University of Virginia Library

2. THE PRISON VAN; OR, THE BLACK MARIA.[1]

“Hush! there she comes!”

It was a pleasant summer morning,—brightly shone
the sun, and the neighbours gossipped at the door.
Nancy polished the handles—Susan had the windows
wide open, and, with handkerchief on head, leaned forth
to join in the conversation. Mrs. Jenkins had been at
market, and paused upon the step, with the provision-laden
Polly. There was quite a discussion of the more
agreeable points of domestic economy, and a slight seasoning
of harmless scandal gave piquancy to the discourse.
All were merry. Why, indeed, should they
not be merry? Innocent hearts and balmy weather—
sunshine within and sunshine without. No wonder their
voices rang so cheerfully. Even Mr. Curmudgeon, over
the way, that splenetic and supercritical bachelor, with
no partner of his bosom but a flannel waistcoast, and
with no objects of his tender care but the neuralgics and
the rheumatics—even Mr. Curmudgeon chirped, and for
once granted that it was a fine day, with no reservation
whatever about the east wind, and without attempts to
dash the general joy by casting forth suspicions that a
storm was brewing. If he said so—if Mr. Curmudgeon
confessed the fact—not a doubt can be entertained—it
was a fine day beyond the reach of cavil—a day free
from the reproach of a flaw—with no lingering dampness

from yesterday, and with no cloud casting its shadow before,
prospective of sorrows to-morrow.

In short, every thing looked warm, cheerful, and gay
—the Nancies, the Pollies, and the Susans were prettier
than usual—there are pretty days as well as lucky days—
when cheeks are more glowing and eyes are more brilliant
than on ordinary occasions—when Mrs. Jenkins is
more pleasant than is the wont even of pleasant Mrs.
Jenkins, and when the extensive brotherhood of the Curmudgeons
pat children on the head, and give them
pennies—days when one feels as if he were all heart, and
were gifted with the capacity to fall in love with everybody—happy
days! The day of which we speak was
one of these days—nature smiled, and the people smiled
in return. Nature approached as near to a laugh as was
becoming in a matron at her time of life and with so large
a family, while the people did laugh with the smallest
provocation thereto.

“Hush! there she comes!” said somebody, in tones
of commingled fear and curiosity.

“Who comes?”

The finger of the speaker pointed steadfastly down the
street.

“Who comes?”

“Black Maria!” was the half-whispered reply.

Conversation ceased—a shade of gloom passed over
every brow—all gazed in the direction indicated—it was
a melancholy pause—a pause of sad attention.

“Black Maria!” was the unconscious and involuntary
response.

The children looked behind them, as if to ascertain
whether the doors were open for retreat into the recesses
of home, and then peeped timidly and cautiously around
the skirts of their mothers. The mirth of their seniors
was also checked in mid career.

“`Black Maria,' sissy,” said curly-headed Tom, and
“sissy” clasped Tom's hand with the energy of apprehension.

“`Black Maria,' Tom!” repeated his aunt, with an
air of warning and admonition, at which Tom seemed to
understand a whole history, and was abashed.

“Black Maria!”

Who was this strange creature—this Black Maria—
that came like a cloud across the ruddy day—that chills
the heart wherever she passes? What manner of thing
is it which thus frowns gayety itself into silence?—Black
Maria!—Is she some dark enchantress, on whese swart
and sullen brow malignity sits enthroned?—or is pestilence
abroad, tangible and apparent?

The “Black Maria” goes lumbering by. It is but a
wagon, after all—a wagon so mysteriously named—a
wagon, however, which is itself alone—not one of the
great family of carts, with general similitude and vast relationship,
but an instrument of progression which has
“no brother—is like no brother.” It creaks no salutation
to wheeled cousins, as it wends its sulky way—it
has no family ties to enable it to find kith and kin, more
or less humble and more or less proud, in the long line
of gradation, from the retiring wheelbarrow up to the
haughty and obtrusive chariot. It is unique in form and
purpose—it has a task which others are unfitted to encounter,
and it asks no help in the discharge of duties.
It moves scornfully among hacks and cabs, while even
the dray appears to regard it with a compound feeling of
dread and disdain. It is, as we may say, a vehicular
outcast, hated but yet feared—grand, gloomy and peculiar—a
Byron among less gifted but more moral carriages—tragedy
amid the niceties of commonplace. Such
is the social isolation of the “Black Maria.” Even in
its hour of repose—in its stabular retreats, the gig caresses

