the ballad of reading gaol by oscar wilde in memoriam c.t.w. sometime trooper of the royal horse guards. obiit h.m. prison, reading, berkshire, july 7th, 1896 proofreading team. html version by al haines. bars and shadows the prison poems of ralph chaplin with an introduction by scott nearing 1922 contents introduction mourn not the dead taps night in the cell house prison shadows prison reveille prison nocturne the warrior wind to freedom the vision maker distances phantoms seven little sparrows salaam! the west is dead up from your knees! the eunuch i. w. w. prison song to france villanelle wesley everest the industrial heretics blood and wine the red guard the red feast the girls who sang for us to edith song of separation to my little son escaped! retrospect introduction i. ralph chaplin is serving a twenty year sentence in the federal penitentiary, not as a punishment for any act of violence against person or property, but solely for the expression of his opinions. chaplin, together with a number of fellow prisoners who were sentenced at the same time, was accused of taking part in a conspiracy with intent to obstruct the prosecution of the war. to be sure the government did not produce a single witness to show that the war had been obstructed by their activities; but it was argued that the agitation which they had carried on by means of speeches, articles, pamphlets, meetings and organizing campaigns, would quite naturally hamper the country in its war work. on the face of their indictments these men were accused of interfering with the conduct of the war; in reality they were sent to jail because they held and expressed certain beliefs. as a member of the industrial workers of the world, ralph chaplin did his part to make the organization a success. he wrote songs and poems; he made speeches: he edited the official paper, "solidarity". he looked about him; saw poverty, wretchedness and suffering among the workers; contrasted it with the luxury of those who owned the land and the machinery of production; studied the problem of distribution; and decided that it was possible, through the organization of the producers, to establish a more scientific, juster, more humane system of society. all this he felt, intensely. with him and his fellow-workers the task of freeing humanity from economic bondage took on the aspect of a faith, a religion. they held their meetings; wrote their literature; made their speeches and sang their songs with zealous devotion. they had seen a vision; they had heard a call to duty; they were giving their lives to a cause--the emancipation of the human race. when the war broke out in europe, with millions of working-men flinging death and misery at one another, men like chaplin, the world over, regarded it as the last straw. was it not bad enough that these exploited creatures should be used as factory-fodder? must they be cannon-fodder too? why should they fight to increase the economic power of german traders? of british manufacturers? the war was a capitalist war between capitalist nations. what interest had the workers in these nations? in their winnings or in their losses? so ran the argument. the i. w. w. was not primarily an anti-war organization in theory it had abandoned political activity to devote itself exclusively to agitation and organization on the field of industry. practically its funds and its energies were expended upon industrial struggles. long before the war, the i. w. w. had made itself known and feared for its conduct of strikes, its free speech fights, and its ability to put the sore spots of american industrial life on the front page of the daily press and to keep them there until the people had become aroused to the wrongs that were being perpetrated. it was in this domain of industry that the i. w. w. was functioning, and it was among the business interests that the determination had been reached to rid the country of the organization at all costs. had the chief offense of the i. w. w. consisted in its expressed opposition to the war, it would not have been singled out for attack. many of the peace societies that flourished prior to 1917 were more outspoken and more consistent in their opposition to war than were the leaders of the i. w. w. none of these societies, however, had acquired reputation for championing the cause of industrial under dogs, and for demanding a complete change in the form of american economic life. consequently, in the prosecution, in the sentences, in the commutations and in the pardons, the anti-war pacifists were treated very leniently, while the revolutionary i. w. w. members were singled out for the most ferocious legal and extra-legal attack. technically, ralph chaplin and his comrades had conspired to obstruct the war. actually, they had lined themselves up solidly against the present economic order, of which the world war was only one phase. this was their real crime. ii. ralph chaplin was guilty of the most serious social offense that a man can commit. while living in an old and shattered social order, he had championed a new order of society and had expounded a new culture. socrates and jesus, for like offenses, lost their lives. thousands of their followers, guilty of no greater crime than that of denouncing vested wrong and expounding new truths, have suffered in the dungeon, on the scaffold and at the stake. not because he and his fellows conspired to obstruct the war, but because they denounced the present order of economic society and taught the inauguration of a better one, are they still held in prison more than three years after the signing of the armistice; after the proclamation of peace and the resumption of trade with all of the enemy countries; after the repeal or the lapse of the espionage act and the other war-time laws under which they were convicted; and after german agents and german spies, caught red-handed in their attempts to interfere with the prosecution of the war, have won their freedom through presidential pardon. the most dangerous men in the united states, during the years 1917 and 1918, were not those who were taking pay to do the will of the german or the austrian governments, but those who were trying to convince the american working people that they should throw aside a system of economic parasitism and economic exploitation, should take possession of the machinery of production and should secure for themselves the product of their own toil. in the eyes of the masters of american life, such men are still dangerous, and that is the reason that they are kept in prison. iii. the culture of any age consists of the feelings, habits, customs, activities, thoughts, ambitions and dreams of a people. it is a composite picture of their homes, their work, their arts, their pleasures and the other channels of their life-expression. the culture of each age has two aspects. on the one hand there is the established or accepted culture of those who dominate and control,--the culture of the leisure or ruling class. this culture is respected, admired, applauded, and sometimes even worshipped by those who benefit from it most directly. civilization--even life itself seems bound up with its continuance. when the advocates of the established culture cry "long live the king!" they are really shouting approval of royalty, aristocracy, landlordism, vassalage, exploitation and of all the other attributes of divine right. the world as it is becomes in their minds, synonymous with the world as it should be. for them the old culture is the best culture. on the other hand there is the new culture, comprising the hopes, beliefs, ideas and ideals of those who feel that the present is but a transition-stage, leading from the past into the future--a future that they see radiant with the best that is in man, developing soundly against the bounties that are supplied by the hand of nature. these forward looking ones, impatient with the mistakes and injustices of to-day, preach wisdom and justice for the morrow. so imperfect does the present seem to them, and so obvious are the possibilities of the future, that they look forward confidently to the overthrow of the old social forms, and the establishment, in their places, of a new society, the embryo of which is already germinating within the old social shell. the old culture relies on tradition, custom, and the normal conservatism of the masses of mankind, the new culture relies on concepts of justice, truth, liberty, love, brotherhood. eighteenth century, feudal france was filled with the prophecies of a form of society that would supplant feudalism. nineteenth century russia, in the grip of a capitalist bureaucracy, proved to be the centre for the revolutions of the early twentieth century. the new culture, growing at first under the shadow of the old, gradually assumes larger and larger proportions until it takes all of the sunlight for itself, throwing the old culture into the shadow of oblivion. each ruling class knows these facts,--knows that the old must give place to the new; knows that the living, ruling culture of to-day will be the history of the day after tomorrow, yet because of the vested interests which they rely upon for their power, and because they are satisfied to have the deluge come after them, they oppose each manifestation of the new culture and strain every nerve to make the temporary organization of the world permanent. the more vigorously the new culture thrives, the more eagerly do the representatives of the old order strive to destroy it. iv. during three eventful centuries, the part of north america that is now the united states has witnessed two fierce culture-survival struggles. in the first of these struggles--that between the american indians and the whites, the culture of western europe supplanted the culture of primitive america. in the second struggle--that between the slave holders of the south and the rising business interests of the north, the slave oligarchy was swept from power, and in its place there was established the new financial imperialism that dominates the public life of the nation at the present time. despite the extreme youth of the capitalist system in the united states, there are already many signs that those who profit by it must be prepared to defend it at no distant date. the russian revolution of 1917 sounded the loudest note of warning, but even before that occurred, the industrial capitalists had entered upon a struggle which they believed to be of the greatest importance to their future. during the twenty years that elapsed between the homestead and pullman strikes and the beginning of the world war, the pages of american industrial history are crowded with stories of the labor conflict--on an ever vaster and vaster scale, between nationally organized employers, using the power of the police, the courts and, where necessary, the army; and the nationally organized workers, backed by some show of public sentiment, and armed with the strength of numbers. although the bulk of the workers was still unorganized, and although those who were organized thought and acted within the lines of their crafts, considering themselves as railway trainmen or as carpenters first, and as workers afterward, there was not wanting a new spirit--sometimes called the spirit of industrial unionism--emphasizing labor solidarity and speaking most loudly through the propaganda, first of the socialist labor party and later of the i. w. w. the old culture was joining battle with the new. "america is the land of opportunity. it was good enough for my father: it is good enough for me" was the slogan of the capitalists. "the world for the workers," answered the vanguard of the exploited masses. the advocate of a labor state is as unpopular in a capitalist society as the abolitionist was in the carolinas before the civil war. he sees a vision that the stalwarts of the existing order do not care to see; he speaks a language that they cannot comprehend; he represents an interest that is as hateful to them as it is alien to their privileges. v. at the outset, while the old order is still relatively strong, and the new relatively weak, the spokesmen of the old order can afford to ignore the champions of the new. but as the established order grows more senile and the new order more vigorous, the defenders of the old order, by force or by guile, set themselves to root out the new, even though they should be compelled to destroy themselves in the process. then there ensues a savage struggle in which wits are matched against wits and force against force. families are divided; the community is split into factions; civil war rages; society is torn to its foundations. at times the struggle reaches the military phase, but for the most part it instills itself into the lives of the people until it becomes an accepted part of the day's work. then it is that the real test comes between the old world and the new. the old world holds power--economic, social, political. it holds in its hands income, respectability and preferment, with which it seeks first to buy, and later to destroy all who oppose its will. buying is the easiest, the safest, and in the long run the cheapest method of gaining the desired end. each generation contains some men and women possessed of unusual endowments--as organizers and enterprisers, as spokesmen, as singers, as seers and prophets. these gifted ones the old order sets out to win--lavishing upon them gratitudes, favors, rewards; filling their lives out of the horn of economic and social plenty; teasing their vanities and gratifying their ambitions; soothing, cajoling, flattering. by these means the rulers succeed in bringing under their control the strong thinkers, the capable executives, the sensitive, the talented--all in fact who are worth buying, and who can be bought for income and for social preferment, even though they may have been born into the families of the humblest and most oppressed of the workers. most men and women go where income promises and social preferment beckons. but not all! there are some whose love of justice, truth and beauty; whose yearning for betterment and increased social opportunity, outweighs the tempting bait of ease and respectability. them the established order smites. the strength of the old order is measured superficially by the extent of its control over the means of common livelihood and by the generalness of the satisfaction or discontent with which the masses receive its administration. fundamentally its strength is determined by the direction in which its life is tending. the structure of the roman empire was apparently sound before it buckled and disintegrated. the french aristocracy was never surer of itself than in the gala days that preceded 1789. the old order may undergo a process of gradual transformation. in that case the change is slow, as it was when feudalism gave place to capitalism in england. again, the old order may be exterminated as it was when feudalism gave place to capitalism in france. in one case the masters of life loosens the reins of power to ease the straining team; in the other case the masters hold the reins taut till they are jerked from their hands, as masters and team go together over the precipice. the strength of the new order, at any stage in its development may be gauged by the solidarity of its organization, the efficacy of its propaganda, and the tone of its art. these forms of expression are necessary to the maintenance of any phase of culture, old or new, and by the last of the three, the esthetic expression of the culture, its morale may best be judged. it is for this reason that artists, musicians, dramatists and poets are so important a part of any order of society. they voice its deepest sentiments and express its most sacred faiths and longings. when the time arrives that a new social order can boast its permanent art and music and literature, it is already far advanced on the path that leads to stability and power. vi. the poems which appear in this volume are a contribution to the propaganda and the art of the new culture. "above all things," writes chaplin, "i don't want anyone to try to make me out a 'poet'--because i'm not. i don't think much of these esthetic creatures who condescend to stoop to our level that we may have the blessings of culture. we'll manage to make our own--do it in our own way, and stagger through somehow. . . . these are tremendous times, and sooner or later someone will come along big enough to sound the right note, and it will be a rebel note." it is that note which chaplin has sought to strike, and that he has succeeded will be the verdict of anyone who has read over the poems. chaplin's work speaks for itself. some of the poems were written in leavenworth prison and published in the prison paper. others were written during the tedious months of the chicago trial, when the men were kept in the cook county jail. chaplin has had ample time to work them out. christmas, 1921, was the fifth consecutive christmas that he has spent in prison. the poems bear the impress of the bars, but they ring with the glad vigor of a free spirit that bars cannot contain. the reader of chaplin's prison poems unavoidably makes three mental comments: 1. when poems so reserved, so vigorous; so penetrating, so melodious, so beautiful, come from behind jail bars, it is high time that thinking men and women awoke to the fate that awaits bold dreamers and singers under the present order in the united states. 2. men are not silenced when steel doors clang behind them. free spirits are as free behind the bars as they are under the open sky. the jail, as a gag, is impotent. while it may master the body, it cannot contain the soul. 3. the new order in america is already finding its voice. although it is so young, and so immature, it is speaking with an accent of gifted authority. chaplin is not a dangerous man--except as his ideas are dangerous to the existing order of society. his presence in the penitentiary, under a twenty year sentence, indicates how dangerous those ideas are considered by the masters of american public life. rich those masters are--fabulously rich; and strong they may be, yet so insecure do they feel themselves that they are constrained to hold in prison this dreamer and singer of the new social order. chaplin, in prison, like debs in prison, is doing his work. he is resisting the encroachments of those jail demons--hate, bitterness, revenge; he is holding his mind on the goal--a newer, better social order; he is keeping his vision of nature, of humanity, of brotherhood, of courage, of love, of beauty,--clear and bright. chaplin, the man, is in jail; but chaplin the poet and singer is roaming wherever books go; wherever papers are read, and wherever comrades repeat verses to one another in the flickering light of the evening fire. scott nearing. mourn not the dead mourn not the dead that in the cool earth lie- dust unto dust- the calm, sweet earth that mothers all who die as all men must; mourn not your captive comrades who must dwell- too strong to strive- within each steel-bound coffin of a cell, buried alive; but rather mourn the apathetic throng- the cowed and the meek- who see the world's great anguish and its wrong and dare not speak! taps the day is ended! ghostly shadows creep along each dim-lit wall and corridor. the bugle sounds as from some faery shore silvered with sadness, somnolent and deep. darkness and bars . . . god! shall we curse or weep? somewhere a pipe is tapped upon the floor; a guard slams shut the heavy iron door; the day is ended--go to sleep--to sleep. three times it blows--weird lullaby of doom- and then to dream while fecund night gives birth to other days like this day that is done. . but morning . . . does it live beyond the gloom- this deep black pall that hangs above the earth- he fears the dark who dares to doubt the sun! night in the cell house tier over tier they rise to dizzy height- the cells of men who know the world no more. silence intense from ceiling to the floor; while through the window gleams a lone blue light which stabs the dark immensity of night. felt shod and ghostly like a shade of yore, the guard comes shuffling down the corridor; his key-ring jingles . . . and he glides from sight. oh, to forget the prison and its scars, and face the breeze where ocean meets the land; to watch the foam-crests dance with silver stars, while long green waves come tumbling on the sand . . . my brow is hot against the icy bars; there is the smell of iron on my hand. prison shadows like grey-winged phantoms out of sullen skies they flood our cells and seem to fashion there i know not what dim landscapes of despair; all day we feel them lurking in our eyes. at night they fall like crosses, sombre-wise, upon the shameful uniforms we wear, upon the brow, the face, the hand, the hair; and on each heart their shadow always lies. o heart of mine, why throb with futile rage and beat and beat against these hopeless bars? for, though you break in life's last deadly swoon, you cannot pierce beyond this iron cage to see the pulsing splendor of the stars or feel the blue-green magic of the moon! prison reveille out through the iron doorway, bolted strong, i see the night guard's shadow on the wall. the bugle sounds its thin, white silver call, awake! awake! o world-forgotten throng! and then the sudden clanging of the gong, and . . . silence . . . aching silence . . . over all; while through the windows, steel-barred, stern and tall, pale daylight greets us like a plaintive song. somewhere the dawn breaks laughing o'er the sea to splash with gold the cities' domes and towers, and countless men seek visions wide and free, in that alluring world that is not ours; but no one there could prize as much as we the open road, the smell of grass and flowers. prison nocturne outside the storm is swishing to and fro; the wet wind hums its colorless refrain; against the walls and dripping bars, the rain beats with a rhythm like a song of woe; dimmed by the lightning's ever-fitful glow the purple arc-lamps blur each streaming pane; the thunder rumbles at the distant plain, the cells are hushed and silent, row on row. fall, fruitful drops, upon the parching earth, fall, and revive the living sap of spring; blossom the fields with wonder once again! and, in all hearts, awaken to new birth those visions and endeavors that will bring a fresh, sweet morning to the world of men! the warrior wind once more the wind leaps from the sullen land with his old battle-cry. a tree bends darkly where the wall looms high; its tortured branches, like a grisly hand, clutch at the sky. grey towers rise from gloom and underneath- black-barred and strong- the snarling windows guard their ancient wrong; but the mad wind shakes them, hissing through his teeth a battle song. o bitter is the challenge that he flings at bars and bolts and keys. torn with the cries of vanished centuries and curses hurled at long-forgotten kings beyond dim seas. the wind alone, of all the gods of old, men could not chain. o wild wind, brother to my wrath and pain, like you, within a restless heart i hold a hurricane. the wind has known the dungeons of the past knows all that are; and in due time will strew their dust afar, and singing, he will shout their doom at last to a laughing star. o cleansing warrior wind, stronger than death, wiser than men may know; o smite these stubborn walls and lay them low, uproot and rend them with your mighty breath- blow, wild wind, blow! to freedom out on the "lookout" in the wind and sleet, out in the woods of fir and spruce and pine, down in the hot slopes of the dripping mine we dreamed of you and oh, the dream was sweet! and now you bless the felon food we eat and make each iron cell a sacred shrine; for when your love thrills in the blood like wine, the very stones grow holy to our feet. we shall be faithful though we march with death and singing storm the barricades of wrong, for life is such a little thing to give. we shall fight on as long as we have breath- love in our hearts and on our lips a song- without you it were better not to live! the vision maker to eugene victor debs christ-like he spoke. while angry cannon roared, his vision tinged the torn and bleeding skies, men heard in him their own dumb anguished cries, the heavens seemed to open at his word. give us a victim, shouted caesar's horde, from his black pyre red warnings shall arise, the vision perishes, the prophet dies. . . his truth is far more deadly than our sword! and deadlier his dream--a quenchless flame, for which no dungeon fastness can be built . . . you have but made the convict half divine, crowned truth with martyrdom, yourselves with shame; not he, but you are branded deep with guilt; his cell is holier than your highest shrine. distances above the moist earth, tremulous and bright, the stars creep forth--stars that i cannot see; and to my cell steals, oh, so tenderly the dewy fragrance of a summer night! all wan and wistful, somewhere out of sight, stalking o'er landscapes wide and dark and free, my friend, the moon, looks everywhere for me, splashing the paths i loved with silver light. oh loveliness! why do you torture so with such keen beauty till the day appears? why touch to life things buried long ago, whose aching cries trouble the heart to tears; ghostly--like wind tossed sea gulls calling low out of the poignant vistas of the years? phantoms ghost of a mountain and ghost of a moon; night birds sink droopingly over the dune clouds drifting hazily stars blurring through; darkness come close to me- darkness and you. mist on the water and mist in the sky; netted with silver the waves ripple by. _ghost of a solitude_ _lit with dead stars._ _you have your memories_ _i have my bars!_ seven little sparrows beyond the deep-cut window the bars are heaped with snow, and seven little sparrows are sitting in a row. fluffy blur of snowflakes; dappled haze of light; the narrow prison vista is all awhirl with white. seven little sparrows ruffled brown and grey snuggled close against the bars- and this is christmas day! salaam! serene, complacent, satisfied, content with things that be; the paragon of paltriness upraised for all to see; with loving pride he cherishes his mediocrity! the smirking, ass-like multitudes cringe down at his command. with wagging ears and blinded eyes they do not understand. with pride they show each shackled wrist and on each brow the brand. the young, the old, the great, the small give homage--all supine. fond parents bring their children there as to some holy shrine. and every one the beast transforms from human into swine! well praised are they--rewarded well- who on their shoulders bore the gilded thing that all the mob fawned in the dust before. and each that did obeisance there was naked like a whore. the poet with his teeming song, the wise his deep-delved lore, the maiden with her tender flesh, the strong his sturdy store: each yielded all he had to give; no harlot could do more. is there not one to share with me the shame and wrath i own? is there not one to curse that thing or pick up stones to stone- to rend and wreck and raze to earth- or do i stand alone? raise high the swine-like incubus, obediently bow! shatter the flame on rebel lips and wreath that brazen brow! so blaze the banners, ring the bells, apotheosis now! my kind but scorn your dull "success"- your subtle ways to "win," we eat our hearts in solitude or sear our souls with "sin"; yet we are better men than you who fit so smugly in. go! grovel for the shoddy goods and plod and plot and plan, and if you win the paltry prize go prize it--if you can, but i would hurl it in your face to hold myself a man! i will not bow with that mad horde and passively obey. i will not think their sordid thoughts nor say the things they say, nor wear their shameful uniforms, nor branded be as they. nor can they bend me to their will though black their numbers swell, nor bribe with hopes of paradise nor force with fears of hell; me they may break but never bend,- i live but to rebel! i go my way rejoicingly, i, outcast, spurned and low, but undreamed worlds may come to birth from seeds that i may sow. and if there's pain within my heart those fools shall never know. so let me stand back silently, the pageant passes by, and live my life with these new christs whom you would crucify, and laugh with mirth to see the mob do homage to a lie! the west is dead what path is left for you to tread when hunger-wolves are slinking near- do you not know the west is dead? the "blanket-stiff" now packs his bed along the trails of yesteryear- what path is left for you to tread? your fathers, golden sunsets led to virgin prairies wide and clear- do you not know the west is dead? now dismal cities rise instead and freedom is not there nor here- what path is left for you to tread? your fathers' world, for which they bled, is fenced and settled far and near- do you not know the west is dead? your fathers gained a crust of bread, their bones bleach on the lost frontier; what path is left for you to tread- do you not know the west is dead? up from your knees (air: "song of a thousand years") up from your knees, ye cringing serf men! what have ye gained by whines and tears? rise! they can never break our spirits though they should try a thousand years. chorus a thousand years, then speed the victory! nothing can stop us nor dismay. after the winter comes the springtime; after the darkness comes the day. break ye your chains, strike off your fetters; beat them to swords, the foe appears. slaves of the world arise and crush him- crush him or serve a thousand years. join in the fight--the final battle, welcome the fray with ringing cheers. these are the times our fathers dreamed of, fought to attain a thousand years. be ye prepared, be not unworthy, greater the task when triumph nears. master the earth, o men of labor; long have ye learned--a thousand years. out of the east the sun is rising, out of the night the day appears; see! at your feet the world is waiting, bought with your blood a thousand years. the eunuch (to those who fight on the side of the powers of darkness) once a eunuch by the palace in the sunset's fading glow felt the soft warm breezes blow; watched the fair girls of the harem idly saunter to and fro. saw he beauty young and lavish- fierce to lure man's every sense- (grim the eunuch stood and tense) laughingly the sparkling fountain mocked his bleak incompetence. came the sultan from his hunting flaming with the zest of life; (laid aside were spear and knife) came for wine and song and feasting, came to seek his fairest wife. opened then the marble portals. fragrant incense filled the air, (sandalwood and roses rare) while the girls with red-lipped languor scattered flowers everywhere. far away the fabled mountains, (like some paradise of old) glowed with lavender and gold. tense the eunuch stood and silent- tense and sullen, tense and cold. now a quick impotent fury lashed him like a bronze-tipped cord. sprang he at the youthful lord, sprang again with blade all bloody . . . (famished lust and dripping sword.) * * * * * night crept on all chill and ghastly, jackals trotted forth to bark, (murder shuddered, still and stark . . .) by the palace ceased the fountain and the whole grey world grew dark. i. w. w. prison song (tune: "the red flag") the pale and dismal daylight falls through iron bars on prison walls. in chains we came from far and near, and in dark cells they hold us here. chorus defiant 'neath the iron heel; their walls of stone and bars of steel! for though all hell at us is hurled, we and our kind shall rule the world! at us the blood-hounds are let loose, the lynch-mobs with the knotted noose; in legal sanctioned mask and gown the new black hundreds hunt us down. to all brave comrades o'er the sea, in chains for human liberty, and all jailed rebels everywhere we say: be bold to do and dare! by all the graves of labor's dead, by labor's deathless flag of red, we make a solemn vow to you,- we'll keep the faith; we will be true. for freedom laughs at prison bars her voice re-echoes from the stars; proclaiming with the tempest's breath a cause beyond the reach of death! to france (may day, 1919) mother of revolutions, stern and sweet, thou of the red commune's heroic days; unsheathe thy sword, let thy pent lightning blaze until these new bastiles fall at thy feet. once more thy sons march down the ancient street led by pale men from silent pere la chaise; once more la carmignole--la marseillaise blend with the war drum's quick and angry beat. ah, france--our--france--must they again endure the crown of thorns upon the cross of death? is morning here . . .? then speak that we may know! the sky seems lighter but we are not sure. is morning here . . .? the whole world holds its breath to hear the crimson gallic rooster crow! villanelle (torquato tasso from his cell at ste. anne, 1548) her beauty haunts me everywhere- a lone lark singing as it flies- sweet, o sweet beyond compare. amber and gold meet in her hair, dark pools and starlight in her eyes; her beauty haunts me everywhere. slim body, petal soft and fair, cool lips, cool, cool as evening skies- sweet, o sweet beyond compare. pale fingers delicate and rare, to lull and lure caressing-wise; her beauty haunts me everywhere. here in my dungeon dim and bare the last frail not of music dies- sweet, o sweet beyond compare. my heart? i steeled it not to care. . . . but god! her love is paradise! her beauty haunts me everywhere, o sweet, sweet, sweet beyond compare! wesley everest (mutilated and murdered at centralia, washington, november 11th, 1919, by a mob of "respectable" businessmen.) torn and defiant as a wind-lashed reed, wounded he faced you as he stood at bay; you dared not lynch him in the light of day, but on your dungeon stones you let him bleed; night came . . . and you black vigilants of greed . . . like human wolves, seized hard upon your prey, tortured and killed . . . and, silent slunk away without one qualm of horror at the deed. once . . . long ago . . . do you remember how you hailed him king for soldiers to deride- you placed a scroll above his bleeding brow and spat upon him, scourged him, crucified . . .? a rebel unto caesar--then as now alone, thorn-crowned, a spear wound in his side! the industrial heretics they say we are revolters--that we stirred the workers of all nations to rebel- and that we would not compromise with hell, but damned it with our every deed and word. they feared us as we faced them undeterred, and gave us each a coffin of a cell in this steel cave where living corpses dwell- hate-throttled here that we might not be heard. we are those fools too stubborn-willed to bend our necks to wrong and parley and discuss. today we face the awful test of fire- the prison, gallows, cross--but in the end your sons will call your children after us and name their dogs from men you now admire! blood and wine (a certain little renegade of the revolution chants a hymn of praise to his erstwhile enemy.) behold! the helots of the land are cowed beneath thy iron fist; they are too dumb to understand- too tame and spineless to resist. victorious one! against thy gains these chattels cannot, dare not rise; stifle the thought within their brains and rule . . . with bayonets and lies. so may thy sons, with greed uncurbed, their children's children rule again; aye, rule with iron, undisturbed, the all-prolific sons of men. what matters that ten million died to give thy lust a dwelling place? does not thy terror set aside the ancient freedom of the race? what matters that the peasant's plow bites at a soil baptised with red? are not thy bloody dollars now more myriad than the myriad dead? that in charred cities, wan with pain, war-desolated mothers live, while lips of babies tug in vain at breasts that have no milk to give? or that beneath thy battered walls, cursed with the eloquence of hell, black want to red rebellion calls . . .? heed not, i tell thee all is well! heed not! have vine-clad maidens sing and serve thee scented wine and gore; laugh! glut thyself to vomiting, and hiccough, screaming still for more. what of the men against the gate, black-massed and sullen, gaunt and lean . . . like thee they crave one thing to hate. be glad . . . and whet thy guillotine! the red guard sons of the dawn! no more shall you enslave nor lull them with your honied lies to sleep, nor lead them on like herds of human sheep, to hopeless slaughter for the loot you crave. for now upon you, wave on mighty wave, the iron-stern battalions rise and leap to extirpate your breed and bury deep and sow with salt the unlamented grave! accursed monster -nightmare of the years- pause but a moment ere you pass away! pause and behold the earth made clean and pure- our earth, that you have drenched with blood and tears- then greet the crimson usurer of day,- the mighty proletarian dictature! the red feast go fight, you fools! tear up the earth with strife and spill each others guts upon the field; serve unto death the men you served in life so that their wide dominions may not yield. stand by the flag--the lie that still allures; lay down your lives for land you do not own, and give unto a war that is not yours your gory tithe of mangled flesh and bone. but whether it be yours to fall or kill you must not pause to question why nor where. you see the tiny crosses on that hill? it took all those to make one millionaire. it was for him the seas of blood were shed, that fields were razed and cities lit the sky; and now he comes to chortle o'er the dead- the condor thing for whom the millions die! the bugle screams, the cannons cease to roar. "enough! enough! god give us peace again." the rats, the maggots and the lords of war are fat to bursting from their meal of men. so stagger back, you stupid dupes who've "won," back to your stricken towns to toil anew, for there your dismal tasks are still undone and grim starvation gropes again for you. what matters now your flag, your race, the skill of scattered legions--what has been the gain? once more beneath the lash you must distil your lives to glut a glory wrought of pain. in peace they starve you to your loathsome toil, in war they drive you to the teeth of death; and when your life-blood soaks into their soil they give you lies to choke your dying breath. so will they smite your blind eyes till you see, and lash your naked backs until you know that wasted blood can never set you free from fettered thraldom to the common foe. then you will find that "nation" is a name and boundaries are things that don't exist; that labor's bondage, worldwide, is the same, and one the enemy it must resist. montreal, 1914. the girls who sang for us what does it mean to us that spring is here? we asked ourselves within the great grey hall. we shall not feel the magic of her call; this day, like others, will be dull and drear. and then you sang . . . and brought so very near, the fragrant world beyond the prison wall, the tender fields, the trees and grass, and all the hopes and dreams that every man holds dear. o, silvery voices, sweet with life and youth brushing our grey lives with your rainbow wings- lives that were stern and bitter with old wrong, and cleansing them with beauty and with truth; reviving memories of vanished springs- making us whole with miracles of song! to edith do you remember how we walked that night in early spring? and how we found a new and sweet delight in everything? do you remember how the air was filled with mist and moonlight--how our hearts were thrilled- and seemed to sing? what if these walls shut out the world for me and heaven too, there still lives fragrant in my memory the thought of you. and out there now with life's high dome above you if you but knew how very much i love you- if you but knew . . . . song of separation two that i love must live alone, far away. all in the world i can call my own, only they. mother and boy in the rocking chair, thinking of one who cannot be there, breathing a hope that is half a prayer; night and day, night and day. here in my cell i must sit alone, clothed in grey. bars of iron and walls of stone bid me stay. what of the world with its pomp and show? baubles of nothing! this i know: deep in my heart i miss them so night and day, night and day. to my little son i cannot lose the thought of you it haunts me like a little song, it blends with all i see or do each day, the whole day long. the train, the lights, the engine's throb, and that one stinging memory: your brave smile broken with a sob, your face pressed close to me. lips trembling far too much to speak; the arms that would not come undone; the kiss so salty on your cheek; the long, long trip begun. i could not miss you more it seemed, but now i don't know what to say. it's harder than i ever dreamed with you so far away. escaped! (the boiler house whistle is blown "wildcat" when a prisoner makes a "getaway") a man has fled. . . .! we clutch the bars and wait; the corridors are empty, tense and still; a silver mist has dimmed the distant hill; the guards have gathered at the prison gate. then suddenly the "wildcat" blares its hate like some mad moloch screaming for the kill, shattering the air with terror loud and shrill, the dim, grey walls become articulate. freedom, you say? behold her altar here! in those far cities men can only find a vaster prison and a redder hell, o'ershadowed by new wings of greater fear. brave fool, for such a world to leave behind the iron sanctuary of a cell! retrospect the wall-girt distance undulates with heat; the buildings crouch in terror of the sun; steel bars and stones, heat-tortured ton on ton, on which the noon's remorseless hammers beat. alone i trudge the wide red-cobbled street: how long before this evil dream is done . . .? these strange mad stones i know them every one, worn with the tread of oh, how many feet! and yet it seems that i have seen it all before . . . i know not when . . . but there should be blunt buildings near a cliff, as i recall; bare rocks--a burning white--a gnarled dark tree . . . and looming clear above a sentried wall the foam-laced splendor of a warm blue sea . . . u.s. department of justice office of justice programs bureau of justice statistics special report prevalence of imprisonment in the u.s. population, 1974-2001 august 2003, ncj 197976 by thomas p. bonczar bjs statistician ---------------------------------------------------------------------highlights +at yearend 2001 over 5.6 million u.s. adults had ever served time in state or federal prison+ * of adults in 2001 who had ever served time in prison, nearly as many were black (2,166,000) as were white (2,203,000). an estimated 997,000 were hispanic. --------------------------------------------------------------------- +at yearend 2001, over 5.6 million u.s. residents had ever served time in state or federal prison+ u.s. residents percent of adult ever incarcerated number u.s. residents 1974 1991 2001 1974 1991 2001 total 1,819,000 3,437,000 5,618,000 1.3% 1.8% 2.7% male 1,677,000 3,142,000 5,037,000 2.3 3.4 4.9 white 837,000 1,395,000 1,978,000 1.4 1.9 2.6 black 595,000 1,181,000 1,936,000 8.7 12.0 16.6 hispanic 94,000 392,000 911,000 2.3 4.9 7.7 female 142,000 295,000 581,000 0.2% 0.3% 0.5% white 86,000 139,000 225,000 0.1 0.2 0.3 black 51,000 109,000 231,000 0.6 0.9 1.7 hispanic 8,000 30,000 86,000 0.2 0.4 0.7 white 922,000 1,533,000 2,203,000 0.8% 1.1% 1.4% black 646,000 1,290,000 2,166,000 4.5 6.2 8.9 hispanic 102,000 422,000 997,000 1.3 2.7 4.3 u.s. adult resident population 1974 1991 2001 total 145,356,000 187,982,751 210,207,901 male 69,217,000 90,362,099 101,492,258 white 57,704,209 69,718,665 74,217,435 black 6,593,640 9,465,170 11,287,707 hispanic 3,923,600 8,022,134 11,452,968 female 76,133,000 97,620,652 108,715,643 white 63,173,779 75,415,364 78,956,773 black 7,813,782 11,222,468 13,178,900 hispanic 4,074,628 7,655,854 11,496,534 white 120,878,496 145,134,029 153,174,207 black 14,406,407 20,687,638 24,466,606 hispanic 7,998,062 15,677,988 22,949,502 note: because of estimation and other rounding procedures, some detail may not add to totals and may not match precisely totals in other tables. ---------------------------------------------------------------------* the rate of ever having gone to prison among adult black males(16.6%) was over twice as high as among adult hispanic males (7.7%) and over 6 times as high as among adult white males (2.6%). * u.s. residents ages 35 to 39 in 2001 were more likely to have gone to prison (3.8%) than any other age group, up from 2.3% in 1991. * an estimated 22% of black males ages 35 to 44 in 2001 had ever been confined in state or federal prison, compared to 10.0% of hispanic males and 3.5% of white males in the same age group. +if incarceration rates remain unchanged, 6.6% of u.s. residents born in 2001 will go to prison at some time during their lifetime+ --------------------------------------------------------------------- +if incarceration rates remain unchanged, 6.6% of u.s. residents born in 2001 will go to prison at some time during their lifetime+ percent ever going to prison during lifetime, born in- 1974 1991 2001 total 1.9% 5.2% 6.6% male 3.6 9.1 11.3 white 2.2 4.4 5.9 black 13.4 29.4 32.2 hispanic 4.0 16.3 17.2 female 0.3% 1.1% 1.8% white 0.2 0.5 0.9 black 1.1 3.6 5.6 hispanic 0.4 1.5 2.2 white 1.2% 2.5% 3.4% black 7.0 16.5 18.6 hispanic 2.2 9.5 10.0 ---------------------------------------------------------------------* about 1 in 3 black males, 1 in 6 hispanic males, and 1 in 17 white males are expected to go to prison during their lifetime, if current incarceration rates remain unchanged. * for women, the chances of going to prison were 6 times greater in 2001 (1.8%) than in 1974 (0.3%); for men, the chances of going to prison were over 3 times greater in 2001 (11.3%) than in 1974 (3.6%). ---------------------------------------------------------------------at yearend 2001 there were 1,319,000 adults confined in state or federal prison and an estimated 4,299,000 living former prisoners. a total of 5,618,000 u.s. adult residents, or about 1 in every 37 u.s. adults, had ever served time in prison. estimates of the prevalence of imprisonment in the u.s. population, presented here for the first time, are based on a demographic model incorporating rates of mortality and first incarceration in prison. between 1974 and 2001, the prevalence of imprisonment increased by nearly 3.8 million. this included a 1.1 million increase in the number of adults in prison (up from 216,000) and a nearly 2.7 million increase in the number of living former prisoners (up from 1,603,000). if rates of first incarceration remain unchanged, 6.6% of all persons born in the united states in 2001 will go to state or federal prison during their lifetime, up from 5.2% in 1991, and 1.9% in 1974. unlike the prevalence of ever having gone to prison, which estimates the extent of past experiences, the lifetime likelihood of going to prison is an estimate of the chances of future incarceration, given unchanged rates of first incarceration and mortality. +4.3 million u.s. residents in 2001 were former prisoners+ of the estimated 5.6 million adults in the united states who had been incarcerated in state or federal prison at some time before yearend 2001, nearly 4.3 million were no longer in prison (table 1). former prisoners accounted for 77% of all adult residents who had ever been confined in prison. --------------------------------------------------------------------- +table 1. prevalence of incarceration in a state or federal prison, by current and former prisoners, 1974-2001+ current and former prisoners ever incarcerated in a state or federal prison- 1974 1979 1986 1991 1997 2001 number incarcerated total 1,819,000 2,100,000 2,667,000 3,437,000 4,652,000 5,618,000 current 216,000 302,000 524,000 788,000 1,171,000 1,319,000 former 1,603,000 1,798,000 2,143,000 2,649,000 3,481,000 4,299,000 ever incarcerated rate* total 1,251 1,308 1,516 1,828 2,336 2,673 current 149 188 298 419 588 628 former 1,102 1,120 1,218 1,409 1,748 2,045 note: numbers of current adult prisoners from national prisoner statistics data series. former prisoner statistics based on inmate survey data. estimates were rounded to the nearest 1,000. see _methodology_ for estimation procedures. *the number ever incarcerated per 100,000 adult u.s. residents. u.s. adult resident population 1974 1986 1991 1997 2001 145,356,000 175,886,630 187,982,751 199,121,734 210,207,901 ---------------------------------------------------------------------persons ages 35 to 44 comprised the largest age group, accounting for 3 out of 10 former prisoners at yearend 2001 (1,280,000). former prisoners were older than those currently in state or federal prison, with 49% of former prisoners age 45 or older compared to 13% of persons confined on december 31, 2001. current prisoners outnumbered former prisoners only among those ages 18 to 24 (254,000 compared with 155,000). --------------------------------------------------------------------- number of adults with prison experience, 2001 former current age inmates inmates total 4,299,000 1,319,000 18-24 155,000 254,000 25-34 775,000 511,000 35-44 1,280,000 385,000 45-54 1,002,000 130,000 55-64 509,000 30,000 65 or older 578,000 9,000 note: see _methodology_ for estimation procedures. ---------------------------------------------------------------------+more than two-thirds of former prisoners no longer under correctional supervision+ at yearend 2001 former prisoners included 731,147 persons on parole, an estimated 437,000 persons on probation who had either served part of their current sentence in prison or been confined in prison on a previous sentence, and an estimated 166,000 jail inmates who had served a previous sentence in prison. an estimated 3 million former prisoners were no longer under correctional supervision as of yearend 2001. --------------------------------------------------------------------- former state and federal prisoners, 2001 number percent total 4,299,000 100.0% under supervision 1,334,000 31.0 parole 731,000 17.0 probation 437,000 10.2 jail 166,000 3.9 not under supervision 2,965,000 69.0 note: estimates rounded to nearest 1,000. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------+demographic techniques used to create prevalence estimates+ estimates of the prevalence of ever having gone to prison were derived from generation life table techniques. the prevalence of ever having gone to prison includes adults currently in prison and living former prisoners. one-day counts of the number of adults in prison are available through the national prisoner statistics program (nps). collected annually since 1926, the nps provides a count at yearend of persons held in federal and state prisons. to obtain the number of persons who had ever gone to prison, separate generation life tables were prepared for persons alive between 1974 and 2001. these tables model the first incarceration and mortality experience of each birth cohort as it proceeded through life. estimates were made of the number of persons going to prison for the first time, by year of age, and the number who had been incarcerated and survived to each later age. rates of first incarceration during a 12-month period were developed from prison inmate surveys conducted in 1974, 1979, 1986, 1991, and 1997, a period during which admission rates increased after many years of relative stability. prevalence estimates for selected calendar years represent a sum of the contribution of each birth cohort to the total number of adults alive who had ever gone to prison. the number of former prisoners was obtained by subtracting the number of prisoners at yearend (nps) from the total. estimates exclude admissions to local jails, due to the absence of data needed to calculate first admissions to jail. (see methodology for estimation procedures and limitations.) ---------------------------------------------------------------------+1 in 37 adult u.s. residents in 2001 had ever served time in prison+ the 5.6 million adult u.s. residents who were current and former prisoners, represented an increase of 3.8 million since 1974. at yearend 2001, 2,673 persons per 100,000 adult u.s. residents had ever gone to prison, up from 1,251 per 100,000 adult residents in 1974. overall, approximately 1 in 37 adult residents in 2001 had ever served time in a state or federal prison. as a percent of all adults who had ever gone to a state or federal prison, the number of former prisoners has steadily declined (from 88% in 1974 to 77% in 2001). the decline occurred as the number of adults confined in prison at yearend grew by 1.1 million -a 6-fold increase. over the 27-year period the number of adult prison inmates rose from 216,000 to 1,319,000. by yearend 2001, there were 628 prison inmates per 100,000 adult residents, up from 149 in 1974. between 1974 and 2001 the number of former prisoners living in the united states more than doubled, from 1,603,000 to 4,299,000. relative to the adult population, the number of former prisoners totaled 2,045 per 100,000 adult u.s. residents in 2001, up from 1,102 per 100,000 in 1974. at yearend 2001, 1 in every 49 adults in the united states was a former prisoner. +two-thirds of the increase in number ever incarcerated due to rise in first incarceration rates+ nearly two-thirds of the 3.8 million increase in the number of adults ever incarcerated in prison between 1974 and 2001 occurred as a result of an increase in the rates of first incarceration. in 1974 the number of persons admitted to prison for the first time totaled 44 per 100,000 adult residents. by 2001 the rate had nearly tripled, reaching 129 first admissions per 100,000 adults. over 40% of the total increase in first incarceration rates occurred between 1986 and 1991. first incarceration rates increased from 73 per 100,000 in 1986 to 111 in 1991. about a third of the 3.8 million increase in the number ever incarcerated occurred as a result of growth in the u.s. resident population. based on estimates from the u.s. census bureau, the number of residents 18 and older increased from 145 million in 1974 to 210 million in 2001. had the rates of first incarceration remained stable at 1974 levels, the number of adults who had ever gone to prison would have increased by an estimated 1.3 million. in every year, the rates of first incarceration varied by age (figure 1). in 2001 sharply higher first incarceration rates were found for each older birth cohort up to a peak of 350 per 100,000 at age 20. these rates then dropped steadily with each older age category. [illustration: figure 1: first incarceration rates] --------------------------------------------------------------------- figure 1 +first incarceration rates rose sharply among persons under age 45+ number first incarcerated per 100,000 u.s. residents.* age at first incarceration 1974 1986 1991 2001 12 0 0 0 0 13 0 0 1 0 14 1 0 6 0 15 6 8 27 12 16 25 29 67 58 17 66 81 139 152 18 107 143 219 254 19 142 203 295 325 20 140 217 307 350 21 143 209 306 344 22 133 188 274 329 23 132 172 285 304 24 113 164 261 285 25 92 153 254 280 26 81 142 227 274 27 79 128 224 282 28 79 116 210 262 29 68 116 189 268 30 55 112 179 244 31 45 107 164 243 32 40 93 148 217 33 38 87 123 206 34 36 82 120 196 35 38 78 125 198 36 36 74 126 195 37 34 68 114 177 38 28 64 103 153 39 23 56 92 129 40 21 50 83 123 41 18 43 75 116 42 18 38 63 122 43 16 42 56 114 44 15 41 48 98 45 13 41 46 77 46 12 34 44 65 47 12 33 45 58 48 11 35 46 53 49 10 28 44 43 50 10 26 35 42 51 8 15 27 42 52 9 16 25 41 53 7 12 27 36 54 7 16 30 28 55 8 15 33 25 56 7 14 28 21 57 6 10 25 18 58 4 9 19 17 59 4 9 19 16 60 2 7 15 15 61 2 5 10 16 62 3 5 12 19 63 3 7 12 15 64 4 7 11 11 65 3 5 5 4 66 2 2 4 2 67 2 2 3 3 68 3 5 3 4 69 2 4 5 5 70 2 3 7 5 71 2 2 7 6 72 2 2 4 4 73 1 2 3 1 74 0 0 2 0 75 0 0 4 0 76 0 0 2 3 77 0 0 2 3 78 0 0 2 3 79 0 0 5 0 80 0 0 5 0 *the number first incarcerated at each age divided by the number at risk to first incarceration, times 100,000. note: 3-year averages were used to smooth age-specific rates. ---------------------------------------------------------------------between 1974 and 2001 the rate of first incarceration rose in nearly every age-specific category. the largest increases occurred among younger age cohorts -those that already had high first incarceration rates. the peak incarceration rate increased by over 200 persons per 100,000 (from 143 at age 21 in 1974, to 350 at age 20 in 2001). rates increased even among persons age 45 or older. +in 2001, 3 out of 10 adults ever incarcerated were age 35 to 44+ persons between ages 35 and 44 accounted for the largest number of current and former prisoners at yearend 2001 (table 2). born between 1957 and 1966, these persons turned 18 in the late 1970s and early 1980s when first incarceration rates began to climb. between 1974 and 2001, the number ever incarcerated in this age group rose from 324,000 to 1.67 million. among persons between ages 25 and 34, the number ever incarcerated nearly quadrupled (from 343,000 in 1974 to 1.29 million in 2001). while persons in this age group also experienced rising first incarceration rates, they were subject to these rates for a smaller portion of their lifespan than those ages 35 to 44. as a percent of those ever incarcerated, persons ages 35 to 44 increased from 18% in 1974 to 30% by 2001; persons age 25 to 34 increased from 19% in 1974 to 23% in 2001. --------------------------------------------------------------------- +table 1. prevalence of incarceration in a state or federal prison, by current and former prisoners, 1974-2001+ current and former prisoners ever incarcerated in a state or federal prison- 1974 1979 1986 1991 1997 2001 number incarcerated total 1,819,000 2,100,000 2,667,000 3,437,000 4,652,000 5,618,000 current 216,000 302,000 524,000 788,000 1,171,000 1,319,000 former 1,603,000 1,798,000 2,143,000 2,649,000 3,481,000 4,299,000 ever incarcerated rate* total 1,251 1,308 1,516 1,828 2,336 2,673 current 149 188 298 419 588 628 former 1,102 1,120 1,218 1,409 1,748 2,045 note: numbers of current adult prisoners from national prisoner statistics data series. former prisoner statistics based on inmate survey data. estimates were rounded to the nearest 1,000. see _methodology_ for estimation procedures. *the number ever incarcerated per 100,000 adult u.s. residents. u.s. adult resident population 1974 1986 1991 1997 2001 145,356,000 175,886,630 187,982,751 199,121,734 210,207,901 ---------------------------------------------------------------------+prevalence rates up sharply among persons under age 50+ between 1974 and 2001, the rise in first incarceration rates had the largest effects on younger age groups. the percent of persons ever incarcerated tripled among persons ages 25 to 29 (from 1.0% in 1974 to 3.1% in 2001)and more than doubled among persons ages 30 to 34 (from 1.3% to 3.7%) and persons ages 35 to 39 (from 1.4% to 3.8%) (table 3). --------------------------------------------------------------------- +table 3. percent of adult population ever incarcerated in a state or federal prison, by age, 1974-2001+ percent of adult population ever incarcerated in a state or federal prison age 1974 1979 1986 1991 1997 2001 total 1.3% 1.3% 1.5% 1.8% 2.3% 2.7% 18-19 0.3 0.3 0.4 0.5 0.6 0.6 20-24 0.7 0.8 1.0 1.3 1.8 1.8 25-29 1.0 1.2 1.6 2.1 2.7 3.1 30-34 1.3 1.3 1.8 2.3 3.2 3.7 35-39 1.4 1.4 1.7 2.3 3.1 3.8 40-44 1.5 1.5 1.7 2.1 2.9 3.6 45-49 1.5 1.5 1.7 1.9 2.5 3.2 50-54 1.5 1.5 1.7 1.8 2.2 2.6 55-59 1.5 1.6 1.6 1.8 2.0 2.2 60-64 1.5 1.5 1.6 1.6 1.9 2.0 65 or older 1.5 1.5 1.5 1.6 1.6 1.7 note: percents by age were based on intercensal resident population estimates from the u.s. census bureau. see _methodology_ for data sources. u.s. adult resident population 1974 1979 1986 1991 1997 2001 total 145,356,000 160,463,000 175,886,630 187,982,751 199,121,734 210,207,901 18-19 8,196,000 8,698,000 7,571,080 7,562,252 7,629,647 8,349,428 20-24 18,757,000 21,096,000 21,147,811 19,756,380 18,078,783 19,863,153 25-29 16,429,000 19,078,000 21,742,173 21,509,229 19,529,293 18,057,849 30-34 13,644,000 16,960,000 20,167,953 22,482,213 21,434,194 19,971,052 35-39 11,400,000 13,591,000 17,839,473 20,486,038 22,851,041 21,801,103 40-44 11,355,000 11,522,000 14,185,094 18,553,907 21,376,552 23,144,035 45-49 11,843,000 11,211,000 11,658,854 14,135,160 18,558,879 20,879,652 50-54 11,958,000 11,725,000 10,868,729 11,410,881 14,518,458 18,117,187 55-59 10,386,000 11,582,000 11,210,396 10,345,736 11,434,732 14,092,339 60-64 9,327,000 9,867,000 10,902,949 10,518,068 9,913,280 11,049,281 65 or older 22,061,000 25,133,000 28,592,118 31,222,887 33,796,875 34,882,826 note: because of estimation and other rounding procedures, some detail may not add to totals and may not match precisely totals in other tables. ---------------------------------------------------------------------in contrast, the rise in the percents ever incarcerated was more modest among persons 50 or older. although these age groups also experienced rising first incarceration rates, they were exposed at older ages when first incarceration rates are low. persons age 65 and older were the least affected by the increases in first incarceration rates, with percents ever incarcerated rising from 1.5% in 1974 to 1.7% in 2001. --------------------------------------------------------------------- +table 4. number of adults ever incarcerated in a state or federal prison, by gender, race, and hispanic origin, 1974-2001+ number of adults ever incarcerated in a state or federal prison 1974 1979 1986 1991 1997 2001 gender male 1,677,000 1,934,000 2,449,000 3,142,000 4,205,000 5,037,000 female 142,000 165,000 217,000 295,000 447,000 581,000 race/hispanic origin white* 922,000 1,052,000 1,286,000 1,533,000 1,909,000 2,203,000 male 837,000 958,000 1,173,000 1,395,000 1,724,000 1,978,000 female 86,000 94,000 113,000 139,000 185,000 225,000 black* 646,000 766,000 963,000 1,290,000 1,784,000 2,166,000 male 595,000 704,000 881,000 1,181,000 1,615,000 1,936,000 female 51,000 62,000 82,000 109,000 170,000 231,000 hispanic 102,000 125,000 234,000 422,000 721,000 997,000 male 94,000 116,000 217,000 392,000 664,000 911,000 female 8,000 10,000 17,000 30,000 57,000 86,000 note: estimates were based on separate generation life tables that incorporate first incarceration and mortality rates for each age group. estimates were rounded to the nearest 1,000. see _methodology_ for estimation procedures. *excludes persons of hispanic origin. ---------------------------------------------------------------------these changes in the percents ever incarcerated by age reflect rising rates of first incarceration and the age of each of these birth cohorts when the increases occurred. in the future, the percents ever incarcerated will rise among older age groups as more recent cohorts experience the full impact of current levels of first incarceration rates throughout their lifetimes (figure 2). [illustration: figure 2: younger age groups experience rising rates of imprisonment] --------------------------------------------------------------------- figure 2 +younger age groups experience rising rates of imprisonment+ percent ever incarcerated age 1974 1986 1991 2001 15 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 16 0.0 0.0 0.1 0.0 17 0.1 0.1 0.2 0.2 18 0.2 0.2 0.4 0.5 19 0.3 0.5 0.7 0.8 20 0.5 0.7 1.0 1.1 21 0.6 0.9 1.1 1.5 22 0.7 1.0 1.4 1.8 23 0.8 1.2 1.5 2.2 24 0.9 1.3 1.7 2.4 25 0.9 1.4 1.8 2.7 26 1.0 1.5 2.0 2.9 27 1.1 1.6 2.1 3.1 28 1.1 1.6 2.2 3.3 29 1.2 1.7 2.2 3.4 30 1.2 1.7 2.3 3.5 31 1.2 1.8 2.3 3.6 32 1.3 1.8 2.3 3.7 33 1.3 1.8 2.3 3.8 34 1.3 1.8 2.3 3.8 35 1.3 1.8 2.3 3.9 36 1.4 1.8 2.3 3.9 37 1.4 1.7 2.3 3.9 38 1.4 1.7 2.3 3.8 39 1.4 1.7 2.2 3.8 40 1.4 1.7 2.2 3.7 41 1.5 1.7 2.1 3.6 42 1.5 1.7 2.1 3.6 43 1.5 1.7 2.0 3.5 44 1.5 1.7 2.0 3.4 45 1.5 1.7 1.9 3.4 46 1.5 1.7 1.9 3.3 47 1.5 1.7 1.9 3.2 48 1.5 1.7 1.9 3.1 49 1.5 1.7 1.9 3.0 50 1.5 1.7 1.9 2.8 51 1.5 1.7 1.9 2.7 52 1.5 1.7 1.8 2.6 53 1.5 1.6 1.8 2.5 54 1.5 1.6 1.8 2.4 55 1.5 1.6 1.8 2.3 56 1.5 1.6 1.8 2.3 57 1.5 1.6 1.8 2.2 58 1.5 1.6 1.7 2.2 59 1.5 1.6 1.7 2.1 60 1.5 1.6 1.7 2.1 61 1.5 1.6 1.7 2.0 62 1.5 1.6 1.6 2.0 63 1.5 1.6 1.6 2.0 64 1.5 1.6 1.6 2.0 65 1.5 1.6 1.6 1.9 66 1.5 1.6 1.6 1.9 67 1.5 1.6 1.6 1.8 68 1.5 1.6 1.6 1.8 69 1.5 1.6 1.6 1.8 70 1.5 1.6 1.6 1.7 71 1.5 1.5 1.6 1.7 72 1.5 1.5 1.6 1.7 73 1.5 1.5 1.6 1.7 74 1.5 1.5 1.6 1.6 75 1.5 1.5 1.6 1.6 ---------------------------------------------------------------------+more males than females and more blacks and hispanics than whites had ever served time in prison+ nearly 9 times as many men (5,037,000) as women (581,000) had ever been incarcerated in a state or federal prison at yearend 2001. as a percentage of all persons ever confined in prison, women increased from 7.8% in 1974 to 10.3% in 2001. at yearend 2001 nearly as many blacks (2,166,000) as whites (2,203,000) had ever served time in prison; hispanics numbered about half of either group (997,000). together, blacks (39%) and hispanics (18%) constituted a majority of those who had ever served time in prison in 2001. whites accounted for 39% of all those ever incarcerated in 2001, down from 51% in 1974. over the 27-year period, the share of those who are black and hispanic among persons ever incarcerated increased. the number of hispanics rose nearly 10-fold (up from 102,000 in 1974) and the number of blacks more than tripled (up from 646,000), while the number of whites more than doubled (up from 922,000). as a result, blacks rose from 36% to 39% of all persons ever incarcerated, while hispanics rose from 6% to 18%. +nearly 17% of adult black males had ever served time in prison+ in 2001 an estimated 16.6% of adult black males were current or former state or federal prisoners -a rate that was twice that of hispanic males (7.7%), and 6 times that of white males (2.6%) (table 5). --------------------------------------------------------------------- +table 5. percent of adult population ever incarcerated in a state or federal prison, by gender, race, and hispanic origin, 1974-2001+ percent of adult population ever incarcerated in a state or federal prison 1974 1979 1986 1991 1997 2001 gender male 2.3% 2.4% 2.8% 3.4% 4.3% 4.9% female 0.2 0.2 0.2 0.3 0.4 0.5 race/hispanic origin white* 0.8% 0.8% 0.9% 1.1% 1.3% 1.4% male 1.4 1.5 1.7 1.9 2.3 2.6 female 0.1 0.1 0.1 0.2 0.2 0.3 black* 4.5% 4.6% 5.2% 6.2% 7.9% 8.9% male 8.7 8.9 9.9 12.0 15.0 16.6 female 0.6 0.7 0.8 0.9 1.3 1.7 hispanic 1.3% 1.4% 2.0% 2.7% 3.8% 4.3% male 2.3 2.6 3.6 4.9 6.7 7.7 female 0.2 0.2 0.3 0.4 0.6 0.7 note: percents were based on intercensal resident population estimates from the u.s. census bureau. see _methodology_ for data sources. *excludes persons of hispanic origin. u.s. adult resident population 1974 1979 1986 1991 1997 2001 gender male 69,217,000 76,388,000 83,973,550 90,362,099 95,948,130 101,492,258 female 76,133,000 84,072,000 91,913,080 97,620,652 103,173,604 108,715,643 race/hispanic origin white* 120,878,496 132,166,671 140,455,378 145,134,029 149,184,485 153,174,207 male 57,704,209 63,114,508 67,150,845 69,718,665 71,989,995 74,217,435 female 63,173,779 69,055,203 73,304,533 75,415,364 77,194,490 78,956,773 black* 14,406,407 16,544,671 18,682,074 20,687,638 22,627,733 24,466,606 male 6,593,640 7,543,858 8,517,413 9,465,170 10,401,742 11,287,707 female 7,813,782 8,999,844 10,164,661 11,222,468 12,225,991 13,178,900 hispanic 7,998,062 8,854,010 11,956,854 15,677,988 19,181,910 22,949,502 male 3,923,600 4,353,052 6,003,930 8,022,134 9,674,049 11,452,968 female 4,074,628 4,500,532 5,952,924 7,655,854 9,507,861 11,496,534 note: because of estimation and other rounding procedures, some detail may not add to totals and may not match precisely totals in other tables. ---------------------------------------------------------------------female rates, though significantly lower, reveal similar racial and ethnic disparities. adult black females were nearly 2 1/2 times more likely than adult hispanic females and 5 1/2 times more likely than adult white females to have ever served time in state or federal prison. among adult residents in 2001, an estimated 1.7% of black females, 0.7% of hispanic females and 0.3% of white females had ever been incarcerated in a prison. among both men and women who had ever been confined in prison in 2001, blacks outnumbered whites in each age category under age 45; whites outnumbered blacks in nearly every age category 45 or older (table 6). the percentage of blacks declined steadily among each older age group (dropping from 44% among those ages 18 to 24 to 29% among persons 65 or older). the percentage of hispanics also declined among older age groups (dropping from 24% among those ages 18 to 24 to 8% among those age 65 or older). in contrast, at yearend 2001 the percentage white among all adults ever incarcerated increased from 27% of those ages 18 to 24 to 52% among persons age 65 or older. --------------------------------------------------------------------- +table 6. number ever incarcerated in a state or federal prison, by gender, race, hispanic origin, and age, 2001+ number of adults ever incarcerated in a state or federal prison, by age- 18-24 25-34 35-44 45-54 55-64 65 or older gender male 385,000 1,157,000 1,460,000 1,014,000 492,000 529,000 female 24,000 129,000 205,000 118,000 47,000 59,000 race/hispanic origin white* 112,000 391,000 628,000 497,000 271,000 304,000 male 104,000 351,000 555,000 452,000 248,000 269,000 female 8,000 41,000 73,000 45,000 23,000 35,000 black* 181,000 567,000 681,000 406,000 162,000 169,000 male 172,000 509,000 597,000 361,000 146,000 151,000 female 9,000 58,000 84,000 45,000 16,000 18,000 hispanic 99,000 295,000 309,000 181,000 69,000 46,000 male 93,000 271,000 279,000 165,000 63,000 41,000 female 6,000 24,000 3,0000 16,000 6,000 5,000 note: estimates were rounded to the nearest 1,000. see _methodology_ for estimation procedures." *excludes persons of hispanic origin. ---------------------------------------------------------------------+regardless of gender, race or hispanic origin, prevalence rates highest among persons age 35 to 44+ although there was wide variation by race, hispanic origin, and gender, within each subgroup, persons ages 35 to 44 had the highest percents ever incarcerated in 2001. among men, the percent ever incarcerated rose for each age group to a peak of 6.5% of those ages 35 to 44 and then declined to 3.1% of those age 65 or older (table 7). --------------------------------------------------------------------- +table 7. percent of adult population ever incarcerated in a state or federal prison, by gender, race, hispanic origin, ang age, 2001+ percent of adult population ever incarcerated in a state or federal prison, by age--" 18-24 25-34 35-44 45-54 55-64 65 or older gender male 2.7% 6.0% 6.5% 5.3% 4.0% 3.1% female 0.2 0.7 0.9 0.6 0.3 0.2 race/hispanic origin white* 0.6% 1.6% 2.0% 1.7% 1.4% 1.1% male 1.1 2.8 3.5 3.1 2.5 2.0 female 0.1 0.3 0.5 0.3 0.2 0.2 black* 4.4% 10.9% 12.1% 9.5% 6.7% 5.9% male 8.5 20.4 22.0 17.7 13.0 11.6 female 0.4 2.1 2.8 1.9 1.1 0.9 hispanic 2.2% 5.1% 5.8% 5.2% 3.6% 2.2% male 4.0 9.0 10.0 9.5 6.6 4.1 female 0.3 0.8 1.1 0.9 0.6 0.3 note: percents were based on intercensal resident population estimates from the u.s. census bureau. see _methodology_ for data sources. *excludes persons of hispanic origin. u.s. adult resident population, 2001 18-24 25-34 35-44 45-54 55-64 65 or older gender male 14,417,325 8,939,186 22,389,203 19,117,478 12,022,028 14,607,040 female 13,795,256 19,089,714 22,555,935 19,879,361 13,119,592 20,275,786 race/hispanic origin white* 18,303,498 24,885,780 31,782,158 29,517,823 19,800,209 28,884,741 male 9,375,574 12,489,397 15,944,122 14,647,562 9,615,049 12,145,733 female 8,927,925 12,396,383 15,838,036 14,870,261 10,185,160 16,739,009 black* 4,076,908 5,196,820 5,624,914 4,297,967 2,409,671 2,860,327 male 2,008,858 2,472,112 2,666,839 1,963,452 1,043,119 1,133,328 female 2,068,051 2,724,708 2,958,076 2,334,515 1,366,552 1,726,999 hispanic 4,394,592 5,737,009 5,334091 3,448,416 1,936,521 2,098,875 male 2,299,849 2,940,171 2,734938 1,696,233 896,361 885,418 female 2,094,743 2,796,838 2,599153 1,752,183 1,040,160 1,213,457 note: because of estimation and other rounding procedures, some detail may not add to totals and may not match precisely totals in other tables. ---------------------------------------------------------------------there was a similar pattern among women, though the percents were lower than for men. an estimated 0.9% of women ages 35 to 44 had ever been in prison, compared to 0.2% for women ages 18 to 24 and age 65 or older. when rates were estimated separately by race and hispanic origin, the variations among age groups remained unchanged. in every gender and racial/ethnic group in 2001, the percent of ever having been incarcerated was lowest among the youngest group (those ages 18 to 24)and the oldest age group (age 65 or older). among persons ages 35 to 44, more than 22.0% of black males had ever been incarcerated in prison, over twice as high as hispanic males (10.0%), and over 6 times higher than white males (3.5%). in this same age group, black women (2.8%) were over twice as likely as hispanic women (1.1%), and nearly 6 times as likely as white women (0.5%) to have been in prison. +impact of rising first incarceration rate varies by birth cohort+ persons born prior to 1940 were nearly unaffected by the rising first incarceration rates of the 1980's and 1990's. at younger ages (up to the age of 40), the prevalence rates at 5-year age intervals were the same for persons born in 1935 as in 1910 (table 8). the rising rates of first incarceration increased the prevalence of incarceration among those born in 1935 as they reached age 45. similarly, the prevalence rates rose for those born in 1930 as they reached age 50. --------------------------------------------------------------------- +table 8. percent of adults ever incarcerated in a state or federal prison, by year of birth and age+ percent of adults ever incarcerated in a state or federal prison, by age- year born 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 65 70 75 1910 0.4% 0.9% 1.2% 1.3% 1.4% 1.5% 0.5% 1.5% 1.5% 1.5% 1.5% 1.5% 1915 0.4 0.9 1.2 1.3 1.4 1.5 1.5 1.5 1.5 1.5 1.5 1.6 1920 0.4 0.9 1.2 1.3 1.4 1.5 1.5 1.5 1.6 1.6 1.6 1.6 1925 0.4 0.9 1.2 1.3 1.4 1.5 1.5 1.6 1.6 1.6 1.6 1.6 1930 0.4 0.9 1.2 1.3 1.4 1.5 1.6 1.6 1.7 1.7 1.7 +1.7+ 1935 0.4 0.9 1.2 1.3 1.4 1.6 1.7 1.8 1.8 1.9 +1.9 1.9+ 1940 0.4 0.9 1.2 1.3 1.5 1.7 1.8 2.0 2.0 +2.1 2.1 2.1+ 1945 0.4 0.9 1.2 1.4 1.7 1.9 2.1 2.3 +2.3 2.4 2.4 2.4+ 1950 0.4 1.0 1.4 1.7 2.1 2.4 2.7 +2.8 2.9 2.9 2.9 2.9+ 1955 0.5 1.1 1.7 2.2 2.7 3.2 +3.4 3.6 3.6 3.7 3.7 3.7+ 1960 0.6 1.4 2.1 2.9 3.5 +4.0 4.3 4.4 4.4 4.5 4.5 4.5+ 1965 0.7 1.7 2.8 3.7 +4.4 4.9 5.2 5.3 5.3 5.3 5.4 5.4+ 1970 0.9 2.2 3.4 +4.4 5.1 5.6 5.8 5.9 6.0 6.0 6.0 6.0+ 1975 1.1 2.6 +3.9 4.9 5.7 6.1 6.4 6.5 6.5 6.5 6.5 6.5+ 1980 1.2 +2.7 4.0 5.0 5.7 6.2 6.4 6.5 6.6 6.6 6.6 6.6+ note: based on constant age-specific first incarceration rates after 2001 (bolded type--indicated with plus (+) signs). ---------------------------------------------------------------------among persons born after 1935, the effects of rising first incarceration rates occurred at increasingly younger ages. persons born in 1955 were the first to record higher prevalence rates at all ages, compared to persons born in prior years. at age 45 the percent ever having been in prison reached 3.2% for persons born in 1955 -more than double the percent at that age among persons born in 1930 or earlier. the greatest rise occurred in the percents having been incarcerated among the most recent cohorts. for persons born in 1975, 2.6% had been to prison by age 25, nearly equal to the percent among persons born in 1950 who had been to prison by age 50 (2.7%). projections for years after 2001 indicate the percent ever incarcerated will rise at an accelerated pace. if rates of first incarceration remain at 2001 levels, 5.4% of persons born in 1965 are expected to have gone to prison by age 75, more than three times the 1.7% of persons born in 1930. the projected rise in the percent ever incarcerated slows among persons in later cohorts. of those born in 1970, 6.0% are expected to have been in prison by age 75, compared to 6.5% of those born in 1975, and 6.6% of those born in 1980. +3.4% of adults projected to have served time in prison by 2010+ the prevalence of having been to prison will rise among the u.s. adult population as more birth cohorts experience the full impact of current levels of first incarceration. assuming that current age-specific rates of first incarceration remain at 2001 levels, the number of adults having ever served time in prison is projected to rise to 7.7 million by 2010. a total of 3.4% of the adult population (1 in 29 persons age 18 or older) is expected to have served time in prison. --------------------------------------------------------------------- projected prevalence of having gone to state or federal prison* year number percent 2001 5,618,000 2.7% 2002 5,856,000 2.8 2003 6,095,000 2.8 2004 6,332,000 2.9 2005 6,568,000 3.0 2006 6,804,000 3.1 2007 7,040,000 3.1 2008 7,275,000 3.2 2009 7,511,000 3.3 2010 7,745,000 3.4 *based on prevalence estimates for exact ages through 2001 and projections for exact ages from 2002 through 2010. see _methodology_ for estimation procedures. projected adult year resident population 2001 210,207,901 2002 212,427,944 2003 214,688,268 2004 216,918,713 2005 219,144,044 2006 221,409,946 2007 223,754,193 2008 226,155,771 2009 228,520,785 2010 230,792,746 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------+lifetime likelihood estimates of going to prison differ from current prevalence estimates+ the lifetime likelihood of going to prison is an estimate of the percentage of all persons in a birth cohort expected to go to prison over the course of a lifetime. in contrast, the prevalence of ever having gone to prison is an estimate of the percentage who have ever gone to prison among just the surviving members of all birth cohorts over a specific period. estimates of the lifetime likelihood of going to prison project the percentage of persons at birth expected to go to prison, if the entire cohort were subject to a fixed set of rates of first admission to prison and mortality over an entire lifetime. in calculating these estimates, incarceration and mortality rates are fixed at the time of "birth" of the cohort. standard life table techniques were used to prepare estimates of the lifetime likelihood of going to prison based on rates of first incarceration during a 12-month period derived from inmate surveys conducted in 1974, 1979, 1986, 1991, and 1997. (see lifetime likelihood of going to state or federal prison, ncj 160092, march 1997, for a description of previous estimates.) ---------------------------------------------------------------------+6.6% of persons born in 2001 will go to prison, if current rates of first incarceration remain unchanged+ if rates of first incarceration and mortality in 2001 remain unchanged, nearly 1 in 15 persons born in 2001 (6.6%) will go to state or federal prison during their lifetime (figure 3). [illustration: figure 3: lifetime chances of going to prison] --------------------------------------------------------------------- figure 3 +the lifetime chances of going to prison reached 6.6% in 2001, up from 1.9% in 1974+ cumulative percent of u.s. residents going to prison age 1974 1986 1991 2001 13 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 14 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 15 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 16 0.0 0.0 0.1 0.0 17 0.1 0.1 0.2 0.2 18 0.2 0.2 0.4 0.4 19 0.3 0.4 0.7 0.8 20 0.5 0.7 1.1 1.1 21 0.6 0.9 1.3 1.5 22 0.7 1.1 1.6 1.8 23 0.9 1.2 1.9 2.1 24 1.0 1.4 2.1 2.4 25 1.1 1.5 2.4 2.6 26 1.1 1.7 2.6 2.9 27 1.2 1.8 2.8 3.1 28 1.3 1.9 3.0 3.4 29 1.4 2.0 3.2 3.6 30 1.4 2.1 3.3 3.9 31 1.5 2.2 3.5 4.1 32 1.5 2.3 3.6 4.3 33 1.5 2.4 3.7 4.5 34 1.6 2.5 3.9 4.7 35 1.6 2.5 4.0 4.9 36 1.6 2.6 4.1 5.1 37 1.7 2.7 4.2 5.2 38 1.7 2.7 4.3 5.4 39 1.7 2.8 4.4 5.5 40 1.7 2.8 4.5 5.6 41 1.7 2.9 4.5 5.7 42 1.8 2.9 4.6 5.8 43 1.8 2.9 4.6 5.9 44 1.8 3.0 4.7 6.0 45 1.8 3.0 4.7 6.1 46 1.8 3.0 4.7 6.1 47 1.8 3.1 4.8 6.2 48 1.8 3.1 4.8 6.2 49 1.8 3.1 4.9 6.2 50 1.8 3.1 4.9 6.3 51 1.9 3.2 4.9 6.3 52 1.9 3.2 4.9 6.4 53 1.9 3.2 5.0 6.4 54 1.9 3.2 5.0 6.4 55 1.9 3.2 5.0 6.4 56 1.9 3.2 5.0 6.4 57 1.9 3.2 5.1 6.5 58 1.9 3.2 5.1 6.5 59 1.9 3.2 5.1 6.5 60 1.9 3.3 5.1 6.5 61 1.9 3.3 5.1 6.5 62 1.9 3.3 5.1 6.5 63 1.9 3.3 5.1 6.5 64 1.9 3.3 5.1 6.5 65 1.9 3.3 5.1 6.6 66 1.9 3.3 5.1 6.6 67 1.9 3.3 5.2 6.6 68 1.9 3.3 5.2 6.6 69 1.9 3.3 5.2 6.6 70 1.9 3.3 5.2 6.6 71 1.9 3.3 5.2 6.6 72 1.9 3.3 5.2 6.6 73 1.9 3.3 5.2 6.6 74 1.9 3.3 5.2 6.6 75 1.9 3.3 5.2 6.6 ---------------------------------------------------------------------unlike the yearend 2001 prevalence rate of 2.7%, which represents the cumulative result of the past incarceration experiences of the living adult population, the lifetime likelihood is a hypothetical projection of the future if a birth cohort were to experience a fixed set of rates of first incarceration and mortality over a lifetime. between 1974 and 2001, the lifetime chances of going to state or federal prison for u.s. residents overall increased from 1.9% to 6.6%. each estimate summarized the effects of first incarceration and mortality during a 12-month period in 1974, 1986, 1991, and 2001. the estimates do not take into account changes in rates of first incarceration or mortality that occur after the "birth" of the hypothetical cohort. as a result of steadily rising rates of first incarceration from 1974 to 2001, the lifetime chances of going to prison for persons born in 1974 will be higher than 1.9%. based on rates of first incarceration through 2001, an estimated 2.6% of persons born in 1975 had already been incarcerated by age 25. +6 times higher lifetime chance of going to prison in 2001 for men than for women+ based on rates of first incarceration in 2001, the lifetime chances for men of going to prison are 6 times greater than those for women (table 9). a male has a 11.3% (or 1 in 9) chance in his life-time of going to prison, while a female has a 1.8% (or 1 in 56) chance. an estimated 9.6% of men and 1.5% of women are expected to go to prison by age 40, as first incarceration rates riserapidly, then decline with advancing age (figures 4 and 5). --------------------------------------------------------------------- +table 9. lifetime chances of going to state or federal prison for the first time, by gender, race, and hispanic orign, 1974-2001+ percent of resident population expected to go to state or federal prison for the first time, by year- 1974 1979 1986 1991 1997 2001 gender male 3.6% 4.1% 6.0% 9.1% 10.6% 11.3% female 0.3 0.4 0.6 1.1 1.5 1.8 race/hispanic origin white* 1.2% 1.4% 2.0% 2.5% 3.1 3.4% male 2.2 2.5 3.6 4.4 5.4 5.9 female 0.2 0.2 0.3 0.5 0.7 0.9 black* 7.0% 7.2% 9.3% 16.5% 17.7 18.6% male 13.4 13.4 17.4 29.4 31.0 32.2 female 1.1 1.4 1.8 3.6 4.9 5.6 hispanic 2.2% 3.3% 6.2% 9.5% 10.5 10.0% male 4.0 6.0 11.1 16.3 18.0 17.2 female 0.4 0.4 0.9 1.5 2.2 2.2 note: percents represent the chances of being admitted to state or federal prison during a lifetime. estimates were obtained by applying age-specific first incarceration and mortality rates for each group to a hypothetical population of 100,000 births. see _methodology_. *excludes persons of hispanic origin. ---------------------------------------------------------------------[illustration: figure 4: nearly 1 in 3 black males likely to go to prison] --------------------------------------------------------------------- figure 4 +nearly 1 in 3 black males likely to go to prison based on constant 2001 incarceration rates+ cumulative percent of males going to prison age total white black hispanic 13 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 14 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 15 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 16 0.1 0.0 0.3 0.1 17 0.3 0.1 1.3 0.3 18 0.8 0.3 3.0 1.0 19 1.4 0.5 4.9 2.1 20 2.1 0.8 6.7 3.0 21 2.7 1.2 8.2 4.1 22 3.3 1.5 9.8 5.0 23 3.8 1.6 11.8 5.5 24 4.3 1.8 13.7 6.0 25 4.7 2.1 15.1 6.7 26 5.2 2.3 16.9 7.2 27 5.6 2.5 18.0 7.9 28 6.1 2.8 19.3 8.6 29 6.5 3.0 20.2 9.3 30 6.9 3.3 21.0 10.3 31 7.2 3.4 22.2 10.8 32 7.6 3.6 23.2 11.0 33 7.9 3.8 23.8 11.5 34 8.1 4.0 24.5 12.0 35 8.4 4.1 25.2 12.5 36 8.7 4.3 26.1 13.0 37 9.0 4.4 27.2 13.2 38 9.2 4.6 27.7 13.4 39 9.4 4.7 28.2 13.8 40 9.6 4.7 28.6 14.1 41 9.7 4.9 29.1 14.4 42 9.9 5.0 29.5 14.8 43 10.1 5.1 30.0 15.2 44 10.3 5.2 30.3 15.4 45 10.4 5.2 30.7 15.6 46 10.5 5.3 30.8 15.8 47 10.6 5.3 31.1 15.9 48 10.6 5.4 31.2 15.9 49 10.7 5.5 31.3 16.1 50 10.7 5.5 31.4 16.1 51 10.8 5.5 31.5 16.4 52 10.9 5.6 31.6 16.5 53 10.9 5.7 31.7 16.6 54 11.0 5.7 31.8 16.7 55 11.0 5.7 31.9 16.8 56 11.0 5.7 32.0 16.8 57 11.1 5.7 32.0 16.9 58 11.1 5.8 32.0 16.9 59 11.1 5.8 32.0 17.0 60 11.1 5.8 32.0 17.1 61 11.2 5.8 32.1 17.1 62 11.2 5.8 32.2 17.1 63 11.2 5.8 32.2 17.1 64 11.2 5.8 32.2 17.2 65 11.2 5.9 32.2 17.2 66 11.2 5.9 32.2 17.2 67 11.2 5.9 32.2 17.2 68 11.2 5.9 32.2 17.2 69 11.2 5.9 32.2 17.2 70 11.2 5.9 32.2 17.2 71 11.3 5.9 32.2 17.2 72 11.3 5.9 32.2 17.2 73 11.3 5.9 32.2 17.2 74 11.3 5.9 32.2 17.2 75 11.3 5.9 32.2 17.2 ---------------------------------------------------------------------[illustration: figure 5: 1 in 19 black females likely to go to prison] --------------------------------------------------------------------- figure 5 +1 in 19 black females compared with 1 in 118 white females likely to go to prison+ cumulative percent of females going to prison age total white black hispanic 13 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 14 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 15 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 16 0.0 0.0 0.0 0.0 17 0.0 0.0 0.1 0.1 18 0.1 0.0 0.1 0.1 19 0.1 0.0 0.2 0.1 20 0.1 0.1 0.3 0.2 21 0.2 0.1 0.4 0.3 22 0.2 0.1 0.5 0.3 23 0.3 0.1 0.7 0.5 24 0.3 0.2 0.9 0.5 25 0.4 0.2 1.0 0.6 26 0.5 0.2 1.4 0.6 27 0.5 0.3 1.7 0.7 28 0.6 0.3 1.8 0.8 29 0.7 0.4 2.1 0.9 30 0.8 0.4 2.3 1.1 31 0.9 0.4 2.7 1.1 32 1.0 0.5 3.0 1.2 33 1.1 0.5 3.3 1.3 34 1.1 0.6 3.5 1.4 35 1.2 0.6 3.7 1.5 36 1.3 0.6 4.0 1.6 37 1.3 0.7 4.2 1.7 38 1.4 0.7 4.4 1.7 39 1.4 0.7 4.6 1.8 40 1.5 0.8 4.7 1.8 41 1.5 0.8 4.9 1.9 42 1.6 0.8 4.9 1.9 43 1.6 0.8 5.1 1.9 44 1.6 0.8 5.2 1.9 45 1.6 0.8 5.3 1.9 46 1.7 0.8 5.4 2.0 47 1.7 0.8 5.4 2.1 48 1.7 0.8 5.4 2.1 49 1.7 0.8 5.5 2.1 50 1.7 0.9 5.5 2.1 51 1.7 0.9 5.5 2.1 52 1.7 0.9 5.5 2.1 53 1.7 0.9 5.5 2.2 54 1.7 0.9 5.5 2.2 55 1.7 0.9 5.5 2.2 56 1.7 0.9 5.5 2.2 57 1.7 0.9 5.5 2.2 58 1.7 0.9 5.6 2.2 59 1.7 0.9 5.6 2.2 60 1.7 0.9 5.6 2.2 61 1.8 0.9 5.6 2.2 62 1.8 0.9 5.6 2.2 63 1.8 0.9 5.6 2.2 64 1.8 0.9 5.6 2.2 65 1.8 0.9 5.6 2.2 66 1.8 0.9 5.6 2.2 67 1.8 0.9 5.6 2.2 68 1.8 0.9 5.6 2.2 69 1.8 0.9 5.6 2.2 70 1.8 0.9 5.6 2.2 71 1.8 0.9 5.6 2.2 72 1.8 0.9 5.6 2.2 73 1.8 0.9 5.6 2.2 74 1.8 0.9 5.6 2.2 75 1.8 0.9 5.6 2.2 ---------------------------------------------------------------------in 2001, the chances of going to prison were highest among black males (32.2%)and hispanic males (17.2%) and lowest among white males (5.9%). the lifetime chances of going to prison among black females (5.6%) were nearly as high as for white males. hispanic females (2.2%) and white females (0.9%) had much lower chances of going to prison. as a result of changes in first incarceration and mortality rates between 1974 and 2001, black males experienced a greater increase in the chances of going to prison over the course of a lifetime than any other group (from 13.4% in 1974 to 32.2% in 2001). hispanic males experienced the second largest increase (from 4.0% in 1974 to 17.2% in 2001). white males experienced a smaller increase (from 2.2% in 1974 to 5.9% in 2001). the lifetime chances of going to prison increased more rapidly for black females (from 1.1% in 1974 to 5.6% in 2001) than for white males. hispanic females (from 0.4% in 1974 to 2.2% in 2001) and white females (from 0.2% in 1974 to 0.9% in 2001) had smaller increases in their lifetime chances of going to prison. at every age men have higher chances of going to prison than women, and blacks and hispanics have higher chances than whites. based on current rates of first incarceration, an estimated 6.7% of black males will enter state or federal prison by the time they are age 20, compared to 3.0% of hispanic males and 0.8% of white males. ---------------------------------------------------------------------+methodology+ _life table techniques_ life table techniques previously used to illustrate the implications of prevailing incarceration rates in 1991 have been extended to model the incarceration experience of actual generations of u.s. residents. (see lifetime likelihood of going to state or federal prison, ncj 160092, march 1997.) these generation life tables provide the data needed to estimate the number of living persons who have ever been incarcerated. a generation life table traces a birth cohort of 100,000 persons through their entire lives, subjecting them to the observed age-specific mortality and incarceration rates which they encountered in each subsequent calendar year of life. the procedure is known as a double-decrement life table because there are two forms of exit from the initial 100,000 birth cohort. the procedure yields estimates of the number of persons in the birth cohort who are incarcerated for the first time each year or who die. at each year of age, the estimated number of living persons ever incarcerated is equal to the number of persons identified as a prisoner for the first time that year plus the number of surviving members of the birth cohort who were prisoners in prior years. the age-specific prevalence rate for members of the birth cohort is obtained by dividing the surviving number of persons ever incarcerated by the number of members of the 100,000 birth cohort who have survived to the current age (including both those never incarcerated and those ever incarcerated). --------------------------------------------------------------------- +appendix table 1. calculating the number of persons ever incarcerated in state or federal prison, 2001+ prevalence of ever going to prison, 2001 u.s. resident population, year of age in 2000[a] percent[b] number[c] birth 2001 (1) (2) (3) 1983-1901 18 or older 210,207,901 2.673 5618000 2001-1988 0-13 56,557,383 0.000 0 1987 14 4,063,179 0.000 0 1986 15 4,071,585 0.000 0 1985 16 4,083,677 0.036 1,000 1984 17 4,117,221 0.174 7,000 1983 18 4,022,021 0.453 18,000 1982 19 4,327,407 0.794 34,000 1981 20 4,264,552 1.146 49,000 1980 21 4,140,721 1.510 63,000 1979 22 3,935,452 1.845 73,000 1978 23 3,756,052 2.155 81,000 1977 24 3,766,377 2.428 91,000 1976 25 3,643,765 2.676 97,000 1975 26 3,572,926 2.911 104,000 1974 27 3,579,019 3.082 110,000 1973 28 3,386,129 3.252 110,000 1972 29 3,876,011 3.360 130,000 1971 30 3,989,205 3.506 140,000 1970 31 4,032,301 3.584 145,000 1969 32 3,993,019 3.689 147,000 1968 33 3,899,282 3.764 147,000 1967 34 4,057,246 3.824 155,000 1966 35 4,110,892 3.857 159,000 1965 36 4,182,093 3.895 163,000 1964 37 4,416,302 3.887 172,000 1963 38 4,265,440 3.840 164,000 1962 39 4,826,377 3.778 182,000 1961 40 4,725,422 3.692 174,000 1960 41 4,634,371 3.641 169,000 1959 42 4,597,285 3.563 164,000 1958 43 4,518,648 3.507 158,000 1957 44 4,668,310 3.439 161,000 1956 45 4,464,137 3.356 150,000 1955 46 4,227,667 3.267 138,000 1954 47 4,192,570 3.180 133,000 1953 48 3,863,432 3.068 119,000 1952 49 4,131,847 2.953 122,000 1951 50 3,838,209 2.819 108,000 1950 51 3,595,173 2.688 97,000 1949 52 3,516,992 2.584 91,000 1948 53 3,497,820 2.475 87,000 1947 54 3,668,994 2.397 88,000 1946 55 3,180,818 2.341 74,000 1945 56 2,746,790 2.280 63,000 1944 57 2,788,492 2.220 62,000 1943 58 2,665,273 2.173 58,000 1942 59 2,710,967 2.131 58,000 1941 60 2,398,614 2.086 50,000 1940-1931 61-70 19,778,402 ... 377,000 1930-1901 71 or older 23,755,091 ... 384,000 [a] the number of u.s. residents on december 31, 2001, by age, were based on projections for july 1, 2000, and july 1, 2001. (see projections of the resident population by age, sex,, race and hispanic origin: 1999 to 2100, u.s. census bureau, np-d1-a, middle series.) the data were adjusted for the undercount in the 1990 decennial census. [b] based on separate generation life tables starting in the year of birth of the persons at each year of age. (see appendix tables 2 and 3 for calculations for selected years of birth.) [c] estimates were calculated by multiplying column (1) by column (2) and rounded to the nearest 1,000. ... not shown, because all calculations were based on rates for single years of age. ---------------------------------------------------------------------to model the incarceration experience of the adult resident population in 2001, a separate generation life table was needed for each birth cohort born from 1901 to 1983. for example, of those born in 1980 and alive in 2001, an estimated 1.510% had ever gone to prison (appendix table 1, column 2). multiplying by 4,140,721 u.s. residents age 21 in 2001 (column 1), produced an estimate of 63,000 persons, age 21 in 2001, who had ever been incarcerated (column 3). similarly, the generation life table for the 1970 birth cohort produced an estimated prevalence of 3.584% among those age 31 in 2001. multiplying by 4,032,301 u.s. residents age 31 in 2001 resulted in an estimated 145,000 persons age 31 in 2001 who had ever been incarcerated. the estimated 5,618,000 adults ever incarcerated in 2001 was obtained by summing the number of persons ever incarcerated, age 18 or older. dividing by the adult resident population of 210,207,901 yielded an estimated prevalence of ever having gone to prison of 2.673% in 2001. ---------------------------------------------------------------------+estimating prevalence of imprisonment in the united states+ to illustrate the application of generation life table techniques resulting in the 1.510% rate of ever having gone to prison among persons born in 1980, consider the following calculations: 1. estimates of the number of persons in a population of 100,000 born in 1980 who died during each age interval were obtained by multiplying the age-specific mortality rate (appendix table 2, column 2) by the number of persons alive and not previously incarcerated at each age (column 1). * for example, among persons who reached age 21 without having been previously incarcerated, a total of 92 were estimated to have died (column 3) before reaching age 22 (that is, 96,607 times the mortality rate of 0.000955). 2. the number of persons in the 1980 cohort who were at risk to incarceration during an age interval was then calculated by subtracting the number dying from the number of persons who were alive and not previously incarcerated at the beginning of the age interval (column 1 minus column 3). * an estimated 96,515 of the persons who survived to age 21 without being incarcerated were at risk to first incarceration at age 21. 3. the number of persons in the original 100,000 population estimated to have been admitted to prison at each age (column 5) was then obtained by multiplying the age-specific first admission rates (column 4)by the number of persons alive and not previously incarcerated. * among persons born in 1980 who had not been previously incarcerated by age 21, 343 were estimated to have been incarcerated before they reached age 22 (that is, 96,515 times the first incarceration rate of .003557). 4. the number of living persons at each age who had ever gone to prison was then calculated by summing the number going to prison for the first time during that year of age (column 5) plus the number of members of the 1980 birth cohort who previously went to prison and survived until the next year of age (column 6 times the survival rate, not shown). * of the 1,132 persons who had gone to prison and reached age 20, 1,131 survived to reach age 21. an additional 343 persons were expected to be incarcerated for the first time before reaching age 22 (for a cumulative total of 1,474). 5. the percent of persons at each specific age who had ever gone to prison (column 7) was then calculated by dividing the number of persons who had ever gone to prison and were still alive (column 6) by all persons who were still alive (including persons never incarcerated plus ever incarcerated). * among persons age 21, the prevalence rate was 1.510%, obtained by dividing 1,474 (column 6) by 97,646 (column 1 minus columns 3 and 5, plus 1,474), times 100%. prevalence rates for other birth cohorts were calculated using similar procedures. for example, to estimate the percent of persons age 31 in 2001 who had ever gone to prison, the calculations were applied to the 1970 birth cohort. however, the rates of first incarceration (column 4) and mortality (column 2) used in the calculations were unique to the birth cohort. (note the differences between appendix tables 2 and 3.) --------------------------------------------------------------------- <b>appendix table 2. estimating the prevalence of imprisonment in the u.s. population for persons born in 1980</b> population of 100,000 births, 1980, reduced by mortality and incarceration in each successive year of age number alive and not rate of first surviving incarcerated admission to expected cumulative at beginning number expected state or number of number of age at of age dying per number of federal prison first first prevalence first interval 100,000 deaths[a] per 100,000 admissions[b] admissions[c] percent[d] admission year (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) 0-13 1980-93 100,000 ... 1,732 0 0 0 0.000% 14 1994 98,268 44 43 1 1 1 0.001 15 1995 98,224 57 56 5 5 6 0.006 16 1996 98,163 73 72 39 38 44 0.045 17 1997 98,053 84 83 135 132 176 0.180 18 1998 97,838 93 91 283 277 453 0.462 19 1999 97,470 93 91 346 337 789 0.806 20 2000 97,043 94 91 355 344 1132 1.158 21 2001 96,607 96 92 356 343 1474 1.510 note: calculations for ages 0 to 13 were based on data for each single year of age and then grouped for presentation. ... not shown, because calculations were based on rates for single years of age. [a] to estimate the number expected to die at each year of age, age-specific mortality rates(column 2) were multiplied by the number of persons alive and not previously incarcerated (column 1). [b] to estimate the number expected to go to prison at each year of age, age-specific first admission rates (column 4) were multiplied by the number of persons surviving (column 1 minus column 3). [c] to estimate the surviving number of first admissions, the number of first admissions from the x-th year of age (column 5) were added to the number of surviving first admissions from the x-1 year of age. mortality rates for ex-prisoners by age were based on mortality rates in the general population and adjusted to reflect higher ex-prisoner mortality. [d]to estimate the prevalence percent, this procedure was followed. the surviving number of persons ever incarcerated (column 6) was divided by the total number of surviving persons never incarcerated (column 1 minus both columns 3 and 5) and persons ever incarcerated (column 6), times 100%. --------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------------------------------- <b>appendix table 3. estimating the prevalence of imprisonment in the u.s. population for persons born in 1970</b> population of 100,000 births, 1970, reduced by mortality and incarceration in each successive year of age number alive rate of first and not admission surviving incarcerated to state expected cumulative at beginning number expected or federal number of number of of age dying per number of prison per first first prevalence age at first interval 100,000 deaths[a] 100,000 admissions[b] admissions[c] percent[d] admission year (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) 0-13 1970-83 100,000 ... 2,099 0 0 0 0.000% 14 1984 97,901 49 48 1 1 1 0.001 15 1985 97,852 62 61 0 0 1 0.001 16 1986 97,791 73 71 24 23 24 0.025 17 1987 97,697 86 84 74 73 97 0.099 18 1988 97,539 96 94 186 181 278 0.285 19 1989 97,265 102 99 265 258 535 0.549 20 1990 96,907 107 103 331 320 855 0.878 21 1991 96,484 110 107 266 257 1,110 1.142 22 1992 96,121 113 109 305 293 1,402 1.444 23 1993 95,719 111 106 272 260 1,660 1.711 24 1994 95,353 108 103 279 266 1,924 1.985 25 1995 94,984 104 99 230 218 2,139 2.210 26 1996 94,668 100 94 232 219 2,356 2.436 27 1997 94,354 100 94 217 205 2,558 2.648 28 1998 94,055 97 92 257 241 2,796 2.897 29 1999 93,722 102 95 218 204 2,997 3.108 30 2000 93,422 104 97 275 257 3,250 3.374 31 2001 93,068 110 102 218 203 3,448 3.584 note: calculations for ages 0 to 13 were based on data for each single year of age and then grouped for presentation. ... not shown, because calculations were based on rates for single years of age. [a] to estimate the number expected to die at each year of age, age-specific mortality rates(column 2) were multiplied by the number of persons alive and not previously incarcerated (column 1). [b] to estimate the number expected to go to prison at each year of age, age-specific first admission rates (column 4) were multiplied by the number of persons surviving (column 1 minus column 3). [c] to estimate the surviving number of first admissions, the number of first admissions from the x-th year of age (column 5) were added to the number of surviving first admissions from the x-1 year of age. mortality rates for ex-prisoners by age were based on mortality rates in the general population and adjusted to reflect higher ex-prisoner mortality. [d] to estimate the prevalence percent, this procedure was followed. the surviving number of persons ever incarcerated (column 6) was divided by the total number of surviving persons never incarcerated (column 1 minus both columns 3 and 5) and persons ever incarcerated (column 6), times 100%. ---------------------------------------------------------------------_limitations_ 1. the data in this report are restricted to incarcerations in state or federal prison. excluded are prior incarcerations in local jails and juvenile facilities because of the lack of data needed to estimate the number of first admissions to these forms of correctional supervision. 2. estimates of the number of first admissions are subject to sampling and nonsampling errors. because the numbers of first admissions are based on a sample rather than a complete enumeration, the estimated number of first admissions may vary depending on the size of the estimate and the base population for each demographic group. nonsampling error can be attributed to many sources, such as nonresponse, differences in interpretation of questions, recall difficulties, and processing errors. among inmates, the number of first admissions may be slightly overestimated because of underreporting of criminal histories. the full extent of nonsampling error is unknown. 3. no comparable inmate survey was conducted prior 1974 to enable the calculation of first incarceration rates prior to this date. first incarceration rates in 1970 and earlier were estimated to be 80% of each age-specific rate of first incarceration in 1974. if first incarceration rates in 1970 and earlier had averaged 90% of each age-specific first incarceration rate in 1974, the estimated number of adults alive in 2001 who had ever gone to prison would have been 1.9% higher (5,723,000). alternatively, if earlier first incarceration rates had averaged 70% of 1974 rates, the estimated number of persons ever to have been incarcerated in 2001 would have been-1.9% lower (5,513,000). 4. mortality rate schedules for prisoners were not available. compared with the general population, mortality rates for prisoners were estimated to be 20% higher for adults under age 65, and the same for those age 65 and older. the estimate was based on the lower overall educational attainment of prisoners, and longitudinal studies documenting the relationship between mortality and educational attainment. if mortality rates for adults ever incarcerated, under age 65 were instead 40% higher than that of the general population, the estimated prevalence of ever having gone to prison in 2001 would be 5,567,000 (-0.9% less). if mortality rates for prisoners had been equal to that of the general population, the estimated prevalence would have been 0.9% higher in 2001 (5,670,000). 5. comparable mortality rates prior to 1976 were not available. however, there is minimal effect of declining mortality rates since 1900 on the estimated number of persons ever incarcerated. prevalence rates are only affected to the extent that there may have been a different decline in mortality among those ever incarcerated (the numerator) compared with all surviving members of a birth cohort (the denominator). furthermore, prevalence rates were applied to estimates of the u.s. resident population (which fully reflect declines in mortality). 