the finish of the "unseen."

The unanimous good-will of instructors in the prison shops made the daintiest materials easily attainable to the poor fellow, and his ivory charms, his mother-of-pearl crosses, and inlaid satin-wood boxes, found, outside the prison, a ready market, and a price which enabled him, probably for the first time in his whole life, to become the possessor of money honestly earned. In the hospital it was that Neilson evolved, with fanciful ingenuity, for my poor self, the most remarkable of inkstands. The design embraced a camel standing on a platform wreathed with carven forget-me-nots, and inscribed with a Latin motto, having some enigmatical reference to the foresighted habit of the creature. Unfortunately, the platform, the camel, with his two humps, the motto, and the forget-me-nots, made so large a figure in Neilson's design, that its main feature, the inkstand, had, virtually, to be omitted; and could only be hinted at by a shallow vessel, holding about one good thimbleful, and perched perilously upon the camel's irregular back. From time to time I was permitted to watch the progress of this remarkable creation, and was called upon for a pictured camel and some real forget-me-nots, as models.

The somewhat crotchety custodian of the hospital, from day to day, contemptuously taking note of the advancement of my inkstand, on its final completion grimly assured me that, "If Neilson had been paid by the day for his labour on that thing, it would have cost about two hundred dollars!" Poor, patient fellow, it was almost his last work! He had now become too weak to crawl down the hospital stairs for his daily sun-bath. And by and by his seat in the saloon, where the men, who were able to be about, gathered on Mondays to listen to my reading, was empty. He lay now on his cot informally clad in a faded print shirt and patched trousers, both of which he wore with a dignity peculiarly his own. His head was adorned with a towering cotton nightcap. Whatever else he might lack, Neilson always stood out firmly for a nightcap. It was to him a sort of insignia of respectability. To his last hour he never for a moment lost that superiority of mien which distinguished him even amid the coarse and degrading surroundings of a prison. At the last he suffered great pain, but, as the end approached, his mind became wonderfully clear, and he listened intelligently to reading, and enjoyed conversation.

He gave little trouble to his attendants, detailed from among his fellow convicts to nurse him by day, or to watch with him at night, and, to the hour of his death, he was stoically patient.

It was to be feared that, in the bewilderment of his final moments, the shade of the murdered "Morris" might again torture him. On the day preceding his death, after reading from his prayer-book the services for the sick and dying, I sat painfully watching his laborious breathing, as he lay propped high with pillows, and with an expression of solemn expectancy on his awed face. From time to time a spasm of pain contracted his brow, already damp with the dew of death. I wiped tenderly his moist forehead, put a spoonful of water between his poor lips, and, still mindful of the avenger, "Morris," stooped to his ear, and whispered reassuringly, "You're not at all afraid, are you, Neilson." He opened wide his eyes, and, with a half-reproachful glance, replied, distinctly, "Afraid! afraid of God! Ah, madam, I wish I were with Him now!" That night Neilson's prayer was answered. With mighty throes (for he was originally a man of iron constitution, all his forebears, as he told me, having outlived their ninetieth year) his spirit was loosed from the body of its sin and suffering, to return to God who gave it.

Neilson's obsequies were attended with a ceremony unusual in the prison, where burials are, for the most part, but slight occasions, and, in certain exigencies, have taken place without even the grace of a prayer from the chaplain.

This funeral was honoured by the attendance of both warden and chaplain. Some thirty men from the shops had obtained permission to be present. One or two instructors and officers of "low degree" were also there, and I, too, had been invited. The chaplain gave a slight sketch of Neilson's prison life, winding up with some words of exhortation for the benefit of the convicts. The warden made a simple and kindly address. A prayer was offered, after which the men, with uncovered heads, filed reverently to the coffin's side for a last look at the tranquil white face of their comrade, and then, with sobered mien, and attended by their officers, left the hospital. While the warden and chaplain made some final arrangement with the hospital officer, I lingered by the coffin to place a bunch of fresh violets in Neilson's listless hand; then, bidding him a mute farewell, followed, with a slow step and a saddened heart, the warden and chaplain; and we passed together into the great guard-room.

As I stood, with tearful eyes, waiting for the turnkey to let me out of the prison, the warden came to my side. "Well, Neilson is gone," he said, gravely. "He was an old resident, and will be missed in the prison; and, by the by, let me tell you that you are an heiress! Neilson made his will, and committed it to my care. All his little savings, thirty dollars, he has bequeathed to you. Poor fellow," he continued, "no doubt in his day he's done his share of harm, but, whatever he was, Neilson knew his friends."

One's first legacy, be it ever so small, is an event and often a surprise. Never before had my humble name been recorded in a will. I was not long, however, in determining the disposal of Neilson's pathetic request. It should be devoted to the erection of a simple stone to mark his last resting-place.

In common with all the unclaimed dead of the prison, he was carried to Tewksbury for interment in the pauper burying-ground.

At my request, the warden kindly wrote to the authorities there, asking them to designate the burial spot of Neilson, that I might be enabled to carry out my resolution. No reply having been vouchsafed, in my discouragement, I betook myself to the "Board of State Charities" for information in regard to Neilson's missing remains. Some inquiries into the matter were, I believe, made by that institution, but so indifferently were they pursued that nothing came of it, and I was finally compelled to the sad supposition that Neilson had been denied that last cheap boon which even the poorest may claim of earth—a grave; and his legacy was, accordingly, consecrated to the procurement of fruit for the convict patients in hospital; and, perhaps, this disposition of his little savings would not have seemed unfitting to the poor fellow himself, had it been possible to consult him on this occasion.

All this happened twenty years ago; and no light having yet been thrown on the mysterious disappearance of Neilson's mortal part, it is reasonable to infer that it was long since dismembered in the interest of science; or, that, still partially intact, it now hangs fleshless and dishonored in some doctor's "skeleton closet."

From these gruesome conclusions one gladly takes refuge in the inspiriting hope that Neilson himself still lives; and that, in some phase of existence beyond the ken of our meagre psychology, his moral evolution now goes uninterruptedly on.