it not, nor does the carriole embrace it within its shafts.
The respectability of the stalls shrinks from contact with
the “Black Maria,” and its nights are passed in the open
court-yard. Nor is it to be wondered at. The very
physique of the “Black Maria” is repulsive, apart from
the refinements of mere association. What is it—a coffin,
rude but gigantic, travelling to and fro, between the
undertaker and the sexton? Why is it that the eye fails
to penetrate its dark recesses? No “sashes” adorn the
person of the “Black Maria.” Unlike all other vehicles,
it has no apertures for light and air, save those openings
beneath the roof, from which a haggard and uneasy glance
flashes forth at intervals, or from which protrudes a hand
waving, as it were, a last farewell to all that gives delight
to existence. Sternly and rigidly sits the guard in the
rearward chamber, and beyond him is a door heavy with
steel. It is no pleasure carriage then—it is not used as
a means of recreation nor as a free-will conveyance, travelling
at the guidance of those who rest within. No—
they who take seats in the “Black Maria” feel no honour
in their elevation—they ride neither for health nor amusement.
They neither say “drive on,” nor designate the
place of destination. If it were left to them, they would,
in all likelihood, ask to be taken another way, and they
would sooner trot on foot for ever, than to be thus raised
above contact with mud and mire. They are not impatient
either—they make no objection to the slowness of
the gait. In short, they would like to get out and dismiss
all cumbrous pomp and ceremonious attendance.

But there are bars between—yes, bolts and bars, and
there is nothing of complaisance on the brow of him who
has these iron fastenings at control. Polite requests
would be unheeded, and he has heard the curses of despair—the
sobs of remorse—the bitter wailings of heart-broken
wretchedness too often to be much moved by

solicitations such as these. Nor is he to be shaken by
the fierce regards of hardened recklessness. Even the
homicide may threaten—red murder itself may glower
upon him with its fevered glare; but there is neither
weakness nor terror in the hard business-like deportment
with which he silences the exuberance of lacerated feeling.
He is but a check-taker at the door, and cares
naught about the play within. Tears may fall—convulsive
sorrow may rend the frame; but what is that to him
whose limited service it is to watch and ward—to keep
them in and keep them out? To weep is not his vocation,
who sits at the door. He has no part in the drama,
and is no more bound to suffer than they who snuff the
candles for the stage. His emotions are for home consumption—his
sympathies are elsewhere—left behind with
his better coat and hat, and well it is so, or they would
soon be torn to tatters—all—heart, cloth, and beaver.

What, then, is this “Black Maria,” so jocularly
named, yet so sad in its attributes? The progress of time
brings new inventions—necessity leads to many deviations
from the beaten track of custom, and the criminal,
in earlier days dragged through crowded streets by the
inexorable officers of the law, exposed to the scorn,
derision or pity, as the case might be, of every spectator,
now finds a preliminary dungeon awaiting him at the very
portals of justice—a locomotive cell—a penitentiary upon
wheels. He is incarcerated in advance, and he begins
his probationary term at the steps of the court-house.
Once there was an interval:

some breathing time from judge and jury to the jailer,—
a space to be traversed, with the chances incident to a
journey. Constables on foot are but flesh and blood,
after all, and an adroit blow from a brawny thief has often
laid them prostrate. A short quick evasion of the body
has extricated the collar from many a muscular grasp, and
once it was a thing of not unfrequent occurrence that the
rogue flew down the street, diving into all sorts of interminable
alleys, while panting tipstaves “toiled after
him in vain.” There were no cowardly, sneaking
advantages taken then—enterprise was not cabined in a
perambulating chicken-coop—valour had room to swing
its elbow, and some opportunity to trip up the heels of
the law. But as things are at present managed, a man
is in prison as he traverses the city—in prison, with but
a plank between him and the moving concourse of the
free—in prison, while the horses start at the crack of the
whip—in prison, as he whirls around the corner—in prison,
yet moving from place to place—jolted in prison—
perhaps upset in prison. He hears the voices of the
people—the din of traffic—the clamours of trade—the
very dogs run barking after him, and he is jarred by
rough collisions; but still he is in prison—more painfully
in prison, by the bitterness of intruding contrast, than if
he were immured beyond all reach of exterior sound; and
when the huge gates of his place of destination creak
upon their hinges, to the harsh rattling of the keeper's
key, the captive, it may be, rejoices that the busy world
is no longer about him, mocking his wretchedness with
its cheerful hum.