6. age-specific incarceration rates do not incorporate a forecast of future rates of imprisonment, which may be affected by changes in criminal behavior, law enforcement, and in sentencing policies. consequently, the lifetime likelihood of incarceration, 2001, and projected prevalence rates for 2002 and beyond may be different. a fuller description of the methodological techniques used in preparing this report is available upon request from the author. ---------------------------------------------------------------------the bureau of justice statistics is the statistical agency of the u.s. department of justice. lawrence a. greenfeld is director. bjs special reports address a specific topic in depth from one or many data sets that cover many topics. thomas p. bonczar wrote this report, under the supervision of allen j. beck. tom hester and carolyn c. williams edited the report. jayne e. robinson administered final production. august 2003, ncj 197976 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------this report in portable document format and in ascii, its tables, and related statistical data are available at the bjs world wide web internet site: http://www.ojp.usdoj.gov/bjs/ askbjs at ojp.usdoj.gov (202) 307-0765 ---------------------------------------------------------------------transcribed from the 1913 methuen & co. edition by david price, email ccx074@pglaf.org. note that later editions of de profundis contained more material. the most complete editions are still in copyright in the u.s.a. de profundis . . . suffering is one very long moment. we cannot divide it by seasons. we can only record its moods, and chronicle their return. with us time itself does not progress. it revolves. it seems to circle round one centre of pain. the paralysing immobility of a life every circumstance of which is regulated after an unchangeable pattern, so that we eat and drink and lie down and pray, or kneel at least for prayer, according to the inflexible laws of an iron formula: this immobile quality, that makes each dreadful day in the very minutest detail like its brother, seems to communicate itself to those external forces the very essence of whose existence is ceaseless change. of seed-time or harvest, of the reapers bending over the corn, or the grape gatherers threading through the vines, of the grass in the orchard made white with broken blossoms or strewn with fallen fruit: of these we know nothing and can know nothing. for us there is only one season, the season of sorrow. the very sun and moon seem taken from us. outside, the day may be blue and gold, but the light that creeps down through the thickly-muffled glass of the small iron-barred window beneath which one sits is grey and niggard. it is always twilight in one's cell, as it is always twilight in one's heart. and in the sphere of thought, no less than in the sphere of time, motion is no more. the thing that you personally have long ago forgotten, or can easily forget, is happening to me now, and will happen to me again tomorrow. remember this, and you will be able to understand a little of why i am writing, and in this manner writing. . . . a week later, i am transferred here. three more months go over and my mother dies. no one knew how deeply i loved and honoured her. her death was terrible to me; but i, once a lord of language, have no words in which to express my anguish and my shame. she and my father had bequeathed me a name they had made noble and honoured, not merely in literature, art, archaeology, and science, but in the public history of my own country, in its evolution as a nation. i had disgraced that name eternally. i had made it a low by-word among low people. i had dragged it through the very mire. i had given it to brutes that they might make it brutal, and to fools that they might turn it into a synonym for folly. what i suffered then, and still suffer, is not for pen to write or paper to record. my wife, always kind and gentle to me, rather than that i should hear the news from indifferent lips, travelled, ill as she was, all the way from genoa to england to break to me herself the tidings of so irreparable, so irremediable, a loss. messages of sympathy reached me from all who had still affection for me. even people who had not known me personally, hearing that a new sorrow had broken into my life, wrote to ask that some expression of their condolence should be conveyed to me. . . . three months go over. the calendar of my daily conduct and labour that hangs on the outside of my cell door, with my name and sentence written upon it, tells me that it is may. . . . prosperity, pleasure and success, may be rough of grain and common in fibre, but sorrow is the most sensitive of all created things. there is nothing that stirs in the whole world of thought to which sorrow does not vibrate in terrible and exquisite pulsation. the thin beaten-out leaf of tremulous gold that chronicles the direction of forces the eye cannot see is in comparison coarse. it is a wound that bleeds when any hand but that of love touches it, and even then must bleed again, though not in pain. where there is sorrow there is holy ground. some day people will realise what that means. they will know nothing of life till they do,--and natures like his can realise it. when i was brought down from my prison to the court of bankruptcy, between two policemen,--waited in the long dreary corridor that, before the whole crowd, whom an action so sweet and simple hushed into silence, he might gravely raise his hat to me, as, handcuffed and with bowed head, i passed him by. men have gone to heaven for smaller things than that. it was in this spirit, and with this mode of love, that the saints knelt down to wash the feet of the poor, or stooped to kiss the leper on the cheek. i have never said one single word to him about what he did. i do not know to the present moment whether he is aware that i was even conscious of his action. it is not a thing for which one can render formal thanks in formal words. i store it in the treasure-house of my heart. i keep it there as a secret debt that i am glad to think i can never possibly repay. it is embalmed and kept sweet by the myrrh and cassia of many tears. when wisdom has been profitless to me, philosophy barren, and the proverbs and phrases of those who have sought to give me consolation as dust and ashes in my mouth, the memory of that little, lovely, silent act of love has unsealed for me all the wells of pity: made the desert blossom like a rose, and brought me out of the bitterness of lonely exile into harmony with the wounded, broken, and great heart of the world. when people are able to understand, not merely how beautiful ---'s action was, but why it meant so much to me, and always will mean so much, then, perhaps, they will realise how and in what spirit they should approach me. . . . the poor are wise, more charitable, more kind, more sensitive than we are. in their eyes prison is a tragedy in a man's life, a misfortune, a casuality, something that calls for sympathy in others. they speak of one who is in prison as of one who is 'in trouble' simply. it is the phrase they always use, and the expression has the perfect wisdom of love in it. with people of our own rank it is different. with us, prison makes a man a pariah. i, and such as i am, have hardly any right to air and sun. our presence taints the pleasures of others. we are unwelcome when we reappear. to revisit the glimpses of the moon is not for us. our very children are taken away. those lovely links with humanity are broken. we are doomed to be solitary, while our sons still live. we are denied the one thing that might heal us and keep us, that might bring balm to the bruised heart, and peace to the soul in pain. . . . i must say to myself that i ruined myself, and that nobody great or small can be ruined except by his own hand. i am quite ready to say so. i am trying to say so, though they may not think it at the present moment. this pitiless indictment i bring without pity against myself. terrible as was what the world did to me, what i did to myself was far more terrible still. i was a man who stood in symbolic relations to the art and culture of my age. i had realised this for myself at the very dawn of my manhood, and had forced my age to realise it afterwards. few men hold such a position in their own lifetime, and have it so acknowledged. it is usually discerned, if discerned at all, by the historian, or the critic, long after both the man and his age have passed away. with me it was different. i felt it myself, and made others feel it. byron was a symbolic figure, but his relations were to the passion of his age and its weariness of passion. mine were to something more noble, more permanent, of more vital issue, of larger scope. the gods had given me almost everything. but i let myself be lured into long spells of senseless and sensual ease. i amused myself with being a _flaneur_, a dandy, a man of fashion. i surrounded myself with the smaller natures and the meaner minds. i became the spendthrift of my own genius, and to waste an eternal youth gave me a curious joy. tired of being on the heights, i deliberately went to the depths in the search for new sensation. what the paradox was to me in the sphere of thought, perversity became to me in the sphere of passion. desire, at the end, was a malady, or a madness, or both. i grew careless of the lives of others. i took pleasure where it pleased me, and passed on. i forgot that every little action of the common day makes or unmakes character, and that therefore what one has done in the secret chamber one has some day to cry aloud on the housetop. i ceased to be lord over myself. i was no longer the captain of my soul, and did not know it. i allowed pleasure to dominate me. i ended in horrible disgrace. there is only one thing for me now, absolute humility. i have lain in prison for nearly two years. out of my nature has come wild despair; an abandonment to grief that was piteous even to look at; terrible and impotent rage; bitterness and scorn; anguish that wept aloud; misery that could find no voice; sorrow that was dumb. i have passed through every possible mood of suffering. better than wordsworth himself i know what wordsworth meant when he said- 'suffering is permanent, obscure, and dark and has the nature of infinity.' but while there were times when i rejoiced in the idea that my sufferings were to be endless, i could not bear them to be without meaning. now i find hidden somewhere away in my nature something that tells me that nothing in the whole world is meaningless, and suffering least of all. that something hidden away in my nature, like a treasure in a field, is humility. it is the last thing left in me, and the best: the ultimate discovery at which i have arrived, the starting-point for a fresh development. it has come to me right out of myself, so i know that it has come at the proper time. it could not have come before, nor later. had any one told me of it, i would have rejected it. had it been brought to me, i would have refused it. as i found it, i want to keep it. i must do so. it is the one thing that has in it the elements of life, of a new life, _vita nuova_ for me. of all things it is the strangest. one cannot acquire it, except by surrendering everything that one has. it is only when one has lost all things, that one knows that one possesses it. now i have realised that it is in me, i see quite clearly what i ought to do; in fact, must do. and when i use such a phrase as that, i need not say that i am not alluding to any external sanction or command. i admit none. i am far more of an individualist than i ever was. nothing seems to me of the smallest value except what one gets out of oneself. my nature is seeking a fresh mode of self-realisation. that is all i am concerned with. and the first thing that i have got to do is to free myself from any possible bitterness of feeling against the world. i am completely penniless, and absolutely homeless. yet there are worse things in the world than that. i am quite candid when i say that rather than go out from this prison with bitterness in my heart against the world, i would gladly and readily beg my bread from door to door. if i got nothing from the house of the rich i would get something at the house of the poor. those who have much are often greedy; those who have little always share. i would not a bit mind sleeping in the cool grass in summer, and when winter came on sheltering myself by the warm close-thatched rick, or under the penthouse of a great barn, provided i had love in my heart. the external things of life seem to me now of no importance at all. you can see to what intensity of individualism i have arrived--or am arriving rather, for the journey is long, and 'where i walk there are thorns.' of course i know that to ask alms on the highway is not to be my lot, and that if ever i lie in the cool grass at night-time it will be to write sonnets to the moon. when i go out of prison, r--will be waiting for me on the other side of the big iron-studded gate, and he is the symbol, not merely of his own affection, but of the affection of many others besides. i believe i am to have enough to live on for about eighteen months at any rate, so that if i may not write beautiful books, i may at least read beautiful books; and what joy can be greater? after that, i hope to be able to recreate my creative faculty. but were things different: had i not a friend left in the world; were there not a single house open to me in pity; had i to accept the wallet and ragged cloak of sheer penury: as long as i am free from all resentment, hardness and scorn, i would be able to face the life with much more calm and confidence than i would were my body in purple and fine linen, and the soul within me sick with hate. and i really shall have no difficulty. when you really want love you will find it waiting for you. i need not say that my task does not end there. it would be comparatively easy if it did. there is much more before me. i have hills far steeper to climb, valleys much darker to pass through. and i have to get it all out of myself. neither religion, morality, nor reason can help me at all. morality does not help me. i am a born antinomian. i am one of those who are made for exceptions, not for laws. but while i see that there is nothing wrong in what one does, i see that there is something wrong in what one becomes. it is well to have learned that. religion does not help me. the faith that others give to what is unseen, i give to what one can touch, and look at. my gods dwell in temples made with hands; and within the circle of actual experience is my creed made perfect and complete: too complete, it may be, for like many or all of those who have placed their heaven in this earth, i have found in it not merely the beauty of heaven, but the horror of hell also. when i think about religion at all, i feel as if i would like to found an order for those who _cannot_ believe: the confraternity of the faithless, one might call it, where on an altar, on which no taper burned, a priest, in whose heart peace had no dwelling, might celebrate with unblessed bread and a chalice empty of wine. every thing to be true must become a religion. and agnosticism should have its ritual no less than faith. it has sown its martyrs, it should reap its saints, and praise god daily for having hidden himself from man. but whether it be faith or agnosticism, it must be nothing external to me. its symbols must be of my own creating. only that is spiritual which makes its own form. if i may not find its secret within myself, i shall never find it: if i have not got it already, it will never come to me. reason does not help me. it tells me that the laws under which i am convicted are wrong and unjust laws, and the system under which i have suffered a wrong and unjust system. but, somehow, i have got to make both of these things just and right to me. and exactly as in art one is only concerned with what a particular thing is at a particular moment to oneself, so it is also in the ethical evolution of one's character. i have got to make everything that has happened to me good for me. the plank bed, the loathsome food, the hard ropes shredded into oakum till one's finger-tips grow dull with pain, the menial offices with which each day begins and finishes, the harsh orders that routine seems to necessitate, the dreadful dress that makes sorrow grotesque to look at, the silence, the solitude, the shame--each and all of these things i have to transform into a spiritual experience. there is not a single degradation of the body which i must not try and make into a spiritualising of the soul. i want to get to the point when i shall be able to say quite simply, and without affectation that the two great turning-points in my life were when my father sent me to oxford, and when society sent me to prison. i will not say that prison is the best thing that could have happened to me: for that phrase would savour of too great bitterness towards myself. i would sooner say, or hear it said of me, that i was so typical a child of my age, that in my perversity, and for that perversity's sake, i turned the good things of my life to evil, and the evil things of my life to good. what is said, however, by myself or by others, matters little. the important thing, the thing that lies before me, the thing that i have to do, if the brief remainder of my days is not to be maimed, marred, and incomplete, is to absorb into my nature all that has been done to me, to make it part of me, to accept it without complaint, fear, or reluctance. the supreme vice is shallowness. whatever is realised is right. when first i was put into prison some people advised me to try and forget who i was. it was ruinous advice. it is only by realising what i am that i have found comfort of any kind. now i am advised by others to try on my release to forget that i have ever been in a prison at all. i know that would be equally fatal. it would mean that i would always be haunted by an intolerable sense of disgrace, and that those things that are meant for me as much as for anybody else--the beauty of the sun and moon, the pageant of the seasons, the music of daybreak and the silence of great nights, the rain falling through the leaves, or the dew creeping over the grass and making it silver--would all be tainted for me, and lose their healing power, and their power of communicating joy. to regret one's own experiences is to arrest one's own development. to deny one's own experiences is to put a lie into the lips of one's own life. it is no less than a denial of the soul. for just as the body absorbs things of all kinds, things common and unclean no less than those that the priest or a vision has cleansed, and converts them into swiftness or strength, into the play of beautiful muscles and the moulding of fair flesh, into the curves and colours of the hair, the lips, the eye; so the soul in its turn has its nutritive functions also, and can transform into noble moods of thought and passions of high import what in itself is base, cruel and degrading; nay, more, may find in these its most august modes of assertion, and can often reveal itself most perfectly through what was intended to desecrate or destroy. the fact of my having been the common prisoner of a common gaol i must frankly accept, and, curious as it may seem, one of the things i shall have to teach myself is not to be ashamed of it. i must accept it as a punishment, and if one is ashamed of having been punished, one might just as well never have been punished at all. of course there are many things of which i was convicted that i had not done, but then there are many things of which i was convicted that i had done, and a still greater number of things in my life for which i was never indicted at all. and as the gods are strange, and punish us for what is good and humane in us as much as for what is evil and perverse, i must accept the fact that one is punished for the good as well as for the evil that one does. i have no doubt that it is quite right one should be. it helps one, or should help one, to realise both, and not to be too conceited about either. and if i then am not ashamed of my punishment, as i hope not to be, i shall be able to think, and walk, and live with freedom. many men on their release carry their prison about with them into the air, and hide it as a secret disgrace in their hearts, and at length, like poor poisoned things, creep into some hole and die. it is wretched that they should have to do so, and it is wrong, terribly wrong, of society that it should force them to do so. society takes upon itself the right to inflict appalling punishment on the individual, but it also has the supreme vice of shallowness, and fails to realise what it has done. when the man's punishment is over, it leaves him to himself; that is to say, it abandons him at the very moment when its highest duty towards him begins. it is really ashamed of its own actions, and shuns those whom it has punished, as people shun a creditor whose debt they cannot pay, or one on whom they have inflicted an irreparable, an irremediable wrong. i can claim on my side that if i realise what i have suffered, society should realise what it has inflicted on me; and that there should be no bitterness or hate on either side. of course i know that from one point of view things will be made different for me than for others; must indeed, by the very nature of the case, be made so. the poor thieves and outcasts who are imprisoned here with me are in many respects more fortunate than i am. the little way in grey city or green field that saw their sin is small; to find those who know nothing of what they have done they need go no further than a bird might fly between the twilight and the dawn; but for me the world is shrivelled to a handsbreadth, and everywhere i turn my name is written on the rocks in lead. for i have come, not from obscurity into the momentary notoriety of crime, but from a sort of eternity of fame to a sort of eternity of infamy, and sometimes seem to myself to have shown, if indeed it required showing, that between the famous and the infamous there is but one step, if as much as one. still, in the very fact that people will recognise me wherever i go, and know all about my life, as far as its follies go, i can discern something good for me. it will force on me the necessity of again asserting myself as an artist, and as soon as i possibly can. if i can produce only one beautiful work of art i shall be able to rob malice of its venom, and cowardice of its sneer, and to pluck out the tongue of scorn by the roots. and if life be, as it surely is, a problem to me, i am no less a problem to life. people must adopt some attitude towards me, and so pass judgment, both on themselves and me. i need not say i am not talking of particular individuals. the only people i would care to be with now are artists and people who have suffered: those who know what beauty is, and those who know what sorrow is: nobody else interests me. nor am i making any demands on life. in all that i have said i am simply concerned with my own mental attitude towards life as a whole; and i feel that not to be ashamed of having been punished is one of the first points i must attain to, for the sake of my own perfection, and because i am so imperfect. then i must learn how to be happy. once i knew it, or thought i knew it, by instinct. it was always springtime once in my heart. my temperament was akin to joy. i filled my life to the very brim with pleasure, as one might fill a cup to the very brim with wine. now i am approaching life from a completely new standpoint, and even to conceive happiness is often extremely difficult for me. i remember during my first term at oxford reading in pater's _renaissance_--that book which has had such strange influence over my life--how dante places low in the inferno those who wilfully live in sadness; and going to the college library and turning to the passage in the _divine comedy_ where beneath the dreary marsh lie those who were 'sullen in the sweet air,' saying for ever and ever through their sighs- 'tristi fummo nell aer dolce che dal sol s'allegra.' i knew the church condemned _accidia_, but the whole idea seemed to me quite fantastic, just the sort of sin, i fancied, a priest who knew nothing about real life would invent. nor could i understand how dante, who says that 'sorrow remarries us to god,' could have been so harsh to those who were enamoured of melancholy, if any such there really were. i had no idea that some day this would become to me one of the greatest temptations of my life. while i was in wandsworth prison i longed to die. it was my one desire. when after two months in the infirmary i was transferred here, and found myself growing gradually better in physical health, i was filled with rage. i determined to commit suicide on the very day on which i left prison. after a time that evil mood passed away, and i made up my mind to live, but to wear gloom as a king wears purple: never to smile again: to turn whatever house i entered into a house of mourning: to make my friends walk slowly in sadness with me: to teach them that melancholy is the true secret of life: to maim them with an alien sorrow: to mar them with my own pain. now i feel quite differently. i see it would be both ungrateful and unkind of me to pull so long a face that when my friends came to see me they would have to make their faces still longer in order to show their sympathy; or, if i desired to entertain them, to invite them to sit down silently to bitter herbs and funeral baked meats. i must learn how to be cheerful and happy. the last two occasions on which i was allowed to see my friends here, i tried to be as cheerful as possible, and to show my cheerfulness, in order to make them some slight return for their trouble in coming all the way from town to see me. it is only a slight return, i know, but it is the one, i feel certain, that pleases them most. i saw r--for an hour on saturday week, and i tried to give the fullest possible expression of the delight i really felt at our meeting. and that, in the views and ideas i am here shaping for myself, i am quite right is shown to me by the fact that now for the first time since my imprisonment i have a real desire for life. there is before me so much to do, that i would regard it as a terrible tragedy if i died before i was allowed to complete at any rate a little of it. i see new developments in art and life, each one of which is a fresh mode of perfection. i long to live so that i can explore what is no less than a new world to me. do you want to know what this new world is? i think you can guess what it is. it is the world in which i have been living. sorrow, then, and all that it teaches one, is my new world. i used to live entirely for pleasure. i shunned suffering and sorrow of every kind. i hated both. i resolved to ignore them as far as possible: to treat them, that is to say, as modes of imperfection. they were not part of my scheme of life. they had no place in my philosophy. my mother, who knew life as a whole, used often to quote to me goethe's lines--written by carlyle in a book he had given her years ago, and translated by him, i fancy, also:- 'who never ate his bread in sorrow, who never spent the midnight hours weeping and waiting for the morrow,- he knows you not, ye heavenly powers.' they were the lines which that noble queen of prussia, whom napoleon treated with such coarse brutality, used to quote in her humiliation and exile; they were the lines my mother often quoted in the troubles of her later life. i absolutely declined to accept or admit the enormous truth hidden in them. i could not understand it. i remember quite well how i used to tell her that i did not want to eat my bread in sorrow, or to pass any night weeping and watching for a more bitter dawn. i had no idea that it was one of the special things that the fates had in store for me: that for a whole year of my life, indeed, i was to do little else. but so has my portion been meted out to me; and during the last few months i have, after terrible difficulties and struggles, been able to comprehend some of the lessons hidden in the heart of pain. clergymen and people who use phrases without wisdom sometimes talk of suffering as a mystery. it is really a revelation. one discerns things one never discerned before. one approaches the whole of history from a different standpoint. what one had felt dimly, through instinct, about art, is intellectually and emotionally realised with perfect clearness of vision and absolute intensity of apprehension. i now see that sorrow, being the supreme emotion of which man is capable, is at once the type and test of all great art. what the artist is always looking for is the mode of existence in which soul and body are one and indivisible: in which the outward is expressive of the inward: in which form reveals. of such modes of existence there are not a few: youth and the arts preoccupied with youth may serve as a model for us at one moment: at another we may like to think that, in its subtlety and sensitiveness of impression, its suggestion of a spirit dwelling in external things and making its raiment of earth and air, of mist and city alike, and in its morbid sympathy of its moods, and tones, and colours, modern landscape art is realising for us pictorially what was realised in such plastic perfection by the greeks. music, in which all subject is absorbed in expression and cannot be separated from it, is a complex example, and a flower or a child a simple example, of what i mean; but sorrow is the ultimate type both in life and art. behind joy and laughter there may be a temperament, coarse, hard and callous. but behind sorrow there is always sorrow. pain, unlike pleasure, wears no mask. truth in art is not any correspondence between the essential idea and the accidental existence; it is not the resemblance of shape to shadow, or of the form mirrored in the crystal to the form itself; it is no echo coming from a hollow hill, any more than it is a silver well of water in the valley that shows the moon to the moon and narcissus to narcissus. truth in art is the unity of a thing with itself: the outward rendered expressive of the inward: the soul made incarnate: the body instinct with spirit. for this reason there is no truth comparable to sorrow. there are times when sorrow seems to me to be the only truth. other things may be illusions of the eye or the appetite, made to blind the one and cloy the other, but out of sorrow have the worlds been built, and at the birth of a child or a star there is pain. more than this, there is about sorrow an intense, an extraordinary reality. i have said of myself that i was one who stood in symbolic relations to the art and culture of my age. there is not a single wretched man in this wretched place along with me who does not stand in symbolic relation to the very secret of life. for the secret of life is suffering. it is what is hidden behind everything. when we begin to live, what is sweet is so sweet to us, and what is bitter so bitter, that we inevitably direct all our desires towards pleasures, and seek not merely for a 'month or twain to feed on honeycomb,' but for all our years to taste no other food, ignorant all the while that we may really be starving the soul. i remember talking once on this subject to one of the most beautiful personalities i have ever known: a woman, whose sympathy and noble kindness to me, both before and since the tragedy of my imprisonment, have been beyond power and description; one who has really assisted me, though she does not know it, to bear the burden of my troubles more than any one else in the whole world has, and all through the mere fact of her existence, through her being what she is--partly an ideal and partly an influence: a suggestion of what one might become as well as a real help towards becoming it; a soul that renders the common air sweet, and makes what is spiritual seem as simple and natural as sunlight or the sea: one for whom beauty and sorrow walk hand in hand, and have the same message. on the occasion of which i am thinking i recall distinctly how i said to her that there was enough suffering in one narrow london lane to show that god did not love man, and that wherever there was any sorrow, though but that of a child, in some little garden weeping over a fault that it had or had not committed, the whole face of creation was completely marred. i was entirely wrong. she told me so, but i could not believe her. i was not in the sphere in which such belief was to be attained to. now it seems to me that love of some kind is the only possible explanation of the extraordinary amount of suffering that there is in the world. i cannot conceive of any other explanation. i am convinced that there is no other, and that if the world has indeed, as i have said, been built of sorrow, it has been built by the hands of love, because in no other way could the soul of man, for whom the world was made, reach the full stature of its perfection. pleasure for the beautiful body, but pain for the beautiful soul. when i say that i am convinced of these things i speak with too much pride. far off, like a perfect pearl, one can see the city of god. it is so wonderful that it seems as if a child could reach it in a summer's day. and so a child could. but with me and such as me it is different. one can realise a thing in a single moment, but one loses it in the long hours that follow with leaden feet. it is so difficult to keep 'heights that the soul is competent to gain.' we think in eternity, but we move slowly through time; and how slowly time goes with us who lie in prison i need not tell again, nor of the weariness and despair that creep back into one's cell, and into the cell of one's heart, with such strange insistence that one has, as it were, to garnish and sweep one's house for their coming, as for an unwelcome guest, or a bitter master, or a slave whose slave it is one's chance or choice to be. and, though at present my friends may find it a hard thing to believe, it is true none the less, that for them living in freedom and idleness and comfort it is more easy to learn the lessons of humility than it is for me, who begin the day by going down on my knees and washing the floor of my cell. for prison life with its endless privations and restrictions makes one rebellious. the most terrible thing about it is not that it breaks one's heart--hearts are made to be broken--but that it turns one's heart to stone. one sometimes feels that it is only with a front of brass and a lip of scorn that one can get through the day at all. and he who is in a state of rebellion cannot receive grace, to use the phrase of which the church is so fond--so rightly fond, i dare say--for in life as in art the mood of rebellion closes up the channels of the soul, and shuts out the airs of heaven. yet i must learn these lessons here, if i am to learn them anywhere, and must be filled with joy if my feet are on the right road and my face set towards 'the gate which is called beautiful,' though i may fall many times in the mire and often in the mist go astray. this new life, as through my love of dante i like sometimes to call it, is of course no new life at all, but simply the continuance, by means of development, and evolution, of my former life. i remember when i was at oxford saying to one of my friends as we were strolling round magdalen's narrow bird-haunted walks one morning in the year before i took my degree, that i wanted to eat of the fruit of all the trees in the garden of the world, and that i was going out into the world with that passion in my soul. and so, indeed, i went out, and so i lived. my only mistake was that i confined myself so exclusively to the trees of what seemed to me the sun-lit side of the garden, and shunned the other side for its shadow and its gloom. failure, disgrace, poverty, sorrow, despair, suffering, tears even, the broken words that come from lips in pain, remorse that makes one walk on thorns, conscience that condemns, selfabasement that punishes, the misery that puts ashes on its head, the anguish that chooses sack-cloth for its raiment and into its own drink puts gall:--all these were things of which i was afraid. and as i had determined to know nothing of them, i was forced to taste each of them in turn, to feed on them, to have for a season, indeed, no other food at all. i don't regret for a single moment having lived for pleasure. i did it to the full, as one should do everything that one does. there was no pleasure i did not experience. i threw the pearl of my soul into a cup of wine. i went down the primrose path to the sound of flutes. i lived on honeycomb. but to have continued the same life would have been wrong because it would have been limiting. i had to pass on. the other half of the garden had its secrets for me also. of course all this is foreshadowed and prefigured in my books. some of it is in _the happy prince_, some of it in _the young king_, notably in the passage where the bishop says to the kneeling boy, 'is not he who made misery wiser than thou art'? a phrase which when i wrote it seemed to me little more than a phrase; a great deal of it is hidden away in the note of doom that like a purple thread runs through the texture of _dorian gray_; in _the critic as artist_ it is set forth in many colours; in _the soul of man_ it is written down, and in letters too easy to read; it is one of the refrains whose recurring _motifs_ make _salome_ so like a piece of music and bind it together as a ballad; in the prose poem of the man who from the bronze of the image of the 'pleasure that liveth for a moment' has to make the image of the 'sorrow that abideth for ever' it is incarnate. it could not have been otherwise. at every single moment of one's life one is what one is going to be no less than what one has been. art is a symbol, because man is a symbol. it is, if i can fully attain to it, the ultimate realisation of the artistic life. for the artistic life is simply self-development. humility in the artist is his frank acceptance of all experiences, just as love in the artist is simply the sense of beauty that reveals to the world its body and its soul. in _marius the epicurean_ pater seeks to reconcile the artistic life with the life of religion, in the deep, sweet, and austere sense of the word. but marius is little more than a spectator: an ideal spectator indeed, and one to whom it is given 'to contemplate the spectacle of life with appropriate emotions,' which wordsworth defines as the poet's true aim; yet a spectator merely, and perhaps a little too much occupied with the comeliness of the benches of the sanctuary to notice that it is the sanctuary of sorrow that he is gazing at. i see a far more intimate and immediate connection between the true life of christ and the true life of the artist; and i take a keen pleasure in the reflection that long before sorrow had made my days her own and bound me to her wheel i had written in _the soul of man_ that he who would lead a christ-like life must be entirely and absolutely himself, and had taken as my types not merely the shepherd on the hillside and the prisoner in his cell, but also the painter to whom the world is a pageant and the poet for whom the world is a song. i remember saying once to andre gide, as we sat together in some paris _cafe_, that while meta-physics had but little real interest for me, and morality absolutely none, there was nothing that either plato or christ had said that could not be transferred immediately into the sphere of art and there find its complete fulfilment. nor is it merely that we can discern in christ that close union of personality with perfection which forms the real distinction between the classical and romantic movement in life, but the very basis of his nature was the same as that of the nature of the artist--an intense and flamelike imagination. he realised in the entire sphere of human relations that imaginative sympathy which in the sphere of art is the sole secret of creation. he understood the leprosy of the leper, the darkness of the blind, the fierce misery of those who live for pleasure, the strange poverty of the rich. some one wrote to me in trouble, 'when you are not on your pedestal you are not interesting.' how remote was the writer from what matthew arnold calls 'the secret of jesus.' either would have taught him that whatever happens to another happens to oneself, and if you want an inscription to read at dawn and at night-time, and for pleasure or for pain, write up on the walls of your house in letters for the sun to gild and the moon to silver, 'whatever happens to oneself happens to another.' christ's place indeed is with the poets. his whole conception of humanity sprang right out of the imagination and can only be realised by it. what god was to the pantheist, man was to him. he was the first to conceive the divided races as a unity. before his time there had been gods and men, and, feeling through the mysticism of sympathy that in himself each had been made incarnate, he calls himself the son of the one or the son of the other, according to his mood. more than any one else in history he wakes in us that temper of wonder to which romance always appeals. there is still something to me almost incredible in the idea of a young galilean peasant imagining that he could bear on his own shoulders the burden of the entire world; all that had already been done and suffered, and all that was yet to be done and suffered: the sins of nero, of caesar borgia, of alexander vi., and of him who was emperor of rome and priest of the sun: the sufferings of those whose names are legion and whose dwelling is among the tombs: oppressed nationalities, factory children, thieves, people in prison, outcasts, those who are dumb under oppression and whose silence is heard only of god; and not merely imagining this but actually achieving it, so that at the present moment all who come in contact with his personality, even though they may neither bow to his altar nor kneel before his priest, in some way find that the ugliness of their sin is taken away and the beauty of their sorrow revealed to them. i had said of christ that he ranks with the poets. that is true. shelley and sophocles are of his company. but his entire life also is the most wonderful of poems. for 'pity and terror' there is nothing in the entire cycle of greek tragedy to touch it. the absolute purity of the protagonist raises the entire scheme to a height of romantic art from which the sufferings of thebes and pelops' line are by their very horror excluded, and shows how wrong aristotle was when he said in his treatise on the drama that it would be impossible to bear the spectacle of one blameless in pain. nor in aeschylus nor dante, those stern masters of tenderness, in shakespeare, the most purely human of all the great artists, in the whole of celtic myth and legend, where the loveliness of the world is shown through a mist of tears, and the life of a man is no more than the life of a flower, is there anything that, for sheer simplicity of pathos wedded and made one with sublimity of tragic effect, can be said to equal or even approach the last act of christ's passion. the little supper with his companions, one of whom has already sold him for a price; the anguish in the quiet moon-lit garden; the false friend coming close to him so as to betray him with a kiss; the friend who still believed in him, and on whom as on a rock he had hoped to build a house of refuge for man, denying him as the bird cried to the dawn; his own utter loneliness, his submission, his acceptance of everything; and along with it all such scenes as the high priest of orthodoxy rending his raiment in wrath, and the magistrate of civil justice calling for water in the vain hope of cleansing himself of that stain of innocent blood that makes him the scarlet figure of history; the coronation ceremony of sorrow, one of the most wonderful things in the whole of recorded time; the crucifixion of the innocent one before the eyes of his mother and of the disciple whom he loved; the soldiers gambling and throwing dice for his clothes; the terrible death by which he gave the world its most eternal symbol; and his final burial in the tomb of the rich man, his body swathed in egyptian linen with costly spices and perfumes as though he had been a king's son. when one contemplates all this from the point of view of art alone one cannot but be grateful that the supreme office of the church should be the playing of the tragedy without the shedding of blood: the mystical presentation, by means of dialogue and costume and gesture even, of the passion of her lord; and it is always a source of pleasure and awe to me to remember that the ultimate survival of the greek chorus, lost elsewhere to art, is to be found in the servitor answering the priest at mass. yet the whole life of christ--so entirely may sorrow and beauty be made one in their meaning and manifestation--is really an idyll, though it ends with the veil of the temple being rent, and the darkness coming over the face of the earth, and the stone rolled to the door of the sepulchre. one always thinks of him as a young bridegroom with his companions, as indeed he somewhere describes himself; as a shepherd straying through a valley with his sheep in search of green meadow or cool stream; as a singer trying to build out of the music the walls of the city of god; or as a lover for whose love the whole world was too small. his miracles seem to me to be as exquisite as the coming of spring, and quite as natural. i see no difficulty at all in believing that such was the charm of his personality that his mere presence could bring peace to souls in anguish, and that those who touched his garments or his hands forgot their pain; or that as he passed by on the highway of life people who had seen nothing of life's mystery, saw it clearly, and others who had been deaf to every voice but that of pleasure heard for the first time the voice of love and found it as 'musical as apollo's lute'; or that evil passions fled at his approach, and men whose dull unimaginative lives had been but a mode of death rose as it were from the grave when he called them; or that when he taught on the hillside the multitude forgot their hunger and thirst and the cares of this world, and that to his friends who listened to him as he sat at meat the coarse food seemed delicate, and the water had the taste of good wine, and the whole house became full of the odour and sweetness of nard. renan in his _vie de jesus_--that gracious fifth gospel, the gospel according to st. thomas, one might call it--says somewhere that christ's great achievement was that he made himself as much loved after his death as he had been during his lifetime. and certainly, if his place is among the poets, he is the leader of all the lovers. he saw that love was the first secret of the world for which the wise men had been looking, and that it was only through love that one could approach either the heart of the leper or the feet of god. and above all, christ is the most supreme of individualists. humility, like the artistic, acceptance of all experiences, is merely a mode of manifestation. it is man's soul that christ is always looking for. he calls it 'god's kingdom,' and finds it in every one. he compares it to little things, to a tiny seed, to a handful of leaven, to a pearl. that is because one realises one's soul only by getting rid of all alien passions, all acquired culture, and all external possessions, be they good or evil. i bore up against everything with some stubbornness of will and much rebellion of nature, till i had absolutely nothing left in the world but one thing. i had lost my name, my position, my happiness, my freedom, my wealth. i was a prisoner and a pauper. but i still had my children left. suddenly they were taken away from me by the law. it was a blow so appalling that i did not know what to do, so i flung myself on my knees, and bowed my head, and wept, and said, 'the body of a child is as the body of the lord: i am not worthy of either.' that moment seemed to save me. i saw then that the only thing for me was to accept everything. since then--curious as it will no doubt sound--i have been happier. it was of course my soul in its ultimate essence that i had reached. in many ways i had been its enemy, but i found it waiting for me as a friend. when one comes in contact with the soul it makes one simple as a child, as christ said one should be. it is tragic how few people ever 'possess their souls' before they die. 'nothing is more rare in any man,' says emerson, 'than an act of his own.' it is quite true. most people are other people. their thoughts are some one else's opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation. christ was not merely the supreme individualist, but he was the first individualist in history. people have tried to make him out an ordinary philanthropist, or ranked him as an altruist with the scientific and sentimental. but he was really neither one nor the other. pity he has, of course, for the poor, for those who are shut up in prisons, for the lowly, for the wretched; but he has far more pity for the rich, for the hard hedonists, for those who waste their freedom in becoming slaves to things, for those who wear soft raiment and live in kings' houses. riches and pleasure seemed to him to be really greater tragedies than poverty or sorrow. and as for altruism, who knew better than he that it is vocation not volition that determines us, and that one cannot gather grapes of thorns or figs from thistles? to live for others as a definite self-conscious aim was not his creed. it was not the basis of his creed. when he says, 'forgive your enemies,' it is not for the sake of the enemy, but for one's own sake that he says so, and because love is more beautiful than hate. in his own entreaty to the young man, 'sell all that thou hast and give to the poor,' it is not of the state of the poor that he is thinking but of the soul of the young man, the soul that wealth was marring. in his view of life he is one with the artist who knows that by the inevitable law of self-perfection, the poet must sing, and the sculptor think in bronze, and the painter make the world a mirror for his moods, as surely and as certainly as the hawthorn must blossom in spring, and the corn turn to gold at harvesttime, and the moon in her ordered wanderings change from shield to sickle, and from sickle to shield. but while christ did not say to men, 'live for others,' he pointed out that there was no difference at all between the lives of others and one's own life. by this means he gave to man an extended, a titan personality. since his coming the history of each separate individual is, or can be made, the history of the world. of course, culture has intensified the personality of man. art has made us myriad-minded. those who have the artistic temperament go into exile with dante and learn how salt is the bread of others, and how steep their stairs; they catch for a moment the serenity and calm of goethe, and yet know but too well that baudelaire cried to god- 'o seigneur, donnez moi la force et le courage de contempler mon corps et mon coeur sans degout.' out of shakespeare's sonnets they draw, to their own hurt it may be, the secret of his love and make it their own; they look with new eyes on modern life, because they have listened to one of chopin's nocturnes, or handled greek things, or read the story of the passion of some dead man for some dead woman whose hair was like threads of fine gold, and whose mouth was as a pomegranate. but the sympathy of the artistic temperament is necessarily with what has found expression. in words or in colours, in music or in marble, behind the painted masks of an aeschylean play, or through some sicilian shepherds' pierced and jointed reeds, the man and his message must have been revealed. to the artist, expression is the only mode under which he can conceive life at all. to him what is dumb is dead. but to christ it was not so. with a width and wonder of imagination that fills one almost with awe, he took the entire world of the inarticulate, the voiceless world of pain, as his kingdom, and made of himself its eternal mouthpiece. those of whom i have spoken, who are dumb under oppression, and 'whose silence is heard only of god,' he chose as his brothers. he sought to become eyes to the blind, ears to the deaf, and a cry in the lips of those whose tongues had been tied. his desire was to be to the myriads who had found no utterance a very trumpet through which they might call to heaven. and feeling, with the artistic nature of one to whom suffering and sorrow were modes through which he could realise his conception of the beautiful, that an idea is of no value till it becomes incarnate and is made an image, he made of himself the image of the man of sorrows, and as such has fascinated and dominated art as no greek god ever succeeded in doing. for the greek gods, in spite of the white and red of their fair fleet limbs, were not really what they appeared to be. the curved brow of apollo was like the sun's disc crescent over a hill at dawn, and his feet were as the wings of the morning, but he himself had been cruel to marsyas and had made niobe childless. in the steel shields of athena's eyes there had been no pity for arachne; the pomp and peacocks of hera were all that was really noble about her; and the father of the gods himself had been too fond of the daughters of men. the two most deeply suggestive figures of greek mythology were, for religion, demeter, an earth goddess, not one of the olympians, and for art, dionysus, the son of a mortal woman to whom the moment of his birth had proved also the moment of her death. but life itself from its lowliest and most humble sphere produced one far more marvellous than the mother of proserpina or the son of semele. out of the carpenter's shop at nazareth had come a personality infinitely greater than any made by myth and legend, and one, strangely enough, destined to reveal to the world the mystical meaning of wine and the real beauties of the lilies of the field as none, either on cithaeron or at enna, had ever done. the song of isaiah, 'he is despised and rejected of men, a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief: and we hid as it were our faces from him,' had seemed to him to prefigure himself, and in him the prophecy was fulfilled. we must not be afraid of such a phrase. every single work of art is the fulfilment of a prophecy: for every work of art is the conversion of an idea into an image. every single human being should be the fulfilment of a prophecy: for every human being should be the realisation of some ideal, either in the mind of god or in the mind of man. christ found the type and fixed it, and the dream of a virgilian poet, either at jerusalem or at babylon, became in the long progress of the centuries incarnate in him for whom the world was waiting. to me one of the things in history the most to be regretted is that the christ's own renaissance, which has produced the cathedral at chartres, the arthurian cycle of legends, the life of st. francis of assisi, the art of giotto, and dante's _divine comedy_, was not allowed to develop on its own lines, but was interrupted and spoiled by the dreary classical renaissance that gave us petrarch, and raphael's frescoes, and palladian architecture, and formal french tragedy, and st. paul's cathedral, and pope's poetry, and everything that is made from without and by dead rules, and does not spring from within through some spirit informing it. but wherever there is a romantic movement in art there somehow, and under some form, is christ, or the soul of christ. he is in _romeo and juliet_, in the _winter's tale_, in provencal poetry, in the _ancient mariner_, in _la belle dame sans merci_, and in chatterton's _ballad of charity_. we owe to him the most diverse things and people. hugo's _les miserables_, baudelaire's _fleurs du mal_, the note of pity in russian novels, verlaine and verlaine's poems, the stained glass and tapestries and the quattro-cento work of burne-jones and morris, belong to him no less than the tower of giotto, lancelot and guinevere, tannhauser, the troubled romantic marbles of michael angelo, pointed architecture, and the love of children and flowers--for both of which, indeed, in classical art there was but little place, hardly enough for them to grow or play in, but which, from the twelfth century down to our own day, have been continually making their appearances in art, under various modes and at various times, coming fitfully and wilfully, as children, as flowers, are apt to do: spring always seeming to one as if the flowers had been in hiding, and only came out into the sun because they were afraid that grown up people would grow tired of looking for them and give up the search; and the life of a child being no more than an april day on which there is both rain and sun for the narcissus. it is the imaginative quality of christ's own nature that makes him this palpitating centre of romance. the strange figures of poetic drama and ballad are made by the imagination of others, but out of his own imagination entirely did jesus of nazareth create himself. the cry of isaiah had really no more to do with his coming than the song of the nightingale has to do with the rising of the moon--no more, though perhaps no less. he was the denial as well as the affirmation of prophecy. for every expectation that he fulfilled there was another that he destroyed. 'in all beauty,' says bacon, 'there is some strangeness of proportion,' and of those who are born of the spirit--of those, that is to say, who like himself are dynamic forces--christ says that they are like the wind that 'bloweth where it listeth, and no man can tell whence it cometh and whither it goeth.' that is why he is so fascinating to artists. he has all the colour elements of life: mystery, strangeness, pathos, suggestion, ecstasy, love. he appeals to the temper of wonder, and creates that mood in which alone he can be understood. and to me it is a joy to remember that if he is 'of imagination all compact,' the world itself is of the same substance. i said in _dorian gray_ that the great sins of the world take place in the brain: but it is in the brain that everything takes place. we know now that we do not see with the eyes or hear with the ears. they are really channels for the transmission, adequate or inadequate, of sense impressions. it is in the brain that the poppy is red, that the apple is odorous, that the skylark sings. of late i have been studying with diligence the four prose poems about christ. at christmas i managed to get hold of a greek testament, and every morning, after i had cleaned my cell and polished my tins, i read a little of the gospels, a dozen verses taken by chance anywhere. it is a delightful way of opening the day. every one, even in a turbulent, illdisciplined life, should do the same. endless repetition, in and out of season, has spoiled for us the freshness, the naivete, the simple romantic charm of the gospels. we hear them read far too often and far too badly, and all repetition is anti-spiritual. when one returns to the greek; it is like going into a garden of lilies out of some, narrow and dark house. and to me, the pleasure is doubled by the reflection that it is extremely probable that we have the actual terms, the _ipsissima verba_, used by christ. it was always supposed that christ talked in aramaic. even renan thought so. but now we know that the galilean peasants, like the irish peasants of our own day, were bilingual, and that greek was the ordinary language of intercourse all over palestine, as indeed all over the eastern world. i never liked the idea that we knew of christ's own words only through a translation of a translation. it is a delight to me to think that as far as his conversation was concerned, charmides might have listened to him, and socrates reasoned with him, and plato understood him: that he really said [greek text], that when he thought of the lilies of the field and how they neither toil nor spin, his absolute expression was [greek text], and that his last word when he cried out 'my life has been completed, has reached its fulfilment, has been perfected,' was exactly as st. john tells us it was: [greek text]--no more. while in reading the gospels--particularly that of st. john himself, or whatever early gnostic took his name and mantle--i see the continual assertion of the imagination as the basis of all spiritual and material life, i see also that to christ imagination was simply a form of love, and that to him love was lord in the fullest meaning of the phrase. some six weeks ago i was allowed by the doctor to have white bread to eat instead of the coarse black or brown bread of ordinary prison fare. it is a great delicacy. it will sound strange that dry bread could possibly be a delicacy to any one. to me it is so much so that at the close of each meal i carefully eat whatever crumbs may be left on my tin plate, or have fallen on the rough towel that one uses as a cloth so as not to soil one's table; and i do so not from hunger--i get now quite sufficient food--but simply in order that nothing should be wasted of what is given to me. so one should look on love. christ, like all fascinating personalities, had the power of not merely saying beautiful things himself, but of making other people say beautiful things to him; and i love the story st. mark tells us about the greek woman, who, when as a trial of her faith he said to her that he could not give her the bread of the children of israel, answered him that the little dogs--([greek text], 'little dogs' it should be rendered)--who are under the table eat of the crumbs that the children let fall. most people live for love and admiration. but it is by love and admiration that we should live. if any love is shown us we should recognise that we are quite unworthy of it. nobody is worthy to be loved. the fact that god loves man shows us that in the divine order of ideal things it is written that eternal love is to be given to what is eternally unworthy. or if that phrase seems to be a bitter one to bear, let us say that every one is worthy of love, except him who thinks that he is. love is a sacrament that should be taken kneeling, and _domine, non sum dignus_ should be on the lips and in the hearts of those who receive it. if ever i write again, in the sense of producing artistic work, there are just two subjects on which and through which i desire to express myself: one is 'christ as the precursor of the romantic movement in life': the other is 'the artistic life considered in its relation to conduct.' the first is, of course, intensely fascinating, for i see in christ not merely the essentials of the supreme romantic type, but all the accidents, the wilfulnesses even, of the romantic temperament also. he was the first person who ever said to people that they should live 'flower-like lives.' he fixed the phrase. he took children as the type of what people should try to become. he held them up as examples to their elders, which i myself have always thought the chief use of children, if what is perfect should have a use. dante describes the soul of a man as coming from the hand of god 'weeping and laughing like a little child,' and christ also saw that the soul of each one should be _a guisa di fanciulla che piangendo e ridendo pargoleggia_. he felt that life was changeful, fluid, active, and that to allow it to be stereotyped into any form was death. he saw that people should not be too serious over material, common interests: that to be unpractical was to be a great thing: that one should not bother too much over affairs. the birds didn't, why should man? he is charming when he says, 'take no thought for the morrow; is not the soul more than meat? is not the body more than raiment?' a greek might have used the latter phrase. it is full of greek feeling. but only christ could have said both, and so summed up life perfectly for us. his morality is all sympathy, just what morality should be. if the only thing that he ever said had been, 'her sins are forgiven her because she loved much,' it would have been worth while dying to have said it. his justice is all poetical justice, exactly what justice should be. the beggar goes to heaven because he has been unhappy. i cannot conceive a better reason for his being sent there. the people who work for an hour in the vineyard in the cool of the evening receive just as much reward as those who have toiled there all day long in the hot sun. why shouldn't they? probably no one deserved anything. or perhaps they were a different kind of people. christ had no patience with the dull lifeless mechanical systems that treat people as if they were things, and so treat everybody alike: for him there were no laws: there were exceptions merely, as if anybody, or anything, for that matter, was like aught else in the world! that which is the very keynote of romantic art was to him the proper basis of natural life. he saw no other basis. and when they brought him one, taken in the very act of sin and showed him her sentence written in the law, and asked him what was to be done, he wrote with his finger on the ground as though he did not hear them, and finally, when they pressed him again, looked up and said, 'let him of you who has never sinned be the first to throw the stone at her.' it was worth while living to have said that. like all poetical natures he loved ignorant people. he knew that in the soul of one who is ignorant there is always room for a great idea. but he could not stand stupid people, especially those who are made stupid by education: people who are full of opinions not one of which they even understand, a peculiarly modern type, summed up by christ when he describes it as the type of one who has the key of knowledge, cannot use it himself, and does not allow other people to use it, though it may be made to open the gate of god's kingdom. his chief war was against the philistines. that is the war every child of light has to wage. philistinism was the note of the age and community in which he lived. in their heavy inaccessibility to ideas, their dull respectability, their tedious orthodoxy, their worship of vulgar success, their entire preoccupation with the gross materialistic side of life, and their ridiculous estimate of themselves and their importance, the jews of jerusalem in christ's day were the exact counterpart of the british philistine of our own. christ mocked at the 'whited sepulchre' of respectability, and fixed that phrase for ever. he treated worldly success as a thing absolutely to be despised. he saw nothing in it at all. he looked on wealth as an encumbrance to a man. he would not hear of life being sacrificed to any system of thought or morals. he pointed out that forms and ceremonies were made for man, not man for forms and ceremonies. he took sabbatarianism as a type of the things that should be set at nought. the cold philanthropies, the ostentatious public charities, the tedious formalisms so dear to the middle-class mind, he exposed with utter and relentless scorn. to us, what is termed orthodoxy is merely a facile unintelligent acquiescence; but to them, and in their hands, it was a terrible and paralysing tyranny. christ swept it aside. he showed that the spirit alone was of value. he took a keen pleasure in pointing out to them that though they were always reading the law and the prophets, they had not really the smallest idea of what either of them meant. in opposition to their tithing of each separate day into the fixed routine of prescribed duties, as they tithe mint and rue, he preached the enormous importance of living completely for the moment. those whom he saved from their sins are saved simply for beautiful moments in their lives. mary magdalen, when she sees christ, breaks the rich vase of alabaster that one of her seven lovers had given her, and spills the odorous spices over his tired dusty feet, and for that one moment's sake sits for ever with ruth and beatrice in the tresses of the snow-white rose of paradise. all that christ says to us by the way of a little warning is that every moment should be beautiful, that the soul should always be ready for the coming of the bridegroom, always waiting for the voice of the lover, philistinism being simply that side of man's nature that is not illumined by the imagination. he sees all the lovely influences of life as modes of light: the imagination itself is the world of light. the world is made by it, and yet the world cannot understand it: that is because the imagination is simply a manifestation of love, and it is love and the capacity for it that distinguishes one human being from another. but it is when he deals with a sinner that christ is most romantic, in the sense of most real. the world had always loved the saint as being the nearest possible approach to the perfection of god. christ, through some divine instinct in him, seems to have always loved the sinner as being the nearest possible approach to the perfection of man. his primary desire was not to reform people, any more than his primary desire was to a relieve suffering. to turn an interesting thief into a tedious honest man was not his aim. he would have thought little of the prisoners' aid society and other modern movements of the kind. the conversion of a publican into a pharisee would not have seemed to him a great achievement. but in a manner not yet understood of the world he regarded sin and suffering as being in themselves beautiful holy things and modes of perfection. it seems a very dangerous idea. it is--all great ideas are dangerous. that it was christ's creed admits of no doubt. that it is the true creed i don't doubt myself. of course the sinner must repent. but why? simply because otherwise he would be unable to realise what he had done. the moment of repentance is the moment of initiation. more than that: it is the means by which one alters one's past. the greeks thought that impossible. they often say in their gnomic aphorisms, 'even the gods cannot alter the past.' christ showed that the commonest sinner could do it, that it was the one thing he could do. christ, had he been asked, would have said--i feel quite certain about it--that the moment the prodigal son fell on his knees and wept, he made his having wasted his substance with harlots, his swineherding and hungering for the husks they ate, beautiful and holy moments in his life. it is difficult for most people to grasp the idea. i dare say one has to go to prison to understand it. if so, it may be worth while going to prison. there is something so unique about christ. of course just as there are false dawns before the dawn itself, and winter days so full of sudden sunlight that they will cheat the wise crocus into squandering its gold before its time, and make some foolish bird call to its mate to build on barren boughs, so there were christians before christ. for that we should be grateful. the unfortunate thing is that there have been none since. i make one exception, st. francis of assisi. but then god had given him at his birth the soul of a poet, as he himself when quite young had in mystical marriage taken poverty as his bride: and with the soul of a poet and the body of a beggar he found the way to perfection not difficult. he understood christ, and so he became like him. we do not require the liber conformitatum to teach us that the life of st. francis was the true _imitatio christi_, a poem compared to which the book of that name is merely prose. indeed, that is the charm about christ, when all is said: he is just like a work of art. he does not really teach one anything, but by being brought into his presence one becomes something. and everybody is predestined to his presence. once at least in his life each man walks with christ to emmaus. as regards the other subject, the relation of the artistic life to conduct, it will no doubt seem strange to you that i should select it. people point to reading gaol and say, 'that is where the artistic life leads a man.' well, it might lead to worse places. the more mechanical people to whom life is a shrewd speculation depending on a careful calculation of ways and means, always know where they are going, and go there. they start with the ideal desire of being the parish beadle, and in whatever sphere they are placed they succeed in being the parish beadle and no more. a man whose desire is to be something separate from himself, to be a member of parliament, or a successful grocer, or a prominent solicitor, or a judge, or something equally tedious, invariably succeeds in being what he wants to be. that is his punishment. those who want a mask have to wear it. but with the dynamic forces of life, and those in whom those dynamic forces become incarnate, it is different. people whose desire is solely for self-realisation never know where they are going. they can't know. in one sense of the word it is of course necessary, as the greek oracle said, to know oneself: that is the first achievement of knowledge. but to recognise that the soul of a man is unknowable, is the ultimate achievement of wisdom. the final mystery is oneself. when one has weighed the sun in the balance, and measured the steps of the moon, and mapped out the seven heavens star by star, there still remains oneself. who can calculate the orbit of his own soul? when the son went out to look for his father's asses, he did not know that a man of god was waiting for him with the very chrism of coronation, and that his own soul was already the soul of a king. i hope to live long enough and to produce work of such a character that i shall be able at the end of my days to say, 'yes! this is just where the artistic life leads a man!' two of the most perfect lives i have come across in my own experience are the lives of verlaine and of prince kropotkin: both of them men who have passed years in prison: the first, the one christian poet since dante; the other, a man with a soul of that beautiful white christ which seems coming out of russia. and for the last seven or eight months, in spite of a succession of great troubles reaching me from the outside world almost without intermission, i have been placed in direct contact with a new spirit working in this prison through man and things, that has helped me beyond any possibility of expression in words: so that while for the first year of my imprisonment i did nothing else, and can remember doing nothing else, but wring my hands in impotent despair, and say, 'what an ending, what an appalling ending!' now i try to say to myself, and sometimes when i am not torturing myself do really and sincerely say, 'what a beginning, what a wonderful beginning!' it may really be so. it may become so. if it does i shall owe much to this new personality that has altered every man's life in this place. you may realise it when i say that had i been released last may, as i tried to be, i would have left this place loathing it and every official in it with a bitterness of hatred that would have poisoned my life. i have had a year longer of imprisonment, but humanity has been in the prison along with us all, and now when i go out i shall always remember great kindnesses that i have received here from almost everybody, and on the day of my release i shall give many thanks to many people, and ask to be remembered by them in turn. the prison style is absolutely and entirely wrong. i would give anything to be able to alter it when i go out. i intend to try. but there is nothing in the world so wrong but that the spirit of humanity, which is the spirit of love, the spirit of the christ who is not in churches, may make it, if not right, at least possible to be borne without too much bitterness of heart. i know also that much is waiting for me outside that is very delightful, from what st. francis of assisi calls 'my brother the wind, and my sister the rain,' lovely things both of them, down to the shop-windows and sunsets of great cities. if i made a list of all that still remains to me, i don't know where i should stop: for, indeed, god made the world just as much for me as for any one else. perhaps i may go out with something that i had not got before. i need not tell you that to me reformations in morals are as meaningless and vulgar as reformations in theology. but while to propose to be a better man is a piece of unscientific cant, to have become a deeper man is the privilege of those who have suffered. and such i think i have become. if after i am free a friend of mine gave a feast, and did not invite me to it, i should not mind a bit. i can be perfectly happy by myself. with freedom, flowers, books, and the moon, who could not be perfectly happy? besides, feasts are not for me any more. i have given too many to care about them. that side of life is over for me, very fortunately, i dare say. but if after i am free a friend of mine had a sorrow and refused to allow me to share it, i should feel it most bitterly. if he shut the doors of the house of mourning against me, i would come back again and again and beg to be admitted, so that i might share in what i was entitled to share in. if he thought me unworthy, unfit to weep with him, i should feel it as the most poignant humiliation, as the most terrible mode in which disgrace could be inflicted on me. but that could not be. i have a right to share in sorrow, and he who can look at the loveliness of the world and share its sorrow, and realise something of the wonder of both, is in immediate contact with divine things, and has got as near to god's secret as any one can get. perhaps there may come into my art also, no less than into my life, a still deeper note, one of greater unity of passion, and directness of impulse. not width but intensity is the true aim of modern art. we are no longer in art concerned with the type. it is with the exception that we have to do. i cannot put my sufferings into any form they took, i need hardly say. art only begins where imitation ends, but something must come into my work, of fuller memory of words perhaps, of richer cadences, of more curious effects, of simpler architectural order, of some aesthetic quality at any rate. when marsyas was 'torn from the scabbard of his limbs'--_della vagina della membre sue_, to use one of dante's most terrible tacitean phrases--he had no more song, the greek said. apollo had been victor. the lyre had vanquished the reed. but perhaps the greeks were mistaken. i hear in much modern art the cry of marsyas. it is bitter in baudelaire, sweet and plaintive in lamartine, mystic in verlaine. it is in the deferred resolutions of chopin's music. it is in the discontent that haunts burne-jones's women. even matthew arnold, whose song of callicles tells of 'the triumph of the sweet persuasive lyre,' and the 'famous final victory,' in such a clear note of lyrical beauty, has not a little of it; in the troubled undertone of doubt and distress that haunts his verses, neither goethe nor wordsworth could help him, though he followed each in turn, and when he seeks to mourn for _thyrsis_ or to sing of the _scholar gipsy_, it is the reed that he has to take for the rendering of his strain. but whether or not the phrygian faun was silent, i cannot be. expression is as necessary to me as leaf and blossoms are to the black branches of the trees that show themselves above the prison walls and are so restless in the wind. between my art and the world there is now a wide gulf, but between art and myself there is none. i hope at least that there is none. to each of us different fates are meted out. my lot has been one of public infamy, of long imprisonment, of misery, of ruin, of disgrace, but i am not worthy of it--not yet, at any rate. i remember that i used to say that i thought i could bear a real tragedy if it came to me with purple pall and a mask of noble sorrow, but that the dreadful thing about modernity was that it put tragedy into the raiment of comedy, so that the great realities seemed commonplace or grotesque or lacking in style. it is quite true about modernity. it has probably always been true about actual life. it is said that all martyrdoms seemed mean to the looker on. the nineteenth century is no exception to the rule. everything about my tragedy has been hideous, mean, repellent, lacking in style; our very dress makes us grotesque. we are the zanies of sorrow. we are clowns whose hearts are broken. we are specially designed to appeal to the sense of humour. on november 13th, 1895, i was brought down here from london. from two o'clock till half-past two on that day i had to stand on the centre platform of clapham junction in convict dress, and handcuffed, for the world to look at. i had been taken out of the hospital ward without a moment's notice being given to me. of all possible objects i was the most grotesque. when people saw me they laughed. each train as it came up swelled the audience. nothing could exceed their amusement. that was, of course, before they knew who i was. as soon as they had been informed they laughed still more. for half an hour i stood there in the grey november rain surrounded by a jeering mob. for a year after that was done to me i wept every day at the same hour and for the same space of time. that is not such a tragic thing as possibly it sounds to you. to those who are in prison tears are a part of every day's experience. a day in prison on which one does not weep is a day on which one's heart is hard, not a day on which one's heart is happy. well, now i am really beginning to feel more regret for the people who laughed than for myself. of course when they saw me i was not on my pedestal, i was in the pillory. but it is a very unimaginative nature that only cares for people on their pedestals. a pedestal may be a very unreal thing. a pillory is a terrific reality. they should have known also how to interpret sorrow better. i have said that behind sorrow there is always sorrow. it were wiser still to say that behind sorrow there is always a soul. and to mock at a soul in pain is a dreadful thing. in the strangely simple economy of the world people only get what they give, and to those who have not enough imagination to penetrate the mere outward of things, and feel pity, what pity can be given save that of scorn? i write this account of the mode of my being transferred here simply that it should be realised how hard it has been for me to get anything out of my punishment but bitterness and despair. i have, however, to do it, and now and then i have moments of submission and acceptance. all the spring may be hidden in the single bud, and the low ground nest of the lark may hold the joy that is to herald the feet of many rose-red dawns. so perhaps whatever beauty of life still remains to me is contained in some moment of surrender, abasement, and humiliation. i can, at any rate, merely proceed on the lines of my own development, and, accepting all that has happened to me, make myself worthy of it. people used to say of me that i was too individualistic. i must be far more of an individualist than ever i was. i must get far more out of myself than ever i got, and ask far less of the world than ever i asked. indeed, my ruin came not from too great individualism of life, but from too little. the one disgraceful, unpardonable, and to all time contemptible action of my life was to allow myself to appeal to society for help and protection. to have made such an appeal would have been from the individualist point of view bad enough, but what excuse can there ever be put forward for having made it? of course once i had put into motion the forces of society, society turned on me and said, 'have you been living all this time in defiance of my laws, and do you now appeal to those laws for protection? you shall have those laws exercised to the full. you shall abide by what you have appealed to.' the result is i am in gaol. certainly no man ever fell so ignobly, and by such ignoble instruments, as i did. the philistine element in life is not the failure to understand art. charming people, such as fishermen, shepherds, ploughboys, peasants and the like, know nothing about art, and are the very salt of the earth. he is the philistine who upholds and aids the heavy, cumbrous, blind, mechanical forces of society, and who does not recognise dynamic force when he meets it either in a man or a movement. people thought it dreadful of me to have entertained at dinner the evil things of life, and to have found pleasure in their company. but then, from the point of view through which i, as an artist in life, approach them they were delightfully suggestive and stimulating. the danger was half the excitement. . . . my business as an artist was with ariel. i set myself to wrestle with caliban. . . . a great friend of mine--a friend of ten years' standing--came to see me some time ago, and told me that he did not believe a single word of what was said against me, and wished me to know that he considered me quite innocent, and the victim of a hideous plot. i burst into tears at what he said, and told him that while there was much amongst the definite charges that was quite untrue and transferred to me by revolting malice, still that my life had been full of perverse pleasures, and that unless he accepted that as a fact about me and realised it to the full i could not possibly be friends with him any more, or ever be in his company. it was a terrible shock to him, but we are friends, and i have not got his friendship on false pretences. emotional forces, as i say somewhere in _intentions_, are as limited in extent and duration as the forces of physical energy. the little cup that is made to hold so much can hold so much and no more, though all the purple vats of burgundy be filled with wine to the brim, and the treaders stand knee-deep in the gathered grapes of the stony vineyards of spain. there is no error more common than that of thinking that those who are the causes or occasions of great tragedies share in the feelings suitable to the tragic mood: no error more fatal than expecting it of them. the martyr in his 'shirt of flame' may be looking on the face of god, but to him who is piling the faggots or loosening the logs for the blast the whole scene is no more than the slaying of an ox is to the butcher, or the felling of a tree to the charcoal burner in the forest, or the fall of a flower to one who is mowing down the grass with a scythe. great passions are for the great of soul, and great events can be seen only by those who are on a level with them. * * * * * i know of nothing in all drama more incomparable from the point of view of art, nothing more suggestive in its subtlety of observation, than shakespeare's drawing of rosencrantz and guildenstern. they are hamlet's college friends. they have been his companions. they bring with them memories of pleasant days together. at the moment when they come across him in the play he is staggering under the weight of a burden intolerable to one of his temperament. the dead have come armed out of the grave to impose on him a mission at once too great and too mean for him. he is a dreamer, and he is called upon to act. he has the nature of the poet, and he is asked to grapple with the common complexity of cause and effect, with life in its practical realisation, of which he knows nothing, not with life in its ideal essence, of which he knows so much. he has no conception of what to do, and his folly is to feign folly. brutus used madness as a cloak to conceal the sword of his purpose, the dagger of his will, but the hamlet madness is a mere mask for the hiding of weakness. in the making of fancies and jests he sees a chance of delay. he keeps playing with action as an artist plays with a theory. he makes himself the spy of his proper actions, and listening to his own words knows them to be but 'words, words, words.' instead of trying to be the hero of his own history, he seeks to be the spectator of his own tragedy. he disbelieves in everything, including himself, and yet his doubt helps him not, as it comes not from scepticism but from a divided will. of all this guildenstern and rosencrantz realise nothing. they bow and smirk and smile, and what the one says the other echoes with sickliest intonation. when, at last, by means of the play within the play, and the puppets in their dalliance, hamlet 'catches the conscience' of the king, and drives the wretched man in terror from his throne, guildenstern and rosencrantz see no more in his conduct than a rather painful breach of court etiquette. that is as far as they can attain to in 'the contemplation of the spectacle of life with appropriate emotions.' they are close to his very secret and know nothing of it. nor would there be any use in telling them. they are the little cups that can hold so much and no more. towards the close it is suggested that, caught in a cunning spring set for another, they have met, or may meet, with a violent and sudden death. but a tragic ending of this kind, though touched by hamlet's humour with something of the surprise and justice of comedy, is really not for such as they. they never die. horatio, who in order to 'report hamlet and his cause aright to the unsatisfied,' 'absents him from felicity a while, and in this harsh world draws his breath in pain,' dies, but guildenstern and rosencrantz are as immortal as angelo and tartuffe, and should rank with them. they are what modern life has contributed to the antique ideal of friendship. he who writes a new _de amicitia_ must find a niche for them, and praise them in tusculan prose. they are types fixed for all time. to censure them would show 'a lack of appreciation.' they are merely out of their sphere: that is all. in sublimity of soul there is no contagion. high thoughts and high emotions are by their very existence isolated. * * * * * i am to be released, if all goes well with me, towards the end of may, and hope to go at once to some little sea-side village abroad with r--and m---. the sea, as euripides says in one of his plays about iphigeneia, washes away the stains and wounds of the world. i hope to be at least a month with my friends, and to gain peace and balance, and a less troubled heart, and a sweeter mood. i have a strange longing for the great simple primeval things, such as the sea, to me no less of a mother than the earth. it seems to me that we all look at nature too much, and live with her too little. i discern great sanity in the greek attitude. they never chattered about sunsets, or discussed whether the shadows on the grass were really mauve or not. but they saw that the sea was for the swimmer, and the sand for the feet of the runner. they loved the trees for the shadow that they cast, and the forest for its silence at noon. the vineyard-dresser wreathed his hair with ivy that he might keep off the rays of the sun as he stooped over the young shoots, and for the artist and the athlete, the two types that greece gave us, they plaited with garlands the leaves of the bitter laurel and of the wild parsley, which else had been of no service to men. we call ours a utilitarian age, and we do not know the uses of any single thing. we have forgotten that water can cleanse, and fire purify, and that the earth is mother to us all. as a consequence our art is of the moon and plays with shadows, while greek art is of the sun and deals directly with things. i feel sure that in elemental forces there is purification, and i want to go back to them and live in their presence. of course to one so modern as i am, 'enfant de mon siecle,' merely to look at the world will be always lovely. i tremble with pleasure when i think that on the very day of my leaving prison both the laburnum and the lilac will be blooming in the gardens, and that i shall see the wind stir into restless beauty the swaying gold of the one, and make the other toss the pale purple of its plumes, so that all the air shall be arabia for me. linnaeus fell on his knees and wept for joy when he saw for the first time the long heath of some english upland made yellow with the tawny aromatic brooms of the common furze; and i know that for me, to whom flowers are part of desire, there are tears waiting in the petals of some rose. it has always been so with me from my boyhood. there is not a single colour hidden away in the chalice of a flower, or the curve of a shell, to which, by some subtle sympathy with the very soul of things, my nature does not answer. like gautier, i have always been one of those 'pour qui le monde visible existe.' still, i am conscious now that behind all this beauty, satisfying though it may be, there is some spirit hidden of which the painted forms and shapes are but modes of manifestation, and it is with this spirit that i desire to become in harmony. i have grown tired of the articulate utterances of men and things. the mystical in art, the mystical in life, the mystical in nature this is what i am looking for. it is absolutely necessary for me to find it somewhere. all trials are trials for one's life, just as all sentences are sentences of death; and three times have i been tried. the first time i left the box to be arrested, the second time to be led back to the house of detention, the third time to pass into a prison for two years. society, as we have constituted it, will have no place for me, has none to offer; but nature, whose sweet rains fall on unjust and just alike, will have clefts in the rocks where i may hide, and secret valleys in whose silence i may weep undisturbed. she will hang the night with stars so that i may walk abroad in the darkness without stumbling, and send the wind over my footprints so that none may track me to my hurt: she will cleanse me in great waters, and with bitter herbs make me whole. [illustration] _copyright, by h. p. m'knight, a. d. 1896._ [illustration] _prison poetry_, _by_ _h. p. mcknight_. [illustration] _in leisure moments cast a look upon the pages of this book; and if your thoughts they should engage, just think of me who wrote this page. and if by chance, in your time of leisure, you, in these pages, should find pleasure, then dart your mind up to this cell, for here i live in an earthly hell._ _dedication._ go forth, thou little volume, i leave thee to thy fate! to those who read thee faithfully thy leaves i dedicate. but if your fate should be so sad as mine who thee have writ, i'd be so vexed to think that i had made such a poor "hit." but if by chance you meet a friend along life's road so dreary, just cheer his mind till he is blind, and never make him weary. teach him the way, the live-long day, to lend a helping hand, and never turn or even spurn those wrecked on life's hard strand. if chance should be you return to me, along with harvest's golden, i'll vouch for thee to all who see, that thou wilt not embolden. and now go forth, thou little book, i leave thee to thy fate! to those who read thee faithfully thy leaves i dedicate. _preface._ in the preparation of the verses that fill these pages i have been helped by some of the prisoners of this institution. the donors have been somewhat few, for which i return thanks; but each and every verse is a fair representation of the many phases that the mind of a prisoner passes through, and of his true sentiment. those that have been donated by my fellow prisoners are accredited to them by either their name or serial number. some of the verses have been published in our prison "news," but inasmuch as they have reached only an inconsiderable few outside the prison walls, i prepare this little volume and hand it to the wide, wide world. my motto, in so doing, is: may you who enjoy the blessings of liberty and worldly freedom, partake with us of our solitary musings, and enjoy our noblest thoughts and resolutions, as well as for us to enjoy yours; and that you may know that we are not devoid of true, manly, noble principle simply because we are cast--some justly, others unjustly--into prison. may we exchange greetings with you all--shake--and if by chance i have been fortunate enough to interest you, i am well compensated; but if i have been more fortunate, and given you--even one of you--a line of noble, good thoughts and advice--i say, "may the seed fall on good ground and bring forth good fruit; may it not be wasted upon barren rock." in my work on "crime and criminals" many of these verses will appear in the "appendix." very truly yours, h. p. mcknight, a. d. 1896. o. p., columbus, o., u. s. a. _introduction._ true models of poetic art. should please the ear and touch the heart: stamp on the plastic mind of youth due reverence for eternal truth. paint field and flower in nature's hues, give to the world the heart's best news, or, lightly tripping o'er the page, rejuvenate the blood of age. the sacred muse should ne'er descend. vice to guild, nor wound a friend. heaven gave no man poetic art, save to improve the human heart. you may not find, in coming page, the ripened wisdom of the age: yet you _will_ find, untrained by art, the deathless music of the heart: and truth shall caress each flaming line. inspired by the tuneful nine; no fear of man nor greed of praise shall make or mar our tuneful lays; we simply voice the ripest thought of prisoned souls with meaning fraught. yours it is to praise or blame my effort to deserve a name! _contents._ page. acrostic to warden and mrs. coffin, by mcknight 93-95 acrostic to chaplain and mrs. winget, " " 183-185 acrostic (initial), " " 167 acrostic to capt. j. c. langenberger, " van weighs 148 acrostic to dr. h. r. parker, " harrison 168 acrostic to harry smith, " van weighs 150 a tribute to capt. geo. w. hess, " " " 143 a letter from home, " 24138 42 a memorial ode, " van weighs 110-111 a prisoner's thanksgiving, " mcknight 20-21 a prisoner's lamentation, " " 63-64 a prayer for justice, " " 87 a prison vision, " harrison 95-107 a query, " morse 69-70 a sad warning, " harrison 146-147 an appreciated friend, " mcknight 114-115 be lenient to the errant one, " harrison 37 birthday musings, " van weighs 88 coming in and going out, " carr 50-51 conclusion, " mcknight 194 dreams, " " 48 ella ree's revenge, " " 171-178 erratic musings of unfettered thought, " harrison 25-36 forget? no, never! " mcknight 18 freedom, " " 17 god bless them, " " 18 guilt's queries and truth's replies, " harrison 41-42 hope, " law 39 hope--eternity, " mcknight 21 how to be happy in prison, " 22700 23 in prison, " harrison 24 influence, " law 36 judge not lest ye be judged, " " 72 kindness, " roth 46 lines to my cell, " mcknight 111-112 lines to my wife, " harrison 169 love's victim, " mcknight 58-63 last night in the dungeon, " " 38-39 midnight musings, " " 68-69 mother, " overstreet 19 my lawyer, " gilbert 144-145 my mother, " carr 109-110 my prison garden, " mcknight 11 our board of managers, " " 65-66 one and a few, " 21069 67-68 out of the depths, " harrison 170 prison pains, " " 45 prisoners, " mcknight 83 perfect peace, " mcknight 37 reflections, " " 43-44 rhyme and reason, " " 11-16 stray thoughts, " " 70-72 salome's revenge, " " 115-142 she loves me yet, " harrison 149 soul sculpture, " doane 51 the storms of life, " law 57 the prisoner released, " col. parsons 44 the convict's prayer, " harrison 73 the great "o. p." " mcknight 49 the fall of sodom, " " 75-80 " " " canto second, " " 78-80 there is no death, " " 47 the murderer's dream, " " 179-182 the prisoner's mother, " mrs. wirick 22 the reformer, " law 43 the under dog, " barker 45-46 the phantom boat, " harrison 151-169 to a departed idol, " van weighs 91-92 tribute to dr. g. a. tharp, " " " 113 tribute to the wolfe sisters, " harrison 89-91 tribute to the wolfe sisters, " mcknight 81-82 tribute to capt. joseph smith acheson, " harrison 108 tribute to capt. l. h. wells, " van weighs 66-67 the mind's the standard of the man, " mcknight 185-190 the author's farewell, " " 192-193 two letters, " harrison 84-86 weight and immortality of words, " mcknight 52-53 which loved her best, " " 54-57 wine vs. water, " " 74-75 would they know, " collier 40 prison poetry. _prelude._ if you prefer the sounding line, go read some master of the nine! good taste perhaps you will display; let others read my simple lay that gushes from an honest heart unawed by fear, unstrained by art. i ne'er will prostitute my muse the rich to praise, nor poor abuse; but simply sing as best i can whate'er may bless my fellow man; i dare not stain a single page with outbursts of unreasoning rage, but if one sorrow i can soothe or one his rugged pathway smooth; one pain relieve, one joy impart, 'twill ease the burden of a heart that has known for weary years no solace save unbidden tears. hard is the heart that will refuse due merit to the prison muse. may heaven watch the prisoner's weal and mankind for his sorrow feel! [illustration] _my prison garden._ in this mind's garden thoughts shall grow, and in their freshness bud and blow; thoughts to which love has beauty lent and memories sweet of sentiment. now, if i cultivate them right good, they'll furnish me with my mind's food. my enemies may my corpus hail, while onward, upward, thoughts will sail to realms above, where all is peace, and where the soul may rest with ease. _rhyme and reason._ in contravention of the laws of right, man's cruel passion and his guilty might, has bound me tightly with a galling chain of heaped-up malice and unjust disdain! from front rank lawyer to a felon's cell, through perjured villains, not by sin i fell! by fiat law my body was consigned to this grim cell for guilty ones designed. yet i'm no convict--i have never known the deep remorse by guilty wretches shown! i am a martyr--doomed by adverse fate to brave the billows of malicious hate! yet i am free, for nature's august plan makes mind not _matter_ constitute the man. tho' men may curse me and cast out my name, like some vile bauble on the sea of shame; brand me as murderer or catiff thief, or atheistic infidel--steepid in unbelief; foe to all that's pure and good--wretch unfit to live; outlaw whom no honest man can even pity give! yet my soul will still defy your prison bolts and bars, and soaring far on eager wings beyond the faintest stars, live in a world to you unknown, where only poet soul can bask in beauty undefiled by cankering control! in vain is all your hate and scorn--vain your prison blight; god loves me, and i feel assured that all will yet be right! i know one law--a perfect law, by nature's self designed- 'tis heaven's dearest gift to man--the freedom of the mind! if minds and hearts were easy read as faces we can see, society would lose its dread and many a prisoner free! but what, alas! do people care what's in another's brain? they only seek to hide their share of misery and pain. were all compelled to truthful be and show their inner life- great heavens! what a jamboree of sin and shame and strife! how few would measure half a span if mind alone we closely scan! where is the man on this broad earth, so pure, so good, so true, that never gave an action birth he dared not bring to view? the christ alone was sinless here, none other lives aright; all human goodness springs from fear of death's approaching night! there is no soul so white i know but what temptation's power its purity can overthrow and all its good deflower! disguise the truth as best we can, he _errs_ the most who most is _man_! come, let us take a journey, with cathode rays supplied, and view the greatest and good in all their pomp and pride! examine first the churches, where the godly crew teach poor erring mortals what is best to do. they tell us human nature is _once_ and always wrong, and prove man's deep depravity in sermon or by song. all natural passion is denounced as deep and deadly sin, and _truth_ and _virtue_ painted as graces hard to win. heaven, they tell us, is a place with blisses running o'er; hell, a lake of torture, where fiery billows roar! a choice eternal all must make between their birth and death; it may be made in early life or with expiring breath! but how this choice must be made each gives a separate plan, that clearly proves how narrow is the erring mind of man. one tells us naught but good pursue, all evil to eschew; another swears without god's grace no mortal thus can do; one bids us work salvation out with trembling and with fear, another swears that god's elect should never shed a tear; one says all must live the life jesus lived on earth. another says it can't be done without a second birth! some say _work_, others _trust_, others still say _wait_; some deem us mere automatons, saved or lost by _fate_! some, with philanthropic views, declare all must be saved, since christ, the perfect offering for _all_, death's horrors braved! since christians never will agree, 'tis best that every man should listen to his conscience, and do the best he can! god ever _has_ and _will_ do right! in his eternal plan the time will come to set _aright_ the numerous wrongs of _man_! see yonder's pompous deacon, with diamonds clear and bright; he looks a model christian--just turn on him your light. great heavens! what a medley of _cant_ and sin and shame! if the half we see was ever told 'twould ruin his good name! but turn on yonder pastor your strange, mysterious light; i know he is a real good man, who loves eternal right. ye holy saints, protect us! _he_ too has gone amiss! when siren voice allured him with a seductive kiss! if half the prayers we utter be not a sounding lie, it is but little marvel that we are doomed to die! for each will plead forgiveness for thought or action done, and _none_ by spotless merit eternal bliss hath won. then gently judge your fellow, his failings lightly scan; like you, he can not corner _all_ the brains of man! see, yonder is our congress, where wits and fools unite, to declare by the nation's statute what _is_ fundamental right! they yell of patriotism and the majesty of law, and are for once unanimous--their salaries to draw! alas! alas! 'tis ever thus within our halls of state; sweet justice is blacklisted--the _dollar_ is too great. aye, even on judicial bench, where justice should be done, how scattering are the cases where _right_ the victory won! lawyers, judge and jury _exparte_ view the case- an angel would be ruined in the defendant's place! in vain is protestation, in vain a blameless life; some _must be_ doomed to prison when prejudice is rife! law must keep its servants in stations high and proud, tho' every hour should furnish a coffin and a shroud! the modern shylock of today, unlike his friend of old, demands the pound of quivering flesh and _all_ his victim's gold; nor feels content until he sees his victim's hated face behind a wall of rock and steel in garments of disgrace. then he will raise his dainty hands and loud applaud the law that _can_ protect such beings, who live without a flaw. _he_ has no pity for the weak, who thro' temptation fall, but freely spends his _time_ and _means_ the guileless to enthrall. he heaps _his_ mighty wrath and scorn on every evil done, and speaks in tones of pure disgust of poverty's pale son. but if you bid him look within and study his own heart, he has a task herculean--'tis such a _tiny_ part! and as for mind--ye angels! in fair creation's plan 'twas given to his victim, and left him _half a man_! the modern clytemnestra no dagger needs to use; she slays her agamemnon within your _legal_ pews, since judges now are willing to sunder marriage ties, and juries are so truculent when blushing beauty lies. or if she be a _helen_, and paris suits her taste, she hastes without compunction to lay her honor waste. "society" allows her to have "a special friend," and a husband is _so_ handy her good name to defend! but alas! aspasia _no mercy_ need expect; her pericles _lionized_, but none _her_ worth detect! and as for poor thargelia _none_ will take _her_ part; she lives a social outcast, with broken, bleeding heart; but each base seducer, in our social plan. makes poor, trusting woman bear the sins of _man_! many men are now misjudged, and meet an awful fate, whose innocence is published, but alas, it is too late! many, too, are breathing freedom's precious air whose vile conduct merits prison dress and fare. only _little_ rascals in your prisons _die_, while _stupendous_ villians liberty can buy! each one strives with fervor his neighbor to outshine, and he who has the most of gold is reckoned half divine. you scatter dark temptations around the poor man's path, and when he falls you pour on him _all_ your vicious wrath. poverty in public lives all her deeds are seen; wealth can build a castle her _wickedness_ to screen. yet many a noble woman and kingly man is found as toilers in your factories or tillers of the ground! if cathode rays were freely used to bring to human sight the dirty methods villians use to _damn_ eternal right, many men would be set free and others take their place who now can roll in luxury and laugh at their disgrace. a judge and jury now can sit and _hang_ a man at will, but they say 'tis open _murder_ if but _one_ dares kill! take a ring of brass and plate it o'er with gold, and 'tis only _business_ when the fraud is sold! adulterate both food and drink, deal in deadly pills; law will aid your _robbery_ and collect your bills! give to your profession but a sounding name, then cut up the devil without fear or shame. be sure to call it _business_ whatever you may do, and if you have sufficient _gall_ that will pull you through. now throughout this prison rays cathodal dart, and read the hidden secrets of each convict heart. some have wrought vile deeds, and wrought them o'er and o'er, that surely proves them rotten to their inmost core. and here are wretched fiends, who with consumate art, ravish every instinct of the human heart. some men of wit and letters, cultured and refined, others moral lepers, with heart and conscience blind. from drawing room and brothel, farm and city slum, some by acts of justice, some through perjury come; the innocent and guilty, callow youth and age, all can be imprisoned in this christian age! but they who seek for liberty no innocence must plead- gold, and plenty of it, will be all they need. some young souls are making, for a stated time, this, their maiden effort, on the sea of crime. oh, christians, teach them early what to me is plain; crime ever _has_ and ever _will_ result in lasting pain. do not be _too_ lenient, nor _too_ soon forgive, lest all _vice_ should flourish and no _virtue_ live. society demands it, the _guilty_ should atone- but take care you punish those, and those _alone_! keep them in your prisons till by _virtue_ shown they will know what _is_ and what is _not_ their own. but let all be careful lest by _word_ or _act_ those who should _reform_ them from their _good_ subtract. rule them wisely, gently--by some _humane_ plan, all their faults to conquer as best becomes a man. when your work is finished and their habits changed, give them honest labor, by the state arranged; show them honest labor _can_ a living gain, while the _social outcast_ harvests _want_ and _shame_! treat them fairly, kindly; teach them all the true will be friendly with them while _the right_ they do. both principle and policy declare this course is wise; then why longer act the fool and wisdom's voice despise? crime never _can_ nor _will_ decrease until in _wisdom's school_ men learn the noted lesson, "right _through_ law should rule." all tried plans are failures, this none dares deny; now give _common sense_ a show and failure dare defy. do _this_, and lash and pistol, now your sole defense, shall give place to reason and plain common sense! courts are far too careless when they give men life for offense unnoticed save in time of strife. naught but some poor chicken or a ham he stole- shall the devil purchase at such price a soul? if such petty crimes as this deserve such prison fare, come now, honest reader, what is _your_ just share? was that old greek right, who, tho' a man of sense, could mete out death to all for each small offense? apply his heartless rule, and can you truly say any man or woman would be left to slay? man is only mortal, and to sin is prone; never cure another's faults till you quit your own. many are convicted by the _press_ at large; the public mind is rarely heaven's peculiar charge. bring the judge and jury who declared my fate for the shining dollars furnished them by hate, and their guilty conscience by my own arrange, and then tell me frankly if my fate should change! yet i had sooner die behind these bars of steel than to have a heart of stone that _could_ not feel! i know such human tigers, who fatten on distress, never _can_ and _never_ will enjoy one hour of rest! until all hate and malice, all greed and other sin is burned by awful torture to leave them pure within! god _will_ forgive each penitent whate'er his sin may be, whose heart is overflowing with _love_ for bond and free. oh listen! brothers, listen--'tis jehovah's plan- and a _time is fixed_ to right the wrongs of man. _freedom._ how sweet thou art, o freedom. to every human heart- man's privilege most sacred. his being's noblest part. thou priceless, great possession, without thee life were done! its sun gone down forever, for thou and life are one. how dear thou art, o freedom- our birthright here below! chief blessing of all blessings kind heaven doth bestow. deprived by dark misfortune of every other joy, naught while thou still remainest can happiness destroy. but thou, o prison penance, dark shadow by life's board! of all that men hold mournful thou art the fullest stored. there's naught on earth worth having if't must be shared with thee- o happy, holy freedom! o heaven, set me free. [illustration] _god bless them_ god bless the mothers of this land! they are so good and true; and all the sisters of their band, they are so noble, too. if we don't treat them with respect, and court their wholesome 'fluence, our morals will not be correct, and we will suffer hence. if women are not treated with respect, and made to exercise an influence over the social world, the standard of private virtue and public opinion will be lowered, and the morals of men will suffer. _forget? no, never!_ there are things we'll not remember, and much will be forgot, as in the bleak december when our coffee was not hot; when the butter was much younger, when the bread was sour and dry; when are felt the pangs of hunger, with regrets and many a sigh. how the memory used to vex us as 'twould o'er our senses steal; how we wished they might "annex" us, so we'd get one good square meal. other things may be forgot in this busy, hustling age, but one thing we ne'er can blot from off our memory's page, that we never can forget in a hundred months of junes; it will long our memories fret- _those prunes--those rotten, wormy prunes_. _mother._ by overstreet. who is it, in this life so drear, that pines for the wandering boy, and ever ready with words of cheer to turn sad thoughts to joy? mother. who is it, when all others do forsake and leave us to our grief, that will for long hours lie awake and pray for our relief? mother. who is it, when the world laughs on and gives our sighs no thought, that thinks of the boy who looks upon this life that's come to naught? mother. who is it, when from prison freed- the boy goes forth so sadly- that receives him in his hour of need with tears of joy--yea, gladly? mother. who is it, when the end has come, looks fondly on her child, and prays to god for a happy home for the boy that's been so wild? mother. [illustration] _a prisoner's thanksgiving._ what if the gold of the corn lands is faded to somber grey? and what if the down of the thistle is ripened and scattered away? there's a crowning golden harvest, there's turkey the heart to cheer, there's a basket from home with plenty of "pone," tho' 'tis bathed in a mother's tear. what 'f our friends are far from us and they know not where we are? what if those who are dearest live ever away so far? there's room for us by th' fireside, where in childhood days we'd play; 'tis comfort to think, tho' we stand on the brink, that we will be there some day. what if our hearts are lonely as we toil in our enemy's hand? what if our sad looks betray us as we take a true manly stand? there's a coming golden harvest, there's a time when we all'll meet, when prison locks and iron bars will fail to ther pris'n'r keep. what care we for the pang at heart? 'twill all be gone some day; and then tho' our enemies'ld crush us, they'll be scattered far away. tho' this is a sad thanksgiving, a better one's coming our way, when we'll all be home to share in the "pone" and hear our angeled sister pray. what if the gold of the corn lands is faded to somber grey? and what if the down of the thistle is ripened and scattered away? away to the east in a far off land there's turkey the heart to cheer. where the dear ones are partaking and thinking of one that's here; there's father and mother and sister and brother, all so far away. there's a blessed time a-coming- the prisoner's thanksgiving day. _hope--eternity._ the heart bowed down with silent grief. despair its portals soon assails. oh! let such moments be but brief when spirit lost o'er man prevails; think not of friend who, false, betrayed. nor sweetheart's change, nor colder wife- recall those oaths when passion prayed for vengeance and for foeman's life. we pass dear friends but once this way: our judge, accusers and our foe. if false to god and man they play. not thou, but they, shall suffer woe. all stay is short; the longest span counts less than raindrops in the sea. arouse thee, then, despairing man. and hail with hope--eternity! glows in thy cell a fragrant bloom, plucked from thy guardian angel's wreath. do thou but nurture it with prayer and water it with tears of faith. to humble hearts its petals ope, revealing bliss to streaming eye- immortal blooms this rose of hope, god's flower of life--eternity. [illustration] _the prisoner's mother._ by mrs. s. e. wirick. to be a prisoner's mother is to feel a piercing dart that sets the mind a-whirling and almost cleaves the heart. to be a prisoner's mother is, upon a holiday, to visit him in prison, then part and go away. to be a prisoner's mother 'tis, inside the lonely wall, to say, "farewell, my darling"- oh, i almost faint and fall. no resting place but heaven, no happy morn that dawns; our home so drear and lonely because our boy is gone. an empty bed, a missing plate, a grief that inward burns; no balm on earth to heal our hearts until our boy returns. "honor and shame from no condition rise; act well your part, there all the honor lies." [illustration] _how to be happy in prison._ by no. 22700 do what is right, and day by day teach yourself that work is play of brain and muscle, rightly used- and hurtful only when abused; deep interest take in all you do; 'twill others please, as well as you. relieve a fellow prisoner's need; righteous counsel always heed; be not suspicious or unjust- few men betray a perfect trust; he trusts the most whose heart is pure, and generous thought will malice cure. brood not o'er the ills of life; give no cause for needless strife; tomb the past with all its sin; purify yourself within; rear your standard, be a man, and do whatever good you can. some, perhaps, will misconstrue all you say and all you do, but when conscience is at rest happiness will fill the breast- 'twill be a sweet red-letter day when we all shall act that way. [illustration] _in prison._ by harrison. that which the world miscals a jail a private closet is to me; whilst a good conscience is my bail, and innocence my liberty: locks, bars and solitude together met make me no prisoner, but an anchoret. i, whilst i wisht to be retired, into this private room was turned, as if their wisdoms had conspired the salamander should be burned; or, like those sophists that would drown a fish, i am constrained to suffer what i wish. these manacles upon my arm i as my mistress' favors wear; and for to keep my ankles warm i have some iron shackles there; these walls are but my garrison; this cell, which men call jail, doth prove my citadel. i'm in the cabinet lockt up, like some high-prized margarite, or, like the great mogul or pope, am cloistered up from public sight: retiredness is a piece of majesty, and thus, proud sultan, i'm as great as thee. [illustration] _erratic musings of unfettered thought._ [by geo. w. h. harrison.] is living thought, proud condor of the mind, by walls of rock and iron bars confined, innate divinity by human courts enslaved, and right eternal by a dust-worm braved? think you the spirit's rapid flight to mar with dungeon torture and by iron bar? can rock-ribbed walls and bars of steel deprive man of the power to feel? can you the stream of lethe roll in maddening torrents o'er the soul, pluck from my brow love's garland fair and brand me "victim of despair?" no! weakling son of vengeful fate, god grants to none a power so great. my body is your lawful prey, poor lump of spirit-crumbling clay; seize, chain and manacle each part, aye, even starve my bleeding heart, but know that for creative thought all fetters by one's self is wrought. mind, glorious mind--jehovah's sleepless breath, can know no bondage and can feel no death. in yon fair regions of unreached repose eternal beauty's flower-chalice glows, filled to the brim with satisfying wine, ambrosial nectar of the tuneful nine. my muse can reach it on external wings and drink till all the heart within me sings! i scale the lofty heights, by virtue shown, and from eternal wisdom seek my own. there, far above the struggling world of fate, i greet true freedom and am wisely great. 'tis mine in bright elysian fields to roam, pluck jeweled treasure from the sleeping gnome; bid ocean deeps their mysteries reveal, or, soaring far above the world of space, gain raptured visions of the holy place; admire and measure every glittering throne, count heavenly treasure as my own, make august angels bow beneath my rod, and even dare to mould the mind of god; o radiant fields of pure, untrammeled thought, with what sweet incense are thy zephyrs fraught; how clear the view, from thy exalted height, of human errors and unerring right; 'tis thou alone my laboring muse can teach the perfect measure of her powers to reach; she cons these fragments of a truth sublime, and art stands ready with appropriate rhyme to trim each sentence and each word to place in melting numbers of seductive grace; since first jehovah, bending low to earth, breathed in man's nostrils an eternal birth, the rain drop falling, from the heavy cloud, in waiting dust, finds ready shroud, and there commingling fills each separate cell, yet still remains as pure as when it fell: to man appearing but a dampened clod, 'tis chambered favor of a gracious god; and serves his purpose till he calls above this liquid semblance of immortal love, there _not_ to perish, but return again to deck the forest and adorn the plain; all nature feels its fructifying power in laughing streamlets and in nodding flower; the rain drop typifies the pure indwelling god, that permeates our being, to animate a clod; give birth to all emotion, consistent with his plan, and with unmeasured tenderness weep the fall of man. from every nodding flower, from every whispering breeze from mountain's lofty height, from towering trees, from softly twinkling star, from lightning's giddy flash, from the softest twitter of a bird and thunder's awful crash, from hills the ants may call their own, from crested elders 'round their throne, from babbling brook, from storm-lashed wave, from nature smiling, nature grave, from earth and air, from sky and sea, there comes the self same voice to me, like softest note of cooing dove, and sweetly whispers, "god is love." all nature is obedient to heaven's august plan, and none will dare rebellion, save ever-erring man. he, of a dual nature--purity and lust- defies his great creator and thus betrays his trust. thrones within his being the hydra-headed sin, all his joy to murder and create _hell within_; self-conscienceness completes the triple blow while memories of happier years augments his hapless woe. whatever then of pleasure his wounded spirit knows from the fountain of bitter repentance it onward, onward flows, his own environment, be it either fair or fell, must _now_ embower his heaven, or will create his hell. contentment, peace, or pleasure he must create anew by sowing seeds of virtue where vice so lately grew. he learns he must not do whatever man can do, but recognize the limits of the just and true. law is his _alma mater_, the measure of his right, the barrier jehovah set to curb irreverent flight; he has the truest liberty who recognizes law; 'tis made to shield his virtues and on his vices war; he who denies humanity lives for himself alone all history to hush, all culture to disown; and quickly he relapses into a barbarous state, where only force and prowess can make the unit great. none so lost to _virtue_, none so devoid of art, as he who fails to capture the _empire of a heart_; he who knows not sympathy feels no fellow's woe, will never feel the rapture of happiness below; god planted seeds of pity in every human breast, and he who loses most of woe secures most of rest: love is man's _all_, his conqueror, his cordial and wine, the measure of his inner life that stamps him as divine. how circumscribed the circle god allots to man, his home is but an acre, his life is but a span; and yet within that circle his influence is so great he wakes the cooing notes of _love_ or feeds the fires of hate; his influence is potential within a circle small, but beyond the limit of the same he does no good at all; all thought, all power with which our being teems, is action predicated on events or on dreams. all we have seen or heard, all we now can feel, leaves an imprint on the heart that the future must reveal: the vain are truly lonely, they long to be admired, one wishes to be understood, another well attired, this hushed by useless longings or fashion's changing art, that sweetest of all poems, _the music of the heart_. but he who solves life's mystery is never quite alone, all ages is his playground and solitude his throne; he walks in subtle converse with all the mighty dead, gathering priceless jewels their wit or wisdom bred. the watchtowers of his thought o'erlooks the struggling mass, while events both past and present before his vision pass. he sees the weary captive tugging at his chain; the weather-beaten sailor plough the raging main; the swarthy burden bearer in forest, mine and field; the merchant's soiled ledgers, the soldier's brazen shield; the child with glittering toy, the maiden at her glass; the ruler of an empire, the leader of the mass; the student in his study, the priest on bended knee; the teacher with his ferrule, the aged human tree, all fondly dream of freedom, yet all beneath the ban, each in a separate prison presided o'er by _man_; sees _nature_ and _morality_ are ever waging war, the first as god of freedom, the latter lord of law. sees culture raise her barriers between polite and rude, and hears _religion_ thunder, "cover up the nude!" knows man in every station to be a willing slave, the football of his passion, the dupe of every knave. yet hears him boast his freedom, laud his reasoning power; rule all he can with iron hand, and _finite_ judgment shower; sees all the devious, hidden paths by sinful mortals trod where _human_ law and custom dare ostracise a god; yet knows a germ of goodness, deep in the human breast, is living in the worst of men however much depressed. knows life is but the unit of god's eternal plan, and learns to _pity_, not to blame, poor ever-erring man! in each created atom sees faultless beauty glow and god's eternal purpose in onward sequence flow. views all souls as living harps, whose seeming dissonance is but apparent and not real; and believes, perchance, god will mend each shattered chord, tune the quivering lyre, and from out each soul shall bring a music sweeter, higher than earthly ears have ever heard or earthly lips essayed; such music as the ransomed sing in innocence arrayed; while all the universe entranced shall wondering inquire: "is this the fruitage of _his_ woe? is this his soul's desire? is this the harp so late unstrung? is this poor fallen man? ah! can it be that all was wrought obedient to god's plan"? nature will o'er matter bear imperial sway, and all not immortal must in time decay; man's tenement is mortal, but himself divine; which should he most cherish, the jewel or its shrine? yet when vice allures him with seductive ray, gives he not to passion undisputed sway? dreams he not of beauty who, with open arms, calls for lust to enter and revel 'mid her charms? is his eye not captive? do not his senses thrill? what is left the tempted one save his feeble will? if that will prove recreant to jehovah's trust, pays he not the penalty in self-consuming lust? must his spirit suffer through unending years for the shame he purchased with agonizing tears? life is but a shoe-broom, nature is god's book and he's the aptest scholar who all her laws can brook! if love of right was constant man could well defy all of sin's allurements and unspotted die! _one_ such man has lived who, with a faith sublime, crucified the temple where he dwelt in time, and entered heaven victorious without the aid of grace, the marvel of all centuries, the savior of the race; but had his will but weakened, jesus, too, had fell, and man without redemption sank tottering into hell; all would be good did not true goodness claim such earnest noble effort from a will so tame; _crime_ is but a sequence of misguided will inherent moral defect and _surrounding_ ill. man's innate love of beauty and his dread of pain, his ever raging thirst for power and his greed for gain alternately do sway him with resistless power, the spotless blossoms of the soul, until he only yearns for the ever hideous lust that blackens as it burns. guilt comes not, thundering on the wings of time, with vice-distorted feature and the leer of crime, but like enchanting vision from a pagan dream, or softly echoed cadence of a whispering stream, she steals upon us gently, with ever-changing art, and usurps an empire--the waiting human heart! her outward form is beauty, her voice with passion tense, she only craves the privilege to gratify each sense; all apparent pleasures 'round her path are spread, but, alas! you seize the flower to find its fragrance fled; but still pursuing, row with bated breath, you clasp her to your bosom and--embrace a death! then, conscience stricken, you the wreck survey, and with shuddering sorrow--humbly kneel to pray; while the pitying angels on their pinions bear the ever sacred burden of repentant prayer, and almighty love descending reasserts control, and mercy in the guise of grace has won a human _soul_; but contrast a moment, with this heavenly plan, the awful brutal conduct of exacting man. see yon martial champion riding on the flood of a frightful carnage and a sea of blood; his path is strewn with many a ghastly sight, dead and dismembered bodies and defenseless fright! yet all the people with a loud acclaim pronounce _him_ "_hero_," and accord him fame! true, he butchers thousands in a cruel war, yet you deem him _guiltless_, he obeyed _your_ law. but if your angered brother slay a single man, _him_ you brand a "murderer," worthy of your ban; and with zeal unbounded you wage relentless war until he falls, a victim to rage-created law. as if a useless _murderer_, sanctioned by the state, was less the fruitage of revenge than one new-born of hate; perchance in some fair aiden, some far distant sphere your poor hapless victim these just words may hear: "thou art now forgiven, poor misguided son! "tho' tranced with dire passion thou hast slain but one. "thou hast made atonement, breathed a fiery breath "of a deep repentance and an awful death! "place on him the raiment--whiter far than snow, "and teach his untried lips to sing the song the angels know. "but as to yonder soldier who for the bauble fame "led unbattled thousands without fear or shame; "and with banners flying to the bugle's chime "hurled obedient legions into conscious crime- "all the tears he showed, _all_ the blood he shed, "now in molten fire shall circle 'round his head, "and all shall learn the lesson, that horror-breeding war "will _never_ meet the sanction of jehovah's law!" this is no fancy picture, nor idle dream of youth, but, if i know the laws of god, it is the solemn truth". behold a homeless wanderer, poor and thinly clad, to biting cold a victim, with hunger almost mad, entering yonder mansion, dares to boldly steal what none should e'er deny a dog--the pittance of a meal! see the greedy sleuth-hounds of the outraged law wage against this robber an unrelenting war; while _christian_ judge and jury, with ready wit, declare his crime an awful outrage, that merits prison fare! but he who rears his costly domes o'er wreck and ruin of human homes, plants in the breast a raging thirst and leaves his victims doubly cursed, can roll in luxury, loll in pride and, with _the law_, his gain divide! tho' every dime he pays the state a thousand cost in wakened hate! a simple youth by passion lured, and of but little wisdom steward, meets with a maid of witching grace and dalliance ends in dire disgrace! in prison stripes you teach the fool that he must _love_ by _human_ rule! yet you rear great, costly piles where soiled doves may ply their wiles and lead to an unhallowed bed the lustful brute you lately wed. if passion will assert her power none shall dare a maid deflower unless so _licensed_ by the state in wedlock's bonds his lust to sate! and, if marriage prove a bane, _divorce_, for cash, will ease his pain! then to your haunts of sin he hies and laws of god and man defies by casting, in a barren sea, the germ of _life_ that is to be! 'tis true this evil you decry- and raise your taxes mountain high! as if the more the state shall gain the less will virtue feel the strain!- you legalize _divorce_ and _fraud_, and each _successful_ scoundrel laud, unmindful tho' he gain his wealth by open plunder or by stealth. in vain his hapless victims cry, his _gold_ can legal silence buy! but if through stress of penury's strife one makes a shipwreck of his life, you prisons build and place within this fruitage of a law-made sin, to linger till the cowering slave shall fill--unwept--a pauper's grave. and scarce a line of obscure print at this dark tragedy will hint; but if your millioned puppy dies what wailings rend the astonished skies! what sabled hue and lengthened train attest your deep regret and pain! how yon cathedral's vaulted arch will echo with his funeral march; what flowers will deck his costly tomb; what tapers rob the grave of gloom; while columns, nay, whole papers tell how _great_ a man today has fell. deluded mortals! raise your eyes to yon fair regions of the skies, where _justice_ sits, each cause to try beneath omniscience's searching eye; your "_convict_," on low bended knee, pleads "guilty"--and they set him free; and angels crown, with loud acclaim, the man you deemed a living shame! your _croesus_, with uplifted eye, (still conscious of his station high) deigns to repeat, with growing stress, how from defeat he wrung success; tells, with a proudly swelling heart, of millions spent on sculptured art; and millions more on lordly hall, the eye and heart of man to thrall; tells how a church and college new from _his_ donation quickly grew; tells how--in cushioned pew--he knelt and begged god other hearts to melt, until each child of man should be, like his dear self, from error free; all this they hear your idol tell- and cast him headlong into hell! while heaven bows her head with awe in sanction of jehovah's law. what mighty solons fill your halls of state! (poor gibbering parrots with an empty pate), who deem all prisons of but little use not founded on starvation and abuse. they lock poor pris'ners in a loathsome cell, while lash and pistol drives them on to hell; they crush his manhood and his soul debase, blot out ambition and his name disgrace, yet wonder greatly that such humane plan makes not an angel of each convict man. these truthful samples of your legal page condemn your judgment and disgrace your age- too oft repeated, who will dare to say to what dark horrors they may pave the way? pause! ere the records that now strew your path invite the vengeance of jehovah's wrath; relearn the lesson early taught mankind, "to god give reverence and to man be kind." be this your motto, and each setting sun will kiss the feature of a work begun; time cannot tarnish and no heart can blame your noble effort to deserve a name; heaven will applaud you, and the smile of happiness the hours beguile, why pay such homage to mere human laws? dread you man's censure or admire applause? are you forgetful that the crown of fame is purchased torture and expiring shame? think you man's plaudits or his causeless hate can either ope or close the pearly gate? who ever placed in man implicit trust, nor saw his idol, soon or late, in dust? why thus pursue an ever fading wraith? 