Part 4 (2/2)
On this count, deposited in jail, Patrick pa.s.sed the sorry interval between commitment and trial in fighting the blue devils, whose onsets, at this advanced stage of alcoholic excess, were not, as one may imagine, few or far between.
Pat had, however, a genuine Irish const.i.tution, and no lack of Irish combativeness. And, unaided and alone, he grappled vigourously with the fierce devils of delirium tremens, and, had he _not_ worsted them, unaided and alone, he would probably have perished. Destiny, however, having better (and also _worse_) things in store for Mr. Doniver, he did, at last, worst them, and, when the day for his trial came, he was--for once in his adult existence--austerely sober.
And now it would not have gone hard with the fellow, since this petty larceny might have been expiated by a short term in the House of Correction, had not one of those mischievous birds who carry tales whispered in court that Pat Doniver was a notorious drunkard.
”Inebriation,” severely remarked the judge to the counsel on his left, whose breath exhaled an unmistakable odour of brandy, ”inebriation, sir, is becoming rampant in our community, and I shall find it my duty to make of the case before me an impressive example;” and thereupon, the jury having already returned a verdict of guilty, the judge, fidgeting in his seat (his dinner hour being long since pa.s.sed, and his temper somewhat choleric), looked straight at Pat, thought of the alarming increase of drunkenness in our midst, and gave him five years in the State Prison.
Having thus judicially finished Pat Doniver, with a sigh of relief, the judge dismissed the case, and went to dinner.
In the prison, as elsewhere, good-natured Pat won general favour, and, in the second year of his incarceration, Warden Flint gave him the easy and comparatively agreeable position of runner.
Hitherto, the sluggish current of Mr. Doniver's prison life had pursued the dull, even tenor of its way. Now, Destiny had graciously widened the sphere of his activities. Without an atom of downright viciousness in his composition, Pat was an inborn rogue, and it was his prime delight to outwit the sharp-eyed officers of the prison; to plan and execute under their very noses an endless variety of harmless mischief. Often, in the kindness of his warm Irish heart, he did mischief ”that good might come;” oftener, he wrought it for its own relis.h.i.+ng sake.
One of the duties consequent upon Pat's vocation was the conveyance of meals to certain unruly prison spirits, who,--choosing, like Milton's Devil, rather to ”reign in darkness than serve in light,”--consume in penal solitude their scanty dole of bread and water; many a sly bit of relis.h.i.+ng pork, saved from his own meagre portion, and snugly sandwiched between coa.r.s.e slices of bread, solaced these hungry wretches. Often did a certain water-proof tin box,--conveyed for this sinful purpose to our tricksy purveyor, by that underground express whose mysteries only the initiated may penetrate,--often did this box, neatly ensconced in the innocent depths of a water-bucket, empty its savoury contents into the hollow maws of refractory sinners! Pat's position in the prison also afforded him countless opportunities for that surrept.i.tious intercourse, which, at this time, const.i.tuted the whole social interchange of the place; and, in the capacity of newsmonger and go-between, he had come to be a very popular and highly important personage in this restricted community. Who but he could adroitly s.n.a.t.c.h that propitious moment to whisper at the grating of some eager magpie of the big cage that racy bit of outside gossip, deftly gleaned from the thoughtless chat of loquacious officers?
When the ”nate young gintlemun” in No. --, whose deceased great grandsire had unluckily bequeathed him certain erratic views respecting the ancient p.r.o.nouns, ”_Meum et tuum_,” which, never quite developing in _bona-fide_ crime, had in no wise proved disastrous to the aforesaid progenitor, whose bones crumbled in the family vault as reputably as might those of that elusive ”honest man,” for whom the Grecian cynic, lantern in hand, is known to have vainly scoured this naughty world;--when the ”nate young gintlemun,”--with the ugly heirloom which Nature, amplifying by the way, had carried disastrously on to the third generation,--sat moping and repenting alone in his prison cell, who but Pat Doniver, dropping for a bit of rest on that pine stool ”forninst” the grating, would empty, _sotto voce_, in the prisoner's ear, such a budget of fun, news, and anecdote (the latter a trifle stale, but still racy) as would send this dejected young forger to his dreary cot with a cheered and comforted heart?
Is the prison runner giving a coffee-party to-night, or, like his fine old countrywoman, inaugurating ”a saries of tays?” One, two, three, four tin cups! they were all handed empty through the grating; and, by some deft legerdemain of Pat, they all go back full! But whist! there comes the turnkey! Pat and his stool become instantly motionless, and, in the twinkling of an eye, he is sound asleep. The officer--not without many vigorous shakes--awakens him, and he is sent yawning and stumbling to his cell. There, administering to himself a slight dose of his mysterious beverage, he pulls a face of extreme disgust, and thereafter, tightly holding his sides, rolls for a time on the floor of his dormitory, convulsed with suppressed laughter.
And now, in explanation of the evening's occurrence, one must bring upon the scene no less a personage than Jehaziel Green, Esq., sometime postmaster of Pinkertown, deacon of the First Church, proprietor of Pinkertown corner grocery, and overseer of its poor.