If it were in accordance with the spirit of the age to
refine upon punishment and to seek aggravation for
misery, the “Black Maria” would perhaps furnish a hint
that the pang might be rendered sharper, by secluding
the felon from liberty by the most minute interval—that
freedom might be heard, yet not seen—as the music of
the ball-room fitfully reaches the chamber of disease and
suffering—that he might be in the deepest shadow, yet
know that light is beaming close around him; in the centre
of action, yet deprived of its excitements—isolated in

the midst of multitudes—almost jostled by an invisible
concourse—dead yet living—a sentient corpse.

It is not then to be marvelled at that the “Black
Maria” causes a sensation by her ominous presence—
that labour rests from toil when the sound of her wheels
is heard—that the youthful shrink and the old look sad,
as she passes by. Nor is it strange that even when empty
she is encircled by a curious but meditative crowd, scanning
the horses with a degree of reverential attention
which unofficial horses, though they were Barbary coursers
or Andalusian steeds, might vainly hope to excite.
The very harness is regarded with trepidation, and the driver
is respectfully scrutinized from head to foot, as if he
were something more or less than man; and if the guard
does but carelessly move his foot, the throng give back
lest they should unwittingly interfere with one who is
looked upon as the ultimatum of criminal justice. Should
the fatal entrance be left unclosed, see how the observant
spectator manæuvres to obtain a knowledge of its interior,
without approaching too closely, as if he laboured
under an apprehension that the hungry creature would
yawn and swallow him, as it has swallowed so many,
body, boots, and reputation. Now, he walks slowly to
the left hand, that he may become acquainted with every
particular of the internal economy afforded by that point
of view. Again, he diverges to the right, on another
quest for information. Do not be surprised, if he were
also to “squat,” and from that graceful posture glance
upwards to ascertain the condition of the flooring, or sidle
about to note the style of the lynch-pins. A mysterious
interest envelopes the “Black Maria;” every feature
about her receives its comment—she has not a lineament
which is not honoured by a daily perusal from the public.
She is the minister of justice—the great avenger—the
receptacle into which crime is almost sure to fall, and as

she conveys the prisoner to trial or bears him to the fulfilment
of sentence, she is still the inspirer of terror. There
may be some, no doubt—perhaps there may be many—
who have forebodings at her approach, and tremble as
she passes, with an anticipation of such a ride for themselves.
Could upbraiding conscience come more fearfully
than in this “Black Maria's” shape, or could the sleeping
sinner have compunctious visitings more terrible than
the dream in which he imagines himself handed into this
penitential omnibus, as an atonement for past offences?
What, let us ask, can be more appalling than the “Black
Maria” of a guilty mind?

It is a matter of regret that history must be the work
of human hands—that the quill must be driven to preserve
a record of the past, and that inanimate objects—
cold, passionless, and impartial witnesses—are not gifted
with memory and speech. Much has been done—a long
array of successive centuries have fidgeted and fumed;
but, after all, it is little we know of the action of those
who have gone before. But if a jacket now were capable
of talk, then there would be biography in earnest.
We would all have our Boswells, better Boswells than
Johnson's Boswell. A dilapidated coat might be the
most venerable and impressive of moralists. Much could
it recount of frailty, and the results of frailty, in those
who have worn it; furnishing sermons more potent than
the polished compositions of the closet. Could each
house narrate what it has known of every occupant,
human nature might be more thoroughly understood than
it is at present. What beacons might not every apartment
set up, to warn us from the folly which made ship-wreck
of our predecessors! Even the mirror, while
flattering vanity, could tell, an it would, how beauty,
grown wild with its own excess, fell into premature
decay. Ho! ho! how the old goblet would ring, as we