'tis god, and god alone, deserves your faith. survey all things with comprehensive view, admire all beauty and enthrone the true; know every mortal, tho' a separate soul, is but a fragment of the mighty whole that fills a niche in god's eternal plan, all for the welfare of ungrateful man; learn that in many a loathsome cell a prisoned genius or a saint may dwell, whose power, developed by an act of love, may lead a million to the courts above. shall it be yours to touch that vibrant chord and share the honor of the great reward? what heaven endorses that alone can stand; all else is stubble, built on shifting sand, that shall vanish 'mid the fire and flood like tiny snowflakes in a sea of blood. oh, could my muse, by some exalted flight, portray her knowledge of eternal right- breathe in soft accents to the listening ear the melting music which my soul can hear, some would declare my reason half dethroned before my fancy to such heights had flown; yet could such see as i have seen the scroll where god has written "destiny of soul," they much would wonder how my muse could dare suppress such glorious news. what pen can picture or what brush can paint the endless rapture of a raptured saint? words are too feeble; they but tell in part the truthful language of a human heart; but, oh, when spirit from its cumbering clay shall rise triumphant to the realms of day, what strains seraphic from our lips shall break till all creation shall to bliss awake! o bliss supernal! when our lips shall meet- the lips long buried--and our souls shall greet the loved and cherished of those earlier years. ere pain had turned each quivering chord to tears, and life was smiling in her morning hours and love was conscious of her magic powers. oh, sweet reunion on the crystal strand! when we shall fondly clasp the waiting hand of buried jewels distance hides from view, and all the plighted vows of life renew, then shall we learn the truthfulness of love, when hearts like ours, renewed in youth, above all passion and the cloying cares of earth shall wake to rapture with a second birth! o hearts estranged, forgive and be forgiven! your cruel coldness has already driven the angel sweetness from your speaking eye, and suffered everything, save pride, to die. o cradle, in the lap of everlasting sleep the dark, fierce passions that now rudely sweep the sounding chambers of the suffering soul, where hate's tumultuous torrents hourly roll, and blacken what was once so white and fair, when spotless innocence was centered there! oh, keep no kisses for my cold, dead brow- i am so lonely--let me feel them now. when dreamless sleep is mine i never more can need the tenderness for which tonight i plead; my wayworn spirit and my thorn-pierced feet the piteous pleadings of my lips repeat. oh, shall i plead and plead with you in vain to bring love's sunlight to my soul again? shall acts repented, bred of undue haste, lay all my stock of future pleasures waste? bid me to draw a servile, galling chain, nor wish to murmur, nor murmur to complain? will you deprive my hungry soul of love, nor leave one spark of happiness above? oh, what base deed has these my fingers wrought to wake a malice with each vengeance fraught? if i have sinned and disobeyed your laws, discarded fashion and despised applause, have i not suffered all a man can know, and drank the bitterest dregs of human woe? think you my proud and haughty soul to cower with scorpion lashes of tempestuous power? go scourge the ocean with puny lash, or raze a mountain with a feather's crash! why thus torment my swift declining age with useless torture of unreasoning rage? 'twere best to sound the caverns of my soul and learn the being whom you dare control! 'twill teach you wisdom in a single hour and rob your malice of its wasting power! for heaven has writ upon each poet soul "deal gently with him and his all control." _influence._ by sam law. when e'er a noble deed is wrought, when e'er is spoke a noble thought, our hearts, in glad surprise, to higher levels rise. the sleeping purpose wakes in us, arousing power or genius, and from their exercise is born good enterprise. honor to those whose words or deeds thus help us in our prison needs, and by their overflow raise us from what is low. [illustration] _perfect peace._ ["thou wilt keep him in perfect peace."--isaiah xxvi, 3.] peace, perfect peace, in this dark world of sin, the blood of jesus whispers peace within; peace, perfect peace, for loved ones far away; in jesus' keeping we are safe and they. peace, perfect peace, with sorrows surging 'round, on jesus' bosom naught but calm is found; peace, perfect peace, our future all unknown; jesus we know, and he is on the throne. peace, perfect peace, death shadowing us and ours; jesus has vanquished death and all its powers. it is enough, earth's struggles soon shall cease, and jesus calls to heaven's own perfect peace. _be lenient to the errant one._ by geo. w. h. harrison. like phantoms weird of troubled dream, in they come--a ceaseless stream- the callow youth, the aged sire, to reap the fruit of satan's hire. with pallid brow and rueful face they view their garments of disgrace, and oft in eyes unused to weep unbidden tears will slowly creep. be lenient with the blighted crowd; some come, perhaps, to greet a shroud; some, perhaps, will go outside and yet become a nation's pride. if by kindness you reclaim a single soul from crime and shame, god will reward the noble deed and aid you in the hour of need. _last night in the dungeon._ the darkness of hades and a vile, deathly smell is all that i feel stealing over my senses, as lingering alone in this cold dungeon cell, shut away from the world, where hearts' blood condenses. i feel 'tis too much for slight, trivial offenses. shut away from the dear ones, the loved ones on earth, i suffer the tortures that no man can tell till he's taken away from fireside and hearth and sees the sad visions of a dungeon cell- then he feels that vile man can create a real hell. as i sit here alone, my head throbbing and aching, and listen to hear if the keeper is near, my thoughts they roam back to little ones taking caresses so sweet from a mother so dear- then i'm prompted to ask, "do they think of me here?" but when in my heart i feel a slight flutter, i know there is sympathy somewhere about; i then to myself do silently mutter, "they have love for me still, and there is no doubt:" aye, love for me still, and this i've found out. then, down on the damp and cold stony floor, without either pillow, or blanket, or gown, i stretch my weak body right close to the door, and there, in sweet sleep, my vision to drown- then, when i awake, i'm not so cast down. there is nothing so sweet and perfectly soothing to one who is placed in a cold dungeon cell, as the thought that yet there are dear ones a-wooing the one who's imprisoned in a dark, dreary dell- i muttered, while sleeping, "'tis well, ah, 'tis well." then, when i awoke and proceeded to think, cold, stiffened and hungry, with tongue parched from thirst, i seek but in vain for food and for drink, but bread and poor water, the same as at first- aye, dry bread and bad water, the same as at first. then my heart sank within me, so weak and so pale, as i gazed on the keeper of dungeon and jail and begged for a drink of pure adams' ale, as he held in his hand a full water pail- but the answer came back, "your plea it must fail." then, giving it up in pure desperation, i try to surpass the curse of damnation that springs to my lips ere i can but control the blood that is boiled by such torturing droll- then i whisper, "be still! some one loves this poor soul." then, staid by the love of those dear ones at home, i steady myself and go swimming along; i brave the hard life of a dark dungeon cell and i come out victorious, all perfect and well- then i meet them again and go home there to dwell. 't is well! ah, 't is well! _hope._ by sam law. the world may change from old to new,- from new to old again,- yet hope and heaven, forever true, within man's heart remain. the dreams that bless the weary soul, the struggle of the strong, are steps toward some happy goal, the story of hope's song. [illustration] _would they know?_ by 25700. if, amid these prison shadows, these pale lips should breathe their last, would my friends regret the summons, and forgive my guilty past? would they know the dire temptations i had met and nobly braved ere the tears in guilty passion my pale cheeks in torrents laved? would they know how oft and earnest i had plead before the throne for the place my crime made vacant in the bosom of my own? would these hours of retribution prove sufficient for my sin? would the gates of glory open to let this weary wanderer in? hear, oh, hear! from yonder heaven speaks the lamb once crucified; "look up, sad one; never falter; for such sinners once i died." [illustration] _guilt's queries and truth's replies._ by harrison. guilt. will the fountain of life, now bathed in tears, ebb and flow ten weary years? will the soul escape the horrible blight that stalks in prison's gruesome night? truth. trust, weary one, alone in me; living or dead, thou shalt be free from prison blight and sin's alarms, while closely nestling in my arms. guilt. will the absent ones i love the best 'neath heaven's smile serenely rest? will every branch of the family tree still bud and bloom till i am free? truth. if they lean upon my breast i will give thy loved ones rest; if death a single jewel steal heaven its presence it shall reveal. guilt. while prayers ascend from sacred fane shall penitent tears be shed in vain? will christ ascend to a prison cell and deign in a convict heart to dwell? truth. none will i spurn who pardon crave- i came on earth the lost to save: he loves the most whose debt is large- that soul is heaven's peculiar charge. guilt. if ever again i shall be free will the wreck of my life still haunted be? will the much loved friends in the days of yore spurn me from their open door? truth. those who bathe in calvary's stream sin regard as a hideous dream; my children clothed in white by me a welcome meet where'er they be. _a letter from home._ by no. 24138. i am far from the land where my loved ones are dwelling; between rolls the sea, with its billows and foam; yet my heart with fondest emotions is swelling as i read the dear letter they've sent me from home. for i fancy i see the brown cottage again, and the garden where sweetly the red roses blow; i kneel by a grave in the shade of the glen, where slumbers the dear one i lost long ago. and oft to my heart, when in solitude straying, fond memory recalls the bright days of yore, and i sigh for the fields, where the children are playing, the hills and the valley i may never see more. long years have i wandered, alone and a stranger, and dark is the pathway o'er which i must roam, but i know there is one who can shield me from danger, and his blessing i ask on the dear ones at home. _the reformer._ by sam law. all grim and soiled and brown with tan, i saw a strong one in his wrath smiting the godless shrines of man along his path. i looked: aside the dust cloud rolled- the master seemed the builder too; upspringing from the ruined old i saw the new. through prison walls, like heaven-sent hope, fresh breezes blew and sunbeams strayed, and with the idle gallows rope the young child played. where the doomed victim in his cell had counted o'er the weary hours glad school girls, answering to the bell, came crowned with flowers. _reflections._ how pleasant it is to be at home, surrounded by those we love; how sweet to list to words of cheer that softly fall on the listening ear like the notes of a cooing dove. how the soft caress of a loving hand can dry the eyes that weep! how the mind is eased and the pulses thrill as we feel the strength of a loving will that rocks our grief to sleep. how soft that hand has ever been when sickness laid us low, how its soft caress could summon rest and bring relief to the laboring breast, and cool the fever's glow. how soft the light in love-lit eye, that welcomes our safe return; how the tender kiss and warm embrace can soothe the pain of late disgrace when fate has been too stern. god bless the home where love abides- 'tis the dearest spot on earth! be it hovel or palace, or great or small, it holds man's hope, his joy, his all, and heaven gave it birth! _the prisoner released._ by col. h. c. parsons. i could stand and look at the stars all night- where tides run in wreaths to the rivers and rills, where the sea breezes play with the wind from the hills- where by land and by sea man can go where he wills- i'm a free man again, and a free man of right. i could stand and look at the stars all night, for months that were years they have prisoned my stars; my silver-veiled venus and red-hooded mars were fettered and framed by the merciless bars, that shaded their glory or shivered their light. i will stand and look at the stars all night; i will wait in the shadow and lee of the tower till morning shall come, with his magical power- perhaps in the flame of that wonderful hour the prison shall tremble and pass from my sight. _prison pains._ by harrison. oh! to be heart hungry, to feel that never again shall the heart pulsate with rapture to the music of love's strain! to feel o'er the senses stealing a grief for words too deep, and know the heart's best instincts are locked in fathomless sleep. to hear the piteous wailings that rise from an empty heart, while every breath is torture and every thought a dart. oh, list to the wondrous music as it floats from the world above: "there is balm for the broken-hearted: the gift of my son is--love." aye, prayer to heaven ascending, tho' winged from a convict cell, shall find in heaven a welcome no tongue can ever tell. _the under dog._ by barker. i know that the world--the great, big world, from the peasant up to the king, has a different tale from the tale i tell and a different song to sing. but for me--and i care not a single fig if they say i was wrong or am right- i shall always go in for the weaker dog, for the under dog in the fight. i know that the world--the great, big world- will never a moment stop to see which dog may be in the fault, but will shout for the dog on top. but for me--i never shall pause to ask which dog may be in the right- for my own heart will beat, while it beats at all, for the under dog in the fight. _kindness._ by roth. a kind word for the prisoner, a smile to cheer his heart, for he bears a grievous burden, tho' he bravely plays his part. from the world he hides his sorrows, stifles the groan of distress that struggles oft for utterance beneath his convict dress. the alert night watch could tell of the burning sighs they hear while making midnight rounds through corridors so drear. then cheer his lot with kindness, e'en though he be depraved: if, wakened from his blindness, the worst one may be saved. _there is no death._ there is no death! the feeble body, slumbering, seems but to waste and fade away; in future years that god is numbering 'twill spring from slumber and decay. and clothed with beauty everlasting, with not a stain of earth to mar, 'twill voice a music more entrancing than anthem of the morning star. a thing of beauty is immortal; each line once lost to mortal sight, soars upward to heaven's august portal, glad to escape earth's cankering night. earth's best and brightest can not perish- death is decreed alone to strife. the good we love and fondly cherish god has endowed with endless life. grieve not for those now calmly sleeping, rocked by the slow, revolving earth: angelic hosts around them sweeping shall wake them to an endless birth. in heaven above there is no seeming: god feeds immortal souls on bliss; on earth we linger, sadly dreaming, till death awakes us with a kiss. then fear thee not death's friendly slumbers: guardian angels watch thy rest; jehovah all thy days shall number and do for thee whate'er is best. _dreams._ dreams are but glimpses of the power deep hidden in the human soul that, like some enchanted flower, withers 'neath reason's stern control. they come not as invited guests to while away the tedious hours- are they not lights from heaven sent to teach the soul its wondrous powers? and best they love to lead us back o'er scenes to memory doubly dear, for those we, waking, love the most in dreams will seem most near. while reason sleeps the soul, awake, lives o'er each precious hour, and woos us with a gentle strain of pathos and of power. dreams index to our waking thought plans on which the heart is set, and he who heeds their warning voice has in life least to regret. in waking hours we sow the seed, in dreams we reap the grain: sometimes the harvest all is joy, sometimes, alas! 'tis pain. what marvel then that sleep is sweet, if dreams bring bliss to view- perhaps the afterglow of death will prove most dreams are not untrue. _the great "o. p."_ "forward, march!" the left foot first, the heel down mighty hard, your head erect and turned to the left, as you slyly watch the guard. tramp, tramp, three times each day, back and forth to our meals, while the fellow behind, with his "state brogans," scrapes the skin all off our heels. the visitors in amaze at us gaze as we march gayly by, the ladies fair, with many a stare, will slyly say, "o my!" some "hayseed" old, with a chronic cold, will suddenly say, "i swow! there goes the man--do you see him ann?- what took our brindle cow!" they say we are "cut-throats" and "robbers," and would be worse if we could; but it's false--we're noble-hearted patriots, here for our country's good, and the honor came to us, you know: we didn't go to it- in other words, we were forced here to "do" our little "bit." uncle sam's domain has been ransacked for men with blue-blooded veins, for we don't want any persons here with any mortal stains. we are all old sons of irish lords- or at least we'd like to be- but instead we are only "cons," you know, doing time in the great "o. p." _coming in and going out._ by carr. coming in to penal slavery, coming in from liberty; going out to joy and freedom, going out the world to see; coming in, oh, how unhappy! going out with many a doubt- endless stream of wretched mortals coming in and going out. from the many charms of home life, from beneath the humble cot, to this penal institution where the felon mortal's brought from some distant homes perhaps torn because grim justice took a fit- coming in with sighs and sadness, a bondsman for his life or "bit." far his loving wife and children, while their eyes with tears are wet; though his family needs him daily. and there are bills that must be met, to this convict world about us, with its heartless woe and din, endless stream of restless mortals adding to its load of sin. time goes on so very slowly, though we try hard not to grieve for the dear old family homestead and for those we're forced to leave; weary are we very often, weary when we try to win news of those who loved us dearly ere we took this step in sin. coming in, alas! to never see the outside world again! some there are that have my pity: naught for them but toil and pain; doomed life's golden hours to fritter far from home and friends most dear- god's pity on the poor full-termer coming in to die, we fear. coming in to serve our sentence, going out, we hope, to cheer; coming in to do hard labor, going out to family dear- careless stream of wretched mortals from all stations 'long life's route- hovel, mansion and the hamlet- coming in and going out. _soul sculpture._ by bishop doane. sculptures of life are we as we stand, with our souls uncarved before us, waiting the hour when, at god's command, our life dream shall pass o'er us. if we carve it, then, on the yielding stone with many a sharp incision, its heavenly beauty shall be our own, our lives the angel vision. [illustration] _weight and immortality of words._ who knows how heavy his words may be, or watches, when he has set them free, their poising, their flight, their rise and fall in the world of thought? we are careless all. we fathom our own, not another's mind. and are all near-sighted among our kind, while words of ours and words of theirs are meeting and wrestling unawares. words are types of our moral trend, the blooms of our daily lives, that lend to others the fragrance of what we are- the outward semblance that goes afar. the part of ourselves that is not our own, when set afloat in the vast unknown, the something we give to the moving wheels of the mighty force that grows and feels. no words are lost as they float away: on some life ever they rest and weigh, unbound in public or depths obscure their immortality is secure. deep in our hearts we often find words lips long closed have left behind: they live in the chambers of the brain, the source of endless joy or pain. words may be soft as evening air or fierce as sultry noonday's glare, but soft or fierce, be sure they rest a curse or blessing in some one's breast. how deep soever their meaning may lie, not every soul will pass them by! no anger, nor passion, nor malice so great but a match 'twill meet in a world of hate. no love so deep, no word so kind but lodges at last in a kindred mind, no thought so vast, nor high nor low but a parallel meets in a world of woe. a heedless word a heart may break, a thoughtful one a fortune make; one, hurl a soul in endless night; another, lead to heaven's delight. one word may nerve a murderer's arm, another still a raging storm- one, sow the seeds of endless strife; another, sanctify a life. our words outline the feeble tongue from which their outward being sprung, or, written on the stainless page, they live to bless or curse an age. how careful, then, ought we to be before we let such engines free! once free, no power can call them back, nor human genius trace their track. we loose them 'mid the wide expanse 'neath joyous spell or sorrow's trance, but if their fruitage all could know we would not deem them half so low. [illustration] _which loved her best?_ two votaries of love's maddening dream at twilight sat beside a stream, each painting scenes of future bliss, dependent on their darling's kiss. both were young and both were fair, with noble hearts and manly air, and both were members of a band who bled to free his native land. each was bound both heart and soul beneath fair nellie's sweet control, yet they were friends both true and tried, if such ere lived, if such ere died. each loved her much, yet neither knew how well each loved her, nor how true, for each was dreaming of the hour that _he_ would cull this priceless flower. at last ned turned and gayly said, "next wednesday i and nellie wed- god knows i am the happiest man in all this joyous western land. "i could not keep this back from you- that would be unjust--untrue. i feel whatever shall betide that _you_ will e'er defend my bride." harvey turned aside his face, lest his friend should see some trace of the anguish and despair the hopeless suffering mirrored there. each word had sunk within his heart like adder's tooth or poisoned dart; joyful love and hope had fled, and left his withered heart--stone dead. he raised his haggard face above until an angel mother's love sent comfort to her suffering child, that made him calm and meek and mild. by memories of the tented field where patriots died, but dared not yield, he knew that ned his arm had lent to stop steel for his bosom meant, and oft had watched beside his bed when others in dismay had fled; when he spoke, his voice was low and soft as rippling streamlets flow: "i wish you peace and joy, ned; you best deserve this queen to wed. i only crave in future life to serve you and your peerless wife." the loyal look in harvey's eyes was to ned a new surprise; and in a moment all was plain- his friend's devotion and his pain. they stood and wrung each others hand to reinforce their friendship's band- their hearts were full, their eyes were wet, yet who can such a scene regret? their friendship stood the cruel test, and sank triumphant into rest; they parted, but to meet again where life was torture, memory pain. one year passed, and war had swept o'er the spot where these two wept, while they, with meig's galland band, were held by santa anna's hand. behind satillo's gloomy walls, whose history stoutest heart appalls, here base deeds were hourly wrought with hell's intensest malice fraught. two hundred patriots true and tried to santa anna's shame here died simply because they leapt the wall and strove to go beyond recall! ned and his comrades planned their flight while careless sentries slept at night, and in safety reached the distant plain where hope and life revived again. across the arid plain they sped, half clothed, half starved and almost dead; without a guide to lead them right they toiled by day and prayed by night. the blistering soil bold cactus bred till every toil-worn foot was bled, and one by one the hapless band fell prostrate on the glittering sand. pursuing soldiers found them thus, and drug and drove them to the "truss," there to await the "tortures grand" that santa anna would command. "nine of ten shall now be shot; choose the guilty dogs by lot: this law for ages now untold has defied both fraud and gold!" _nine black_ beans and _one_ snow _white_ were placed within a box at night- every captive must draw one, blindfolded, ere the work begun. if _white_, he lived, if black, he died- thus were the texas patriots tried! by sons of gantimozin's race- man's caricature and heaven's disgrace! harvey drew one of faultless white, ned drew one as black as night. "i'm lost--oh, god, my wife!" ned gasped, as harvey sprang his hand to clasp. "not so," he cried, "your bean is white- see, mine is _black_, thank god! 'tis right!" e'er ned could draw a conscious breath- harvey had met a hero's death! which loved her best, the man who _died_ or he who _lived_ to cheer his bride? please answer me; o heart, awake- such liberty i dare not take. _the storms of life._ by sam law. the oak strikes deeper as his boughs by furious blasts are driven; so life's vicissitudes the more have fixed my heart in heaven. all gracious lord, whate'er my lot in other times may be, i'll welcome still the heaviest grief that brings me near to thee. [illustration] _love's victim._ she was no dainty city belle, half art and half deceit, and yet no fairer vision the human eye could greet. naught knew she of city life or fashion's changing art- nature created her a belle and blessed her with a heart. her eyes were large and soulful, her face divinely fair; her form was lithe and graceful and a golden dream her hair. her voice was full of melody: each tone to listening ear seemed to awake such music as angels delight to hear. beautiful, pure and guileless, with the faith of a trusting child, she worshiped the god of nature with a spirit undefiled. she lived with honest parents in a home on the mountain side, where peace and plenty lingered and love was true and tried. parental duress was unknown, for love's restraints are mild: a mother's love and father's hope were centered in this child. the acknowledged belle of the mountain, she spurned the coquette's art, determining never to promise her hand without her heart. she could not love her suitors with the love a wife should give, and deemed it sin without such love in wedlock's bonds to live. the idol of many a noble heart, none dared their suit to press: thus they wound the gentle spirit that pitied, but could not bless. grateful for each friendly smile that o'er her face would beam, she reigned an empress absolute in each fond lover's dream. a petted child of fashion, the heir to boundless wealth, came one day among them to recruit his waning health. these hospitable mountain people welcomed the haggard boy, and strove to make his visit one radiant scene of joy. they bade their darling daughter to be the stranger's guide, and show him all the beauties of her loved mountain side. together they scaled the mountains, with many a merry shout; together they garnered the flowers or angled the nimble trout. he spake of his home in the city, of the wealth he soon would own; promised to make lenora his wife ere the summer days had flown. lenora loved this stranger with a soul-absorbing love, and trembled 'neath his caresses as helpless as a dove. he was a master of the art that robs the halls of truth to gain what passion courts, tho' it blasts the hopes of youth. his honied words of flattery, uttered with seductive art, were music to the listening ear and soon deceived the heart. lenora confided in his worth, receiving each promise as truth- how could she doubt her only love in the trustful hours of youth? assured of an early marriage, she yielded to him one day that priceless germ of innocence and fell--to trust a prey. she hoped this sacrifice would gain her lover's every thought; this were a boon, if death could buy. she deemed not dearly bought. little she dreamed that fatal hour that love had sped the dart that stamped her as an outcast, with a withered, broken heart. eugene went to his city home, swearing to soon return and claim as wife the girl he knew his parents proud would spurn. summer and autumn days passed by and the winter's cold set in, yet the recreant lover came not to the child he taught to sin. a mother's ever watchful eye discovered her daughter's shame, heard her story with breaking heart, but uttered no word of blame. she knew her daughter's downfall was the fruit of love beguiled, but hated the heartless stranger who ruined her trusting child. god alone can measure the pain that child and mother felt, as, locked in lingering embrace, in agony they knelt and poured in heaven's listening ear their heart-destroying grief; and who so bold as to deny that heaven sent relief? the father learned his daughter's sin and drove her from his door. "go!" he said, "you guilty wretch, you are my child no more." stung by these cruel, terrible words, she fled in wild affright in search of the heartless lover, her fearful wrongs to right. she tracked the guilty miscreant down, and he, to save his name, hid her till her child was born in a house of doubtful fame. the world looked on the helpless child with cold, unpitying eye. the villian bade his dupe go home, "repent of her sin and die." she heard, and from her glittering eye no tear of anguish sped- with dagger drawn she reached his side, and struck the villain _dead_! with her babe she sought her father's door and pled with a piteous cry a shelter for her hapless babe while the storm was raging high. "begone, you wretch!" the father cried, "i curse the hour that gave birth to a wretch whose sin has laid my wife within the grave." "my mother dead! and i still live? ah! whither shall i fly? o god! protect my hapless babe, and suffer me to die." the storm increased; she wandered on almost till break of day, till weary, wet and almost dead, she knelt in the path to pray. the sky was lit from end to end by the lightning's awful glare, and a falling tree pinned both to earth as they knelt in the act of prayer! they found them thus in the morning light, and the father's grief was wild. he tenderly looked on the touching scene and at last forgave his child! they buried lenora and her nameless babe close beside her mother's clay, and each one spake in kindly tones of the hapless ones that day. the arm that sent the dagger home was nerved by a brain dethroned: 'tis lenora's was an awful deed, but her terrible death atoned. aye, let us hope the much-wronged child has reached a home above where babes can live who have no name and 'tis not sin to love. _a prisoner's lamentation._ a poor convict in his cell lay dying: he thought of home and loved ones dear, he asked his cell-mate, in a whisper, "do you think the end is drawing near?" "if i should die before i see them tell them how i longed tonight to have my mother's blessed care to leave this world of sin and strife." oh! how he longed to see his mother and the cottage on the hill- "_god bless them all_," i heard him whisper, as with tears his eyes did fill. "will they think of me--a prisoner- i, who was once their pride and joy? while i sleep in the churchyard yonder will they think of their wayward boy? "i know i've caused them lots of trouble in wild and reckless boyish day, but i hope that god will now forgive me when from this earth i'm called away. "i know it broke my mother's heart when she heard of me, her wayward son, who five long years did serve in prison for a highway robbery he had done. "has sister "minn," whom i used to play with in days of youth, forgotten me? if she has, i vow i can not blame her, for i've caused her pain and shame, not glee. "there's but one wish i now shall mention- that mother's days may be days of joy, and when she asks for me in prison speak mildly of her convict boy. "here, take this to my dear old mother! i know 'tis but a lock of hair, but it's all i've got to give her now- i know she'll treasure it with care." and when he handed me the keepsake his spark of life had nearly fled. he clenched my hand and uttered "_mother_!" and a poor convict there lay dead. may all young men now take fair warning from one who's had experience long: guard strong against temptation's dawning- cast off evil and do no wrong. in your younger days _court_ good, _shun_ evil; be careful who you companions choose; when you make life's start then do not cavil- march manfully on to win, not lose. [illustration] _our board of managers._ long have we lived in misery and woe; long have we suffered from "kindness" cold as snow; long has pernicious influence been kept hovering 'round our misery, while in dungeons we have slept. long have we suffered from want of human care: long have we been bearded as the tiger in his lair: long have we went hungry for want of proper food, and felt the sting of th' master's lash, as o'er our task we stood. as the dark and gloomy cloud, that hovered o'er our past, has been wafted off by humane hands--'tis swept away at last. we now emerge from darkness into a welcome light, and live in brighter future hopes--a day made out of night. we hail you, noble, honest men, whose hearts beat five as one, thus far in your prison work your duty you have done; eternal god will always right the brutal wrongs of man, and therefore he did send you here to do the best you can. a cherrington, for the chairman, is a master stroke, you know. and a rose is always welcome, 'cause virtue he will sow; a mcconica, of democrat fame, is a power behind the throne, while a hoffman, sent from cleveland, is a father to the home; a muscroft from old "cincy" is a rattler for the place; they all do join their hands and thoughts and duty bravely face, while a mcadow records their acts with a gentlemanly grace. they issue mandates right and left and order what is just; they raise poor fallen, helpless man to a place of welcome trust; they seek to lead him on the way to a nobler, better life, and restore him to his children and his broken hearted wife. their coffin always sits close by to lend a helping hand, and faithfully their trust does keep--a leader of their band. well they know the awful fruitage of each harsh and brutal plan is to rouse the lurking tiger in the breast of erring man. now they rule, whose every impulse ripened by enlightened thought, and it leads to many actions that with highest good is fraught. and they use with great discretion measures that are just and kind, hoping to reform the erring through the agency of mind. they have learned the useful lesson taught men from the power above, that the greatest force in nature is the power of inspired love. they have learned that rank dissension from all evil nature flows, and they deem that man the greatest who can ease most mortal woes. let us ever sing enchanting of our now official corps as they lift us from dark ruin as it has been heretofore. see! the clouds so lately darkening o'er the prisoner's gloomy past, mercy's hand is fast dispelling--reason _takes the reins at last_! _a tribute to assistant deputy warden l. h. wells_. by g. w. van weighs. comrade, may the god of heaven ease the maddening pain that has swept across your bosom since your son was slain; think not of him as a mortal mouldering into dust;- god, too, loved him and, my comrade, he betrays no trust. you shall see him when the morning breaks above the night of death, and your parting, o, my comrade, will but seem a passing breath. well i know the awful pressure grief exerts upon the soul, but i know it will but whiten what it can't control. you have met on field of battle many a gallant foe, and, with patriotism burning, gave them blow for blow, you have fought till every rebel bent the suppliant knee, and the land you loved and cherished once again was free. you despise no gallant fellow who once wore the blue when it cost both blood and treasure if a man was true. you forgive the trivial errors of that noble band, and you meet a loyal comrade with extended hand. you have friends in every station where your worth is known; you have showered acts of kindness that but few have known. since your advent in this prison you have daily won hearts that ever will remember _acts of kindness nobly done_. comrade, time is passing swiftly, and jehovah his reveille soon will sound upon the hilltops of a vast eternity. may we gather with our comrades on that ever beautiful shore and, like conquering heroes, listen to heaven's plaudits ever more. _one and a few._ by 21069. of all the pet pleasures so pleasing to man in his present degenerate state, i doubt if there's any can make him so glad as the one i'm about to relate. while here he's confined he's troubled in mind with his "fifteen" or "twenty" to do, and he longs for the day when he boldly can say: "i've only got one and a few." then keep a strong heart. with courage don't part, but manfully fight your way through; be it "five" or it "ten" or twice that again, 'twill come down to "one and a few." how often at night when i sit in my cell, after working quite hard all the day, my memory goes back to the time that i fell, for the "bit" which i now have to stay. and sometimes, i own, while sitting alone i feel sad and disconsolate, too; but it makes me feel gay when i think i can say, "i've only got one and a few." oh, many's a home that's cheerless tonight, and many's the mother feels drear; when she thinks of the one far away from her sight it causes her many a tear. though others may cleave to her, you are the same; misfortune but makes her more true; she may now be quite sad, but won't she feel glad when you've only got "one and a few?" then, don't be discouraged. no matter how long in this prison you may have to stay, you know that to worry and fret is quite wrong, far better drive dull care away. old time is the boy your "bit" to destroy as he jogs along, contented and true; and so, in the end, you'll find he's the friend that brought you to "one and a few." _midnight musings._ 'tis midnight! the sentry's muffled tread is heard within these walls: as silent as the living dead he makes his regular calls. i try to sleep, but all in vain; i try to close--i weep, i hear that muffled tread again- the sentries on me peep. i hear a voice so clear and plain- it calls to me aloud- it calls to me again, again; that voice comes from a shroud. hist! hist! vile heart, be still! no fear, my angel sister's voice i hear! it speaks to me in accents clear and bids me shun a vile career. she bids me meet her once again and live in heaven's fairest clime. nor shall her pleading be in vain- _resolved_, i'll do no crime. oh, could i feel her warm embrace as when, in days of old, i gazed into her angeled face- it gave happiness untold. oh, let me live my boyhood days as in the time gone by! and let me consecrate her ways when for this boy she'd cry. but, hist! again the muffled tread comes gliding, silent as the dead, along the beat within these walls- hark! hark! again dear sister calls. _a query._ by morse. when the long weary days are over and the front gates open to you, are you again to be a wild rover? what are you going to do? have you plans or dreams for the future? have the days any brightness for you? will you be a poor homeless creature? what are you going to do? should your old-time friends forsake you- those who were strong and true- and leave you helpless, homeless- what are you going to do? but you have one friend who is faithful, who is always kind and true. read his word and study his gospel- he'll tell you what to do. _stray thoughts._ in the fathomless depths of the mighty deep what wonders live, what mysteries sleep! what mind can name the sightless things that live in the ocean's hidden springs, where treasures heaped on treasures lie, forever secure from the human eye; where creatures sport, that god alone can know their joy or hear their moan? who knows but the bride of the dublin bay may walk in the ocean's depths today, arm in arm with her own dear roy in the conscious flush of honeymoon joy? who knows but the hearts that sadly yearned for the gallant ship that never returned, have met, in the ocean's unknown bed, the loved, tho' lost, we all thought dead? science has proved the human frame is water and salt by another name! hydrography yet may teach mankind the open door of heaven to find. "davie jones' locker" may prove to be instinct with life, by death set free! knew we the tongue of the deep sea shell what wondrous news its notes might tell! the myriad stars in yonder skies may be the beams of death-freed eyes that watch us from an unknown shore, still faithful to the vows of yore! the vaulted blue of heaven may be the looking glass of the mighty sea, where deathless souls their vigils keep o'er fast decaying world, asleep. atlantis, the fabled city of old, whose gates inspired poets behold, may now be resting beneath the wave, triumphant o'er a watery grave! its pearly gates and glittering spires arouse the poet's mad desires. he sees--and sings in tongue unknown- the mysteries by the muses shown. conducted by a sybil fair, he penetrates each demon lair and pictures hell, in golden speech, beyond imagination's reach. to highest heaven his thought has flown and measured and admired the throne; made angels bow beneath his rod and dared to mould the mind of god! who knows but legends the muses tell are truths encased in a mighty dream? who knows but the angels of earth and air are the beautiful nymphs beside each stream? each singing bird and nodding flower may be imbued with potent power; and stars an influence, too, may wield and bless or curse our natal hour! who knows but what we call a brute is with immortal reason blest? who knows man is alone divine and destined to immortal rest? theorize and reason as we may, how little we can really know; we only learn to live, then die, and who may say to what we go? _judge not, lest ye be judged._ by sam law. art thou so good, so free from sin that thou should'st judge thy fellow men? look well to self before the stone, aimed at thy brother's faults, be thrown, behold in thee a pharisee. if thou art not so low, perchance thou'rt only so from circumstance; perhaps, if tempted, thou would'st fall. thy nature's sinful, after all. thou knowest not, most righteous scribe, the struggles, trials, patience tried; the battles fought, the vict'ries gained, the bleeding heart, the soul tear-stained, more human be, have charity. [illustration] _the convict's prayer._ by 21269. at midnight, in a prison cell, on bended knee the convict fell, and poured in heaven's listing ear a prayer for those he held most dear. oh, god; defend my absent wife, whose breaking heart and blighted life spring not from conscious guilt within, but from a reckless husband's sin. spare her, indulgent heaven, the blow, that oft has laid an angel low; still may her ever angel face reflect the presence of thy grace. be it well pleasing in thy sight that she may rear my babes aright, and teach them, in the bloom of youth, the laws of kindness and of truth. help me discharge, on every hand, the duties right and law demand; and may i live to dwell once more honored among the friends of yore. [illustration] _wine vs. water._ there stood two glasses, filled to the brim, on a rich man's table, rim to rim, one was ruddy and red as blood, and one as clear as the crystal flood. said the glass of wine to the paler brother: "let us tell the tales of the past to each other. i can tell of banquet, revel and mirth, and the proudest and grandest souls on earth fell under my touch as though struck by blight, where i was a king, for i ruled in night. from the heads of kings i have torn the crown; from the heights of fame i have hurled men down. i have blasted many an honored name; i have taken virtue and given shame. i have tempted youth with a sip, a taste that has made his future a barren waste. far greater than a king am i, or than any army beneath the sky. i have made the arm of the driver fail, and sent the train from the iron rail. i have made good ships go down at sea, and the shrieks of the lost were sweet to me, for they said, "behold! how great you be!" fame, strength, wealth, genius before me fall, for my might and power are over all. ho! ho! pale brother," laughed the wine, "can you boast of deeds so great as mine?" the water said proudly, "i cannot boast of a king dethroned or a murdered host; but i can tell of a heart once sad, by my crystal drops made light and glad- of thirsts i've quenched, of brows i've laved; of hands i've cooled and souls i've saved; i've leaped thro' the valley, dashed down the mountain, formed beautiful rivers and played in fountain, slept in the sunshine and dropped from the sky and everywhere gladdened the landscape and eye. i've eased the hot forehead of fever and pain, i've made the parched meadows grow fertile with grain; i can tell of the powerful wheel of the mill that ground out flower and turned at my will; i can tell of manhood, debased by you. that i lifted up and crowned anew. i cheer, i help, i strengthen and aid; i gladden the heart of man and maid; i set your close-chained captive free and all are better for knowing me." these are the tales they told each other- the glass of wine and its paler brother- as they sat together, filled to the brim. on the rich man's table, rim to rim. _the fall of sodom._ thou sin-cursed city of the stricken plain, whose heinous lust all after time shall shame, 'twas thine to rouse jehovah's awful ire, and test the strength of heaven's revengeful fire. thy senseless lust and crime had spread till virtue, hope and shame had fled; degraded youth and tottering age could not appease thy senseless rage; thy leacherous sons, that roamed at night, were human only to the sight; their motto was hell's direst fruit: "debase the _man_, exhalt the _brute_!" one man alone of all thy teeming millions sate, and pondered on thy sin with deathless hate; his righteous soul was vexed from day to day, and strove in vain to turn you from your way. _he_ dwelt among you as a child of god, and in the path of honored wedlock trod. _you_, dead to nature and to nature's voice, spurned woman and made man your choice! and desecrated, with your impious lust, the masterpiece god had formed from dust! till woman, shorn of all her natural power, was cast aside, like some discarded flower, and stormed insulted heaven with hourly cry, till god beheld you with his searching eye, and sent his angels in avenging haste your sin to punish and your land to waste. the son of horan met these at the gate, and begged them at his frugal board to wait; at first refused, they after turn aside, and 'neath a righteous roof content abide. they share his food and list with eager ear as lot recounts each nightly scene of fear; when lust runs riot in the open streets, and man with man in strange communion meets. the men of sodom learn, with kindling eye, the stranger's presence, and in haste draw nigh. men, young and old, with equal ardor burn, and, with unholy lust, towards these strangers yearn. they call the patriarch with an angry shout, and bid him bring the hallowed strangers out, that they may satisfy their lawless lust and trample decency in sinful dust. he, taught from infancy in mosaic law, regarded heaven's high ruler still with awe; and shuddered with indignant fear as these vile shouts assailed his ear. he left his house and closed the door behind, and to the rabble thus he eased his mind: "ye men of sodom! _once_ in life do right, nor do this wickedness in heaven's sight! two virgin daughters 'neath my roof reside, till now a father's care and mother's pride; take them and do whatever you deem right, but lay no impious hand upon my guests tonight. the laws of hospitality, by moses taught, harms not a stranger whom our roof has sought. they know the law, who now reside within, and with horror view your awful sin!" "ye men of sodom! who this stranger gave the right to judge us and our will to brave? we kindly took a homeless wanderer in, and dare he brand our greatest pleasure sin? shall empty words defy our proud behest, or useless offering prevent our guest? ten thousand 'no's' will pierce his dastard breast, and treat him tenfold worse than all the rest!" thus spake their leader, and with angry roar the o'er wrought friends assail the door; lot, backward hurled, could hardly stand, till snatched within by angel hand, the maddened crowd no longer wait, but headlong rush to meet their fate! the ready angels rise, with godlike mind, and strike the guilty wretches blind: in vain they strive to reach and force the door, their useless orbs are blasted evermore! "go seek thy children, lot, in eager haste, and bid them not a precious moment waste. god will destroy this sin-accursed place, and wipe from earth its faintest trace!" lot, thus commanded, found each one that night, and faithfully portrayed their awful plight; but he, to them, seemed as a man that mocked, and left them sorely grieved and doubly shocked. the morn arose! the angels cautioned lot to wife and daughters take and tarry not; and as they lingered took them by the hand and led them from the endangered land. "flee to the mountains and no hind'rance brook, nor backward turn a long, admiring look. the wretch who dares this mandate to defy shall, 'neath jehovah's hand, in torture die!" this stern command was heard by trembling lot with deep repugnance, for it pleased him not. "nay, nay, my lord; but if before thy face thy trembling servant dares to plead for grace, command me that i now may turn aside and in your little city safe reside. thus may i keep my soul alive this day nor after fall to mountain beasts a prey." the heavenly strangers, with an august nod, agree to lift from zoar jehovah's rod. the rescued quartette zoarward bend, while hope and fear alternate tend. with mien majestic, yes, with hasty tread, their trembling flight their aged father led. next came the virgins, able scarce to stand, and followed by their mother, last of all the band. she yet to sodom and its idols clave, and dared jehovah's awful wrath to brave; one look she sought, her weary journey to beguile, and in a moment stood transfixed--_a salty pile_! the more obedient trio onward fly, until the opening gates of zoar greet the eye. now, with full hearts, they reach the calm retreat, and cordial welcome from king bela meet. end of first canto. _the fall of sodom--canto second._ from bera's palace, and from sodom's shrine, a thousand scintillating rays of beauty shine; the gorgeous parapets of beaten burnished gold enlightened fancy can with awe behold. those marble walls of rainbow-tinted hue, please and instruct and yet astound the view. each curve of beauty and each line of grace relates some annal of the ancient place. upon these sculptured walls each sodomite may trace the birthplace and the lineage of his entire race. he here may read, in many a flowing line, the maiden efforts of the tuneful nine, who first appeared and strung the quivering lyre, when new created stars their maker's praise aspire; theirs is the music of the quick revolving spheres, and theirs the power to bathe a world in tears. they paint in colors, dipped in liquid truth, the brow of beauty and the lip of youth. thought, tame in prose in their enchanting line, is dressed in beauty and is half divine. they wing love's arrows with consumate art, and make the melting music of the heart. youth they instruct and tottering age sustain, virtue exalt and hideous voice restrain. inside this palace life is but a dream of beauty, flowing in a constant stream. here silken curtains hang on wires of gold, and zephyr-satin, whose capacious fold ten thousand giddy turns and windings take the secret chambers of the place to make. each article of comfort man can know with priceless gems and flashing colors glow; each drinking vessel is a solid gem; each odorous flower grows on a parent stem; birds of bright plumage raise their tuneful note and scatter scents ambrosial as they float. the crystal fountains generous wine dispense, and food delicious satisfies the sense; the air is balmy as the breath of spring, and every atom is a beauteous thing. one thing alone this mighty place appalls: no woman dwells within these sculptured walls. here man with man in lustful caprice plays, and heaven's righteous mandate disobeys; sinks, through his lust, below the groveling beast, who to the female makes his amorous suit. within those walls are stores of untold wealth, secured by carnage and by midnight stealth; beneath each divan and each downy couch the smouldering fires of retribution crouch. each glittering tankard and each costly plate reflects the fierceness of each pending fate. the quenchless tortures of jehovah's wrath is earthward tending in a destined path! the brilliant sun of light, the mighty sire, seems bathed in blood and heaven's all afire. from pole to pole the livid lightnings flash till all creation trembles 'neath the crash; and earthward, still, the melting heavens bend, while blinding floods of hissing flames descend, and seas of lava, with three mighty bounds, the now doomed city and the plain surrounds. now, inward flowing, rolls the mighty tide, on whose dread billows death alone can ride; and upward rising, with tremendous sweep, its molten billows awful union keep with floods descending from the flaming sky, and sodom knows her hour has come to die! her frightened millions in a circle band, and view approaching death on every hand. around them rolls a sea of fire; above them flames the torch of heaven's ire; while hissing lava, in descending rain, creates new horror and gives birth to pain. each gorgeous palace and each mart of trade is buried for their wickedness and in ashes laid. in vain they call their idols, name by name. their garments all are wrapt in living flame, their quivering bodies tortured to the bone, their parched lips in vain assay a moan, their eyes still pleading with each bated breath _not_ for forgiveness, but for instant death! the circling oceans, with resounding roar, meet and commingle--and the scene is o'er! [illustration] _a tribute to the wolfe sisters._ music, the sweetest all-inspiring gift of god. is ever welcome to the prisoner's ear; there's nothing makes me feel half so well as music of the heart when sung with cheer. here in this prison as i sit and pore over the past and present of my life, my heart sings ever, o'er and o'er, the darkest bitterness of a prisoner's strife. but hark! in yonder chapel shrine i hear sweet music as of yore; i ask, "what music is that sounds so fine?" the answer comes, "the wolfes are at the door!" i hasten, then, to brush my prison garb, and toilet try to fix as best i can, and then unto the chapel wend my way; when there upon the rostrum stand _five of the sweetest singers of our day_! there's amy wolfe, who changed her name to brooks; she leads her choir without the aid of books. she sings with voice so sweet and delicate that to her, first soprano i dedicate. next, minnie s., at the age of twenty-three, sings like a lark and busy as a bee, carefully guarding that no mistakes are made, and handles her bewitching voice with harmony well staid. then sang the sweet zoraydo f., with baritone most clear, who, at the age of twenty, delights to bring us cheer. it seems as if her heart and soul were bent on doing right, and when she sang she sang so sweet--oh! it was out of sight. the next i saw was lyda m., with scarlet cheeks aglow; she sings with voice most charming, a clear and sweet alto, she's next the younger of them all, because she's just eighteen, she captivates the heart of man--what a fairy little queen! then last, not least, the little one, that is, miss kittie c., she just so busy when she sings she's like a honey bee. her eyes are clear as crystal, her locks are flowing gold, she sings soprano quite as fine as any i have told. i sat down in an empty seat close by the outside door, and listened to such warbling as i never heard before. their voices drowned all sorrow and gushed forth many a tear, _not_ for horror that i felt--it brought me real good cheer. they drove away the pain of woe, that none but prisoners smart; they sang the ever blessed song--true music of the heart. we doff our striped caps to you, o girls of sweetest song, and may we bid you be our friends and return again ere long. adieu, adieu, our lady friends, do not now say "farewell," because we wish you all return with song too sweet to tell. come back! come back again and sing some lovely sabbath day, for your presence here to sing good cheer we all will ever pray. and now unto the aged wolfes please let me say one word: your home must be a palace filled with sirenic good; proud may you feel--and justly, too--of these five daughters fair, and great the good they've done for us while in this prison lair. there's but one wish that emanates from a prisoner's wicked heart. that is to say, without delay, "may heaven take their part, and to them bring eternal joy that'll pierce them like a dart!" each song they sing is welcome here--a masterpiece of art! and now to part we sadly must (while i'm immersed in prison dust). but hoping, too, 'twill not be long ere you return with sweetest song. adieu! adieu! _prisoners._ god pity the wretched prisoners in their lonely cells today; whatever the sins that tripped them, god pity them still, i say. only a strip of sunshine cleft by rusty bars: only a patch of azure, only a cluster of stars. once they were little children, and perhaps their wayward feet were led by a gentle mother toward the golden street. therefore, if in life's forest they since have lost their way. whatever the sins that tripped them, god pity them still, i say. [illustration] _two letters._ by geo. w. h. harrison. i wrote a letter while jealous rage in my bosom reigned supreme; the words were fraught with anger, and a loathsome disesteem. they fell on the pure white paper and marred its stainless page, yet eased my maddened spirit, and appeased my senseless rage. i gloatingly tho't of the dumb despair that letter would surely give, to one who had broken her faithful vows in a way i could never forgive. i doubted not the perfect truth of all i heard them say; she, like other girls, was false while her lover was away. i knew she vowed she would be true while life itself would last, yet thought that she, like others, too soon forgot the past. i hastily sealed the cruel note, and placed it next my heart, determined upon the morrow to give it an early start. i threw myself upon the couch and sought for sweet repose, and in my restless slumbers a vision then arose: i saw in that terrible vision a woman whose eager face beamed with yearning, restless love as her trembling fingers traced a message of love and tenderness to her loved one far away. as her pure lips quietly murmured, "god grant we must some day!" she sealed her letter with dainty hands, and laid it by with tender care: then humbly kneeled beside her bed, and poured her soul in prayer. she prayed for her impassioned lover in a warm, impassioned strain, that proved her heart both warm and true and free from guilt or stain. she arose from her kneeling posture to answer a call at her door: she smiled as she saw the letter the hand of the servant bore. one glance she gave--then burst the seal with trembling, eager haste, and rapidly heard the cruel words my reckless hand had traced. her lovely face turned deathly pale as she wildly clutched the air. she tottered and fell--a senseless heap- a prey to dumb despair. so still she lay i deemed her dead, and sprang to raise her in my arms. i loved her with the old, wild love, and bowed to her peerless charms. "speak! darling, speak!" i wildly cried. "pray, come back from the voiceless shore. i cannot, dare not live an hour, unless i hear your voice once more!" she opened wide her lovely eyes, and cast on me one lingering glance so full of injured innocence it smote me like a lance. i seized the heartless letter, curst cause of all my shame, and, with one imprecation, consigned it to the flame. she watched me with a languid smile, and pointed to her heart: "you have destroyed the proof," she said, "but can you ease the smart?" "i have been true to all my vows, heaven judge me if i lie! but since you deem me to be false, go--leave me here--to die!" at last i woke and quickly drew the accursed sheet from my breast- burning it with a ready hand- and gently sank to rest. i wrote another, whose tender words were soft as the ripple of a stream; and thought what a contrast it would be to the letter she read in my dream! and my darling greatly wonders why my letters with tenderness teem, since i have never told her of the letter she read in my dream. [illustration] _a prayer for justice._ oh, god in heaven up on high, how long this cruel strife? most i but perish in this den to end this wretched life? is there no justice here on earth? must truth remain crushed down and vile and wicked, cruel man forever look and frown? is there no power to bring to light the _truth_ of my offense? must perjury and bribery prevail forever hence? can enemies, vile, cruel things, twist truth all out of shape, and cause one who's not guilty to morally wear death's crepe? oh, god! is there no remedy for earthly subjects thus to be relieved from wretched pain without this earthly fuss? oh, god! to thee we call for help. wil't thou but listen--hear? look down upon me as i be, my innocence thou'lt surely see, these shackles, bolts, and prison bars, the heavy locks and massive key- hear, oh, god! oh, hear my prayer and set this captive free. [illustration] _birthday musings._ by g. w. van weighs. just sixty years ago today mine eyes first saw the light; now age, with ever onward tread, presages coming night. ah! is it night? or shall it be that morning's light shall break, and from my soul such music bring as earth could never wake? where are the friends of earlier years- sleep they to wake no more? or do they walk with joyful tread heaven's ever radiant shore? if death is but oblivion's gate, why younger grows the soul with years? whose are the faces that we see when melts the hearts in tears? oh, whence the strains the soul can hear when all is hushed in sleep, and none, save god and angels, near when souls their vigils keep? is all religion but a myth? are all our hopes in vain? is heaven affectation's child, born of disordered brain? tell me not such bolts and bars can keep me from the skies; i'd sooner deem yon blushing rose a satyr in disguise. _a tribute to the wolfe sisters._ by geo w. h. harrison. come. o come, ye radiant sisters, heaven honored "tuneful nine." smooth my ever rugged numbers and inspire my drooping line. aid my muse to tell the story never breathed to mortal ear. how this sweet angelic chorus happens to be lingering near. in yon fair and blissful aiden, far beyond the faintest star. once the guardian angels slumbered, leaving heaven's gates ajar! and five wandering seraphs wandered, in their rapid, noiseless flight, thro' the gates, whose vaulted arches echoed pã¦ans of delight! quick as thought their tireless pinions clave the unresisting air. till they reached the _five wolfe sisters_, maids of form and features fair, and within these hearts they lingered, tuning every chord to song. till the pathos of their music stilled the ever restless throng! earth and heaven stood astonished and jehovah's love decreed: "let them stay! such strains seraphic mortal beings can but heed!" have you heard their wondrous music? have you felt their sweet control? if not, friend, you've scarcely sounded half the mysteries of your soul! amy, soul-enrapturing artist, sweetly sounds the soft prelude. and beneath her skilfull fingers every note, with life imbued. stills the throng, whose very silence is an encore loud and deep. and each thought, save that of music, is forgotten or asleep. katherine's rich and full suprano, like the autumn's mellow morn. wakes the slumbering soul to action like the practiced huntsman's horn! mamie's soft, melodious voice nobly takes the second part. and the pathos of her music captivates the raptured heart! lida's faultless second alto deepens all the noble strain till the mind forgets its madness and the heart rejects in pain. then zoraydo's matchless voice sweeps the soul along till we know that _perfect music can be breathed in earthly song_! hear, o hear the melting music pouring from each heaving breast; how it wakes the heart to rapture! how it soothes the soul to rest! when they sing, such lovely visions seem to rise and grandly float like the poet's airy mansions, on the wave of each full note! silvery daybreaks brighten slow; sunsets blush on mountain snow! moonlight shivers on the open sea; autumn burns in bush and tree; blowing willows bend and sigh; whispering rivers wander by; thro' the pines sweep sea-tones soft; sailing birds shout loud aloft; strange notes beat the lambent air; visions float divinely fair; vanished faces come and go; silenced voices murmur low; gentlest memories come and cling, _as we listen and they sing_. oh, repeat the music's tale, "_love shall perish not nor fail_!" we forget the fear of death--breathe, in tho't, immortal breath! we believe in broadening truth; trust the generous creeds of youth; feel consoling hopes that climb up to some triumphant clime, and sweet dreams of splendor bring _as we listen and they sing_! walls of rock and bars of steel we can neither see nor feel; we forget our dire disgrace; disregard both time and place; bid all angry passion sleep and profoundest silence keep! hoard the trembling notes that fall like an angel mother's call; rise above our low estate and forget the wrongs of fate! we forgive our mortal foes, source of all our many woes, and penance itself loses half its sting, _as we listen and they sing_! may the god of love and truth give them all the joys of youth; may the raptures they impart ever thrill each noble heart; may their ministry of love lead all erring ones above; may wealth, happiness and joy all their waiting hours employ; be their cares both light and few and their pleasures ever new; and their lives one dream of ease till their "ship comes o'er the seas!" let fate oft their presence bring, _and we'll listen while they sing_ gentle sisters, take this tribute poured from imprisoned hearts; you have eased their maddening torture, you have stayed the cruel darts that remorse and shame have driven deep within each captive soul. suffer them your names to graven on fond memory's deathless scroll: be assured your seeds of kindness shall not fall on stony ground, many of your willing converts have both peace and pardon found! and, when all your work is ended, you in heaven shall fondly greet some whose hearts were first enlightened by your anthems clear and sweet. _to a departed idol._ by g. w. vax weighs. thou art not dead, thou art not gone to dust, no line of all thy loveliness shall fall to formless ruin, smote by time and thrust into the solemn gulf that covers all. thou canst not perish. tho' the sod sink with its violets closer to thy breast, tho' by the feet of generations trod the loadstone crumbles from thy place of rest. the marvel of thy beauty cannot die; the sweetness of thy presence shall not fade; earth gave not all the glory of thine eye; death cannot smite what earth ne'er made. it was not _thine_, that marble forehead pale and cold. nor those dumb lips they laid beneath the snow; thy heart would throb beneath that passive fold; _thy_ hands, for me, that stony clasp forego. but _thou_ hast gone. gone from this dreary land; gone from the storms let loose on every hill; lured by the sweet persuasion of a band that leads thee, somewhere, in the distance still. where e'er thou art, i know thou wearest yet the same bewitching beauty, sanctified by calmer joy, and touched with soft regret for him who seeks but cannot reach thy side. i keep for thee the living love of old, and seek thy place in nature, as a child whose hand is parted from its playmate's hold wanders and cries along a lonesome wild. when, in the watches of my heart, i hear the messages of purer life and know the footsteps of thy spirit lingering near, life's darkness hides the way i fain would go. canst thou not bid the empty realms restore that form, the symbol of thy heavenly part? or in the barren fields of silence pour that voice, the perfect music of thy heart? oh, once--once bending to my warm and eager lips, take back the tender warmth of life from me, or let thy kisses cloud with swift eclipse the light of mine, and give me death with thee. [illustration] _acrostic to warden and mrs. e. g. coffin._ elijah of old ancient times was a man of many, many minds! long did he live in noble deeds, in dealing comfort to men's needs, in these, our modern, modest days, all men have greatly changed their ways- jehovah's laws do not control the wickedness of every soul. all those who know as well as i while on this earth will not decry he who will bad men reform--hail, coffin! who for us was born! godfrey is his second name, and now he reaps most enviable fame: our watchword is both day and nights--while o'er him floats the stars and stripes- "do unto us as you would choose, that others do to you and yours!" faithful to her life-long trust, a wife, a mother, true and just, resolves to help both maid and man and lend an ever helping hand- each day and night they toil and pray for boys and girls to mend their way, yet they do not toil all in vain for the great good done the human train. "coffin" is a word some shun, for it takes man when on earth he's done out to the churchyard laid in clay, for ages sanctioned such a way. for us poor sinners here in "hell" a coffin sent makes us feel well, for often he does ease the pains we feel in both our hearts and brains. in endless joy may they have peace for kindness they have done to us- not one of us, though cursed with sin, will e'er forget our friends coffin. _canto second--last, but not least!_ mistress she is of the coffin shrine, and so it's been for years of time! in holy wedlock girls and boys have been the idols of their joys! she bids her lord elijah bide a faithful servant by her side, to aid her with a helping hand to raise poor, wretched, fallen man. real sympathy for the prisoner's woe, she seeds of comfort tries to sow ere long before it is too late to save poor sinner from his fate; she "cookies" make, with pearls all set, and puts them in elijah's hat, she then does send him on his way, while for the prisoner she does pray. mary silently did keep the watch o'er christ while he did sleep; all her _protege_ she will save if her lord will help her brave roaring storms of vice and ire, kindled by a vengeful fire! you may guess for all the rest, let me say she'll do her best! coffins, to you let us turn! and all crime forever spurn! only aid us in this strife to fight manfully for life. father elijah! mother mary! for our welfare do not tarry! fear you not! for the good you've done has saved many a fallen one! in our hearts we oft despair as we linger in this lair- not for long tho' when we've seen--father elijah and mary, his _queen_! _a prison vision._ by geo. w. h. harrison. 'tis midnight in these prison walls, and even the sentry's muffled tread sepulchral sounds, as if he trod the silent confines of the dead. in vain i close my weary eyes, i cannot sleep tonight; i hear an angel's rustling wings fresh from the realms of light. a sacred presence haunts the air, a messenger from heaven's own land; and memory awakes again, touched by an angel's wand. i seem to hear, deep in my soul, the music of a heavenly choir, while each pulsation of my heart awakes in me the old desire to see once more that lovely form death vanished in my arms; to hear again her melting voice and revel in her charms. to feel the tender, soft caress of a loved tho' vanished hand, and hear from her departed lips the mysteries of that land that lies beyond time's rugged shore, to all unknown, save those whom angels capture for the skies at life's uncertain close. i muse again, with loving thought, of a sinless wife long dead, and live again our buried past, by an angel presence led. i view again the pleasing scene of a school house on the hill, where happy scholars daily met, whose law was the teacher's will. i see again the old armchair where the master daily sat with watchful eye and helpful hand, yet sleepless as a cat. i hear again the sleepless hum of voices low and sweet, of students pouring o'er the books with wisdom's germs replete. amid that happy, guileless throng, there was one peerless face that held in the master's tender heart an undisputed place. it was a face, o god! how fair! no words can ever paint; more fit for heaven than for earth. it bore the contour of a saint. the brow was high and broad and white, with a radiance all its own; the cheeks, like lilies dipped in blood, were oft as a rose full blown. eyebrows dark and delicately arched, were penciled in nature's play; the ruby ripeness of her lips seemed never to melt away. her lustrous eyes, whose depths were brown, yet seemed a darker hue, were windows of a spotless soul that scorned to be untrue. abundant tresses of dark brown hair that almost swept the ground, enveloped as chaste and lovely form as e'er on earth was found. a voice so soft, so sweet, so low that every accent woke sweet notes of blissful melody, as if an angel spoke. none could look upon that face and deem that aught of earth could chill the rapture of a soul where sin could know no birth. her mind had wondrous power and scope; it grasped the sea, the earth, the sky, and rightly understood and loved the god who ruled on high. contentment, truth and virtue was part of nature's dower; self-sacrifice to her was joy, and prayer was conscious power. while yet a child her spirit soared above the things of earth, and mused with soulful tenderness on the heaven that gave it birth. the teacher's stern, imperious heart yearningly worshipped this child, and 'neath her hallowed influence grew tender, warm and mild. the haughty heart, that never sought the plaudits of the world, poured its richest tribute at the feet of this faultless girl. the face, that never even blanched 'mid war's terrific strife, grew pale as death the hour he asked this child to be his wife. no word she spake, but simply laid her head upon his breast. he folded her in warm embrace and knew that he was blest. each lived a life of conscious joy; earth seemed a garden fair; the lover sought earth's fairest flowers to braid in her shining hair. deeply they drank at the font of love; draughts few natures can hold; the hours were seasons of perfect bliss; each moment more precious than gold. days and months flew swiftly by on the wings of happiness sped, and two sweet babes were garnered as the fruit of their marriage bed! they neither thought nor dreamed of aught save their babes and coming bliss; they greeted the morn with soft caress and welcomed night with a kiss. till, thundering on the wings of time, fate dealt the cruel blow that dashed a home in pieces and laid a child-wife low. the husband pressed her to his breast and fondly kissed his bride; but with the parting of that kiss the sinless child-wife died. the kindred angels joyful flew from the realms of endless day, and gently wafted her soul above, but left to us her clay. "she is dead! kiss her and come away. your cries and prayers are all in vain, your may-bell is cold, senseless clay; in heaven above you'll meet again." they smoothed her tresses of dark brown hair back from her marble forehead fair; over her eyes, that oped too much, they closed the lids with a tender touch. they closed with tender touch, that day, the thin, pale lips where beauty lay; about her brow and her sweet pale face they tied her veil and bridal lace; placed on her feet the white silk shoes that may-bell for her marriage chose; over her bosom crossed her hands; "come away," they said, "god understands." with bowed heads they left the room, still shuddering at its silent gloom; and naught, save silence, lingered there around the corpse of may-bell clare. but i loved her far too well to dread the silent, stately, beautiful dead. i cautiously opened the chamber door and was alone with my dead once more. i kissed her lips, i kissed her cheek, but 'twas in vain, she could not speak. i called her names, she loved, awhile, but she was dead and could not smile. and not one passionate whisper of love could call her back from her home above. "cold lips," i murmured, "breast without breath, is there no voice, no language in death?" dull to ear and still to the sense, yet to the soul of love intense! see, i listen with soul, not ear; what is the secret of dying, my dear? was it the infinite wonder of all that you could let life's flower fall? or was it a greater marvel to feel the perfect calm o'er agony steal? was the miracle greatest to find how deep beyond all dreams sank down that sleep? did life roll back its record, my dear, showing all past deeds dark and clear? oh, did love, sweet mistress of bliss, affrighted, vanish to shun death's kiss? for radiant ones in the world above forget those whom on earth they love? oh, perfect death! oh, dead most dear, i hold the breath of my soul to hear! i listen as deep as fathomless hell, as high as heaven, nor will you tell! there must be pleasure in dying, my sweet, to make you so placid from head to feet! i'd tell you, darling, if i were dead and _your_ hot tears on _my_ cheeks shed, i'd speak, though the angel of death had laid his sword on my lips, their accents to shade. not in vain should you, with streaming eyes, beg to know death's chief surprise. oh, foolish world! oh, precious dead! tho' you tell me, who will believe 'twas said? who will believe i heard you say in your own dear, kind familiar way: "i can speak now--you listen with soul alone: to the eyes of your soul _all_ shall be shown. in this land of infinite bliss the utmost wonder, dear one, is this: "i see and love and kiss you again; i smile at your triumph over pain; i know your heart is honest and true; i'm a guardian angel to you! "what a strange, delicious amusement is death! to live without being, to breathe without breath! i should laugh did you not cry; listen, dear one, love never can die! "i am now your heaven-decked bride; my body and not my love has died! dear one, _it_ lies there, i know, pale and silent, cold as snow. "and you say, 'may-bell is dead.' weeping o'er my silent head! _i_ can see your falling tears, hear your sighs and know your fears! "yet i smile and whisper this: i am not the clay you kiss; cease your tears and let _it_ lie, it was mine, but 'tis not _i_! "dear one, what the women love for its silent home, the grave, is a garment i have quit, as a tent no longer fit. "'tis a cage from which, at last, my enraptured soul has passed. love the _inmate_, not the _room_, love the _wearer_, not the _plume_! "_love_ my _spirit_, not the _bars_, that kept your may-bell from the stars; be wise, dear one, and quickly dry from every tear your laden eye. "what you place upon the bier is not worth a lover's tear; 'tis an empty shell at last, out of which the soul has passed. "the shell is broken, _it_ lies _there_, but the _pearl_, the _soul_, is _here_! 'tis an earthen jar, whose lid god sealed when it faintly hid "the soul he made to live on high; the mind that did not, cannot die. let the dross be earth's once more, since the gold is in his store. "god is glorious! god is good! now his word is understood! life's ceaseless wonder is at an end, yet you weep, my erring friend! "see, the lover _you_ call dead to immortal bliss is wed! loves and homes you lost, 'tis true, to such light as shines for you. "yet deep in your inmost soul you shall feel my sweet control. i'll be with you every hour, commissioned by almighty power, "to guard each moment of your life as best befits your angel wife! at night i'll linger 'round your bed, with an angel's noiseless tread; "and while you, slumbering, dream of me, i'll be present, love, with thee. where e'er you go, where e'er you stray, i'll be near thee night and day, "guarding you with zealous care, pointing out life's every snare, chasing every tear away, aiding every joy to stay. "chide you when you go astray; bless you when you kneel to pray; lead you, with an unseen hand, to view the wonders of a land "where peace and love and perfect joy tongue cannot name, nor peace destroy! shall ever bless the happy band, as radiant 'round the throne they stand! "once there, we'll never part again, but _time_, and _love_ while god shall reign. i cannot, _dare not_, say farewell; where i am _now_ you, too, shall dwell. "i am gone before your face, a moment's time, a little space. when you come where i have stepped you'll greatly wonder why you wept! "you'll know by love eternal taught that heaven is _all_, that earth is naught. i beg you not to dread sweet death; 'tis but the first and faintest breath "of the life that god hath given to fit immortal souls for heaven! be _certain_, darling, _all_ seems love, viewed from the higher courts above! "the cares and troubles that arise will prove sweet blessings in disguise; they'll waft you to a home above, where i'll await your coming, love!" _i_ heard these words and fell on the breast of the peerless bride that heaven had dressed. i yearned for those blissful regions above with heart overflowed with passionate love. my peerless flower, tho' nipped in youth, perennial shall bloom in the garden of truth! i see in the distance a roseleaf hand beckoning me on to that glorious land. tho' parted on earth we'll meet in the sky, where bliss cannot perish, and love cannot die. oh, bliss supernal! oh, rapture complete, when earth-sundered ones in glory shall meet. for years and years i've watched in vain to see that buried face again; in vain i've tried, with mortal eyes, to pierce the mysteries of the skies! oh, sweetheart of the days of yore, shall we meet on earth no more? shall i languish all alone without one sympathetic tone- one glance of love, one word of cheer from eyes and lips i hold so dear? oh, hearken to my piteous cries, beloved one, and forsake the skies! oh, listen! earth-born mortals, see! my angel bride has come to me! the self-same face--divinely fair- and heaven-set jewels decked her hair. her laughing eye and glowing cheek eternal youth and bliss bespeak; my head is pillowed on her breast, my brow by her dear hands caressed! the dulcet tones of her dear voice bids my aching heart rejoice; she folds me 'neath her dazzling wings, while all the heart within me sings! oh, list those melting tones of love, more soft than note of cooing dove! oh, hear the words her dear lips speak: "death, dear one, is the boon to seek! "false are the glittering gems of earth, eternity's gold is the gold of worth; one moment in heaven is worth a life spent on earth 'mid care and strife! "death is but the dawn of day, destroying naught save worthless clay! the soul lives on in rapturous bliss more perfect than a virgin kiss! "oh, dear one, still your haunting fears; the love, tho' lost, of earlier years awaits your coming to the skies, and o'er you watch with jealous eyes, "lest earth detain you till too late to enter heaven's wide open gate. oh, tarry not on earth too long, but with me join immortal's song!" she spake, and through the vaulted sky, beyond the reach of mortal eye, she wings her rapid noiseless flight and i am left alone tonight. nay, not alone; for in my soul i feel a new-born sweet control that lures me to a higher life, which will please an angel wife! farewell, prison blight and bars, mine is a home beyond the stars. welcome, death, at any hour, since sin has lost her maddening power! [illustration] _acrostic tribute to capt. j. s. acheson._ by geo. w. h. harrison. just consider, for one moment, all the good this man has done. on full many a field of battle he the victory hath won; swept he with victorious sherman from atlanta to the sea, ever acting as a soldier, from all fear and malice free; proving true in every station, like a soldier tried and true, he has earned and won the friendship of the boys who wore the blue! since his advent in this prison he has, with impartial mind, made it plain that every duty can be done and still be kind. in his bosom rests no malice towards a single human soul; 'tis his study, night and morning, all his passions to control. he is willing every prisoner should become his honest _friend_, and the prisoner's reformation he regards as _law's best trend_: crime, he deems is but the fruitage of conditions time can change. he would lift his fallen brother and no rule of right derange! ever ready with the welcome of a smile and word of cheer, some may only be respected, but such men are ever dear. o'er the path of life may heaven scatter roses at his feet; none will doubt that every christian shall _his_ face in heaven meet. _my mother._ carr. one bright sunday morn, as i sat in my cell, my thoughts to the outside did roam; the sweet songs of birds, as their notes rose and fell, turned my mind to my childhood's dear home. long years they have passed since i saw that dear spot, but its sweet memories time can ne'er smother; i can never forget that dear little cot and the sweet loving smile of my mother. in sickness or pain 'twas dear mother that brought her sweet self and her charms to allay it; she learned me a prayer and she lovingly taught me to kneel at her knees and to say it. god's word she would read, and impress on my mind the love that's conveyed by that story of the savior, who died that millions might find eternal rest in his realms of glory. for years she's been dead, and her low, grassy mound reminds me that 'neath it lies sleeping the dear friend of my youth, whose magic, i found, could bring smiles to my face e'en when weeping. 'tis thus the dear birds, as they joyfully sing and chirp happy calls to each other, remind me that perhaps they were sent for to bring a message to me from my mother. but, alas! as i think, upon my mind there quickly falls the thoughts of my sad degredation; the strong iron bars, and the grey, sombre walls, recall me to my sad situation. but no more will i sin; i'll live upright for sure; my passions and temptations i'll smother; and when god calls me home to that bright shining shore we'll be happy together, dear mother. _a memorial ode._ by g. w. van weighs. again the sacred day has come when tears and flowers shall fall on the graves of our sleeping heroes who died at liberty's call. and the tears we shed above them, as our hearts with tenderness bled, is the crown of their matchless glory and earth's divinest mead. their deeds on the field of battle were such as a god might do, and the listening angels applauded the work of the boys in blue. the flag they died defending still floats above their grave, and is loved by millions of freemen, but never looked on by a slave. the country they loved and bled for, still true to her sacred trust, will cover their names with glory and revere their hallowed dust. the comrades who still survive them, like gold in the furnace tried, speak, with tear-dimmed lashes, of the gallant boys that died. these flowers will fade and perish, tho' hallowed by each grave; but they will live forever in the hearts of the true and the brave. then let this custom continue till tears and flowers shall cease, and we shall greet the gallant boys on the shores of endless peace. _lines to my cell._ oh, silent and mysterious cell, could i command thy walls to tell the secrets they have kept so long, 't would be, indeed, a cheerless song. a tale of crime, and tears, and pain, the fruit, perhaps, of frenzied brain, as none to crime yet ever sank that had not first become a crank. "the law of god and man defy, a wretch you'll live, a felon die!" these words seem to haunt my brain, perhaps it is the sad refrain of a song well known to thee; yet where its author now can be, save thee, perhaps no one can tell, thou grim, mysterious, silent cell. thy rocky floor has felt the tread of many a hapless one now dead; thy walls have echoed many a sigh, wrung from guilt's expiring eye. while musing 'mid thy walls tonight i seem to hear, with some affright, the wail of many a blighted life, the prayer of a despairing wife; a mother, weeping for her child; a father, grief has driven wild. and then--i pray thee silence keep; 'twere best to let thy secrets sleep. [illustration] _a tribute to dr. g. a. tharp._ by g. w. van weighs. arise, my muse, and tune your harp to ring the praises of a tharp; his cultured mind and noble soul truth and virtue both control. tell the world his perfect skill can conquer every human ill that lends to science or to art, from shattered limb to dormant heart. each pill and potion that he makes relieves your pain and health awakes: and should he use the surgeon's knife, he never will sacrifice a life. his skilfull fingers place a band as gently as a woman's hand; and not one patient needs to feel that he the truth will not reveal. the poor regard him as their friend, and on his bounty oft depend; well knowing that his generous heart dares to act a christian part! long may this noble doctor live, ease to suffering men to give; and meet the summons to depart with the skill he wooes his art. _an appreciated friend._ she is a pretty little lass, half human, half divine; and for an angel she would pass in heaven's lovely clime. her hair is locks of flowing gold, her ways are cute and wise; and her form is lithe and graceful, with pretty bright blue eyes. her manners are just perfect. her nature kind and true; she is a real philanthropist when charity is due. she strives to cheer those sad at heart, and well she does succeed; and stays the ever painful dart that often fate does speed. how different from so many folk who frown upon the one who, by some simple words he spoke, caused "crime" to have been done. although the cruel knife of fate has made an awful wound, in her kind words, that come but late, sweet balm for sorrow's found. oh, that this wicked, wicked world could boast more such friendly souls! less lives would be so sadly hurled into a pit of earthly ghouls, where nothing's saved, but all is lost; and where man's cast, at any cost, into a dismal, prison dell- a gloomy, dreary, earthly hell! come, of such friends arise and sing, with thanks returned to heaven's king! * * * * * _salome's revenge._ arise, my muse, spread out thy wings, prepare to soar away! tune up thy harp for endless joy, and turn night into day. go dream of paradise sublime in the old empire state! and when you're done return to me your story to relate. in time gone by--in days of yore- there lived, in forests wild, two families of ancient stock, and each one had a child. the children of both parentage were born in this country; they amassed immensely fortunes in this america. the waddington's were pure scotch blood, and raised one daughter fair; they gave her name of sadie, she'd blue eyes and golden hair. her cheeks were rich with crimson glow, her lips were thin and cute, and many an anxious lover she sternly did refute. her dainty hands and flowing hair, and graceful curves of form would make one's heart quite palpitate- she carried all by storm. trueman waddington was a man who loved his daughter--heir, and as he rolled in endless wealth he watched his child's welfare. their nearest neighbor was st. lawrence, who lived a little way off on the rugged mountain side, where children like to play. two children he had buried when they were yet quite young, and now he was a happy man 'cause he reared an only son. this son he named him trueman, because he liked the name, and tho't 'twould be in honor of his neighbor of the same. "as an act of kindness and of love," old waddington did say, "because you named him after me i pledge my sade, today." the two old friends called in their wives and asked them to consent to seal the bargain for each child on which they were both bent. the mothers thought it rather soon to tie so firm a knot, and begged them not to seal their doom by such a foolish plot. but trueman waddington was not a man to easy quit, and he argued long and labored strong in a half way frenzied fit. he said: "i know we are both rich in lands and kine and gold, and why not join these vast fortunes before they are all sold? "you've named your only son from me; trueman it is, _true-man_ he'll be, and now must i sit by in shame and cannot seal my daughter's fame?" then spake the elder man st. lawrence: "dear sir, my neighbor and my friend, you have my heart and soul and mind, and these vast fortunes i will bind "together with true chords of love. god help our children find a part their mothers will not take in this, to seal their children's fate. "now let me, please, suggest a way to reach this matter of today; and we will friendly make the deal so lawyers cannot break the seal." then waddington sprang to his feet, and warmly did his neighbors greet; then shook him warmly by the hand, and said, "come, let us seal the band." and then with fixed and mellow eye he gazed on high as he stood by his rugged friend and neighbor, too, then st. lawrence bade him what to do. "my dear old friend, sit down, sit down; 'tis easy for us now to drown all obstacles that's in our way to carry out our plan today." then he proceeded to relate how easy men in empire state could call in witness to their deed and satisfy all fortune's creed. "now, look-a-here, my friend st. lawrence, you cannot be too quick to tell me how we'll do all this and make this bargain stick." and then the sage st. lawrence did say: "look here, my friend, here is our way! i'll make my will of my estate (and that, you know, is very great,) "unto your fair and lovely child, if she refrains from being wild, and when she weds she weds my son, my noble, brave and kind trueman. "then you, my friend, reciprocate; you make your will of this same date, and seal as i do mine; make true, my son, your legatee, "and to him give, in simple fee, your lands, your goods, your kine, your cash, all in one grand and mighty crash, if he your daughter weds." the witnesses were duly called; the wills were then prepared; the testators did sign their names, the children they well fared. the documents were laid away in vaults of solid rock; there safely for the children kept, their heritage of stock. years, years rolled on and trueman grew to be a handsome man. he said: "i'm bound to be "m. d." and do the best i can." sadie, on the other hand, grew to be a queen; and when to college she did go trueman there was seen. they played at home, when they were young, upon the mountain side, and never once did they mistrust they'd be both groom and bride. when trueman closed his college course he off to gotham went, to become an adept in his class while on his mission bent. sadie, on the other hand, when she had closed her term, returned unto her mountain home, for which she hourly yearned. two years had changed this happy home to one most sadly grieved; the mother of this lovely girl had sadly been deceived. she, down upon her death bed lay, when in came sadie one bright day and gazed upon the shrunken form which now had battled life's hard storm. poor sadie, with a broken heart, she did the best to take her part; but long the sickness did not last, because her mother now soon passed from time into eternity, where the human soul is ever free. trueman now, in city fashion, had let die out his old-time passion for rocks and rills and mountain side, where dwelt the queen who'd be his bride. so much for selfish, erring man; he'll do the best where e'er he can. time, time rolled on, when sadie's sire, with renewed youth and boyhood ire, took to himself another wife, and tried anew to live his life. the new-made mistress of the home (who had no place she called her own) was mother of a daughter fair, with dimpled cheeks and flowing hair. the madame's name was maria; _her_ daughter's was sarah. she soon was boss of all the house, and sadie driven like a mouse into the cold and cheerless world. sadie, with a broken heart, prayed her father take her part; but he, with proud and dire disdain, forever did refrain. then sadie, on her mother's grave, prayed loud and long for god to save her soul from earthly wreck. then, with a palpitating heart, with one fond look she did depart to battle hard with broken heart; while daughter and a second wife should all but ruin her young life. but father did as fathers do, when their list of wives have numbered _two_; he lent his daughter a deaf ear, for his second wife he then did fear. his life was short; he soon became a victim to a raging pain, which soon relieved him from this life and bore him off from life's hard strife. they laid him low beside his wife, the pride and joy of sadie's life; but sadie knew not of the fate her father had so sadly met. the new-made widow, without tear, prepared to move, within a year, to far and distant foreign land, where neither had a single friend. the goods were sold, the stock and kine; the lands were leased for a long time; the two, with pockets filled with gold, sailed for paris with joys untold. young sarah, who was quite a belle, when in old paris she did swell her wardrobe with both silk and lace, and numerous paints to ply her face. she was the very counterpart- although 'tis strange to say- of pretty _sadie_ waddington in all her dainty ways. she spread herself around, about, in all society's halls, and never failed, when chance availed, to attend the stylish balls. she was a favorite with them all, in fact, the queenly belle, and many a suitor's prayer she heard while on bended knee he fell. one evening while on promenade within society's halls, she met a handsome, tall young man she'd seen at some of the balls. when introduced, both their eyes met, she blushing timidly; he heard the name, "miss waddington," then asked most courteously: "from what part of america's soil do you and your friends hail? or have you lived in paris long? on what liner did you sail"? she said: "i'm sadie waddington, from the city that bears my name; it borders on the old st. lawrence, a river of world-wide fame." then spake the handsome gentleman: "i, too, am from that place; and if you are sadie waddington, i ought to know your face." her cheeks grew flushed and flushed again, as on her he searchingly gazed; she looked up in his solemn face and saw he was greatly amazed. it was trueman st. lawrence she saw, as she gazed on his beautiful form; she was more than bewitching in her ways to capture him all by storm. the doctor went to his hotel to ponder the matter o'er: "that's not the sadie waddington i've seen in days of yore." his brain was puzzled, his face was flushed. he was in a frenzied mood; he could not fathom the mystery to do the best he could. if that's the girl in days of youth i played with on the mountain side, before i leave this old city i'll make her my darling bride. so saying, he sank upon his couch, and slept in dreams so rich and gay that loud his servant called and called, because 'twas late--far in the day. that day he had a trip to make unto a neighboring town, and visited a hospital kept by a doctor brown. in passing from one of the wards, while in the open door, he chanced to turn, and looking back saw, kneeling on the floor, with outstretched arms and pleading eyes, the girl for years he had not seen; she'd grown into full womanhood, she was a perfect fairy queen. "what! what!" he cried, "am i deceived? if i'm my father's son that girl i see back yonder is _sadie waddington_!" he hastened back to where she knelt, and bade her to arise, and clasped her to his manly breast, while tears rose in his eyes. then 'tween her sobs and moans and groans she slowly did relate how she was driven from her home back in the empire state. she told of awful suffering, of wandering far and near; of the death of father and mother, to her _all_ that was dear. she told him how she had returned unto her mountain dome, and as she was told that all had been sold, she was left without a home. the doctor stood transfixed with awe; listened to her relate the story of the sale of all, back in the empire state. the doctor said: "my dear sadie, it matters not a bit to me whether you have lands, or goods, or gold, i have vast fortunes yet untold. "what's mine is yours; 'tis always so, my father told me long ago, before i left the empire state and came over here to study late. "i offer you my heart and hand, and pledge to seal it with the band of holy wedlock, faithfully. now set your heart forever free "from labor and the toils of life,- come, say you'll be my darling wife! i feel a pang about my heart that pierces like a flashing dart." "oh, true. st. lawrence! oh, can it be that you do really care for me? i, who have lived by a false name to hide a step-mother's wicked shame? "for five long years my name has been (as you directly would have seen), not sadie w., as you have known, but the sadie changed to plain salome. "the waddington i changed, also, for the common name of van harlow; then among strangers i did seek for work to do, although 'twas meek. "i came across the ocean wide, as servant to a new-made bride; she was taken sick and died out here before she'd been a bride a year. "since then i've cared for poor and sick, and cannot leave them now, so quick. i patients have who _must_ have care before _i_ leave for better fare. "now true, my dear, i'll be your own; i'll make you an ever happy home; i feel pa's oft' spoke words are true, trueman's your name, _true man_ are you." he pressed her closely to his breast: to dry her tears he did his best; then gently kissed her burning cheeks and bade her wait but a few weeks. the happiest man in all the land was true. st. lawrence, with trembling hand, who then returned to his rooms rich, a restless night to roll and pitch upon a bed of faultless down, but pains of heart it could not drown. he lay and mused throughout the night, 'cause his future now looked bright. _sarah_ waddington and her mother prepared a party for another. a gent they wished to entertain, 'cause sarah wished to bear his name. "it is to be a swell affair, so she could safely set her snare to catch the unsuspecting true, because he loves and loves but you." so spake the mother to her child, who seemed delighted--almost wild- to think that she could play her part without remorse or pain at heart. the time rolled on, and days were spent in fixing up for the event; the rich were called from every side to see sarah--the would-be bride. she sent a most bewitching note for dr. 'lawrence to cast the vote, who'd be the belle of honor, bright, to bear the graces of the night. the doctor smiled, as he sat down to answer it, without a frown; and faithfully he did outline, in characters most cute and fine: "my choice is one, and only one; and now i've written and 'tis done! as sure as i'm my father's son, 'tis one--fair _sadie_ waddington! "and now, before it is too late, there's one request i have to make: that i be granted then, or sooner, to be escort to the maid of honor." "your request is at once granted, and hope we'll become enchanted; and with your presence'll be elated, because, it seems, we are related". fair sarah, then, did make it known (real quietly about her home) that she and 'lawrence, raised side by side, would soon become both groom and bride. silks and diamonds bought with gold, gotten from the kine she'd sold 'way back in the empire state, where poor sadie met her fate. just one week before the eve' when he sarah would deceive, trueman went to see his love, who was pretty as a dove. "sadie," said he, "sweet is revenge! let us now your labor change. the ones who drove you to your fate, away back in the empire state, "are here in paris this long time, and live in luxury sublime. the gold they got from off your kine, it goes for suppers and for wine. "in holy wedlock let us wed, i'll lead you to a bridal bed; and then in luxury and state we'll 'tend the ball ere 'tis too late". i'll humble them in dust and shame! ah, sadie, you were not to blame! _we'll_ make them wish they'd never sold your goods and kine for glittering gold! "come, darling, now we'll off today, the bridal knot to firmly tie. then i your graceful swanlike neck with pearls and rubys will bedeck. "i'll trim your lovely graceful form with richest satin to be worn: i'll place upon your tapered hand a solitaire, set in gold band. "your dainty feet encased in kid of dainty styles, they're only made for those who're called the name of queens, and bought by those who have vast means. "then to the ball we'll proudly go, (and who we'll meet i do not know,) i'll there present to every one my bride, _true_ sadie waddington. "the shock, so sudden, will be great; they'll quail beneath their hearts own hate of being there exposed to all; oh, won't it be an awful fall? "come, sadie dear, revenge is sweet! now is our chance to get your mete which they have held from you so long, and did you such a cruel wrong." then sadie spoke: "trueman, my dear, there's naught i know for me to fear. revenge _is_ sweet, although 'tis queer, revenge i get in paris here." they carried out their little plot, and never skipped a single jot. the eve was fine, the folk were gay, and not a thing stood in their way. it was quite late when they arrived at the mansion of the would-be bride. as soon as doctor stepped in sight, escorting sadie--his delight- sarah saw the graceful form and, with one scream, she left the room, and fell fainting to the floor. they gently laid her on the couch before the open door. her mother came in haste to see what all the trouble there could be, and did not see the doctor's bride until she was close by her side. and when she saw it was too late, she gasped: "oh, sarah's met her fate," then fell into a deathly state. the mother swooned and swooned away the entire night and most the day; and then the doctor came to say, "her life is run, she cannot stay!" sadie, with trained and skillful hand, nursed sarah back to conscious-land; did faithfully the watchword keep while often o'er them she did weep. and, just before the mother died, she sadie called to her bedside and begged her to full pardon give for cruel wrong she did receive. sadie, always so good and true, said she always thought she knew that the grand day would surely come when that great wrong would be undone. she granted full, complete pardon for all the wrongs the dame had done, and then she spoke kind words of cheer into the madam's dying ear. with firm-set eyes and drooping chin the madame grasped and tried to cling unto the hand she once did scorn, and drove from home at break of morn. she then was wrapt in eternal death, and from her soul came not a breath. in casket pure as driven snow unto the churchyard she did go, and there was laid beneath the clay to await jehovah's judgment day. all lands and goods and gold and kine she left behind for endless time! poor sarah! doomed to awful fate, her mind was left in ruined state; in raving madness and in strife she tried to take our sadie's life. the best physicians in the land were summoned forth on every hand to try and bring her from the strife back to the land of happy life. off to an asylum she must go, 'cause 'twas not safe to leave her so; and with good care she might regain and be relieved from mental pain. salome, our faithful lass and bride, resolved to stay by sarah's side and help her regain her lost mind, and comfort for her she would find. nine weeks were spent in mad-house fare, salome bestowing tender care upon the one who once did face salome in all her dire disgrace. when doctor st. lawrence saw his wife was bent on battling for the life of one who was once her mad foe, he said: "all right, it shall be so." salome, she clung unto her charge, as if she were her dearest friend; she incurred expenses somewhat large to treat her patient to the end. the doctor soon began to learn his bride and wife would never spurn the one who once her home did take, and drove her off for mere pride's sake. he asked salome what she would do in case that sarah did pull through, and once again her mind regain before they crossed the raging main. salome did quickly make reply, while glistening tears stood in her eye: "i'll take her to old empire state, right to the door where i met fate! "i'll make her happy, if i can, and now i'll form my little plan: we must, dear true, just do our best, and fix her up in a cosy nest. "we will give her a little home on the beautiful mountain side; we will find her a handsome lover who'll be proud to call her his bride. "we will give them all attention that the best of friends could do; we will _return good for evil_, 'cause my mother taught me so. "let us show that true religion is the life we ought to live, and the ways that christ rejoiced in are the ways to which we cleave. "oh, my husband, dearest trueman, i believe in sarah reigns the true principle of goodness- let us fan that spark to flames. "can i now secure her safely, teach her shun her evil ways and discard that haughty spirit that she learned in younger days, "i will be the happiest mortal ever lived on mother earth, and will reach that heavenly portal only reached by second birth." after coaxing, begging, teasing, sarah consented for to go back across the ocean, raging, where her childhood seeds did sow. when they reached the harbor safely, bag and baggage on the truck, they cast lots to see what steamer they would choose for their good luck. doctor got the choice of vessels, and he quickly did decide that the city of st. paris should take their _protege_ and his bride. safely in the vessel's cabin, housed in cosy stateroom there, all were ready for the voyage, and did look for cheerful fare. out upon the briny billows, just three days and nights, 'twas said, when the night was dark and dreary, trueman rose from sleepless bed. there was something weighed upon him, something whispered to beware; he dressed and went upon the deck to breathe the crisp sea air. he paced and paced the vessel's deck with long and manly stride; he went from starboard o'er to port and back to starboard side. he'd been upon the deck some time, and peered into the gloom as if them something overawed and threatened them with doom. at last, to port, he spied a fleck, a dancing on the waves, and there he plainly saw a deck bedecked with pirate knaves. the vessel, with a dark-hued hull, bore straightway on its course, when, "_hard to port! to port! to port!_" rang out a voice real coarse. the strange boat glided swiftly on, like a ghost on phantom wings, while the crisp sea breeze went dancing past and through her rigging sings. the strange boat slipped along, across the briny billows white, and their steamer ploughed and labored hard along its renewed flight. it was a close and dangerous call, because the night was dark; had they collided there, on the ocean bare, they'd went down with their bark. the voyage, then, to gotham was stormy and quite rough, and all agreed, when landed, that they had quite enough. they then all took the railroad train north, through the empire state, and soon were on the mountain side where sadie met her fate. the first place sadie wished to see was graves of father and mother, and tripping lightly from the yard, she passed out with another. that bitter morn, with memories fresh, when from her home she'd fled, she was scorned by one _now_ too glad to lead her on ahead. when she approached her mother's grave the tears rolled thick and fast, and by her side poor sarah stood, with memories of the past a fitting through her guilty mind: and then she spoke at last: "oh, sadie, sadie, what a blot upon my mother's past; it stings within my guilty heart, and would to god i now could part with half the pain i feel- the balm of christ could scarcely heal." she stooped, and silently did press her fresh and rosy lips upon the little mound of grass "beneath--dear mother sleeps." then sarah, with most tender words, pressed sadie to her breast and with a fervent, heartfelt plea, prayed both them to be blest. when they returned unto their home, their friendship sealed with silent love, they could not bear to be alone; they felt a power from up above. old friends and neighbors, with delight, called on the doctor and his bride, and there convened, on the first night, a host of friends who're on their side. there's one among them old and gray, who'd lived right there for all his life; 'tis the elder man and sage, st. lawrence, and he smiles upon the doctor's wife. heir to the waddington estate, sadie reigns the queen of all; her friendship for sarah was great, and sister her did often call. the doctor chose to spend his life upon the handsome mountain side with sadie, his true loving wife, and father st. lawrence until he died. time rolled around and months flew by; sadie and sarah, hand in hand, sealed by the firmest friendship tie, two of the truest in the land. there chanced to stroll from distant clime a bright young man of sadie's kin; came to visit in summer time, and sarah was introduced to him. sadie tried her best to make a match, and championed well her cause; sarah viewed it as a catch that one very seldom draws. though 'twas but a short acquaintance, still the wedding time was fixed; the intended groom had patience, 'cause he felt he was not rich. sadie, sweet as dewy honey, wishing that her friends should wed, proffered home and lands and money if the word would just be said. "i am heir to all this fortune, known as waddington's estate; come, now, sarah; come, now, hawthorne, join your hearts ere 'tis too late. "i will give to you a large farm yonder on the mountain side; i will give you kine and money, if you'll be my cousin's bride." sarah spake, with dewy eyelids, to the one she loved so dear: "sadie, i am anything but worthy of this princely gift, to cheer "my poor broken, wicked heart, after i have been so bad; you should never take _my_ part, since _i_ took that which _you_ had." yet sadie, true to her own passion, promised deed in fee for all, if sarah would wed her own cousin, ere the summer ran to fall. so the wedding day was fixed when the two should be made one, and their home, as she predicted, would be deeded as their own. when at last the nuptial greeting was received on every hand, the sage, st. lawrence, came to their meeting, the last one left of their quartet band. the wedding knot was duly tied, and the folk were feeling gay; they were now made happy groom and bride, starting out in life's pathway. when the ceremony was over, and the gifts they were bestowing- bridal gifts as sweet as clover- sadie, with her rich hair flowing, called the old 'squire of the city that to witness of her signing the transfer of title fair, to the land that lay up there; when, to her surprise and chagrin, father st. lawrence, with gentle voice, told her that she could not bargain, for she had not even choice. "now, my daughter, not one farthing of this vast and rich estate has been left unto true's darling, now, i tell you, 'tis not too late. "all this land you tho't was yours by inheritance of your blood, was bequeathed by your dear father to one you never thought he would". now, i've brought the judge of probate as an honored guest of _mine_, that he might reveal the truth, that it might be writ in rhyme. then, to soothe the disappointment, the old judge with silvery hair drew from 'neath his outer garment, two old papers kept with care. one was read by him to sadie, where her father had endowed all his lands, and kine and money on the one who made her proud. when this document was ended, and was handed to trueman, the old sage, st. lawrence, pretended that he enjoyed youth again. "read, judge! read your other paper! tell my daughter here the truth; tell her what their anxious fathers did for them while in their youth." when the document was ended, with tears showering down her face, sadie, kisses, sweetly blended, while she held him in embrace. long their fortunes had been blended by the signatures alone of their fathers in their child days, as they played around their home. "true, my dear; o will you come here? sign this deed! come quick, o do; carry out my simple wishes; sarah is my friend, so true." "yes, my darling, this with pleasure i will do, to please you all; it is my most pleasant leisure to do bidding at your call." so, the deed of gift was given, and in happiness they'd start; from that home they'd ne'er be driven, life anew to never part. there in happiness and comfort did they live upon the place where the evil of proud passion smothered one in dire disgrace. happy was salome and trueman when they saw their _protege_ safe in the hands of cousin hawthorne, on the waddington old place. safe within the coils of homelife, safe within the cottage walls, safely with a trusting husband, safe within their friendly calls. thus the vengeance of our hero was full spent to meet her theme; yet so different from a nero, because she knew she could redeem. salome's revenge was to her sweet, 'cause she'd conquered, not cut down; now she feared no one to meet, nor would any wear a frown. though some years had been so bitter, and had fraught such cruel pain; now the coldest of the winter seemed like flowery beds of green. now, away up on the mountains, in the well known empire state, sadie waddington is living in sweet revenge, where she met fate. [illustration] _a tribute to capt. george w. hess._ by g. w. van weighs. almost a decade thou hast battled with a patriot's band, whose first duty is devotion to their native land; and no comrade but is willing, with a ready mind, to declare thee brave and loyal to all mankind. in thy country's hour of peril, on the battle field, thou wert ever more than willing all her rights to shield, and, with true and loyal purpose, battled for the right, till secession's traitorous banner sunk in endless night! duty's path to thee is glory, glory easy won; for a task so oft repeated is quite easy done; yet no one can ever chide, for thy generous heart ne'er will crush the poor and helpless with oppression's dart. every prisoner knows and likes thee, for thy friendly ways must attract their close attention and excite their praise; and the few who know thee better, as a man of heart, would desire no nobler mission than to take thy part. may you live in peace and plenty, happy with your own, till jehovah's love shall gather 'round his august throne all who, like you, honest comrade, follows heaven's plan and respects the rules of virtue and the rights of man. [illustration] _my lawyer._ when grappled in the law's embrace, who first betrayed an anxious face and fain would shield me from disgrace? my lawyer. who told me i should not confess, that he would all my wrongs redress and set me free from all distress? my lawyer. when, sick in jail, i senseless lay, who took my watch and case away, lest prowling thieves on me should prey? my lawyer. who to my wealth tenacious clung, and for me wagged his oily tongue, and at my foes hot embers flung? my lawyer. who told me he was dreadful smart and knew the law-books all by heart, and always took his client's part? my lawyer. who, in the court, with peerless pride, my rights affirmed, my guilt denied, and swore the state's attorney lied? my lawyer. and when twelve men, in one compound, for me a guilty verdict found, who came to stanch the bleeding wound? my lawyer. who said my time within the wall would be exceeding brief and small, the minimum, or none at all? my lawyer. and when the judge my doom proclaimed, and three long years of exile named, who looked indignant and ashamed? my lawyer. when, at the sheriff's stern command, i for the train was told to stand, who longest shook and squeezed my hand? my lawyer. who, when he had me safe confined, no more concerned his crafty mind, nor was, for me, to grief inclined? my lawyer. who closed the mortgage on my lot, and drove my family from my cot, and left them homeless on the spot? my lawyer. who, when of prison clothes i'm stripped, and from these walls am homeward shipped, will get himself immensely whipped? my lawyer. [written by mr. george gilbert, who died on the 9th of june, a. d. 1890.] [illustration] _a sad warning._ by geo. w. h. harrison. in prison cell, at early twilight, smoking foesters "best cigar," sat a convict, little dreaming aught his perfect bliss could mar. round the cell-block, slowly ambling, came a "screw," on mischief bent, and his wide, expanded nostrils quickly inhaled the welcome scent. wave on wave, thro' latticed iron, smoky clouds rose thick and high, and the happy convict murmured: "go, ye cloudlets, greet the sky!" but the cloudlets, incense laden, lingered near the oaken floor, till the "screw," with cat-like motion, stood before the smoker's door. in the spittoon, charred and sputtering, lay the smoker's joy and pride; and the "screw," exultant, murmured: "stackhouse will _this case_ decide." morning dawned. the "cellar agent" bore the trembling wretch away to a cellar, cold and gloomy, where the tools of torture lay. blows and shrieks alternate sounded, and a voice from near the floor murmured: "stackhouse! mercy! mercy!! p-l-e-a-s-e, sir; _i will smoke no more_!" from the cellar, shorn and shaven, skulked the cowering "con." away; and he smokes--but, oh! how watchful is that victim, who can say? all ye inmates, take the warning, gushing from a brother's heart: he who smokes within these portals for the dire offense _may_ smart! [illustration] _acrostic to j. c. langenberger, captain of the o. p. night watch._ by g. w. van weighs. just to all men, to all men kind and true; conspicuous as a giant yet comely to the view; loved by all who know him, trusted everywhere; always more than willing to ease his fellow's care; never harsh or cruel, never false or base; going in and coming out among those in disgrace, earning from each prisoner's heart the meed of honest praise; none condemn his actions, none despise his ways; by his children reverenced, by his wife adored; every friend is welcome at his ample board; rich in all that makes a _man_, poor alone in hate; god of mercy bless the man who nightly guards our fate; ever may he fill the post that wisdom has assigned, ruling all, as now he does, by strength of heart and mind. _she loves me yet._ by geo. w. h. harrison. amid the cares and griefs of life, one precious thought i'll ne'er forget, i have a fond and faithful wife, for darling lulu loves me yet. the bitterest pang that earth can give can never make my soul regret the fact that i on earth can live, while lulu says she loves me yet. the sweetest joy my heart could know would prove a diamond yet unset, whose radiant light could never glow, like this sweet thought, "she loves me yet." should grief deluge my troubled soul till every hour some care beset, i could defy its stern control while murmuring, "lulu loves me yet." should every friend i have on earth each vow of loyalty forget, i could survive the cruel blow, since darling lulu loves me yet. should earth with one accord combine, sweet lulu's influence to beset, it would not change my constant mind, if i but felt "she loves me yet." i care no sweeter boon in life, nor will my heart its choice regret; i only long to meet that wife who truly says she loves me yet. _acrostic tribute to harry smith._ by g. w. van weighs. he is like the god, appollo, when in days of old all the hearts of greece could conquer, yet despised their gold. rich in manhood, health and youth, he is ever free ready to assist his brother whatsoever his need may be. you can trust him freely, fully, with your love or gold, since his love of truth and honor never can grow cold. may he ever do his duty and to all be kind, it is but the noble hearted who can rule the mind, trusting, still, his love of country and his love for man, he may rest assured heaven will endorse his plan. _the phantom boat._ by geo. w. h. harrison. two lovers once sat dreaming of scenes o'ergrown by years; sweet daisy's eyes were eloquent with girlhood's pleading tears; her little hand was lying confidingly in mine, while her silvery voice pleaded: "dear one, awake the nine!" "yes, darling, i will rhyme for you; what legend shall i drew! shall i now fold you in my arms and, drifting down life's stream, 'mid singing birds and nodding flowers, pour forth my soul in love- in accents soft and tender- as the cooing of a dove"? or shall i tell you, dearest one, why yonder's rippling stream first gained the name "tululah" in an age that's now a dream? well, now, pillow your head upon my breast, the legend is weird and wild; i fear me much its harrowing scenes will shock, thee, gentle child. will you listen, while we're watching for the far-famed phantom boat? perhaps the tale will lead us to catch the first faint note of tululah's wondrous music as she floats down this stream, for, i assure you, darling, this legend is no dream. where now we sit, in days gone by, the stealthy panther crept, and bears and wolves in horrid hordes their tireless vigils kept; turkey, deer and beaver were scattered far and wide, and here the lordly savage stalked _in all his pristine pride_; the creeks then ruled this forest, from suwanee to the sea;- a haughty, bold and cruel race, cunning, treacherous, wild and free! to hunt and fish, and boast and fight were the duties of a brave, while woman--alas! sweet woman was but a cowering slave! no grant had she to breathe her wrongs before the "council fire," nor dared she utter a single word to gain her heart's desire, until her savage master first gave her leave to speak; nor dared she then to brave his will lest he his vengeance wreak! yet ever and anon there rose a woman, whose proud soul ignored those self-created gods and spurned their base control. such was the brave tululah, whose spirit haunts this stream; in a phantom barge it glides along, like a wraith in a troubled dream. 