Mr. Green has, of late, fallen upon evil times. In consequence of sundry openings of plethoric letters on their pa.s.sage through Pinkertown post-office, he has become a regular resident of the ---- State Prison.
As, according to the physiologists, man is atomically changed but once in seven years, Jehaziel Green--having existed but one year and three months behind the bars--is still, to all intents and purposes, chemically the same Jehaziel Green; and no whit more or less mean, selfish and unscrupulous than when he dealt out to Pinkertown sanded sugar, watered mola.s.ses and washy milk; when he snubbed and starved the parish poor, relieved the over-weighted contribution box in the church vestry, and pried open the fat letters in the post-office.
In outward appearance he is, indeed, somewhat altered, since, at Pinkertown, his every-day suit was of fine Scotch tweed, and his Sunday attire of black broadcloth; while here, his secular and Sabbatical array is not only one and the same, but (queer freak of fancy!) it is parti-colored, red, yellow, and blue! Outside a prison a man's clothes _do_, more or less, affect his claim to favourable consideration. Behind the bars a less superficial standard holds. The elegant art of dress has been reduced to democratic simplicity.
For what saith ”the Board?” ”The convict's clothes are to be so calculated as to _keep him warm_.”
They are not, let it be observed, to minister to his freakish taste, or to pamper his personal pride. Their sole purpose is ”to keep him warm.” Having thus defined the prison toilet, the worthy commissioners add--as an ethical afterthought--”they ought to be so arranged as to be considered a means of punishment.” This seemingly original conception of the penal uses of clothes is not, however, peculiarly ”the Board's,” since, outside of prison circles, men's clothes are often ”so arranged” by fas.h.i.+on as ”to be considered a means of punishment.” Be that as it may, Jehaziel Green, still true to himself, is no less Jehaziel, in red, yellow, and blue, than in gray or black.
In the prison, money is necessarily scarce; yet--under the rose--there is always a deal of swapping. Mr. Green hiding his accomplishments in the prison cabinet-making department, relieves the dull routine of existence by lively attention to that especial mode of traffic.
Purloining bits of plush, of damask, rosewood, and black walnut, and pilfering varnish and glue, he swaps these commodities,--much desired for inlaid boxes, picture frames, etc., by ingenious fellow convicts,--for fruit, tobacco, and other coveted luxuries. In process of time, the unique conception of establis.h.i.+ng a ”liquor concern”
behind the bars dawns upon the alert mind of the ex-postmaster. For the furtherance of this bold scheme he subtracts, from time to time, small quant.i.ties of the alcohol, used in his shop for cabinet purposes, until, by unwearied effort, he has pilfered of this fiery liquid a sufficiency to set him up in trade. Under the circ.u.mstances, Mr. Green is compelled to transact by proxy; and Patrick Doniver, having been appointed his sole agent, is, to-night, ”travelling for the Firm.”
Let it not be supposed that our unmercenary runner is a salaried agent of the House of Green. Far from it! This risky service is not undertaken for filthy lucre; it is but a gratuitous kind office on the part of Mr. Doniver, mischievous enough to be undertaken for its own satisfying self--and its relish vastly enhanced by the good-natured reflection that ”a bit of the crathur'll put a warrum linin' in 'em--poor sowls!” And a terrible warm lining, say we, would such a hot ”crathur” impart! But Pat has antic.i.p.ated us; for well aware that he is not catering for Salamanders, he does not once dream of subjecting Mr. Green's customers to ”an ordeal by fire.” Carefully diluting his alcohol with innocent water, he flavors it well with essence of peppermint,--saved up from a medicinal allotment for a bygone stomach-ache,--sweetens with mola.s.ses, and, adding a sup of vinegar from his private bottle, he produces a mixture which, if not delicious, is, undoubtedly, unique.
Having already disposed of several quarts of this mildly intoxicating beverage, Pat, recovered from his late apoplectic symptoms, prudently administers to himself, as a sedative, the balance of this rare ”tap,”
and having, with many wry faces, drained his tin cup to the bitter dregs, composes himself to rest. On the ensuing morning several fresh patients are allowed to report themselves at hospital; and it is feared that an unfamiliar epidemic may prevail in the prison. Some half dozen convicts have been unaccountably attacked with severe vomiting, followed by extreme la.s.situde, and intense loathing of food.
Pat Doniver is of the number, and is said to be very ill. These perplexing cases are vigorously treated by the mystified doctor, and, speedily yielding to his. .h.i.t-or-miss prescriptions, the patients convalesce, and the alarm subsides. So also does the prison liquor business.
The residue of that fiery consignment,--harboured with great fear and trembling, in the innermost recesses of Mr. Doniver's straw mattress,--is, at the earliest opportunity, handed over to ”the Firm;” Pat--transposing for the occasion a wise old saw--judiciously observes to his employer, that ”it's a poor _broth_ indade, that its own _cook_ cannot drink!”
Jehaziel Green--impervious to the ”sweet uses of adversity”--pilfered and swapped to the end of his prison chapter. Then, migrating to the far West, he became a prosperous wholesale grocer, and is _said_ to have run for Congress. (”Why,” queried the rural observer, ”do the _little_ rogues go to prison, and the _big_ ones to Congress?”)
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