drain the sparkling draught, to think of the many such
scenes of roaring jollity it has witnessed, and of the multitude
of just such jovial fellows as are now carousing,
it has sent to rest before their time, under the pretence of
making them merry! Wine, ho! let the bottle speak.
Your bottle has its experiences—a decanter has seen the
world. Thou tattered robe—once fine, but now decayed—nobility
in ruins—how sourly thou smilest to discourse
of the fall from drawing-rooms to pawn-brokers'
recesses. What a history is thine—feeble art thou—very
thin and threadbare; still thou hast seen more of weakness,
ay, in men and women too, than is now displayed
in thine own ruin. Yea, cobble those boots for sooterkin
—they are agape, indeed; yet were once thought fit ornaments
for the foot of fashion. Leathern patchwork,
thou hast been in strange places in thy time, or we are
much mistaken. Come, thy many mouths are open, and
thy complexion scarce admits of blushing—tell us about
thy furtive wanderings.

Let then this “Black Maria” wag her tongue—for
tongue she has, and something of the longest—and she
would chatter fast enough, I warrant me. Let us regard
her as a magazine of memoirs—a whole library of personal
detail, and as her prisoners descend the steps, let
us gather a leaf or two.

Here comes one—a woman—traces of comeliness still
linger even amid the more enduring marks of sin, poverty,
and sorrow. Her story has been told before, in thousands
of instances, and it will be told again and again and again.
There is not much that is new in the downward career of
those who fall. It is an old routine. Giddiness, folly, and
deception, it may be, at the outset—remorse, misery,
and early death, at the close. Yes, yes—the old father
was humble in his ploddings—the mother had no aspirings
above her sphere; but she who now is weeping bitter

tears, she longed for silks and satins and gay company.
It was but a cracked and crooked looking-glass that told
her she was beautiful, but its pleasing tale was easily believed—for
perfumed youths endorsed its truth, and whispered
Fanny that she was worthy of a higher lot than that
of toiling the humble wife of dingy labour. Those secret
meetings—those long walks by moonlight—those stories
of soft affection, and those brilliant hopes! Day by day
home grew more distasteful—its recurring cares more
wearying—the slightest rebuke more harsh, and Fanny
fled. That home is desolate now. The old father is
dead, the mother dependent upon charity, and the daughter
is here, the companion of felons, if not a felon herself.

Another!—that dogged look, man, scarcely hides the
wretchedness within. You may, if it seems best before
these idle starers, assume the mask of sullen fierceness.
“Who cares,” is all well enough, indeed, but still the
thought travels back to days of innocence and happiness.
You set out in the pursuit of pleasure and enjoyment, but
it has come to this at last; all your frolickings and drinkings—your
feastings, your ridings, and your gamblings.
You were trusted once, I hear—your wife and children
were happy around you. But you were not content.
There were chances to grow rich rapidly—to enjoy a
luxurious ease all your life, and to compass these you
were false to your trust. Shame and disgrace ensued;
dissipation environed your footsteps, and more daring vice
soon followed. It is a short step from the doings of the
swindler to the desperate acts of the burglar or the counterfeiter.
You, at least, have found it so. Well, glare
sternly about you—turn upon the spectators with the
bitter smile of defiance. It will be different anon, in
hopeless solitude—the past strewed with the wreck of
reputation—the future all sterility.

Here is one who had a golden infancy. Where was

there a child more beautiful than he? No wonder his
parents thought no cost too great for his adornment.
Who can be surprised that caresses were lavished upon
the darling, and that his tender years knew no restraint.
But it was a strange return in after time, that he should
break his mother's heart—plunder his father, and become
an outcast in the lowest haunts of vice. Were the graces
of Apollo bestowed for such a purpose?