'tis said she haunts this river, alone on a misty night, and that each one who sees her is 'palled with strange affright! and why she haunts this river is the burden of my tale, and none who have a tender heart but will her fate bewail. tululah was ocala's child, to whom the creeks ascribe the name of the boldest leader that ever led their tribe! a savage of herculean build, with fierce and restless eye, his haughty lip deigned not to smile, and scorned to breathe a sigh! tululah was his pride and joy, the only thing he loved on earth, since she became an orphan at the fatal hour of birth! the superstitious savage deemed her mother's spirit nigh, and thought, who harmed an orphan, by a spirit hand should die! she was born, too, "in a castle," gifted with a "second sight;" friends of earth, and sea, and air, at _her_ command would fight. her raven locks and soulful eyes, her faultless form and peerless face, and voice of wondrous melody awed and charmed her race. she reigned an undisputed queen, _all_ her mandate must obey; and even the fierce ocala was obedient to her sway. yet even she was powerless to stay the raging flood of tireless, deathless savage hate that sought the white man's blood. ocala's hatred of the whites was known both far and near; brave hunters spake his name with awe, and women in trembling fear! at last he grew so treacherous no white man dared come nigh, till a trio of gallant hunters determined _he should die_! they knew 'twas a dangerous mission on which their steps was bent, yet the prayers of honest settlers their true hearts courage lent. as they neared the sleeping village, where ocala awaited his doom, they flitted like weird spectres in the silent midnight gloom! there, spread before their vision, five hundred wigwams lay; a savage guerdon of defense for him they sought to slay. to the silent village center our gallant hunters crept, to the door of the largest wigwam, where proud ocala slept. stepping across the prostrate form of the sentinel at the door, they breathed a prayer for absent ones, whom they might see no more. three knives flashed in midnight air, then fell with a sickening thud, ocala, napoleon of his tribe, lay withering in his blood! but hark! what means that fierce warhoop, resounding loud and clear? 'tis the bugle blast that calls each brave when the paleface foe is near! gathering fast in the midnight gloom, they form "the circle of death" around the dauntless hunters, who stand with bated breath awaiting the savage onslaught, determined to sell their lives to the service of their country and the freedom of men's wives; while pitying heaven aids them by the darkness of the night, since not a star will lend its aid to guide their foes aright! now facing north, and east, and west, they meet the savage foes, recruiting charon's army by every lusty blow; but still they come in hideous swarms, like hounds let loose from hell, till, overborne by numbers, our bleeding heroes fell! all honor to the gallant three, twelve braves in silence lay, with gaping wounds and stony eyes, to greet returning day! while yet a score were nursing wounds which these heroes gave, that signed their right to enter into an unwept grave! ocala ne'er again would scourge their country, far and near, nor wring from helpless innocence an unavailing tear! his death alone destroyed the boast and stilled the raging flood of senseless pride and passion that bathed his hands in blood! but, alas, for human prowess, these deeds but roused the ire of savage wretches, who now tried to vent their spleen _with fire_! three stakes were now erected and fagots heaped around, while painted fiends in human shape exultant, sat aground. they led the helpless captives forth, with many a shout and hoot, and drug them to their awful doom, less feeling than a brute! and first they bound hugh cannon, whose descendants, love, you know, i pointed out to you, last fall, when we were at the show. they bound him to the cruel stake before his comrades' eyes, then scornfully they bade them mark "how a paleface coward dies!" thank god his captors were deceived, he smiled amid the flame! and, with his fast expiring breath, these words bequeathed to fame: "to suffer in a noble cause is sweet beyond compare! these greedy flames that lick my blood but light a vision fair, where heroism and heroes sweep the still resounding lyre, heaven's harmonies have quenched the tortures of this fire! "tumultuous raptures 'round me roll heaven's pearly gates ajar! my spirit soars on fleshless wing beyond the faintest star! oh, blissful death; oh, vision fair, what sweet celestial glories shine, the loved and lost of earlier years are _now_ forever mine!" the savage horde in silence stood and listened as he sang, while even their untaught eyes could see he suffered not a pang! no yell triumphant smote his ear, awe silenced every tongue, and many a heart beat faster as he his requiem sung. then lionhearted conway, beneath whose eagle eye even savage foes once trembled was offered up to die! defiant still 'mid writhing flames, he heaped on them his scorn, and, with true prophetic voice he doomed their race unborn. "rejoice! rejoice! ye howling fiends, distort your hideous face, soon the white man's wrath shall sweep from earth your blood-stained race, while shining fields and cities fair attest the white man's power, you accursed creeks shall be tradition's useless dower!" now comes your own ancestor, the gallant, brave mccray, who planned this glorious campaign and led the awful fight. he was a perfect hercules, cast in apollo's mould, with a heart of witching tenderness, yet proud and dauntless soul. oft had he visited this tribe, on peaceful mission bent, and to many a savage his kind assistance lent. yet little dreamed he, at this hour, one heart amid that throng still beat responsive to his own, attuned to love's mad song! yet, as they bound him to the stake and raised the flaming brand, the chief that held it fell a corpse, killed by a woman's hand! and indian maiden loosed his bands and raised her voice on high: "who harms my paleface lover by tululah's hand shall die!" behold, the savage concourse stand, transfixed by silent awe, and gaze upon ocala's child, held sacred by their law! they feared ocala's spirit might _then_ be hovering nigh; nor dared to harm his darling child, lest he who harmed her die! the queen, with head and form erect, bore mccray undismayed, and in her _father's_ wigwam her wounded lover laid! then bending gently o'er him, each wound she rightly dress, and with sweet plaintive melodies lured the weary one to rest. at dawning light mccray awoke, his queen still lingering there; his eyes bespoke his gratitude, his lips were moved in prayer for the lithe and graceful maiden whose love he knew to be pure as early morning's blush, yet deathless as--eternity! although once failed, his savage foes still thirsted for his blood; the hate within their bosoms was as tireless as a flood. not daring open violence, they sought oneida's craft, and 'neath the guise of friendship gave the lovers a sleeping draught. when the mighty god of slumber had locked them fast in sleep, the wily savage entered, his fearful oath to keep. they took mccray to the river in sight of these roaring falls, whose sheer descent--two hundred feet- the stoutest heart appalls! they bound him fast in a frail canoe, set adrift 'mid the current's flow, believing his life would be dashed out on the jagged rocks below. then, gladly turning homeward, a ready lie they make to appease her burning anger when tululah shall awake! slowly the doomed man drifted, yet faster, at each breath, the quickening current bore him to the open gates of death! yet still he slept; aye, slept and dreamed of the proud creek's peerless flower who, for deathless love of him, had braved her nation's power. spurned her murdered siris corpse and to his murderer clung! aye, on the spot that drank his blood, love's soothing ditties sung! dreamed of the eyes that flashed with fire when his foeman dared draw nigh, yet softened into tenderness at her lover's faintest sigh. dreams of the hand that sped the dart that pierced the chieftain's breast, yet with such witching tenderness could tremble in caress! dreams of the heart that proudly braved a nation's deadly hate, yet, at a lover's first command, would brook a martyr's fate! dreams of the hour when tululah, who so bravely saved his life, shall desert her baffled kinsman to become a white man's wife! dreams how he would love and prize her, shielding her with tenderest care, spending time, and life, and fortune but to grant her lightest prayer. but his dream is rudely broken, and his blanched lip loudly calls, for he hears the well known rumbling of this river's awful falls. life was sweet, death was so near, and he so young to die! no wonder that his trembling lips sought mercy from on high. he bore ten thousand tortures with every passing breath, as he lay bound and helpless, gliding swiftly on to death. he raised his clarion voice above the deafening roar; great heavens! can a human cry reach that resounding shore? "yes! yes!" a once familiar voice calls loudly from that shore, and a well known trapper woos time to life and hope once more! by an effort, born of hope renewed, mccray sprang to his feet; the trapper saw, his lariat flew, his outstretched hands to greet. "_steady!_" the practical huntsman cried: "your peril is almost o'er; steady, for in a moment your foot shall press the shore!" then, as he drew the skiff ashore, he recognized mccray, but gazed in silent wonder _for late raven locks were grey_! and never, to his dying day, would mccray view the place where, in suspended agony, he met death face to face! he shuddered at an indian's name, and soon forgot the queen, who once so bravely saved him from a nation's senseless spleen. he wooed and won a maiden whose blue eyes, like your own, held within their liquid depths, love's nectarine full blown, and as i press your luscious lips i praise thee, brave mccray, whose dauntless courage gave to me the girl i hold today! oh, yes; forgive me, darling, i did almost forget; but how can mortal silence keep by such sweet eyes beset? grant me the boon of one more kiss and gaze into my face; light fancy by your radiant eyes, tululah's fate to trace! still let the pressure of your hand chain me in rapture to the earth, for i must offer thoughts tonight that ne'er before had birth! no idle dreamer dares to pierce the mystery of this stream, nor would i dare the bold emprise save that your wish i deem the highest law my loving heart can now or ever know, and 'neath the witchery of your smile my raptured numbers glow! my fancy soars on eager wing, and will, perhaps, at last, gladly at your high behest unfold the misty past! tululah slept till evening shades had deepened into night, and woke, alas! to find herself bereft of her brave knight. her indian wit soon taught her oguchu was to blame, and hastily she found him, her eyes and cheeks aflame! "oguchu knows your mission; your paleface lover fled while tululah's starlit eyes were wandering 'mid the dead. he is not worthy of your love; let my sister choose a mate; oguchu's lodge is open, will my sister spurn her fate?" "my paleface lover is a brave!" tululah proudly cried; "_he_ never fled from friend or foe, oguchu, thou hast lied! thy double tongue is poison-tipped, thy words a coward's dart, before i clasp thy loathsome form let panthers rend my heart! "speak, coward, speak! where is my brave? tululah asks you where; speak, lest i summon by a word the friends of earth and air to tear your quivering limbs apart, you lying, treacherous chief. speak the truth! you indian dog, the night is growing brief!" the awestruck chief is conquered, and tells, with bated breath, where last he saw him drifting, into the jaws of death! tululah heard, and wild despair hurled reason from her throne. low at her feet the wretches crouched, their treachery to atone! "up! up, you cowards! up, you knaves! and lead me to the place. tululah's hand shall save him yet or curse your coward race! 'tis mine to speak; yours, to obey;- i am your virgin queen:- i _swear_ to save my lover or _nevermore_ be seen!" they led her to the river, and, pointing to the place, they stood like criminals abashed before the judge's face. she spurned their pleading counsel, and, springing in a boat, she cast the oars from her and set the skiff afloat! then, as she gazed adown the stream, her eyes were all aglow with that deep yearning passion such hearts alone can know. while sitting in the boat erect, with an indian's willowy grace, she sang in tuneful numbers a song time can't efface: "i am coming, coming, coming, slowly drifting down the stream, while my heart is yearning, yearning for the idol of love's dream. "i have left them--left them--left them! farewell, treacherous indian race; i can hear him calling, calling, and i go to seek his face. "now i'm gliding, gliding, gliding! and i hear the awful roar of the waters tumbling, tumbling, where no boat will need an oar! "now i'm rushing, rushing, rushing! and the spray obscures my sight; the angry waters leaping, leaping, chill me with a strange affright. "oh, i see him! see him--see him, and i welcome death's alarms! oh! i'm swiftly falling, falling, and i spring into his arms!" not a trace of boat or maiden could the savage searchers find, and they fled the spot in terror, daring not to look behind! nor would they tarry near the river, but moved their wigwam's far away; no savage creek would linger near the spot by night and day. and tradition says her spirit may be seen on nights like this, when the heavy moon, mist-laden, greets the river with a kiss! not in vain will be our vigil if tululah knows tonight in your precious veins is flowing genuine blood of her brave knight! look! look! 'mid the river's silvery sheen tululah's phantom boat is seen, while the air vibrates like a quivering lyre, touched by the hands of an angel choir! oh, wondrous music soft and low, like rippling streamlets' gentle flow! oh, pathos laden, heart refrain, no mortal lips can breathe that strain! immortal love! not even death can damp thy flame or chill thy breath! nay, while eternal ages roll, 'tis thine to feed the hungry soul with manna dipped in passion's fire, true birthright of the heart's desire; blest food no mortal lips can take and fail enrapturing bliss to wake! heaven's corner-stone, earth's chief delight. tululah's captive soul tonight is but living o'er the dream thou didst create beside this stream. her hapless fate all must deplore, self-sacrificed in days of yore; and, could tululah live again, at least one heart would soothe her pain! the legend may be overdrawn, yet 'tis not all a dream! nor will you ever say again: "this is no haunted stream!" other eyes beside our own have seen the phantom boat, and other ears than ours have heard that wild, weird? music float! but, precious little darling, as i strain thee to my breast, i am conscious you are weary, thus deprived of needful rest. let us hasten to thy cottage, parting with a lingering kiss; little daisy, then, can slumber and awake in perfect bliss! [illustration] [illustration] _an initial acrostic._ hear, o hear the melting music pouring from inspired hearts! in the race of life they stumbled, victims of temptation's darts. ruin's billows them engulfing, all their hopes and joys to blight; and the scorpion lash of conscience scourges them by day and night! man has doomed them to a prison where shame's torrents hourly roll pouring every known affliction on the crushed and bleeding soul! every legal right has perished, every social tie is snapped! crushing force is ever present, body mind and soul entrapped! kindness is a total stranger, human treatment rarely shown, man _is_ faultless when his fellow for a fault must needs atone! can such beings know the rapture heaven decrees to poet souls? know they where to place the cymbals of the sounding lyre never yet has human malice stilled the music of the spheres! in _the loathesome prison dungeon heaven the sweetest music hears!_ guilt or shame, or human anger, ne'er can fold the poet's wings. howsoever deep his anguish, still his heart exultant sings- tunes his lyre, still triumphant, and to you these pages brings! [illustration] _acrostic tribute to dr. h. r. parker._ by geo. w. h. harrison. he towers above his fellow men, like some grand knight of old. endeavoring to right all wrong with spirit bold and free! no craven fear usurps his soul, no task his spirit quails. religion to his soul is _love_, and love no wrong entails! ye who love eternal right and wish your fellows well refuse him not the meed of praise--'tis his our aches to quell! each heart within these prison walls that tests his wondrous skill unites to sing his praises and bless his generous will. by kindly words he cheers the soul of those whom dread disease envelops in her mystic folds and gives each patient ease. naught caring for their praise or blame, he steers his course aright, proving duty, well performed, is matchless in its might. and, tho' but a youth in years, his well instructed mind reveals all pathologic truth and practice well combined. kindly may the fates decree that he may rise to fame, ever free, as he is now, from error and from shame. refuse him naught of happiness and bless his honored name! [illustration] _lines to my wife._ by geo. w. h. harrison. years and years have passed away since last we met, my darling wife; oft have i felt the tooth of pain gnaw at the vitals of my life. the brow thy hand has oft caressed with such sweet, hypnotic power, the lines of care and grief has traced and wrinkled, like a withered flower. the dark brown locks you loved so well, now interspersed with silver thread, shows plainly that the march of time has left its footprints on my head. the deep gray eyes that once could flash with passion's fire, or melt in love, have lost the wanted fires of youth, like some poor offcast, limpsy glove. yet in my breast there beats a heart that never will nor can grow old; thy image keeps its pulses warm with love that never shall grow cold. thy grace and beauty won that heart long years ago, when thou wert young: thy gentle, generous, faithful care has bred a love i cannot tongue. heaven can grant no sweeter bliss, to crown the evening of my life, than iulu's sweet, enraptured kiss, when time restores me to my wife. _out of the depths._ by geo. w. h. harrison. in a cell of rock and iron, where remorse and shame environ, sat a convict sadly dreaming- dreaming of the days of yore. dreamed he of a land of flowers where, amid love's smiling bowers, he had spent such happy hours, to memory ne'er so sweet before. and he softly, fondly questioned: "shall i know such bliss once more?" hope made answer, "_yes, once more!_" in a home which love had founded, now by grief and care surrounded, sat a wife and mother, weeping, weeping for her prisoned swain. wept she o'er fate's mad endeavor, that such loving hearts could sever, with a blow, that seemed to never lose its agonizing pain; and her cry arose to heaven: "father, shall we meet again?" mercy answered, "once again." ope those doors of latticed iron, lift the clouds that now environ; faithfulness shall be rewarded- love the victory hath won. learn that i, your god, am heeding prayers that rise from hearts now bleeding, and my hand is ever leading, tho' the clouds obscure the sun. bows my heart in adoration- shall my lips repeat amen? hope and faith repeat! "amen." [illustration] _ella ree's revenge._ beside saluda's silver stream, where flowers nod and poets dream, a cabin stood, in days gone by, whose history should never die. here lived and led a blameless life, brave hayward and his peerless wife, with three sweet pledges of that love, cradled on earth, but born above. surrounding them, on every hand, was the red man's native land. no paleface, save themselves, ever dared to live in wild these indians shared. treacherous alike in peace and war, the seminole obeyed no law save one he spake with bated breath: "traitors shall die a coward's death!" the haughty chief who led this tribe, fear could not daunt nor favor bribe; and this lone settler, living here, knew white man never dared come near. he caucanoe's heart had won by a kindness nobly done, in rescuing from a watery grave the favorite child of this fierce brave. a frail canoe--swamped in mid stream: a father's cry--a maiden's scream; a hunter bearing a maid ashore, a volume writ would tell no more. "the land beside this murmuring stream thy future home, brave paleface, deem, and on caucanoe's word depend, no indian dares molest my friend!" "yours 'twas to save caucanoe's pride, mine be it to protect your bride; if here a future you would seek, i listen: let my brother speak." "great chief! your words, so kind and true, fall on my ears like evening dew; ere the buds begin to swell your brother 'mid your tribe shall dwell." so hayward built, with eager haste, as best befits a woman's taste, a cabin palace, reared by art, each room as secret as your heart. here they lived and tilled the ground, the happiest pair for miles around; the indians swarmed around their door with useful gifts to swell their store. caucanoe often sought their door and played with the children, o'er and o'er. he brought them many a curious toy, their happy childhood to employ. the winsome sprite, who sat on his knee, pleased him most of the guileless three; her limped eyes and golden hair caucanoe thought divinely fair. as the happy years flew swiftly by, beneath caucanoe's watchful eye, paralee grew, with rapid pace, into a maid of faultless grace. caucanoe loved this lovely child with a passion fierce, and deep, and wild, yet hopeless, he feared, that love would be, since naught could bridge the raging sea of racial and tribal pride, that lay between them, deep and wide; and well he knew another's soul brooked naught on earth save his control. king ulca's daughter, the proud ella ree, graceful and lithe as a willow tree, with eyes and hair like the raven's wing, and voice as soft as the babbling spring, had sought him for her wigwam brave, weeping o'er his late wife's grave; and well he knew the tears she shed, by tribal law their bodies wed. true love for her he could not feel, yet such a fact dared not reveal; his squaw she was alone in name and never to his wigwam came. another love, oh, fateful thought! with direful misery doubly fraught, surged and tossed within his soul until it spurned his late control. at last he sought her much loved side and begged her to become his bride. the maiden heard and laughed outright, and thus let loose the fiends of night that of late had lain at rest within caucanoe's savage breast. now, naught could stay this rising ire save to light the council fire. at last among his braves he stood, like some monarch of the wood; while burning words flowed from his tongue, that showed how deep his heart was wrung. the council heard and thus decreed: "our land from paleface dogs be freed. tomorrow night the proud paleface shall rue caucanoe's late disgrace!" "'tis well," the haughty chief replied; "who scorns to be caucanoe's bride shall feel a living flame of fire quench the last spark of life's desire!" but, ere the morrow's sun had set, awakening love brought deep regret. love fought the savage till he fell, and pity's tears began to well. he crept the cabin light within, and there confessed his double sin. "'tis done," he cried, "you shall not die; the boat is ready; up, and fly! "saluda's stream shall guide you right, caucanoe lays to die tonight! once you are free, i die content. nor deem the blow untimely sent." the boat has left the silent shore, and hayward tugs at the muffled oar; the craft sweeps on, like a thing of life, impelled by the prayers of a weeping wife. caucanoe stood on the bank hard by, with heaving breast and tear-dimmed eye, that proved a hero's soul could rest in the natural dome of a savage breast. the flashing oars in the moonlight pale give forth no sound and leave no trail; naught is heard save the breath of the fleeing ones in their race with death. hark! what means that frightful yell? 'tis a cry of triumph, born of hell; their savage foe, long under way, at last have seen their wanted prey. they see the foe and wildly fly the flashing oars, till they almost fly; "we'll yet be saved," brave hayward spoke, but his oars shivered beneath his stroke. he sprang to his feet, with ashen face, and his trusty rifle flew to its place; a maddening yell from the savage crew proved the ball to the mark had straightway flew. six times his trusty rifle spoke; each time an indian skull it broke. his gallant sons stood near their sire and reinforced his deadly fire! their doom was sealed. the savage horde soon reached their bark and sprang aboard; yet scorned they even then to yield, while strength was left a knife to wield. each one dared a hero's part; each knife it sought a savage heart, nor did they cease to bathe in gore till they sank beneath to rise no more. paralee and her mother lay to savage hands an early prey; for neither knew, nor felt they ought, of what they did or what they sought, since terror and alarm, too deep, had locked their senses all in sleep. alas! that they should ever wake: returning senses meant the stake. soon homeward with the living dead the savage horde in triumph sped; and bore to haunts of ella ree the paleface foe she longed to see. better for paralee had she died amid the battle's raging tide. "not wounded tigress in her lair more dangerous than a jealous fair!" assembled around the council fire, with haughty mien and rising ire, each chief was ready to relate his own exploit or vent his hate. safely bound by cruel thong, in the center of the throng, the captives sat in silent dread, envying none except the dead. "brothers! the paleface ella ree, whose words from guile are always free, will tell you all you need to know. who scorns _her_ words must brave my blow!" thus ulca spake, then glared around with a mighty monarch's haughty frown, "that held his hearers more in awe of his dread prowess than his law." "chief! warriors! braves in battle tried, your blood saluda's stream has dyed; your brothers sleep no more to wake! will _you_ sit by nor vengeance take?" "a traitor warned the doomed paleface; shall _he_ yet live to brave our race? how the white lily wrought the spell, caucanoe, and not i, must tell!" "caucanoe does not fear to die! 'twas he that bade the paleface fly; let these women now be set free; vent your hate alone on me." "paralee i loved, and her alone; mine was the fault--let me atone. ella ree, herself, shall light the fire and chant around my funeral pyre." "loose the captive! raise the stake! it shall be thus," brave ulca spake. "if love shall brave the cruel flame, yon captives go from whence they came." in haste they reared the ready stake, and bade the chief his place to take. he lightly stepped in proper place, a conquering smile upon his face. the signal given--a lighted brand- ella ree raised with trembling hand, yet begged caucanoe not to die, but to her willing arms to fly. pardon was his, both full and free, as the proud brave of ella ree; the hated captives should atone for all blood spilt, and they alone! caucanoe frowned and thus replied: "if ella ree would be my bride, let her light the fire and stand here beside me, hand in hand." forward she sprang--the torch applied, even in death a happy bride! saluda's stream is never free from the dying chant of ella ree! [illustration] _the murderer's dream._ ye glittering stars! how fair ye shine tonight. and, oh, thou modest moon! thy silvery light comes streaming through these iron bars before me. how clear and silent is this lovely night! how quiet and how bright! i nothing hear, nor aught can hear me when i speak, but stone and iron that i fear; i, shunned by all, as if alone i'd go to hell; i, alone in chains! ah, me, the cruel spell that brought me here. heaven could not cheer me within these cursed walls--within this dark and dreary cell, this gloomy, cold, and solitary hell. and thou, o time! the only thing that's not my foe- o time! o time! thou passeth on so slow, keeping my soul in terror, in bondage, and in woe; was i to blame? i was, they say; they say 'tis so. oh, god! will this deep crimson, aye, black stain my nervous system always strain! will my foul crime forever haunt my brain? must i live here in earthly fear, and never, never hear the sweetest voice to me of all, i've heard not for a year? must i this torture feel, year after year? live, die in hell, and yet a paradise so near? wilt thou, oh, god! wilt thou not hear? 'tis i, 'tis i they all do fear. am i to thee, o christ, as dead? thou who sought the lonely prisoner in his dismal cell, and to him taught the true and only law to govern man--thy love, which can be only reached by prayer to thee above? in this cold and darkened cell, dost thou reprove my soul? dost thou doom it to endless misery? am i so wicked, sinful, that i cannot move thy loving kindness, to a slight reprove? ah, me, ah, me, 'tis love thou sayest--love. canst i at this late day by full repentance see the divine, the holy, ever cleansing love in thee? canst thou be christ and have no love for me? what, can it be that i am lost and'll never know thy bliss? and for my cruel, wicked crime no joy above all this? what, world of sin! what, never? is my destiny hell? is that my cruel sentence because in sin i fell? aye, i did fall! into that dark and fathomless pit, and now in hell my soul has fell, and for hell it is not fit: into that misery eternal, where nothing lives but all's infernal- is there my future--is it there? my thoughts they burn my head, my heart 'twas, ah, 'twas dead- but now it lives, and in my breast does burn: those pains, and, severe as they were, they flew, yes, flew away, and being absent for awhile, remorse came in by day. oh, god, oh, god, i am not fit for this infernal hell! oh, mercy, mercy! my destiny, 'tis here that i must dwell. away! away! ye fiery fiends, i am among you now, o christ, o savior of the sinner! to satan must i bow? pray, take me back to earth again, and test me one and all, and let me live anew my life and see if i will fall. test me, test me once again, let me hear the old church bell, 'cause now i'm so much steeped in sin that i'm not fit for hell. oh, horrors! horrors! hear the groans of tortured victims there, some young, and many are quite old, i know it by their hair! poor, poor, poor wretches, see them there, all bleeding and in chains; i know they realize their fate, because they all have brains. is this the horrid, horrid place my mother taught was hell? oh, see those brutal fiery fiends, they call them "imps" you know, and many an one has feared them here, because of sin he'd sown. just see the demons of the deep! just hear their hellish tones! then floating back on brimstone air comes mocking, mocking groans. see, see the devils how they dance, with brimstone torches how they prance; what! can it be they look like men and 'stead of hearts they have but sin and grinning hang around me? oh, fearful, fearful fire of hell, what can it be within? they sneer and stare at me! go 'way, ye devils cooked in sin and crime! i'm now in purgatory waiting for the time when by the law of a just god i'll be removed from here, and by the law of christ divine, of thee i'll have no fear. hark! list! from yonder corner comes loud cries, oh, let me hold my aching, bursting head! they come from some poor wretch that dies, and many an one may mourn him now as dead. i see him! i see him! there he is! my murdered victim now appears before me. that is him! and to him i must bow. oh, his cries, his groans, they haunt me to the bottom of my wicked heart. can it be that i must dwell forever in this wretched misery? horrors! see him now reach out his bony hand to grasp me firmly by the throat and hold me like a band. take me, demons, if you please, take me into hell! anything you choose may do--remove me from this cell! my soul, my soul, awake! awake! they come! they come! the devil's come to take--old satan, i am thine! away my soul will ever roll through torturing, scorching hell, and down into the blackest depths my soul is cast pell-mell. oh, what a fate for man to meet--speak, satan! speak, i say! and with your torturing, devilish deeds--my ruin! no delay! what dumb! old satan, canst thou speak? look here and speak thy want! i'm now right crisp and hard in sin and haven't any fear. take me, demons! take me, quick! i hear the awful knell of the roaring, moaning billows, and the bitterness of hell. take me, satan, take me! as my fate is firmly sealed, while ye in hades do wake me, and o'er me the batoon wield. what! what! am i mistaken? was it only but a dream? i, still living here on earth--oh, how real it all did seem. could i now just one chance have and in mercy be forgiven, i would have respect for all and send prayers right up to heaven. when on earth christ did come to save sinners from their fate, any time they'd turn to him they'd find 'twas not too late. holy savior, heavenly dove, thou who reigns supreme above! though in sin i have been dead, i am saved just by thy love. could i only have good sight, that i could see my sad plight, i would always to thee cling, and to thee cling with my might. now, to thee let me give thanks, 'cause 'twas only a bad dream. but its horrors to me cling, 'cause so real it all did seem. [illustration] _acrostic tribute to god's messengers, chaplain and mrs. c. l. winget._ cyprian, the father of the orators' plan, a preacher, a priest and godly man; you have been, by the good lord sent, on the mission your heart is ever bent. passed through trials of life severe, god was good when he sent you here, right in the midst of a sweltering gang of sinners, corrupt on every hand. i, for one, have watched you keen, and from you haven't an evil deed seen; all has been so easy to see that your whole soul's bent on setting us free- not from earthly, bodily pains, but from our evil, and sin, and shame! lee was the second choice of name, she christened her son for heavenly fame. each and every day she taught him ever sin to brave, till dear mother she went down into an early grave. every day and every hour he tries to keep that august dower, and meet her where there's endless time, in heaven's pure and holy clime. winget came unto this place to save poor sinners by god's own grace; in eloquence and heartfelt plea he's prayed for us on bended knee; nor has his pleading been in vain, because from us he's driven pain. "god help the prisoner!" is his prayer, while lingering in this prison lair; "eternal justice may they have while life's hard struggle they do brave!" "to god be praise! we see his face. god save the prisoner by thy grace!" susan, his wife and better half, and one of god's own kind, upon each bright and sabbath morn she helps the text to find. she's ever there, in the arm chair, through service and through song, and with kindly smile she does beguile the prisoners from all wrong. nay--let us bow unto you now, thou noble, holy one, and may god speed for all your need for the good that you have done. gregory is an ancient name, to you it has been given: right down deep in your friendly heart is found the truth of heaven each of us prisoners here confined for truth will e'er contend; go, search each heart! and then report if truth we'll not defend. onward, onward, upward, upward may your labors ever roll; reach out for poor fallen sinner, and your work we'll all extol: yet 'tis not too late to labor--god will answer, "aye, extol!" "fair-child" of heaven's august plan, how comest thou to wed yourself to man? a name is nothing but to designate, but, oh--how often it does consecrate in language pure and clear as diamond scale, while thou, fair-child, we, every one, do hail! real sympathy is not so strong a band as binds fair woman unto haughty man! come, hasten! now thy work be done, 'cause life's short race is almost run! he whom thou wed so many years ago has been god's servant faithfully to do in words so full of just and holy writ, that in our chapel we do love to sit. love for your duty, kind to all you meet, faithful to your master's cause and a smile for all you greet. do by us as you have done and never do complain, because the work that you have done has not been done in vain! "winget" is the name you chose to support the once fair-child. in christian mission go forth god's castles for to build; never forget the prisoner close locked in dungeon cell, go forth and teach to him the life of the soul you love so well. each hour you spend in christian work is never thrown away. the truth is known! you'll harvests reap in heaven's golden day! _the mind is the standard of the man._ in chains and shackles closely bound; they say i am a prisoner; although in this small cell i'm found, a prisoner i am not. the door is made of iron bars, the lock is large and strong, but my mind soars free, up to the stars, as if i'd done no wrong. the mind of man is ever free, by nature's law itself, while this wicked, wretched corpus may be laid upon the shelf. what of this wretched body? what care we for this hand? but there's one thing safe to wager on, "that mind's the standard of the man." they may chain me fast unto the rock, and bind both hands and feet; they may keep me far off in the dark, where friends i cannot meet; they may call me vile and wicked wretch, and murderer and thief; they may say i am an infidel and steeped in unbelief; they may say i'm false and awful bad, and lend not a helping hand; they may sow the seed north, east, south, west, far, far throughout the land; they may go right on with falsity and it publish like a ban, but there's one thing safe to wager on, "that mind's the standard of the man." if the mind was easy to be read, and another for to see, there would prisoner after prisoner immediately be set free. if conscience was as easy known as another's words to hear, there would not be half so many men that society would fear. but what do people think or care what's in another's brain, so long as _they_ can all conceal the evil in _their_ frame. there are a few who secretly do not conceal their sham, but there's one thing safe to wager on, "that mind's the standard of the man." if every one was now compelled to show life in _true_ attire, they'd cause the picture to be marred and cast into the fire. they'd blush with shame to bring to light black spots upon their life; they kick, and squirm, and twist about, and fight it with a strife. where is the man on this vile earth but what has done some wrong, and in his mind's concealed it, tho' it stings him like a thong? there ne'er was one except the christ who'd be perfect in the land! but there's one thing safe to wager on, "that mind's the standard of the man." what if all conscience could be searched clear through with cathode rays, how many would cheerfully submit, who'd reached their manhood days? it might not be the blackest crime known to the criminal code, but can it be sufficiently white to call it very good? it may not be so good nor bad, nor bad nor good indeed, but is it plenty good enough as a standard for a creed? you may keep it hid in an air-tight box. with psychological band, then, you see, 'tis safe to wager "that mind's the standard of the man." so long as minds cannot be seen and pictured to the folk, so long there'll be deceitfulness played by the earthly crook. the modern shylock now, who craves the sentence of the court, is just the man who, many times, society he has hurt. he stands aloof from other folk, and cries with a loud voice: "down, down, with evil and all crime! arise, my friends, rejoice!" but turn on him the cathode rays and search him, if you can, you'll be convinced, beyond a doubt, "that mind's the standard of the man." there's many a man who's been misjudged. and met his doom and fate; and the truth thereof could ne'er be learned until it was too late. if cathode rays could have been used, and falsehood put to flight, there's many a false and trumped up charge would be knocked clear out of sight. if the mind of man could only be, with this mysterious light, just brought out plain on canvas, in colors clear and bright, it would spread the truth both far and near, just like a marriage ban, that the rule ordained by nature is "that mind's the standard of the man." now, when with cathode rays supplied, you start out for a search, just drop around some sabbath morn and peep into a church. if one bald deacon, on his breast, wears a diamond bright and clear, just shoot cathode across his pate and see what's buried there. then up into the pulpit, where the priest all devils dare, and dart the rays around, about, and see what's buried there. then to the courtroom wend your way, to where the judges ran, then bet your bottom dollar "that mind's the standard of the man." then down into our congress halls make a dash both bold and free, and shoot cathode right through them all and see what you can see. then back into the halls of state, and catch them, one and all, and learn yourself, beyond a doubt, how many are there to fall. don't be surprised if now you find most foul and blackened crimes, because they're plotting for the gold, no matter what the times. try and discover, then and there, the gold bonds, if you can, and remember, what is true as truth, "that mind's the standard of the man." then, when you're done with the outside world, and all of congress halls, return to me and take a walk within these dismal walls. i'll show you men who represent each county in this state; they're all accused of crime, you know, and sentenced to their fate. but don't be hasty now to judge these men you see about; fire cathode rays right through their skulls and you may find a doubt. courts, lawyers and prejudiced jurors will convict if they can, but there's one thing safe to wager on, "that mind's the standard of the man." in here you'll find there's many a mind as free from sin and crime as congressmen and senators who've been there a long time. some of these men in here, you see, they got a little tight, and broke into a chicken coop, because 'twas in the night. some men you see as you walk with me down through these halls so dreary, have, on bended knee, prayed to be free until life's become weary. they have no money, neither friends, because they're far behind the van, but still 'tis safe to wager "that mind's the standard of the man." and now because my enemies have chained me tight and fast, and cruel, heartless, brutal curs would hold me to the last- look here! i'll freely now submit, turn on your cathode rays and learn, if now 'tis not too late, the evil of my ways. then go up to that old bribed judge, and prosecutor, too, and bring their conscience here by mine and search all through and through. look sharp! and now compare their minds with this one, if you can, and then apply the golden rule, "that mind's the standard of the man." oh, men of science! if you can employ the cathode rays to take the place of jurymen in those our latter days; let not a man upon the bench to judge another's fate, until to cathode he's been sent to search beneath his pate! if then you see his mind is free from prejudice and crime, and he'll give us all fair justice, let him sit there all the time! but if, upon the other hand, he won't, although he can, then cut him out with the golden rule: "that mind's the standard of the man." how can you, then, a prisoner make, when his mind's as free as space? you may chain his feet, and hands, and neck, and tightly bind his face, do what you please, and as you please, you cannot help but see- that man is man, where e'er he be, because his mind is free! his mind may roam back to his home, you cannot tie it down, and folk may look, and scoff, and scowl, and always wear a frown. but when of him they a prisoner make, the mind they never can, 'cause god ordained the golden rule, "that mind's the standard of the man." _cell thoughts._ by geo. w. h. harrison. in the headlong rush for the land of fame how many are wrecked on the isle of shame. how few heads wear a glittering crown in the far-away realm of great renown. 'mid the crowded ranks of the legion of greed how many are crushed 'neath the wheels of need! how few ever feel the dainty caress of the lingering hand of great success! in the mad pursuit of the god of gold what brains are wrecked, what hearts grow cold! how many will spend their latest day 'mid the hurtling waters of poverty bay! how many are lured by a siren chime to a double death in the land of crime! how few escape, unscarred, within the winding walks of the maze of sin! how many that towered above the stars now pine and languish behind the bars! what a trail of woe a single mistake across the page of a life can make! o, shipwrecked sailor, fix your eye on the star of hope in yonder sky; mercy's hand will bring release and safely lead to the land of peace. _the author's farewell._ gentle reader, this small volume clearly proves that modern man can control his erring brothers with a clear enlightened plan. ne'er till now have prison printers voiced, unchanged, a convict's tho't! is the change with retrogression or with onward progress fraught? will this volume change your custom or relieve our horrid pain? or shall truth be crushed and bleeding, ever bound in prison chain? will you cast your glances backward, gathering age along by age, proof that man is wholly brutal when controlled by maddening rage? view the pen of downy feathers, where men choked and choked to death, without power to ask for pardon with their last expiring breath! see your brother in that river, safely chained to yonder rock, while his thirst is wildly raging and the waves his tortures mock! see yon dungeon, dark and dreary, built by human art and skill, whose dread mission is to madden any one the _law_ says kill! visit to the hapless culprit, as in pagan jail he lies; see the jailer pass the hemlock, which he quaffs, and then he dies! think of club, of sword and pistol, of the bloody guillotine; of the whipcord, knout and gallows of the noted wolverine; of starvation, rack and torture, of the lash and fiery stake, and then tell me frankly, reader, did these wrongs one virtue wake? tell me frankly, honest reader, can two wrongs create a right? and is man's inhuman conduct pleasing in jehovah's sight? or do pitying angels shudder, as the cruel lash you ply, wondering man can be so brutal and the laws of god defy? does not conscience loudly thunder: "sin is but the fruit of hate, and who stones a helpless brother most deserves that victim's fate? can abuse and brutal treatment purge the sinner of his guilt? if so, _come_, within my bosom sheath your dagger to the hilt! strike, till every erring mortal at your hands has met his fate, then sit down and calmly ponder on your awful lonely state! _you_, perhaps, have been quite _faultless_; _you_, perhaps, no _wrong_ have done, if 'tis _true_, my peerless brother, _you're alone beneath the sun_"! do but think! we once were spotless as the babe on mother's knee! trace the causes of our downfall with a mind from malice free. see, on every licensed corner, fiends incarnate hourly sell fiery waters of _damnation_, that create _a living hell_! women, once as pure as angels, leading heartless lives of shame; for the trumpery of fashion dealing off both home and name! hear men laud the wealthy scoundrel and attempt to clear his ways, while the poor and honest toiler _none_ with pride or pleasure pays! see religion don the garments of all worldly pride and lust, while the savior's honest followers are but trampled in the dust! see the press, with startling headlines, every vice and sin portray that can sink your moral standard or lead innocence astray! view the legions of temptation strewn along the path of youth, see how few do practice virtue, and how few _adore_ the truth! there! the cause of crime is patent, and our downfall you behold, to condemn it in a sentence: "_it was women, wine and gold!_" if you read this book with caution, you have read _between the lines_, learning much the careless reader and the critic ne'er divines! you have seen the author's purpose was to tell the simple truth, as a tribute to the prisoner and a warning to our youth. you have seen mistakes and errors that less haste would quickly mend, yet, with all its imperfections, it may prove a useful friend. and in future i may publish one with less of hasty thought that may be--god knows the future--with undying issues fraught. all tried means have proved abortive yet, my friend, there is a plan that _will_ lift each erring brother _to the standard of a man_! if i can but live to publish what i _know_ and long to tell, you _will_ read it and believe it; so, dear reader, _fare-thee-well_! _conclusion._ go, little book, thy destined course pursue! collect memorials of the just and true; and beg of every one who comes thou near some token of their friendship and good cheer. and if by chance some true friends thou should find, attach them to thee with both soul and mind; and if they prove good, faithful friends and true, to them thou sticketh, as if they loved you- adieu! adieu! transcriber's notes -fixed plain print and interpunctuation errors. -italic text is denoted by _underscores_. generously made available by the google books library project (http://books.google.com/) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see 38128-h.htm or 38128-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/38128/38128-h/38128-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/38128/38128-h.zip) images of the original pages are available through the the google books library project. see http://books.google.com/books?vid=maybaaaaqaaj&id transcriber's note: obvious typographical errors have been corrected, but otherwise the original spelling has generally been retained, even where several different spellings have been used to refer to the same person. the printed book contained footnotes and endnotes. the endnotes have been treated as footnotes, and marked with anchors prefixed by e, as in [e01]. when one endnote is referenced twice, the second occurence is marked by adding a b, as in [e12b], and the text of the endnote is repeated in the appropriate place. the printed book contained a few features, such as greek text and illustrations, that could not be reproduced in this format. these have been marked in the text using {curly braces}. a list of corrections is at the end of this e-book. memoirs of leonora christina daughter of christian iv. of denmark written during her imprisonment in the blue tower at copenhagen 1663-1685 translated by f. e. bunnètt london henry s. king & co., 65 cornhill 1872 london: printed by spottiswoode and co., new-street square and parliament street all rights reserved preface. in placing the present translation of leonora christina ulfeldt's memoirs before the english reading public, a few words are due from the publishers, in order to explain the relation between this edition and those which have been brought out in denmark and in germany. the original autograph manuscript of leonora christina's record of her sufferings in her prison, written between the years 1674 and 1685, belongs to her descendant the austrian count joh. waldstein, and it was discovered only a few years ago. it was then, at the desire of count waldstein, brought to copenhagen by the danish minister at vienna, m. falbe, in order that its authenticity might be thoroughly verified by comparison with documents preserved in the danish archives and libraries, and known to be in the hand-writing of the illustrious authoress. when the existence of this interesting historic and literary relic had become known in denmark, a desire to see it published was naturally expressed on all sides, and to this the noble owner most readily acceded. thus the first danish edition came to light in 1869, promoted in every way by count waldstein. the editor was mr. sophus birket-smith, assistant librarian of the university library at copenhagen, who enriched the edition with a historical introduction and copious notes. a second danish edition appeared a few months later; and in 1871 a german translation of the memoir was edited by m. ziegler, with a new introduction and notes, founded partly on the first danish edition, partly on other printed sources, to which were added extracts from some papers found in the family archives of count waldstein, and which were supposed to possess the interest of novelty. the applause with which this edition was received in germany suggested the idea of an english version, and it was at first intended merely to translate m. ziegler's book into english. during the progress of the work, however, it was found preferable to adopt the second danish edition as the basis of the english edition. the translation which had been made from m. ziegler's german, has been carefully compared with the danish original, so as to remove any defects arising from the use of the german translation, and give it the same value as a translation made direct from the danish; a new introduction and notes have been added, for which the danish editor, mr. birket-smith has supplied the materials; and instead of the fragments of ulfeldt's apology and of an extract from leonora christina's autobiography found in the german edition, a complete translation of the autobiography to the point where leonora's memoir of her sufferings in prison takes up the thread of the narrative, has been inserted, made from the original french text, recently published by mr. s. birket-smith. as a matter of course the preface of count waldstein, which appears in this edition, is the one prefixed to the danish edition. the manuscript itself of the record of leonora christina's sufferings in prison was commenced in 1674, and was at first intended to commemorate only what had happened during the preceding ten years of her captivity; it was afterwards extended to embrace the whole period down to 1685, and subjected to a revision which resulted in numerous additions and alterations. as, however, these do not seem to have been properly worked in by the authoress herself, the memoir is here rendered, as in the danish edition, in its original, more perfect shape, and the subsequent alterations made the subject of foot notes. preface to the danish edition. when, in the summer of 1858, i visited the graves of my danish ancestors of the family of ulfeldt, in the little village church at quærndrup, near the castle of egeskov, on the island of fyn, i resolved to honour the memory of my pious ancestress leonora christina, and thus fulfil the duty of a descendant by publishing this autograph manuscript which had come to me amongst the heirlooms left by my father. it is well known that the last male representative of the family of ulfeldt, the chancellor of the court and realm of her majesty the empress maria theresia, had only two daughters. one of them, elizabeth, married georg christian, count waldstein, while the younger married count thun. out of special affection for her younger son emanuel (my late father), my grandmother bequeathed all that referred to the ulfeldts to him, and the manuscript which i now--in consequence of requests from various quarters, also from high places--give to publicity by the learned assistance of mr. sophus birket-smith, thus came to me through direct descent from her father: 'corfitz, count of ulfeldt of the holy roman empire, lord of the lordships költz-jenikau, hof-kazof, brödlich, odaslowitz, and the fief zinltsch, knight of the golden vliess, first treasurer of the hereditary lands in bohemia, ambassador at the ottoman porte, afterwards chancellor of the court and the empire, sworn privy councillor and first lord steward of his imperial and royal majesty carolus vi., as well as of his imperial roman and royal majesty of hungary, bohemia,' &c. we add: the highly honoured paternal guide of her majesty the queen empress maria theresia, of glorious memory, during the first year of her government, until the time when the gifted prince kaunitz, whose genius sometimes even was too much for this, morally noble lady, became her successor. i possess more than eleven imposing, closely written folio volumes, which contain the manuscripts of the chancellor of the empire, his negociations with the sublime porte, afterwards with the states-general of the netherlands, as well as the ministerial protocols from the whole time that he held the office of imperial chancellor; all of which prove his great industry and love of order, while the original letters and annotations of his exalted mistress, which are inserted in these same volumes, testify to the sincere, almost childlike confidence with which she honoured him. but this steady and circumspect statesman was the direct grandson of the restless and proud corfitz, first count of ulfeldt of the roman empire, high steward of the realm in denmark, &c., and of his devoted and gifted wife leonora christina, through their son leo, imperial count ulfeldt, privy councillor, field-marshal, and viceroy in catalonia of the emperor carl vi., and his wife, a born countess of zinzendorf. i preserved, therefore with great care this manuscript, as well as all other relics and little objects which had belonged to my danish ancestress, whose exalted character and sufferings are so highly calculated to inspire sympathy, interest, and reverence. amongst these objects are several writings, such as fragments of poems, prayers, needlework executed in prison (some embroidered with hair of a fair colour); a christening robe with cap worked in gold, probably used at the christening of her children; a very fine amulet of christian iv. in blue enamel, and many portraits; amongst others the original picture in oil of which a copy precedes the title page, &c. &c. considering that the manuscript has been handed down directly from my ancestors from generation to generation in direct line, i could not personally have any doubt as to its genuineness. nevertheless i yielded to the suggestions of others, in order to have the authenticity of the manuscript thoroughly tested. in what way this was done will be seen from the introduction of the editor. though the final verdict of history may not yet have been given on corfitz ulfeldt, yet--tempus omnia sanat--yon ominous pillar, which was to perpetuate the memory of his crime into eternity, has been put aside as rubbish and left to oblivion. noble in forgetting and pardoning, the great nation of the north has given a bright example to those who still refuse to grant to albert, duke of friedland--the great general who saved the empire from the danger that threatened it from the north--the place which this hero ought to occupy in the walhalla at vienna. but as to the fiery temper of corfitz and the mysterious springs which govern the deeds and thoughts of mankind, it may be permitted to me, his descendant, to cherish the belief, which is almost strengthened into a conviction, that a woman so highly gifted, of so noble sentiments, as leonora appears to us, would never have been able to cling with a love so true, and so enduring through all the changes of life, to a man who was unworthy of it. joh. count waldstein. cairo: december 8, 1868. contents. page introduction 1 autobiography 31 a record of the sufferings of the imprisoned countess:- preface (to my children) 87 a reminiscence of all that occurred to me, leonora christina, in the blue tower, from august 8 of the year 1663, to june 11 of the year 1674 102 memoirs of leonora christina. introduction. amongst the women celebrated in history, leonora christina, the heroine as well as the authoress of the memoirs which form the subject of this volume, occupies a conspicuous place, as one of the noblest examples of every womanly virtue and accomplishment, displayed under the most trying vicissitudes of fortune. born the daughter of a king, married to one of the ablest statesmen of his time, destined, as it seemed, to shine in the undisturbed lustre of position and great qualities, she had to spend nearly twenty-two years in a prison, in the forced company--more cruel to her than solitary confinement--of male and female gaolers of the lowest order, and for a long time deprived of every means of rendering herself independent of these surroundings by intellectual occupation. she had to suffer alone, and innocently, for her husband's crimes; whatever these were, she had no part in them, and she endured persecution because she would not forsake him in his misfortune. leonora christina was the victim of despotism guided by personal animosity, and she submitted with a christian meekness and forbearance which would be admirable in any, but which her exalted station and her great mental qualities bring out in doubly strong relief. it is to these circumstances, which render the fate of leonora so truly tragic, as well as to the fact that we have her own authentic and trustworthy account before us, that the principal charm of this record is due. besides this, it affords many incidental glimpses of the customs and habits of the time, nor is it without its purely historical interest. leonora and her husband, corfits ulfeldt, were intimately connected with the principal political events in the north of europe at their time; even the more minute circumstances of their life have, therefore, a certain interest. no wonder that the history of this illustrious couple has formed, and still forms, the theme both of laborious scientific researches and of poetical compositions. amongst the latter we may here mention in passing a well-known novel by rousseau de la valette,[01] because it has had the undeserved honour of being treated by a modern writer as an historical source, to the great detriment of his composition. documents which have originated from these two personages are of course of great value. besides letters and public documents, there exist several accounts written by both corfits ulfeldt and leonora referring to their own life and actions. ulfeldt published in 1652 a defence of his political conduct, and composed, shortly before his death, another, commonly called the 'apology of ulfeldt,' which has not yet been printed entirely, but of which an extract was published in 1695 in the supplement of the english edition of rousseau de la valette's book. some extracts from an incomplete copy discovered by count waldstein in 1870, in the family archives at the castle of palota, were published with the german edition of leonora's memoir; complete copies exist in copenhagen and elsewhere. leonora christina, who was an accomplished writer, has composed at least four partial accounts of her own life. one of them, referring to a journey in 1656, to be mentioned hereafter, has been printed long ago; of another, which treated of her and ulfeldt's imprisonment at bornholm, no copy has yet been discovered. the third is her autobiography, carried down to 1673, of which an english version follows this introduction; it was written in the blue tower, in the form of a letter to the danish antiquarian, otto sperling, jun., who wished to make use of it for his work, 'de feminis doctis.'[02] [01] _le comte d'ulfeld, grand maistre de danemarc._ _nouvelle historique_, i.-ii. paris, 1678. 8vo. an english translation, with a supplement, appeared 1695: _the life of count ulfeldt, great master of denmark, and of the countess eleonora his wife._ done out of french. with a supplement. london. 1695. 8vo. another novel by the same author, called _casimir king of poland_, is perhaps better known in this country, through a translation by f. spence in vol. ii. of _modern novels_, 1692. [02] it is by a slip of memory that mr. birket smith, in his first danish edition of leonora christina's memoir of her life in prison, describes this work under the name of _de feminis eruditis_. about a century ago a so-called autobiography of leonora was published in copenhagen, but it was easily proved to be a forgery; in fact, the original of her own work existed in the danish archives, and had been described by the historian andreas höier. it has now been lost, it is supposed, in the fire which destroyed the castle of christiansborg in 1794, but a complete copy exists in copenhagen, as well as several extracts in latin; another short extract in french belongs to count waldstein. finally, leonora christina wrote the memoir of her sufferings in the prison of the blue tower from 1663-1685, of which the existence was unknown until discovered by count waldstein, and given to the public in the manner indicated in the preface. in introducing these memoirs to the english public, a short sketch of the historical events and the persons to whom they refer may not be unwelcome, particularly as leonora herself touches only very lightly on them, and principally describes her own personal life. _leonora christina_ was a daughter of _king christian iv._ of denmark and _kirstine munk_. his queen, anna catherine, born a princess of brandenburg, died in 1612, leaving three princes (four other children died early), and in 1615 the king contracted a morganatic marriage with kirstine munk, a lady of an ancient and illustrious noble family. leonora was born july 18 (new style), 1621, at the castle of fredriksborg, so well known to all who have visited denmark, which the king had built twenty miles north of copenhagen, in a beautiful part of the country, surrounded by smiling lakes and extensive forests. but little is known of her childhood beyond what she tells herself in her autobiography. already in her eighth year she was promised to her future husband, corfits ulfeldt, and in 1636 the wedding was celebrated with great splendour, leonora being then fifteen years old. the family of ulfeldt has been known since the close of the fourteenth century. corfits' father had been chancellor of the realm, and somewhat increased the family possessions, though he sold the ancient seat of the family, ulfeldtsholm, in fyen, to lady ellen marsvin, kirstine munk's mother. he had seventeen children, of whom corfits was the seventh; and so far leonora made only a poor marriage. but her husband's great talents and greater ambition made up for this defect. of his youth nothing is known with any certainty, except that he travelled abroad, as other young noblemen of his time, studied at padua, and acquired considerable proficiency in foreign languages.[03] he became a favourite of christian iv., at whose court he had every opportunity for displaying his social talents. at the marriage of the elected successor to the throne, the king's eldest son, christian, with the princess magdalene sibylle of saxony, in 1634, corfits ulfeldt acted as maréchal to the special ambassador count d'avaux, whom louis xiii. had sent to copenhagen on that occasion, in which situation ulfeldt won golden opinions,[04] and he was one of the twelve noblemen whom the king on the wedding-day made knights of the elephant. after a visit to paris in 1635, in order to be cured of a wound in the leg which the danish physicians could not heal, he obtained the sanction of the king for his own marriage with leonora, which was solemnised at the castle of copenhagen, on october 9, 1636, with as much splendour as those of the princes and princesses. leonora was the favourite daughter of christian iv., and as far as royal favour could ensure happiness, it might be said to be in store for the newly-married pair. [03] la valette's account of his participation in the thirty years' war is entirely fictitious, as almost all that he tells of ulfeldt's travels, &c. [04] see _caroli ogerii ephemerides sive, iter danicum, svecicum, polonicum, &c._ paris, 1656. 8vo. p. 36, 37, 40, by d'avaux's secretary, ogier. as we have stated, ulfeldt was a poor nobleman; and it is characteristic of them both that one of her first acts was to ask him about his debts, which he could not but have incurred living as he had done, and to pay them by selling her jewels and ornaments, to the amount of 36,000 dollars, or more than 7,000_l._ in english money--then a very large sum. but the king's favour soon procured him what he wanted; he was made a member of the great council, governor of copenhagen, and chancellor of the exchequer. he executed several diplomatic missions satisfactorily; and when, in 1641, he was sent to vienna as special ambassador, the emperor of germany, ferdinand iii., made him a count of the german empire. finally, in 1643, he was made lord high steward of denmark, the highest dignity and most responsible office in the kingdom. he was now at the summit of power and influence, and if he had used his talents and opportunities in the interests of his country, he might have earned the everlasting gratitude of his king and his people. but he was not a great man, though he was a clever and ambitious man. he accumulated enormous wealth, bought extensive landed estates, spent considerable sums in purchasing jewels and costly furniture, and lived in a splendid style; but it was all at the cost of the country. in order to enrich himself, he struck base coin (which afterwards was officially reduced to its proper value, 8 per cent. below the nominal value), and used probably other unlawful means for this purpose, while the crown was in the greatest need of money. at the same time he neglected the defences of the country in a shameful manner, and when the swedish government, in december 1643, suddenly ordered its army, which then stood in germany, engaged in the thirty years' war, to attack denmark without any warning, there were no means of stopping its victorious progress. in vain the veteran king collected a few vessels and compelled the far more numerous swedish fleet to fly, after a furious battle near femern, where he himself received twenty-three wounds, and where two of ulfeldt's brothers fell fighting at his side; there was no army in the land, because corfits, at the head of the nobility, had refused the king the necessary supplies. and, although the peace which ulfeldt concluded with sweden and holland at brömsebro, in 1645, might have been still more disastrous than it was, if the negotiation had been entrusted to less skilful hands, yet there was but too much truth in the reproachful words of the king, when, after ratifying the treaties, he tossed them to corfits saying, 'there you have them, such as you have made them!' from this time the king began to lose his confidence in ulfeldt, though the latter still retained his important offices. in the following year he went to holland and to france on a diplomatic mission, on which occasion he was accompanied by leonora. everywhere their personal qualities, their relationship to the sovereign, and the splendour of their appearance, procured them the greatest attention and the most flattering reception. while at the hague leonora gave birth to a son, whom the states-general offered to grant a pension for life of a thousand florins, which, however, ulfeldt wisely refused. in paris they were loaded with presents; and in the memoirs of madame langloise de motteville on the history of anna of austria (ed. of amsterdam, 1783, ii. 19-22) there is a striking _récit_ of the appearance and reception of ulfeldt and leonora at the french court. on their way home leonora took an opportunity of making a short trip to london, which capital she wished to see, while her husband waited for her in the netherlands. if, however, this journey brought ulfeldt and his wife honours and presents on the part of foreigners, it did not give satisfaction at home. the diplomatic results of the mission were not what the king had hoped, and he even refused to receive ulfeldt on his return. soon the turning-point in his career arrived. in 1648 king christian iv. died, under circumstances which for a short time concentrated extraordinary power in ulfeldt's hands, but of which he did not make a wise use. denmark was then still an elective monarchy, and the nobles had availed themselves of this and other circumstances to free themselves from all burdens, and at the same time to deprive both the crown and the other estates of their constitutional rights to a very great extent. all political power was virtually vested in the council of the realm, which consisted exclusively of nobles, and there remained for the king next to nothing, except a general supervision of the administration, and the nomination of the ministers. every successive king had been obliged to purchase his election by fresh concessions to the nobles, and the sovereign was little more than the president of an aristocratic republic. christian iv. had caused his eldest son christian to be elected successor in his own lifetime; but this prince died in 1647, and when the king himself died in 1648, the throne was vacant. as lord high steward, ulfeldt became president of the regency, and could exercise great influence on the election. he did not exert himself to bring this about very quickly, but there is no ground for believing that he meditated the election either of himself or of his brother-in-law, count valdemar, as some have suggested. the children of kirstine munk being the offspring of a morganatic marriage, had not of course equal rank with princes and princesses; but in christian iv.'s lifetime they received the same honours, and ulfeldt made use of the interregnum to obtain the passage of a decree by the council, according them rank and honours equal with the princes of the royal house. but as the nobles were in nowise bound to choose a prince of the same family, or even a prince at all, this decree cannot be interpreted as evidence of a design to promote the election of count valdemar. the overtures of the duke of gottorp, who attempted to bribe ulfeldt to support his candidature, were refused by him, at least according to his own statement. but ulfeldt did make use of his position to extort a more complete surrender of the royal power into the hands of the nobility than any king had yet submitted to, and the new king, fredrik iii., was compelled to promise, amongst other things, to fill up any vacancy amongst the ministers with one out of three candidates proposed by the council of the realm. the new king, fredrik iii., christian iv.'s second son, had never been friendly to ulfeldt. this last action of the high steward did not improve the feelings with which he regarded him, and when the coronation had taken place (for which ulfeldt advanced the money), he expressed his thoughts at the banquet in these words: 'corfitz, you have to-day bound my hands; who knows, who can bind yours in return?' the new queen, a saxon princess, hated ulfeldt and the children of kirstine munk on account of their pretensions, but particularly leonora christina, whose beauty and talents she heartily envied. nevertheless ulfeldt retained his high offices for some time, and in 1649 he went again to holland on a diplomatic mission, accompanied by his wife. it is remarkable that the question which formed the principal subject of the negotiation on that occasion was one which has found its proper solution only in our days--namely, that of a redemption of the sound dues. this impost, levied by the danish crown on all vessels passing the sound, weighed heavily on the shipping interest, and frequently caused disagreement between denmark and the governments mostly interested in the baltic trade, particularly sweden and the dutch republic. it was with especial regard to the sound dues that the dutch government was constantly interfering in the politics of the north, with a view of preventing denmark becoming too powerful; for which purpose it always fomented discord between denmark and sweden, siding now with the one, now with the other, but rather favouring the design of sweden to conquer the ancient danish provinces, skaane, &c., which were east of the sound, and which now actually belong to sweden. corfits ulfeldt calculated that, if the dutch could be satisfied on the point of the sound dues, their unfavourable interference might be got rid of; and for this purpose he proposed to substitute an annual payment by the dutch government for the payment of the dues by the individual ships. christian iv. had never assented to this idea, and of course the better course would have been the one adopted in 1857--namely, the redemption of the dues by all states at once for a proportionate consideration paid once for all. still the leading thought was true, and worthy of a great statesman. ulfeldt concluded a treaty with holland according to his views, but it met with no favour at copenhagen, and on his return he found that in his absence measures had been taken to restrict his great power; his conduct of affairs was freely criticised, and his enemies had even caused the nomination of a committee to investigate his past administration, more particularly his financial measures. at the same time the new court refused leonora christina and the other children of kirstine munk the princely honours which they had hitherto enjoyed. amongst other marks of distinction, christian iv. had granted his wife and her children the title of counts and countesses of slesvig and holstein, but fredrik iii. declined to acknowledge it, although it could have no political importance, being nothing but an empty title, as neither kirstine munk nor her children had anything whatever to do with either of these principalities. ulfeldt would not suffer himself to be as it were driven from his high position by these indications of disfavour on the part of the king and the queen (the latter was really the moving spring in all this), but he resolved to show his annoyance by not going to court, where his wife did not now receive the usual honours. this conduct only served to embolden those who desired to oust him from his lucrative offices, not because they were better patriots, but because they hoped to succeed him. for this purpose a false accusation was brought against ulfeldt and leonora christina, to the effect that they had the intention of poisoning the king and the queen. information on this plot was given to the queen personally, by a certain dina vinhowers, a widow of questionable reputation, who declared that she had an illicit connection with ulfeldt, and that she had heard a conversation on the subject between corfits ulfeldt and leonora, when on a clandestine visit in the high steward's house. she was prompted by a certain walter, originally a son of a wheelwright, who by bravery in the war had risen from the ranks to the position of a colonel, and who in his turn was evidently a tool in the hands of other parties. the information was graciously received at court; but dina, who, as it seems, was a person of weak or unsound mind, secretly, without the knowledge of her employers, warned ulfeldt and leonora christina of some impending danger, thus creating a seemingly inextricable confusion. at length ulfeldt demanded a judicial investigation, which was at once set on foot, but in which, of course, he occupied the position of a defendant on account of dina's information. in the end dina was condemned to death and walter was exiled. but the statements of the different persons implicated, and particularly of dina herself at different times, were so conflicting, that the matter was really never entirely cleared up, and though ulfeldt was absolved of all guilt, his enemies did their best in order that some suspicion might remain. if ulfeldt had been wise, he might probably have turned this whole affair to his own advantage; but he missed the opportunity. utterly absurd as the accusation was, he seems to have felt very keenly the change of his position, and on the advice of leonora, who did not doubt that some other expedient would be tried by his enemies, perhaps with more success, he resolved to leave denmark altogether. after having sent away the most valuable part of his furniture and movable property, and placed abroad his amassed capital, he left copenhagen secretly and at night, on july 14, 1651, three days after the execution of dina. the gates of the fortress were closed at a certain hour every evening, but he had a key made for the eastern gate, and ere sunrise he and leonora, who was disguised as a valet, were on board a vessel on their way to holland. the consequences of this impolitic flight were most disastrous. he had not laid down his high offices, much less rendered an account of his administration; nothing was more natural than to suppose that he wished to avoid an investigation. a few weeks later a royal summons was issued, calling upon him to appear at the next meeting of the diet, and answer for his conduct; his offices, and the fiefs with which he had been beneficed, were given to others, and an embargo was laid on his landed estates. leonora christina describes in her autobiography how ulfeldt meanwhile first went to holland, and thence to sweden, where queen christina, who certainly was not favourably disposed to denmark, received ulfeldt with marked distinction, and promised him her protection. but she does not tell how ulfeldt here used every opportunity for stirring up enmity against denmark, both in sweden itself and in other countries, whose ambassadors he tried to bring over to his ideas. on this painful subject there can be no doubt after the publication of so many authentic state papers of that time, amongst which we may mention the reports of whitelock, the envoy of cromwell, to whom ulfeldt represented that denmark was too weak to resist an attack, and that the british government might easily obtain the abolition of the sound dues by war. it seems, however, as if ulfeldt did all this merely to terrify the danish king into a reconciliation with him on terms honourable and advantageous to the voluntarily exiled magnate. representations were several times made with such a view by the swedish government, and in 1656 leonora christina herself undertook a journey to copenhagen, in order to arrange the matter. but the danish government was inaccessible to all such attempts. this attitude was intelligible enough, for not only had ulfeldt left denmark in the most unceremonious manner, but in 1652 he published in stralsund a defence against the accusations of which he had been the subject, full of gross insults against the king; and in the following year he had issued an insolent protest against the royal summons to appear and defend himself before the diet, declaring himself a swedish subject. but, above all, the influence of the queen was too great to allow of any arrangement with ulfeldt. the king was entirely led by her; she, from her german home, was filled with the most extravagant ideas of absolute despotism, and hated the free speech and the independent spirit prevailing among the danish nobility, of which ulfeldt in that respect was a true type. leonora christina was compelled to return in 1656, without even seeing the king, and as a fugitive. it is of this journey that she has given a danish account, besides the description in the autobiography. it may be questioned whether it would not have been wise, if possible, to conciliate this dangerous man; but at any rate it was not done, and ulfeldt was, no doubt, still more exasperated. queen christina had then resigned, and her successor, carl gustav, shortly after engaged in a war in poland. the danish government, foolishly overrating its strength, took the opportunity for declaring war against sweden, in the hope of regaining some of the territory lost in 1645. but carl gustav, well knowing that the poles could not carry the war into sweden, immediately turned his whole force against denmark, where he met with next to no resistance. ulfeldt was then living at barth, in pommerania, an estate which he held in mortgage for large sums of money advanced to the swedish government. carl gustav summoned ulfeldt to follow him, and ulfeldt obeyed the summons against the advice of leonora christina, who certainly did not desire her native country to be punished for the wrongs, if such they were, inflicted upon her by the court. the war had been declared on june 1, 1657; in august ulfeldt issued a proclamation to the nobility in jutland, calling on them to transfer their allegiance to the swedish king. in the subsequent winter a most unusually severe frost enabled the swedish army to cross the sounds and belts on the ice, ulfeldt assisting its progress by persuading the commander of the fortress of nakskov to surrender without resistance; and in february the danish government had to accept such conditions of peace as could be obtained from the swedish king, who had halted a couple of days' march from copenhagen. by this peace denmark surrendered all her provinces to the east of the sound (skaane, &c.), which constituted one-third of the ancient danish territory, and which have ever since belonged to sweden, besides her fleet, &c. but the greatest humiliation was that the negotiation on the swedish side was entrusted to ulfeldt, who did not fail to extort from the danish crown the utmost that the neutral powers would allow. for himself he obtained restitution of his estates, freedom to live in denmark unmolested, and a large indemnity for loss of income of his estates since his flight in 1651. the king of sweden also rewarded him with the title of a count of sölvitsborg and with considerable estates in the provinces recently wrested from denmark. ulfeldt himself went to reside at malmö, the principal town in skaane, situated on the sound, just opposite copenhagen, and here he was joined by leonora christina. in her autobiography leonora does not touch on the incidents of the war, but she describes how her anxiety for her husband's safety did not allow her to remain quietly at barth, and how she was afterwards called to her mother's sick-bed, which she had to leave in order to nurse her husband, who fell ill at malmö. we may here state that kirstine munk had fallen into disgrace, when leonora was still a child, on account of her flagrant infidelity to the king, her paramour being a german count of solms. kirstine munk left the court voluntarily in 1629,[05] shortly after the birth of a child, whom the king would not acknowledge as his own; and after having stayed with her mother for a short time, she took up her residence at the old manor of boller, in north jutland, where she remained until her death in 1658. [05] la valette's account of a lawsuit instituted by the king against kirstine munk, in which she was defended by ulfeldt--of ulfeldt's duel with hannibal sehested, afterwards his brother-in-law, &c.--is entirely fictitious. no such things took place. various attempts were made to reconcile christian iv. to her, but he steadily refused, and with very good reason: he was doubtless well aware that kirstine munk, as recently published diplomatic documents prove, had betrayed his political secrets to gustav adolf, the king of sweden, and he considered her presence at court very dangerous. her son-in-law was now openly in the service of another swedish king, but the friendship between them was not of long duration. ulfeldt first incurred the displeasure of carl gustav by heading the opposition of the nobility in the newly acquired provinces against certain imposts laid on them by the swedish king, to which they had not been liable under danish rule. then other causes of disagreement arose. carl gustav, regretting that he had concluded a peace, when in all probability he might have conquered the whole of denmark, recommenced the war, and laid siege to copenhagen. but the danish people now rose as one man; foreign assistance was obtained; the swedes were everywhere beaten; and if the dutch, who were bound by treaty to assist denmark, had not refused their co-operation in transferring the danish troops across the sound, all the lost provinces might easily have been regained. the inhabitants in some of these provinces also rose against their new rulers. amongst others, the citizens of malmö, where ulfeldt at the time resided, entered into a conspiracy to throw off the swedish dominion; but it was betrayed, and ulfeldt was indicated as one of the principal instigators, although he himself had accepted their forced homage to the swedish king, as his deputy. very probably he had thought that, if he took a part in the rising, he might, if this were successful, return to denmark, having as it were thus wiped out his former crimes, but having also shown his countrymen what a terrible foe he could be. as it was, denmark was prevented by her own allies from regaining her losses, and ulfeldt was placed in custody in malmö, by order of carl gustav, in order that his conduct might be subjected to a rigorous examination. ulfeldt was then apparently seized with a remarkable malady, a kind of apoplexy, depriving him of speech, and leonora christina conducted his defence. she wrote three lengthy, vigorous, and skilful replies to the charges, which still exist in the originals. he was acquitted, or rather escaped by a verdict of not proven; but as conscience makes cowards, he contrived to escape before the verdict was given. leonora christina describes all this in her autobiography, according to which ulfeldt was to go to lubeck, while she would go to copenhagen, and try to put matters straight there. ulfeldt, however, changed his plan without her knowledge, and also repaired to copenhagen, where they were both arrested and sent to the castle of hammershuus, on the island of bornholm in the baltic, an ancient fortress, now a most picturesque ruin, perched at the edge of perpendicular rocks, overhanging the sea, and almost surrounded by it. the autobiography relates circumstantially, and no doubt truthfully, the cruel treatment to which they were here subjected by the governor, a major-general fuchs. after a desperate attempt at escape, they were still more rigorously guarded, and at length they had to purchase their liberty by surrendering the whole of their property, excepting one estate in fyen. ulfeldt had to make the most humble apologies, and to promise not to leave the island of fyen, where this estate was situated, without special permission. he was also compelled to renounce on the part of his wife the title of a countess of slesvig-holstein, which fredrik iii. had never acknowledged. she never made use of that title afterwards, nor is she generally known by it in history. corfits ulfeldt being a count of the german empire, of course leonora and her children were, and remained, counts and countesses of ulfeldt. this compromise was effected in 1661. having been conveyed to copenhagen, ulfeldt could not obtain an audience of the king, and he was obliged, kneeling, to tender renewed oath of allegiance before the king's deputies, count rantzow, general hans schack, the chancellor redtz, and the chancellor of the exchequer, christofer gabel, all of whom are mentioned in leonora's account of her subsequent prison life. a few days after, corfits ulfeldt and leonora christina left copenhagen, which he was never to see again, she only as a prisoner. they retired to the estate of ellensborg, in fyen, which they had still retained. this was the ancient seat of the ulfeldts, which corfits' father had sold to ellen marsvin, leonora christina's grandmother, and which had come to leonora through her mother. in the meanwhile it had been renamed and rebuilt such as it stands to this day, a picturesque pile of buildings in the elizabethan style. here ulfeldt might have ended his stormy life in quiet, but his thirst for revenge left him no peace. besides this, a great change had taken place in denmark. the national revival which followed the renewal of the war by carl gustav in 1658 led to a total change in the form of government. it was indisputable that the selfishness of the nobles, who refused to undertake any burden for the defence of the country, was the main cause of the great disasters that had befallen denmark. the abolition of their power was loudly called for, and the queen so cleverly turned this feeling to account, that the remedy adopted was not the restoration of the other classes of the population to their legitimate constitutional influence, but the entire abolition of the constitution itself, and the introduction of hereditary, unlimited despotism. the title 'hereditary king,' which so often occurs in danish documents and writings from that time, also in leonora's memoir, has reference to this change. undoubtedly this was very little to ulfeldt's taste. already, in the next year after his release, 1662, he obtained leave to go abroad for his health. but, instead of going to spaa, as he had pretended, he went to amsterdam, bruges, and paris, where he sought interviews with louis xiv. and the french ministers; he also placed himself in communication with the elector of brandenburg, with a view of raising up enemies against his native country. the elector gave information to the danish government, whilst apparently lending an ear to ulfeldt's propositions. when a sufficient body of evidence had been collected, it was laid before the high court of appeal in copenhagen, and judgment given in his absence, whereby he was condemned to an ignominious death as a traitor, his property confiscated, his descendants for ever exiled from denmark, and a large reward offered for his apprehension. the sentence is dated july 24, 1663. meanwhile ulfeldt had been staying with his family at bruges. one day one of his sons, christian, saw general fuchs, who had treated his parents so badly at hammershuus, driving through the city in a carriage; immediately he leaped on to the carriage and killed fuchs on the spot. christian ulfeldt had to fly, but the parents remained in bruges, where they had many friends. it was in the following spring, on may 24, 1663, that leonora christina, much against her own inclination, left her husband--as it proved, not to see him again alive. ulfeldt had on many occasions used his wealth in order to gain friends, by lending them money--probably the very worst method of all. it is proved that at his death he still held bonds for more than 500,000 dollars, or 100,000_l._, which he had lent to various princes and noblemen, and which were never paid. amongst others he had lent the pretender, afterwards charles ii., a large sum, about 20,000 patacoons, which at the time he had raised with some difficulty. he doubted not that the king of england, now that he was able to do it, would recognise the debt and repay it; and he desired leonora, who, through her father, was cousin of charles ii., once removed, to go to england and claim it. she describes this journey in her autobiography. the danish government, hearing of her presence in england, thought that ulfeldt was there too, or hoped at any rate to obtain possession of important documents by arresting her, and demanded her extradition. the british government ostensibly refused, but underhand it gave the danish minister, petcum, every assistance. leonora was arrested in dover, where she had arrived on her way back, disappointed in the object of her journey. she had obtained enough and to spare of fair promises, but no money; and by secretly giving her up to the danish government, charles ii. in an easy way quitted himself of the debt, at the same time that he pleased the king of denmark, without publicly violating political propriety. leonora's account of the whole affair is confirmed in every way by the light which other documents throw upon the matter, particularly by the extracts contained in the calendar of state papers, domestic series, of the reign of charles ii., 1663-64. leonora was now conducted to copenhagen, where she was confined in the blue tower--a square tower surmounted by a blue spire, which stood in the court of the royal castle, and was used as a prison for grave offenders (see the engraving). at this point the memoir of her sufferings in the prison takes up the thread of her history, and we need not here dwell upon its contents. as soon as ulfeldt heard that the brandenburg government had betrayed him, and that sentence had been passed on him in copenhagen, he left bruges. no doubt the arrest of leonora in england was a still greater blow to him. the spanish government would probably have surrendered him to the danish authorities, and he had to flee from place to place, pursued by danish agents demanding his extradition, and men anxious to earn the reward offered for his apprehension, dead or alive. his last abode was basle, where he passed under a feigned name, until a quarrel between one of his sons and a stranger caused the discovery of their secret. not feeling himself safe, ulfeldt left basle, alone, at night, in a boat descending the rhine; but he never reached his destination. he was labouring under a violent attack on the chest, and the night air killed him. he breathed his last in the boat, on february 20, 1664. the boatmen, concluding from the gold and jewels which they found on him that he was a person of consequence, brought the body on shore, and made the matter known in basle, from whence his sons came and buried him under a tree in a field--no one knows the spot. meanwhile the punishment of beheading and quartering had been executed on a wooden effigy in copenhagen. his palace was demolished, and the site laid out in a public square, on which a pillar of sandstone was erected as an everlasting monument of his crimes. this pillar was taken away in 1842, and the name was changed from ulfeldt square to greyfriars square, as an indication of the forgetting and forgiving spirit of the time, or perhaps rather because the treason of ulfeldt was closely connected with the ancient jealousy between danes and swedes, of which the present generation is so anxious to efface the traces. his children had to seek new homes elsewhere. christian, who killed fuchs, became a roman catholic and died as an abbé; and none of them continued the name, except the youngest son leo, who went into the service of the german emperor, and rose to the highest dignities. his son corfits likewise filled important offices under charles vi. and maria theresa, but left no sons. his two daughters married respectively a count waldstein and a count thun, whose descendants therefore now represent the family of ulfeldt. leonora christina remained in prison for twenty-two years--that is, until the death of sophia amalia, the queen of fredrik iii. this king, as well as his son christian v., would willingly have set her at liberty; but the influence of the queen over her husband and son was so strong that only her death, which occurred in 1685, released leonora. the memoir of her life in prison terminates with this event, and her after-life does not offer any very remarkable incidents. nevertheless, a few details, chiefly drawn from a ms. in the royal library at copenhagen, recently published by mr. birket smith, may serve to complete the historical image of this illustrious lady. the ms. in question is from the hand of a miss urne, of an ancient danish family, who managed the household of leonora from 1685 to her death in 1698. a royal manor, formerly a convent, at maribo, on the island of laaland, was granted to leonora shortly after her release from the blue tower, together with a sufficient pension for a moderate establishment. 'the first occupation of the countess,' says miss urne, 'was devotion; for which purpose her household was assembled in a room outside her bed-chamber. in her daily morning prayer there was this passage: "may the lord help all prisoners, console the guilty, and save the innocent!" after that she remained the whole forenoon in her bedchamber, occupied in reading and writing. she composed a book entitled the "ornament of heroines," which countess a. c. ulfeldt and count leon took away with them, together with many other rare writings. her handiwork is almost indescribable, and without an equal; such as embroidering in silk, gold embroidery, and turning in amber and ivory.' it will be seen from leonora's own memoir that needlework was one of her principal occupations in her prison. count waldstein still possesses some of her work; in the church of maribo an altar-cloth embroidered by her existed still some time ago; and at the castle of rosenborg, in copenhagen, there is a portrait of christian v. worked by leonora in silk, in return for which present the king increased her annual pension. miss urne says that she sent all her work to elizabeth bek, a granddaughter of leonora, who lived with her for some years. but she refused to send her leonora's postille, or manual of daily devotion, which had been given leonora on new year's day, in the last year of her captivity, by the castellan, torslev, who is mentioned in leonora's memoir, and who had taught her to turn ivory, &c. this book has disappeared; but amongst the relics of leonora christina, the royal library at copenhagen preserves some leaves which had been bound up with it, and contain verses, &c., by leonora, and other interesting matter. her ms. works were taken to vienna after her death. it is not known what has become of some of them. a copy of the first part of the book on heroines exists in copenhagen. miss urne says that she possessed fragments of a play composed by her and acted at maribo kloster; also the younger sperling speaks of such a composition in danish verse; but the ms. seems to be lost now. several of leonora's relations stayed with her from time to time at maribo; amongst them the above-mentioned elizabeth bek, whose mother, leonora sophie, famous for her beauty, had married lave bek, the head of an ancient danish family in skaane. after ulfeldt's death lave bek demanded of the swedish government the estates which carl gustav had given to ulfeldt in 1658, but which the swedish government had afterwards confiscated, without any legal ground. leonora christina herself memorialised the swedish king on the subject, and at least one of her memorials on the subject, dated may 23, 1693, still exists; but it was not till 1735 that these estates were given up to lave bek's sons. leonora's eldest daughter, anne catherina, lived with her mother at maribo for several years, and was present at her death. she had married casetta, a spanish nobleman, mentioned by leonora christina in her memoir, who was with her in england when she was arrested. after the death of casetta and their children, anne catherina ulfeldt came to live with her mother. she followed her brother to vienna, where she died. it was she who transmitted the ms. of leonora's memoir of her life in the blue tower to the brother, with the following letter, which is still preserved with the ms.:- 'this book treats of what has happened to our late lady mother in her prison. i have not been able to persuade myself to burn it, although the reading of it has given me little pleasure, inasmuch as all those events concern her miserable state. after all, it is not without its use to know how she has been treated; but it is not needful that it should come into the hands of strangers, for it might happen to give pleasure to those of our enemies who still remain.' the letter is addressed 'a monsieur, monsieur le comte d'ulfeldt,' &c., but without date or signature. the handwriting is, however, that of anne catherina ulfeldt, and she had probably sent it off to vienna for safety immediately after her mother's death, before she knew that her brother would come to maribo himself. miss urne says, in the ms. referred to, that the king had ordered that he was to be informed immediately of leonora's demise, in order that she might be buried according to her rank and descent; but she had beforehand requested that her funeral might be quite plain. her coffin, as well as those of three children who had died young, and whose coffins had been provisionally placed in a church at copenhagen, was immured in a vault in the church of maribo; but when this was opened some forty years ago, no trace of leonora's mortal remains could be found, though those of the children were there: from which it is concluded that a popular report, to the effect that the body had been secretly carried abroad, contains more truth than was formerly supposed. count waldstein states that in the family vault at leitsmischl, there is one metal coffin without any inscription, and which may be hers. if so, leonora has, as it were, after her death followed her husband into exile. at any rate, the final resting-place of neither of them is known with certainty. autobiography of leonora christina 1673. autobiography. sir,[06]--to satisfy your curiosity, i will give you a short account of the life of her about whom you desire to be informed. she was born at fredericksborg, in the year 1621, on june 11.[07] when she was six weeks old her grandmother took her with her to dalum, where she remained until the age of four years; her first master there being mr. envolt, afterward a priest at roeskild. about six months after her return to the court, her father sent her to holland to his cousin, a duchess of brunswick, who had married count ernest of nassau, and lived at lewarden. [06] this autobiographical sketch is written in the form of a letter to dr. otto sperling the younger, the son of corfits ulfeldt's old friend, who was for some years leonora's fellow-prisoner in the blue tower. [07] it is curious that leonora seems for a long time to have been under a mistake as to the date of her birthday. the right date is july 18, new style. her sister sophia, who was two years and a half older than herself, and her brother, who was a year younger, had gone to the aforesaid duchess nearly a year before. i must not forget to mention the first mischances that befell her at her setting out. she went by sea in one of the royal ships of war; having been two days and a night at sea, at midnight such a furious tempest arose that they all had given up any hope of escaping. her tutor, wichmann hassebart (afterwards bishop of fyn), who attended her, woke her and took her in his arms, saying, with tears, that they should both die together, for he loved her tenderly. he told her of the danger, that god was angry, and that they would all be drowned. she caressed him, treating him like a father (after her usual wont), and begged him not to grieve; she was assured that god was not angry, that he would see they would not be drowned, beseeching him again and again to believe her. wichmann shed tears at her simplicity, and prayed to god to save the rest for her sake, and for the sake of the hope that she, an innocent girl, reposed in him. god heard him, and after having lost the two mainmasts, they entered at dawn of day the harbour of fleckeröe,[08] where they remained for six weeks. [08] on the south coast of norway. having received orders to proceed by sea, they pursued their route and arrived safely. her sister being informed of her arrival, and being told that she had come with a different retinue to herself--with a suite of gentlemen, lady preceptor, servants and attendants, &c.--she burst into tears, and said that she was not surprised that this sister always insinuated herself and made herself a favourite, and that she would be treated there too as such. m. sophia was not mistaken in this; for her sister was in greater favour with the duchess, with her governess, and with many others, than she was herself. count ernest alone took the side of m. sophia, and this rather for the sake of provoking his wife, who liked dispute; for m. sophia exhibited her obstinacy even towards himself. she did all the mischief she could to her sister, and persuaded her brother to do the same. to amuse you i will tell you of her first innocent predilections. count ernest had a son of about eleven or twelve years of age; he conceived an affection for her, and having persuaded her that he loved her, and that she would one day be his wife, but that this must be kept secret, she fancied herself already secretly his wife. he knew a little drawing, and by stealth he instructed her; he even taught her some latin words. they never missed an opportunity of retiring from company and conversing with each other. this enjoyment was of short duration for her; for a little more than a year afterwards she fell ill of small-pox, and as his elder brother, william, who had always ridiculed these affections, urged him to see his well-beloved in the condition in which she was, in order to disgust him with the sight, he came one day to the door to see her, and was so startled that he immediately became ill, and died on the ninth day following. his death was kept concealed from her. when she was better she asked after him, and she was made to believe that he was gone away with his mother (who was at this time at brunswick), attending the funeral of her mother. his body had been embalmed, and had been placed in a glass case. one day her preceptor made her go into the hall where his body lay, to see if she recognised it; he raised her in his arms to enable her to see it better. she knew her dear moritz at once, and was seized with such a shock that she fell fainting to the ground. wichmann in consequence carried her hastily out of the hall to recover her, and as the dead boy wore a garland of rosemary, she never saw these flowers without crying, and had an aversion to their smell, which she still retains. as the wars between germany and the king of denmark had been the cause of the removal of his aforesaid children, they were recalled to denmark when peace was concluded. at the age of seven years and two months she was affianced to a gentleman of the king's chamber. she began very early to suffer for his sake. her governess was at this time mistress anne lycke, qvitzow's mother. her daughter, who was maid of honour, had imagined that this gentleman made his frequent visits for love of her. seeing herself deceived, she did not know in what manner to produce estrangement between the lovers; she spoke, and made m. sophia speak, of the gentleman's poverty, and amused herself with ridiculing the number of children in the family. she regarded all this with indifference, only declaring once that she loved him, poor as he was, better than she loved her rich gallant.[09] [09] count christian pentz, to whom sophia was married in 1634. at last they grew weary of this, and found another opportunity for troubling her--namely, the illness of her betrothed, resulting from a complaint in his leg; they presented her with plaisters, ointments, and such like things, and talked together of the pleasure of being married to a man who had his feet diseased, &c. she did not answer a word either for good or bad, so they grew weary of this also. a year and a half after they had another governess, catharina sehestedt, sister of hannibal.[10] m. sophia thus lost her second, and her sister had a little repose in this quarter. [10] hannibal sehestedt afterwards married leonora's younger sister christiana; he became a powerful antagonist of ulfeldt, and is mentioned often in the following memoir. when our lady was about twelve years old, francis albert, duke of saxony,[11] came to kolding to demand her in marriage. the king replied that she was no longer free, that she was already betrothed; but the duke was not satisfied with this, and spoke to herself, and said a hundred fine things to her: that a duke was far different to a gentleman. she told him she always obeyed the king, and since it had pleased the king to promise her to a gentleman, she was well satisfied. the duke employed the governess to persuade her, and the governess introduced him to her brother hannibal, then at the court, and hannibal went with post-horses to möen, where her betrothed was, who did not linger long on the road in coming to her. this was the beginning of the friendship between monsieur and hannibal, which afterwards caused so much injury to monsieur. but he had not needed to trouble himself, for the duke never could draw from her the declaration that she would be ready to give up her betrothed if the king ordered her to do so. she told him she hoped the king would not retract from his first promise. the duke departed ill satisfied, on the very day the evening of which the betrothed arrived. (four years afterwards they quarrelled on this subject in the presence of the king, who appeased them with his authority.) [11] frantz albrecht, duke of saxe-lauenburg, the same who in the thirty years' war alternately served the protestants and the imperialists. in the battle of lützen he was near gustav adolf when he fell, and he was regarded by many as the one who treacherously fired the fatal shot. it happened the following winter at skanderborg that the governess had a quarrel with the language-master, alexandre de cuqvelson, who taught our lady and her sisters the french language, writing, arithmetic, and dancing. m. sophia was not studious; moreover, she had very little memory; for her heart was too much devoted to her dolls, and as she perceived that the governess did not punish her when alexandre complained of her, she neglected everything, and took no trouble about her studies. our lady imagined she knew enough when she knew as much as her sister. as this had lasted some time, the governess thought she could entrap alexandre; she accused him to the king, said that he treated the children badly, rapped their fingers, struck them on the hand, called them bad names, &c., and with all this they could not even read, much less speak, the french language. besides this, she wrote the same accusations to the betrothed of our lady. the betrothed sent his servant wolff to skanderborg, with menaces to alexandre. at the same time alexandre was warned that the king had sent for the prince,[12] to examine his children, since the father-confessor was not acquainted with the language. [12] that is, the king's eldest son christian, who was elected his successor, but died before him. the tutor was in some dismay; he flattered our lady, implored her to save him, which she could easily do, since she had a good memory, so that he could prove by her that it was not his fault that m. sophia was not more advanced. our lady did not yield readily, but called to his remembrance how one day, about half a year ago, she had begged him not to accuse her to the governess, but that he had paid no attention to her tears, though he knew that the governess treated them shamefully. he begged her for the love of jesus, wept like a child, said that he should be ruined for ever, that it was an act of mercy, that he would never accuse her, and that from henceforth she should do nothing but what she wished. at length she consented, said she would be diligent, and since she had yet three weeks before her, she learnt a good deal by heart.