Consequently I had no trouble, and
the officers all treated me kindly. Warden Robinson was a model man
for his position. He believed that prisoners could be reformed more
easily by mild than by harsh measures--at least they would be more
contented with their lot and would be subordinate. Every now and
then he would ask prisoners if they were well treated by the
officers; how they were getting on; if they had enough to eat, and
so on. The officers seemed imbued with the warden's spirit; the
chaplain of the prison, who conducted the Sunday, services and also
held a Sunday school, was one of the finest men in the world, and
took a personal interest in every prisoner. Altogether, it was a
model institution. But in spite of good treatment I was intensely
miserable; my mind was morbid; I was nearly, if not quite, insane;
and one day during the dinner hour, I opened a vein in each arm in
hopes that I should bleed to death. Bleed I did, till I fainted
away, and as I did not come out when the other prisoners did, the
officer came to my cell and discovered my condition. He at once sent
for the Doctor who came and stopped the hemorrhage, and then sent me
to the hospital where I remained two weeks.
After I came out of the hospitals the Warden talked to me about my
situation and feelings. He advised me to go into the blacksmith
shop, of course not dreaming that I knew anything of the work; but
he said I would have more liberty there; that the men moved about
freely and could talk to each other; that the work mainly was
sharpening picks and tools, and that I could at least blow and
strike.
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