This fellow, now, was destroyed by too much severity.
His childhood was manacled by control. Innocent pleasures
were denied—his slightest faults were roundly
punished—there was no indulgence. He was to be
scourged into a virtuous life, and, therefore, falsehood
and deceit became habitual—yes, even before he knew
they were falsehood and deceit; but that knowledge did
not much startle him, when the alternative was a lie or
the lash. Had the cords of authority been slackened a
little, this man might have been saved; but while the
process of whipping into goodness was going on, he paid
a final visit to the treasury and disappeared. Being
acquainted with no other principle of moral government
than that of fear and coercion, he continues to practise
upon it, and helps himself whenever the opportunity
seems to present itself of doing so with no pressing
danger of disagreeable consequences. Mistakes, of
course, are incident to his mode of life. Blunders will
occur, and, in this way, the gentleman has had the pleasure
of several rides in the “Black Maria.”

Here is an individual, who was a “good fellow,”—
the prince of good fellows—a most excellent heart—so
much heart, indeed, that it filled not only his bosom, but
his head also, leaving scant room for other furniture.
He never said “no” in his life, and invariably took
advice when it came from the wrong quarter. He was
always so much afraid that people would be offended, if

he happened not to agree with them, that he forgot all
about his own individual responsibility, and seemed to
think that he was an appendage and nothing more.
Dicky Facile, at one time, had a faint consciousness of
the fact, when he had taken wine enough, and would say,
“No, I thank you,” if requested to mend his draught.
But if it were urged, “Pooh! nonsense! a little more
won't hurt you,” he would reply, “Won't it, indeed?”
and recollect nothing from that time till he woke next
day in a fever. Dicky lent John his employer's cash,
because he loved to accommodate; and finally obliged
the same John by imitating his employer's signature,
because John promised to make it all right in good time;
but John was oblivious.

The “Black Maria” has a voluminous budget,—she
could talk all day without pausing to take breath. She
could show how one of her passengers reached his seat
by means of his vocal accomplishments, and went musically
to destruction, like the swan—how another had such
curly hair that admiration was the death of him—how
another was so fond of being jolly that he never paused
until he became sad—how another loved horses until
they threw him, or had a taste for elevated associations
until he fell by climbing—how easily, in fact, the excess
of a virtue leads into a vice, so that generosity declines
into wastefulness, spirit roughens into brutality, social
tendencies melt into debauchery, and complaisance opens
the road to crime. We are poor creatures all, at the
best, and perhaps it would not be amiss to look into
ourselves a little before we entertain hard thoughts of
those who chance to ride in the “Black Maria;” for, as
an ex-driver of that respectable caravan used to observe,
“there are, I guess, about two sorts of people in this
world—them that's found out, and them that ain't found
out—them that gets into the `Black Maria,' and them

that don't happen to be cotch'd. People that are
cotch'd, has to ketch it, of course, or else how would
the 'fishal folks—me and the judges and the lawyers—
yes, and the chaps that make the laws and sell the law
books—make out to get a livin'? But, on the general
principle, this argufies nothin'. Being cotch'd makes no
great difference, only in the looks of things; and it happens
often enough, I guess, that the wirchis looking gentleman
who turns up his nose at folks, when the constable's
got 'em, is only wirchis because he hasn't been
found out. That's my notion.”

And not a bad notion either, most philosophic Swizzle,
only for the fault of your class—a little too much of generalization.
Your theory, perhaps, is too trenchant—too
horizontal in its line of division. But it too often happens
that the worst of people are not those who take the air in
the “Black Maria.”

Still, however, you that dwell in cities, let not this
moral rumble by in vain. Wisdom follows on your
footsteps, drawn by horses. Experience is wagoned
through the streets, and though your temptations be many,
while danger seems afar off, yet the catastrophe of your
aberrations is prophetically before the eye, creaking and
groaning on its four ungainly wheels. The very whip
cracks a warning, and the whole vehicle displays itself
as a travelling caution to all who are prone to sin. It is
good for those who stand, to take heed lest they fall.
But we have an addition here which should be even
more impressive, in these times of stirring emulation.
Take heed, lest in your haste to pluck the flowers of life
without due labour in the field, you chance to encounter,
not a fall alone, but such a ride as it has been our endeavour
to describe—a ride in the “Black Maria.”