[13] alexandre told her one day, towards the time of the examination, that there was still a great favour she could render him: if she would not repeat the little things which had passed at school-time; for he could not always pay attention to every word that he said when m. sophia irritated him, and if he had once taken the rod to hit her fingers when she had not struck her sister strongly enough, he begged her for the love of god to pardon it. (it should be mentioned that he wished the one to strike the other when they committed faults, and the one who corrected the other had to beat her, and if she did not do so strongly enough, he took the office upon himself; thus he had often beaten our lady.) [13] in the margin the following addition is inserted: 'she had at that time an unusual memory. she could at one and the same time recite one psalm by heart, write another, and attend to the conversation. she had tried this more than once, but i think that she has thereby spoilt her memory, which is not now so good.' she made excuses, said that she did not dare to tell a lie if they asked her, but that she would not accuse him of herself. this promise did not wholly satisfy him; he continued his entreaties, and assured her that a falsehood employed to extricate a friend from danger was not a sin, but was agreeable to god; moreover, it was not necessary for her to say anything, only not to confess what she had seen and heard. she said that the governess would treat her ill; so he replied that she should have no occasion to do so, for that he would never complain to her. our lady replied that the governess would find pretext enough, since she was inclined to ill-treat the children; and anyhow, the other master who taught them german was a rude man, and an old man who taught them the spinette was a torment, therefore she had sufficient reason for fear. he did not give way, but so persisted in his persuasion that she promised everything. when the prince arrived the governess did not forget to besiege him with her complaints, and to beg him to use his influence that the tutor might be dismissed. at length the day of the examination having come, the governess told her young ladies an hour before that they were to say how villanously he had treated them, beaten them, &c. the prince came into the apartments of the ladies accompanied by the king's father-confessor (at that time dr. ch(r)estien sar); the governess was present the whole time. they were first examined in german. m. sophia acquitted herself very indifferently, not being able to read fluently. the master christoffre excused her, saying that she was timid. when it came to alexandre's turn to show what his pupils could do, m. sophia could read little or nothing. when she stammered in reading, the governess looked at the prince and laughed aloud. there was no difference in the gospel, psalms, proverbs, or suchlike things. the governess was very glad, and would have liked that the other should not have been examined. but when it came to her turn to read in the bible, and she did not hesitate, the governess could no longer restrain herself, and said, 'perhaps it is a passage she knows by heart that you have made her read.' alexandre begged the governess herself to give the lady another passage to read. the governess was angry at this also, and said, 'he is ridiculing me because i do not know french.' the prince then opened the bible and made her read other passages, which she did as fluently as before. in things by heart she showed such proficiency that the prince was too impatient to listen to all. it was then alexandre's turn to speak, and to say that he hoped his highness would graciously consider that it was not his fault that m. sophia was not more advanced. the governess interrupted him saying, 'you are truly the cause of it, for you treat her ill!' and she began a torrent of accusations, asking m. sophia if they were not true. she answered in the affirmative, and that she could not conscientiously deny them. then she asked our lady if they were not true. she replied that she had never heard nor seen anything of the kind. the governess, in a rage, said to the prince, 'your highness must make her speak the truth; she dares not do so, for alexandre's sake.' the prince asked her if alexandre had never called her bad names--if he had never beaten her. she replied, 'never.' he asked again if she had not seen nor heard that he had ill-treated her sister. she replied, 'no, she had never either heard or seen it.' at this the governess became furious; she spoke to the prince in a low voice; the prince replied aloud, 'what do you wish me to do? i have no order from the king to constrain her to anything.' well, alexandre gained his cause; the governess could not dislodge him, and our lady gained more than she had imagined in possessing the affection of the king, the goodwill of the prince, of the priest, and of all those who knew her. but the governess from that moment took every opportunity of revenging herself on our lady. at length she found one, which was rather absurd. the old jean meinicken, who taught our lady the spinette, one day, in a passion, seized the fingers of our lady and struck them against the instrument; without remembering the presence of her governess, she took his hand and retaliated so strongly that the strings broke. the governess heard with delight the complaints of the old man. she prepared two rods; she used them both, and, not satisfied with that, she turned the thick end of one, and struck our lady on the thigh, the mark of which she bears to the present day. more than two months elapsed before she recovered from the blow; she could not dance, nor could she walk comfortably for weeks after. this governess did her so much injury that at last our lady was obliged to complain to her betrothed, who had a quarrel with the governess at the wedding of m. sophia, and went straight to the king to accuse her; she was at once dismissed, and the four children, the eldest of which was our lady, went with the princess[14] to niköping, to pass the winter there, until the king could get another governess. the king, who had a good opinion of the conduct of our lady, who at this time was thirteen years and four months old, wrote to her and ordered her to take care of her sisters. our lady considered herself half a governess, so she took care not to set them a bad example. as to study, she gave no thought to it at this time; she occupied herself in drawing and arithmetic, of which she was very fond, and the princess, who was seventeen years of age, delighted in her company. thus this winter passed very agreeably for her. [14] namely, magdalena sybilla of saxony, then newly married (october 5, 1634) to prince christian, the eldest son and elected successor of christian iv. m. sophia's wedding to chr. pentz was celebrated on the 10th of the same month. at the approach of the diet, which sat eight days after pentecost, the children came to copenhagen, with the prince and princess, and had as governess a lady of mecklenburg of the blixen family, the mother of philip barstorp who is still alive. after the diet, the king made a journey to glückstad in two days and a half, and our lady accompanied him; it pleased the king that she was not weary, and that she could bear up against inconveniences and fatigues. she afterwards made several little journeys with the king, and she had the good fortune occasionally to obtain the pardon of some poor criminals, and to be in favour with the king. our lady having attained the age of fifteen years and about four months, her betrothed obtained permission for their marriage, which was celebrated (with more pomp than the subsequent weddings of her sisters), on october 9, 1636. the winter after her marriage she was with her husband at möen, and as she knew that her husband's father had not left him any wealth, she asked him concerning his debts, and conjured him to conceal nothing from her. he said to her, 'if i tell you the truth it will perhaps frighten you.' she declared it would not, and that she would supply what was needful from her ornaments, provided he would assure her that he had told her everything. he did so, and found that she was not afraid to deprive herself of her gold, silver, and jewels, in order to pay a sum of thirty-six thousand rix-dollars. on april 21, 1637, she went with her husband to copenhagen in obedience to the order of the king, who gave him the post of v.r.[15] he was again obliged to incur debt in purchasing a house and in setting up a larger establishment. [15] v.r. probably stands for viceroy, by which term leonora no doubt indicates the post of governor of copenhagen. there would be no end were i to tell you all the mischances that befell her during the happy period of her marriage, and of all the small contrarieties which she endured; but since i am assured that this history will not be seen by anyone, and that you will not keep it after having read it, i will tell you a few points which are worthy of attention. those who were envious of the good fortune of our lady could not bear that she should lead a tranquil life, nor that she should be held in esteem by her father and king; i may call him thus, for the king conferred on her more honours than were due to her from him. her husband loved and honoured her, enacting the lover more than the husband. she spent her time in shooting, riding, tennis, in learning drawing in good earnest from charles v. mandern, in playing the viol, the flute, the guitar, and she enjoyed a happy life. she knew well that jealousy is a plague, and that it injures the mind which harbours it. her relations tried to infuse into her head that her husband loved elsewhere, especially m. elizabet, and subsequently anna, sister of her husband, who was then in her house. m. elizabet began by mentioning it as a secret, premising that no one could tell her and warn her, except her who was her sister. as our lady at first said nothing and only smiled, m. elis... said: 'the world says that you know it well, but that you will not appear to do so.' she replied with a question: 'why did she tell her a thing as a secret, which she herself did not believe to be a secret to her? but she would tell her a secret that perhaps she did not know, which was, that she had given her husband permission to spend his time with others, and when she was satisfied the remainder would be for others; that she believed there were no such jealous women as those who were insatiable, but that a wisdom was imputed to her, which she did not possess; she begged her, however, to be wise enough not to interfere with matters which did not concern her, and if she heard others mentioning it (as our lady had reason to believe that this was her own invention) that she would give them a reprimand. m. elis... was indignant and went away angry, but anna, monsieur's sister, who was in the house, adopted another course. she drew round her the handsomest women in the town, and then played the procuress, spoke to her brother of one particularly, who was a flirt, and who was the handsomest, and offered him opportunities, &c. as she saw that he was proof against it, she told him (to excite him) that his wife was jealous, that she had had him watched where he went when he had been drinking with the king, to know whether he visited this woman; she said that his wife was angry, because the other woman was so beautiful, said that she painted, &c. the love borne to our lady by her husband made him tell her all, and, moreover, he went but rarely afterwards to his sister's apartments, from which she could easily understand that the conversation had not been agreeable to him; but our lady betrayed nothing of the matter, visited her more than before, caressed this lady more than any other, and even made her considerable presents. (anna remained in her house as long as she lived.) all this is of small consideration compared with the conduct of her own brother. it is well known to you that the biel... were very intimate in our lady's house. it happened that her brother made a journey to muscovy, and that the youngest of the biel... was in his suite. as this was a very lawless youth, and, to say the truth, badly brought up, he not only at times failed in respect to our lady's brother, but freely expressed his sentiments to him upon matters which did not concern him; among other things, he spoke ill of the holstein noblemen, naming especially one, who was then in waiting on the king, who he said had deceived our lady's brother. the matter rested there for more than a year after their return from this journey. the brother of our lady and biel... played cards together, and disputed over them; upon this the brother of our lady told the holstein nobleman what biel... had said of him more than a year before, which b. did not remember, and swore that he had never said. the holstein nobleman said insulting things against biel.... our lady conversed with her brother upon the affair, and begged him to quiet the storm he had raised, and to consider how it would cause an ill-feeling with regard to him among the nobility, and that it would seem that he could not keep to himself what had been told him in secret; it would be very easy for him to mend the matter. her brother replied that he could never retract what he had said, and that he should consider the holstein nobleman as a villain if he did not treat b. as a rogue. at length the holstein nobleman behaved in such a manner as to constrain b. to send him a challenge. b. was killed by his adversary with the sword of our lady's brother, which she did not know till afterwards. at noon of the day on which b. had been killed in the morning, our lady went to the castle to visit her little twin sisters; her brother was there, and came forward, laughing loudly and saying, 'do you know that ran... has killed b...?' she replied, 'no, that i did not know, but i knew that you had killed him. ran... could do nothing less than defend himself, but you placed the sword in his hand.' her brother, without answering a word, mounted his horse and went to seek his brother-in-law, who was speaking with our old friend,[16] told him he was the cause of b.'s death, and that he had done so because he had understood that his sister loved him, and that he did not believe that his brother-in-law was so blind as not to have perceived it. the husband of our lady did not receive this speech in the way the other had imagined, and said, 'if you were not her brother, i would stab you with this poniard,' showing it to him. 'what reason have you for speaking thus?' the good-for-nothing fellow was rather taken aback at this, and knew not what to say, except that b... was too free and had no respect in his demeanour; and that this was a true sign of love. at length, after some discussion on both sides, the brother of our lady requested that not a word might be said to his sister. [16] the old friend is dr. otto sperling, sen., a physician in extensive practice at copenhagen, and intimate friend of ulfeldt. mr. biel... signifies most probably a certain christian bielke, whose portrait still exists at rosenborg castle, in copenhagen, with an inscription that he was killed in a duel by bartram rantzau on easter eve 1642. if this date is true, bielke cannot have accompanied leonora's brother count valdemar on his journey to russia, as this journey only took place in 1643. count valdemar was to marry a russian princess, but it was broken off on his refusing to join the greek church. as soon as she returned home, her husband told her everything in the presence of our old friend, but ordered her to feign ignorance. this was all the more easy for her, as her husband gave no credence to it, but trusted in her innocence. she let nothing appear, but lived with her brother as before. but some years after, her brother ill-treated his own mother, and her side being taken by our lady, they were in consequence not good friends. in speaking to you of the occupations of our lady, after having reached the age of twenty-one or thereabouts, i must tell you she had a great desire to learn latin. she had a very excellent master,[17] whom you know, and who taught her for friendship as well as with good will. but she had so many irons in the fire, and sometimes it was necessary to take a journey, and a yearly accouchement (to the number of ten) prevented her making much progress; she understood a little easy latin, but attempted nothing difficult; she then learnt a little italian, which she continued studying whenever an opportunity presented itself. [17] dr. otto sperling, senior. i will not speak of her short journeys to holstein, jutland, &c.; but in the year 1646 she made a voyage with her husband by sea, in the first place to holland, where she gave birth to a son six weeks after her arrival at the hague. from thence she went with her husband to france, first to paris and afterwards to amiens; there they took leave of the king and of the queen mother, regent, and as they were returning by dunkirk she had the curiosity to see england, and begged her husband to permit her to cross over with a small suite, to which he consented, since one of the royal vessels lay in the roads. she took a nobleman with her who knew the language, our old friend, a servant, and the valet of the aforesaid nobleman, and this was the whole of her retinue. she embarked, and her husband planned to pass through flanders and brabant, and to await her at rotterdam. as she was on the vessel a day and night, and the wind did not favour them, she resolved to land and to follow her husband, fancying she could reach him in time to see flanders and brabant; she had not visited these countries before, having passed from holland by sea to calais. she found her husband at ostend, and travelled with him to rotterdam; from thence she pursued her former plan, embarked at helvoot-sluys, and arrived at duns, went to london, and returned by dover, making the whole voyage in ten days, and she was again enceinte. she was an object of suspicion in london. the prince palatine, then elector of heidelberg,[18] belonged to the party opposed to the beheaded king, who was then a prisoner; and they watched her and surrounded her with spies, so she did not make a long sojourn in london. nothing else was imagined, when it was known she had been there, but that she had letters from the king of dan... for the king of engl.... she returned with her husband to dan.... [18] prince ruprecht, duke of cumberland, nephew of charles i. in the year 1648 fortune abandoned our lady, for on february 28 the king was taken from her by death. she had the happiness, however, of attending upon him until his last breath. good god, when i think of what this good king said to her the first day, when she found him ill in bed at rosenborg, and wept abundantly, my heart is touched. he begged her not to weep, caressed her, and said: 'i have placed you so securely that no one can move you.' only too much has she felt the contrary of the promise of the king who succeeded him, for when he was duke and visited her at her house, a few days after the death of the king, finding her in tears, he embraced her, saying: 'i will be a father to you, do not weep.' she kissed his hand without being able to speak. i find that some fathers have been unnatural towards their children. in the year 1649 she made another voyage with her husband to holland, and at the hague gave birth to a daughter. when her husband returned from this journey, he for the first time perceived the designs of hannibal, of gerstorp, and wibe, but too late. he absented himself from business, and would not listen to what his wife told him. our old friend shared the opinion of our lady, adducing very strong reason for it, but all in vain; he said, that he would not be a perpetual slave for the convenience of his friends. his wife spoke as a prophet to him, told him that he would be treated as a slave when he had ceased to have authority, that they would suspect him, and envy his wealth; all of which took place, though i shall make no recital of it, since these events are sufficiently known to you. we will now speak a little of the events which occurred afterwards. when they had gained their cause,[19] our lady feared that the strong party which they had then overcome would not rest without ruining them utterly at any cost; so she advised her husband to leave the country, since he had the king's permission to do so,[20] and to save his life, otherwise his enemies would contrive some other invention which would succeed better. he consented to this at length, and they took their two eldest children with them, and went by sea to amsterdam. at utrecht they left the children with the servants and a female attendant, and our lady disguised herself in male attire and followed her husband, who took the route to lubeck, and from thence by sea to sweden, to ask the protection of queen christina, which he received; and as the queen knew that his wife was with him in disguise, she requested to see her, which she did. [19] namely, the process against dina. _see_ introduction. [20] ulfeldt had not really the permission of the king to leave the country in the way he did. these words must therefore be understood to mean that the favourable termination of the trial concerning dina's accusations had liberated ulfeldt from the special obligation to remain in copenhagen, which his position in reference to that case imposed upon him. the husband of our lady purposed to remain some time in pomerania, and the queen lent him a vessel to convey him thither. having been three days at sea, the wind carried them towards dantzig, and not being able to enter the town, for it was too late, they remained outside the gates at a low inn. an adventure fit for a novel here happened to our lady. a girl of sixteen, or a little more, believing that our lady was a young man, threw herself on her neck with caresses, to which our lady responded, and played with the girl, but, as our lady perceived what the girl meant, and that she could not satisfy her, she turned her over to charles, a man of their suite, thinking he would answer her purpose; he offered the girl his attentions, but she repelled him rudely, saying, she was not for him, and went again to our lady, accosting her in the same way. our lady got rid of her, but with difficulty however, for she was somewhat impudent, and our lady did not dare to leave her apartment. for the sake of amusing you, i must tell you, what now occurs to me, that in the fort before stade, the name of which has escaped me, our lady played with two soldiers for drink, and her husband, who passed for her uncle, paid the expenses; the soldiers, willing to lose for the sake of gaining the beer, and astonished that she never lost, were, however, civil enough to present her with drink. we must return to dantzig. the husband of our lady, finding himself near thoren, desired to make an excursion there, but his design was interrupted by two men, one who had formerly served in norway as lieutenant-colonel, and a charlatan who called himself dr. saar, and who had been expelled from copenhagen. they asked the mayor of the town to arrest these two persons, believing that our lady was ebbe wl....[21] they were warned by their host that these persons said they were so-and-so, and that these gentlemen were at the door to prevent their going out. towards evening they grew tired of keeping guard, and went away. before dawn the husband of our lady went out of the house first, and waited at the gate, and our lady with the two servants went in a coach to wait at the other gate until it was opened; thus they escaped this time. [21] that is, ebbe ulfeldt,--a relative of corfitz who left denmark in 1651 and afterwards lived in sweden. they went by land to stralsund, where our lady resumed her own attire, after having been in disguise twelve weeks and four days, and having endured many inconveniences, not having gone to bed all the time, except at stockholm, dantzig, and stettin. she even washed the clothes, which inconvenienced her much. the winter that they passed at stralsund, her husband taught her, or rather began to teach her, spanish. in the spring they again made a voyage to stockholm, at the desire of queen chr.... this good queen, who liked intrigue, tried to excite jealousy and to make people jealous, but she did not succeed. they were in sweden until after the abdication of the queen, and the wedding and coronation of king charles and queen hedevig, which was in the year 1654. they returned to pomerania for a visit to barth, which they possessed as a mortgage. there, our lady passed her time in study, sometimes occupied with a latin book, sometimes with a spanish one. she translated a small spanish work, entitled _matthias de los reyos_; but this book since fell into the hands of others, as well as the first part of _cleopatre_, which she had translated from the french, with matters of greater value. in the year 1657,[22] her husband persuaded her to make a voyage to dannem... to try and gain an audience with the king, and see if she could not obtain some payment from persons who owed them money. our lady found various pleas for not undertaking this voyage, seeing a hundred difficulties against its successful issue; but her husband besought her to attempt it, and our old friend shared her husband's opinion that nothing could be done to her, that she was under the protection of the king of sweden, and not banished from dan... with similar arguments. at length she yielded, and made the journey in the winter, travelling in a coach with six horses, a secretary, a man on horseback, a female attendant, a page and a lacquey--that was all. she went first to see her mother in jutland, and remained there three days; this was immediately known at the court. [22] this date is erroneous; the journey took place in november and december 1656. when she had passed the belt, and was within cannon-shot of corsör, she was met by uldrich chr. guldenl...,[23] who was on the point of going to jutland to fetch her. he returned with his galley and landed; she remained in her vessel, waiting for her carriage to be put on shore. guld... impatient, could not wait so long, and sent the burgomaster brant to tell her to come ashore, as he had something to say to her. she replied that if he had anything to say to her, he ought to show her the attention of coming to her. brant went with this answer; awaiting its issue, our lady looked at her attendants and perceived a change in them all. her female attendant was seized with an attack from which she suffers still, a trembling of the head, while her eyes remained fixed. the secretary trembled so that his teeth chattered. charles was quite pale, as were all the others. our lady spoke to them, and asked them why they were afraid; for her they had nothing to fear, and less for themselves. the secretary answered, 'they will soon let us know that.' brant returned with the same message, with the addition that gul... was bearer of the king's order, and that our lady ought to come to him at the castle to hear the king's order. she replied that she respected the king's order there as well as at the castle; that she wished that gul... would please to let her know there the order of his majesty; and when brant tried to persuade her, saying continually, 'oh! do give in, do give in!' she used the same expression, and said also, 'beg gul... to give in,' &c. at length she said, 'give me sufficient time to have two horses harnessed, for i cannot imagine he would wish me to go on foot.' [23] u.c. gyldenlöve, illegitimate son of christian iv. and half-brother of leonora. when she reached the castle she had the coach pulled up. brant came forward to beg her to enter the castle; she refused, and said she would not enter; that if he wished to speak to her he must come to her, that she had come more than half-way. brant went, and returned once again, but she said the same, adding that he might do all that seemed good to him, she should not stir from the spot. at length the good-for-nothing fellow came down, and when he was ready to speak to her, she opened the coach and got out. he said a few polite words to her, and then presented her with an order from the king, written in the chancery, the contents of which were, that she must hasten to depart from the king's territory, or she would have to thank herself for any ill that might befall her. having read the order she bowed, and returned him the order, which was intended to warn her, saying, 'that she hoped to have been permitted to kiss the king's hand, but as her enemies had hindered this happiness by such an order, there was nothing left for her but to obey in all humility, and thanking his majesty most humbly for the warning, she would hasten as quickly as possible to obey his majesty's commands. she asked if she were permitted to take a little refreshment, for that they had had contrary winds and had been at sea all day. gul... answered in the negative, that he did not dare to give her the permission; and since she had obeyed with such great submission, he would not show her the other order that he had, asking her at the same moment if she wished to see this other order? she said, no; that she would abide by the order that she had seen, and that she would immediately embark on board her ferry-boat to return. gul... gave her his hand, and begged her to make use of his galley. she did so. they went half the way without speaking; at length gul... broke the silence, and they entered into conversation. he told her that the king had been made to believe that she had assembled a number of noblemen at her mother's house, and that he had orders to disperse this cabal. they had a long conversation together, and spoke of dina's affair; he said the king did not yet know the real truth of it. she complained that the king had not tried to know it. at length they arrived by night at nyborg. gul... accompanied her to her hostelry, and went to his own, and an hour afterwards sent scherning[24] to tell her that at dawn of day she must be ready, in order that they might arrive at assens the next evening, which it was impossible to do with her own horses, as they did not arrive till morning. she assented, saying she would act in obedience to his orders, began talking with scherning, and conversed with him about other matters. i do not know how, but she gained his good graces, and he prevailed so far with gul... that gul... did not hasten her unduly. towards nine o'clock the next morning he came to tell her that he did not think it necessary to accompany her further, but he hoped she would follow the king's order, and begged her to speak with kay v. ahlefeld at haderslef, when she was passing through; he had received orders as to what he had to do. she promised this, and gul... returned to copenhagen, placing a man with our lady to watch her. [24] probably povl tscherning, a well-known man of the time, who held the office of auditor-general. our lady did not think it necessary to speak to kay v. ahlefeld, for she had nothing to say to him, and she did not want to see more orders; she passed by haderslef, and went to apenrade, and awaited there for ten days[25] a letter from gul... which he had promised to write to her; when she saw that he was not going to keep his word she started on her way to slesvig, halting half way with the intention of dining. holst, the clerk of the bailiwick of flensborg, here arrived in a coach with two arquebuses larger and longer than halberds. he gave orders to close the bar of boy..., sent to the village, which is quite close, that the peasants should hold themselves ready with their spears and arms, and made four persons who were in the tavern take the same arms, that is, large poles. afterwards he entered and made a long speech, with no end of compliments to our lady, to while away the time. the matter was, that the governor[26] desired her to go to flensborg, as he had something to say to her, and he hoped she would do him the pleasure to rest a night at flensborg. [25] in order to understand how she could wait for ten days at apenrade, it must be borne in mind that the duchy of slesvig was at that time divided into several parts, of which some belonged to the king, others to the duke of gottorp. haderslev and flensborg belonged to the king, but apenrade to the duke; in this town, therefore, she was safe from the pursuit of the danish authorities. [26] the governor of flensborg at that time was detlef v. ahlefeld, the same who in 1663 was sent to königsberg to receive information from the court of brandenburg on the last intrigues of ulfeldt. our lady replied that she had not the pleasure of his acquaintance, and therefore she thought he took her for someone else; if she could oblige him in anything she would remain at slesvig the following day, in order to know in what she could serve him. no, it was not that; he repeated his request. she ordered charles to have the horses put to. holst understood this, which was said in french, and begged her for the love of god not to set out; he had orders not to let her depart. 'you,' said she, in a somewhat haughty tone, 'who are you? with what authority do you speak thus?' he said he had no written order, but by word of mouth, and that his governor would soon arrive; he begged her for the love of god to pardon him. he was a servant, he was willing to be trodden under her feet. she said: 'it is not for you to pay me compliments, still less to detain me, since you cannot show me the king's order, but it is for me to think what i ought to do.' she went out and ordered her lacquey, who was the only determined one of her suite, to make himself master of holst's chariot and arquebuses. holst followed her, begging her a hundred times, saying, 'i do not dare to let you pass, i do not dare to open the bar.' she said, 'i do not ask you to open;' she got into the coach. holst put his hand upon the coach-door and sang the old song. our lady, who had always pistols in her carriage when she travelled, drew out one and presented it to him saying, 'draw back, or i will give you the contents of this.' he was not slow in letting go his hold; then she threw a patacoon to those who were to restrain her, saying, 'here is something for drink; help in letting the carriage pass the fosse!' which they immediately did. not a quarter of an hour after she had gone, the governor arrived with another chariot. there were two men and four guns in each chariot. our lady was warned of the pursuit; she begged her two coachmen, whom she had for herself and her baggage, to dispute them the road as much as they could; she ordered charles always to remain at the side of her carriage, in order that she might throw herself upon the horse if she saw that they gained ground. she took off her furred robe. they disputed the road up to the bridge, which separated the territory of the king from that of the duke. when she had passed the bridge she stopped, put on her robe, and alighted. the others paused on the other side of the bridge to look at her, and thus she escaped again for this time.[27] but it was amusing to see how the secretary perspired, what fright he was in; he did not afterwards pretend to bravery, but freely confessed that he was half dead with fear. she returned to barth, and found her husband very very ill. our old friend had almost given up all hope of his recovery, but her presence acted as a miracle; he was sufficiently strong in the morning to be taken out of bed, to the great surprise of our old friend. [27] the clerk holst was shortly after, when the swedes occupied flensborg, put to a heavy ransom by ulfeldt, in punishment of his conduct to leonora. documents which still exist show that he applied to the danish government for compensation, but apparently in vain. just as our lady was thinking of passing some days in tranquillity, occupied in light study, in trifling work, distillations, confectionery, and such like things, her husband mixed himself in the wars. the king of sweden sent after him to stettin; he told his wife that he would have nothing to do with them. he did not keep his word, however; he did not return to barth, but went straight off with the king. she knew he was not provided with anything; she saw the danger to which he was exposed, she wished to share it; she equipped herself in haste, and, without his sending for her, went to join him at ottensen. he wished to persuade her to return to hamburgh, and spoke to her of the great danger; she said the danger was the reason why she wished to bear him company, and to share it with him; so she went with him, and passed few days without uneasiness, especially when friderichsodde was taken; she feared for both husband and son. there she had the happiness of reconciling the c. wrangel and the c. jaques,[28] which her husband had believed impossible, not having been able to succeed. she had also the good fortune to cure her eldest son and eight of her servants of a malignant fever named sprinckeln; there was no doctor at that time with the army, our old friend having left. [28] count jakob casimir de la gardie, a swedish nobleman. count wrangel was the swedish general. when her husband passed with the king to seeland, she remained at fyen. the day that she had resolved to set out on the following to return to schone, a post arrived with news that her mother was at the point of death and wished to speak to her; she posted to jutland, found madame very ill and with no hope of life. she had only been there one night, when her husband sent a messenger to say that if she wished to see him alive she must lose no time. our lady was herself ill; she had to leave her mother, who was already half dead; she had to take her last farewell in great sorrow, and to go with all speed to seek her husband, who was very ill at malmöe. two days afterwards she received the tidings of her mother's death, and as soon as the health of her husband permitted it, she went to jutland to give the necessary orders for her mother's funeral. she returned once more to schone before the burial; after the funeral[29] she went to copenhagen and revisited malmöe one day before the king of sweden began the war for the second time and appeared before kopenh.... [29] the funeral took place with great pomp in the church of st. knud, at odense, on june 23, 1658, together with that of sophia elizabeth, leonora's sister, who is mentioned in the beginning of the autobiography. in the year 1659 the king of sweden ordered her husband to be arrested at malmöe. she went immediately to helsingör to speak to the king, but had not the happiness of speaking to him; on the contrary, the king sent two of his counsellors to tell her that she was free to choose whether she would return to her estates and superintend them, or go back to malmöe and be arrested with her husband. she thanked his majesty very humbly for the favour of the choice; she chose to suffer with her husband, and was glad to have the happiness of serving him in his affliction, and bearing the burden with him which would lighten it to him. she returned to malmöe with these news; her husband exhibited too much grief that she was not permitted to solicit on his behalf, and she consoled him as well as she was able. a few days after, an officer came to their house and irritated her husband so much by his impertinent manner that he had a fit of apoplexy. our lady was overwhelmed with sorrow; she sent for the priest the next morning, made her husband receive the holy communion, and received it herself. she knew not at what hour she might be a widow; no one came to see her, no one in consequence consoled her, and she had to console herself. she had a husband who was neither living nor dead; he ate and drank; he spoke, but no one could understand him. about eight months after, the king began to take proceedings against her husband, and in order to make her answer for her husband they mixed her up in certain points as having asked for news: whence the young lady was taken whom her husband brought to copenhagen? who was trolle? and that she had kept the property of a danish nobleman in her house.[30] since her husband was ill, the king graciously permitted her to answer for him; thus they proceeded with her for nine weeks in succession; she had no other assistance in copying her defence than her eldest daughter, then very young. she was permitted to make use of wolff, for receiving the accusations and taking back the replies, but he wrote nothing for her. if you are interested in knowing the proceedings, kield[31] can give you information respecting them. [30] the young lady was birgitte rantzau, who was engaged to korfits trolle, a danish nobleman, who had been very active in preparing the intended rising of the citizens of malmöe against the swedes. ulfeldt was accused of having favoured and assisted this design (_see_ the introduction), and he had brought trolle's bride over to copenhagen, or accompanied them thither. [31] wolf and kield were servants of ulfeldt. when the proceedings had lasted so many weeks, and she had answered with regard to the conversations which it was said her husband had had with one and another, they fancied that her husband feigned illness. four doctors were sent with the commandant to visit the sick man, and they found that he was really ill; not content with this, they established the court in his house, for they were ashamed to make her come to them. they caused the city magistrate to come, placing him on one side of the hall, and on the other the danish noblemen who were under arrest, all as witnesses; eight commissioners sat at a round table, the lawyer in front of the table and two clerks at another table; having made these arrangements, our lady was desired to enter. we must mention, in the first place, that two of the delinquents who were executed afterwards, and another, together with one of the servants of her husband, were brought there. the principal delinquents were summoned first, and afterwards the others, to take an oath that they would speak the truth. we must mention that these gentlemen were already condemned, and were executed a few days afterwards. when the lawyer had said that they had now taken their oaths according to the law, our lady said, 'post festum! after having proceeded against my husband so many weeks, having based everything on the tattle of these delinquents, you come, after they are condemned to suffer for their trespasses, and make them take an oath. i do not know if this is conformable to law!' the lawyer made no reply to this, and, thinking to confuse our lady, said that he found things contrary the one to the other, cited passages, leaves, lines, and asked her if she could make these things agree. she, having at that time a good memory, remembered well what her own judgment had dictated to her, and said that they would not find her replies what the lawyer said, but so-and-so, and asked that they should be read openly, which was done. the lawyer made three attempts of the same kind; when they saw there was nothing to be gained by this, the commissioners attacked her three at a time, one putting one question and another, another. she said to them quietly, 'messieurs, with your permission, let one speak at a time, for i am but one, and i cannot answer three at once!' at which they were all a little ashamed. the principal point to which they adhered was, that her husband was a vassal by oath, and a servant of the king, with which assertion they parried every objection. she proved that it was not so, that her husband was neither vassal nor a servant; he had his lands under the king just as many swedes had elsewhere, without on that account being vassals; that he had never taken an oath of fidelity to the king of sweden, but that he had shown him much fidelity; that he owed him no obligation--this she showed by a letter from the king, in which he thanked him for his services, and hoped so to act that he would render him still more. she shut the mouth of the delinquent,[32] and begged the commissioners to reflect on what she had said. [32] the person alluded to is a bartholomæus mikkelsen, who was executed as ringleader of the conspiracy. when all was over, after the space of three hours, she requested that the protocol might be read before her. the president said that she need have no doubt the protocol was correct, that she should have a copy of it, that they now understood the matter, and would make a faithful report of it to the king. no sentence was passed, and they remained under arrest. the king of sweden died, and peace was concluded, but they remained under arrest. a friend came to inform them, one day, that there was a vessel of war in the roads, which was to take them to finland. when she saw her husband a little recovered, that he could use his judgment, she advised him to escape and go to lubeck. she would go to copenhagen and try to arrange the matter. he consented to it, and she contrived to let him out in spite of all the guards round the house (thirty-six in number). when she received the news that he had passed and could reckon that he was on his way to lubeck, she escaped also, and went straight to copenh.... having arrived there, she found her husband arrived before her; she was much surprised and vexed, fearing what happened afterwards, but he had flattered himself so with the comfortable hope that he would enter into the good graces of the king. the next day they were both arrested and brought to borringh...[33]; her husband was ill; on arriving at borr... they placed him on a litter and brought him from the town to the castle, a distance of about two leagues. [33] bornholm. (_see_ the introduction.) it would weary you to tell you of all that passed at borr... if you take pleasure in knowing it, there is a man in hamburgh who can tell it you.[34] i will tell you, however, a part and the chief of what i remember concerning it. at rönne, the town where they disembarked at borringh----, our lady wrote to the king and to the queen in the name of her husband, who was ill, as i have already said, and gave the memorials to colonel rantzou, who promised to deliver them, and who gave hopes of success.[35] there fos arrived and conveyed them to the castle of hammershuus. the governor fos saw that our lady had a small box with her, and was seized with the desire to know what was in it and to possess himself of it. he sent one dina, the wife of the warder to our lady, to offer to procure a boat for their escape. there is no doubt she accepted the offer, and promised in return five hundred crowns. this was enough for fos; he went one night with the major to their apartment, thundered like a madman, said that they wished to betray him, &c.; the end of the farce was, that he took the box, but, for the sake of a little ceremony, he sealed it with her husband's seal, promising to keep it for its safety. [34] she refers no doubt to a servant who accompanied them of the name of pflügge. [35] the original of this letter to the king exists still. about three weeks after, he took the two prisoners to walk a little in the fields; the husband would not go, but the wife went out to take the air. the traitor gave her a long history of his past adventures, how many times he had been in prison, some instances of how great lords had been saved by the assistance of those they had gained over, and made their fortune. he thought they would do the same. she said she had not much to dispose of, but besides that, they would find other means for rewarding such a service. he said he would think of it, that he had nothing to lose in dan.... after various discussions from day to day, her husband wished her to offer him 20,000 rix-dollars; this sum seemed to him too little, and he asked 50,000 dollars. she said that she could easily promise it, but could not keep her word, but provided it was twenty she would pay it. he asked for a security; her husband had a note which would give security, but our lady did not think it good that he should see this note, and told fos that in her box there was a letter that could secure it; she did not know that he had already opened the box. some days after, she asked him if he had made up his mind? he said, 'i will not do it for less than 50,000, and there is no letter in your box which would secure it to me. i have opened it; to-morrow i will send it to copenh....' she asked him quietly if he had done right in breaking her husband's seal; he answered rudely that he would take the responsibility. towards autumn, hannibal and the other heirs of our lady's mother sent to her husband to notify to him that they could not longer delay dividing the inheritance, and since they knew that he had in his possession papers of importance, they requested to be informed of them. her husband stated in his reply that fos had taken his letters, and that in a rude manner. this answer having been read in the presence of fos, he flew in a thundering rage, used abusive language first to the husband and then to the wife, her husband having firmly promised our lady not to dispute with this villain, for she feared some evil might result, but to leave her to answer, for fos would be answered. she was not angry; she ridiculed him and his invectives. at length he told her that she had offered him 20,000 dollars to induce him to become a traitor; she replied with calmness, 'if it had been 50,000, what then?' fos leapt into the air like an enraged animal, and said that she lied like a ----, &c. she was not moved, but said 'you speak like an ass!' upon this he loaded her with abuse, and then retracted all that he had just said. she said quite quietly, 'i am not going to appeal to these gentlemen who are present (there were four) to be witnesses, for this is an affair that will never be judicially settled, and nothing can efface this insult but blood.' 'oh!' said he, seizing his sword, and drawing it a little out of the scabbard, 'this is what i wear for you, madam.' she, smiling, drew the bodkin from her hair, saying, 'here are all the arms at present which i have for you.' he manifested a little shame, and said that it was not for her but her sons, if she still had four.[36] she, moreover, ridiculed him, and said that it was no use his acting the brave there. in short, books could be filled with all the quarrels between these two persons from time to time. he shouted at times with all his might, he spoke like a torrent, and foamed at the mouth, and the next moment he would speak low like another man. when he shouted so loudly, our lady said, 'the fever is attacking him again!' he was enraged at this. [36] it will be remembered from the introduction that fuchs was killed two years after by one of leonora's sons at bruges. some weeks afterwards he came to visit them, and assumed a humble manner. our lady took no notice of it, and spoke with him on indifferent subjects; but her husband would not speak to him, and never afterwards was he able to draw from him more than a few words. towards christmas, fos treated the prisoners very ill, more so than formerly, so that monsieur sent the servant to beg him to treat him as a gentleman and not as a peasant. fos went to them immediately, after having abused monsieur's servant; and as he entered, monsieur left the apartment and went into another, and refused to give him his hand. fos was enraged at this, and would not remain, nor would he speak a word to our lady, who begged him to hear her. a moment after, he caused the door to be bolted, so that they could not go out to take the air, for they before had free access to a loft. at every festival he devised means of annoying them; he closed all the windows, putting to some bars of iron, and to others wooden framework and boxes; and as to their food, it was worse than ever. they had to endure that winter in patience; but as they perceived that fos's design was that they should die of hunger, they resolved to hazard an escape, and made preparation through the winter, in order to escape as soon as the thaw would set in. our lady, who had three pairs of sheets that her children had sent her, undid some articles of clothing and made cordage and a sail; she sewed them with silk, for she had no thread. her husband and the servant worked at the oars. when the moon was favourable to them in the month of april, they wished to carry out the plan they had been projecting for so long a time. our lady was the first to make the descent: the height was seventy-two feet; she went on to the ravelin to await the others. some time elapsed before her husband came, so she returned, and at last she heard a great noise among the ropes, her husband having lost a shoe in his descent. they had still to wait for the valet; he had forgotten the cord, and said that he could not carry it with him. it was necessary to descend the rampart into the moats, which were dry; the height is about forty feet. our lady was the first to descend; she helped her husband, for his strength was already failing. when they were all three in the fosse, the moon was obscured and a little rain fell. this was unfortunate, as they could not see which road to take. her husband said it would be better to remain where they were till daylight, for they might break their necks in descending the rocks. the servant said he knew the way, as he had observed it when the window was free; that he would go in front. he went in advance, gliding in a sitting position, after him our lady, and then her husband; they could not see an inch before them; the man fell from an incredible height, and did not speak; our lady stopped, shouted to him, and asked him to answer if he was alive. he was some time before he answered, so she and her husband considered him dead; at length he answered, and said he should never get out of this ravine; our lady asked him if he judged the depth to be greater than one of the cords could reach? she would tie two together, and throw the end to him to draw him up. he said that one cord would be sufficient, but that she could not draw him up, that she would not be strong enough; she said she could, she would hold firm, and he should help himself with his knees. he took courage, and she drew him up; the greatest marvel was, that on each side of her there was a precipice deeper than that over which he fell, and that she had nothing by which to support herself, except a small projection, which they believed to be of earth, against which she placed her left foot, finding no resting-place for the right one. we can truly say that god had granted her his protection, for to escape from such a danger, and draw another out of it, could not have been done by unaided man. our fool fos explained it otherwise, and used it for his own purposes, saying that without the assistance of the devil it would have been impossible to stand firm in such a place, still less to assist another; he impressed this so well on the queen, that she is still of the opinion that our lady exercises sorcery. fos would take the glory from god to give it to the devil, and this calumny has to be endured with many others. but let us return to our miserable fugitives, whom we left in the fosse. our lady, who had shouted to her husband not to advance, as soon as she heard the valet fall, called to him to keep back, turn quietly, and to climb upwards, for that there was no passage there; this was done, and they remounted the fosse and kept themselves quiet. her husband wished that they should remain there, since they did not know which road to take. while they were deliberating, the moon shone forth a little, and our lady saw where she was, and she remembered a good passage which she had seen on the day when she walked out with the governor; she persuaded her husband to follow her; he complained of his want of strength; she told him that god would assist him, and that he did not require great strength to let himself glide down, that the passage was not difficult, and that in ascending on the opposite side, which was not high, the valet and herself could assist him. he resolved, but he found it difficult enough; at length, however, they succeeded; they had then to go half a quarter of a league to reach the place where the boats were. her husband, wearied out, could not walk, and begged her, for the love of god, to leave him where he was; he was ready to die; she consoled him, and gave him restoratives, and told him that he had but a little step to make; he begged her to leave him there, and to save herself with the servant: she would find means afterwards to rescue him from prison. she said no, she would not abandon him; that he knew well the opportunities she had had to escape before, if she had wished to forsake him; that she would never quit him nor leave him in the hands of this tyrant; that if fos ventured to touch him, she was resolved on avenging herself upon him. after having taken a little breath, he began again to proceed. our lady, who was loaded with so many ropes and clothes, could scarcely walk, but necessity gave her strength. she begged her husband to lean on her and on the valet, so he supported himself between them, and in this way arrived where the boats were; but too late, for it was already day. as our lady saw the patrol coming in the distance, she begged her husband to stop there with the valet, saying that she would go forward in advance, which she did. she was scarcely a musket-shot distant from a little town where the major lodged, when she spoke with the guard, and asked them after the major. one of them went for the major, whose name was kratz. the major saw our lady with great consternation; he asked after her husband. she told him where he was, and in a few words she requested that he would go to the castle and tell major-general fos that his ill-treatment had been the cause of the desperate resolution they had taken, and to beg him not to ill-treat them; they were at present sick at heart; they could not endure anything; she begged him to consider that those who had resolved to face more than one form of death, would not fear it in any shape. kratz conducted the prisoners to his house, mounted his horse, and went in search of the governor, who was still in bed, and told him the affair. the governor got out of bed like a furious creature, swore, menaced; after having recovered a little, the major told him what our lady had begged him to say. then he was for some time thoughtful, and said, 'i confess it; they had reason to seek their liberty, for otherwise they would never have had it.' he did not immediately come for the prisoners, for he had another apartment prepared for them. as he entered, he assumed a pleasant manner, and asked if they ought to be there; he did not say an unkind word, but, on the contrary, said he should have done the same. they were conducted to the royal hall to warm themselves, for they were all wet with the rain; our lady had then an opportunity of speaking to the valet, and of taking from him the papers that he had, which contained all that had passed during the time of their imprisonment,[37] and she counselled the valet to lay aside the arms that he had upon him, and that if he had anything which he wished to secure that he would deliver it up to her keeping. the valet gave her what she asked, followed her orders, threw away his arms, but as regarded his own papers he would not give them up, for he did not share her fears; but he knew afterwards, for fos caused him to be entirely stripped, and took away everything from him, and made him pay well for having noted down the dishes that they had on the first day of the festivals, and on the rest. [37] this account of what happened during their imprisonment at hammershuus, written by leonora herself, is also mentioned in her record of her prison-life in the blue tower. but no copy of it has yet come to light. uhlfeldt's so-called apology contains much information on this subject. at length towards evening our lady and her husband were conveyed into another apartment, and the valet into the body-guard loaded with irons. they were there together thirteen weeks, until fos received orders from the court to separate them; meanwhile, he encased the prisons in iron. i may well use such a term, for he caused plates of iron to be placed on the walls, double bars and irons round the windows.[38] when he had permission to separate them, he entered one day to begin a quarrel, and spoke of the past; our lady begged him not to say more, but he would go on; he was determined to quarrel. he said to her, 'madame, you are so haughty, i will humble you; i will make you so--so small,' and he made a measurement with his hand from the floor. 'you have been lifted up and i will bring you down.' she laughed, and said, 'you may do with me whatever you will, but you can never humble me so that i shall cease to remember that you were a servant of a servant of the king my father;' at last, he so forgot himself as to hold his fist in her face. she said to him, keeping her hand on her knife which she had in her pocket, 'make use of your foul mouth and accursed tongue, but keep your hands quiet.' he drew back, and made a profound bow in ridicule, calling her 'your grace,' asked her pardon, and what he had to fear. she said, 'you have nothing to fear; if you take liberties, you will meet with resistance--feeble enough, but such as i have strength to give you.' [38] fuchs' own report on this subject still exists, and in it he estimates the iron employed at three tons. after some further invectives, he said farewell, and begged they might be good friends; he came once more and conducted himself in the same manner, but less violently. he said to a captain who was present, of the name of bolt, that he did it expressly in order to have a quarrel with her husband, that he might revenge himself for her conduct upon him, but that her husband would not speak to him. at length the unhappy day of their separation came, and fos entered to tell them that they must be prepared to bid each other a final farewell, for that he had orders to separate them, and in this life they would never see each other again; he gave them an hour to converse together for the last time. you can easily imagine what passed in this hour; but as they had been prepared for this separation weeks before, having been warned of it by their guard with whom they could talk, it did not surprise them. our lady had gained over four of the guards, who were ready to let them escape easily enough, but her husband would not undertake it, always saying that he had no strength, but that she might do it. well, they had to abide by it; after this sad day[39] they were separated, he in one prison below and she in another above, one above another, bars before the windows, he without a servant, and she without a waiting woman. [39] the precise date was june 15, 1661, but the order for their separation is dated already on the 4th of april. about three weeks after, our lady fell ill; she requested a woman or girl to wait upon her, and a priest. fos sent answer, with regard to a woman or girl to wait upon her, he did not know anyone who would do it, but that there was a wench who had killed her child, and who would soon be beheaded, and if she wished for her, she could have her. as to a priest, he had no orders, and she would have no priest even if death were on her lips. our lady said nothing but 'patience; i commend it to god.' our lady had the happiness of being able to give her husband signs daily, and to receive such, and when the wind was not too strong they could speak to one another. they spoke italian together, and took their opportunity before the reveille. towards the close of the governorship of this villain, he was informed of this. he then had a kind of machine made which is used to frighten the cattle from the corn in the summer, and which makes a great noise, and he desired the sentinel to move this machine in order to hinder them hearing each other. fifteen days before count rantzow came to borringholm to treat with them, fos had news of it from copenhagen from his intimate friend jaques p...; he visited our lady, told her on entering that her children had been expelled from skaane by the swedes; our lady said, 'well, the world is wide, they will find a place elsewhere.' he then told her that bolt had come from copenhagen with the tidings that they would never be let at liberty; she replied, 'never is a long time; this imprisonment will not last a hundred years, much less an eternity--in the twinkling of an eye much may change; the hand of god, in whom are the hearts of kings, can change everything.' he said, 'you have plenty of hope; you think perhaps if the king died, you would be free?' she replied, 'god preserve the king. i believe that he will give me liberty, and no one else.' he chatted about a great many things, and played the flatterer. at length count rantzow came and made a stay at borringh... of eleven weeks. he visited the prisoners, and did them the favour of having the husband to dine with him, and in the evening our lady supped with him, and he conferred with them separately. our lady asked him of what she was accused; he replied, 'will you ask that? that is not the way to get out of borringholm; do you know that you have said the king is your brother? and kings do not recognise either sisters or brothers.' she replied, 'to whom had i need to say that the king is my brother? who is so ignorant in denmark as not to know that? i have always known, and know still, the respect that is due to the king; i have never given him any other title than my king and lord; i have never called him my brother, in speaking of him; kings are gracious enough to recognise their sisters and brothers as such; for example, the king of england gives the title of sister to his brother's wife, although she is of very mediocre extraction.[40] rantzow replied, 'our king does not wish it, and he does not know yet the truth about dina's affair.' she said, 'i think the king does not wish to know.' he replied, 'indeed, by god he desires with all his heart to be informed of it.' she answered, 'if the king will desire walter to tell him, and this with some earnestness, he will be informed of it.' rantzow made no reply. [40] leonora alludes to the wife of the then duke of york, afterwards james ii., who was the daughter of lord edward clarendon. when he had concluded everything with her husband, whom he had obliged to yield up all his possessions, rantzow acquainted our lady with the fact; she said that her husband had power to give up what was his, but that the half belonged to her, and that this she would not give up, not being able to answer for it before god nor before her children; she had committed no crime; liberty should be given to her husband for the half of their lands, and that if the king thought he could retain her with a good conscience she would endure it. rantzow with a serious air replied, 'do not think that your husband will ever be set at liberty, if you do not sign with him.' she said that the conditions were too severe; that they should do better for their children to die as prisoners, god and all the world knowing their innocence, than to leave so many children beggars. rantzow said, 'if you die in prison, all your lands and property are forfeited, and your children will have nothing; but at this moment you can have your liberty, live with your husband; who knows, the king may still leave you an estate, and may always show you favour, when he sees that you yield to his will.' our lady said that since there was no other prospect for her husband's liberty, she would consent. rantzow ordered her husband and herself separately to place in writing the complaints they had to bring forward against fos, and all that had happened with regard to their attempt at escape; which was done. our lady was gracious in her demeanour to fos, but her husband could not make up his mind even to speak to him. rantzow returned to copenh... and eighteen days afterwards the galley of gabel came with orders to the new governor (lieutenant-colonel lytkens, a very well-bred man and brave soldier, his wife a noble lady of the manteuffel family, very polite and pretty), that he should make the prisoners sign the papers sent, and when the signature was done, should send them on together. the governor sent first to the husband, as was befitting, who made difficulties about signing because they had added points here and there, and among other things principally this, that they were never to plead against fos. the husband said he would rather die. the good governor went in search of the wife and told her everything, begging her to speak to her husband from the window; when he knew that she had spoken to him, he would return. she thanked the governor, and when he had gone out she spoke to her husband, and persuaded him to sign. then the governor made her sign also; and after that, towards nine o'clock in the evening, her husband came to her, having been separated just twenty-six weeks.[41] they were separated on a saturday, and they met again on a saturday. fos was still at the castle; it is easy to believe that he was in great rage. time does not permit to dwell on it. two days afterwards they embarked and came to copenhagen, and were received on the custom-house pier by c. rantzow and gabel. the queen knew nothing of it. when she was told of it she was so angry that she would not go to table. in a few words the king held his ground, and as she would not accept the thanks of monsieur and his wife, the king ordered her to receive them in writing. they spent the christmas of 1660 in the house of c. rantzow. afterwards they went to fyen, to the estate of ellensborg, which was graciously left to them.[42] [41] the apology of uhlfeldt contains an account of this whole transaction. he states that when he asked his wife through the window whether they ought to sign and live rather than die in prison, which would otherwise be their lot, leonora answered with the following latin verse: rebus in adversis facile est contemnere mortem, fortius ille facit, qui miser esse potest. accidit in puncto, quod non speratur in anno. [42] ellensborg was the ancient seat of the ulfeldt family, which had been sold to ellen marsvin, leonora's grandmother, and leonora inherited it from her mother. it is now called holckenhavn, and the seat of count holck. her husband having permission to go to france to take the waters for eighteen months, left ell... with his family in the month of june 1662, and landed at amsterdam. our lady went from thence to bruges to hire a house, and returned to amsterdam. her daughter helena fell ill of the small-pox; she remained with her, and her husband and the other children went to bruges. when her daughter had recovered, she went to rejoin her husband and children. she accompanied her husband, who went to france. having arrived at paris, the doctors did not find it advisable that he should take the waters, and he returned to bruges. her husband begged our lady to make a journey to england, and to take her eldest son with her. she raised obstacles, and showed him plainly that she should obtain nothing; that she should only be at great expense. she had examples before her which showed her that the king of england would never pay her husband. he would not have been turned from his purpose at this time but for their son's rencontre with fos, which prevented the journey that winter, and postponed the misfortunes of our lady, though it did not ultimately prevent them. but towards the spring the same design was again brought forward; our lady was assisted by the nobleman who followed her afterwards[43] in dissuading her husband; but no reasoning could avail; he believed the king could not forget the benefits received, and refuse to pay his cousin. our lady prepared for her departure, since her husband wished it. the day that she bade him her last farewell--a fatal day, indeed--her husband's heart did not tell him that these would be the last embraces he would give her, for he was so satisfied and so full of joy that she and all were astonished. she, on the contrary, was sad. the last day of their intercourse was may 24, 1663. she had many contretemps at first, and some time elapsed before she had the honour of speaking to the king. [43] namely casetta, a spanish nobleman, who afterwards married their daughter anna katherine, but both he and their children died soon. (_see_ the introduction.) the king greeted her after the fashion of the country, treated her as his cousin,[44] and promised her all sorts of satisfaction; that he would send his secretary[45] to her to see her papers, which he did. the secretary made her fine promises, but the time was always postponed. the minister resident, petkum, minister of the king of danem..., came to visit her (he had placed some obstacles in the way of her demands, from what was told her). she showed him her papers, informed him of the affair, told him that the king of denmark had had all the papers in his hands, and had graciously returned them. the traitor made a semblance of understanding the affair, and promised that he would himself help in securing the payment of her demands. but this judas always intended to betray her, asking her if she did not like to make excursions, speaking to her of beautiful houses, gardens and parks, and offering her his coach. but our lady was not inclined to make excursions. [44] charles the second's grandmother, anna, the queen of james i. was sister of leonora christina's father, christian iv. [45] sir henry bennet, afterwards lord arlington. when he saw that he could not catch her in this way, he obtained an order to arrest her. our poor lady knew nothing of all this; she had letter upon letter from her husband requesting her return. she took leave of the king by letter, gave her papers to a lawyer[46] upon a receipt, and set out from london. having arrived at dover, and intending to embark the same evening for flanders, a lieutenant of the name of braten[47] appeared, who came to show her an order from the king of anglet... which she read herself, the purport of which was that the governor was to arrest such a lady, and to place her in the castle till further orders. she asked the reason why. he said that she had left without permission from the king. she told him that she had taken leave of the king by letter, and had spoken the day before her departure with the prime minister and vice-admiral aschew,[48] who had bade her farewell.[49] [46] a certain mr. mowbray. [47] elsewhere she writes the name broughton. [48] sir george askew. [49] compare with this account the following extracts in the _calendar of state papers_, domestic series, 1663, 1664, pp. 196, 197, 200:- 1663--_july 8._--warrant to captain strode, governor of dover castle, to detain elionora christiana, countess of uhlfeldt, with her husband, if he be found with her, and their servants; to keep her close prisoner, and secure all her papers, according to instructions to be given by thos. parnell. _july 8._--warrant to thos. parnell to observe the movements of the said countess of uhlfeldt; to seize her should she attempt to embark at gravesend with her papers, and to detain her close prisoner. (_july_).--instructions (by sec. bennet) to thos. parnell, to go to dover castle to deliver instructions, and assist in their execution, relative to a certain lady (the countess of uhlfeldt), who is not to be permitted to depart, whether she have a pass or not; but to be invited, or if needful compelled, to lodge at the castle, where the best accommodation is to be provided for her. it is suspected that her husband lies concealed in the kingdom, and will also try to pass with his lady, but he also is to be detained, and her servants also. _july 11._--thos. parnell to williamson. 'found the countess (of uhlfeldt) at dover, and by the aid of the lieut.-governor sent the searcher to her inn, to demand her pass. she said she had none, not knowing it would be wanted. she submitted patiently to be taken to the castle, and lodged there till a message was sent to town. the regent's gentleman, the bearer will give an account of all things.' when she came to the castle, the emissary of petkum presented himself, by name peter dreyer. then the lieutenant said, 'it is the king of danemarc who has ordered you to be arrested.' she asked the cause. he replied, 'you undoubtedly set out incognito from danemarck.' she replied to this that the king of danem... had given her husband leave of absence for a term of eighteen months, which had not yet expired. they ordered her boxes and those of the nobleman who accompanied her to be opened, and they took all the papers. afterwards dreyer spoke to her, and she asked him why she was treated thus? he said he did not know the real cause, but that he believed it was for the death of fos, and that she was believed to have been the cause of his death. they always mentioned this to her, and no other cause. this double traitor braten enacted the gallant, entertained her, made her speak english (as she was bolder in speaking this language than any other), for she had just begun to learn it well, having had a language-master in london. one day he told that they intended conducting her to danemarck. she told him there was no need to send her to danem...; she could go there very well by herself. he said, 'you know yourself what suits you; if you will not go there willingly, i will manage so that you may go to flanders.' she did not see that this was feasible, even if he was willing; she spoke with him as to the means, saw that he did not satisfy her, and did not trust his conversation; as he was cunning, he made her believe that the king wished her to go secretly, and that he would take it all upon himself; that the king had his reasons why he did not wish to deliver her into the hands of the king of danem.... this deception had such good colouring, for she had written several times to the king during her arrest, and had begged him not to reward her husband's services by a long arrest, only speaking of what she had done at the hague for him: she had taken her jewels and rings and given them to him, when his host would not any longer supply him with food.[50] her claim was not small; it exceeded 20,000 patacoons.[51] [50] several letters written by leonora during her imprisonment at dover to charles ii., sir henry bennet, &c., are printed in a danish periodical, _danske samlinger_, vol. vi. [51] reckoning the patacoon to 4s. 8d., this claim would be nearly 5,000_l._ our lady allowed herself to be persuaded that the king of england wished her to leave secretly. the traitor braten told her that he thought it best that she should disguise herself as a man. she said that there was no necessity she should disguise herself; that no one would pursue her; and even if it were so, that she would not go in disguise with any man who was not her husband. after having been detained seventeen days at dover, she allowed herself to be conducted by braten, at night, towards the ramparts, descended by a high ladder which broke during her descent, passed the fosse, which was not difficult; on the other side there was a horse waiting for her, but the nobleman, her attendant, and the nobleman's valet, went on foot; they would not allow her valet to go with them; braten made an excuse of not being able to find him, and that time pressed; it was because they were afraid that there would be an effort at defence. when she arrived where the traitors were, her guide gave a signal by knocking two stones one against another. at this, four armed men advanced; petkum and dreyer were a little way off; one held a pistol to her breast, the other a sword, and said, 'i take you prisoner.' the other two traitors said, 'we will conduct you to ostend.' she had always suspected treachery, and had spoken with her companion, in case it happened, what it would be best to do, to give herself up or to defend herself? she decided on allowing herself to be betrayed without a struggle, since she had no reason to fear that her life would be attempted because her son had avenged the wrong done to his parents. thus she made no resistance, begged them not to take so much trouble, that she would go of herself; for two men held her with so much force that they hurt her arm. they came with a bottle of dry wine to quench her thirst, but she would not drink; she had a good way to go on foot, for she would not again mount the horse. she showed some anger towards her guide, begged him in english to give her respects to the governor,[52] but to convey to the traitor braten all the abuse that she could hurriedly call to mind in this language, which was not quite familiar to her. she advanced towards the boat; the vessel which was to convey her was in the roads, near the downs. she bade farewell to the nobleman. she had two bracelets with diamonds which she wished to give him to convey to her children; but as he feared they would be taken from him, she replaced them without troubling him with them. she gave a pistol to her servant, and a mariner then carried her to the boat; she was placed in an english frigate that petkum had hired, and dreyer went with her.[53] she was thirteen days on the road, and arrived near the custom-house pier on august 8, 1663, at nine o'clock in the morning. [52] leonora did not know that the governor of the castle was in the plot. [53] additional light is thrown on the arrest of leonora christina at dover by the following extracts in the _calendar of state papers_, p. 224, 225:- _august 1_, _whitehall_.--(sec. bennet) to capt. strode. the king is satisfied with his account of the lady's escape and his own behaviour; continue the same mask, of publishing his majesty's displeasure against all who contributed to it, especially his lieutenant, and this more particularly in presence of m. cassett, lest he may suspect connivance. cassett is to continue prisoner some time. the danish resident is satisfied with the discretion used, but says his point would not have been secured had the lady gone to sea without interruption. _august 1_?--account (proposed to be sent to the gazette?) relative to count uhlfeldt--recording his submission in 1661, the present sentence against him, his further relapse into crime after a solemn recantation, also signed by his wife who was his accomplice, though her blood saved her from sharing his sentence, but who has now betrayed herself into the hands of the king of denmark. she was in england when the conspiracy against the king of denmark's life was detected. the king of england had her movements watched, when she suddenly went off without a pass, for want of which she was stayed by the governor of dover castle, who accommodated her in the castle. the resident of denmark posted to dover, and secured the master of a ship then in the road, with whom he expected her to tamper, which she did, escaped through the castle window, and entering a shallop to go on board, was seized and conveyed to denmark. with note (by lord chancellor clarendon) that he is not satisfied with this account, but will prepare a better for another week. [the remaining part of the autobiography treats of the commencement of her imprisonment in the blue tower, which forms the subject of the following memoir.] a record of the sufferings of the imprisoned countess leonora christina. preface. _to my children._ beloved children, i may indeed say with job, 'oh, that my grief were thoroughly weighed, and my calamity laid in the balances together! for now it would be heavier than the sand of the sea.' my sufferings are indeed great and many; they are heavy and innumerable. my mind has long been uncertain with regard to this history of my sufferings, as i could not decide whether i ought not rather to endeavour to forget them than to bear them in memory. at length, however, certain reasons have induced me, not only to preserve my sorrow in my own memory, but to compose a record of it, and to direct it to you, my dear children.[54] [54] in the margin is added: 'as i now hope that what i write may come into your hands, my captivity during the last three years also having been much lightened.' the first of these reasons is the remembrance of the omnipotence of god; for i cannot recall to mind my sorrow and grief, my fears and distresses, without at the same time remembering the almighty power of god, who in all my sufferings, my misery, my affliction, and anxiety, has been my strength and help, my consolation and assistance; for never has god laid a burden upon me, without at the same time giving me strength in proportion, so that the burden, though it has weighed me down and heavily oppressed me, has not overwhelmed me and crushed me; for which i praise and extol through eternity the almighty power of the incomprehensible god. i wish, therefore, not alone to record my troubles and to thank god for his gracious support in all the misfortunes that have befallen me, but also to declare to you, my dear children, god's goodness to me, that you may not only admire with me the inconceivable help of the almighty, but that you may be able to join with me in rendering him thanks. for you may say with reason that god has dealt wonderfully with me; that he was mighty in my weakness and has shown his power in me, the frailest of his instruments. for how would it have been possible for me to resist such great, sudden, and unexpected misfortunes, had not his spirit imparted to me strength? it was god who himself entered with me into the tower-gate; it was he who extended to me his hand, and wrestled for me in that prison cell for malefactors, which is called 'the dark church.' since then, now for almost eleven years, he has always been within the gate of my prison as well as of my heart; he has strengthened me, comforted me, refreshed me, and often even cheered me. god has done wonderful things in me, for it is more than inconceivable that i should have been able to survive the great misfortunes that have befallen me, and at the same time should have retained my reason, sense, and understanding. it is a matter of the greatest wonder that my limbs are not distorted and contracted from lying and sitting, that my eyes are not dim and even wholly blind from weeping, and from smoke and soot; that i am not short-breathed from candle smoke and exhalation, from stench and close air. to god alone be the honour! the other cause that impels me is the consolation it will be to you, my dear children, to be assured through this account of my sufferings that i suffer innocently; that nothing whatever has been imputed to me, nor have i been accused of anything for which you, my dear children, should blush or cast down your eyes in shame. i suffer for having loved a virtuous lord and husband, and for not having abandoned him in misfortune. i was suspected of being privy to an act of treason for which he has never been prosecuted according to law, much less convicted of it, and the cause of the accusation was never explained to me, humbly and sorrowfully as i desired that it should be. let it be your consolation, my dear children, that i have a gracious god, a good conscience, and can boldly maintain that i have never committed a dishonourable act. 'this is thankworthy,' says the apostle st. peter, 'if a man for conscience toward god endure grief, suffering wrongfully.' i suffer, thank god, not for my misdeeds, for that were no glory to me; yet i can boast that from my youth up i have been a bearer of the cross of christ, and had incredibly secret sufferings, which were very heavy to endure at such an early age. although this record of my sufferings contains and reveals nothing more than what has occurred to me in this prison, where i have now been for eleven years, i must not neglect in this preface briefly to recall to your minds, my dear children, my earlier misfortunes, thanking god at the same time that i have overcome them. not only you, my dear children, know, but it is known throughout the whole country, what great sorrow and misfortune dina and walter, with their powerful adherents, inflicted on our house in the year 1651. although i will not mention the many fatiguing and difficult journeys, the perils by sea, and various dangers which i have endured in foreign countries, i will only remind you of that journey which my lord requested me to undertake to denmark, contrary to my wish, in the year 1657.[e01] it was winter time, and therefore difficult and dangerous. i endured scorn and persecution; and had not god given me courage and taken it from him who was to have arrested me, i should not at that time have escaped the misery of captivity. [e01] this journey really took place in november and december, 1656. you will remember, my dear children, what i suffered and endured during fourteen months in custody at malmöe; how the greatest favour which his majesty, king charles x. of sweden, at that time showed me, was that he left it to my free will, either to remain at liberty, taking care of our property, or to be in prison with my lord. i acknowledged the favour, and chose the latter as my duty, esteeming it a happiness to be allowed to console and to serve my anxious husband, afflicted as he subsequently was by illness. i accepted it also as a favour that i was allowed (when my lord could not do it himself on account of illness) to appear before the tribunal in his stead. what anxiety and sorrow i had for my sick lord, what trouble, annoyance and distress, the trial caused me (it was carried on daily for more than nine weeks), is known to the most high god, who was my consolation, assistance, and strength, and who inspired me with heart and courage to defend the honour of my lord in the presence of his judges. you will probably not have forgotten how quickly one misfortune followed another, how one sorrow was scarcely past when a greater one followed in its track; we fared, according to the words of the poet: incidit in scyllam, qui vult vitare charibdin. we escaped custody and then fell into strict captivity, without doubt by the dispensation of god, who inspired my lord with the idea of repairing, contrary to our agreement, to copenhagen instead of lübeck. no pen can describe how sorrowful i was when, contrary to all expectation, i met my lord in copenhagen, when i had imagined him escaped from the power and violence of all his enemies. i expected just that which my lord did not believe would happen, but which followed immediately--namely, our arrest. the second day after my arrival (which they had waited for) we were apprehended and conveyed to bornholm, where we were in close imprisonment for seventeen months. i have given a full description of what i suffered, and this i imagine is in your keeping, my dear children; and from it you see what i and my sick lord endured; how often i warded off greater misery, because my lord could not always brook patiently the bad treatment of the governor, adolf foss, who called himself fux. it was hard and bitter indeed to be scorned and scoffed at by a peasant's son; to have to suffer hunger at his will, and to be threatened and harassed by him; but still harder and more bitter was it to be sick beneath his power, and to hear from him the words that even if death were on my lips no minister of god's word should come to me. oh monstrous tyranny! his malice was so thoroughly beyond all bounds, that he could not endure that we should lighten each other's cross; and for this reason he contrived, after the lapse of eleven months, to have us separated from each other, and to place us each in the hardest confinement. my husband (at that time already advancing in years) without a servant, and i without an attendant, was only allowed a light so long as the evening meal lasted. i cannot forbear bitterly recalling to mind the six months of long and hard separation, and the sad farewell which we took of each other; for to all human sight there was no other prospect than that which the governor announced to us--namely, that we were seeing and speaking with each other for the last time in this world. god knows best how hard our sufferings were, for it was he who consoled us, who gave us hope contrary to all expectation, and who inspired me with courage when the governor visited me and endeavoured to fill me with despair. god confirmed my hope. money and property loosened the bonds of our captivity, and we were allowed to see and speak with each other once more. sad as my lord had been when we were separated at borringholm, he was joyous when two years afterwards he persuaded me to undertake the english journey, not imagining that this was to part us for ever. my lord, who entertained too good an opinion of the king of england, thought that now that he had come to the throne he would remember not only his great written and spoken promises, but that he would also bear in mind how, at the time of his need and exile, i had drawn the rings from my fingers and had pawned them for meals for him and his servants. but how unwillingly i undertook this journey is well known to some of you, my dear children, as i was well aware that from an ungrateful person there is nothing else to be expected but ingratitude. i had the example of others by whom to take warning; but it was thus destined to be. bitter bread was in store for me, and bitter gall was to fill my cup in the blue tower of copenhagen castle; thither was i to go to eat it and drink it out. it is not unknown to you how falsely the king of england acted towards me; how well he received me on my arrival; how he welcomed me with a judas kiss and addressed me as his cousin; and how both he himself and all his high ministers assured me of the royal favour, and promised me payment of the money advanced. you know how cunningly (at the desire of his majesty the king of denmark) he had me arrested at dover, and subsequently sent me word through the traitor lieutenant braten that he would let me escape secretly, at the same time delivering me into the hand of the danish minister simon petcon, who had me arrested by eight armed men; keeping aloof, however, himself, and never venturing to come near me. they held sword and pistol to my breast, and two of them took me between them and placed me in a boat, which conveyed me to a vessel held in readiness by the said minister; a man of the name of peter dreyer having received orders to conduct me to copenhagen. from this period this record of my suffering begins. it contains all that happened to me within the gates of the blue tower. reflect, my dear children, on these hard sufferings; but remember also god's great goodness towards me. verily, he has freed me from six calamities; rest assured that he will not leave me to perish in the seventh. no! for the honour of his name, he will mightily deliver me. the narrative of my sufferings is sad to hear, and must move the hardest heart to pity; yet in reading it, do not be more saddened than can be counterbalanced by joy. consider my innocence, courage, and patience; rejoice over these. i have passed over various petty vexations and many daily annoyances for the sake of brevity, although the smallest of them rankled sore in the wounds of my bitter sorrow. i acknowledge my weaknesses, and do not shrink from confessing them to you. i am a human being, and am full of human imperfections. our first emotions are not under our own power; we are often overhasty before we are able to reflect. god knows that i have often made myself deaf and blind, in order not to be carried away by passion. i am ashamed to mention and to enumerate the unchaste language, bad words and coarse invectives, of the prison governor johan jaeger, of kresten maansen, the tower warder, of karen the daughter of ole, and of catharina wolff; they would offend courtly ears. yet i can assure you they surpass everything that can be imagined as indecent, ugly, churlish and unbecoming; for coarse words and foul language were the tokens of their friendliness and clemency, and disgusting oaths were the ornament and embellishment of their untruthfulness; so that their intercourse was most disagreeable to me. i was never more glad than when the gates were closed between me and those who were to guard me. then i had only the woman alone, whom i brought to silence, sometimes amicably, and at others angrily and with threats. i have also had, and have still, pleasant intercourse with persons whose services and courtesies i shall remember as long as i live. you, my dear children, will also repay them to every one as far as you are able. you will find also in this record of my sufferings two of the chief foes of our house, namely jörgen walter and jörgen skröder,[e02] with regard to whom god has revenged me, and decreed that they should have need of me, and that i should comfort them. walter gives me cause to state more respecting him than was my intention. [e02] this man was a german by birth, but settled in denmark, where he was nobilitated under the name of lövenklau. his bad conduct obliged him to leave the country, and he went to sweden, where he had lived before he came to denmark, and where ulfeldt, then in sweden, procured him an appointment as a colonel in the army. this kindness he repaid by informing the danish government against ulfeldt in 1654, in consequence of which he was not only allowed to return to denmark, but even obtained a lucrative office in norway. here he quarrelled with the viceroy, niels trolle, and tried to serve him as he had served ulfeldt; but he failed to establish his accusations against trolle, and was condemned into the forfeiture of his office and of his patent of nobility. he then left denmark at least for a season, and how he came to apply to leonora christina for assistance is not known, as she has omitted to mention it in the memoir itself, though she evidently intended to do so. of the psalms and hymns which i have composed and translated, i only insert a few, in order that you, my dear children, may see and know how i have ever clung steadfastly to god, who has been and still is my wall of defence against every attack, and my refuge in every kind of misfortune and adversity. do not regard the rhymes; they are not according to the rules which poets make; but regard the matter, the sense, and the purport. nor have i left my other small pastime unmentioned, for you may perceive the repose of my mind from the fact that i have had no unemployed hours; even a rat, a creature so abominable to others, affording me amusement. i have recorded two observations, which though they treat of small and contemptible animals, yet are remarkable, and i doubt whether any naturalist hitherto has observed them. for i do not think it has been recorded hitherto that there exists a kind of caterpillar which brings forth small living grubs like itself, nor either that a flea gives birth to a fully-formed flea, and not that a nit comes from a nit.[55] [55] a pen has afterwards been drawn through this paragraph, but the observations occur in the manuscript. in conclusion, i beg you, my dear children, not to let it astonish you that i would not avail myself of the opportunity by which i might have gained my freedom. if you rightly consider it, it would not have been expedient either for you or me. i confess that if my deceased lord had been alive, i should not only have accepted the proposal, but i should have done my utmost to have escaped from my captivity, in order to go in quest of him, and to wait on him and serve him till his last breath; my duty would have required this. but since he was at that time in rest and peace with god, and needed no longer any human service, i have with reason felt that self-obtained liberty would have been in every respect more prejudicial than useful to us, and that this would not be the way to gain the possessions taken from us, for which reason i refused it and endeavoured instead to seek repose of mind and to bear patiently the cross laid upon me. if god so ordains it, and it is his divine will that through royal mercy i should obtain my freedom, i will joyfully exert myself for you, my beloved children, to the utmost of my ability, and prove in deed that i have never deviated from my duty, and that i am no less a good and right-minded mother than i have been a faithful wife. meanwhile let god's will be your will. he will turn and govern all things so that they may benefit you and me in soul and body, to whose safe keeping i confidently recommend you all, praying that he will be your father and mother, your counsellor and guide. pray in return for me, that god may direct me by his good spirit, and grant me patience in the future as heretofore. this is all that is requested from you by, my dearly beloved children, your affectionate mother, leonora christina, v.e.g. written in the blue tower, anno 1674, the 18th of july, the eleventh year of imprisonment, my birthday, and fifty-third year of my age.[56] [56] the conclusion of the preface, from the words 'meanwhile let the will of god,' etc. has afterwards been erased, when the manuscript was continued beyond the date assigned in the preface; and the following paragraphs, 'i bear also in mind,' etc. were intended to form a new conclusion, but do not seem to have been properly worked in. * * * * * i bear also in mind, with the greatest humility and gratitude, our gracious hereditary king's favour towards me, immediately after his majesty came to the throne. i remember also the sympathy of our most gracious queen regent, and of her highness the electoral princess of saxony in my unfortunate fate; also the special favour of her majesty the queen. i have also not forgotten to bear duly in mind the favour shown towards me by her majesty the queen mother, the virtuous landgravine of hesse. i have also recorded various things which occurred in my imprisonment during the period from the year 1663 to the year 1674, intending with these to conclude the record of my sufferings; as i experienced a pleasure, and often consoled myself, in feeling that it is better to remain innocently in captivity than to be free and to have deserved imprisonment. i remember having read that captivity has served many as a protection from greater dangers, and has guarded them from falling into the hands of their enemies. there have been some who have escaped from their prison and immediately after have been murdered. there have also been some who have had a competence in prison and afterwards have suffered want in freedom. innocent imprisonment does not diminish honour, but rather increases it. many a one has acquired great learning in captivity, and has gained a knowledge of things which he could not master before. yes, imprisonment leads to heaven. i have often said to myself: 'comfort thyself, thou captive one, thou art happy.' since the year 1674 constituted only half the period of my captivity, i have added in this record of my sufferings some facts that occurred since that time within my prison-gates. i am on the eve of my liberty, may 19, 1685. to god alone be the honour, who has moved his royal majesty to justice! i will here mention those of whose death i have been informed during my captivity. 1. the prime minister of his majesty, count christian of rantzow[e03], died in the month of september, 1663. he did not live to drink the health of our princess and of the electoral prince of saxony at the feast of their betrothal. still less did he live long enough to see a wooden effigy quartered in mockery of my lord, according to his suggestion. death was very bitter to him. [e03] this count rantzow was the same who had negotiated the compromise with ulfeldt and leonora at bornholm in 1661, and in fact brought it about. it was currently reported in copenhagen at the time that he had received a large sum of money from ulfeldt on that occasion, and he afterwards showed his friendly disposition towards him by promising him to intercede with the king for christian ulfeldt when the latter had killed fuchs. leonora, however, speaks of him as an enemy probably because he presided in the high court of appeal which condemned ulfeldt as a traitor. but the facts of the case left him scarcely any other alternative than that of judging as he did, nor would it have been surprising if ulfeldt's last conduct had altered rantzow's feelings towards him. rantzow also presided in the commission which examined leonora in the blue tower. 2. the mistress of the robes of the queen dowager, who was so severe on me in my greatest sorrow, had a long and painful illness; she said with impatience that the pain of hell was not greater than her pain. her screams could often be heard in the tower. she was carried on a bed into the town, and died there. 3. the death of able catherine was very painful. as she had formerly sought for letters on the private parts of my person, so she was afterwards herself handled by the surgeons, as she had boils all over her. she was cut and burnt. she endured all this pain, hoping to live, but neither the art of the surgeons nor the visits of the queen could save her from death.[e04] [e04] abel catharina is mentioned in the memoir itself as the person who searched leonora when she first entered her prison, and did so in a very unbecoming manner; she acted, however, under the orders of the mistress of the robes, m. v. haxthausen. abel catharina is otherwise chiefly known as the founder of a charity for old women in copenhagen, which still bears her name. 4. secretary erich krag, who had displayed the malice of his heart in my imprisonment in the 'dark church,' was snatched away by death in a place of impurity. he was lively and well, had invited guests to dinner, sat and wrote at his table, went out to obey the necessities of nature, and was found dead by his attendants when they had waited some time for him. 5. major-general fridrich von anfeldte,[e05] who had more than once manifested his delight at my misfortunes, died as he had lived. he was a godless man and a blasphemer. he fell a victim to jealousy, and went mad, because another obtained an honorary title which he had coveted; this was indeed little enough to deprive him of sense and reason. he would hear nothing of god, nor would he be reconciled with god. both queens, the queen dowager and the queen regent, persuaded him at length to be so. when he had received the sacrament, he said, 'now your majesties have had your desire; but what is the good of it?' he continued to curse and to swear, and so died. [e05] this name is mis-spelt for ahlefeldt. this officer received leonora on her arrival at copenhagen, as she relates herself. he had distinguished himself in the siege of copenhagen in 1659, and died as a lieutenant-general. 6. general schak died after a long illness. 7. chancellor peter retz likewise. 8. his royal majesty king friedrich iii.'s death accelerated the death of the stadtholder cristoffer gabel. he felt that the hate of the queen dowager could injure him greatly, and he desired death. god heard him.[e06] [e06] christoffer gabel is mentioned several times in the autobiography. he was an influential man at the time, in great favour at court, and he had a great part in effecting the release of ulfeldt from the prison at bornholm, for which he, according to leonora's statement, received 5,000 dollars from ulfeldt. both he and reedtz were members of the court which condemned ulfeldt. 9. it has pleased god that i should be myself a witness of walter's miserable death; indeed, that i should compassionate him. when i heard him scream, former times came to my mind, and i often thought how a man can allow himself to be led to do evil to those from whom he had only received kindness and honour. 10. magister buch, my father-confessor, who acted so ill to me, suffered much pain on his bed of languishing. he was three days speechless before he died. 11. when the rogue and blasphemer, christian, who caused me so much annoyance in my captivity, had regained his liberty and returned to his landlord, maans armfeld in jutland, he came into dispute with the parish priest, who wanted him to do public penance for having seduced a woman. the rogue set fire to the parsonage; the minister's wife was burnt to death in trying to save some of her property, and all the minister's possessions were left in ashes. the minister would not bring the rogue to justice. he commended him to the true judge, and left vengeance to him. the incendiary's conscience began to be awakened; for a long time he lived in dread, and was frightened if he saw anyone coming at all quickly, and he would call out and say tremblingly, 'now they are going to take me!' and would run hither and thither, not knowing where to go. at length he was found dead on the field, having shot himself; for a long rifle was found lying between his legs, the barrel towards his breast, and a long ramrod in his hand, with which he had touched the trigger. he did not, therefore, die in as christian a manner as if he had perished under the hand of the executioner, of which he had so lightly said that he should not care for it at all, so long as he could bring someone else into trouble. a record of suffering; _or, a reminiscence of all that occurred to me, leonora christina, in the blue tower, from august 8 of the year 1663, to june 11[57] of the year 1674._ [57] afterwards altered to anno 1685, the 19th of may. the past is rarely remembered without sorrow, for it has been either better or worse than the present. if it was more joyous, more happy, and full of honour, its remembrance justly saddens us, and in proportion as the present is full of care, unhappiness, and dishonour. if past times were sadder, more miserable, and more deplorable than the present, the remembrance of them is equally sorrowful, for we recover and feel once more all the past misfortunes and adversities which have been endured in the course of time. but all things have, as it were, two handles by which they may be raised, as epictetus says. the one handle, he says, is bearable; the other is not bearable; and it rests with our will which handle we grasp, the bearable or the unbearable one. if we grasp the bearable one, we can recall all that is transitory, however sad and painful it may have been, rather with joy than with sorrow.[e07] so i will seize the bearable handle, and in the name of jesus i will pass rapidly through my memory, and recount all the wretchedness and misery, all the grief, scorn and suffering, contempt and adversity, which have befallen me in this place, and which i have overcome with god's help. i will, moreover, in no wise grieve over it; but, on the contrary, i will remind myself at every step of the goodness of god, and will thank the most high who has been constantly near me with his mighty help and consolation; who has ruled my heart, that it should not depart from god; who has preserved my mind and my reason, that it has not become obscured; who has maintained my limbs in their power and natural strength, and even has given, and still gives me, repose of mind and joyfulness. to thee, incomprehensible god, be honour and praise for ever! [e07] the passage alluded to occurs in epictet's encheiridion, chap. 43 (in some editions chap. 65), where he says: 'every matter has two handles, one by which it may be carried (or endured), the other by which it cannot be carried (or endured). if thy brother has done thee injury, do not lay hold of this matter from the fact that he has done thee an injury, for this is the handle by which it cannot be carried (or endured); but rather from this side: that he is thy brother, educated with thee; and thou wilt lay hold of the matter from that side from which it may be managed.' it is easily seen how leonora makes use of the double meaning of the greek word {phorêtos}, which is equally well used of an object which can be carried in the literal physical sense, and of a matter which can be endured or borne with. {illustration: das alte schloss in copenhagen mit dem blauen thurm. the old castle of copenhagen. showing the blue tower in the middle of the back-ground.} and now to proceed with my design. i consider it necessary to begin the record of my sufferings with the commencement of the day which concluded with the fatal evening of my captivity, and to mention somewhat of that which befell me on the vessel. after the captain had cast anchor a little outside the pier of st. anna, on august 8, 1663, at nine o'clock in the forenoon, he was sent on shore with letters by peter dreyer, who was commissioned by petcon, at that time the minister resident in england, of his majesty the king of denmark, to take charge of me. i dressed myself and sat down in one of the cabins of the sailors on the deck, with a firm resolution to meet courageously all that lay before me;[58] yet i in no wise expected what happened; for although i had a good conscience, and had nothing evil with which to reproach myself, i had at various times asked the before-mentioned peter dreyer the reason why i had been thus brought away. to this question he always gave me the reply which the traitor braten had given me at dover (when i asked of him the cause of my arrest); namely, that i was, perhaps, charged with the death of major-general fux, and, that it was thought i had persuaded my son to slay him; saying, that he knew of no other cause. at twelve o'clock nils rosenkrantz, at that time lieutenant-colonel, and major steen anderson bilde, came on board with some musketeers. lieutenant-colonel rosenkrantz did not salute me. the major walked up and down and presently passed near me. i asked him, en passant, what was the matter? he gave me no other answer than, 'bonne mine, mauvais jeu;' which left me just as wise as before. about one o'clock captain bendix alfeldt came on board with several more musketeers, and after he had talked some time with peter dreyer, dreyer came to me and said, 'it is ordered that you should go into the cabin.' i said, 'willingly;' and immediately went. soon after, captain alfeldt came in to me, and said he had orders to take from me my letters, my gold, silver, money, and my knife. i replied, 'willingly.' i took off my bracelets and rings, gathered in a heap all my gold, silver, and money, and gave it to him. i had nothing written with me, except copies of the letters which i had addressed to the king of england, notes respecting one thing or another relating to my journey, and some english vocabularies; these i also gave up to him. all these alfeldt placed in a silver utensil which i had with me, sealed it in my presence, and left the vessel with it. an hour, or somewhat more, afterwards, major-general friderich von anfeldt,[59] commandant in copenhagen, arrived, and desired that i should come to him outside the cabin. i obeyed immediately. he greeted me, gave me his hand, and paid me many compliments, always speaking french. he was pleased to see me in health, he feared the sea might have inconvenienced me; i must not allow the time to seem long to me; i should soon be accommodated otherwise. i caught at the last word and said, smiling, 'monsieur says otherwise, but not better.' 'yes, indeed,' he replied, 'you shall be well accommodated; the noblest in the kingdom will visit you.' i understood well what he meant by this, but i answered: 'i am accustomed to the society of great people, therefore that will not appear strange to me.' upon this, he called a servant and asked for the before-mentioned silver utensil (which captain alfeldt had taken away with him). the paper which captain alfeldt had sealed over it was torn off. the major-general turned to me, and said: 'here you have your jewels, your gold, silver, and money back; captain alfeldt made a mistake--they were only letters which he had orders to demand, and these only have been taken out, and have been left at the castle; you may dispose of the rest as you wish yourself.' 'in god's name,' i answered, 'am i, therefore, at liberty to put on again my bracelets and rings?' 'o jesus,' he said, 'they are yours; you may dispose of them as you choose.' i put on the bracelets and rings, and gave the rest to my attendant. the major-general's delight not only appeared in his countenance, but he was full of laughter, and was overflowing with merriment. among other things he said that he had had the honour of making the acquaintance of two of my sons; that he had been in their society in holland; and he praised them warmly. i complimented him in return, as was proper, and i behaved as if i believed that he was speaking in good faith. he indulged in various jokes, especially with my attendant; said that she was pretty, and that he wondered i could venture to keep such a pretty maiden; when holstein ladies kept pretty maids it was only to put their husbands in good humour; he held a long discourse on how they managed, with other unmannerly jests which he carried on with my attendant. i answered nothing else than that he probably spoke from experience. he said all kinds of foolish jokes to my servant, but she did not answer a word. afterwards the prison governor told me that he (von anfeldt) had made the king believe, at first, that my attendant was my daughter, and that the king had been long of that opinion. at length, after a long conversation, the major-general took his leave, saying that i must not allow the time to seem long to me; that he should soon come again; and he asked what he should say to his majesty the king. i begged him to recommend me in the best manner to their majesties' favour, adding that i knew not well what to say or for what to make request, as i was ignorant of what intentions they had with regard to me. towards three o'clock major-general von anfeldt returned; he was full of laughter and merriment, and begged me to excuse him for being so long away. he hoped the time had not appeared long to me; i should soon get to rest; he knew well that the people (with this he pointed to the musketeers, who stood all along both sides of the vessel) were noisy, and inconvenienced me, and that rest would be best for me. i answered that the people did not inconvenience me at all; still i should be glad of rest, since i had been at sea for thirteen days, with rather bad weather. he went on with his compliments, and said that when i came into the town his wife would do herself the honour of waiting on me, and, 'as it seems to me,' he continued, 'that you have not much luggage with you, and perhaps, not the clothes necessary, she will procure for you whatever you require.' i thanked him, and said that the honour was on my side if his wife visited me, but that my luggage was as much as i required at the time; that if i needed anything in the future, i hoped she might be spared this trouble; that i had not the honour of knowing her, but i begged him, nevertheless, to offer her my respects. he found various subjects of discourse upon birgitte speckhans[e08] and other trifles, to pass away the time; but it is not worth the trouble to recall them to mind, and still less to write them down. at last a message came that he was to conduct me from the vessel, when he said to me with politeness: 'will it please you, madame, to get into this boat, which is lying off the side of the ship?' i answered, 'i am pleased to do anything that i must do, and that is commanded by his majesty the king.' the major-general went first into the boat, and held out his hand to me; the lieutenant-colonel rosenkrantz, captain alfeldt, peter dreyer, and my attendant, went with me in the boat. and as a great crowd of people had assembled to look at the spectacle, and many had even gone in boats in order to see me as they wished, he never took his eyes off me; and when he saw that i turned sometimes to one side and sometimes to another, in order to give them this pleasure, he said, 'the people are delighted.' i saw no one truly who gave any signs of joy, except himself, so i answered, 'he who rejoices to-day, cannot know that he may not weep to-morrow; yet i see, that, whether for joy or sorrow, the people are assembling in crowds, and many are gazing with amazement at one human being.' when we were advanced a little further, i saw the well-known wicked birgitte ulfeldt,[e09] who exhibited great delight. she was seated in an open carriage; behind her was a young man, looking like a student. she was driving along the shore. when i turned to that side, she was in the carriage and laughed with all her might, so that it sounded loudly. i looked at her for some time, and felt ashamed of her impudence, and at the disgrace which she was bringing on herself; but for the rest, this conduct did not trouble me more than the barking of the dogs, for i esteemed both equally.[60] the major-general went on talking incessantly, and never turned his eyes from me; for he feared (as he afterwards said) that i should throw myself into the water. (he judged me by himself; he could not endure the change of fortune, as his end testified, for it was only on account of an honorary title which another received in his stead that he lost his mind. he did not know that i was governed by another spirit than he, which gave me strength and courage, whilst the spirit he served led him into despair.[61]) when the boat arrived at the small pier near the office of the exchequer, captain alfeldt landed and gave me his hand, and conducted me up towards the castle bridge. regiments of horse and foot were drawn up in the open place outside the castle; musketeers were standing on both sides as i walked forwards. on the castle bridge stood jockum walburger, the prison governor, who went before me; and as the people had placed themselves in a row on either side up to the king's stairs, the prison governor made as if he were going thither; but he turned round abruptly, and said to alfeldt, 'this way,' and went to the gate of the blue tower; stood there for some time and fumbled with the key; acted as if he could not unlock it, in order that i might remain as long as possible a spectacle to the people. and as my heart was turned to god, and i had placed all my confidence in the most high, i raised my eyes to heaven, sought strength, power, and safety from thence, and it was graciously vouchsafed me. (one circumstance i will not leave unnoticed--namely, that as i raised my eyes to heaven, a screaming raven flew over the tower, followed by a flock of doves, which were flying in the same direction.) at length, after a long delay, the prison governor opened the tower gate, and i was conducted into the tower by the before-mentioned captain alfeldt. my attendant, who was preparing to follow me, was called back by major-general von anfeldt, and told to remain behind. the prison governor went up the stairs, and showed alfeldt the way to a prison for malefactors, to which the name of the 'dark church' has been given. there alfeldt quitted me with a sigh and a slight reverence. i can truly say of him that his face expressed pity, and that he obeyed the order unwillingly. the clock was striking half-past five when jockum closed the door of my prison. i found before me a small low table, on which stood a brass candlestick with a lighted candle, a high chair, two small chairs, a fir-wood bedstead without hangings and with old and hard bedding, a night-stool and chamber utensil. at every side to which i turned i was met with stench; and no wonder, for three peasants who had been imprisoned here, and had been removed on that very day, and placed elsewhere, had used the walls for their requirements. soon after the door had been closed, it was opened again, and there entered count christian rantzow, prime minister, peter zetz, chancellor, christoffer von gabel, at that time chancellor of the exchequer, and erich krag, at that time secretary, all of whom gave me their hands with civility. the chancellor spoke and said: 'his royal majesty, my gracious master and hereditary king, sends you word, madame, that his majesty has great cause for what he is doing against you, as you will learn.' i replied: 'it is much to be regretted by me, if cause should be found against me; i will, however, hope that it may not be of such a kind that his majesty's displeasure may be lasting. when i know the cause i can defend myself.' count rantzow answered: 'you will obtain permission to defend yourself.' he whispered something to the chancellor, upon which the chancellor put a few questions: first, whether on my last journey i had been in france with my husband? to which i answered in the affirmative. then, what my husband was doing there? to which i replied, that he was consulting physicians about his health, whether it would be serviceable to him to use the warm baths in the country, which no one would advise him to do; he had even been dissuaded from trying them by a doctor in holland of the name of borro,[e10] when he had asked his opinion. thirdly, what i had purposed doing in england? to this i replied that my intention had been to demand payment of a sum of money which the king of england owed us, and which we had lent him in the time of his misfortune. fourthly, who had been in england with me? i mentioned those who were with me in england--namely, a nobleman named cassetta, my attendant who had come hither with me, a lacquey named frantz, who had remained in england, and the nobleman's servant. fifthly, who visited my husband in bruges? i could not exactly answer this, as my lord received his visits in a private chamber, where i was not admitted. count rantzow said, 'you know, i suppose, who came to him oftenest?' i answered, that the most frequent visitors among those i knew were two brothers named aranda,[e11] the before-mentioned cassetta, and a nobleman named ognati. sixthly the chancellor asked, with whom i had corresponded here in the country? to which i answered, that i had written to h. hendrick bielcke, to olluff brockenhuuss, lady elsse passberg, and lady marie ulfeldt;[e12] i did not remember any more. count rantzow enquired if i had more letters than those which i had given up? to which i answered in the negative, that i had no more. he asked further, whether i had more jewels with me than those he had seen? i answered that i had two strings of small round pearls on my hat, and a ring with a diamond, which i had given a lieutenant named braten in dover (it was he who afterwards betrayed me). count rantzow asked, how much the pearls might have been worth? this i could not exactly say. he said, that he supposed i knew their approximate value. i said they might be worth 200 rix-dollars, or somewhat more. upon this they were all silent for a little. i complained of the severity of my imprisonment, and that i was so badly treated. count rantzow answered, 'yes madame, his royal majesty has good cause for it; if you will confess the truth, and that quickly, you may perhaps look for mercy. had maréchal de birron[e13] confessed the matter respecting which he was interrogated by order of the king, when the royal mercy was offered to him if he would speak the truth, it would not have fared with him as it did. i have heard as a truth that the king of france would have pardoned him his crime, had he confessed at once; therefore, bethink yourself, madame!' i answered, 'whatever i am asked by order of his majesty, and whatever i am cognizant of, i will gladly say in all submission.' upon this count rantzow offered me his hand, and i reminded him in a few words of the severity of my imprisonment. count rantzow promised to mention this to the king. then the others shook hands with me and went away. my prison was closed for a little. i therefore profited by the opportunity, and concealed here and there in holes, and among the rubbish, a gold watch, a silver pen which gave forth ink and was filled with ink, and a scissor-sheath worked with silver and tortoiseshell. this was scarcely done when the door was again opened, and there entered the queen's mistress of the robes, her woman of the bed-chamber, and the wife of the commissariat clerk, abel catharina. i knew the last. she and the queen's woman of the bed-chamber carried clothes over their arm; these consisted of a long dressing-gown stitched with silk, made of flesh-coloured taffeta and lined with white silk, a linen under-petticoat, printed over with a black lace pattern, a pair of silk stockings, a pair of slippers, a shift, an apron, a night-dress, and two combs. they made me no greeting. abel cath. spoke for them, and said: 'it is the command of her majesty the queen that we should take away your clothes, and that you should have these in their place.' i answered, 'in god's name!' then they removed the pad from my head, in which i had sown up rings and many loose diamonds. abel cath. felt all over my head to see if anything was concealed in my hair; then she said to the others, 'there is nothing there; we do not require the combs.' abel cath. demanded the bracelets and rings, which were a second time taken from me. i took them off and gave them to them, except one small ring which i wore on the last joint of my little finger, and which could not be worth more than a rix-dollar, this i begged to be allowed to keep. 'no,' said the mistress of the robes, 'you are to retain nothing.' abel cath. said, 'we are strictly forbidden to leave you the smallest thing; i have been obliged to swear upon my soul to the queen that i would search you thoroughly, and not leave you the smallest thing; but you shall not lose it; they will all be sealed up and kept for you, for this i swear the queen has said.' 'good, good, in god's name!' i answered. she drew off all my clothes. in my under-petticoat i had concealed some ducats under the broad gold lace; there was a small diamond ornament in my silk camisole, in the foot of my stockings there were some jacobuses', and there were sapphires in my shoes. when she attempted to remove my chemise, i begged to be allowed to retain it. no; she swore upon her soul that she dared not. she stripped me entirely, and the mistress of the robes gave abel cath. a nod, which she did not at once understand; so the mistress of the robes said: 'do you not remember your orders?' upon this, abel cath. searched my person still more closely, and said to the lady in waiting: 'no, by god! there is nothing there.' i said: 'you act towards me in an unchristian and unbecoming manner.' abel cath. answered: 'we are only servants; we must do as we are ordered; we are to search for letters and for nothing else; all the rest will be given back to you; it will be well taken care of.' after they had thus despoiled me, and had put on me the clothes they had brought, the servant of the mistress of the robes came in and searched everywhere with abel cath., and found every thing that i had concealed. god blinded their eyes so that they did not observe my diamond earrings, nor some ducats which had been sown into leather round one of my knees; i also saved a diamond worth 200 rix-dollars; while on board the ship i had bitten it out of the gold, and thrown the gold in the sea; the stone i had then in my mouth.[62] [58] in the margin is added: 'i had a ring on with a table-diamond worth 200 rix-dollars. i bit this out, threw the gold in the sea, and kept the stone in my mouth. it could not be observed by my speech that there was anything in my mouth.' [59] that is the aulefeldt mentioned in the preface under the name of anfeldt. [e08] birgitte speckhans was the wife of frants v. speckhans, master of ceremonies, afterwards privy councillor, &c. she had formerly been in the service of leonora christina, who was then at the height of her position, and ever afterwards proved herself a friend of her and ulfeldt. it was in her house that they stayed after escaping from malmöe, and she kept some of their movable goods for them during their imprisonment at hammershuus. [e09] birgitte ulfeldt was a younger sister of corfitz, who, in a letter to sperling, declares her to be his and leonora's bitterest enemy. what is known of her life is certainly not to her advantage. [60] in the margin is added: 'the sorrow manifested by many would far rather have depressed me; for several people, both men and women, shed tears, even those whom i did not know.' [61] this paragraph was afterwards struck out, the contents being transferred to the preface. [e10] this is the famous jos. borro or burrhus, physician and alchymist. he is often mentioned in books of the seventeenth century, on account of his wonderful cures and alleged knowledge of the art of making gold. in 1667 he came to denmark, where king fredrik iii. spent considerable sums on the establishment of large laboratories for him, in a building which is still known as 'the gold-house.' [e11] d'aranda was one of the most influential families in bruges. one of them, by name bernard, was some time in the danish army, afterwards secretary to corfitz ulfeldt, and employed by him in diplomatic missions. he died in 1658, but when ulfeldt came to bruges in 1662 he lived for some time with one of bernard's brothers. [e12] h. bielke was admiral of the realm; his wife was an ulfeldt, and it was he who procured corfitz ulfeldt his leave of absence in 1662, of which he made such regretable use. he, too, was one of the judges that convicted him. oluf brokkenhuus was corfitz ulfeldt's brother-in-law; elizabeth parsbjerg was the widow of his elder brother lauridts ulfeldt. marie ulfeldt was sister of corfitz. [e13] charles de goutant, duc de biron, a celebrated french general, some time favourite of henry iv. king of france, was found guilty of conspiring against his master with the courts of spain and savoy. henry iv. forgave him, but he recommenced his intrigues. it is supposed that the king would have forgiven him a second time if he had confessed his crime; but he refused to do so, and was beheaded in 1602. [62] this passage was afterwards altered thus: 'god blinded their eyes so that they did not perceive my earrings, in each of which there is a large rose diamond, and from which i have now removed the stones. the gold, which is in form of a serpent, is still in my ears. they also did not perceive that something was fastened round my knee.' the mistress of the robes was very severe; they could not search thoroughly enough for her. she laughed at me several times, and could not endure that i sat down, asking whether i could not stand, and whether anything was the matter with me. i answered, 'there is only too much the matter with me, yet i can stand when it is necessary.' (it was no wonder that the mistress of the robes could so well execute the order to plunder, for she had frequently accompanied her deceased husband. colonel schaffshaussen[e14], in war.) when she had searched every part thoroughly, they took all my clothes, except a taffeta cap for the head, and went away. then the prison governor came in with his hat on, and said, 'leonora, why have you concealed your things?' i answered him not a word; for i had made the resolution not to answer him, whatever he might say; his qualities were known to me; i was aware that he was skilful in improving a report, and could twist words in the manner he thought would be acceptable, to the damage of those who were in trouble. he asked again with the same words, adding 'do you not hear?' i looked at him over my shoulder, and would not allow his disrespect to excite me. the table was then spread, and four dishes were brought in, but i had no appetite, although i had eaten little or nothing the whole day. [e14] this lady is known under the name of haxthausen; and schaffshausen is probably a mistake on leonora's part, although of course she may have been married to an officer of this name before she married n. v. haxthausen. she was a german by birth. an hour afterwards, when the dishes had been carried away, a girl came in named maren blocks, and said that she had orders from the queen to remain the night with me. the prison governor joked a good deal with the before-mentioned maren, and was very merry, indulging in a good deal of loose talk. at last, when it was nearly ten o'clock, he said good night and closed the two doors of my prison, one of which is cased with copper. when maren found herself alone with me, she pitied my condition, and informed me that many, whom she mentioned by name (some of whom were known to me) had witnessed my courage with grief and tears, especially the wife of h. hendrick bielcke[e12b], who had fainted with weeping. i said, 'the good people have seen me in prosperity; it is no wonder that they deplore the instability of fortune;' and i wished that god might preserve every one of those from misfortune, who had taken my misfortune to heart. i consoled myself with god and a good conscience; i was conscious of nothing wrong, and i asked who she was, and whom she served? she said she was in the queen's private kitchen, and had the silver in her keeping (from which i concluded that she had probably to clean the silver, which was the case). she said that the queen could get no one who would be alone with me, for that i was considered evil; it was said also that i was very wise, and knew future events. i answered, 'if i possessed this wisdom, i scarcely think that i should have come in here, for i should then have been able to guard myself against it.' maren said we might know things and still not be able to guard against them. [e12b] h. bielke was admiral of the realm; his wife was an ulfeldt, and it was he who procured corfitz ulfeldt his leave of absence in 1662, of which he made such regretable use. he, too, was one of the judges that convicted him. oluf brokkenhuus was corfitz ulfeldt's brother-in-law; elizabeth parsbjerg was the widow of his elder brother lauridts ulfeldt. marie ulfeldt was sister of corfitz. she told me also that the queen had herself spoken with her, and had said to her, 'you are to be this night with leonora; you need not be afraid, she can now do no evil. with all her witchcraft she is now in prison and has nothing with her; and if she strikes you, i give you leave to strike her back again till the blood comes.' maren said also, 'the queen knows well that my mind has been affected by acute illness, and therefore she wished that i should be with you.' so saying she threw her arms round my neck as i was sitting, and caressed me in her manner, saying, 'strike me, dear heart, strike me!' 'i will not,' she swore, 'strike again.' i was rather alarmed, fearing that the frenzy might come on. she said further that when she saw me coming over the bridge, she felt as if her heart would burst. she informed me with many words how much she loved me, and how the maid of honour, carisius, who was standing with her in the window, had praised me, and wished to be able to do something for my deliverance, with many such words and speeches. i accepted the unusual caress, as under the circumstances i could not help it, and said that it would be contrary to all justice to offer blows to one who manifested such great affection as she had done, especially to one of her sex; adding, that i could not think how the queen had imagined that i struck people, as i had never even given a box on the ears to a waiting-woman. i thanked her for her good opinion of me, and told her that i hoped all would go well, dark as things looked; that i would hold fast to god, who knew my innocence, and that i had done nothing unjustifiable; that i would commend my cause to him, and i did not doubt that he would rescue me: if not immediately he would do so some day, i was well assured. maren began to speak of different things; among others of my sister elizabeth augusta[e15], how she had sat in her porch as i had been conveyed past as a prisoner, and had said that if i were guilty there was nothing to say against it, but that if i were innocent they were going too far. i said nothing to this, nor did i answer anything to much other tittle-tattle. she began to speak of her own persecution, which she did with great diffuseness, interspersing it with other stories, so that the conversation (in the present circumstances) was very wearisome to me; i was besides very tired, and worn out with care, so i said i would try to sleep and bid her good-night. my thoughts prevented me from sleeping. i reflected on my present condition, and could in no wise reconcile myself to it, or discover the cause of such a great misfortune. it was easy to perceive that somewhat besides fux's death was imputed to me, since i was treated with such disrespect. [e15] elizabeth augusta, a younger sister of leonora, married hans lindenow, a danish nobleman, who died in the siege of copenhagen, 1659. when i had long lain with my face to the wall, i turned round and perceived that maren was silently weeping, so i asked her the reason of her tears. she denied at first that she was crying, but afterwards confessed that she had fallen into thinking over this whole affair. it had occurred to her that she had heard so much of lady leonora and her splendour, &c., of how the king loved her, and how every one praised her, &c., and now she was immured in this execrable thieves' prison, into which neither sun nor moon shone, and where there was a stench enough to poison a person only coming in and out, far more one who had to remain in it. i thought the cause of her weeping was that she should be shut up with me in the terrible prison; so i consoled her, and said that she would only remain with me until another had been fixed upon, since she was in other service; but that i for my part did not now think of past times, as the present gave me sufficient to attend to; if i were to call to mind the past, i would remember also the misfortunes of great men, emperors, kings, princes, and other high personages, whose magnificence and prosperity had far exceeded mine, and whose misfortunes had been far greater than mine; for they had fallen into the hands of tyrants, who had treated them inhumanly, but this king was a christian king, and a conscientious man, and better thoughts would occur to him when he had time to reflect, for my adversaries now left him no leisure to do so. when i said this, she wept even more than before, but said nothing, thinking in herself (as she declared to me some days afterwards) that i did not know what an infamous sentence had been pronounced upon my late lord,[e16] and weeping all the more because i trusted the king so firmly. thus we went on talking through the night. [e16] that leonora here speaks of her husband as her 'late lord,' is due only to the fact that the memoir was not written till after his death; at the time of these events he was still alive. on the morning of august 9, at six o'clock, the prison governor came in, bade me good morning, and enquired whether we would have some brandy. i answered nothing. he asked maren whether i was asleep; she replied that she did not know, came up to my bed, and put the same question to me. i thanked her, adding that it was a kind of drink which i had never tasted. the prison governor chattered with maren, was very merry considering the early hour, told her his dreams, which he undoubtedly invented merely for the sake of talking. he told her, secretly, that she was to come to the queen, and ordered her to say aloud that she wished to go out a little. he said that he would remain with me in the meanwhile, until she returned, which he did, speaking occasionally to me, and asking me whether i wished for anything? whether i had slept? whether maren had watched well? but he got no answer, so that the time seemed very long to him. he went out towards the stairs and came back again, sang a morning psalm, screamed out sometimes to one, and sometimes to another, though he knew they were not there. there was a man named jon who helped to bring up the meals with rasmus the tower warder, and to him he called more than forty times and that in a singing tone, changing his key from high to low, and screaming occasionally as loud as he could, and answering himself 'father, he is not here! by god, he is not here!' then laughing at himself; and then he began calling again either for jon or for rasmus, so that it seemed to me that he had been tasting the brandy. about eight o'clock maren came back, and said that at noon two women would come to relieve her. after some conversation between the prison governor and maren, he went out and shut the doors. maren told me how the queen had sent for her, and asked her what i was doing, and that she answered that i was lying down quietly, and not saying anything. the queen had asked whether i wept much. maren replied, 'yes indeed, she weeps silently.' 'for,' continued maren, 'if i had said that you did not weep, the queen would have thought that you had not yet enough to weep for.' maren warned me that one of the two women who were to watch me was the wife of the king's shoemaker, a german, who was very much liked by the queen. her majesty had employed her to attend uldrich christian gyldenlöwe in the severe and raving illness of which he died, and this woman had much influence with the queen. with regard to the other woman, maren had no idea who she might be, but the last-mentioned had spoken with the queen in maren's presence, and had said that she did not trust herself to be alone with me. the women did not come before four o'clock in the afternoon. the prison governor accompanied them, and unlocked the door for them. the first was the wife of the shoemaker, a woman named anna, who generally would not suffer anybody else to speak. the other was the wife of the king's groom, a woman named catharina, also a german. after greeting me, anna said that her majesty the queen had ordered them to pass a day or two with me and wait upon me. 'in god's name,' i answered. anna, who was very officious, asked me, 'does my lady wish for anything? she will please only say so, and i will solicit it from the queen.' i thanked her, and said that i should like to have some of my clothes, such as two night-jackets, one lined with silk and another braided with white, my stomacher, something for my head, and above all my bone box of perfume, which i much needed. she said she would at once arrange this, which she did, for she went immediately and proffered my request. the things were all delivered to me by the prison governor at six o'clock, except my box of perfume, which had been lost, and in its place they sent me a tin box with a very bad kind of perfume. when the time arrived for the evening meal, catharina spread a stool by the side of my bed, but i had no desire to eat. i asked for a lemon with sugar, and they gave it me. the prison governor sat down at the table with the two women, and did the part of jester, so much so that no one could have said that they were in a house of mourning, but rather in one of festivity. i inwardly prayed to god for strength and patience, that i might not forget myself. god heard my prayer, praised be his name. when the prison governor was tired of the idle talking and laughing, he bade good night after ten o'clock, and told the women to knock if they wanted anything, as the tower warder was just underneath. after he had locked both the doors, i got up, and catharina made my bed. anna had brought a prayer-book with her, from which i read the evening prayer, and other prayers for them; then i laid down and bid them good night. they laid on a settle-bed which had been brought in for them. i slumbered from time to time, but only for short intervals. about six o'clock on the morning of august 10 the prison governor opened the door, to the great delight of the women, who were sincerely longing for him, especially catharina, who was very stout; she could not endure the oppressive atmosphere, and was ill almost the whole night. when the prison governor, after greeting them, had inquired how it fared with them, and whether they were still alive, he offered them brandy, which they readily accepted. when it was seven o'clock, they requested to go home, which they did, but they first reported to the queen all that had happened during the half-day and the night. the prison governor remained with me. when it was near nine o'clock, he brought in a chair without saying anything. i perceived from this that visitors were coming, and i was not wrong; for immediately afterwards there entered count rantzow, prime minister, chancellor h. peter retz, christoffer gabel, the chancellor of the exchequer, and secretary erick krag, who all shook hands with me and seated themselves by my bed. krag, who had paper, pen and ink with him, seated himself at the table. count rantzow whispered something to the chancellor. the chancellor upon this began to address me as on the previous occasion, saying that his majesty the king had great cause for his treatment of me. 'his majesty,' he went on to say, 'entertains suspicion with regard to you, and that not without reason.' i inquired in what the suspicion consisted. the chancellor said, 'your husband has offered the kingdom of denmark to a foreign lord.' i inquired if the kingdom of denmark belonged to my husband, that he could thus offer it, and as no one answered, i continued and said, 'good gentlemen, you all know my lord; you know that he has been esteemed as a man of understanding, and i can assure you that when i took leave of him he was in perfect possession of his senses. now it is easy to perceive that no sensible man would offer that which was not in his own power, and which he had no right to dispose of. he is holding no post, he has neither power nor authority; how should he, therefore, be so foolish as to make such an offer, and what lord would accept it?' count rantzow said: 'nevertheless it is so, madame; he has offered denmark to a foreign potentate; you know it well.' i answered, 'god is my witness that i know of no such thing.' 'yes,' said count rantzow, 'your husband concealed nothing from you, and therefore you must know it.' i replied, 'my husband certainly never concealed from me anything that concerned us both. i never troubled myself in former days with that which related to his office; but that which affected us both he never concealed from me, so that i am sure, had he entertained any such design, he would not have held it a secret from me. and i can say, with truth, that i am not the least aware of it.' count rantzow said: 'madame, confess it while the king still asks you to do so.' i answered, 'if i knew it i would gladly say so; but as truly as god lives i do not know it, and as truly am i unable to believe that my husband would have acted so foolishly, for he is a sick man. he urged me to go to england in order to demand the money that had been lent; i undertook the journey, unwillingly, chiefly because he was so very weak. he could not go up a few steps of the stairs without resting to get his breath; how should he, then, undertake a work of such labour? i can say with truth that he is not eight days without an attack, sometimes of one kind sometimes of another.' count rantzow again whispered with the chancellor, and the chancellor continued: 'madame, say without compulsion how the matter stands, and who is privy to it; say it now, while you are asked freely to do so. his majesty is an absolute sovereign; he is not fettered by law; he can do as he will; say it.' i answered: 'i know well that his majesty is an absolute sovereign, and i know also, that he is a christian and a conscientious man; therefore, his majesty will do nothing but what he can justify before god in heaven. see, here i am! you can do with me what you will; that which i do not know i cannot say.' count rantzow began again to bring forward the maréchal de birron, and made a long speech about it. to this i at length replied, that the maréchal de birron in nowise concerned me; that i had no answer to make on the matter, and that it seemed to me that it was not a case in point. count rantzow asked me why, when i was demanded with whom i had corresponded in the kingdom, i had not said that i had written to him and to the treasurer gabel. to this i replied that i thought those who asked me knew it well, so that it was not necessary for me to mention it; i had only said that of which they probably did not know. count rantzow again whispered to the chancellor, and the chancellor said: 'in a letter to lady elsse passberg you have written respecting another state of things in denmark,' (as he said this, he looked at count rantzow and asked if it was not so, or how it was); 'what did you mean by that, madame?' i replied that i could not recollect what cause her letter had given me to answer it in this way; what came before or what followed, would, without a doubt, explain my meaning; if i might see the letter, it would prove at once that i had written nothing which i could not justify. nothing more was said with regard to it. count rantzow asked me what foreign ministers had been with my lord in bruges. 'none,' i answered, 'that i am aware of.' he asked further whether any holstein noblemen had been with him. i answered, 'i do not know.' then he enumerated every prince in germany, from the emperor to the prince of holstein, and enquired respecting each separately whether any of their ministers had been with my husband. i gave the same answer as before to each question, that i was not aware that any one of them had been with him. then he said, 'now, madame, confess! i beg you; remember maréchal de birron! you will not be asked again.' i was somewhat tired of hearing birron mentioned so often, and i answered rather hastily: 'i do not care about the maréchal de birron; i cannot tell what i do not know anything about.' secretary krag had written somewhat hurriedly it seemed, for when at my desire he read aloud what he had written, the answers did not accord with the questions; this probably partly arose from hurry, and partly from malice, for he was not amicably inclined towards my late lord. i protested against this when he read the minutes. the chancellor agreed with me in every item, so that krag was obliged to re-write it. after this they got up and took their leave. i requested to beg his majesty the king to be gracious to me, and not to believe what he had been informed with regard to my husband. i could not imagine they would find that he had ever deviated from his duty. 'yes,' answered count rantzow, 'if you will confess, madame, and tell us who is concerned in this business and the details of it, you might perhaps find him a gracious lord and king.' i protested by the living god that i knew nothing of it; i knew of nothing of the kind, much less of accomplices. with this they went away, after having spent nearly three hours with me, and then the prison governor and the women entered. they spread the table and brought up the meal, but i took nothing but a draught of beer. the prison governor sat down to table with the women. if he had been merry before, he was still more so now, and he told one indecent story after another. when they had had enough of feasting and talking he went away and locked the door; he came as usual again about four o'clock in the afternoon, and let the women go out, staying with me until they returned, which generally was not for two hours. when the women were alone with me, anna told catharina of her grief for her first husband, and nothing else was talked of. i behaved as if i were asleep, and i did the same when the prison governor was alone with me, and he then passed the time in singing and humming. the evening meal was also very merry for the women, for the prison governor amused them by telling them of his second marriage; how he had wooed without knowing whom, and that he did not know it until the betrothal. the story was as ludicrous as it was diffuse. i noticed that it lasted an hour and a quarter. when he had said good night, anna sat down on my bed and began to talk to catharina, and said, 'was it not a horrible story of that treacherous design to murder the king and queen and the whole royal family?' catharina answered, 'thank god the king and queen and the whole family are still alive!' 'yes,' said anna, 'it was no merit of the traitors, though, that they are so; it was too quickly discovered; the king knew it three months before he would reveal it to the queen. he went about sorrowfully, pondering over it, unable quite to believe it; afterwards, when he was quite certain of it, he told the queen; then the body-guard were doubled, as you know.' catherina enquired how they had learnt it. anna answered, 'that god knows; it is kept so secret that no one is allowed as much as to ask from whom it came.' i could not help putting in a word; it seemed to me a pity that they could not find out the informer, and it was remarkable that no one ventured to confess having given the information. catherina said, 'i wonder whether it is really true?' 'what do you mean?' answered anna; 'would the king do as he is doing without knowing for certain that it is true? how can you talk so?' i regarded this conversation as designed to draw some words from me, so i answered but little, only saying that until now i had seen nothing which gave credibility to the report, and that therefore i felt myself at liberty not to believe it until i saw certain proof of it. anna adhered to her statement, wondered that there could be such evil people as could wish to murder the good king, and was very diffuse on the matter.[e17] she could be at no loss for material, for she always began again from the beginning; but at last she had to stop, since she spoke alone and was not interrupted either by catharina or by me. [e17] when the sentence on ulfeldt had become publicly known, the most absurd rumours circulated in copenhagen, and found their way to foreign newspapers. for instance _the kingdom's_ intelligencer, no. 33, aug. 10-17, 1663, says, in a correspondence from hamburg: 'they say the traitors intended to set copenhagen on fire in divers places, and also the fleet, to destroy the king and family, to blow up the king's palace, and deliver the crown over to another.' the government itself, on hearing of ulfeldt's plots, made great military preparations. i got up and requested to have my bed made, which catharina always did. anna attended to the light during the night, for she was more watchful than catharina. i read aloud to them from anna's book, commended myself to god, and laid down to sleep. but my sleep was light, the promenades of the rats woke me, and there were great numbers of them. hunger made them bold; they ate the candle as it stood burning. catharina, moreover, was very uncomfortable all night, so that this also prevented my sleeping. early on the morning of august 11 the prison governor came as usual with his brandy attentions, although they had a whole bottle with them. catharina complained a good deal, and said she could not endure the oppressive air; that when she came in at the door it seemed as if it would stifle her; if she were to remain there a week she was certain that she would be carried out dead. the prison governor laughed at this. the women went away, and he remained with me. he presented me major-general von anfeldt's compliments, and a message from him, that i 'should be of good courage; all would now soon be well.' i made no reply. he enquired how i was, and whether i had slept a little; and answered himself, 'i fancy not much.' he asked whether i would have anything, again answering himself, 'no, i do not think you wish for anything.' upon this he walked up and down, humming to himself; then he came to my bedside and said: 'oh, the dear king! he is indeed a kind master! be at peace; he is a gracious sovereign, and has always held you in esteem. you are a woman, a weak instrument. poor women are soon led away. no one likes to harm them, when they confess the truth. the dear queen, she is indeed a dear queen! she is not angry with you. i am sure if she knew the truth from you, she would herself pray for you. listen! if you will write to the queen and tell her all about the matter, and keep nothing back, i will bring you pen, ink, and paper. i have no wish, on my soul! to read it. no, god take me if i will look at it; and that you may be sure of this, i will give you wax that you may seal it. but i imagine you have probably no seal?' as i answered him not a word, he seized my hand and shook it rather strongly, saying, 'do you not hear? are you asleep?' i raised my head threateningly; i should like to have given him a box on the ears, and i turned round to the wall. he was angry that his design had failed, and he went on grumbling to himself for more than an hour. i could not understand a word beyond, 'yes, yes! you will not speak.' then he muttered somewhat between his teeth: 'you will not answer; well, well, they will teach you. yes, by god! hum, hum, hum.' he continued thus until the tower warder, rasmus, came and whispered something to him; then he went out. it seemed to me that there was someone speaking with him, and so far as i could perceive it must have been someone who asked him if the ink and paper should be brought up, for he answered, 'no, it is not necessary; she will not.' the other said, 'softly, softly!' the prison governor, however, could not well speak softly, and i heard him say, 'she cannot hear that; she is in bed.' when he came in again he went on muttering to himself, and stamped because i would not answer; he meant it kindly; the queen was not so angry as i imagined. he went on speaking half aloud; he wished the women would come; he did nothing else but beg rasmus to look for them. soon after rasmus came and said that they were now going up the king's stairs. still almost an hour passed before they came in and released him. when they had their dinner (my own meal consisted of some slices of lemon with sugar) the prison governor was not nearly so merry as he was wont to be, though he chattered of various things that had occurred in former times, while he was a quarter-master. he also retired sooner than was his custom. the women, who remained, talked of indifferent matters. i also now and then put in a word, and asked them after their husbands and children. anna read some prayers and hymns from her book, and thus the day passed till four o'clock, when the prison governor let them out. he had brought a book with him, which he read in a tolerably low tone, while he kept watch by me. i was well pleased at this, as it gave me rest. at the evening meal the prison governor began amongst other conversation to tell the women that a prisoner had been brought here who was a frenchman; he could not remember his name; he sat cogitating upon the name just as if he could not rightly hit upon it. carl or char, he did not know what he was called, but he had been formerly several years in denmark. anna enquired what sort of a man he was. he replied that he was a man who was to be made to sing,[63] but he did not know for a certainty whether he was here or not. (there was nothing in all this.) he only said this in order to get an opportunity of asking me, or to perceive whether it troubled me. [63] that is, give information. he had undoubtedly been ordered to do this; for when he was gone anna began a conversation with catharina upon this same carl, and at last asked me whether we had had a frenchman in our employ. i replied that we had had more than one. she enquired further whether there was one among them named carl, who had long been in our service. 'we had a servant,' i answered, 'a frenchman named charle; he had been with us a long time.' 'yes, yes,' she said, 'it is he. but i do not think he has arrived here yet; they are looking for him.' i said, 'then he is easy to find, he was at bruges when i left that town.' anna said she fancied he had been in england with me, and she added, 'that fellow knows a good deal if they get him.' i answered, 'then it were to be wished that they had him for the sake of his information.' when she perceived that i troubled myself no further about him she let the conversation drop, and spoke of my sister elizabeth augusta, saying that she passed her every day. she was standing in her gateway or sitting in the porch, and that she greeted her, but never uttered a word of enquiry after her sister, though she knew well that she was waiting on me in the tower. i said i thought my sister did not know what would be the best for her to do. 'i cannot see,' said anna, 'that she is depressed.' i expressed my opinion that the less we grieved over things the better. other trifles were afterwards talked of, and i concluded the day with reading, commended myself to the care of jesus, and slept tolerably well through the night. august 12 passed without anything in particular occurring, only that anna tried to trouble me by saying that a chamber next to us was being put in order, for whom she did not know; they were of course expecting someone in it. i could myself hear the masons at work. on the same day catharina said that she had known me in prosperity, and blessed me a thousand times for the kindness i had shown her. i did not remember having ever seen her. she said she had been employed in the storeroom in the service of the princess magdalena sybille, and that when i had visited the princess, and had slept in the castle, i had sent a good round present for those in the storeroom, and that she had had a share in it, and that this she now remembered with gratitude. anna was not pleased with the conversation, and she interrupted it three times; catharina, however, did not answer her, but adhered to the subject till she had finished. the prison governor was not in good humour on this day also, so that neither at dinner nor at supper were any indecent stories related. on august 13, after the women had been into the town and had returned, the prison governor opened the door at about nine o'clock, and whispered something to them. he then brought in another small seat; from this i perceived that i was to be visited by one more than on the previous occasion. at about ten o'clock count rantzow, general skack, chancellor retz, treasurer gabel, and secretary krag entered. they all saluted me with politeness; the four first seated themselves on low seats by my bedside, and krag placed himself with his writing materials at the table. the chancellor was spokesman, and said, 'his royal majesty, my gracious sovereign and hereditary king, sends you word, madame, that his majesty has great cause for all that he is doing, and that he entertains suspicions with regard to you that you are an accomplice in the treason designed by your husband; and his royal majesty had hoped that you would confess without compulsion who have participated in it, and the real truth about it.' when the chancellor ceased speaking, i replied that i was not aware that i had done anything which could render me suspected; and i called god to witness that i knew of no treason, and therefore i could mention no names. count rantzow said, 'your husband has not concealed it from you, hence you know it well.' i replied, 'had my husband entertained so evil a design, i believe surely he would have told me; but i can swear with a good conscience, before god in heaven, that i never heard him speak of anything of the kind. yes, i can truly say he never wished evil to the king in my hearing, and therefore i fully believe that this has been falsely invented by his enemies.' count rantzow and the chancellor bent their heads together across to the general, and whispered with each other for some time. at length the chancellor asked me whether, if my husband were found guilty, i would take part in his condemnation. this was a remarkable question, so i reflected a little, and said, 'if i may know on what grounds he is accused, i will answer to it so far as i know, and so much as i can.' the chancellor said, 'consider well whether you will.' i replied as before, that i would answer for him as to all that i knew, if i were informed of what he was accused. count rantzow whispered with krag, and krag went out, but returned immediately. soon afterward some one (whom i do not know) came from the chancellor's office, bringing with him some large papers. count rantzow and the chancellor whispered again. then the chancellor said, 'there is nothing further to do now than to let you know what sort of a husband you have, and to let you hear his sentence.' count rantzow ordered the man who had brought in the papers to read them aloud. the first paper read was to the effect that corfitz, formerly count of ulfeldt, had offered the kingdom of denmark to a foreign sovereign, and had told the same sovereign that he had ecclesiastical and lay magnates on his side, so that it was easy for him to procure the crown of denmark for the before-mentioned sovereign. a paper was then read which was the defence of the clergy, in which they protested that corfitz, count of ulfeldt, had never had any communication with any of them; that he had at no time shown himself a friend of the clergy, and had far less offered them participation in his evil design. they assured his royal majesty of their fidelity and subjection, &c. next, a paper was read, written by the burgomaster and council in copenhagen, nearly similar in purport, that they had had no correspondence with count corfitz ulfeldt, and equally assuring his royal majesty of their humble fidelity. next followed the reading of the unprecedented and illegal sentence which, without a hearing, had been passed on my lord. this was as unexpected and grievous as it was disgraceful, and unjustifiable before god and all right-loving men. no documents were brought forward upon which the sentence had been given. there was nothing said about prosecution or defence; there was no other foundation but mere words; that he had been found guilty of having offered the crown of denmark to a foreign sovereign, and had told him that he had on his side ecclesiastical and lay magnates, who had shown by their signed protestations that this was not the case, for which reason he had been condemned as a criminal. when the sentence with all the names subjoined to it had been read, the reader brought it to me, and placed it before me on the bed. everyone can easily imagine how i felt; but few or none can conceive how it was that i was not stifled by the unexpected misery, and did not lose my sense and reason. i could not utter a word for weeping. then a prayer was read aloud which had been pronounced from the pulpit, in which corfitz was anathematised, and god was prayed not to allow his gray hair to go to the grave in peace. but god, who is just, did not listen to the impious prayer of the unrighteous, praised be his name for ever. when all had been read, i bemoaned with sighs and sorrowful tears that i had ever lived to see this sad day, and i begged them, for jesus' sake, that they would allow me to see on what the hard judgment was based. count rantzow answered, 'you can well imagine, madame, that there are documents upon which we have acted: some of your friends are in the council.' 'may god better it!' i said. 'i beg you, for god's sake, to let me see the documents. les apparences sont bien souvent trompeuses. what had not my husband to suffer from that swede in skaane, during that long imprisonment, because he was suspected of having corresponded with his majesty, the king of denmark, and with his majesty's ministers? now, no one knows better than his majesty, and you my good lords, how innocently he suffered at that time, and so this also may be apparently credible, and yet may not be so in truth. might i not see the documents?' to this no answer was given. i continued and said, 'how is it possible that a man who must himself perceive that death is at hand should undertake such a work, and be so led away from the path of duty, when he did not do so at a time when he acknowledged no master, and when such great promises were made him by the prince of holstein, as the prince's letters show, which are now in his majesty's hands.' count rantzow interrupted me and said, 'we did not find those letters.' 'god knows,' i replied, 'they were there; of that i am certain.' i said also, 'at that time he might have done something to gratify a foreign sovereign; at that time he had power and physical vigour, and almost the entire government was in his hands; but he never looked to his own advantage, but pawned his own property to hasten the king's coronation, so that no impediment might come between.[64] this is his reward! good gentlemen, take an example of me, you who have seen me in prosperity, and have compassion on me. pray his royal majesty to be mild, and not to proceed to such severity.' [64] in the margin the following explanatory note is added: 'when his majesty (christian iv.) was dead, there was no prince elected, so that the states were free to choose the king whom they desired, wherefore the duke of holstein, duke frederick, promised my deceased lord that if he would contrive that he should be elected king, the land of fyen should belong to him and a double alliance between his children and ours should be concluded. but my lord rejected this proposal and would not assist in dispossessing the son of christian iv. of the kingdom. the prince had obtained several votes, but my lord contested them.' the chancellor and treasurer were moved by this, so that the tears came into their eyes. count rantzow said to the general and the chancellor, 'i think it is a fortnight ago since the sentence was published?' the chancellor answered, 'it is seventeen days ago.'[e18] i said, 'at that time i was still in england, and now i am asked for information on the matter! oh, consider this, for god's sake! and that there was no one present to speak on my husband's behalf.' count rantzow enquired whether i wished to appeal against it? i replied, 'how am i to appeal against a judicial decree? i only beg for jesus' sake that what i say may be considered, and that i may have the satisfaction of seeing the documents upon which the sentence is based.' [e18] the sentence on ulfeldt was given on july 24, but probably not published till a few days later. count rantzow answered as before, that there were documents, and that some of my friends had sat in the council, and added that all had been agreed, and that not one had had anything to say against it. i dared not say what i thought. i knew well how matters are done in such absolute governments: there is no such thing as opposition, they merely say, 'sign, the king wishes it; and ask not wherefore, or the same condemnation awaits thee.'[65] i was silent, and bewailed my unhappiness, which was irremediable. when krag read aloud the minutes he had written, namely, that when i was asked whether i would participate in my husband's sentence, i had answered that i would consider of it. i asked, 'how was that?' the chancellor immediately replied, 'no, she did not say so, but she requested to know the accusation brought against her husband.' i repeated my words again,[66] i know not whether krag wrote them or not; for a great part of that which i said was not written. krag yielded too much to his feelings in the matter, and would gladly have made bad worse. he is now gone where no false writings avail; god took him away suddenly in an unclean place, and called him to judgment without warning. and count rantzow, who was the principal mover and inventor of that illegal sentence, the like of which was never known in denmark, did not live to see his desire fulfilled in the execution of a wooden image.[e19] when this was done, they rose and shook hands with me. this painful visit lasted more than four hours. [65] it had happened as i thought. there were some in the council who refused to sign, some because they had not been present at the time of the procedure, and others because they had not seen on what the sentence was founded; but they were nevertheless compelled to sign with the others, on the peril of the king's displeasure. [marginal note.] [66] in the margin is added, 'and asked whether i was permitted to appeal against this sentence. all were silent.' [e19] a line has been drawn in the ms. through the two last paragraphs, and their contents transferred to the continuation of the preface. they went away, leaving me full of anxiety, sighing and weeping--a sad and miserable captive woman, forsaken by all; without help, exposed to power and violence, fearing every moment that her husband might fall into their hands, and that they might vent their malice on him. god performed on that day a great miracle, by manifesting his power in my weakness, preserving my brain from bewilderment, and my tongue from overflowing with impatience. praised be god a thousand times! i will sing thy praise, so long as my tongue can move, for thou wast at this time and at all times my defence, my rock, and my shield! when the gentlemen were gone away, the prison governor came and the women, and a stool was spread by the side of my bed. the prison governor said to me, 'eat, leonora; will you not eat?' as he said this, he threw a knife to me on the bed. i took up the knife with angry mind, and threw it on the ground. he picked up the knife, saying, 'you are probably not hungry? no, no! you have had a breakfast to-day which has satisfied you, have you not? is it not so?' well, well, come dear little women (addressing the two women), let us eat something! you must be hungry, judging from my own stomach.' when they had sat down to table, he began immediately to cram himself, letting it fall as if inadvertently from his mouth, and making so many jokes that it was sad to see how the old man could not conceal his joy at my unhappiness. when the meal was finished, and the prison governor had gone away, anna sat down by my bed and began to speak of the sorrow and affliction which we endure in this world, and of the joy and delights of heaven; how the pain that we suffer here is but small compared with eternal blessedness and joy, wherefore we should not regard suffering, but should rather think of dying with a good conscience, keeping it unsullied by confessing everything that troubles us, for there is no other way. 'god grant,' she added, 'that no one may torment himself for another's sake.' after having repeated this remark several times, she said to me, 'is it not true, my lady?' 'yes, certainly it is true,' i replied; 'you speak in a christian manner, and according to the scriptures.' 'why will you, then,' she went on to say, 'let yourself be tormented for others, and not say what you know of them?' i asked whom she meant. she answered, 'i do not know them.' i replied, 'nor do i.' she continued in the same strain, however, saying that she would not suffer and be tormented for the sake of others, whoever they might be; if they were guilty they must suffer; she would not suffer for them; a woman was easily led away, but happiness was more than all kindred and friends. as she seemed unable to cease chattering, i wished to divert her a little, so i asked whether she were a clergyman's daughter; and since she had before told me of her parentage, she resented this question all the more, and was thoroughly angry; saying, 'if i am not a clergyman's daughter, i am the daughter of a good honest citizen, and not one of the least. in my time, when i was still unmarried, i never thought that i should marry a shoemaker.' i said, 'but your first husband, too, was also a shoemaker.' 'that is true,' she replied, 'but this marriage came about in a very foolish manner,' and she began to narrate a whole history of the matter, so that i was left in peace. catharina paced up and down, and when anna was silent for a little, she said, with folded hands, 'o god, thou who art almighty, and canst do everything, preserve this man for whom they are seeking, and never let him fall into the hands of his enemies. oh god, hear me!' anna said angrily to her, 'catharina, do you know what you are saying? how can you speak so?' catharina answered, 'yes, i know well what i am saying. god preserve him, and let him never fall into the hands of his enemies. jesus, be thou his guide!' she uttered these words with abundant tears. anna said, 'i think that woman is not in her senses.' catharina's kind wish increased my tears, and i said, 'catharina shows that she is a true christian, and sympathises with me; god reward her, and hear her and me!' upon this anna was silent, and has not been so talkative ever since. o god, thou who art a recompenser of all that is good, remember this in favour of catharina, and as thou heardest her at that time, hear her prayer in future, whatever may be her request! and you, my dear children, know that if ever fortune so ordains it that you can be of any service either to her or her only son, you are bound to render it for my sake; for she was a comfort to me in my greatest need, and often took an opportunity to say a word which she thought would alleviate my sorrow. the prison governor came as usual, about four o'clock, and let the women out, seating himself on the bench and placing the high stool with the candle in front of him. he had brought a book with him, and read aloud prayers for a happy end, prayers for the hour of death, and prayers for one suffering temporal punishment for his misdeeds. he did not forget a prayer for one who is to be burnt; in reading this he sighed, so religious had he grown in the short time. when he had read all the prayers, he got up and walked up and down, singing funeral hymns; when he knew no more, he began again with the first, till the women released him. catharina complained that her son had been ill, and was greatly grieved about it. i entered into her sorrow, and said that she ought to mention her son's illness to the queen, and then another would probably be appointed in her place; and i begged her to compose herself, as the child would probably be better again. during the evening meal the prison governor was very merry, and related all sorts of coarse stories. when he was gone, anna read the evening prayer. i felt very ill during this night, and often turned about in bed; there was a needle in the bed, with which i scratched myself; i got it out, and still have it.[67] [67] in the margin: 'the feather-bed had an old cover, and was fresh filled when i was lying in the roads; the needle, in the hurry, had therefore been left in.' on august 14, when the prison governor opened the door early, the women told him that i had been very ill in the night. 'well, well,' he answered, 'it will soon be better.' and when the women were ready to go to the queen (which they were always obliged to do), anna said to catharina, outside the door, 'what shall we say to the queen?' catharina answered: 'what shall we say, but that she is silent and will say nothing!' 'you know very well that the queen is displeased at it.' 'nevertheless, we cannot tell a lie;' answered catharina; 'she says nothing at all, so it would be a sin.'[68] catharina came back to the mid-day meal, and said that the queen had promised to appoint another in her stead; in the afternoon, she managed secretly to say a word to me about the next chamber, which she imagined was being put in readiness for me and for no one else; she bid me good night, and promised to remember me constantly in her prayers. i thanked her for her good services, and for her kind feeling towards me. [68] in the margin: 'i myself heard this conversation.' about four o'clock the prison governor let her and anna out. he sang one hymn after another, went to the stairs, and the time appeared long to him, till six o'clock, when anna returned with maren blocks. at the evening meal the prison governor again told stories of his marriage, undoubtedly for the sake of amusing maren. anna left me alone, and i lay quiet in silence. maren could not find an opportunity of speaking with me the whole evening, on account of anna. nothing particular happened on august 15 and 16. when the prison governor let out anna in the morning and afternoon, maren blocks remained with me, and the prison governor went his own way and locked the door, so that maren had opportunity of talking with me alone. she told me different things; among others, that the queen had given my clothes to the three women who had undressed me, that they might distribute them amongst themselves. she asked me whether i wished to send a message to my sister elizabeth. i thanked her, but said that i had nothing good to tell her. i asked maren for needles and thread, in order to test her. she replied she would gladly procure them for me if she dared, but that it would risk her whole well-being if the queen should know it; for she had so strictly forbidden that anyone should give me either pins or needles. i inquired 'for what reason?' 'for this reason,' she replied, 'that you may not kill yourself.' i assured her that god had enlightened me better than that i should be my own murderer. i felt that my cross came from the hand of the lord, that he was chastising me as his child; he would also help me to bear it; i trusted in him to do so. 'then i hope, dear heart,' said maren, 'that you will not kill yourself; then you shall have needles and thread; but what will you sew?' i alleged that i wished to sew some buttons on my white night-dress, and i tore off a pair, in order to show her afterwards that i had sewn them on. now it happened that i had sewn up some ducats in a piece of linen round my knee; these i had kept, as i pulled off the stockings myself when they undressed me, and anna had at my desire given me a rag, as i pretended that i had hurt my leg. i sewed this rag over the leather. they all imagined that i had some secret malady, for i lay in the linen petticoat they had given me, and went to bed in my stockings. maren imagined that i had an issue on one leg, and she confided to me that a girl at the court, whom she mentioned by name, and who was her very good friend, had an issue of which no one knew but herself, not even the woman who made her bed. i thought to myself, you keep your friend's secret well; i did not, however, make her any wiser, but let her believe in this case whatever she would. i was very weak on those two days, and as i took nothing more than lemon and beer, my stomach became thoroughly debilitated and refused to retain food. when maren told the prison governor of this, he answered, 'all right, her heart is thus getting rid of its evil.' anna was no longer so officious, but the prison governor was as merry as ever. on august 17 the prison governor did not open the door before eight o'clock, and anna asked him how it was that he had slept so long. he joked a little; presently he drew her to the door and whispered with her. he went out and in, and anna said so loudly to maren, that i could hear it (although she spoke as if she were whispering), 'i am so frightened that my whole body trembles, although it does not concern me. jesus keep me! i wish i were down below!' maren looked sad, but she neither answered nor spoke a word. maren came softly up to my bed and said, 'i am sure some one is coming to you.' i answered, 'let him come, in god's name.' presently i heard a running up and down stairs, and also overhead, for the commissioners came always through the apartments, in order not to cross the square. my doors were closed again. each time that some one ran by on the stairs, anna shuddered and said, 'i quite tremble.' this traffic lasted till about eleven. when the prison governor opened the door, he said to me, 'leonora, you are to get up and go to the gentlemen.' god knows that i could hardly walk, and anna frightened me by saying to maren, 'oh! the poor creature!' maren's hands trembled when she put on my slippers. i could not imagine anything else than that i was to be tortured, and i consoled myself with thinking that my pain could not last long, for my body was so weary that it seemed as if god might at any moment take me away. when maren fastened the apron over my long dress, i said: 'they are indeed sinning heavily against me; may god give me strength.' the prison governor hurried me, and when i was ready, he took me by the arm and led me. i would gladly have been free of his help, but i could not walk alone. he conducted me up to the next story, and there sat count rantzow, skack, retz, gabel, and krag, round the table. they all rose when i entered, and i made them a reverence as well as i was able. a small low seat had been placed for me in the middle, in front of the table. the chancellor asked me whether i had not had more letters than those taken from me in england. i answered that i had not had more; that all my letters had been then taken from me. he asked further, whether i had at that time destroyed any letters. 'yes,' i answered, 'one i tore in two, and threw it in a closet.' 'why did you do so?' enquired count rantzow. 'because' i replied, 'there were cyphers in it; and although they were of no importance, i feared, notwithstanding, that they might excite suspicion.' count rantzow said: 'supposing the pieces were still forthcoming?' 'that were to be wished,' i replied, 'for then it could be seen that there was nothing suspicious in it, and it vexed me afterwards that i had torn it in two.' upon this the chancellor drew forth a sheet of paper upon which, here and there, pieces of this very letter were pasted, and handed it to krag, who gave it to me. count rantzow asked me if it were not my husband's handwriting. i answered that it was. he said: 'a part of the pieces which you tore in two have been found, and a part are lost. all that has been found has been collected and copied.' he then asked the chancellor for the copy, who gave it to count rantzow, and he handed it to me, saying, 'see there what is wanting, and tell us what it is that is missing.' i took it, and looked over it and said: 'in some places, where there are not too many words missing, i think i can guess what is lost, but where a whole sentence is wanting, i cannot know.' most of the letter had been collected without loss of intervening pieces, and it all consisted of mirth and jest. he was telling me that he had heard from denmark that the electoral prince of saxony was to be betrothed with the princess of denmark;[e20] and he joked, saying that they would grease their throats and puff out their cheeks in order that with good grace and voice they might duly trumpet forth each their own titles, and more of the same kind, all in high colouring. he described the way in which count rantzow contrived to let people know his titles; when he had a dinner-party, there was a man employed to read aloud his titles to the guests, asking first each separately, whether he knew his titles; if there was anyone who did not know them, the secretary must forthwith come and read them aloud. [e20] leonora refers to the betrothal of prince johan george of saxony and anna sophia, the eldest daughter of fredrik iii., of which an account occurs in the sequel. it seemed that count rantzow referred all this to himself, for he asked me what my husband meant by it. i replied that i did not know that he meant anything but what he had written; he meant undoubtedly those who did such things. the chancellor averted his face from count rantzow, and his lips smiled a little; gabel also did the same. among other things there were some remarks about the electoral prince, that he probably cherished the hope of inheriting the crown of denmark; 'mais j'espère ... cela ne se fera point.' count rantzow enquired as to the words which were wanting. i said, if i remembered rightly, the words had been, 'qu'en 300 ans.' he enquired further as to the expressions lacking here and there, some of which i could not remember exactly, though they were of no importance. i expressed my opinion that they could easily gather what was wanting from the preceding and following words; it was sufficiently evident that all was jest, and this was apparent also to gabel, who said, 'ce n'est que raillerie.' but count rantzow and the general would not allow it to pass as jest. skack said: 'one often means something else under the cloak of jest, and names are used when others are intended.' for in the letter there was something said about drinking out; there was also an allusion made to the manners of the swiss at table, and all the titles of the canton nobles were enumerated, from which skack thought that the names of the cities might have another signification. i did not answer skack; but as count rantzow continued to urge me to say what my husband had meant by it, i replied that i could not know whether he had had another meaning than that which was written. skack shook his head and thought he had, so i said: 'i know no country where the same customs are in vogue at meals as in switzerland; if there are other places where the same customs prevail, he may perhaps have meant these also, for he is only speaking of drinking.' gabel said again, 'it is only jest.' the cyphers, for the sake of which i had torn the letter in two, were fortunately complete, and nothing was missing. count rantzow gave me a sheet of paper, to which pieces of my lord's letter were pasted, and asked me what the cyphers meant. i replied, 'i have not the key, and cannot solve them out of my head.' he expressed his opinion that i could do it. i said i could not. 'well, they have been read,' he said, 'and we know what they signify.' 'all the better,' i answered. upon this, he gave me the interpretation to read, and the purport of it was that our son had written from rome, asking for money, which was growing short, for the young nobleman was not at home. i gave the paper back to count rantzow without saying anything. count rantzow requested the treasurer that he should read the letter, and rantzow began again with his questions wherever anything was wanting, requesting that i should say what it was. i gave him the same answer as before; but when in one passage, where some words were missing, he pressed me hard to say them, and it was evident from the context that they were ironical (since an ironical word was left written), i said: 'you can add as much of the same kind as pleases you, if one is not enough; i do not know them.' gabel again said, 'ce n'est que raillerie.'[e21] [e21] a copy of the fragments which had been recovered of this letter is still in existence. no further questions were then made respecting the letters; but count rantzow enquired as to my jewels, and asked where the large diamond was which my husband had received in france.[e22] i replied that it had long been sold. he further asked where my large drop pearls where, which i had worn as a feather on my hat, and where my large pearl head-ornament was. 'all these,' i replied, 'have long been sold.' he asked further whether i had then no more jewels. i answered, 'i have none now.' 'i mean,' he said, 'elsewhere.' i replied, 'i left some behind.' 'where, then?' he asked. 'at bruges,' i replied. then he said: 'i have now somewhat to ask you, madame, that concerns myself. did you visit my sister in paris the last time you were there?' i replied, 'yes.' he asked whether i had been with her in the convent, and what was the name of the convent. i informed him that i had been in the convent, and that it was the convent des filles bleues. at this he nodded, as if to confirm it. he also wished to know whether i had seen her. i said that no one in the convent might be seen by anyone but parents; even brothers and sisters were not allowed to see them.[e23] 'that is true,' he said, and then rose and gave me his hand. i begged him to induce his gracious majesty to have pity on me, but he made no answer. when the treasurer gabel gave me his hand, i begged the same favour of him. he replied, 'yes, if you will confess,' and went out without waiting for a reply. [e22] ulfeldt received this present probably in 1647, when in france as ambassador, on which occasion queen anna is known to have presented to leonora a gold watch set with diamonds of great value. [e23] the lady alluded to is helvig margaretha elizabeth rantzow, widow of the famous general josias rantzow, who died as a maréchal of france. she had become a romanist, and took the veil after her husband's death. subsequently she founded the new order of the annunciata. in 1666 the first convent of this order, of which she was abbess, removed to hildesheim, where she died in 1706. for more than three hours they had kept up the interrogation. then the prison governor came in and said to me: 'now you are to remain in here; it is a beautiful chamber, and has been freshly whitewashed; you may now be contented.' anna and maren also came in. god knows, i was full of care, tired and weary, and had insufferable headache; yet, before i could go to rest, i had to sit waiting until the bedstead had been taken out of the 'dark church' and brought hither. anna occupied herself meanwhile in the dark church, in scraping out every hole; she imagined she might find something there, but in vain. the woman who was to remain with me alone then came in. her pay was two rix-dollars a week; her name is karen, the daughter of ole. after the prison governor had supped with the woman and maren, anna and maren blocks bade me good night; the latter exhibited great affection. the prison governor bolted two doors before my innermost prison. in the innermost door there is a square hole, which is secured with iron cross-bars. the prison governor was going to attach a lock to this hole, but he forebore at karen's request, for she said she could not breathe if this hole were closed. he then affixed locks to the door of the outer chamber, and to the door leading to the stairs; he had, therefore, four locks and doors twice a day to lock and unlock. i will here describe my prison. it is a chamber, seven of my paces long and six wide; there are in it two beds, a table, and two stools. it was freshly whitewashed, which caused a terrible smell; the floor, moreover was so thick with dirt, that i imagined it was of loam, though it was really laid with bricks. it is eighteen feet high, with a vaulted ceiling, and very high up is a window which is two feet square. in front of it are double thick iron bars, besides a wire-work, which is so close that one could not put one's little finger into the holes. this wire-work had been thus ordered with great care by count rantzow (so the prison governor afterwards told me), so that no pigeons might bring in a letter--a fact which he had probably read in a novel as having happened. i was weak and deeply grieved in my heart; i looked for a merciful deliverance, and an end to my sorrow, and i sat silent and uncomplaining, answering little when the woman spoke to me. sometimes in my reverie i scratched at the wall, which made the woman imagine that i was confused in my head; she told this to the prison governor, who reported it to the queen, and during every meal-time, when the door was open, she never failed to send messengers to enquire how it fared with me, what i said, and what i was doing. the woman had, however, not much to tell in obedience to the oath she, according to her own statement, had taken in the presence of the prison governor. but afterwards she found some means to ingratiate herself. and as my strength daily decreased, i rejoiced at the prospect of my end, and on august 21 i sent for the prison governor, and requested him to apply for a clergyman who could give me the sacrament. this was immediately granted, and his majesty's court preacher, magister mathias foss, received orders to perform for me the duties of his office, and exhorted me, both on behalf of his office and in consequence of the command he had received, not to burden my conscience; i might rest assured, he said, that in this world i should never see my husband again, and he begged me to say what i knew of the treason. i could scarcely utter a word for weeping; but i said that i could attest before god in heaven, from whom nothing is hidden, that i knew nothing of this treason. i knew well i should never see my husband again in this life; i commended him to the almighty, who knew my innocence; i prayed god only for a blessed end and departure from this evil world; i desired nothing from the clergyman but that he should remember me in his prayers, that god might by death put an end to my affliction. the clergyman promised faithfully to grant my request. it has not pleased god to hear me in this: he has willed to prove my faith still further, by sending to me since this time much care, affliction, and adversity. he has helped me also to bear the cross, and has himself supported its heaviest end; his name be praised for ever. when i had received the lord's supper, m. foss comforted me and bid me farewell. i lay silently for three days after this, taking little or nothing. the prison governor often enquired whether i wished for anything to eat or drink, or whether he should say anything to the king. i thanked him, but said i required nothing. on august 25 the prison governor importuned me at once with his conversation, expressing his belief that i entertained an evil opinion of the queen. he inferred it from this: the day before he had said to me that his majesty had ordered that whatever i desired from the kitchen and cellar should be at once brought to me, to which i had answered, 'god preserve his majesty; he is a good sovereign; may he show clemency to evil men!' he had then said, 'the queen is also good,' to which i had made no answer. he had then tried to turn the conversation to the queen, and to hear if he could not draw out a word from me; he had said: 'the queen is sorry for you that you have been so led away. it grieves her that you have willed your own unhappiness; she is not angry; she pities you.' and when i made no answer, he repeated it again, saying from time to time, 'yes, yes, my dear lady, it is as i say.' i was annoyed at the talk, and said, 'dieu vous punisse!' 'ho, ho!' he said, misinterpreting my words, and calling karen, he went out and closed the doors. thus unexpectedly i got rid of him. it was ridiculous that the woman now wanted to oblige me to attend to what the prison governor had said. i begged her to remember that she was now not attending on a child (she had before been nurse to children). she could not so easily depart from her habit, and for a long time treated me as a child, until at length i made her comprehend that this was not required. when i perceived that my stomach desired food and could retain it, i became impatient that i could not die, but must go on living in such misery. i began to dispute with god, and wanted to justify myself with him. it seemed to me that i had not deserved such misfortune. i imagined myself far purer than david was from great sins, and yet he could say, 'verily i have cleansed my heart in vain, and washed my hands in innocency. for all the day long have i been plagued, and chastened every morning.' i thought i had not deserved so exceedingly great a chastisement as that which i was receiving. i said with job, 'show me wherefore thou contendest with me. is it good unto thee that thou shouldest oppress, that thou shouldest despise the work of thine hands?' i repeated all job's expressions when he tried to justify himself, and it seemed to me that i could justly apply them to myself. i cursed with him and jeremiah the day of my birth, and was very impatient; keeping it, however, to myself, and not expressing it aloud. if at times a word escaped me, it was in german (since i had generally read the bible in german), and therefore the woman did not understand what i was saying. i was very restless from coughing, and turned from side to side on the bed. the woman often asked me how i was. i begged her to leave me quiet and not to speak to me. i was never more comfortable than in the night when i observed that she was sleeping; then, unhindered, i could let my tears flow and give free vent to my thoughts. then i called god to account. i enumerated everything that i had innocently suffered and endured during my life, and i enquired of god whether i had deviated from my duty? whether i ought to have done less for my husband than i had done? whether the present was my recompense for not having left him in his adversity? whether i was to be now tortured, tormented, and scorned for this? whether all the indescribable misfortunes which i had endured with him were not enough, that i had been reserved for this irremediable and great trouble? i do not wish to conceal my unreasonableness. i will confess my sins. i asked if still worse misfortunes were in store for me for which i was to live? whether there was any affliction on earth to be compared to mine? i prayed god to put an end to my sufferings, for it redounded in no wise to his honour to let me live and be so tormented. i was after all not made of steel and iron, but of flesh and blood. i prayed that he would suggest to me, or inform me in a dream, what i was to do to shorten my misery. when i had long thus disputed and racked my brains, and had also wept so bitterly that it seemed as if no more tears remained, i fell asleep, but awoke with terror, for i had horrible fancies in my dreams, so that i feared to sleep, and began again to bewail my misery. at length god looked down upon me with his eye of mercy, so that on august 31 i had a night of quiet sleep, and just as day was dawning i awoke with the following words on my lips: 'my son, faint not when thou art rebuked of the lord; for whom the lord loveth he chasteneth, and scourgeth every son whom he receiveth.' i uttered the last words aloud, thinking that the woman was sleeping; possibly she awoke at the moment, and she asked me whether i wished for anything. i answered 'no.' 'you were speaking,' she said, 'and you mentioned your stockings; i could not understand the rest.' i replied, 'it must have been then in my sleep. i wish for nothing.' i then lay quietly thinking. i perceived and confessed my folly, that i, who am only dust and ashes, and decay, and am only fit for the dunghill, should call god to account, should dispute with my creator and his decrees, and should wish to censure and question them. i began to weep violently, and i prayed fervently and from my heart for mercy and forgiveness. while i had before boasted with david, and been proud of my innocence, now i confessed with him that before god there is none that doeth good; no, not one. while before i had spoken foolishly with job, i now said with him that i had 'uttered that i understood not; things too wonderful for me which i knew not.' i besought god to have mercy on me, relying on his great compassion. i cited moses, joshua, david, jeremiah, job, jonah, and others, all highly endowed men, and yet so weak that in the time of calamity they grumbled and murmured against god. i prayed that he would in his mercy forgive me, the frailest of earthen vessels, as i could not after all be otherwise than as he had created me. all things were in his power; it was easy to him to give me patience, as he had before imparted to me power and courage to endure hard blows and shocks. and i prayed god (after asking forgiveness of my sins) for nothing else than good patience to await the period of my deliverance. god graciously heard me. he pardoned not only my foolish sins, but he gave me that also for which i had not prayed, for day by day my patience increased. while i had often said with david, 'will the lord cast off for ever? and will he be favourable no more? is his mercy clean gone for ever? doth his promise fail for evermore? hath god forgotten to be gracious? hath he in anger shut up his tender mercies?' i now continued with him, 'this is my infirmity, but i will remember the years of the right hand of the most high.' i said also with psalm cxix.: 'it is good for me that i have been afflicted; that i might learn thy statutes.' the power of god was working within me. many consolatory sentences from the holy scriptures came into my mind; especially these:--'if so be that we suffer with christ, that we may be also glorified together.' also: 'we know that all things work together for good to them that love god.' also: 'my grace is sufficient for thee, for my strength is made perfect in weakness.' i thought especially often of christ's words in st. luke, 'shall not god avenge his own elect, which cry day and night unto him, though he bear long with them? i tell you that he will avenge them speedily.' i felt in my trouble how useful it is to have learned psalms and passages from the bible in youth. believe me, my children, that it has been a great consolation to me in my misery. therefore, cultivate now in your youth what your parents taught you in childhood; now, while trouble visits you less severely, so that when it comes, you may be ready to receive it and to comfort yourselves with the word of god. i began by degrees to feel more at peace, and to speak with the woman, and to answer the prison governor when he addressed me. the woman told me sundry things, and said that the prison governor had ordered her to tell him everything that i spoke or did, but that she was too wise to do such a thing; that she understood now better than she had done at first how to behave. he went out, but she remained shut up with me, and she would be true to me. and as it appeared that i did not at once believe what she said, she swore it solemnly, and prayed god to punish her if ever she acted falsely towards me. she stroked and patted my hand, and laid it against her cheek, and begged that i would believe her, using the words, 'my dearest lady, you can believe me; as truly as i am a child of god, i will never deceive you! now, is not that enough?' i answered, 'i will believe you;' thinking at the same time that i would do and say nothing but what she might divulge. she was very glad that she had induced me to speak, and said, 'when you lay so long silent, and i had no one with whom i could speak, i was sad, and determined that i would not long lead this life, even if they gave me double as much, for i should have become crazed. i was afraid for you, but still more for myself, that my head would give way.' she went on talking in this way, introducing also various merry stories. when she was young she had been in the service of a clergyman, who encouraged his domestics in the fear of god, and there she had learned prayers and sentences from the bible by heart; she knew also the children's primer, with the explanatory remarks, and sang tolerably well. she knew in some measure how she should walk before god and behave towards her neighbour; but she acted contrary to her knowledge--for she had a malicious temper. she was an elderly woman, but she liked to reckon herself as middle-aged. it appeared that in her youth she had been pretty and rather dissolute, since even now she could not lay aside her levity, but joked with the tower-warder, and the prison governor's coachman, a man of the name of peder, and with a prisoner named christian (more will presently be said with regard to this prisoner; he was free to go about the tower).[69] [69] when i took my meals, the woman had opportunity of talking with the three men. the coachman helped the tower-warder rasmus to bring up the food. [marginal note.] maren blocks often sent me a message through this coachman, besides various kinds of candied sugar and citron, letting me know from time to time whether anything new was occurring. all this had to be done through the woman. one day she came in when the doors were closed, and brought me a message from maren blocks, saying, 'my lady, if you will now write to your children in skaane, there is a safe opportunity for you to do so.' i answered, 'my children are not in skaane, yet if i can send a message to skaane, i have a friend there who will probably let me know how it fares with my children.' she gave me a piece of crumpled paper and a pencil. i wrote a few words to f. margrete rantzow,[e24] saying that she probably knew of my miserable condition, but supposing that her friendship was not lessened by it, and begging her to let me know how my children were, and from what cause they had come to skaane, as i had been informed was the case, though i did not believe it. this was what i wrote and gave to the woman. i heard nothing further of it, and i imagine that she had been ordered to find out to whom i wrote, &c. (they have been busy with the idea that some of you, my dear children, might come to skaane.) i sewed up the letter or slip of paper in such a manner that it could not be opened without making it apparent. i asked the woman several times if she knew whether the letter had been sent away. she always answered that she did not know, and that with a morose expression, and at last she said (when i once more asked her to enquire of peder), 'i suppose that the person who ought to have it has got it.' this answer made me reflect, and since then i asked no further. [e24] margrete rantzow was the sister of that birgitte rantzow to whom there is an allusion in the autobiography of leonora, where she relates the examination to which she was subjected at malmöe. margrete's husband was ove thott, a nobleman in skaane, who had taken an important part in the preparations for a rising against the swedes, in which corfitz ulfeldt was implicated. i remained all this time in bed, partly because i had nothing with which to beguile the time, and partly because of the cold, for no stove was placed in my prison till after the new year. occasionally i requested the woman to manage, through peder, that i should have a little silk or thread, that i might beguile the time by embroidering a piece of cloth that i had; but the answer i received was that he dared not. a long time afterwards it came to my knowledge that she had never asked peder for it. there was trouble enough, however, to occupy my thoughts without my needing to employ the time in handiwork. it was on september 2 that i heard some one moving early overhead, so i asked the woman if she knew whether there was a chamber there (for the woman went up every saturday with the night-stool). she answered that there was a prison there like this, and outside was the rack (which is also the case). she observed that i showed signs of fear, and she said, 'god help! whoever it is that is up there is most assuredly to be tortured.' i said, 'ask peder, when the doors are unlocked, whether there is a prisoner there.' she said she would do so, and meanwhile she kept asking herself and me who it might be. i could not guess; still less did i venture to confess my fear to her, which she nevertheless perceived, and therefore increased; for after she had spoken with peder, about noon,[70] and the doors were locked, she said, 'god knows who it is that is imprisoned there! peder would tell me nothing.' she said the same at the evening meal, but added that she had asked him, and that he would give no answer. i calmed myself, as i heard no more footsteps above, and i said, 'there is no prisoner up there.'[71] 'how do you know that?' she asked. 'i gather it from the fact,' i said, 'that since this morning i have heard no one above; i think if there were anyone there, they would probably give him something to eat.' she was not pleased that my mind was quieted, and therefore she and peder together endeavoured to trouble me. [70] i could not see when she spoke with any one, for she did so on the stairs. [marginal note.] [71] in the margin is added: 'there was none.' on the following day, when the doors were being locked after the mid-day dinner (which was generally peder's task), and he was pulling to my innermost door, which opens inside, he put in his head and said, 'casset!' she was standing beside the door, and appeared as if she had not rightly understood him, saying, 'peder spoke of some one who is in prison, but i could not understand who it is.' i understood him at once, but also behaved as if i had not. no one knows but god what a day and night i had. i turned it over in my mind. it often seemed to me that it might be that they had seized him, although cassetta was a subject of the king of spain; for if treason is suspected, there is no thought given as to whose subject the man suspected may be. i lay in the night secretly weeping and lamenting that the brave man should have come into trouble for my sake, because he had executed my lord's will, and had followed me to england, where we parted, i should say, when petcon and his company separated us and carried me away. i lay without sleep till towards day, then i fell into a dream which frightened me. i suppose my thoughts caused it. it came before me that cassetta was being tortured in the manner he had once described to me that a spaniard had been tortured: four cords were fastened round his hands and feet, and each cord was made secure in a corner of the room, and a man sometimes pulled one cord and sometimes another; and since it seemed to me that cassetta never screamed, i supposed that he was dead, and i shrieked aloud and awoke. the woman, who had long been awake, said: 'o god! dear lady, what ails you? are you ill? you have been groaning a long time, and now you screamed loudly.' i replied, 'it was in my dream; nothing ails me.' she said further, 'then you have had a bad dream?' 'that may well be,' i answered. 'oh, tell me what you have dreamt; i can interpret dreams.' i replied, 'when i screamed i forgot my dream, otherwise no one can interpret dreams better than i.' i thank god i do not regard dreams; and this dream had no other cause than what i have said. when the door was locked after the mid-day meal, the woman said of herself (for i asked no further respecting the prisoners), 'there is no one imprisoned there; shame on peder for his nonsense!' i asked him who was imprisoned there, and he laughed at me heartily. 'there is no one there, so let your mind be at peace.' i said, 'if my misfortunes were to involve others, it would be very painful to me.' thus matters went on till the middle of september, and then two of our servants were brought as prisoners and placed in arrest; one nils kaiberg, who had acted as butler, and the other frans, who had been in our service as a lacquey. after having been kept in prison for a few weeks and examined they were set at liberty. at the same time two frenchmen were brought as prisoners: an old man named la rosche, and a young man whose name i do not know. la rosche was brought to the tower and was placed in the witch-cell; a feather-bed had been thrown down, and on this he lay; for some months he was never out of his clothes. his food consisted of bread and wine; he refused everything else. he was accused of having corresponded with corfitz, and of having promised the king of france that he would deliver crooneborg into his hands.[72] this information had been given by hannibal sehested, who was at that time in france, and he had it from a courtesan who was then intimate with hannibal, but had formerly been in connection with la rosche, and probably afterwards had quarrelled with him. there was no other proof in favour of the accusation. probably suspicion had been raised by the fact that this la rosche, with the other young man, had desired to see me when i was in arrest in dover, which had been permitted, and they had paid me their respects. it is possible that he had wished to speak with me and to tell me what he had heard in london, and which, it seemed to him, excited no fears in me. but as i was playing at cards with some ladies who had come to look at me, he could not speak with me; so he asked me whether i had the book of plays which the countess of pembroke had published.[e25] i replied, 'no'. he promised to send it me, and as i did not receive it, i think he had written in it some warning to me, which braten afterwards turned to his advantage. [72] did not this accord well with the statement that my lord had offered the kingdom of denmark to two potentates? [marginal note.] [e25] the book in question is probably philip sidney's work, 'the countess of pembroke's arcadia,' a famous book of its time, which leonora, who does not seem to have known it, has understood to be a book by the countess of pembroke. it is true, however, that philip's sister, mary sidney, countess of pembroke, had translated a french play, antonius (1592, and again 1595). however all this may be, la rosche suffered innocently, and could prove upon oath that he had never spoken with my lord in his life, and still less had corresponded with him.[73] in short, after some months of innocent suffering, he was set at liberty and sent back to france. the other young man was confined in an apartment near the servants' hall. he had only been apprehended as a companion to the other, but no further accusation was brought against him.[e26] at first, when these men were imprisoned, there was a whispering and talking between the prison governor and the woman, and also between peder and her; the prison governor moreover himself locked my door. i plainly perceived that there was something in the wind, but i made no enquiries. peder at length informed the woman that they were two frenchmen, and he said something about the affair, but not as it really was. shortly before they were set at liberty the prison governor said, 'i have two parle mi franço in prison; what they have done i know not.' i made no further enquiries, but he jested and said, 'now i can learn french.' 'that will take time,' said i. [73] in the margin is noted: 'i had never seen la rosche nor his companion till i did so at dover.' [e26] la roche tudesquin had some time been in the danish army, but had returned to france when hannibal sehested, while in paris as ambassador from the king of denmark, received information from a certain demoiselle langlois that la roche was implicated in a conspiracy for surrendering the principal danish fortresses to a foreign prince. he and a friend of his, jaques beranger, were arrested in brussels in september 1663, but not, as leonora says, immediately brought to copenhagen. the spanish government did not consent to their extradition till the following year, and they were not placed in the blue tower till june 1664. la roche seems to have been guilty of peculation while in the danish service, but the accusation of treason seems to have been unfounded. in the same month of september died count rantzow. he did not live to see the execution of an effigy, which he so confidently had hoped for, being himself the one who first had introduced this kind of mockery in these countries.[e27] [e27] in the ms. a pen is drawn through this paragraph, of which the contents were to form part of the preface. the date of count rantzow is moreover not correctly given; he died on november 8, five days before the execution of ulfeldt's effigy. on october 9 our princess anna sophia was betrothed to the electoral prince of saxony. on the morning of the day on which the festivities were to take place i said to the woman, 'to-day we shall fast till evening.' for i thought they would not think of me, and that i should not receive any of the remains until the others had been treated, at any rate, to dinner. she wished to know the reason why we were to fast. i answered, 'you shall know it this evening.' i lay and thought of the change of fortune: that i, who twenty-eight years ago had enjoyed as great state as the princess, should now be lying a captive, close by the very wall where my bridal chamber had been; thank god, that it afflicted me but little. towards noonday, when the trumpets and kettledrums were sounding, i said, 'now they are conducting the bride across the square to the great hall.' 'how do you know that?' said the woman. 'i know it,' i said; 'my spirit tells me so.' 'what sort of spirit is that?' she asked. 'that i cannot tell you,' i replied. and as the trumpets blew every time that a new course of dishes and sweets were produced, i mentioned it; and before they were served the kettledrums were sounded. and as they were served on the square in front of the kitchen, i said each time, 'we shall have no dinner yet.' when it was nearly three o'clock, the woman said, 'my stomach is quite shrunk up; when shall we have dinner?' i answered, 'not for a long time yet; the second course is only now on the table; we shall have something at about seven o'clock, and not before.' it was as i said. about half-past seven the prison governor came and excused himself, saying that he had asked for the dinner, but that all hands in the kitchen were occupied. the woman, who had always entertained the idea that i was a witch, was now confirmed in her opinion.[74] [74] in the margin is added: 'the prison governor told the woman about the magnificence of the festivity and peder also told her of it, so that it seemed to her that i could know somewhat from customs of former times.' on the following day knights were dubbed, and each time when the trumpets blew i did not only say, 'now they have made a knight' (for i could hear the herald calling from the window, though i could not understand what he said), but even who had been made a knight; for this i guessed, knowing who were in the council who were not knights before; and because it was as i said, the woman believed for certain that i was an enchantress. i perceived this, as she put questions to me concerning things which i could not know, and to which i often gave equivocal answers. i thought perhaps that the fear she had that i could know what would happen might hinder her from entangling me with lies. since then she whispered much less with the prison governor. she told of a person whom she regarded as a witch, whose power, however, consisted in nothing else than in the science of curing french pox, and causing the miscarriage of bad women, and other improprieties. she had had much intercourse with this woman. some time after the departure of the electoral prince it was determined that a wooden effigy should be subjected to capital punishment, and on the forenoon my chamber was opened, swept, cleaned, and strewed with sand.[75] when it was opened, towards noon, and the woman had been on the stairs, talking with the coachman, she came in, and walking up to my bed, stood as if startled, and said hurriedly, 'oh, jesus! lady, they are bringing your husband!' the news terrified me, which she observed; for as she uttered it, i raised myself in the bed and stretched out my right arm, and was not able to draw it back again at once. perhaps this vexed her, for i remained sitting in this way and not speaking a word; so she said, 'my dearest lady, it is your husband's effigy.' to this i said, 'may god punish you!' she then gave full vent to her evil tongue, and expressed her opinion that i deserved punishment, and not she, and used many unprofitable words. i was quite silent, for i was very weak, and scarcely knew where i was. in the afternoon i heard a great murmuring of people in the inner palace square, and i saw the effigy brought across the street by the executioner on a wheelbarrow, and placed in the tower below my prison. [75] the queen wished that this wooden statue should be brought into my outer chamber, and so placed in front of the door that it would tumble into me when my inner door was opened; but the king would not permit it. [addition in the margin.] the next morning, at about nine o'clock, the effigy was wofully treated by the executioner, but no sound came from it. at the mid-day meal the prison governor told the woman how the executioner had cut off its head, and had divided the body into four quarters, which were then placed on four wheels, and attached to the gallows, while the head was exhibited on the town hall. the prison governor stood in the outer chamber, but he narrated all this in a loud tone, so that i might hear it, and repeated it three times.[e28] i lay and thought what i should do; i could not show that i made but little of it, for then something else perhaps would be devised to trouble me, and in the hurry i could think of nothing else than saying to the woman with sadness, 'oh, what a shame! speak to the prison governor and tell him to beg the king to allow the effigy to be taken down and not to remain as it is!' the woman went out, and spoke softly with the prison governor; but he answered aloud and said, 'yes, indeed, taken down! there will be more put up; yes, more up;' and kept on repeating these words a good while. [e28] the execution took place on november 13. the king's order concerning it to the prison governor, jochum waltpurger, exists still. it is to this effect: 'v. g. t., know that you have to command the executioner in our name, that to-day, november 13, he is to take the effigy of corfitz, formerly called count of ulfeldt, from the blue tower where it is now, and bring it on a car to the ordinary place in the square in front of the castle; and when he has come to the place of justice, strike off the right hand and the head, whereafter he is to divide the body into four parts on the spot, and carry them away with him, whilst the head is to be placed on a spike on the blue tower for remembrance and execration.' the order was afterwards altered in this particular, that the head was to be placed on the town hall, and the four parts of the body one at each of the gates of the city. the executioner was subsequently ordered to efface the arms of corfitz and his wife wherever they occurred in the town; for instance, on their pews in the churches. leonora states in her autobiography that the prison governor some time after told her that the queen had desired that the effigy should be placed in the antechamber of leonora's prison, and that she should be ordered to see it there; but that the king refused his consent. i lay silently thinking; i said nothing, but indulged in my own reflections. sometimes i consoled myself, and hoped that this treatment of the effigy was a token that they could not get the man; then again fear asserted its sway. i did not care for the dishonour, for there are too many instances of great men in france whose effigies have been burnt by the executioner, and who subsequently arrived again at great honour. when the door was unlocked again for the evening meal, there was a whispering between the prison governor and the woman. a lacquey was also sent, who stood outside the outer door and called the prison governor to him (my bed stands just opposite the doors, and thus when all three doors are opened i can see the staircase door, which is the fourth). i do not know what the woman can have told the prison governor, for i had not spoken all day, except to ask her to give me what i required; i said, moreover, nothing more than this for several days, so that the prison governor grew weary of enquiring longer of the woman; for she had nothing to communicate to him respecting me, and she tormented him always with her desire to get away; she could not longer spend her life in this way. but as she received no other consolation from him than that he swore to her that she would never get away as long as she lived, for some days she did nothing else than weep; and since i would not ask her why she wept, she came one day up to my bedside crying, and said, 'i am a miserable being!' i asked her why? what ailed her? 'i ail enough,' she answered; 'i have been so stupid, and have allowed myself to be shut up here for the sake of money, and now you are cross with me and will not speak with me.' i said, 'what am i to say? you wish perhaps to have something to communicate to the prison governor?' upon this she began to call down curses on herself if she had ever repeated to the prison governor a word that i had said or done; she wished i could believe her and speak with her; why should she be untrue to me? we must at any rate remain together as long as we lived. she added many implorations as to my not being angry; i had indeed cause to be so; she would in future give me no cause for anger, for she would be true to me. i thought, 'you shall know no more than is necessary.' i let her go on talking and relating the whole history of her life--such events as occur among peasants. she had twice married cottagers, and after her last widowhood she had been employed as nurse to the wife of holger wind, so that she had no lack of stories. by her first husband she had had a child, who had never reached maturity, and her own words led me to have a suspicion that she had herself helped to shorten the child's days; for once when she was speaking of widows marrying again, she said among other things, 'those who wish to marry a second time ought not to have children, for in that case the husband is never one with the wife.' i had much to say against this, and i asked her what a woman was to do who had a child by her first husband. she answered quickly, 'put a pillow on its head.' this i could only regard as a great sin, and i explained it to her. 'what sin could there be,' she said, 'when the child was always sickly, and the husband angry in consequence?' i answered as i ought, and she seemed ill at ease. such conversation as this gave me no good reason to believe in the fidelity which she had promised me. the woman then took a different tack, and brought me word from the coachman of all that was occurring. maren blocks sent me a prayer-book through her, and that secretly, for i was allowed no book of any kind, nor any needles and pins; respecting these the woman had by the queen's order taken an oath to the prison governor. thus the year passed away. on new year's day, 1664, the woman wished me a happy year. i thanked her, and said, 'that is in god's hands.' 'yes,' she said, 'if he wills it.' 'and if he does not will it,' i answered, 'it will not be, and then he will give me patience to bear my heavy cross.' 'it is heavy,' she said, 'even to me; what must it not be to you? may it only remain as it is, and not be worse with you!' it seemed to me as if it could not be worse, but better; for death, in whatever form, would put an end to my misery. 'yes,' she said, 'is it not all one how one dies?' 'that is true,' i answered; 'one dies in despair, another with free courage.' the prison governor did not say a word to me that day. the woman had a long talk with the coachman; she no doubt related to him our conversation. in the month of march the prison governor came in and assumed a particularly gentle manner, and said, among other things, 'now you are a widow; now you can tell the state of all affairs.' i answered him with a question, 'can widows tell the state of all affairs?' he laughed and said, 'i do not mean that; i mean this treason!' i answered, 'you can ask others about it who know of it; i know of no treason.' and as it seemed to him that i did not believe that my husband was dead,[e29] he took out a newspaper and let me read it, perhaps chiefly because my husband was badly treated in it. i did not say much about it--nothing more than, 'writers of newspapers do not always speak the truth.' this he might take as he liked. [e29] the date of ulfeldt's death is variously given as the 20th or the 27th of february, 1664. the latter date is given in a letter from his son christian to sperling, and elsewhere, (for instance, in a short latin biography of ulfeldt called 'machinationes cornificii ulefeldii,' published soon after); but the better evidence points to the earlier date. christian ulfeldt was not, it seems, at basle at the time, and may have made a mistake as to the date, though he indicates the right day of the week (a saturday), or he may have had reason for purposely making a misleading statement. in copenhagen the report of his death was long suspected to be a mere trick. i lay there silently hoping that it might be so, that my husband had by death escaped his enemies; and i thought with the greatest astonishment that i should have lived to see the day when i should wish my lord dead; then sorrowful thoughts took possession of me, and i did not care to talk. the woman imagined that i was sad because my lord was dead, and she comforted me, and that in a reasonable manner; but the remembrance of past times was only strengthened by her consolatory remarks, and for a long time my mind could not again regain repose. your condition, my dearest children, troubled me. you had lost your father, and with him property and counsel. i am captive and miserable, and cannot help you, either with counsel or deed; you are fugitives and in a foreign land. for my three eldest sons i am less anxious than for my daughters and my youngest son.[e30] i sat up whole nights in my bed, for i could not sleep, and when i have headache i cannot lay my head on the pillow. from my heart i prayed to god for a gracious deliverance. it has not pleased god to grant this, but he gave me patience to bear my heavy cross. [e30] ulfeldt and leonora had twelve children in all, of which seven were alive when corfitz died; and it so happened as, explained before, that the youngest, leo, was the only one who continued the name. it is from him that count waldstein, the owner of the ms., is descended. my cross was so much heavier to me at first, as it was strictly forbidden to give me either knife, scissors, thread, or anything that might have beguiled the time to me. afterwards, when my mind became a little calmer, i began to think of something wherewith to occupy myself; and as i had a needle, as i have before mentioned, i took off the ribands of my night-dress, which were broad flesh-coloured taffeta. with the silk i embroidered the piece of cloth that i had with different flowers worked in small stitches. when this was finished, i drew threads out of my sheet, twisted them, and sewed with them. when this was nearly done, the woman said one day, 'what will you do now when this is finished?' i answered, 'oh, i shall get something to do; if it is brought to me by the ravens, i shall have it.' then she asked me if i could do anything with a broken wooden spoon. i answered, 'perhaps you know of one?' after having laughed a while, she drew one forth, the bowl of which was half broken off. 'i could indeed make something with that,' i said, 'if i had only a tool for the purpose. could you persuade the prison governor or peder the coachman to lend me a knife?' 'i will beg for one,' she answered, 'but i know well that they will not.' that she said something about it to the prison governor i could perceive from his answer, for he replied aloud, 'she wants no knife; i will cut her food for her. she might easily injure herself with one.'[76] [76] in the margin is this note: 'once when i asked the prison governor for some scissors to cut my nails, he answered, and that loudly, "what! what! her nails shall grow like eagles' claws, and her hair like eagles' feathers!" i know well what i thought--if i had only claws and wings!' what she said to the coachman i know not (this i know, that she did not desire me to obtain a knife, for she was afraid of me, as i afterwards discovered). the woman brought the answer from the coachman that he dared not for his life. i said, 'if i can but have a piece of glass, i will see what i can make that is useful with the piece of spoon.' i begged her to look in a corner in the outermost room, where all rubbish was thrown; this she did, and found not only glass, but even a piece of a pewter cover which had belonged to a jug. by means of the glass i formed the spoon handle into a pin with two prongs, on which i made riband, which i still have in use (the silk for this riband i took from the border of my night-dress). i bent the piece of pewter in such a manner that it afterwards served me as an inkstand. it also is still in my keeping. as a mark of fidelity, the woman brought me at the same time a large pin, which was a good tool for beginning the division between the prongs, which i afterwards scraped with glass. she asked me whether i could think of anything to play with, as the time was so long to her. i said, 'coax peder, and he will bring you a little flax for money and a distaff.' 'what!' she answered, 'shall i spin? the devil may spin! for whom should i spin?' i said, 'to beguile the time, i would spin, if i only had what is necessary for it.' 'that you may not have, dear lady,' said she; 'i have done the very utmost for you in giving you what i have done.' 'if you wish something to play with,' said i, 'get some nuts, and we will play with them.' she did so, and we played with them like little children. i took three of the nuts, and made them into dice, placing two kinds of numbers on each, and we played with these also. and that we might know the {circled dot} which i made with the large pin,[77] i begged her to procure for me a piece of chalk, which she did, and i rubbed chalk into it. these dice were lost, i know not how; my opinion is that the coachman got possession of them, perhaps at the time that he cheated the woman out of the candles and sugar left. for he came to her one day at noon quite out of breath, and said she was to give him the candles and the sugar which he had brought her from maren blocks, and whatever there was that was not to be seen, as our quarters were to be searched. she ran out with the things under her apron, and never said anything to me about it until the door was locked. i concealed on myself, as well as i was able, my pin, my silk, and the pieces of sewing with the needle and pin. nothing came of the search, and it was only a _ruse_ of the coachman, in order to get the candles that were left, for which she often afterwards abused him, and also for the sugar. [77] i removed my nails with the needle, scratching them till they came away. i let the nail of the little finger of my right hand grow, in order to see how long it would become; but i knocked it off unawares, and i still have it. [marginal note.] i was always at work, so long as i had silk from my night-dress and stockings, and i netted on the large pin, so that it might last a long time. i have still some of the work in my possession, as well as the bobbins, which i made out of wooden pegs. by means of bags filled with sand i made cords which i formed into a bandage (which is worn out), for i was not allowed a corset, often as i begged for one; the reason why is unknown to me. i often beguiled the time with the piece of chalk, painting with it on a piece of board and on the table, wiping it away again, and making rhymes and composing hymns. the first of these, however, i composed before i had the chalk. i never sang it, but repeated it to myself. a morning hymn, to the tune, 'ieg wil din priiss ud synge'[e31]:- [e31] this hymn-tune is still in use in the danish church. i god's praise i will be singing in every waking hour. my grateful tribute bringing to magnify his power; and his almighty love, his angel watchers sending, my couch with mercy tending, and watching from above. ii in salt drops streaming ever the tears flowed from my eyes; i often thought i never should see the morning rise. yet has the lord instilled sleep in his own good pleasure; and sleep in gracious measure has his command fulfilled. iii oh christ! lord of the living, thine armour place on me, which manly vigour giving, right valiant shall i be, 'gainst satan, death, and sin. and every carnal feeling, that nought may come concealing thy sway my heart within. iv help me! thy arms extending; my cross is hard and sore: support its heaviest ending, or i can bear no more. too much am i oppressed! my trust is almost waning with pain and vain complaining! thine arrows pierce my breast. v in mercy soothe the sorrow that weighs the fatherless; vouchsafe a happier morrow, and all my children bless! strength to their father yield, in their hard fate respect them, from enemies protect them; my strength, be thou their shield. vi i am but dust and ashes, yet one request i crave: let me not go at unawares into the silent grave. with a clear mind and breast my course in this world closing, let me, on thee reposing, pass to thy land of rest. i composed the following hymn in german and often sang it, as they did not understand german; a hymn, somewhat to the air of 'was ist doch auff dieser welt, das nicht fehlt?' &c.:- i reason speaketh to my soul: fret not soul, thou hast a better goal! it is not for thee restricted that with thee past should be all the wrongs inflicted. ii why then shouldst thou thus fret thee, anxiously, ever sighing, mournfully? thou canst not another sorrow change with this, for that is which shall be on the morrow. iii loss of every earthly gain bringeth pain; fresh courage seek to obtain! much was still superfluous ceded, nature's call after all makes but little needed. iv is the body captive here? do not fear: thou must not hold all too dear; thou art free--a captive solely; can no tower have the power thee to fetter wholly? v all the same is it at last when thou hast the long path of striving past, and thou must thy life surrender; death comes round, whether found on couch hard or tender. vi courage then, my soul, arise! heave no sighs that nought yet thy rest supplies! god will not leave thee in sorrow: well he knows when he chose help for thee to borrow. thus i peacefully beguiled the time, until doctor otto sperling[e32] was brought to the tower; his prison is below the 'dark church.' his fate is pitiable. when he was brought to the tower his feet and hands were chained in irons. the prison governor, who had formerly not been friendly with him, rejoiced heartily at the doctor's misfortune, and that he had fallen into his hands, so that the whole evening he did nothing but sing and hum. he said to the woman, 'my karen, will you dance? i will sing.' he left the doctor to pass the night in his irons. we could hear that a prisoner had been brought in from the murmuring, and the concourse of people, as well as from the locking of the prison, which was below mine (where iron bolts were placed against the door).[78] the joy exhibited by the prison governor excited my fear, also that he not only himself opened and shut my door, but that he prevented the woman from going out on the stairs, by leaning against the outermost door of my prison. the coachman stood behind the prison governor making signs; but as the prison governor turned from side to side, i could not rightly see him. [e32] dr. otto sperling, the elder, is often alluded to in the autobiography of leonora as 'notre vieillard;' he was a faithful friend of ulfeldt, and in 1654 he settled in hamburg, where he educated corfitz's youngest son leo. he was implicated in ulfeldt's intrigues, and a compromising correspondence between them fell into the hands of the spanish government, which placed it at the disposal of hannibal sehested when he passed through the netherlands on his way home from his mission to france in 1663. in order to obtain possession of sperling's person, the danish authorities used the ruse of sending a danish officer to his house in hamburg, and request him to visit professionally a sick person just across the danish frontier, paying in advance a considerable fee. sperling, who did not suspect the transaction, was arrested immediately on crossing the boundary, and brought to copenhagen. he was condemned to death july 28, 1664; but the sentence was commuted, and he died in the blue tower december 25, 1681. otto sperling, jun., to whom leonora sent the ms. of her autobiography, and who often visited her at maribo, was his son. [78] the prison cell is outside that in which the doctor is immured. it is quite dark where he is. [note in the margin.] on the following day, at about eight o'clock, i heard the iron bolts drawn and the door below opened; i could also hear that the inner prison was opened (the doctor was then taken out for examination). the woman said, 'there is certainly a prisoner there; who can it be?' i said: 'it seems indeed that a prisoner has been brought in, for the prison governor is so merry. you will find it out from peder; if not to-day, another time. i pity the poor man, whoever he may be.' (god knows my heart was not as courageous as i appeared.) when my door was opened at noon (which was after twelve o'clock, for they did not open my door till the doctor had been conveyed to his cell again), the prison governor was still merrier than usual, and danced about and sang, 'cheer up! courage! it will come to pass!' when he had cut up the dinner, he leaned against the outer door of my prison and prevented the woman from going out, saying to me, 'i am to salute you from the major-general von alfeldt; he says all will now soon be well, and you may console yourself. yes, yes, all will now soon be well!' i behaved as if i received his words in their apparent meaning, and i begged him to thank the major-general for his consolation; and then he repeated the same words, and added, 'yes, indeed! he said so.' i replied with a question: 'what may it arise from that the major-general endeavours to cheer me? may god cheer him in return! i never knew him before.' to this the prison governor made no answer at all. while the prison governor was talking with me, the coachman was standing behind him, and showed by gestures how the prisoner had been bound hand and foot, that he had a beard and a calotte on his head, and a handkerchief round his neck. this could not make me wiser than i was, but it could indeed grieve me still more. at the evening meal the woman was again prevented speaking with the coachman, and the coachman again made the same signs, for the prison governor was standing in his usual place; but he said nothing, nor did i.[79] on the following morning the doctor was again brought up for examination, and the prison governor behaved as before. as he stood there ruminating, i asked him who the prisoner below was. he answered that there was no one below. i let the matter rest for the time, and as we proceeded to speak of other things, the woman slipped out to peder, who told her quickly who it was. some days went by in the same manner. when sentence had been pronounced on the doctor, and his execution was being postponed,[80] and i said nothing to the prison governor but when he accosted me, he came in and said: 'i see that you can judge that there is a prisoner below. it is true, but i am forbidden to tell you who it is!' i answered: 'then i do not desire to know.' he began to feel some compassion, and said: 'don't fret, my dear lady; it is not your husband, nor your son, nor daughter, nor brother-in-law, nor any relative; it is a bird which ought to sing,[81] and will not, but he must, he must!' i said: 'i ought to be able to guess from your words who it is. if the bird can sing what can ring in their ears, he will probably do so; but he cannot sing a melody which he does not know!' upon this he was silent, and turned away and went out. [79] in the margin is added: 'when the prison governor was singing to himself on those first days, he said, "you must sing, my bird; where is your velvet robe?" laughing at the same time most heartily. i inferred from that song who it was.' [80] in the margin is added: 'in order to grieve the doctor and to frighten him, the prison governor unlocked his cell early on the morning after sentence had been passed, and behaved as if the priest were coming to him.' [81] that is, give information. by degrees all became quiet with regard to the doctor, and no more was said about the matter, and the prison governor came in from time to time when the door was opened, and often made himself merry with the woman, desiring her to make a curtsey to him, and showing her how she should place her feet and carry her body, after the fashion of a dancing-master. he related also different things that had occurred in former times, some of them evidently intended to sadden me with the recollection of my former prosperity: all that had happened at my wedding, how the deceased king had loved me. he gave long accounts of this, not forgetting how i was dressed, and all this he said for the benefit of no one else but myself, for the woman meanwhile stood on the stairs talking with the tower warder, the coachman, and the prisoner christian. maren blocks, who constantly from time to time sent me messages and kept me informed of what was going on, also intimated to me that she was of opinion that i could practise magic, for she wrote me a slip of paper[82] with the request that i should sow dissension between the lady carisse and an alfelt, explaining at length that alfelt was not worthy of her, but that skinckel was a brave fellow (carisse afterwards married skinckel). as the letter was open, the coachman knew its contents, and the woman also. i was angry at it, but i said nothing. the woman could easily perceive that i was displeased at it, and she said, 'lady, i know well what maren wishes.' i replied, 'can you help her in it?' 'no,' she declared, and laughed heartily. i asked what there was to laugh at. 'i am laughing,' said she, 'because i am thinking of the clever cathrine, of whom i have spoken before, who once gave advice to some one desiring to sow discord between good friends.' i enquired what advice she had given. she said that they must collect some hairs in a place where two cats had been fighting, and throw these between the two men whom it was desired to set at variance. i enquired whether the trick succeeded. she replied, 'it was not properly tried.' 'perhaps,' i said, 'the cats were not both black?' 'ho, ho!' said she, 'i see that you know how it should be done.' 'i have heard more than that,' i replied; 'show her the trick, and you will get some more sugar-candy, but do not let yourself be again cheated of it by peder as you were lately. seriously, however, peder must beg maren blocks to spare me such requests!' that she as well as maren believed that i could practise magic was evident in many ways. my own remarks often gave cause for this. i remembered how my deceased lord used to say (when in his younger days he wished to make anyone imagine that he understood the black art), that people feared those of whom they had this opinion, and never ventured to do them harm. it happened one day at the mid-day meal, when the prison governor was sitting talking with me, that the woman carried on a long conversation on the stairs with the others respecting the witches who had been seized in jutland, and that the supreme judge in jutland at that time sided with the witches and said they were not witches.[e33] when the door was locked we had much talk about witches, and she said, 'this judge is of your opinion, that it is a science and not magic.' i said, as i had before said, that some had more knowledge than others, and that some used their knowledge to do evil; although it might happen naturally and not with the devil's art, still it was not permitted in god's word to use nature for evil purposes; it was also not fair to give the devil the honour which did not belong to him. we talked on till she grew angry, laid down and slept a little, and thus the anger passed away. [82] in the margin is added: 'peder had some time before thrown into me eight ducats in a paper, saying, as he closed the door, "your maid!" and as the woman knew it, i gave her one of them and peder one. i know not whether my maid had given him more; she had many more concealed on her person.' [e33] the name of this judge was villum lange, and it is a curious coincidence that a letter from him of a somewhat later time (1670), has been found in one of the archives, in which he speaks of this very affair, and in which he expresses himself very much in the sense here indicated. some days after she said: 'your maid is sitting below in the prison governor's room, and asks with much solicitude after you and what you are doing. i have told peder of what you have sewed, and of the ribbons you have made, but he has promised solemnly not to mention it to anyone except to maren, lars' daughter; she would like so much to be here with you.' i replied: 'it would be no good for her to sit with me in prison; it would only destroy her own happiness; for who knows how long i may live?' i related of this same waiting-maid that she had been in my employ since she was eight years old, all that i had had her taught, and how virtuous she was. to this she replied, 'the girl will like to see what you have sewed; you shall have it again directly.' i handed it to her, and the first time the doors were unlocked she gave it to the prison governor, who carried it to the queen. (two years afterwards the prison governor told me this himself, and that when the king had said, 'she might have something given her to do,' the queen had answered, 'that is not necessary. it is good enough for her! she has not wished for anything better.') i often enquired for the piece of sewing, but was answered that peder was not able to get it back from the girl. late in the autumn the prison governor began to sicken: he was ill and could not do much, so he let the coachman frequently come alone to lock and unlock both the doctor's door below and mine. the iron bars were no longer placed before the outermost prison below, but four doors were locked upon me. one day, when peder was locking up, he threw me a skein of silk,[83] saying, 'make me some braces for my breeches out of it.' i appeared not to have heard, and asked the woman what it was that he had said. she repeated the same words. i behaved as if i did not believe it, and laughed, saying, 'if i make the braces for him, he will next wish that you should fasten them to his breeches.' a good deal of absurd chatter followed. as meal-time was approaching, i said to the woman, 'give peder back his silk, and say that i have never before made a pair of braces; i do not know how they are made.' (such things i had to endure with smiles.) [83] in the margin is added: 'as my linen was washed in the servants' hall, it once happened that a maid there must unawares have forgotten a whole skein of thread in a clean chemise, at which i said to the woman: "you see how the ravens bring me thread!" she was angry and abused me; i laughed, and answered her jestingly.' at the time that our former palace here in the city (which we had ceded by a deed when we were imprisoned at borringholm) was pulled down, and a pillar (or whatever it is) was raised to my lord's shame, the prison governor came in when he unlocked at noon, and seated himself on my bed (i was somewhat indisposed at the time), and began to talk of former times (i knew already that they were pulling down the palace), enumerating everything the loss of which he thought might sadden me, even to my coach and the horses. 'but,' he said, 'all this is nothing compared with the beautiful palace!' (and he praised it to the utmost); 'it is now down, and not one stone is left on another. is not that a pity, my dear lady?' i replied: 'the king can do what he will with his own; the palace has not been ours for some time.' he continued bewailing the beautiful house and the garden buildings which belonged to it. i asked him what had become of solomon's temple? not a stone of that beautiful building was now to be found; not even could the place be pointed out where the temple and costly royal palace had once stood. he made no answer, hung his head, and pondered a little, and went out. i do not doubt he has reported what i said. since that day he began to behave himself more and more courteously, saying even that his majesty had ordered him to ask me whether i wished for anything from the kitchen, the cellar, or the confectioner, as it should be given me; that he had also been ordered to bring me twice a week confectionery and powdered sugar, which was done.[84] i begged the prison governor to thank the king's majesty for the favour shown me, and praised, as was proper, the king's goodness most humbly. the prison governor would have liked to praise the queen had he only been able to find cause for so doing; he said, 'the queen is also a dear queen!' i made no answer to this. he came also some time afterwards with an order from the king that i should ask for any clothes and linen i required: this was written down, and i received it later, except a corset, and that the queen would not allow me. i never could learn the cause of this. the queen also was not well pleased that i obtained a bottle-case with six small bottles, in which was sprinkling-water, headwater, and a cordial. all this, she said, i could well do without; but when she saw that in the lid there was an engraving representing the daughter of herod with the head of st. john on a charger, she laughed and said, 'that will be a cordial to her!' this engraving set me thinking that herodias had still sisters on earth. [84] in the margin is added: 'i wrote different things from the bible on the paper in which the sugar was given me. my ink-bottle was made of the piece of pewter lid which the woman had found, the ink was made from the smoke of the candle collected on a spoon, and the pen from a fowl's feather cut by the piece of glass. i have this still in my possession.' the prison governor continued his politeness, and lent me at my desire a german bible, saying at the same time, 'this i do out of kindness, i have no order to do so; the queen does not know it.' 'i believe that,' i replied, and thanked him; but i am of opinion that the king knew it well. some days afterwards maren blocks sent for her prayer-book back again. i had taught the woman a morning and evening prayer by heart, and all the morning and evening hymns, which she repeated to me night and morning. i offered to teach her to read if she would procure an a b c. she laughed at this jeeringly, and said, 'people would think me crazed if i were to learn to read now.' i tried to persuade her by argument, in order that i might thus get something to beguile the time with; but far from it; she knew as much as she needed. i sought everywhere for something to divert my thoughts, and as i perceived that the potter, when he had placed the stove, had left a piece of clay lying outside in the other room, i begged the woman to give it to me. the prison governor saw that she had taken it, but did not ask the reason. i mixed the clay with beer, and made various things, which i frequently altered again into something else; among other things i made the portraits of the prison governor and the woman, and small jugs and vases. and as it occurred to me to try whether i were able to make anything on which i could place a few words to the king, so that the prison governor should not observe it (for i knew well that the woman did not always keep silence; she would probably some time say what i did), i moulded a goblet over the half of the glass in which wine was brought to me, made it round underneath, placed it on three knobs, and wrote the king's name on the side--underneath the bottom these words ... il y a un ... un auguste.[e34] [e34] the words 'under the bottom ... to ... auguste,' inclusive, have been struck out in the ms., and it has been impossible to read more than what here is rendered. in the autobiography, where the same occurrence is related, leonora says that she put on it the names both of the king and of the queen; that on the bottom she wrote to the queen, and that it was the queen who discovered the inscription; from which it would appear that the queen at all events was included in her ingeniously contrived supplique. i kept it for a long time, not knowing in what way i could manage to get it reported what i was doing, since the woman had solemnly sworn to me not to mention it: so i said one day: 'does the prison governor ask you what i am doing?' 'yes, indeed he does,' she replied, 'but i say that you are doing nothing but reading the bible.' i said: 'you may ingratiate yourself in his favour and say that i am making portraits in clay; there is no reason that he should not know that.' she did so, and three days after he came to me, and was quite gentle, and asked how i passed my time. i answered, 'in reading the bible.' he expressed his opinion that i must weary of this. i said i liked at intervals to have something else to do, but that this was not allowed me. he enquired what i had wanted the clay for, which the woman had brought in to me; he had seen it when she had brought it in. i said, 'i have made some small trifles.' he requested to see them. so i showed him first the woman's portrait; that pleased him much, as it resembled her; then a small jug, and last of all the goblet. he said at once: 'i will take all this with me and let the king see it; you will perhaps thus obtain permission to have somewhat provided you for pastime,'[85] i was well satisfied. this took place at the mid-day meal. at supper he did not come in. the next day he said to me: 'well, my dear lady, you have nearly brought me into trouble!' 'how so?' i asked. 'i took the king a petition from you! the queen did not catch sight of it, but the king saw it directly and said, "so you are now bringing me petitions from leonora?" i shrank back with terror, and said, "gracious king! i have brought nothing in writing!" "see here!" exclaimed the king, and he pointed out to me some french writing at the bottom of the goblet. the queen asked why i had brought anything written that i did not understand. i asserted that i had paid no attention to it, and begged for pardon. the good king defended me, and the _invention_ did not please him ill. yes, yes, my dear lady! be assured that the king is a gracious sovereign to you, and if he were certain that your husband were dead, you would not remain here!' i was of opinion that my enemies well knew that my husband was dead. i felt that i must therefore peacefully resign myself to the will of god and the king. [85] in the margin is added: 'the prison governor told me afterwards that the clay things were placed in the king's art-cabinet, besides a rib of mutton, which i used as a knife, which he also gave to the king; hoping (he said) in this way to obtain a knife for me.' i received nothing which might have beguiled the time to me, except that which i procured secretly, and the prison governor has since then never enquired what i was doing, though he came in every evening and sat for some time talking with me; he was weak, and it was a labour to him to mount so many steps. thus we got through the year together. the prison governor gradually began to feel pity for me, and gave me a book which is very pretty, entitled 'wunderwerck.'[e35] it is a folio, rather old, and here and there torn; but i was well pleased with the gift. and as he sat long of an evening with me, frequently till nine o'clock, talking with me, the malicious woman was irritated.[86] she said to peder, 'if i were in the prison governor's place, i would not trust her in the way he does. he is weak; what if she were now to run out and take the knife which is lying on the table outside, and were to stab him? she could easily take my life, so i sit in there with my life hanging on a thread.' [e35] this book was doubtless the german translation of conr. lycosthenes' work, 'prodigiorum ac ostentorum chronicon.' it is an amusing illustrated volume, much read in its time. the translation in question appeared in basle, 1557. [86] in the margin is added: 'the day that the prison governor had taken away the clay things the woman was very angry with me, because i gave him a small jug which i had made; she said it was made in ridicule of her, the old slut with the jug! i ought to have given him the cat which i had also made. i said, "i can still do so."' absurd as the idea was, the knife was not only in consequence hidden under the table, but the prison governor for a long time did not venture to come to me, but sat outside by my outermost door and talked there just as long as before, so that i was no gainer.[87] (i did not know what the woman had said till three years afterwards, when it was mentioned by the prisoner christian, who had heard the woman's chatter.) [87] in the margin is added: 'at first when the prison governor's fear was so great, he did not venture to be alone in the outer room. peder and the tower warder were not allowed both to leave him at the same time. i did not know the reason for this.' one day when the prison governor intended to go to the holy communion, he stood outside my outermost door and took off his hat, and begged for my forgiveness; he knew, he said, that he had done much to annoy me, but that he was a servant. i answered, 'i forgive you gladly!' then he went away, and peder closed the door. the woman said something to peder about the prison governor, but i could not understand what. probably she was blaming the prison governor, for she was so angry that she puffed; she could not restrain her anger, but said: 'fye upon the old fool! the devil take him! i ought to beg pardon too? no' (she added with an oath), 'i would not do it for god's bitter death! no! no!' and she spat on the ground. i said afterwards: 'what does it matter to you that the prison governor asks me for my friendship? do you lose anything by it? if you will not live like a christian and according to the ordinances of the church, do not at any rate be angry with one who does. believe assuredly that god will punish you, if you do not repent of what evil you have done and will not be reconciled with your adversaries before you seek to be reconciled with god!' she thought that he had done nothing else than what he was ordered to do. i said, 'you good people know best yourselves what has been ordered you.' she asked, 'do i do anything to you?' i answered, 'i know not what you do. you can tell any amount of untruths about me without my knowing it.' upon this she began a long story, swearing by and asserting her fidelity; she had never lied to anyone nor done anyone a wrong. i said: 'i hear; you are justifying yourself with the pharisee.' she started furiously from her seat and said, 'what! do you abuse me as a pharisee?' 'softly, softly!' i said; 'while only one of us is angry, it is of no consequence; but if i get angry also, something may come of it!' she sat down with an insolent air, and said, 'i should well imagine that you are not good when you are angry! it is said of you that in former days you could bear but little, and that you struck at once. but now'----(with this she was silent). 'what more?' i said. 'do you think i could not do anything to anyone if i chose, just as well as then, if anyone behaved to me in a manner that i could not endure? now much more than then! you need not refuse me a knife because i may perhaps kill you; i could do so with my bare hands. i can strangle the strongest fellow with my bare hands, if i can seize him unawares, and what more could happen to me than is happening? therefore only keep quiet!' she was silent, and assumed no more airs; she was cast down, and did not venture to complain to the prison governor. what she said to the others on the stairs i know not, but when she came in, when the room was locked at night, she had been weeping.[88] [88] in the margin is added: 'some time after this dispute i had a quarrel with her about some beer, which she was in the habit of emptying on the floor, saying, "this shall go to the subterraneous folk." i had forbidden her to do so, but she did it again, so i took her by the head and pushed it back with my hand. she was frightened, for this feels just as if one's head was falling off. i said, "that is a foretaste."' on sunday at noon i congratulated[e36] the prison governor and said: 'you are happy! you can reconcile yourself with god, and partake of his body and blood; this is denied to me (i had twice during two years requested spiritual consolation, but had received in answer that i could not sin as i was now in prison; that i did not require religious services). and as i talked upon this somewhat fully with the prison governor, i said that those who withheld from me the lord's supper must take my sins upon themselves; that one sinned as much in thought as in word and deed; so the prison governor promised that he would never desist from desiring that a clergyman should come to me; and asked whom i wished for. i said: 'the king's court preacher, whom i had in the beginning of my troubles.' he said: 'that could scarcely be.' i was satisfied whoever it was. [e36] this custom of congratulating persons who intend to communicate, or just have done so, is still retained by many of the older generation in denmark. a month afterwards i received the holy communion from the german clergyman, m. hieronimus buk, who behaved very properly the first time, but spoke more about the law than the gospel. the prison governor congratulated me, and i thanked him, for he had brought it about. 1665. in this year, on whitsun-eve, the prison governor ordered may-trees to be placed in my inner prison, and also in the anteroom. i broke small twigs from the branches, rubbed off the bark with glass, softened them in water, laid them to press under a board, which was used for carrying away the dirt from the floor, and thus made them flat, then fastened them together and formed them into a weaver's reed. peder the coachman was then persuaded to give me a little coarse thread, which i used for a warp. i took the silk from the new silk stockings which they had given me, and made some broad ribbons of it (the implements and a part of the ribbons are still in my possession.) one of the trees (which was made of the thick end of a branch which peder had cut off) was tied to the stove, and the other i fastened to my own person. the woman held the warp: she was satisfied, and i have no reason to think that she spoke about it, for the prison governor often lamented that i had nothing with which to beguile the time, and he knew well that this had been my delight in former times, &c.[89] [89] in the margin is added: 'i made the snuffers serve as scissors. when balcke came to me and brought me at my desire material for drawers, and requested to know the size, i said i could make them myself. he laughed, and said, "who will cut them out?" i replied i could do it myself with the snuffers. he begged to see me do it, and looked on with no little astonishment.' he remained now again a long time with me after meals, for his fear had passed away, or he had, perhaps, forgotten, as his memory began to fail him. he said then many things which he ought not. he declined perceptibly, and was very weak; he would remain afterwards sitting outside, reading aloud, and praying god to spare his life. 'yes,' he would say, 'only a few years!' when he had some alleviation, he talked unceasingly. creeping along the wall to the door, he said, 'i should like to know two things: one is, who will be prison governor after me? the other is, who is to to have my tyrelyre?' (that was tyre, his wife.) i replied: 'that is a knowledge which you cannot obtain now, especially who will woo your wife. you might, perhaps, have already seen both, but at your age you may yet have long to live.' 'oh!' said he, 'god grant it!' and looked up to the window. 'do you think so, my dear lady?' 'yes, i do,' i replied. a few days afterwards, he begged me again to forgive him, if he had done me any wrong since the last time, for he wished to make reconciliation with god before he became weaker, and he wept and protested, saying, 'it indeed grieves me still that i should have often annoyed you, and you comfort me.' on sunday at noon i congratulated him on his spiritual feast. thus he dragged on with great difficulty for about fourteen days, and as i heard that two men were obliged almost to carry him up the stairs, i sent him word that he might remain below on the ground floor of the tower, and that he might rest assured i would go nowhere. he thanked me, crawled up for the last time to my door, and said, 'if i did that and the queen heard of it, my head would answer for it.' i said: 'then confess your weakness and remain in bed. it may be better again; another could meanwhile attend for you.' he took off his cap in recognition of my advice, and bade me farewell. i have never seen him again since then. one day afterwards he crawled up in the tower-chamber, but came no farther. a man of the name of hans balcke was appointed in his place to keep watch over the prisoners. he was very courteous. he was a cabinet-maker by trade; his father, who had also been a cabinet-maker, had worked a good deal for me in the days of my prosperity. this man had travelled for his trade both in italy and germany, and knew a little italian. i found intercourse with him agreeable, and as he dined in the anteroom outside, in the tower, i begged him to dine with me, which he did for fourteen days. one day, when he carved the joint outside, i sent him word requesting him to come in. he excused himself, which appeared strange to me. after he had dined, he said that peder the coachman had jeered at him, and that he had been forbidden to dine with me. when he afterwards remained rather long with me talking, i begged him myself to go, so that this also might not be forbidden. he had on one occasion a large pin stuck in his sleeve, and i begged him for it. he said, 'i may not give it you, but if you take it yourself, i can't help it.' so i took it, and it has often been of use to me. he gave me several books to read, and was in every way courteous and polite. his courtesy was probably the reason why the prisons were not long entrusted to him, for he was also very good to doctor sperling, giving him slices of the meat which came up to me, and other good food. in his childhood he had been a playfellow of the doctor's children. he talked also occasionally a long time with the doctor, both on unlocking and locking his door, which did not please the servants.[90] the prison governor lay constantly in bed; he endeavoured as often as he could to come up again, but there was little prospect of it. so long as the keys were not taken from him, he was satisfied. [90] in the margin is added: 'while balcke filled the place of prison governor, he drank my wine at every meal, which had formerly fallen to the tower warder, the coachman, or the prisoner christian, when the old prison governor had not wished for it, so that this also contributed to balcke's dismissal.' my maid maren, lars' daughter, had risen so high in favour at court, that she often sat in the women's apartment, and did various things. one day the woman said to me, 'that is a very faithful maiden whom you have! she speaks before them up there in a manner you would never believe.' i replied: 'i have permitted her to say all she knows. i have no fear of her calumniating me.' 'have you not?' she said ironically. 'why does she throw herself, then, on her bare knees, and curse herself if she should think of returning to you?' i said: 'she wished to remain with me (according to your own statement), but she was not allowed; so she need not curse herself.' 'why then do you think,' said she, 'that she is so much in favour at court?' 'do you mean,' i replied, 'that if anyone is in favour at court, it is because their lips are full of lies? i am assured my maid has calumniated no one, least of all me; i am not afraid.' the woman was angry, and pouted in consequence for some time. some weeks afterwards maren, lars' daughter, was set at liberty, and became waiting-maid to the countess friis: and balcke brought me some linen which she still had belonging to me. the woman was not a little angry at this, especially as i said: 'so faithful i perceive is my maid to me, that she will not keep the linen, which she might easily have done, for i could not know whether it had not been taken from her with the rest.' all my guards were very ill satisfied with balcke, especially the woman, who was angry for several reasons. he slighted her, she said, for he had supplied a basin for the night-stool which was heavier than the former one (which leaked); but she was chiefly angry because he told her that she lived like a heathen, since she never went to the sacrament. for when i once received the holy communion, while balcke was attending to me, he asked her if she would not wish to communicate also, to which she answered, 'i do not know german.' balcke said, 'i will arrange that the clergyman shall come to you whose office it is to administer the lord's supper to the prisoners.' she replied that in this place she could not go with the proper devotion: if she came out, she would go gladly. balcke admonished her severely, as a clergyman might have done. when the door was closed, she gave vent to puffing and blowing, and she always unfastened her jacket when she was angry. i said nothing, but i thought the evil humour must have vent, or she will be choked; and this was the case, for she abused balcke with the strongest language that occurred to her. she used unheard-of curses, which were terrible to listen to: among others, 'god damn him for ever, and then i need not curse him every day.' also, 'may god make him evaporate like the dew before the sun!' i could not endure this cursing, and i said, 'are you cursing this man because he held before you the word of god, and desires that you should be reconciled with god and repent your sins?' 'i do not curse him for that,' she said, 'but on account of the heavy basin which the accursed fellow has given me, and which i have to carry up the steep stairs;[91] the devil must have moved him to choose it! does he want to make a priest of himself? well, he is probably faultless, the saucy fellow!' and she began again with her curses. [91] in the margin: 'it is indeed a bad flight of stairs to the place where the basin was emptied.' i reproved her and said: 'if he now knew that you were cursing him in this way, do you not think he would bring it about that you must do penitence? it is now almost two years since you were at the lord's table, and you can have the clergyman and you will not.' this softened her a little, and she said, 'how should he know it, unless you tell him?' i said, 'what passes here and is said here concerns no one but us two; it is not necessary that others should know.' with this all was well; she lay down to sleep, and her anger passed away; but the hate remained. the prison governor continued to lie in great pain, and could neither live nor die. one day at noon, when balcke unlocked (it was just twenty weeks since he had come to me), a man came in with him, very badly dressed, in a grey, torn, greasy coat, with few buttons that could be fastened, with an old hat to which was attached a drooping feather that had once been white but was now not recognisable from dirt. he wore linen stockings and a pair of worn-out shoes fastened with packthread.[92] balcke went to the table outside and carved the joint; he then went to the door of the outer apartment, stood with his hat in his hand, made a low reverence, and said, 'herewith i take my departure; this man is to be prison governor.' i enquired whether he would not come again to me. he replied, 'no, not after this time.' upon this i thanked him for his courteous attendance, and wished him prosperity.[93] [92] in the margin is added: 'gabel had said (i was afterwards informed) that i was frightened at the appearance of the man, and thought it was the executioner. i did not regard him as such, but as a poor cavalier, and i imagined he was to undertake the duties which peder the coachman performed.' [93] in the margin: 'balcke has waited upon me for twenty weeks, and he was accused of having told me what happened outside. in proof of this it was alleged that he had told me that gabel had been made statholder, to whom i afterwards gave this title in m. buck's hearing. balcke one day could not restrain himself from laughing, for while he was standing and talking with me, the woman and the man were standing on the stairs outside, chuckling and laughing; and he said, "outside there is the chatter market. why does not peder so arrange it that it is forbidden? you can get to know all that goes on in the world without me."' peder the coachman locked the door, and the new prison governor, whose name was johan jäger,[e37] never appeared before me the whole day, nor during the evening. i said to the woman in the morning, 'ask peder who the man is;' which she did, and returned to me with the answer that it was the man who had taken the doctor prisoner; and that now he was to be prison governor, but that he had not yet received the keys. not many days passed before he came with the lord steward to the old prison governor, and the keys were taken from the old man and given to him. the old man lived only to the day after this occurred. in both respects his curiosity was satisfied; he saw the man who was to be prison governor after him (to his grief), and the doctor who attended him obtained his tyrelyre before the year was ended. [e37] it was a colonel hagedorn that entrapped and arrested dr. sperling, and jäger played only a subordinate part in that transaction. he is stated to have been a cousin of gabel, and to have been formerly a commander in the navy. he was appointed prison governor on june 12, 1665, and balcke therefore doubtless only held the appointment provisionally. the new prison governor jäger[e37b] did not salute me for several weeks, and never spoke to me. he rarely locked my doors, but he generally opened them himself. at length one day, when he had got new shoes on, he took his hat off when he had opened the door, and said 'good morning.' i answered him, 'many thanks.' the woman was very pleased while this lasted. she had her free talk with peder the coachman (who still for a couple of months came to the tower as before) and with the prisoner christian, who had great freedom, and obtained more and more freedom in this prison governor's time, especially as rasmus the tower-warder was made gatekeeper, and a man of the name of chresten was appointed in his place. among other idle talk which she repeated to me, she said that this prison governor was forbidden to speak with me. i said, 'i am very glad, as he then can tell no lies about me.' i am of opinion that he did not venture to speak with me so long as peder brought up the food to the tower, and was in waiting there; for when he had procured peder's dismissal on account of stealing, he came in afterwards from time to time. the very first time he was intoxicated. he knew what peder had said of balcke, and he informed me of it.[94] [e37b] it was a colonel hagedorn that entrapped and arrested dr. sperling, and jäger played only a subordinate part in that transaction. he is stated to have been a cousin of gabel, and to have been formerly a commander in the navy. he was appointed prison governor on june 12, 1665, and balcke therefore doubtless only held the appointment provisionally. [94] in the margin is added: 'while balcke waited on me, a folding table was brought in for the bread and glasses, and also for the woman's food, which she did not take till the doors had been locked. there was nothing there before but the night-stool to place the dishes on: that was the woman's table.' before i mention anything of the prisoner christian's designs against me, i will in a few words state the crime for which he was in prison. he had been a lacquey in the employ of maans armfelt. with some other lacqueys he had got into a quarrel with a man who had been a father to christian, and who had brought him up from his youth and had taken the utmost care of him. the man was fatally wounded, and called out in the agonies of death: 'god punish thee, christian! what a son you have been! it was your hand that struck me!' the other lacqueys ran away, but christian was seized. his dagger was found bloody. he denied, and said it was not he who had stabbed the man. he was sentenced to death; but as the dead man's widow would not pay for the execution, christian remained for the time in prison, and his master paid for his maintenance. he had been there three years already when i came to the prison, and three times he was removed; first from the witch cell to the dark church; and then here where i am imprisoned.[95] when i was brought here, he was placed where the doctor is, and when the doctor was brought in, christian was allowed to go freely about the tower. he wound the clock for the tower-warder, locked and unlocked the cells below, and had often even the keys of the tower. [95] in the margin is added: 'at that time there was a large double window with iron grating, which was walled up when i was brought here; and christian told me afterwards how the maids in the store-room had supplied him with many a can of beer, which he had drawn up by a cord.' i remember once, when rasmus the tower-warder was sitting at dinner with the prison governor in my outermost cell, and the prison governor wished to send peder on a message, he said to rasmus: 'go and open! i want peder to order something. 'father,' said rasmus, 'christian has the key.' 'indeed!' said the prison governor; 'that is pretty work!' and there it rested, for rasmus said, 'i am perfectly sure that christian will not go away.' thus by degrees christian's freedom and power increased after peder the coachman left, and he waited on the prison governor at meals in my outermost room. one day, when the woman had come down from above, where she had been emptying the utensils in my room, and the doors were locked, she said to me: 'this christian who is here has been just speaking with me upstairs. he says he cannot describe the doctor's miserable condition, how severe is his imprisonment, and what bad food he gets, since balcke left. he has no longer any candle except during meal-time, and no light reaches him but through the hole in his door leading into the outer room. he begged me to tell you of it; his eyes were full of tears, such great pity had he for him.' i said: 'that is all that one can do, and it is the duty of a christian to sympathise with the misfortune of one's neighbour. the poor man must have patience as well as i, and we must console ourselves with a good conscience. the harder he suffers the sooner comes the end; he is an old man.' two days afterwards she came again with some talk from christian. the doctor sent me his compliments, and he asked constantly if i was well; she said also, that christian would give him anything i liked to send him. i regarded this as a snare, but i said that christian could take a piece of roast meat when the prison governor was with me, and that he should look about for something into which wine could be poured, and then she could secretly give some from my glass, and beg christian to give my compliments to the doctor. this was accepted, and i had rest for a few days. christian conformed entirely to the woman, caused a dispute between her and the tower-warder, and made it immediately right again; so that there was no lack of chatter. at last she said one day: 'that is an honest fellow, this christian! he has told me how innocently he got into prison and was sentenced. he is afraid that you may think he eats and drinks all that you send to the doctor. he swore with a solemn oath that he would be true to you, if you would write a word to the doctor.[96] i hope you do not doubt my fidelity!' and she began to swear and to curse herself if she would deceive me. she said, he had taken a no less solemn oath, before she believed him. i said: 'i have nothing to write to him. i do not know what i have to write.' 'oh!' said she, 'write only two words, so that the old man may see that he can trust him! if you wish for ink, christian can give you some.' i replied: 'i have something to write with, if i choose to do so, and i can write without ink and paper.' [96] in the margin is this note: 'christian had at that time given me some pieces of flint which are so sharp that i can cut fine linen with them by the thread. the pieces are still in my possession, and with this implement i executed various things.' this she could not understand; so i took some pieces of sugared almonds, and made some letters on them with the large pin, placing on four almonds the words: _non ti fidar_! i divided the word _fidar_, and placed half on each almond. i had in this way rest for a day, and somewhat to beguile the time. whether the doctor could not see what was written on the almonds, or whether he wished to test christian's fidelity, i know not, but christian brought the woman a slip of paper from the doctor to me, full of lamentations at our condition, and stating that my daughter anna cathrina, or else cassetta, were the cause of his misfortune. i wished to know more of this, so i wrote to him desiring information (we wrote to each other in italian). he replied that one or the other had left his letter lying somewhere on the table, where it was found and despatched; for that a letter of his was the cause of his misfortune. i wrote back to him that it was not credible, but that he was suspected of having corresponded with my lord, and hence his letters had been seized. the more i tried to impress this upon him the more opinionated he became,[97] and he wrote afterwards saying that it was a scheme of cassetta's to get him into the net, in order to bring me out of it. when he began to write in this way, i acquired a strange opinion of him, and fancied he was trying to draw something out of me which he could bring forward; and i reflected for some days whether i should answer. at last i answered him in this strain, that no one knew better than he that i was not aware of any treason; that the knowledge as to how his correspondence with my lord had become known was of no use to him; that i had no idea why he was sentenced, and that no sentence had been passed on me. some weeks elapsed before the doctor wrote. at last he communicated to me in a few words the sentence passed upon him, and we corresponded from time to time with each other. [97] in the margin is added: 'such is his character.' the prison governor became gradually more accessible, came in at every meal-time, and related all sorts of jokes and buffooneries, which he had carried on in his youth: how he had been a drummer, and had made a merry andrew of himself for my brother-in-law count pentz, and how he had enacted a dog for the sake of favour and money, and had crawled under the table, frightening the guests and biting a dog for a ducat's reward. when he had been drinking (which was often the case) he juggled and played punch, sometimes a fortune-teller, and the like. when chresten the tower-warder, and christian the prisoner, heard the prison governor carrying on his jokes, they did the same, and made such a noise with the woman in the antechamber that we could not hear ourselves speak. she sat on christian's lap, and behaved herself in a wanton manner. one day she was not very well, and made herself some warm beer and bread, placing it outside on the stove. the prison governor was sitting with me and talking, chresten and christian were joking with her outside, and christian was to stir the warm beer and bread, and taste if it was hot enough. chresten said to christian, 'drink it up if you are thirsty.' the words were no sooner said than the deed was done, and almost at the same moment the prison governor got up and went away. when the door was locked, the woman seemed to be almost fainting. i thought she was ill, and i was fearful that she might die suddenly, and that the guilt of her death might be laid on me, and i asked quickly, 'are you ill?' she answered, 'i am bad enough,' confirming it with a terrible oath and beginning to unbutton her jacket. then i saw that she was angry, and i knew well that she would give vent to a burst of execrations, which was the case. she cursed and scolded those who had so treated her; a poor sick thing as she was, and she had not had anything to eat or drink all day. i said, 'be quiet, and you shall have some warm beer.' she swore with a solemn oath, asking how it was to be got here? it was summer and there was no fire in the stove, and it was no use calling, as no one could hear. i said, 'if you will be silent, i will cause the pot to boil.' 'yes,' and she swore with another fearful oath, 'i can indeed be silent, and will never speak of it.' so i made her take three pieces of brick, which were lying behind the night-stool, and place on these her pot of beer and bread (everything that she was to do was to be done in silence; she might not answer me with words but only with signs, when i asked her anything). she sat down besides the pot, stirring it with a spoon. i sat always on my bed during the day, and then the table was placed before me. i had a piece of chalk, and i wrote various things on the table, asking from time to time whether the pot boiled. she kept peeping in and shaking her head. when i had asked three times and she turned to me and saw that i was laughing, she behaved herself like a mad woman, throwing the spoon from her hand, turning over the stool, tearing open her jacket, and exclaiming, 'the devil may be jeered at like this!' i said, 'you are not worthy of anything better, as you believe that i can practise magic.' 'oh (and she repeated a solemn oath) had i not believed that you could practise magic, i should never have consented to be locked up with you; do you know that?' i reflected for a moment what answer to give, but i said nothing, smiled, and let her rave on. afterwards she wept and bemoaned her condition. 'now, now,' i said, 'be quiet! i will make the pot boil without witchcraft.' and as we had a tinder-box, i ordered her to strike a light, and to kindle three ends of candles, which she was to place under the pot. this made the pot boil, and she kissed her hand to me and was very merry. once or twice afterwards i gave her leave to warm beer in this way: it could not always be done, for if the wind blew against the window (which was opened with a long pike) the smoke could not pass away. i said, 'remember your oath and do not talk of what takes place here, or the lights will be taken from us; at any rate we shall lose some of them.' she asserted that she would not. i heard nothing of it at the time, but some years afterwards i found that she had said that i had taken up two half-loose stones from the floor (this was afterwards related in another manner by a clergyman, as will be mentioned afterwards). she had also said that i had climbed up and looked at the rope-dancers in the castle square, which was true. for as chresten one day told the woman that rope-dancers would be exhibiting in the inner castle yard, and she informed me of it and enquired what they were, and i explained to her, she lamented that she could not get a sight of them. i said it could easily be done, if she would not talk about it afterwards. she swore, as usual, with an oath that she would not. so i took the bedclothes from the bed and placed the boards on the floor and set the bed upright in front of the window, and the night-stool on the top of it. in order to get upon the bedstead, the table was placed at the side, and a stool by the table in order to get upon the table, and a stool upon the table, in order to get upon the night-stool, and a stool on the night-stool, so that we could stand and look comfortably, though not both at once. i let her climb up first, and i stood and took care that the bed did not begin to give way; she was to keep watch when i was on the top. i knew, moreover, well that the dancers did not put forth their utmost skill at first.[98] [98] in the margin is added: 'these rope-dancers did things that i had never seen before. one had a basket attached to each leg, and in each basket was a boy of five years of age, and a woman fell upon the rope and jumped up again. but during the time of the other woman, i saw a man suspended by his chin and springing back upon the rope.' i could see the faces of the king and queen: they were standing in the long hall, and i wondered afterwards that they never turned their eyes to the place where i stood. i did not let the woman perceive that i saw them. during this woman's time i once had a desire to see the people go to the castle-church and return from it. the bed was again placed upright, and i sat for a long time on the top, until everyone had come out of church. the woman did not venture to climb up; she said that she had been afraid enough the last time, and was glad when she had come down. the first time i received the holy communion during this prison governor's time, two brass candlesticks which did not match were brought in, with tallow candles. this displeased the woman, though she said nothing to me. but when at length she was compelled to take the sacrament, after more than three years had elapsed since she had been at the lord's table, she begged chresten, the tower-warder, to go to her daughter (who was in the service of a carpenter in the town), and to get the loan of a pair of beautiful brass candlesticks and a couple of wax candles. if she could also procure for her a fine linen cloth, she was to do her best; she would pay for it. whether the woman had before thought of the candlesticks and candles which had been placed for me, or whether chresten himself thought that it would not be proper to provide better for her, i know not, but shortly before the priest came, chresten unlocked the outer door of my prison and said, 'karen, hand me out the candlestick you have, and two candles.' her behaviour is not to be described: she asked if he had not spoken with her daughter, and much of the same kind (i did not at the time know what she had desired of chresten). he made no reply to her question, but asked for the candlestick and candles. for a long time she would not give them, but cursed and scolded. i was still lying down, and i asked her if i should be her maid, and should do it for her? whether she could withhold from him what he requested? so she handed them to him through the hole of the inner door, with so many execrations against him that it was terrible to listen to. he laughed aloud, and went away. this made her still more angry. i did my best to appease her, telling her that such conduct was a most improper preparation, and holding before her the sinfulness of her behaviour. she said she thought that the sin belonged to him who had given cause for it. i asked her, at last, in what the lord's supper consisted? whether it consisted in candlesticks and candles? i rebuked her for looking to externals and not to the essential; and i begged her to fall on her knees and pray heartily to god for forgiveness of her sins, that he might not impute her folly to her. she answered that she would do so, but she did not do it at once. i imagine that the clergyman[99] was well informed by chresten of all that concerned her, as he put to her so many questions: where she was born? whom she had served? and more of the same kind, and finally, whether she had her certificate of confession, and how long it was since she had received the lord's supper? after this he confessed her in a strange manner; at first as one who had deserved to do public penance for great sins, then as a criminal under sentence of death who was preparing for her end; at last consoling her, and performing his office. when all was over and she came in to me, i wished her joy. 'joy, indeed' (she answered); 'there is not much good in it! this does me more harm than good! if i could only get out, i would indeed go straight to the sacrament; i reckon this as nothing!' i interrupted her quickly, and said: 'reflect upon what you are saying! blaspheme not god--i will not hear that! you know well what god's word says of those who receive christ's body and blood unworthily and have trodden under foot his body?' 'under foot?' said she. 'yes, under foot!' i said, and i made a whole sermon upon it. she listened decently; but when i was silent, she said: 'he looked upon me as a malefactor, and as one under sentence of death. i have never murdered anyone (i thought, we know not what);[100] why should i die? god almighty grant'----and with this she was silent. i preached to her again, and said that she had deserved eternal death on account of her sins, and especially because she had so long kept aloof from the lord's table. 'this confession,' she said, 'i have to thank chresten for; balcke was also probably concerned in it.' and she began to curse them both. i threatened her with a second confession, if she did not restrain such words. i told her i could not justify myself before god to keep silence to it, and i said, 'if you speak in this way to chresten, you may be sure he will inform against you.' this kept her somewhat in check, and she did not go out upon the stairs that noon.[101] [99] in the margin is added: 'this was the priest who attended to the prisoners, and as he confessed her in the anteroom, i heard every word said by him, but not her replies.' [100] in the margin is added: 'her child.' [101] in the margin is added: 'she was in every respect a malicious woman, and grudged a little meat to any prisoner. a poor sacristan was my neighbour in the dark church, and i gave her a piece of meat for him. she would not take it to him, which she could easily have done without anyone seeing. when i saw the meat afterwards, i found fault with her. then she said, "why should i give it to him? he has never given me anything. i get nothing for it." i said, "you give nothing of your own away." this sacristan was imprisoned because he had taken back his own horse, the man to whom he had sold it not having paid him. he sang all day long, and on sunday he went through the service like a clergyman, with the responses, &c.' after that time she was not so merry by far with the man. she often complained to me that she was weak, and had strained herself lifting the new basin which balcke had given her; she could not long hold out, she said, and she had asked the prison governor to let her go away, but that he had answered that she was to die in the tower. i said, 'the prison governor cannot yet rightly understand you; ask chresten to speak for you.' this she did, but came back with the same answer. one day she said: 'i see well, dear lady, that you would be as gladly free of me as i should be to go. what have i for all my money? i cannot enjoy it, and i cannot be of service to you.' i said: 'money can do much. give some money to the prison-governor, and then he will speak for you. request one of the charwomen to carry the basin instead of you, and this you could pay with very little.' she did the latter for some weeks; at length one day she said to me, 'i have had a silver cup made for the prison governor. (her daughter came to her on the stairs as often as she desired, and she had permission to remain downstairs the whole afternoon, under pretext of speaking with her daughter. whether she gave him presents for this, i know not, but i was well contented to be alone. she was, however, once afraid that i should tell the priest of it.) the fact was, the prison-governor did not dare to speak for her with the king. she asked my advice on the matter. i said, 'remain in bed when the dinner is going on, and i will go out and speak with the prison-governor.' this was done. at first he raised some difficulties, and said, 'the queen will say that there is some trick at the bottom of it.' i said they could visit and examine the woman when she came out; that we had not been such intimate friends; that i knew the woman had been sent to wait on me; when she could do so no longer, but lay in bed, i had no attendance from her, and still less was i inclined to wait on her; she did her work for money, and there were women enough who would accept the employment. three days afterwards, when the king came from fridrichsborg, the prison-governor came in and said that the woman could go down in the evening; that he had another whom chresten had recommended, and who was said to be a well-behaved woman (which she is). karen the daughter of ole therefore went down, and karen the daughter of nels came up in her place. and i can truly say that it was one of the happiest days during my severe imprisonment; for i was freed of a faithless, godless, lying[102] and ill-behaved woman, and i received in her stead a christian, true, and thoroughly good (perhaps too good) woman. when the first took her departure, she said, 'farewell, lady! we are now both pleased.' i answered, 'that is perhaps one of the truest words you have ever spoken in your life.' she made no reply, but ran as fast as she could, so that no weakness nor illness were perceptible in her. she lived scarcely a year afterwards, suffering severe pain for six weeks in her bed, before she died; the nature of her malady i know not. [102] in the margin is added: 'she had begged chresten, for more than half a year before she left, to tell the prison-governor that her life hung on a thread; that i had a ball of clay in my handkerchief, and that i had threatened to break her head to pieces with it (i had said one day that a person with a ball of that kind could kill another). she invented several similar lies, as i subsequently heard.' on the day after this karen's arrival, she sat thoroughly depressed all the afternoon. i asked her what was the matter. she said, 'oh! i have nothing to do, and i might not bring work with me! i weary to death.' i enquired what work she could do. 'spinning,' she answered, 'is my work principally; i can also do plain needlework and can knit a little.' i had nothing to help her in this way; but i drew out some ends of silk, which i had kept from what i cut off, and which are too short to work with, and other tufts of silk from night-jackets and stockings; i had made a flax-comb of small pins,[103] fastened to a piece of wood; with this i combed the silk and made it available for darning caps; and i said to her, 'there is something for you to do; comb that for me!' she was so heartily pleased that it was quite a delight to me. i found from her account of this and that which had occurred in her life, that she had a good heart, and that she had often been deceived owing to her credulity. she had also known me in my prosperity; she had been in the service of a counsellor's lady who had been present at my wedding, and she could well remember the display of fireworks and other festivities; she wept as she spoke of it, and showed great sympathy with me. she was a peasant's daughter from jutland, but had married the quarter-master of a regiment. by degrees i felt an affection for her, and begged her to speak to christian and to enquire how the doctor was; i told her that christian could occasionally perform small services for us, and could buy one thing or another for us; for he had a lad, in fact sometimes two, who executed commissions for him, but that i had never trusted the other woman, so that he had never bought anything for me; besides, the other woman had not cared to spin; but that christian should now procure us what we wanted in return for our candles. and as she did not care to drink wine (for at each meal the woman received at that time half-a-pint of french wine), i said: 'give chresten your wine as i give wine to christian, then chresten can let it stay with the cellar-clerk and can take it weekly, which will give him a profit on it, and then he will see nothing even if he remarks anything.' [103] in the margin is added: 'the pins i had obtained some time ago from the first woman. she had procured them with some needles, and, thinking to hide them from me, she carried them in her bosom in a paper and forgot them. in the evening when she dropped her petticoat to go to bed, the paper fell on the floor. i knew from the sound what it was. one saturday, when she went upstairs with the night-stool, i took the pins out of her box, and she never ventured to ask for them; she saw me using them afterwards, and said nothing about them.' this was done, and christian got us two hand-distaffs. mine was but small, but hers was a proper size. i spun a little and twisted it into thread, which is still in my possession. christian procured her as much flax as she desired, and brought her up a whole wreath in his trousers. she spun a good deal on the hand-distaff, and i arranged my loom on a stool, which i placed on the table, fastening one beam with ribbon and cord which i had made myself, so that when the key was put into the staircase-door, i could in one pull loosen my loom and unfasten the other beam which was fastened to myself, and put all away before the inner door was opened. i made myself also a wooden skewer (i had before used a warp), so that i could weave alone; i had also obtained a real weaver's comb; so we were very industrious, each at her own work. the prison governor was full of foolish jokes, and played tricks such as boys enjoy; he tried to jest with the woman, but she would not join him. almost every day he was drunk at dinner-time when he came up. afterwards he came rarely of an evening, but sent a servant instead, who would lie and sleep on the wall in the window. he wanted to jest with me also, and opened his mouth, telling me to throw something in and see if i could hit his mouth. i laughed and said, 'how foolish you are!' and begged him to come nearer, and i would see if i could hit him. 'no, no,' said he; 'i am not such a fool; i daresay you would box my ears.' one day he came up with a peculiar kind of squirt, round in form like a ball, and he placed a small tube in it, so small as scarcely to be seen; it was quite pretty. when pressed in any part, the water squirted out quite high and to a distance. he was saucy, and squirted me. when he saw that i was angry, he came to me with the squirt, ran away and sat down with his mouth as wide open as possible and begged me to squirt into it if i could. i would not begin playing with him, for i knew his coarseness well from his stories, and i gave him back the squirt. when karen was bringing in the meat, the prison governor had the squirt between his legs, and was seated on a low stool, from which he could squirt into the woman's face; he was some distance from her, and the ball was not larger than a large plum. she knew nothing of the squirt (she is somewhat hasty in her words), and she exclaimed, 'may god send you a misfortune, mr. governor! are you insulting me?' the prison governor laughed like an insane man, so pleased was he at this. by degrees he became less wild; he rarely came up sober, and he would lie on the woman's bed and sleep while i dined, so that chresten and the woman had to help him off the bed when they had woke him. the keys of the prisons lay by his side, and the principal key close by (did he not take good care of his prisoners?).[104] he was not afraid that i should murder him. one evening he was intoxicated, and behaved as such; and began, after his fashion, to try and caress me, endeavouring to feel my knee and seized the edge of my petticoat. i thrust him away with my foot, and said nothing more than: 'when you are intoxicated, remain away from me, and do not come in, i tell you.' he said nothing, got up and went away; but he did not come in afterwards when he was tipsy, but remained outside in the anteroom, lying down in the window, where there was a broad stone bench against the wall; there he lay and slept for some time after my doors were locked, then the coachman and chresten came and dragged him down. occasionally he came in when he was not drunk, and he gave me at my request some old cards, which i sewed together and made into a box. christian covered it with thin sticks of fir, which i afterwards stitched over, and i even secretly contrived to paint it. i have it in my possession. the prison governor saw it afterwards, but he never asked where the covering had come from.[105] in this box (if i may call it so) i keep all my work and implements, and it stands by day on my bed. [104] in the margin is noted: 'i said one day to the woman, "were it not for the queen, who would make the king angry with me, i would retaliate upon the prison governor for having decoyed doctor sperling. i would take the keys when he was sleeping, and wait for chresten to come with the cups, and then i would go up the king's stairs and take the keys to the king, just as the lacquey did with the old prison-governor. but i should gain nothing from this king, and perhaps should be still more strictly confined."' [105] in the margin is noted: 'at first, when this karen did not know the prison governor, she did not venture so boldly to the prisoners in the dark church to give them anything, for she said, "the prison governor stares at me so." i said, "it is with him as with little children; they look staring at a thing, and do not know what it is." it is the case with him, he does not trouble himself about anything.' christian's power increased. he waited not only outside at dinner, but he even locked my door in the face of the tower-warder. he came with the perfuming-pan into my room when the woman took away the night-stool; in fact, he subsequently became so audacious that he did everything he chose, and had full command over the prisoners below. chresten availed himself also of the slack surveillance of the prison governor, and stayed sometimes the whole night out in the town, often coming in tipsy to supper. one evening chresten was intoxicated, and had broken some panes of glass below with his hand, so that his fingers were bloody; he dashed my wine-cup on the ground, so that it cracked and was bent; and as the cup was quite bloody outside when he came in to me, and some blood seemed to have got into the wine, i spoke somewhat seriously with the prison governor about it. he said nothing but 'the man is mad,' took the cup and went himself down into the cellar, and had the cup washed and other wine put in it. how they afterwards made it up i know not. the indentations on the cup have been beaten out, but the crack on the edge is still there; this suits the cellar-clerk well, for now scarcely half a pint goes into the cup. christian held his own manfully against the prison governor, when he had a quarrel with some of the prisoners below; and chresten complained of this to the prison governor, who came in and wanted to place christian in the witch cell; but he thrust the prison governor away, and said that he had nothing to do with him, and that he had not put him into the prison; and then harangued him in such a style that the governor thanked god when he went away. christian then called after him from the window, and said, 'i know secret tricks of yours, but you know none of mine.' (one i knew of, of which he was aware, and that not a small one. there was a corporal who had stabbed a soldier, and was sought for with the beating of drums: the prison governor concealed him for several weeks in the tower.) on the following morning christian repented, and he feared that he might be locked up, and came to my door before it had been opened[106] (it often happened that the anteroom was unlocked before the food was brought up, and always in the winter mornings, when a fire was made in the stove outside), and he begged me to speak for him with the prison governor, which i did; so that things remained as they were, and christian was as bold as before. [106] in the margin is added: 'the hinges of my outer door are so far from the wall that they are open more than a hand's breadth, so that i have got in large things between them; and above they are still more open, and when i put my arm through the peep-hole of the inner door and stretch it out, i can reach to the top of the outer one, though the woman cannot.' the woman and i lived in good harmony together. occasionally there were small disputes between christian and her, but at that time they were of no importance. i quieted his anger with wine and candles. this woman had a son, who died just after she had come to me, and a daughter who is still alive; at that time she was in the service of a tailor, but she is now married to a merchant. the daughter received permission occasionally to come and speak with her mother on the stairs. this annoyed christian, as he thought that through her all sorts of things were obtained; and he threatened often that he would say what he thought, though he did not know it, and this frequently troubled the woman (she easily weeps and easily laughs). i could soon comfort her. we spent our time very well. i taught her to read, beginning with a b c, for she did not know a single letter. i kept to fixed hours for teaching her. she was at the time sixty years of age. and when she could spell a little,[107] she turned the book one day over and over, and began to rub her eyes and exclaimed, 'oh god, how strange it is! i do not know (and she swore by god) a single letter.' i was standing behind her, and could scarcely keep from laughing. she rubbed her eyes again, and (as she is rather hasty with her words) she pointed quickly to an o, and said, 'is not that an o?' 'yes,' i said, and i laughed when she turned to me. she then for the first time perceived that she was holding the book upside down; she threw herself on the bed and laughed till i thought she would burst. [107] in the margin: 'she has a curious manner of spelling. she cannot spell a word of three syllables; for when she has to add the two syllables to the third, she has forgotten the first. if i urge her, however, she can read the word correctly when she has spelt the first syllable. she spells words of two syllables and reads those of four.' one day when she was to read, and did not like to lay aside her distaff, it did not go smoothly, and she gave it up, and said, 'am i not foolish to wish to learn to read in my old age? what good does it do me? i have spent much money on my son to have him taught to read, and see, is he not dead?' i knew how much she was able to do, and i let her go on speaking. she threw the book on her bed, sat down to her work, and said, 'what do i need to learn to read in a book? i can, thank god, read my morning and evening prayer.' (i thought to myself, 'badly enough.' she knew very little of her catechism.) i said (gently): 'that is true, karen. it is not necessary for you to learn to read a book, as you can read very nicely by heart.' i had scarcely said this than she jumped up, took her book again, and began to spell. i neither advised her nor dissuaded her, but treated her like a good simple child.[108] [108] in the margin: 'once she asked me whether she could not get a book in which there was neither _q_ nor _x_, for she could not remember these letters. i answered, "yes, if you will yourself have such a book printed."' i fell ill during this year,[109] and as the prison governor no longer came in to me and sent the servant up of an evening, i begged the woman to tell him that i was ill, and that i wished a doctor to come to me. the woman told him this (for by this time he understood danish, and the woman understood a little german), and when she said, 'i am afraid she will die,' he answered, 'why the d---let her die!' i had daily fevers, heat, but no shivering; and as an obstruction was the chief cause of my illness, i desired a remedy. the prison governor ridiculed the idea. when i heard this, i requested he would come to me, which he did. i spoke to him rather seriously; told him that it was not the king's will that he should take no more care of me than he did, that he had more care for his dog than for me (which was the case). upon this his manner improved, and he enquired what i wished for, and i said what i desired, and obtained it. i had become rather excited at the conversation, so that i felt weak. the woman cried and said: 'i am afraid you will die, dear lady! and then the bad maids from the wash-house will wash your feet and hands.' (one of the maids below had sent very uncivil messages to me.) i replied that i should not say a word against that. 'what?' said she angrily, 'will you suffer that? no,' she added with an asseveration, 'i would not! i would not suffer it if i were in your place.' so i said, like that philosopher, 'place the stick with the candlestick at my side, and with that i can keep them away from me when i am dead.'[110] this brought her to reason again, and she talked of the grave and of burial. i assured her that this did not trouble me at all; that when i was dead, it was all one to me; even if they threw my body in the sea, it would, together with my soul, appear before the throne of god at the last day, and might come off better perhaps than many who were lying in coffins mounted with silver and in splendid vaults. but that i would not say, as the prison governor did in his levity, that i should like to be buried on the hill of valdby, in order to be able to look around me. i desired nothing else than a happy end. we spoke of the prison governor's coarseness; of various things which he did, on account of which it would go badly with him if the queen knew it; of his godlessness, how that when he had been to the lord's supper, he said he had passed muster; and other things. there was no fear of god in him. [109] in the margin of the ms. is added: 'when this karen came to me she left me no peace till i allowed her to clean the floor; for i feared that which happened, namely that the smell would cause sickness. in one place there was an accumulation of dirt a couple of feet thick. when she had loosened it, it had to remain till the door was opened. i went to bed, threw the bed-clothes over my head, and held my nose.'[e38] [e38] 'anno 1666, soon after karen, nil's daughter, came to me, we first discovered that there was a stone floor to my prison chamber, as she broke loose a piece of rubbish cemented together, and the stones were apparent. i had before thought it a loam floor. the former karen, ole's daughter, was one of those who spread the dirt but do not take it away. this karen tormented me unceasingly, almost daily, that we must remove it everywhere, and that at once--it would soon be done. i was of opinion that it would make us ill if it was done all at once, as we required water to soften it, and the stench in this oppressive hole would cause sickness, but that it would be easier and less uncomfortable to remove one piece after another. she adhered to her opinion and to her desire, and thought that she could persuade the prison governor and the tower-warder to let the door remain open till all had been made clean. but when the tower-warder had brought in a tub of water, he locked the door. i went to bed and covered my face closely, while she scraped and swept up the dirt. the quantity of filth was incredible. it had been collecting for years, for this had been a malefactors' prison, and the floor had never been cleaned. she laid all the dirt in a heap in the corner, and there was as much as a cartload. it was left there until evening at supper-time, when the doors were opened. it was as i feared: we were both ill. the woman recovered first, for she could get out into the air, but i remained in the oppressive hole, where there was scarcely light. we gained this from it, that we were tormented day and night with numbers of fleas, and they came to her more than to me, so much so that she was often on the point of weeping. i laughed and made fun of it, saying that she would now have always something to do, and would have enough to beguile the time. we could not, however, work. the fleas were thick on our stockings, so that the colour of the stockings was not to be perceived, and we wiped them off into the water-basin. i then discovered that one flea produces another. for when i examined them, and how they could swim, i perceived that some small feet appeared behind the flea, and i thought it was a peculiar kind. at last i saw what it was, and i took the flea from which the small one was emerging on my finger, and it left behind evidences of birth: it hopped immediately, but the mother remained a little, until she recovered herself, and the first time she could not hop so far. this amusement i had more than once, till the fleas came to an end. whether all fleas are born in this manner i cannot tell, but that they are produced from dirt and loam i have seen in my prison, and i have observed how they become gradually perfect and of the peculiar colour of the material from which they have been generated. i have seen them pair.' it is scarcely necessary to say that, as far as natural history is concerned, leonora has committed a mistake. [110] in the margin is added: 'on the stick there was a tin candlestick, which was occasionally placed at the side of my bed. i used it for fixing my knitting.'[e39] [e39] leonora alludes to an anecdote told by 'cicero in tuscul. quæst. lib. i. c. 43.' he recounts that the cynic diogenes had ordered that his body should not be buried after his death but left uninterred. his friends asked, 'as a prey to birds and wild beasts?' 'not at all,' answered diogenes; place a stick by me, wherewith i may drive them away.' 'but how can you?' rejoined these; 'you won't know!' 'but what then,' was his reply, 'concern the attacks of the wild beasts me, when i don't feel them?' i requested to have the sacrament, and asked m. buck to come to me at seven o'clock in the morning, for at about half-past eight o'clock the fever began. the priest did not come till half-past nine, when the fever heat had set in (for it began now somewhat later). when i had made my confession, he began to preach about murder and homicide; about david, who was guilty of uriah's death, although he had not killed him with his own hand. he spoke of sin as behoved him, and of the punishment it brings with it. 'you,' he said, 'have killed general fux, for you have bribed a servant to kill him.' i replied, 'that is not true! i have not done so!' 'yes, truly,' he said; 'the servant is in hamburg, and he says it himself.' i replied: 'if he has so said, he has lied, for my son gave fux his death-blow with a stiletto. i did not know that fux was in bruges until i heard of his death. how could the servant, then, say that i had done it? it was not done by my order, but that i should not have rejoiced that god should have punished the villain i am free to confess.' to this he answered, 'i should have done so myself.' i said: 'god knows how fux treated us in our imprisonment at borringholm. that is now past, and i think of it no more.' 'there you are right,' he said, as he proceeded in his office. when all was over, he spoke with the prison governor outside the door of my anteroom, just in front of the door of the dark church, and said that i made myself ill; that i was not ill; that my face was red from pure anger; that he had spoken the truth to me, and that i had been angry in consequence. christian was standing inside the door of the dark church, for at this time there were no prisoners there, and he heard the conversation, and related it to me when i began to get up again and spoke with him at the door. some time afterwards christian said to me, quite secretly, 'if you like, i will convey a message from you to your children in skaane.' i enquired how this could be done. he said: 'through my girl; she is thoroughly true; she shall go on purpose.' he knew that i had some ducats left, for peder the coachman had confided it to him, as he himself told me. i accepted his offer and wrote to my children, and gave him a ducat for the girl's journey.[111] she executed the commission well, and came back with a letter from them and from my sister.[e40] the woman knew nothing of all this. [111] in the margin: 'the girl was a prostitute to whom he had promised marriage, and the tower-warder--both the former one and chresten--let her in to christian, went out himself, and left them alone.' [e40] this sister was hedvig, who married ebbe ulfeldt, a relative of corfitz ulfeldt. he was obliged to leave denmark in 1651, on account of irregularities in the conduct of his office, and went to sweden, where he became a major-general in the army. he is the person alluded to in the autobiography. several of leonora's children lived in sweden with their relatives after the death of corfitz ulfeldt; but in 1668 the danish government obtained that they were forbidden the country. by degrees christian began to be insolent in various ways. when he came with his boy's pouch, in which the woman was to give him food, he would throw it at her, and he was angry if meat was not kept for himself for the evening; and when he could not at once get the pouch back again, he would curse the day when he had come to my door and had spoken with me or had communicated anything to me. she was sad, but she said nothing to me. this lasted only for a day, and then he knocked again at the door and spoke as usual of what news he had heard. the woman was sitting on the bed, crossing herself fifteen times (he could not see her, nor could he see me). when he was gone, she related how fearfully he had been swearing, &c. i said: 'you must not regard this; in the time of the other karen he has done as much.' his courage daily increased. the dishes were often brought up half-an-hour before the prison-governor came. in the meanwhile christian cut the meat, and took himself the piece he preferred (formerly at every meal i had sent him out a piece of fish, or anything else he desired). the stupid prison governor allowed it to go on; he was glad, i imagine, that he was spared the trouble, and paid no attention to the fact that there was anything missing in the dish. i let it go on for a time, for it did not happen regularly every day. but when he wanted food for his boy, he would say nothing but 'some food in my boy's pouch!' we often laughed over this afterwards, when he was away, but not at the time, for it grew worse from day to day. he could not endure that we should laugh and be merry; if he heard anything of the kind outside, he was angry. but if one spoke despondingly, he would procure what was in his power.[112] one day he listened, and heard that we were laughing; for the woman was just relating an amusing story of the mother of a schoolboy in frederichsborg (she had lived there); how the mother of the boy did not know how to address the schoolmaster, and called him herr willas.[e41] he said, 'i am no herr.' 'then master,' said the woman. 'i am no master either,' he said; 'i am plain willas.' then the woman said: 'my good plain willas! my son always licks the cream from my milk-pans when he comes home. will you lick him in return, and that with a switch on his back?' while we were laughing at this, he came to the door and heard the words i was saying: 'i don't suppose that it really so happened; one must always add something to make a good story of it.' he imagined we were speaking of him, and that we were laughing at him. at meal-time he said to the woman, 'you were very merry to-day.' she said, 'did you not know why? it is because i belong to the "lætter"'[e42] (that was her family name). 'it would be a good thing,' he said, 'to put a stop to your laughter altogether; you have been laughing at me.' she protested that we had not, that his name had not been mentioned (which was the case); but he would not regard it. they fell into an altercation. she told me of the conversation, and for some days he did not come to the door, and i sent him nothing; for just at that time a poor old man was my neighbour, and i sent him a drink of wine. christian came again to the door and knocked. he complained very softly of the woman; begged that i would reprove her for what she had said to him, as he had heard his name mentioned. i protested to him that at the time we were not even thinking of him, and that i could not scold her for the words we had spoken together. i wished to have repose within our closed door. 'yes,' he answered; 'household peace is good, as the old woman said.' with this he went away. [112] in the margin: 'in the time of his good humour he had procured me, for money and candles, all that i desired, so that i had both knife and scissors, besides silk, thread, and various things to beguile the time. this vexed him afterwards.' [e41] the title 'herr' was then only given to noblemen and clergy. master means 'magister,' and was an academical title. [e42] the original has here an untranslatable play upon words. _leth_ is a family name; and the woman says 'i am one of the letter (the leths),' but laughter is in danish 'latter.' afterwards he caused us all sorts of annoyance, and was again pacified. then he wished again that i should write to skaane.[113] i said i was satisfied to know that some of my children were with my sister; where my sons were, and how it fared with them, i did not know: i left them in god's care. this did not satisfy him, and he spoke as if he thought i had no more money; but he did not at that time exactly say so. but one day, when he had one of his mad fits, he came to the door and had a can with wine (which i gave him at almost every meal) in his hand, and he said: 'can you see me?' (for there was a cleft in the outermost door, but at such a distance one could not clearly see through). 'here i am with my cup of wine, and i am going to drink your health for the last time.' i asked: 'why for the last time?' 'yes,' he swore, coming nearer to the door and saying: 'i will do no more service for you; so i know well that i shall get no more wine.' i said, 'i thank you for the services you have rendered me; i desire no more from you, but nevertheless you may still get your wine.' 'no!' he said; 'no more service! there is nothing more to be fetched.' 'that is true,' i answered. 'you do not know me,' said he; 'i am not what you think; it is easy to start with me, but it is not easy to get rid of me.' i laughed a little, and said: 'you are far better than you make yourself out to be. to-morrow you will be of another mind.' [113] in the margin: 'immediately after the girl had been in skaane, he gave her a box full of pieces of wax, on which were the impressions of all the tower keys; and amongst them was written, "my girl will have these made in skaane." i had this from the woman, who was just then carrying up the night-stool, and on the following saturday i gave the box back with many thanks, saying i did not care to escape from the tower in this way. this did not please him, as i well saw.' he continued to describe himself as very wicked (it was, however, far from as bad as he really is). i could do nothing else but laugh at him. he drank from the can, and sat himself down on the stool outside. i called him and begged him to come to the door, as i wanted to speak with him. there he sat like a fool, saying to himself: 'should i go to the door? no,' and he swore with a terrible oath, 'that i will not do! oh yes, to the door! no, christian, no!' laughing from time to time immoderately, and shouting out that the devil might take him and tear him in pieces the day on which he should go to my door or render me a service. i went away from the door and sat down horrified at the man's madness and audacity. some days passed in silence, and he would accept no wine. no food was offered to him, for he continued, in the same way as before, to cut the meat before the prison governor came up. as the prison governor at this time occasionally again came in to me and talked with me, i requested him that christian, as a prisoner, should not have the liberty of messing my food. this was, therefore, forbidden him in future. some days afterwards he threw the pouch to the woman on the stairs, and said: 'give me some food for to-night in my lad's pouch.'[114] this was complied with with the utmost obedience, and a piece of meat was placed in the pouch. this somewhat appeased him, so that at noon he spoke with the woman, and even asked for a drink of wine; but he threatened the woman that he would put an end to the laughing. i did not fear the evil he could do to me, but this vexatious life was wearisome. i allowed no wine to be offered to him, unless he asked for some. he was in the habit every week of procuring me the newspapers[e43] for candles, and as he did not bring me the newspapers for the candles of the first week, i sent him no more. he continued to come every saturday with the perfuming-pan, and to lock my door. when he came in with the fumigating stuff, he fixed his eyes upon the wall, and would not look at me. i spoke to him once and asked after the doctor, and he made no reply. [114] in the margin is added: 'at this time there was a peasant imprisoned in the dark church for having answered the bailiff of the manor with bad language. i sent him food. he was a great rogue. i know not whether he were incited by others, but he told karen that if i would write to my children, he would take care of the letter. i sent him word that i thanked him; i had nothing to say to them and nothing to write with. the rogue answered, "ah so! ah so!"' [e43] the newspapers in question were probably german papers which were published in copenhagen at that time weekly, or even twice a week; the danish _mercurius_ (a common title for newspapers) was a monthly publication. thus it went on for some weeks; then he became appeased, and brought the woman the papers from the time that he had withheld them, all rolled up together and fastened with a thread. when the prison governor came in during the evening and sat and talked (he was slightly intoxicated), and chresten had gone to the cellar, the woman gave him back the papers, thanking him in my name, and saying that the papers were of no interest to me; i had done without them for so many weeks, and could continue to do so. he was so angry that he tore the papers in two with his teeth, tore open his coat so that the buttons fell on the floor, threw some of the papers into the fire, howled, screamed, and gnashed with his teeth. i tried to find something over which i could laugh with the prison governor, and i spoke as loud as i could, in order to drown christian's voice.[115] the woman came in as pale as a corpse, and looked at me. i signed to her that she should go out again. then christian came close to my door and howled, throwing his slippers up into the air, and then against my door, repeating this frequently. when he heard chresten coming up with the cups, he threw himself on the seat on which the prison governor was accustomed to lie, and again struck his slippers against the wall. chresten gazed at him with astonishment, as he stood with the cups in his hand. he saw well that there was something amiss between the woman and christian, and that the woman was afraid; he could not, however, guess the cause, nor could he find it out; he thought, moreover, that it had nothing to do with me, since i was laughing and talking with the prison governor. when the doors were closed, the lamentations found free vent. the woman said that he had threatened her; he would forbid her daughter coming on the stairs and carrying on her talk, and doing other things that she ought not. i begged her to be calm; told her he was now in one of his mad fits, but that it would pass away; that he would hesitate before he said anything of it, for that he would be afraid that what he had brought up to her would also come to light, and then he would himself get into misfortune for his trouble; that the prison governor had given her daughter leave to come to her, and to whom therefore should he complain? (i thought indeed in my own mind that if he adhered to his threat, he would probably find some one else to whom he could complain, as he had so much liberty; he could bring in and out what he chose, and could speak with whom he desired in the watchman's gallery.) she wept, was very much affected, and talked with but little sense, and said: 'if i have no peace for him, i will--yes, i will--.' she got no further, and could not get out what she would do. i smiled, and said at last: 'christian is mad. i will put a stop to it to-morrow: let me deal with him! sleep now quietly!' [115] in the margin: 'it was wonderful that the governor did not hear the noise which christian made. he was telling me, i remember, at the time, how he had frightened one of the court servants with a mouse in a box.' she fell asleep afterwards, but i did not do so very quickly, thinking what might follow such wild fits. next day towards noon i told her what she was to say to christian; she was to behave as if she were dissatisfied, and begin to upbraid him and to say, 'the devil take you for all you have taught her! she has pulled off her slippers just as you do, and strikes me on the head with them. she is angry and no joke, and she took all the pretty stuff she had finished and threw it into the night-stool. "there," said she, "no one shall have any advantage of that."' at this he laughed like a fool, for it pleased him. 'is she thoroughly angry?' he asked. 'yes,' she replied; 'she is indeed.' at this he laughed aloud on the stairs, so that i heard it. for a fortnight he behaved tolerably well, now and then demanding wine and food; and he came moreover to the door and related, among other things, how he had heard that the prince (now our king) was going to be married. i had also heard it, though i did not say so, for the prison governor had told me of it, and besides i received the papers without him. and as i asked him no questions, he went away immediately, saying afterwards to the woman, 'she is angry and so am i. we will see who first will want the other.' he threatened the woman very much. she wished that i would give him fair words. i told her that he was not of that character that one could get on with him by always showing the friendly side.[116] as he by degrees became more insolent than could be tolerated, i said one day to the prison governor that i was surprised that he could allow a prisoner to unlock and lock my doors, and to do that which was really the office of the tower-warder; and i asked him whether it did not occur to him that under such circumstances i might manage to get out, if i chose to do so without the king's will? christian was a prisoner, under sentence of death; he had already offered to get me out of the tower. the prison governor sat and stared like one who does not rightly understand, and he made no reply but 'yes, yes!' but he acted in conformity with my warning, so that either he himself locked and unlocked, or chresten did so. (i have seen christian snatching the keys out of chresten's hand and locking my door, and this at the time when he began to make himself so angry.) [116] in the margin is added: 'he enticed the prison governor to throw a kitten that i had down from the top of the tower, and he laughed at me ironically as he told the woman of his manly act, and said, "the cat was mangy! the cat was mangy!" i would not let him see that it annoyed me.' if christian had not been furious before, he became so now, especially at the time that chresten came in with the perfuming-pan when the woman was above. he would then stand straight before me in the anteroom, looking at me like a ghost and gnashing his teeth; and when he saw that i took the rest of the fumigating stuff from chresten's hand (which he had always himself given me in paper), he burst into a defiant laugh. when the doors were unlocked in the evening, and christian began talking with the woman, he said: 'karen, tell her ladyship that i will make out a devilish story with you both. i have with my own eyes seen chresten giving her a letter. ay, that was why she did not let me go in with the perfuming-pan, because i would not undertake her message to skaane. ay, does she get the newspapers also from him? yes, tell her, great as are the services i have rendered her, i will now prepare a great misfortune for her.' god knows what a night i had! not because i feared his threat, for i did not in the least regard his words; he himself would have suffered the most by far. but the woman was so sad that she did nothing but lament and moan, chiefly about her daughter, on account of the disgrace it would be to her if they put her mother into the dark church, nay even took her life. then she remembered that her daughter had spoken with her on the stairs, and she cried out again: 'oh my daughter! my daughter! she will get into the house of correction!' for some time i said nothing more than 'calm yourself; it will not be as bad as you think,' as i perceived that she was not capable of listening to reason, for she at once exclaimed 'ach! ach!' as often as i tried to speak, sitting up in bed and holding her head between her two hands and crying till she was almost deluged. i thought, 'when there are no more tears to come, she will probably stop.' i said at length, when she was a little appeased: 'the misfortune with which the man threatens us cannot be averted by tears. calm yourself and lie down to sleep. i will do the same, and i will pray god to impart to me his wise counsel for the morrow.' this quieted her a little; but when i thought she was sleeping, she burst forth again with all the things that she feared; she had brought in to me slips of paper, knife and scissors, and other things furnished by him contrary to order. i answered only from time to time: 'go to sleep, go to sleep! i will talk with you to-morrow!' it was of no avail. the clock struck two, when she was still wanting to talk, and saying, 'it will go badly with the poor old man down below!'[117] i made as if i were asleep, but the whole night, till five o'clock and longer, no sleep came to my eyes. [117] in the margin is added: '1666. while karen, nil's daughter, waited on me, a nuremberger was my neighbour in the dark church; he was accused of having coined base money. she carried food to him every day. he sang and read day and night, and sang very well. he sang the psalm 'incline thine ear unto me, o lord,' slowly at my desire. i copied it, and afterwards translated it into danish. and as he often prayed aloud at night and confessed his sins, praying god for forgiveness and exclaiming again and again, 'thou must help me, god! yes, god, thou must help me, or thou art no god. thou must be gracious;' thus hindering me from sleep, i sent him word through karen to pray more softly, which he did. he was taken to the holm for some weeks, and was then set at liberty. when the door was unlocked at noon, i had already intimated to her what she was to say to christian, and had given her to understand that he thought to receive money from her and candles from me by his threats, and that he wanted to force us to obey his pleasure; but that he had others to deal with than he imagined. she was only to behave as if she did not care for his talk, and was to say nothing but 'good day,' unless he spoke to her; and if he enquired what i had said, she was to act as if she did not remember that she was to tell me anything. if he repeated his message, she was to say: 'i am not going to say anything to her about that. are you still as foolish as you were last night? do what you choose!' and then go away. this conversation took place, and he threatened her worse than before. the woman remained steadfast, but she was thoroughly cast down when our doors were locked; still, as she has a light heart, she often laughed with the tears in her eyes. i knew well that christian would try to recover favour again by communicating me all kind of news in writing, but i had forbidden the woman to take his slips of paper, so that he got very angry. i begged her to tell him that he had better restrain himself if he could; that if he indulged his anger, it would be worse for him. at this he laughed ironically, and said, 'tell her, it will be worse for her. whatever i have done for her, she has enticed me to by giving me wine: tell her so. i will myself confess everything; and if i come to the rack and wheel, chresten shall get into trouble. he brought her letters from her children.' (the rogue well knew that i had not allowed the woman to be cognisant neither of the fact that he had conveyed for me a message to skaane to my children, nor of the wax in which the tower keys were impressed; this was why he spoke so freely to her.) when our doors were locked, this formed the subject of our conversation. i laughed at it, and asked the woman what disgrace could be so great as to be put on the wheel; i regarded it as thoughtless talk, for such it was, and i begged her to tell him that he need not trouble himself to give himself up, as i would relieve him of the trouble, and (if he chose) tell the prison governor everything on the following day that he had done for me; he had perhaps forgotten something, but that i could well remember it all. when the woman told him this, he made no answer, but ran down, kept quiet for some days, and scarcely spoke to the woman. one saturday, when the woman had gone upstairs with the night-stool, he went up to her and tried to persuade her to accept a slip of paper for me, but she protested that she dare not. 'then tell her,' he said, 'that she is to give me back the scissors and the knife which i have given her. i will have them, and she shall see what i can do. you shall both together get into trouble!' she came down as white as a corpse, so that i thought she had strained herself. she related the conversation and his request, and begged me much to give him back the things, and that then he would be quiet. i said: 'what is the matter with you? are you in your senses? does he not say that we shall get into trouble if he gets the scissors and knife back again? now is not the time to give them to him. do you not understand that he is afraid i shall let the things be seen? my work, he thinks, is gone, and the papers are no longer here, so that there is nothing with which he can be threatened except these things. you must not speak with him this evening. if he says anything, do not answer him.' in the evening he crept in, and said in the anteroom to her, 'bring me the scissors and the knife!' she made no answer. on the following morning, towards noon, i begged her to tell him that i had nothing of his; that i had paid for both the scissors and knife, and that more than double their value. he was angry at the message, and gnashed with his teeth. she went away from him, and avoided as much as possible speaking with him alone. when he saw that the woman would not take a slip of paper from him, he availed himself of a moment when the prison governor was not there, and threw in a slip of paper to me on the floor. a strange circumstance was near occurring this time: for just as he was throwing in the paper, the prison governor's large shaggy dog passed in, and the paper fell on the dog's back, but it fell off again in the corner, where the dog was snuffling. upon the paper stood the words: 'give me the knife and scissors back, or i will bring upon you as much misfortune as i have before rendered you good service, and i will pay for the knife and scissors if i have to sell my trousers for it. give them to me at once!' for some days he went about like a lunatic, since i did not answer him, nor did i send him a message through the woman; so that chresten asked the woman what she had done to christian, as he went about below gnashing his teeth and howling like a madman. she replied that those below must best know what was the matter with him; that he must see he was spoken with in a very friendly manner here. at noon on good friday, 1667,[118] he was very angry, swore and cursed himself if he did not give himself up, repeating all that he had said before, and adding that i had enticed him with wine and meat, and had deceived him with candles and good words. that he cared but little what happened to him; he would gladly die by the hand of the executioner; but that i, and she, and chresten, should not escape without hurt. [118] in the ms. this date '1667' is in the _margin_, not in the text. the afternoon was not very cheerful to us. the woman was depressed. i begged her to be calm, told her there was no danger in such madness, though it was very annoying, and harder to bear than my captivity; but that still i would be a match for the rogue. she took her book and read, and i sat down and wrote a hymn upon christ's sufferings, to the tune 'as the hart panteth after the water-springs.'[119] [119] in the margin is added: 'this very hymn was afterwards the cause of christian's being again well-behaved, as he subsequently himself told me, for he heard me one day singing it, and he said that his heart was touched, and that tears filled his eyes. i had at that time no other writing-materials than i have before mentioned.' christian had before been in the habit of bringing me coloured eggs on easter-eve; at this time he was not so disposed. when the door was locked, i said to chresten, 'do not forget the soft-boiled eggs to-morrow.' when the dinner was brought up on easter-day, and the eggs did not come at once (they were a side dish), christian looked at me, and made a long nose at me three or four times. (i was accustomed to go up and down in front of the door of my room when it was unlocked.) i remained standing, and looked at him, and shrugged my shoulders a little. soon after these grimaces, chresten came with a dish full of soft-boiled eggs. christian cast down his eyes at first, then he raised them to me, expecting, perhaps, that i should make a long nose at him in return; but i intended nothing less. when the woman went to the stairs, he said, 'there were no coloured eggs there.' she repeated this to me at once, so that i begged her to say that i ate the soft-boiled eggs and kept the coloured ones, as he might see (and i sent him one of the last year's, on which i had drawn some flowers; he had given it to me himself for some candles). he accepted it, but wrote me a note in return, which was very extraordinary. it was intended to be a highflown composition about the egg and the hen. he tried to be witty, but it had no point. i cannot now quite remember it, except that he wrote that i had sent him a rotten egg; that his egg would be fresh, while mine would be rotten.[120] he threw the slip of paper into my room. i made no answer to it. some days passed again, and he said nothing angry; then he recommenced. i think he was vexed to see chresten often receive my wine back again in the cup. at times i presented it to the prison governor. moreover, he received no food, either for himself or his boy. one day he said to the woman, 'what do you think the prison governor would say if he knew that you give the prisoners some of his food to eat?' (the food which came from my table was taken down to the prison governor.) 'tell her that!' the woman asked whether she was to say so to me, as a message from him. 'as whose message otherwise?' he answered. i sent him word that i could take as much as i pleased of the food brought me: that it was not measured out and weighed for me, and that those who had a right to it could do what they liked with what i did not require, as it belonged to no one. on this point he could not excite our fear. then he came back again one day to the old subject, that he would have the scissors and the knife, and threatening to give himself up; and as it was almost approaching the time when i received the lord's supper, i said to the woman: 'tell him once for all, if he cannot restrain himself i will inform against him as soon as the priest comes, and the first karen shall be made to give evidence; she shall, indeed, be brought forward, for she had no rest on his account until i entered into his proposals. whether voluntarily or under compulsion, she shall say the truth, and then we shall see who gets into trouble.' he might do, i sent word, whatever he liked, but i would be let alone; he might spare me his notes, or i would produce them. when the woman told him this, he thought a little, and then asked, 'does she say so?' 'yes,' said the woman, 'she did. she said still further: "what does he imagine? does he think that i, as a prisoner who can go nowhere, will suffer for having accepted the services of a prisoner who enjoys a liberty which does not belong to him?"' he stood and let his head hang down, and made no answer at all. this settled the fellow, and from that time i have not heard one unsuitable word from him. he spoke kindly and pleasantly with the woman on the stairs, related what news he had heard, and was very officious; and when she once asked him for his cup to give him some wine, he said sadly, 'i have not deserved any wine.' the woman said he could nevertheless have some wine, and that i desired no more service from him. so he received wine from time to time, but nothing to eat.[121] on the day that i received the lord's supper, he came to the door and knocked softly. i went to the door. he saluted me and wished me joy in a very nice manner, and said that he knew i had forgiven those who had done aught against me. i answered in the affirmative, and gave no further matter for questions; nor did he, but spoke of other trivialities, and then went away. afterwards he came daily to the door, and told me what news he had heard; he also received wine and meat again. he told me, among other things, that many were of opinion that all the prisoners would be set at liberty at the wedding of the prince (our present king) which was then talked of; that the bride was to arrive within a month (it was the end of april when this conversation took place), and that the wedding was to be at the palace. [120] what he meant by it i know not; perhaps he meant that i should die in misery, and that he should live in freedom. that anticipation has been just reversed, for his godless life in his liberty threw him subsequently into despair, so that he shot himself. whether god will give me freedom in this world is known to him alone. [121] in the margin is added: 'he could not prevent his boy paaske from having a piece of meat placed for him in front of the door.' the arrival of the bride was delayed till the beginning of june, and then the wedding was celebrated in the palace at nykjöbing in falster. many were of opinion that it took place there in order that the bride might not intercede for me and the doctor.[122] when the bride was to be brought to copenhagen, i said to christian: 'now is the time for you to gain your liberty. let your girl wait and fall on one knee before the carriage of the bride and hold out a supplication, and then i am sure you will gain your liberty.' he asked how the girl should come to be supplicating for him. i said, 'as your bride--' 'no (and he swore with a terrible oath), she is not that! she imagines it, perhaps, but (he swore again) i will not have her.' 'then leave her in the idea,' i said, 'and let her make her supplication as for her bridegroom.' 'yes,' he said, in a crestfallen tone, 'she may do that.' it was done, as i had advised, and christian was set at liberty on june 11, 1667. he did not bid me good-bye, and did not even send me a message through the tower-warder or the boy. his gratitude to the girl was that he smashed her window that very evening, and made such a drunken noise in the street, that he was locked up in the town-hall cellar.[123] he came out, however, on the following day. his lad paaske took leave of his master. when he asked him whether he should say anything from him to us, he answered, 'tell them that i send them to the devil.' paaske, who brought this message, said he had answered christian, 'half of that is intended for me' (for christian had already suspected that paaske had rendered services to the woman). we had a hearty laugh over this message; for i said that if paaske was to have half of it, i should get nothing. we were not a little glad that we were quit of this godless man. [122] in the margin is added: 'the bride had supplicated for me at nykjöbing, but had not gained her object. this was thought to be dangerous both for the land and people.' [123] in the margin is added: 'it was a sunday; this was the honour he showed to god. he went into the wine-house instead of into god's house. he came out about twelve o'clock.' we lived on in repose throughout the year 1668. i wrote and was furnished with various handiwork, so that chresten bought nothing for me but a couple of books, and these i paid doubly and more than doubly with candles. karen remained with me the first time more than three years; and as her daughter was then going to be married, and she wished to be at the wedding, she spoke to me as to how it could be arranged, for she would gladly have a promise of returning to me when the woman whom i was to have in her stead went away. i did not know whether this could be arranged; but i felt confident that i could effect her exit without her feigning herself ill. the prison governor had already then as clerk peder jensen tötzlöff,[e44] who now and then performed his duties. to this man i made the proposal, mentioning at the same time with compassion the ill health of the woman. i talked afterwards with the prison governor himself about it, and he was quite satisfied; for he not only liked this karen very much, but he had moreover a woman in the house whom he wished to place with me instead. [e44] his name was torslev; see the introduction and the autobiography. karen, nils' daughter, left me one evening in 1669, and a german named cathrina ----[e45] came in her place. karen took her departure with many tears. she had wept almost the whole day, and i promised to do my utmost that she should come to me when the other went away. cathrina had been among soldiers from her youth up; she had married a lieutenant at the time the prison governor was a drummer, and had stood godmother to one of his sons. she had fallen into poverty after her husband's death, and had sat and spun with the wife of the prison governor for her food. she was greatly given to drinking, and her hands trembled so that she could not hold the cup, but was obliged to support it against her person, and the soup-plate also. the prison governor told me before she came up that her hands occasionally trembled a little, but not always--that she had been ill a short time before, and that it would probably pass off. when i asked herself how it came on, she said she had had it for many years. i said, 'you are not a woman fit to wait upon me; for if i should be ill, as i was a year or somewhat less ago, you could not properly attend to me.' she fell at once down on her knees, wept bitterly, and prayed for god's sake that she might remain; that she was a poor widow, and that she had promised the prison governor half the money she was to earn; she would pray heartily to god that i might not be ill, and that she would be true to me, aye, even die for me. [e45] the name is in blanco; she was probably the catharina wolf which is mentioned in the preface. it seemed to me that this last was too much of an exaggeration for me to believe it (she kept her word, however, and did what i ordered her, and i was not ill during her time). she did not care to work. she generally laid down when she had eaten, and drew the coverlid over her eyes, saying 'now i can see nothing.' when she perceived that i liked her to talk, she related whole comedies in her way, often acting them, and representing various personages. if she began to tell a story, and i said in the middle of her narrative, 'this will have a sorrowful ending,' she would say, 'no, it ends pleasantly,' and she would give her story a good ending. she would do the reverse, if i said the contrary. she would dance also before me, and that for four persons, speaking as she did so for each whom she was representing, and pinching together her mouth and fingers. she called comedians 'medicoants.' various things occurred during her time, which prevented me from looking at her and listening to her as much as she liked.[124] [124] in the margin is added: 'a few months after she had come to me, she had an attack of ague. she wept, and was afraid. i was well satisfied with her, and thought i would see what faith could do, so i wrote something on a slip of paper and hung it round her neck. the fever left her, and she protested that all her bodily pains passed all at once into her legs when i hung the paper round her neck. her legs immediately became much swollen.' it happened that walter,[e46] who in consequence of dina's affair had been exiled from denmark, came over from sweden and remained incognito at copenhagen. he was arrested and placed in the tower here, below on the ground floor. he was suspected of being engaged in some plot. at the same time a french cook and a swedish baker were imprisoned with him, who were accused of having intended to poison the king and queen. the swede was placed in the witch cell, immediately after walter's arrest. some days elapsed before i was allowed to know of walter's arrival, but i knew of it nevertheless. one day at noon, when walter and the frenchman were talking aloud (for they were always disputing with each other), i asked the prison governor who were his guests down below, who were talking french. he answered that he had some of various nations, and related who they were, but why they were imprisoned he knew not, especially in walter's case. [e46] walter's participation in the plot of dina is mentioned in the introduction. he was then ordered to leave the country, but afterwards obtained a pardon and permission to return. he does not seem to have availed himself of this till the year 1668; but his conduct was very suspicious, and he was at once arrested and placed in the blue tower, where he died towards the end of april 1670. the two before-mentioned quarrelled together, so that walter was placed in the witch cell with the swede, and the frenchman was conveyed to the dark church, where he was ill, and never even came to the peep-hole in the door, but lay just within. i dared not send him anything, on account of the accusation against him. walter was imprisoned for a long time, and the frenchman was liberated. when m. bock came to me, to give me christ's body and blood, i told him before receiving the lord's supper of walter's affair, which had been proved, but i mentioned to him that at the time i had been requested to leave denmark through uldrich christian gyldenlöve. gyldenlöve had sworn to me that the king was at the time not thoroughly convinced of the matter, and i had complained that his majesty had not taken pains to convince himself; and i requested the priest to ask the stadtholder to manage that walter should now be examined in dina's affair, and that he and i should be confronted together in the presence of some ministers; that this could be done without any great noise, for the gentlemen could come through the secret passage into the tower. the priest promised to arrange this;[125] he did so, and on the third day after walter was placed in the dark church, so that i expected for a long time every day that we should be examined, but it was prevented by the person whose interest it was to prevent it.[e47] [125] in the margin is added: 'when the priest left me, he spoke with walter in front of the grated hole, told him of my desire, and its probable result. walter laughed ironically, and said, "my hair will not stand on end for fear of that matter being mooted again. the queen knows that full well. say that too!" while walter was in the witch cell hole, he had written to the queen, but the king received the paper.' [e47] leonora alludes, no doubt, to the queen sophia amalia. walter remained imprisoned,[126] and quarrelled almost daily with chresten, calling him a thief and a robber. (chresten had found some ducats which walter had concealed under a stool; the foolish walter allowed the swede to see that he hid ducats and an ink-bottle between the girths under the stool, and he afterwards struck the swede, who betrayed him.) chresten slyly allowed walter to take a little exercise in the hall of the tower, and in the meanwhile he searched the stool. it may well be imagined that at the everlasting scolding chresten was annoyed, and he did not procure walter particularly good food from the kitchen; so that sometimes he could not eat either of the two dishes ordered for him; and when walter said one day, 'if you would give me only one dish of which i could eat, it would be quite enough,' chresten arranged it so that walter only received one dish, and often could not eat of that. (this was to chresten's own damage, for he was entitled to the food that was left; but he was ready to forego this, so long as he could annoy the others.) [126] in the margin is noted: 'i looked through a hole in my outermost door at the time that walter was brought up in the dark church. he wept aloud. i afterwards saw him once in front of the hole of the door of his cell. he was very dirty, and had a large beard full of dirt, very clotted.' once chresten came to him with a dish of rice-porridge, and began at once to quarrel with him, so that the other became angry (just as children do), and would eat nothing. chresten carried the porridge away again directly, and laughed heartily. i said to chresten, in the prison governor's presence, 'though god has long delayed to punish walter, his punishment is all the heavier now, for he could scarcely have fallen into more unmerciful hands than yours.' he laughed heartily at this, and the prison governor did the same. and as there is a hole passing from the dark church into the outer room, those who are inside there can call upstairs, so that one can plainly hear what is said. so walter one day called to the prison governor, and begged him to give him a piece of roast meat; the prison governor called to him, 'yes, we will roast a rat for you!' i sent him a piece of roast meat through chresten; when he took it, and heard that i had sent it to him, he wept. thus the time passed, i had always work to do, and i wrote also a good deal.[127] the priest was tired of administering the lord's supper to me, and he let me wait thirteen and fourteen days; when he did come, he performed his office _par manière d'acquit_. i said nothing about it, but the woman, who is a german, also received the lord's supper from him; she made much of it, especially once (the last time he confessed her); for then i waited four days for him before it suited him to come, and at last he came. it was wednesday, about nine o'clock. he never greeted us, nor did he wish me joy to the act i intended to perform. this time he said, as he shook hands, 'i have not much time to wait, i have a child to baptise.' i knew well that this could not be true, but i answered 'in god's name!' when he was to receive the woman's confession, he would not sit down, but said 'now go on, i have no time,' and scarcely gave her time to confess, absolved her quickly, and read the consecrating service at posthaste speed. when he was gone, the woman was very impatient, and said that she had received the holy communion in the field from a military chaplain, with the whole company (since they were ready to attack the enemy on the following day), but that the priest had not raced through god's word as this one had done; she had gained nothing from it. [127] in the margin is added: 'from books which had been secretly lent me, and i did so with the pen and ink i have before mentioned, on any pieces of paper which i happened to procure.' i comforted her as well as i could, read and sang to her, told her she should repent and be sorry for her sins, and labour to amend her ways, and not be distracted by the want of devotion in the priest; she could appropriate to herself christ's sufferings and merits for the forgiveness of her sins, for the priest had given her his body and blood in the bread and wine. 'yes,' she answered, 'i shall, with god's will, be a better christian.' i said 'will you keep what you have promised me?' her vow was, not to drink herself tipsy, as she had once done. i will not omit to mention this. she received, as i have before said, half a pint of french wine at each meal, and i half a measure of rhine wine. she could drink both portions without being quite intoxicated, for at her meal she drank the french wine and lay down; and when she got up in the afternoon she drank my wine.[128] in the evening she kept my wine for breakfast, but once she had in her cup both my wine and her own, so that at noon she had two half-pints of wine; she sat there and drank it so quietly, and i paid no attention to her, being at the moment engaged in a speculation about a pattern which i wanted to knit; at length i looked at her because it was so long before she laid down; then she turned over all the vessels, one after another, and there was nothing in them. i accosted her and said, 'how is it? have you drank all the wine?' she could scarcely answer. she tried to stand up, and could not. 'to bed, you drunken sow,' said i. she tried to move, but could not; she was sick, and crept along by the wall to fetch a broom. when she had the broom, she could do nothing with it. i told her to crawl into bed and lie down; she crawled along and fell with her face on the bed, while her feet were on the ground. there she was sick again, and remained so lying, and slept. it is easy to imagine how i felt. [128] in the margin is noted: 'chresten was not well satisfied with the woman, for in her time he never received a draught of wine, so that he once stole the wine from her can and substituted something impure in its place; at this she made a great noise, begged me for god's sake to give her leave to strike chresten with the can. she did not gain permission to do so; she told chresten afterwards that she had not dared to do it, for my sake. she had a great scar on one cheek, which a soldier had once given her for a similar act.' she slept in this way for a couple of hours, but still did not quite sleep off her intoxication; for when she wanted afterwards to clean herself and the room, she remained for a long time sitting on a low stool, the broom between her knees and her hair about her ears. she took off her bodice to wash it, and so she sat with her bosom uncovered, an ugly sight; she kept bemoaning herself, praying to god to help her, as she was nigh unto death. i was angry, but i could scarcely help laughing at this sad picture. when the moaning and lamenting were over, i said angrily, 'yes, may god help you, you drunkard; to the guards' station you ought to go; i will not have such a drunkard about me; go and sleep it out, and don't let me hear you talk of god when you are not sober, for then god is far from you and the d----l is near!' (i laughed afterwards at myself.) she laid down again, and about four o'clock she was quite sober, made herself perfectly clean, and sat quietly weeping. then she threw herself with great excitement at my feet, clung to them, howled and clamoured, and begged for god's sake that i would forgive her this once, and that it should never happen again; said how she had kept the wine &c.; that if i would only keep her half a year, she would have enough to purchase her admission into the hospital at lübeck. i thought i would take good care that she did not get so much again at once, and also that perhaps if i had another in her place she might be worse in other things. karen could not have come at this time, for her daughter was expecting her confinement, and i knew that she would then not be quiet. so i promised her to keep her for the time she mentioned. she kept her word moreover, and i so arranged it six weeks later that she received no more wine, and from this time the woman received no wine; my wine alone could not hurt her. she was quite intimate with walter. she had known him formerly, and chresten was of opinion that he had given her all his money before he was ill; for he said that walter had no money any longer. what there was in it i know not. honest she was not, for she stole from me first a brass knitting-pin, which i used at that time; it was formed like a bodkin, and the woman never imagined but that it was gold. as my room is not large, it could soon be searched, but i looked for three days and could not find the pin. i was well aware that she had it, for it is not so small as not to be seen, so i said afterwards, 'this brass pin is of no great importance; i can get another for two pence.' the next day she showed me the pin, in a large crevice on the floor between the stones. but when she afterwards, shortly before she left, found one of my gold earrings which i had lost, and which undoubtedly had been left on the pillow, for it was a snake ring, this was never returned, say what i would about it. she made a show of looking for it in the dirt outside; she knew i dared not say that i had missed it. the prison governor at this time came up but rarely; peder jensen waited on me.[129] his majesty was ill for a short time, and died suddenly on february 9, 1670. and as on the same day at twelve o'clock the palace bell tolled, i was well aware what this indicated, though the woman was not. we conversed on the subject, who it might be. she could perceive that i was sad, and she said: 'that might be for the king, for the last time i saw him on the stairs, getting out of the carriage, he could only move with difficulty, and i said to myself that it would soon be over with him. if he is dead, you will have your liberty, that is certain.' i was silent, and thought otherwise, which was the case. about half-past four o'clock the fire was generally lighted in the outside stove, and this was done by a lad whom chresten at that time employed. i called him to the door and asked him why the bell had tolled for a whole hour at noon. he answered, 'i may not say; i am forbidden.' i said that i would not betray him. he then told me that the king had died in the morning. i gave free vent to my tears, which i had restrained, at which the woman was astonished, and talked for a long time. [129] in the margin is added: 'at this time i had six prisoners for my neighbours. three were peasants from femeren, who were accused of having exported some sheep; the other three were danish. they were divided in two parties, and as the danes were next the door, i gave them some food; they had moreover been imprisoned some time before the others. when the danes, according to their custom, sang the morning and evening psalms, the germans growled forth with all their might another song in order to drown their voices; they generally sang the song of dorothea.' [e48] [e48] the song of st. dorothea exists in many german and danish versions. i received all that she said in silence, for i never trusted her. i begged her to ask chresten, when he unlocked the door, what the tolling intimated. she did so, but chresten answered that he did not know. the prison governor came up the same evening, but he did not speak with me. he came up also the next day at noon. i requested to speak with him, and enquired why the bell had sounded. he answered ironically, 'what is that to you? does it not ring every day?' i replied somewhat angrily: 'what it is to me god knows! this i know, that the castle bell is not tolled for your equals!' he took off his hat and made me a bow, and said, 'your ladyship desires nothing else?' i answered, 'st. martin comes for you too.'[e49] 'st. martin?' he said, and laughed, and went away and went out to walter, standing for a long time whispering with him in front of the hole; i could see him, as he well knew.[130] he was undoubtedly telling him of the king's death, and giving him hope that he would be liberated from prison. god designed it otherwise. walter was ill, and lay for a long time in great misery. he behaved very badly to chresten; took the dirt from the floor and threw it into the food; spat into the beer, and allowed chresten to see him do so when he carried the can away. every day chresten received the titles of thief and rogue, so that it may easily be imagined how chresten tormented him. when i sent him some meat, either stewed or roasted, chresten came back with it and said he would not have it. i begged chresten to leave it with him, and he would probably eat it later. this he did once, and then chresten showed me how full it was of dirt and filth.[131] [e49] the feast of st. martin is supposed the proper time for killing pigs in denmark. it is reported that when corfitz uldfeldt, in 1652, had published a defence of his conduct previously to his leaving denmark the year before, he sent a copy to peder vibe, one of his principal adversaries, with this inscription:- chaque pourceau a son st. martin; tu n'échapperas pas, mais auras le tien. [130] in the margin is added: 'as i was to receive clothes, i asked for mourning clothes. then the prison governor asked me for whom i wished to mourn, and this in a most ironical manner. i answered: "it is not for your aunt; it is not for me to mourn for her, although your aunt has been dead long. i think you have as good reason for wearing mourning as i." he said he would report it. i did not receive them at once.' [131] in the margin is added: 'chresten showed me once some bread, from which walter had taken the crumb, and had filled it full of straw and dirt, in fact, of the very worst kind.' when chresten had to turn walter in bed, the latter screamed so pitifully that i felt sympathy with him, and begged chresten not to be so unmerciful to him. he laughed and said, 'he is a rogue.' i said, 'then he is in his master's hands.' this pleased chresten well. walter suffered much pain; at length god released him. his body was left in the prison until his brother came, who ordered it to be buried in the german church. when i heard that karen could come to me again, and the time was over which i had promised the other to keep her, cathrina went down and karen returned to me. this was easily effected, for the prison governor was not well pleased with cathrina; she gave him none of her money, as she had promised, but only empty words in its place, such as that he was not in earnest, and that he surely did not wish to have anything from her, &c.[132] the prison governor began immediately to pay me less respect, when he perceived that my liberation was not expected. [132] in the margin is added; 'the prison governor also severely reprimanded the woman because she had told me that the king was dead; that it would not go as well with me as i thought. she gave him word for word.' when the time came at which i was accustomed to receive the holy communion, i begged the prison governor that he should manage that i should have the court preacher, d. hans læt, as the former court preacher, d. mathias foss, had come to me on the first occasion in my prison. the prison governor stated my desire, and his majesty assented. d. hans læt was already in the tower, down below, but he was called back because the queen dowager (who was still in the palace) would not allow it; and the prison governor sent me word, through peder jensen, that the king had said i was to be content with the clergyman to whom i was accustomed, so that the necessary preparation for the lord's supper was postponed till the following day, when mag. buck came to me and greeted me in an unusual manner, congratulating me in a long oration on my intention, saluting me 'your grace.' when he was seated, he said, 'i should have been glad if d. hans læt had come in my place.' i replied, 'i had wished it also.' 'yes,' he said, 'i know well why you wished it so. you wish to know things, and that is forbidden me. you have already caused one man to lose his employ.' i asked him whether i had ever desired to know anything from him? 'no,' he replied, 'you know well that you would learn nothing from me; for that reason you have asked me nothing.' 'does the herr mag, then,' i said, 'mean that i desired d. hans læt in order to hear news of him?' he hesitated a little, and then said, 'you wanted to have d. hans læt in order that he might speak for you with the king.' i said, 'there may perhaps be something in that.' upon this he began to swear all kinds of oaths (such as i have never heard before),[133] that he had spoken for me. (i thought: 'i have no doubt you have spoken of me, but not in my favour.') he had given me a book which i still have; it is 'st. augustini manuali;' the statholder gabel had bought it, as he said more than once, protesting by god that it had cost the herr statholder a rix-dollar. (i thought of the 5,000 rix-dollars which gabel received, that we might be liberated from our confinement at borringholm, but i said nothing; perhaps for this reason he repeated the statement so often.) i asked him whom i had caused to lose his employ. he answered, 'hans balcke.[134] he told you that treasurer gabel was statholder, and he ought not to have done so.' i said, 'i do not believe that balcke knew that he ought not to say it, for he did not tell it to me as a secret. one might say just as well that h. magister had caused balcke to lose his place.' he was very angry at this, and various disputes arose on the subject. he began again just as before, that i wanted to have d. læt, he knew why. i said, 'i did not insist specially on having d. læt; but if not him, the chaplain of the castle, or another.' he asked, 'why another?' i replied, 'because it is not always convenient to the herr magister. i have been obliged to wait for him ten, twelve, and even fourteen days, and the last time he administered his office in great haste, so that it is not convenient for him to come when i require him.' he sat turning over my words, not knowing what to answer, and at last he said; 'you think it will go better with you now because king frederick is dead. no, you deceive yourself! it will go worse with you, it will go worse with you!' and as he was growing angry, i became more composed and i asked gently why so, and from what could he infer it? he answered, 'i infer it from the fact that you have not been able to get your will in desiring another clergyman and confessor; so i assure you things will not be better with you. if king frederick is dead, king christian is alive.' i said: 'that is a bad foundation; your words of threatening have no basis. if i have not this time been able to obtain another confessor, it does not follow that i shall not have another at another time. and what have i done, that things should go worse with me?' he was more and more angry, and exclaimed aloud several times, 'worse, yes, it will be worse!' then i also answered angrily, 'well, then let it come.' [133] in the margin is added: 'among his terrible curses was one that his tongue might be paralysed if he had not spoken for me. the following year god struck him with paralysis of the tongue; he had a stroke from anger, and lived eight days afterwards; he was in his senses, but he was not able to speak, and he died; but he lived to see the day when another clergyman administered the holy communion to me.' [134] in the margin is added: 'i saw now that this was the cause of balcke's dismissal.' upon this he was quite silent, and i said: 'you have given me a good preparation; now, in god's name!' then i made my confession, and he administered his office and went away without any other farewell than giving me his hand. i learned afterwards that before m. buck came to me he went to the prison governor, who was in bed, and begged him to tell knud, who was at that time page of the chamber,[e50] what a sacramental woman i was; how i had dug a hole in the floor in order to speak with the doctor (which was an impossibility), and how i had practised climbing up and looking out on the square. he begged him several times to tell this to the page of the chamber: 'that is a sacramental woman!'[135] [e50] this knud was the favourite of king christian v., adam levin knuth, one of the many germans who then exercised a most unfavourable influence on the affairs of denmark. [135] in the margin is added: 'chresten, who was ill satisfied both with karen and with me, gave us a different title one day, when he was saying something to one of the house-servants, upon which the latter asked him who had said it? chresten answered, 'she who is kept up there for her.' when i was told of this, i laughed and said, 'that is quite right, we are two "shes."' in the end of april in the same year my door was opened one afternoon, and the prison governor came in with some ladies, who kept somewhat aside until he had said, 'here are some of the maids of honour, who are permitted to speak to you.' there came in first a young lady whom i did not know. next appeared the lady augusta of glücksburg, whom i recognised at once, as she was but little altered. next followed the electoral princess of saxony, whom i at once recognised from her likeness to her royal father, and last of all our gracious queen, whom i chiefly looked at, and found the lineaments of her countenance just as peder jensen had described them. i saw also a large diamond on her bracelet, and one on her finger, where her glove was cut. her majesty supported herself against the folding table as soon as she had greeted me. lady augusta ran up and down into every corner, and the electoral princess remained at the door. lady augusta said: 'fye, what a disgusting room this is! i could not live a day in it. i wonder that you have been able to endure it so long.' i answered, 'the room is such as pleases god and his majesty, and so long as god will i shall be able to endure it.' she began a conversation with the prison governor, who was half tipsy, and spoke with him about balcke's marriage, whose wedding with his third wife was taking place on that very day; she spoke against marrying so often, and the prison governor replied with various silly speeches. she asked me if i was plagued with fleas. i replied that i could furnish her with a regiment of fleas, if she would have them. she replied hastily with an oath, and swore that she did not want them. her question made me somewhat ironical, and i was annoyed at the delight she exhibited at my miserable condition; so when she asked me whether i had body or wall lice, i answered her with a question, and enquired whether my brother-in-law hanibal sehested was still alive? this question made her somewhat draw in, for she perceived that i knew her. she made no answer. the electoral princess, who probably had heard of my brother-in-law's intrigues with lady augusta,[e51] went quickly up to the table (the book lay on it, in which karen used to read, and which she had brought in with her), took the book, opened it and asked whether it was mine. i replied that it belonged to the woman whom i had taught to read, and as i gave the electoral princess her fitting title of serene highness, lady augusta said: 'you err! you are mistaken; she is not the person whom you think.' i answered, 'i am not mistaken.' after this she said no more, but gave me her hand without a word. the gracious queen looked sadly on, but said nothing. when her majesty gave me her hand, i kissed it and held it fast, and begged her majesty to intercede for me, at any rate for some alleviation of my captivity. her majesty replied not with words, but with a flood of tears. the virtuous electoral princess cried also; she wept very sorrowfully. and when they had reached the anteroom and my door was closed, both the queen and the electoral princess said, 'it is a sin to treat her thus!' they shuddered; and each said, 'would to god that it rested with me! she should not stay there.' lady augusta urged them to go away, and mentioned it afterwards to the queen dowager, who said that i had myself to thank for it; i had deserved to be worse treated than this. [e51] hannibal sehested was dead already in 1666, as leonora was no doubt well aware. the whole passage seems to indicate that he is supposed to have had some love-intrigue with the duchess. nothing has transpired on this subject from other sources, but it is certain that her husband, duke ernst gynther, for some time at least, was very unfriendly disposed to hannibal sehested. when the king's funeral was over, and the queen dowager had left the castle, i requested the prison governor that he should execute my message and solicit another clergyman for me, either the chaplain of the castle or the arsenal chaplain, or the one who usually attended to the prisoners; for if i could get no other than m. buck, they must take the sin on their own heads, for that i would not again confess to him. a short time elapsed, but at length the chaplain of the castle, at that time m. rodolff moth, was assigned me. god, who has ever stood by me in all my adversity, and who in my sorrow and distress has sent me unexpected consolation, gave me peculiar comfort in this man. he consoled me with the word of god; he was a learned and conversable man, and he interceded for me with his majesty. the first favour which he obtained for me was, that i was granted another apartment on july 16, 1671, and bishop d. jesper's postil. he afterwards by degrees obtained still greater favours for me. i received 200 rix-dollars as a gift, to purchase such clothes for myself as i desired, and anything i might wish for to beguile the time.[136] [136] in the margin is noted: 'some of my money i expended on books, and it is remarkable that i obtained from m. buck's books (which were sold by auction) among others the great martilegium, in folio, which he would not lend me. i excerpted and translated various matters from spanish, italian, french, and german authors. i especially wrote out and translated into danish the female personages of different rank and origin, who were mentioned with praise by the authors as valiant, true, chaste and sensible, patient, steadfast and scholarly.' [e52] [e52] the martilegium was probably a german history of martyrs, entitled 'martilogium (for martyrologium) der heiligen' (strasburg 1484, fol.). the extracts to which she refers were no doubt her earliest collections for her work on heroines. in this year her majesty the queen became pregnant, and her majesty's mother, the landgravine of hesse, came to be with her in her confinement. on september 6 her serene highness visited me in my prison, at first wishing to remain incognito. she had with her a princess of curland, who was betrothed to the son of the landgravine; her lady in waiting, a wallenstein by birth; and the wife of her master of the household. the landgravine greeted me with a kiss, and the others followed her example. i did not at that time recognise the wife of the master of the household, but she had known me formerly in my prosperity at the hague, when she had been in the service of the countess leuenstein, and the tears stood in her eyes. the landgravine lamented my hard fate and my unhappy circumstances. i thanked her serene highness for the gracious sympathy she felt with me, and said that she might help much in alleviating my fetters, if not in liberating me from them entirely. the landgravine smiled and said, 'i see well you take me for another than i am.' i said, 'your serene highness's deportment and appearance will not allow you to conceal your rank, were you even in peasant's attire.' this pleased her; she laughed and jested, and said she had not thought of that. the lady in waiting agreed with me, and said that i had spoken very justly in saying that i had recognised her by her royal appearance. upon this the landgravine said, 'you do not know her?' pointing to the princess of curland. she then said who she was, and afterwards who her lady in waiting was, and also the wife of the master of the household, who was as i have before mentioned. she spoke of the pity which this lady felt for me, and added 'et moy pas moins.' i thanked her 'altesse très-humblement et la prioit en cette occasion de faire voir sa généreuse conduite.' her serene highness looked at the prison governor as though she would say that we might speak french too long; she took off her glove and gave me her hand, pressing mine and saying, 'croyez-moy, je fairez mon possible.' i kissed her serene highness's hand, and she then took leave of me with a kiss. the virtuous landgravine kept her word, but could effect nothing. when her majesty the queen was in the perils of childbirth, she went to the king and obtained from him a solemn promise that if the queen gave birth to a son i should receive my liberty. on october 11, in the night between one and two o'clock, god delivered her majesty in safety of our crown prince. when all present were duly rejoicing at the prince's birth, the landgravine said, 'oh! will not the captive rejoice!' the queen dowager enquired 'why?' the landgravine related the king's promise. the queen dowager was so angry that she was ill. she loosened her jacket, and said she would return home; that she would not wait till the child was baptised. her coach appeared in the palace square. the king at length persuaded her to remain till the baptism was over, but he was obliged to promise with an oath that i should not be liberated. this vexed the virtuous landgravine not a little, that the queen should have induced her son to break his promise; and she persisted in saying that a king ought to keep his vow. the queen dowager answered, 'my son has before made a vow, and this he has broken by his promise to your serene highness.' the landgravine said at last: 'if i cannot bring about the freedom of the prisoner, at least let her, at my request, be removed to a better place, with somewhat more liberty. it is not to the king's reputation that she is imprisoned there. she is, after all, a king's daughter, and i know that much injustice is done to her.' the queen dowager was annoyed at these words, and said, 'now, she shall not come out; she shall remain where she is!' the landgravine answered, 'if god will, she will assuredly come out, even though your majesty may will it not;' so saying, she rose and went out. on october 18 the lady in waiting, wallenstein, sent for peder jensen tötzlöff, and delivered to him by command a book entitled, d. heinrich müller's 'geistliche erquickstunden,'[e53] which he gave me with a gracious message from the landgravine. on the same day i sent her serene highness, through tötzlöff, my dutiful thanks, and tötzlöff took the book back to the lady in waiting, with the request that she would endeavour to prevail on her highness to show me the great favour of placing her name and motto in the book, in remembrance of her highness's generosity and kindness. i lamented my condition in this also, that from such a place i could not spread abroad her serene highness's praise and estimable benefits, and make the world acquainted with them; but that i would do what i could, and i would include her serene highness and all her family in my prayers for their welfare both of soul and body. (this i have done, and will do, so long as god spares my life.) [e53] 'hours of spiritual refreshment.' this very popular book of devotion was first published in 1664, and had an extraordinary run both in germany and, through translations, in denmark. the last danish extract of it was published in 1846, and reached the third edition in 1856. on october 23 i received the book back through tötzlöff, and i found within it the following lines, written by the landgravine's own hand: 1671. ce qui n'est pas en ta puissance ne doit point troubler ton repos; tu balances mal à propos entre la crainte et l'espérance. laisse faire ton dieu et ton roy, et suporte avec passience ce qu'il résoud pour toy. je prie dieu de vous faire cette grâce, et que je vous puisse tesmoigner combien je suis, madame, vostre très-affectionée à vous servir, {monogram} the book is still in my possession, and i sent word through tötzlöff to the lady in waiting to request her to convey my most humble thanks to her highness; and afterwards, when the landgravine was about to start on her journey, to commend me to her serene highness's favour. in the same year, 1671, karen, nils' daughter, left me on account of ill health. for one night a woman was with me named margrete, who was a serf from holstein. she had run away from her master. she was a very awkward peasant woman, so towards evening on the following day she was sent away, and in her place there came a woman named inger, a person of loose character. this woman gave herself out as the widow of a non-commissioned officer, and that she had long been in service at hamburg, and nursed lying-in women. it happened with her, as is often the case, that one seeks to obtain a thing, and that to one's own vexation. chresten had spoken for this woman with the prison governor, and had praised her before me, but the prison governor took upon another recommendation the before-mentioned margrete. so long as there was hope that the landgravine might obtain my freedom, this woman was very amenable, but afterwards she began by degrees to show what was in her, and that it was not for nothing that she resembled dina. she caused me annoyance of various kinds, which i received with patience, thinking within myself that it was another trial imposed by god upon me, and dina's intrigues often came into my mind, and i thought, 'suppose she should devise some dina plot?' (she is capable of it, if she had only an instigator, as dina had.) among other annoyances, which may not be reckoned among the least, was this: i was one day not very well, having slept but little or not at all during the night, and i had lain down to sleep on the bed in the day; and she would give me no rest, but came softly past me in her socks, and in order to wake me teased a dog which i had,[137] so that he growled. i asked her why she grudged my sleeping? she answered, 'i did not know that you were asleep.' 'why, then,' i said, 'did you go by in your stockings?' she replied, 'if you saw that, then you were not asleep,' and she laughed heartily by herself. (she sat always in front of my table with her back turned to me; whether it was because she had lost one eye that she sat in that position to the light, i know not.) [137] in the margin is added: 'this dog was of an icelandic breed, not pretty, but very faithful and sagacious. he slept every afternoon on the stool, and when she had fallen asleep, she let her hands hang down. then the dog would get up and run softly and bite her finger till the blood came. if she threw down her slippers, he would take one and sit upon it. she never got it back again without a bloody finger.' i did not care for any conversation with her, so i lay still; and when she thought i was asleep, she got up again and teased the dog. i said, 'you tax my patience sorely; but if once my passion rises, you will certainly get something which will astonish you, you base accursed thing!' 'base accursed thing,' she repeated to herself with a slight laugh. i prayed to god that he would restrain me, so that i might not lay violent hands on this base creature. and as i had the other apartment (as i have before mentioned),[138] i went out and walked up and down between four and five o'clock. she washed and splashed outside, and spilled the water exactly where i was walking. i told her several times to leave her splashing, as she spilled the water in all directions on the floor, so that i made my clothes dirty, and often there was not a drop of water for my dog to drink, and the tower-warder had to fetch her water from the kitchen spring. this was of no avail. one day it occurred to her, just as the bell had sounded four, to go out and pour all the water on the floor, and then come back again. when i went to the door, i perceived what she had done. without saying a word, i struck her first on one cheek and then on the other, so that the blood ran from her nose and mouth, and she fell against her bench, and knocked the skin from her shin-bone. she began to be abusive, and said she had never in her life had such a box on her ears. i said immediately, 'hold your tongue, or you will have another like it! i am now only a little angry, but if you make me really angry i shall strike you harder.' she was silent for the time, but she caused me all the small annoyance she could. [138] in the margin is this note: 'in the year 1672, on the 4th may, one of the house-servants was arrested for stealing. adam knudt, at that time gentleman of the chamber, himself saw him take several ducats early one morning from the king's trousers, which were hanging against the walls. he was at first for some hours my neighbour in the dark church. he was then placed in the witch cell, and as he was to be tortured, he received secret warning of it (which was forbidden), so that when the executioner came he was found to have hung himself. that is to say, he was said to have hung himself, though to all appearance this was not possible; he was found with a cloth round his neck, which was a swaddling-cloth belonging to one of chresten, the tower-warder's, children. chresten became my neighbour, and was ostensibly brought to justice, but he was acquitted and reinstated in his office. i received it all with gentleness, fearing that i might lay violent hands on her. she scarcely knew what to devise to cause me vexation; she had a silver thimble on which a strange name was engraved; she had found it, she said, in a dust-heap in the street. i once asked her where she had found some handkerchiefs which she had of fine dutch linen, with lace on them, which likewise were marked with another name; they were embroidered with blue silk, and there was a different name on each. she had bought them, she said, at an auction at hamburg.[139] i thought that the damage she had received on one of her eyes might very likely have arisen from her having 'found' something of that kind,[e54] and as i soon after asked her by what accident she had injured her eye, she undoubtedly understood my question well, for she was angry and rather quiet, and said, 'what injury? there is nothing the matter with my eye; i can, thank god, see with both.' i let the matter rest there. soon after this conversation she came down one day from upstairs, feeling in her pocket, though she said nothing until the afternoon, when the doors were locked, and then she looked through all her rubbish, saying 'if i only knew where it could be?' i asked what she was looking for. 'my thimble,' she said. 'you will find it,' i said; 'only look thoroughly!' and as she had begun to look for it in her pockets before she had required it, i thought she might have drawn it out of her pocket with some paper which she used, and which she had bought. i said this, but it could not be so. [139] in the margin is added: 'she was so proud of her knowledge of german that when she sang a morning hymn (which, however rarely happened) she interspersed it with german words. i once asked her if she knew what her mother's cat was called in danish, and i said something at which she was angry. [e54] it was a common superstition that persons who understood the art of showing by magic the whereabouts of stolen goods, had the power, by use of their formulas alone, to deprive the thief of an eye. on the following day, towards noon, she again behaved as if she were looking for it upstairs; and when the door was closed she began to give loose to her tongue, and to make a long story about the thimble, where it could possibly be. 'there was no one here, and no one came in except us two;' and she gave me to understand that i had taken it; she took her large box which she had, and rummaged out everything that was in it, and said, 'now you can see that i have not got it.' i said that i did not care about it, whether she had it or no, but that i saw that she accused me of stealing. she adhered to it, and said, 'who else could have taken it? there is no one else here, and i have let you see all that is mine, and it is not there.' then for the first time i saw that she wished that i should let her see in the same manner what i had in my cardbox, for she had never seen anything of the work which i had done before her time. i said, 'i do not care at all what you do with your thimble, and i respect myself too much to quarrel with you or to mind your coarse and shameless accusation. i have, thank god, enough in my imprisonment to buy what i require, &c. but as you perhaps have stolen it, you now imagine that it has been stolen again from you, if it be true that you have lost it.' to this she made no answer, so that i believe she had it herself, and only wanted by this invention to gain a sight of my things. as it was the christmas month and very cold, and chresten was lighting a fire in the stove before the evening meal, i said to him in her presence, 'chresten, you are fortunate if you are not, like me, accused of stealing, for you might have found her thimble upstairs without having had it proclaimed from the pulpit; it was before found by inger, and not announced publicly.' this was like a spark to tinder, and she went to work like a frantic being, using her shameless language. she had not stolen it, but it had been stolen from her; and she cursed and swore. chresten ordered her to be silent. he desired her to remember who i was, and that she was in my service. she answered, 'i will not be silent, not if i were standing before the king's bailiff!' the more gently i spoke, the more angry was she; at length i said, 'will you agree with me in one wish?--that the person who last had the thimble in her possession may see no better with her left eye than she sees with her right.' she answered with an oath that she could see with both eyes. i said, 'well, then, pray god with me that she may be blind in both eyes who last had it.' she growled a little to herself and ran into the inner room, and said no more of her thimble, nor did i. god knows that i was heartily weary of this intercourse. i prayed god for patience, and thought 'this is only a trial of patience. god spares me from other sorrow which i might have in its stead.' i could not avail myself of the occasion of her accusing me of theft to get rid of her, but i saw another opportunity not far off. the prison governor came one day to me with some thread which was offered for sale, rather coarse, but fit for making stockings and night-waistcoats. i bought two pounds of it, and he retained a pound, saying, 'i suppose the woman can make me a pair of stockings with it?' i answered in the affirmative (for she could do nothing else but knit). when he was gone, she said, 'there will be a pair of stockings for me here also, for i shall get no other pay.' i said, 'that is surely enough.' the stockings for the prison governor were finished. she sat one day half asleep, and made a false row round the stocking below the foot. i wanted her to undo it. 'no,' said she, 'it can remain as it is; he won't know but that it is the fashion in hamburg.'[140] [140] in the margin is added: 'there was no similar row on the other stocking. the prison governor never mentioned it.' when his stockings were finished, she began a pair for herself of the same thread, and sat and exulted that it was the prison governor's thread. this, it seemed to me, furnished me with an opportunity of getting rid of her. and as the prison governor rarely came up, and she sent him down the stockings by tötzlöff, i begged tötzlöff to contrive that the prison governor should come up to me, and that he should seat himself on the woman's bed and arrange her pillow as if he wanted to lean against it (underneath it lay her wool). this was done. the prison governor came up, took the knitting in his hand, and said to inger, 'is this another pair of stockings for me?' 'no, mr. prison governor,' she answered, 'they are for me. you have got yours. i have already sent you them.' 'but,' said he, 'this is of my thread; it looks like my thread.' she protested that it was not his thread. as he went down to fetch his stockings and the scales, she said to me, 'that is not his thread; it is mine now,' and laughed heartily. i thought, 'something more may come of this.' the prison governor came with the scales and his stockings, compared one thread with the other, and the stockings weighed scarcely half a pound. he asked her whether she had acted rightly? she continued to assert that it was her thread; that she had bought it in hamburg, and had brought it here. the prison governor grew angry, and said that she lied, and called her a bitch. she swore on the other hand that it was not his thread; that she would swear it by the sacrament. the prison governor went away; such an oath horrified him. i was perfectly silent during this quarrel. when the prison governor had gone, i said to the woman, 'god forbid! how could you say such words? do you venture to swear a falsehood by the sacrament, and to say it in my presence, when i know that it is the prison governor's thread? what a godless creature you are!' she answered, with a half ridiculous expression of face, 'i said i would take the sacrament upon it, but i am not going to do so.' 'oh dina!' i thought, 'you are not like her for nothing; god guard me from you!' and i said, 'do you think that such light words are not a sin, and that god will not punish you for them?' she assumed an air of authority, and said, 'is the thread of any consequence? i can pay for it; i have not stolen it from him; he gave it to me himself. i have only done what the tailors do; they do not steal; it is given to them. he did not weigh out the thread for me.' i answered her no more than 'you have taken it from him; i shall trouble myself no more about it;' but i begged tötzlöff to do all he could that i should be rid of her, and have another in her place of a good character. tötzlöff heard that karen had a desire to return to me; he told me so. the prison governor was satisfied with the arrangement. it was kept concealed from inger till all was so settled that karen could come up one evening at supper-time. when the prison governor had unlocked the door, and had established himself in the inner room, and the woman had come out, he said: 'now, inger, pack your bundle! you are to go.' 'yes, mr. prison governor,' she answered, and laughed, and brought the food to me, and told me what the prison governor had said, saying at the same time, 'that is his joke.' 'i heard well,' i answered, 'what he said; it is not his joke, it is his real earnestness.' she did not believe it; at any rate she acted as if she did not, and smiled, saying, 'he cannot be in earnest;' and she went out and asked the prison governor whether he was in earnest. he said, 'go! go! there is no time for gossip!' she came into me again, and asked if i wished to be rid of her. i answered, 'yes.' 'why so?' she asked. i answered: 'it would take me too long to explain; the other woman who is to remain here is below.' 'at any rate,' said she, 'let me stay here over the night.' ('ah, dina!' i thought.) 'not a quarter of an hour!' i answered; 'go and pack your things! that is soon done!' she did so, said no word of farewell, and went out of the door. thus karen came to me for the third time, but she did not remain an entire year, on account of illness.[141] [141] in the margin is noted: 'i must remember one thing about karen, nil's daughter. when anything gave her satisfaction, she would take up her book directly and read. i asked her whether she understood what she read. "yes, of course," she answered, "as truly as god will bless you! when a word comes that i don't understand, i pass it over." i smiled a little in my own mind, but said nothing.' in the year 1673 m. moth became vice-bishop in fyn. i lost much in him, and in his place came h. emmeke norbye, who became court preacher, and who had formerly been a comrade of griffenfeldt; but griffenfeldt did not acknowledge him subsequently, so that he could achieve nothing for me with griffenfeldt.[e55] he one day brought me as answer (when i sent him word among other things that his majesty would be gracious if only some one would speak for me), 'it would be as if a pistol had been placed at the king's heart, and he were to forgive it.' [e55] griffenfeldt, who was then at the height of his power, was the son of a wine-merchant, by name schumacher, but had risen by his talents alone to the highest dignities. he was ennobled under the name of griffenfeldt, and was undoubtedly the ablest statesman denmark ever possessed. eventually he was thrust from his high position by an intrigue set on foot by german courtiers and backed by foreign influence. he was accused of treason and kept in prison from 1676 to 1698, the year before he died, to the great, perhaps irreparable damage, of his native country. the principal witness against him was a german doctor, mauritius, a professional spy, who had served the danish government in this capacity. the year after the fall of griffenfeld, he was himself arrested on a charge of perjury, forgery, and high treason, and placed in the blue tower; he was convicted and conducted to bornholm, where he died. but griffenfeldt, who had been convicted on his false testimony, was not liberated. griffenfeldt's ability and patriotism cannot be doubted, but his personal character was not without blemish; and it is a fact that in his prosperity he disclaimed all connection with his earlier friends, and even his near relations. in the same year my sister elisabeth augusta sent me a message through tötzlöff and enquired whether i had a fancy for any fruit, as she would send me some. i was surprised at the message, which came to me from my sister in the tenth year of my captivity, and i said, 'better late than never!' i sent her no answer. one funny thing i will yet mention, which occurred in the time of karen, nil's daughter. chresten, who had to make a fire in the stove an hour before supper (since it had no flue), so that the smoke could pass out at the staircase door before i supped, did not come one evening before six o'clock, and was then quite tipsy. and as i was sitting at the time near the stove in the outer apartment on a log of wood, which had been hewed as a seat, i said it was late to make the fire, as he must now go into the kitchen. he paid no attention to my gentle remark, until i threatened him with hard words, and ordered him to take the wood out. he was angry, and would not use the tongs to take the wood out, nor would he permit karen to take them out with the tongs; but he tore them out with his hands, and said, 'nothing can burn me.' and as some little time elapsed before the wood was extinguished, he began to fear that it would give little satisfaction if he so long delayed fetching the meal. he seated himself flat on the ground and was rather dejected; presently he burst out and said, 'oh god, you who have had house and lands, where are you now sitting?' i said, 'on a log of wood!' he answered, 'i do not mean your ladyship!' i asked, 'whom does your worship mean, then?' he replied, 'i mean karen.' i laughed, and said no more. to enumerate all the contemptuous conduct i endured would be too lengthy, and not worth the trouble. one thing i will yet mention of the tower-warder chresten, who caused me great annoyance at the end of this tenth year of my imprisonment. among other annoyances he once struck my dog, so that it cried. i did not see it, but i heard it, and the woman told me it was he who had struck the dog. i was greatly displeased at it. he laughed at this, and said, 'it is only a dog.' i gave him to understand that he struck the dog because he did not venture to strike me. he laughed heartily at the idea, and i said, 'i do not care for your anger so long as the prison governor is my friend' (this conversation took place while i was at a meal, and the prison governor was sitting with me, and chresten was standing at the door of my apartment, stretching out his arms.) i said, 'the prison governor and you will both get into heavy trouble, if i choose. do you hear that, good people?' (i knew of too many things, which they wished to hide, in more than one respect.) the prison governor sat like one deaf and dumb, and remained seated, but chresten turned away somewhat ashamed, without saying another word. he had afterwards some fear of me, when he was not too intoxicated; for at such times he cared not what he said, as regards high or low. he was afterwards insolent to the woman, and said he would strike the dog, and that i should see him do so. this, however, he did not do. chresten's fool-hardiness increased, so that peder tötzlöff informed the prison governor of his bad behaviour, and of my complaints of the wild doings of the prisoners, who made such a noise by night that i could not sleep for it, for chresten spent the night at his home, and allowed the prisoners to do as they chose. upon this information, the prison governor placed a padlock upon the tower door at night, so that chresten could not get out until the door was unlocked in the morning. this annoyed him, and he demanded his discharge, which he received on april 24, 1674; and in his place there came a man named gert, who had been in the service of the prison governor as a coachman. in this year, the ---may, i wrote a spiritual 'song in remembrance of god's goodness,' after the melody 'nun ruhen alle wälder.' i. my heart! true courage find! god's goodness bear in mind, and how he, ever nigh, helps me my load to bear, nor utterly despair tho' in such heavy bonds i lie. ii. ne'er from my thoughts shall stray how once i lingering lay in the dark dungeon cell; my cares and bitter fears, and ridicule and tears, and god the lord upheld me well. iii. think on my misery and sad captivity thro' many a dreary year! yet nought my heart distresses; the lord he proves and blesses, and he protects me even here! iv. come heart and soul elate! and let me now relate the wonders of god's skill! he was my preservation in danger and temptation, and kept me from impending ill. v. the end seemed drawing near, i wrung my hands with fear, yet has he helped me e'er; my refuge and my guide, on him i have relied, and he has ever known my care. vi. thanks to thee, fount of good! thou canst no evil brood, thy blows are fatherly; when cruel power oppressed me, thy hand has ever blessed me, and thou has sheltered me! vii. before thee, lord, i lie; give me my liberty before my course is run; thy gracious hands extend and let my suffering end! yet not my will, but thine, be done. in this year, on july 25, his royal majesty was gracious enough to have a large window made again in my inner apartment; it had been walled up when i had been brought into this chamber. a stove was also placed there, the flue of which passed out into the square. the prison governor was not well satisfied at this, especially as he was obliged to be present during the work; this did not suit his laziness. my doors were open during the time; it was twelve days before the work was finished. he grumbled, and did not wish that the window should be made as low as it had been before i was imprisoned here; i persuaded the mason's journeyman to cut down the wall as low as it had before been, which the prison governor perceived from the palace square, and he came running up and scolded, and was thoroughly angry. but it was not to be changed, for the window-frame was already made. i asked him what it mattered to him if the window was a stone lower; it did not go lower than the iron grating, and it had formerly been so. he would have his will, so that the mason walled it up a stone higher while the prison governor was there, and removed it again afterwards, for the window-frame, which was ready, would not otherwise have fitted. in the same year karen, nil's daughter, left me for the third and last time, and in her stead came a woman named barbra, the widow of a bookbinder. she is a woman of a melancholy turn. her conscience is aroused sometimes, so that she often enumerates her own misdeeds (but not so great as they have been, and as i have found out by enquiry). she had two children, and it seems from her own account that she was to some extent guilty of their death, for she says: 'who can have any care for a child when one does not love its father?' she left her husband two years before he died, and repaired to hamburg, supporting herself by spinning; she had before been in the service of a princess as a spinning-maid. her father is alive, and was bookbinder to the king's majesty; he has just now had a stroke of paralysis, and is lying very ill. she has no sympathy with her father, and wishes him dead (which would perhaps be the best thing for him); but it vexes me that she behaves so badly to her sister, who is the wife of a tailor, and i often tell her that in this she is committing a double sin; for the needy sister comes from time to time for something to eat. if she does not come exactly on the evening which she has agreed upon, she gets nothing, and the food is thrown away upstairs. when at some length i place her sin before her, she says, 'that meat is bad.' i ask her why she let it get bad, and did not give it in time to her sister. to this she answers that her sister is not worthy of it. i predict evil things which will happen to her in future, as they have done to others whom i enumerate to her. at this she throws back her head and is silent. at this time her majesty the queen sent me some silkworms to beguile the time. when they had finished spinning, i sent them back to her majesty in a box which i had covered with carnation-coloured satin, upon which i had embroidered a pattern with gold thread. inside, the box was lined with white taffeta. in the lid i embroidered with black silk a humble request that her majesty would loose my bonds, and would fetter me anew with the hand of favour. her majesty the virtuous queen would have granted my request had it rested with her. the prison governor became gradually more sensible and accommodating, drank less wine, and made no jokes. i had peace within my doors. the woman sat during the day outside in the other apartment, and lay there also in the night, so that i began not to fret so much over my hard fate. i passed the year with reading, writing, and composing. for some time past, immediately after i had received the yearly pension, i had bought for myself not only historical works in various languages, but i had gathered and translated from them all the famous female personages, who were celebrated as true, chaste, sensible, valorous, virtuous, god-fearing, learned, and steadfast; and in anno 1675, on january 9, i amused myself with making some rhymes to m. thomas kingo, under the title, 'to the much-famed poet m. thomas kingo, a request from a danish woman in the name of all danish women.' the request was this, that he would exhibit in befitting honour the virtuous and praiseworthy danish women. there are, indeed, virtuous women belonging to other nations, but i requested only his praise of the danish. this never reached kingo; but if my good friend to whom i entrust these papers still lives, it will fall probably into your hands, my beloved children. in the same year, on may 11, i wrote in rhyme a controversial conversation between sense and reason; entitled, 'controversial thoughts by the captive widow, or the dispute between sense and reason.' nothing else occurred this year within the doors of my prison which is worth recording, except one event--namely, when the outermost door of the anteroom was unlocked in the morning for the sake of sweeping away the dirt and bringing in fresh water, and the tower-warder occasionally let it stand open till meal-time and then closed it again, it happened that a fire broke out in the town and the bells were tolled. i and the woman ran up to the top of the tower to see where it was burning. when i was on the stairs which led up to the clock-work, the prison governor came, and with him was a servant from the silver-chamber. he first perceived my dog, then he saw somewhat of the woman, and thought probably that i was there also; he was so wise as not to come up the stairs, but remained below at the lowest holes, from whence one can look out over the town, and left me time enough to get down again and shut my door. gert was sorry, and came afterwards to the door and told me of his distress. i consoled him, and said there was nothing to fear. before the prison governor opened the door at noon, he struck gert with his stick, so that he cried, and the prison governor said with an oath, 'thou shalt leave.' when the prison governor came in, i was the first to speak, and i said: 'it is not right in you to beat the poor devil; he could not help it. the executioner came up as he was going to lock my door, and that made him forget to do so.' he threatened gert severely, and said, 'i should not have minded it so much had not that other servant been with me.' the words at once occurred to me which he had said to me a long time before, namely that no woman could be silent, but that all men could be silent (when he had asserted this, i had thought, if this be so, then my adversaries might believe that i, had i known of anything which they had in view, should not have been able to keep silence). so i now answered him thus: 'well, and what does that signify? it was a man; they can all keep silence; there is no harm done.' he could not help laughing, and said, 'well, you are good enough.' i then talked to him, and assured him that i had no desire to leave the tower without the king's will, even though day and night all the tower doors were left open, and i also said that i could have got out long ago, if that had been my design. gert continued in his service, and the prison governor never told gert to shut me in in the morning.[142] [142] in the margin is noted: 'at my desire the prison governor gave me a rat whose tail he had cut off; this i placed in a parrot's cage, and gave it food, so that it grew very tame. the woman grudged me this amusement; and as the cage hung in the outer apartment, and had a wire grating underneath, so that the dirt might fall out, she burned the rat with a candle from below. it was easy to perceive it, but she denied it.' at this time i had bought myself a clavicordium, and as barbra could sing well, i played psalms and she sang, so that the time was not long to us. she taught me to bind books, so far as i needed.[e56] [e56] the ms. itself is bound in a very primitive manner, which renders it probable that leonora has done it herself. my father confessor, h. emmeke, became a preacher at kiöge anno 1676. in the same year my pension was increased, and i received yearly 250 rix-dollars. it stands in the order that the 200 rix-dollars were to be used for the purchase of clothes and the remaining fifty to buy anything which might beguile the time.[e57] god bless and keep his gracious majesty, and grant that he may live to enjoy many happy years. [e57] it appears from the state accounts that ever since the year 1672 a sum of 250 dollars a year had been placed at her disposal. it would seem, therefore, that somehow or other a part of them had been unlawfully abstracted by someone during the first years. brant was at this time treasurer. on december 17 in this same year barbra left me, and married a bookbinder's apprentice; but she repented it afterwards. and as her husband died a year and a half after her marriage, and that suddenly, suspicion fell upon barbra. she afterwards went to her brother's house and fell ill. her conscience was awakened, and she sent for tötzlöff and told almost in plain terms that she had poisoned her husband, and begged him to tell me so. i was not much astonished at it, for according to her own account she had before killed her own children; but i told peder tötzlöff that he was not to speak of it; if god willed that it should be made known, it would be so notwithstanding; the brother and the maid in the house knew it; he was not to go there again, even if she sent a message to him. she became quite insane, and lay in a miserable condition. the brother subsequently had her removed to the plague-house. in barbra's place there came to me a woman named sitzel, daughter of a certain klemming; maren blocks had brought about her employment, as sitzel owed her money. she is a dissolute woman, and maren gave her out as a spinster; she had a white cap on her head when she came up. sitzel's debt to maren had arisen in this way: that maren--since sitzel could make buttons, and the button-makers had quarrelled with her--obtained for her a royal licence in order to free her from the opposition of the button-makers, under the pretext that she was sickly. when the door was locked in the evening, i requested to see the royal licence which maren had obtained for her. and when i saw that she was styled in it the sickly woman, i asked her what her infirmity was. she replied that she had no infirmity. 'why, then,' i asked, 'have you given yourself out as sickly?' she answered, 'that was maren block's doing, in order to get for me the royal licence.' 'in the licence,' i said, 'you are spoken of as a married woman, and not as a spinster; have you, then, been seduced?' she hung her head and said softly, 'yes.' i was not satisfied. i said, 'maren block has obtained the royal licence for you by lies, and has brought you to me by lies; what, then, can i expect from your service?' she begged my pardon, promised to serve me well, and never to act contrary to my wishes. she is a dangerous person; there is nothing good in her; bold and shameless, she is not even afraid of fighting a man. she struck two button-makers one day, who wanted to take away her work, till they were obliged to run away. with me she had no opportunity of thus displaying her evil passions, but still they were perceptible in various ways. one day i warded off a scuffle between her and maren blocks; for when maren blocks had got back the money which she had expended on the royal licence for sitzel, she wanted to remove her from me, and to bring another into her place; but i sent word to maren blocks that she must not imagine she could send me another whom i must take. it was enough that she had done this time.[143] [143] in the margin stood originally the following note, which has afterwards been struck out: 'in this year, 1676, the prison governor married for the third time; he married a woman who herself had had two husbands. anno 1677, aug. 9, died my sister elisabeth augusta.' in the place of h. emmeke norbye, h. johan adolf borneman became palace-preacher; a very learned and sensible man, who now became my father confessor, and performed the duties of his office for the first time on april 10, 1677. on october 9, in the same year, my father confessor was magister hendrich borneman, dean of the church of our lady (a learned and excellent man), his brother h. johan adolf borneman having accompanied the king's majesty on a journey. i have, thank god, spent this year in repose: reading, writing, and composing various things. anno 1678 it was brought about for me that my father-confessor, h. johan adolf borneman, should come to me every six weeks and preach a short sermon. in this year, on easter-day, agneta sophia budde was brought to the tower. her prison was above my innermost apartment. she was accused of having designed to poison the countess skeel; and as she was a young person, and had a waiting-woman in her attendance who was also young, they clamoured to such an extent all day that i had no peace for them. i said nothing, however, about it, thinking she would probably be quiet when she knew that her life was at stake. but no! she was merry to the day on which she was executed![144] [144] on a piece of paper which is fastened to the ms. by a pin is the following note referring to the same matter: 'on march 4, in the same year 1678, a woman named lucia, who had been in the service of lady rigitze grubbe, became my neighbour. she was accused by agneta sophia budde, as the person who at the instigation of her mistress had persuaded her to poison countess f. birrete skeel, and that lucia had brought her the poison. there was evidence as to the person from whom lucia had bought the poison. this woman was a steady faithful servant. she received everything that was imposed upon her with the greatest patience, and held out courageously in the dark cell. she had two men as companions, both of whom cried, moaned and wept. from the countess skeel (who had to supply her with food) meat was sent her which was full of maggots and mouldy bread. i took pity on her (not for the sake of her mistress, for she had rendered me little good service, and had rewarded me evil for the benefits of former times, but out of sympathy). and i sent her meat and drink and money that she might soften gert, who was too hard to her. she was tortured, but would not confess any thing of what she was accused, and always defended her mistress. she remained a long time in prison.[e58] [e58] the acts of this famous trial are still in existence. originally the quarrel arose out of the fact that the countess parsberg (born skeel) had obtained a higher rank than lady grubbe, and was further envenomed by some dispute about a window in the house of the latter which looked down on the courtyard of the countess's house. regitze grubbe (widow of hans ulrik gyldenlöve, natural son of christian iv. and half-brother of ulrik christian gyldenlöve, as well as of leonora christina), persuaded another noble lady, agnete budde, through a servant, to poison countess parsberg. miss budde was beheaded, the girl lucie was exiled, and lady grubbe relegated for life to the island of bornholm. in the same year, on the morning of july 9, the tower-warder gert was killed by a thief who was under sentence of death, and to whom he had allowed too great liberty. i will mention this incident somewhat more in detail, as i had advised gert not to give this prisoner so much liberty; but to his own misfortune he paid no attention to my advice. this thief had broken by night into the house of a clergyman, and had stolen a boiling-copper, which he had carried on his head to copenhagen; he was seized with it at the gate in the morning, and was placed here in the tower. he was condemned to be hanged (he had committed various other thefts). the priest allowed the execution to be delayed; he did not wish to have him hanged. then it was said he was to go to the holm; but he remained long in prison. at first, and until the time that his going to the holm was talked of, he was my neighbour in the dark church; he behaved quite as a god-fearing man, read (apparently) with devotion, and prayed to god for forgiveness of his sins with most profound sighs. the rogue knew that i could hear him, and i sent him occasionally something to eat. gert took pity on him, and allowed him to go by day about the basement story of the tower, and shut him up at night again. afterwards he allowed him also at night to remain below. and as i had seen the thief once or twice when my door stood open, and he went past, it seemed to me that he had a murderous countenance; and for this reason, when i heard that the thief was not placed of an evening in the dark church, i said to gert that he ventured too far, in letting him remain below at night; that there was roguery lurking in him; that he would certainly some day escape, and then, on his account, gert would get into trouble. gert was not of opinion that the thief wished to run away; he had no longer any fear of being hanged; he had been so delighted that he was to go to the holm, there was no danger in it. i thought 'that is a delight which does not reach further than the lips,' and i begged him that he would lock him up at night. no; gert feared nothing; he even went farther, and allowed the thief to go up the tower instead of himself, and attend to the clock-work. three days before the murder took place, i spoke with gert, when he unlocked my door in the morning, of the danger to which he exposed himself by the liberty he allowed the thief, but gert did not fear it. meanwhile my dog placed himself exactly in front of gert, and howled in his face. when we were at dinner, the dog ran down and howled three times at the tower-warder's door. never before had i heard the dog howl. on july 19 (as i have said), when gert's unfortunate morning had arrived, the thief came down from the clock-work, and said that he could not manage it alone, as the cords were entangled. the rogue had an iron rod ready above, in order to effect his project. gert went upstairs, but was carried down. the thief ran down after gert was dead, opened his box, took out the money, and went out of the tower. it was a friday, and the bells were to be rung for service. those whose duty it was to ring them knocked at the tower door, but no one opened. tötzlöff came with the principal key and opened, and spoke to me and wondered that gert was not there at that time of the day. i said: 'all is not right; this morning between four and five i was rather unwell, and i heard three people going upstairs and after a time two coming down again.' tötzlöff locked my door and went down. just then one of the ringers came down, and informed them that gert was lying upstairs dead. when the dead man was examined, he had more than one wound, but all at the back of the head. he was a very bold man, courageous, and strong; one man could not be supposed to have done this to him. the thief was seized the same evening, and confessed how it had happened: that, namely, a prisoner who was confined in the witch cell, a licentiate of the name of moritius, had persuaded him to it. this same moritius had great enmity against gert. it is true that gert took too much from him weekly for his food. but it is also true that this moritius was a very godless fellow; the priest who confesses him gives him no good character. i believe, indeed, that moritius was an accessory, but i believe also that another prisoner, who was confined in the basement of the tower, had a hand in the game. for who should have locked the tower-door again after the imprisoned thief, had not one of these done so? for when the key was looked for, it was found hidden above in the tower; this could not have been done by the thief after he was out of the tower. the thief, moreover, could not have unlocked gert's box and taken his money without the knowledge of moritius. the other prisoner must also have been aware of it. it seems to me that it was hushed up, in order that no more should die for this murder; for the matter was not only not investigated as was befitting, but the thief was confined down below in the tower. he was bound with iron fetters, but moritius could speak with him everyday: and for this reason the thief departed from his earlier statement, and said that he alone had committed the murder. he was executed on august 8, and moritius was taken to borringholm, and kept as a prisoner there.[e55b] [e55b] griffenfeldt, who was then at the height of his power, was the son of a wine-merchant, by name schumacher, but had risen by his talents alone to the highest dignities. he was ennobled under the name of griffenfeldt, and was undoubtedly the ablest statesman denmark ever possessed. eventually he was thrust from his high position by an intrigue set on foot by german courtiers and backed by foreign influence. he was accused of treason and kept in prison from 1676 to 1698, the year before he died, to the great, perhaps irreparable damage, of his native country. the principal witness against him was a german doctor, mauritius, a professional spy, who had served the danish government in this capacity. the year after the fall of griffenfeld, he was himself arrested on a charge of perjury, forgery, and high treason, and placed in the blue tower; he was convicted and conducted to bornholm, where he died. but griffenfeldt, who had been convicted on his false testimony, was not liberated. griffenfeldt's ability and patriotism cannot be doubted, but his personal character was not without blemish; and it is a fact that in his prosperity he disclaimed all connection with his earlier friends, and even his near relations. in gert's place a tower-warder of the name of johan, a norwegian, was appointed--a very simple man. the servants about court often made a fool of him. the imprisoned young woman and her attendant did so the first time after his arrival that the attendant had to perform some menial offices upstairs. the place to which she had to go was not far from the door of their prison. the tower-warder went down in the meanwhile, and left the door open. they ran about and played. when they heard him coming up the stairs, they hid themselves. he found the prison empty, and was grieved and lamented. the young woman giggled like a child, and thus he found her behind a door. johan was glad, and told me the story afterwards. i asked why he had not remained with them. 'what,' he answered, 'was i to remain at their dirty work?' there was nothing to say in reply to such foolish talk. i had repose within my doors, and amused myself with reading, writing and various handiwork, and began to make and embroider my shroud, for which i had bought calico, white taffeta, and thread. on april 7 a young lad escaped from the tower, who had been confined on the lower story with iron fetters round his legs. this prisoner found opportunity to loosen his fetters, and knew, moreover, that the booby johan was wont to keep the tower key under his pillow. he kept an iron pin in readiness to unlock the door of the room when the tower-warder was asleep; he opened it gently, took the key, locked in the booby again, and quitted the tower. the simple man was placed in confinement, but after the expiration of six weeks he was set at liberty. in his place there came a man named olle mathison, who was from skaane; he had his wife with him in the tower. towards the end of this year, on december 25, i became ill of a fever, and d. mynchen received orders to visit me and to take me under his care--an order which he executed with great attention. he is a very sensible man, mild and judicious in his treatment. ten days after i recovered my usual health. in the beginning of the year 1680 sitzel, klemming's daughter, was persuaded by maren blocks to betroth herself to one of the king's body-guard. she left me on november 26. in her place i had a woman named margrete. when i first saw her, she appeared to me somewhat suspicious, and it seemed to me that she was with child; however, i made no remark till the last day of the month of january. then i put a question to her from which she could perceive my opinion. she answered me with lies, but i interrupted her at once; and she made use of a special trick, which it is not fit to mention here, in order to prove her false assertion; but her trick could not stand with me, and she was subsequently obliged to confess it. i asked her as to the father of the child (i imagined that it was the king's groom of the chamber, who had been placed in arrest in the prison governor's room, but i did not say so). she did not answer my question at the time, but said she was not so far advanced; that her size was owing rather to stoutness than to the child, as it was at a very early stage. this woman, before she came to me, had been in the service of the prison governor's wife, and the prison governor had told me she was married. so it happened that i one day asked her of her life and doings; upon which she told me of her past history, where she had served, and that she had had two bastards, each by a different father; and pointing to herself, she added: 'a father shall also acknowledge this one, and that a brave father! you know him well!' i said, 'i have seen the king's groom of the chamber in the square, but i do not know him.' she laughed and answered (in her mother-tongue), 'no, by god, that is not he; it is the good prison governor.' i truly did not believe it. she protested it, and related some minute details to me. i thought i had better get rid of her betimes, and i requested to speak with the prison governor's wife, who at once came to me. i told her my suspicion with regard to the woman, and on what i based my suspicion; but i made no remark as to what the woman had confessed and said to me. i begged the prison governor's wife to remove the woman from me as civilly as she could. she was surprised at my words, and doubted if there was truth in them. i said, 'whether it be so or not, remove her; the sooner the better.' she promised that it should be done, but it was not. margrete seemed not to care that it was known that she was with child; she told the tower-warder of it, and asked him one day, 'ole, how was it with your wife when she had twins?' ole answered: 'i know nothing about it. ask anne!' margrete said that from certain symptoms she fancied she might have twins. one day, when she was going to sew a cloth on the arms of my arm-chair, she said, 'that angel of god is now moving!' and as the wife of the prison governor did not adhere to her word, and margrete's sister often came to the tower, i feared that the sister might secretly convey her something to remove the child (which was no doubt subsequently the case), so i said one day to margrete: 'you say that the prison governor is your child's father, but you do not venture to say so to himself.' 'yes!' she said with an oath, 'as if i would not venture! do you imagine that i will not have something from him for the support of my child?' 'then i will send for him,' i said, 'on purpose to hear what he will say.' (it was at that time a rare occurrence for the prison governor to come to me.) she begged me to do so; he could not deny, she said, that he was the father of her child. the prison governor came at my request. i began my speech in the woman's presence, and said that margrete, according to her own statement, was with child; who the father was, he could enquire if he chose. he asked her whether she was with child? she answered, 'yes, and you are the father of it.' 'o!' he said, and laughed, 'what nonsense!' she adhered to what she had said, protested that no other was the child's father, and related the circumstances of how it had occurred. the prison governor said, 'the woman is mad!' she gave free vent to her tongue, so that i ordered her to go out; then i spoke with the prison governor alone, and begged him speedily to look about for another woman for me, before it came to extremities with her. i supposed he would find means to stop her tongue. i told him the truth in a few words--that he had brought his paramour to wait on me. he answered, 'she lies, the malicious woman! i have ordered tötzlöff already to look about for another. my wife has told me what you said to her the other day.' after this conversation the prison governor went away. peder tötzlöff told me that an english woman had desired to be with me, but could not come before easter. four days afterwards margrete began to complain that she felt ill, and said to me in the forenoon, 'i think it will probably go badly with me; i feel so ill.' i thought at once of what i had feared, namely of what the constant visits of her sister indicated, and i sent immediately to peder tötzlöff, and when he came to me i told him of my suspicion respecting margrete, and begged him to do his utmost to procure me the english woman that very day. meanwhile margrete went up stairs, and remained there about an hour and a quarter, and came down looking like a corpse, and said, 'now it will be all right with me.' what i thought i would not say (for i knew that if i had enquired the cause of her bad appearance she would have at once acknowledged it all, and i did not want to know it), so i said, 'if you keep yourself quiet, all will be well. another woman is coming this evening.' this did not please her; she thought she could now well remain. i paid no regard to this nor to anything else she said, but adhered to it--that another woman was coming. this was arranged, and in the evening of march 15 margrete left, and in her place came an english woman, named jonatha, who had been married to a dane named jens pedersen holme. when margrete was gone, i was blamed by the wife of the prison governor, who said that i had persuaded margrete to affirm that her husband was the father of margrete's child. although it did not concern me, i will nevertheless mention the deceitful manner in which the good people subsequently brought about this margrete's marriage. they informed a bookbinder's apprentice that she had been married, and they showed both him and the priest, who was to give them the nuptial benediction, her sister's marriage certificate.[145] [145] in the margin is added: 'ole the tower-warder was cudgelled on his back by the prison governor when margrete was gone, and he was charged with having said what margrete had informed him respecting her size.' in the same year, on the morning of christmas day, god loosened d. otto sperling's heavy bonds, after he had been imprisoned in the blue tower seventeen years, eight months, twenty-four days, at the age of eighty years minus six days. he had long been ill, but never confined to his bed. doctor münchen twice visited him with his medicaments. he would not allow the tower-warder at any time to make his bed, and was quite angry if ole offered to do so, and implied that the doctor was weak. he allowed no one either to be present when he laid down. how he came on the floor on christmas night is not known; he lay there, knocking on the ground. the tower-warder could not hear his knocking, for he slept far from the doctor's room; but a prisoner who slept on the ground floor heard it, and knocked at the tower-warder's door and told him that the doctor had been knocking for some time. when ole came in, he found the doctor lying on the floor, half dressed, with a clean shirt on. he was still alive, groaned a good deal, but did not speak. ole called a prisoner to help him, and they lifted him on the bed and locked the door again. in the morning he was found dead, as i have said. a.d. 1682, in the month of april, i was sick and confined to my bed from a peculiar malady which had long troubled me--a stony matter had coagulated and had settled low down in my intestines. doctor münchen used all available means to counteract this weakness; but he could not believe that it was of the nature i thought and informed him; for i was perfectly aware it was a stone which had settled in the duct of the intestines. he was of opinion, if it were so, that the medicaments which he used would remove it.[146] at this time the doctor was obliged to travel with his majesty to holstein. i used the remedies according to doctor münchen's directions, but things remained just as before. it was not till the following morning that the remedies produced their effect; and then, besides other matter, a large stone was evacuated, and i struck a piece out of it with a hammer in order to see what it was inside; i found it to be composed of a substance like rays, having the appearance of being gilded in some places and in others silvered. it is almost half a finger in length and full three fingers thick, and it is still in my possession. when doctor münchen returned, i sent him word how it was with me. he was at the time with the governess of the royal children, f. sitzele grubbe. doctor münchen desired tötzlöff to request me to let him see the stone. i sent him word that if he would come to me, he should see it. i would not send it to him, for i well knew that i should never get it again. [146] in the margin is added: 'other natural matter was evacuated, but the stone stuck fast in the duct, and seemed to be round, for i could not gain hold of it with an instrument i had procured for the purpose.' a.d. 1682, june 11, i wrote the following spiritual song. it can be sung to the melody, 'siunge wii af hiærtens-grund.'[e59] [e59] this tune is still in use in denmark; it is known in the latin church as 'in natali domini.' i. what is this our mortal life otherwise than daily strife? what is all our labour here, the servitude and yoke we bear? are they aught but vanity? art and learning what are ye? like a vapour all we see. ii. why, then, is thy anxious breast filled with trouble? be at rest! why, then, dost thou boldly fight the phantoms vain that mock thy sight? is there any, small or grand, who can payment duly hand at the creditor's demand? iii. naked to the world i came, and i leave it just the same; the lord has given and he takes; it is well whate'er he makes. to the lord all praises be; i will trust him heartily! and my near deliverance see. iv. one thing would i ask of thee. that thy house i once may see, and once more with song and praise may my pious offering raise, and magnify thy grace received, and all that jesus has achieved for us who have in him believed. v. if thou sayest unto me, 'i have no desire in thee, there is no place for thee above;' oh jesus! look thou down in love! can i not justly to thee say 'let me but see thy wounds, i pray:' god's mercy cannot pass away. on june 27, the queen sent me some silk and silver, with the request that i would embroider her a flower, which was traced on parchment; she sent also another flower which was embroidered, that i might see how the work should be done, which is called the golden work. i had never before embroidered such work, for it affects the eyes quickly; but i undertook it, and said i would do it as well as i could. on july 9, i sent the flower which i had embroidered to the governess of the royal children, f. sitzele grubbe, with the request that she would present it most humbly to her majesty the queen. the queen was much pleased with the flower, and told her that it excelled the others which certain countesses had embroidered for her. i afterwards embroidered nine flowers in silver and silk in this golden work, and sent them to the queen's mistress of the robes, with the request that she would present them most humbly to her majesty the queen. the mistress of the robes assured me of the queen's favour, and told me that her majesty was going to give me two silver flagons, but i have not heard of them yet. in the same year i embroidered a table-cover with floss silk, in a new design devised by myself, and i trimmed it with taffeta and silver fringe; this also i begged lady grubbe, the governess of the king's children, to present most humbly to her majesty, and it was graciously received. on november 29, i completed the work which i had made for my death-gear. it was embroidered with thread. on one end of the pillow i worked the following lines: full of anxiety and care, in many a silent night, this shroud have i been weaving with sorrowful delight! on the other end i embroidered the following: (n.b. the pillow was stuffed with my hair). when some day on this hair my weary head will lie, my body will be free and my soul to god will fly. on the cloth for the head i embroidered: i know full well, my jesus, thou dost live, and my frail body from the dust wilt give, and it with marvellous beauty will array to stand before thy throne on the great day. fulfilled with heavenly joy i then shall be, and thee, great god, in all thy splendour see. nor unknown wilt thou to mine eyes appear! help jesus, bridegroom, be thou ever near! her majesty the queen was always gracious to me, and sent me again a number of silkworms that i might amuse myself with feeding them for her, and i was to return what they spun. the virtuous queen also sent me sometimes oranges, lemons, and some of the large almanacs, and this she did through a dwarf, who is a thoroughly quick lad. his mother and father had been in the service of my deceased sister sophia elizabeth and my brother-in-law count pentz. the governess of the royal children, f. sitzel grubbe, was very courteous and good to me, and sent me several times lemons, oranges, mulberries, and other fruits, according to the season of the year. a young lady, by birth a donep, also twice sent me fruit. the maids of honour once sent me some entangled silk from silkworms, which they wanted to spin, and did not rightly know how to manage it; they requested me to arrange it for them. i had other occupation on hand which i was unwilling to lay aside (for i was busy collecting my heroines), but nevertheless i acceded to their wish.[e60] my captivity of nearly twenty years could not touch the heart of the queen dowager (though with a good conscience i can testify before god that i never gave her cause for such inclemency). my most gracious hereditary king was gracious enough several times in former years to intercede for me with his royal mother, through the high ministers of the state. her answer at that time was very hard; she would entitle them 'traitors,' and, 'as good as i was,' and would point them to the door. all the favours which the king's majesty showed me--the outer apartment, the large window, the money to dispose of for myself--annoyed the queen dowager extremely; and she made the king's majesty feel her displeasure in the most painful manner. and as she had also learned (she had plenty of informers) that i possessed a clavicordium, this annoyed her especially, and she spoke very angrily with the king about it; on which account the prison governor came to me one day and said that the king had asked him how he had happened to procure me a clavicordium. 'i stood abashed,' said the prison governor, 'and knew not what to say.' i thought to myself, 'you know but little of what is happening in the tower.' i did not see him more than three times a year. i asked who had told the king of the clavicordium. he answered: 'the old queen; she has her spies everywhere, and she has spoken so hardly to the king that it is a shame because he gives you so much liberty;' so saying, he seized the clavicordium just as if he were going to take it away, and said, 'you must not have it!' i said, 'let it alone! i have permission from his majesty, my gracious sovereign, to buy what i desire for my pastime with the money he graciously assigns me. the clavicordium is in no one's way, and cannot harm the queen dowager.' he pulled at it nevertheless, and wanted to take it down; it stood on a closet which i had bought. i said, with rather a loud voice, 'you must let it remain until you return me the money i gave you for it; then you may do with it what you like.' he said, 'i will tell the king that.' i begged him to do so. there was nothing afterwards said about it,[147] and i still have the clavicordium, though i play on it rarely. i write, and hasten to finish my heroines, so that i may have them ready, and that no sickness nor death may prevent my completing them, nor the friend to whom i confide them may leave me, and so they would never fall into your hands, my dearest children. [e60] 'i have in my imprisonment also gained some experience with regard to caterpillars. it amused me at one time to watch their changes. the worms were apparently all of one sort, striped alike, and of similar colour. but butterflies did not come from all. it was quite pretty to see how a part when they were about to change, pressed against something, whatever it might be, and made themselves steady with a thread (like silkworm's silk) on each side, passing it over the back about fifty times, always at the same place, and often bending the back to see if the threads were strong enough; if not, they passed still more threads round them. when this was done, they rapidly changed their form and became stout, with a snout in front pointed at the end, not unlike the fish called knorr by the dutch; they have also similar fins on the back, and a similar head. in this form they remain for sixteen days, and then a white butterfly comes out. but of some caterpillars small worms like maggots come out on both sides, whitish, broad at one end and pointed at the other. these surround themselves with a web with great rapidity, each by itself. then the worm spins over them tolerably thickly, turning them round till they are almost like a round ball. in this it lies till it is quite dried up; it eats nothing, and becomes as tiny as a fly before it dies. twelve days afterwards small flies come out of the ball, and then the ball looks like a small bee-hive. i have seen a small living worm come out of the neck of the caterpillar (this i consider the rarest), but it did not live long, and ate nothing. the mother died immediately after the little one had come out.' it is perhaps not unnecessary to add that this observation, which is correct as to facts, refers to the habits of certain larvæ of wasps which live as parasites in caterpillars. [147] in the margin is added: 'the prison governor told me afterwards that the king laughed when he had told his majesty my answer about the clavicordium, and had said, "yes, yes."' on september 24, m. johan adolf, my father confessor, was promoted; he became dean of the church of our lady. he bade me a very touching farewell, having administered the duties of his office to me for nearly six years, and been my consolation. god knows how unwillingly i parted with him. at the beginning of this year h. peder collerus was my father confessor; he was at the time palace-preacher. he also visited me with his consolatory discourse every six weeks. he is a learned man, but not like hornemann. on april 3, an old sickly dog was sent to me in the queen's name. i fancy the ladies of the court sent it, to be quit of the trouble. a marten had bit its jaw in two, so that the tongue hung out on one side. all the teeth were gone, and a thin film covered one eye. it heard but little, and limped on one side. the worst, however, was, that one could easily see that it tried to exhibit its affection beyond its power. they told me that her majesty the queen had been very fond of the dog. it was a small 'king charles;' its name was 'cavaillier.' the queen expressed her opinion that it would not long trouble me. i hoped so also.[e66b] [e66b] this poem still exists, and is printed in the second volume of hofman's work on danish noblemen. it is intended to convey an account of her own and her husband's fate. on august 12 of this year i finished the work i had undertaken, and since my prefatory remarks treated of celebrated women of every kind, both of valiant rulers and sensible sovereigns, of true, chaste, god-fearing, virtuous, unhappy, learned, and steadfast women, it seemed to me that all of these could not be reckoned as heroines; so i took some of them out and divided them into three parts, under the title, 'the heroines' praise.' the first part is to the honour of valiant heroines. the second part speaks of true and chaste heroines. the third part of steadfast heroines. each part has its appendix. i hope to god that this my prison work may come into your hands, my dearest children. hereafter i intend, so god will, to collect the others: namely, the sensible, learned, god-fearing, and virtuous women; exhibiting each to view in the circumstances of her life.[e61] [e61] it has been stated already that a copy of the first part of this work is still preserved. amongst the heroines here treated of are modern historical personages, as queen margaret of denmark, thyre danobod who built the dannevirke, elizabeth of england, and isabella of castilia, besides mythical and classic characters, as penthesilea, queen of the amazons, marpesia, tomyris, zenobia, artemisia, victorina, etc. there existed not a few works of this kind--we need only mention boccacio's 'donne illustri,' in which many of these last personages also occur. i will mention from her own statement somewhat of jonatha, who now attended on me. i will pass over the long story of how she left her mother; the fact is, that against her mother's will she married a danish merchant, named jens pedersen holme. but her life and doings (according to her own statement) are so strange, that it may be worth while to record somewhat of them. after they were married, she says, it vexed her, and was always in her mind that she had made her mother angry, and had done very wrong. her mother had sent her also a hard letter, which distressed her much; and she behaved refractorily towards her husband, and in many ways like a spoilt unreasonable child, sometimes even like one who had lost her reason and was desperate. it seems also that her husband treated her as if her mind was affected, for he had her looked after like a child, and treated her as such. she told him once that she was intending to drown herself in the peblingesö,[e62] and at another time that she would strike him dead. the husband feared neither of these threats; still he had her watched when she went out, to see which way she took. once she had firmly resolved to drown herself in the peblingesö, for this place pleased her; she was even on her way there, but was brought back. she struck her husband, too, once after her fashion. he had come home one day half intoxicated, and had laid down on a bed, so that his legs rested on the floor. she says she intended at the time to strike him dead; she took a stick and tried to see if he were asleep, talking loudly to herself and scolding, and touching him softly on the shinbone with the stick. he behaved as if he were asleep. then she struck him a little harder. upon this he seized the stick and took it away from her, and asked what she had in her mind. she answered, 'to kill you.' 'he was grieved at my madness,' she said, 'and threw himself on his knees, praying god to govern me with his good spirit and give me reason.' the worst is that it once came into her mind not to sleep with her husband, and she laid down on a bench in the room. for a long time he gave her fair words, but these availed nothing. at last he said, 'undress yourself and come and lie down, or i shall come to you.' she paid no attention to this; so he got up, undressed her completely, slapped her with his hand, and threw her into bed. she protested that for some days she was too bruised to sit; this proved availing, and she behaved in future more reasonably. [e62] the peblingesö is one of three lakes which surround copenhagen on the land-side, in a semicircle. little at peace as she was with her husband when she had him with her, she was greatly grieved when he left her to go to the west indies. he sent by return vessels all sorts of goods to sell, and she thus maintained herself comfortably. it happened at last that the man died in the west indies, and a person who brought her the news stated that he had been poisoned by the governor of the place named ----, at an entertainment, and this because he was on the point of returning home, and the governor was afraid that holme might mention his evil conduct. these tidings unsettled her mind so, that she ran at night, in her mere night-dress, along the street, and squabbled with the watchmen. she went to the admiral at the holm, and demanded justice upon the absent culprit, and accused him, though she could prove nothing. thus matters went on for a time, until at last she gained repose, and god ordained it that she came to me. my intercourse with her is as with a frail glass vessel, for she is weak in many respects. she often doubts of her salvation, and enumerates all her sins. she laments especially having so deeply offended her mother, and thus having drawn down a curse upon her. when this fear comes upon her, i console her with god's word, and enter fully into the matter, showing her, from holy scripture, on what a repentant sinner must rely for the mercy of god. occasionally she is troubled as to the interpretation of holy scripture, as all passages do not seem to her to agree, but to contradict each other. in this i help her so far as my understanding goes, so that sometimes she heartily thanks god that she is come to me, where she finds rest and consolation. after she had been with me for a year or two, she learned that the governor, whom she suspected, had come to copenhagen. she said to me, 'i hear the rogue is come here; i request my dismissal.' i asked her why. 'because,' she replied, 'i will kill him.' i could scarcely keep from laughing; but i said, 'jesus forbid! if you have any such design, i shall not let you go.' and as she is a person whose like i have never known before--for she could chide with hard words, and yet at the same time she was modest and well-behaved--i tried to make her tell me and show me how she designed to take the governor's life. (she is a small woman, delicately formed.) then she acted as if her enemy were seated on a stool, and she had a large knife under her apron. when he said to her, 'woman, what do you want?' she would plunge the knife into him, and exclaim, 'rogue, thou hast deserved this.' she would not move from the place, she would gladly die, if she could only take his life. i said, 'still it is such a disgrace to die by the hand of the executioner.' 'oh, no!' she replied, 'it is not a disgrace to die for an honourable deed;' and she had an idea that any one thus dying by the hand of the executioner passed away in a more christian manner than such as died on a bed of sickness; and that it was no sin to kill a man who, like a rogue, had murdered another. i asked her if she did not think that he sinned who killed another. 'no,' she replied, 'not when he has brought it upon himself.' i said, 'no one may be his own judge, either by the law of god or man; and what does the fifth commandment teach us?'[e63] she answered as before, that she would gladly die if she could only take the rogue's life. (i must add that she said she could not do it on my account, for i would not let her out.) she made a sin of that which is no sin, and that which is sin she will not regard as such. she says it is a sin to kill a dog, a cat, or a bird; the innocent animals do no harm; in fact, it is a still greater sin to let the poor beasts hunger. i asked her once whether it was a sin to eat meat. 'no,' she answered; 'it is only a sin to him who has killed the animal.' she protested that if she were obliged to marry, and had to choose between a butcher and an executioner, she would prefer the latter. she told me of various quarrels she had had with those who had either killed animals or allowed them to hunger. [e63] the lutheran church has retained the division of the commandments used in the roman church; and the commandment against murder is therefore here described as the fifth, whilst in the english catechism it is the sixth. one story i will not leave unmentioned, as it is very pretty. she sold, she said, one day some pigs to a butcher. when the butcher's boy was about to bind the pigs' feet and carry them off hanging from a pole, she was sorry for the poor pigs, and said, 'what, will you take their life? no, i will not suffer that!' and she threw him back his money. i asked her if she did not know that pigs were killed, and for what reason she thought the butcher had bought them. 'yes,' she replied, 'i knew that well. had he let them go on their own legs, i should have cared nothing about it; but to bind the poor beasts in this way, and to hear them cry, i could not endure that.' it would take too long to enumerate all the extravagant whims which she related of herself. but with all this she is not foolish, and i well believe she is true to any one she loves. she served me very well, and with great care. the above-mentioned governor[e64] was killed by some prisoners on board the vessel, when he was returning to the west indies. by a strange chance the vessel with the murderers came to copenhagen. (they were sentenced to death for their crime.) jonatha declared that the governor had had only too good a death, and that it was a sin that any one should lose his life on account of it. i practise speaking the english language with jonatha. she has forgotten somewhat of her mother tongue, since she has not spoken it for many years; and as she always reads the english bible, and does not at once understand all the words, i help her; for i not only can perceive the sense from the preceding and following words, but also because some words resemble the french, though with another accent. and we often talk together about the interpretation of holy scripture. she calls herself a calvinist, but she does not hold the opinions of calvinists. i never dispute with her over her opinions. she goes to the lord's supper in the queen's church[e65]. once, when she came back to me from there, she said she had had a conversation upon religion with a woman, who had told her to her face that she was no calvinist. i asked her of what religion the woman imagined that she was. she replied: 'god knows that. i begged her to mind her own business, and said, that i was a christian; i thought of your grace's words (but i did not say them), that all those who believe on christ and live a christian life, are christians, whatever name they may give to their faith.' [e64] the name of this governor, which is not mentioned by leonora, was jörgen iversen, the first danish governor of st. thomas. in 1682 he returned to the colony from copenhagen on board a vessel which was to bring some prisoners over to st. thomas. very soon after their departure, some of the prisoners and of the crew raised a mutiny, killed the captain and some of the passengers, amongst them the ex-governor iversen. but one of the prisoners who had not been in the plot afterwards got the mastery of the vessel, and returned to copenhagen. the vessel struck on a rock, near the swedish coast, but the crew were saved and sent home to copenhagen by the swedish government, and the murderers were then executed. [e65] the queen's church was a room in the castle where service was held according to the calvinist rite. in this year 1684 i saw the queen dowager fall from the chair in which she was drawn up to the royal apartment. the chair ran down the pulleys too quickly, so that she fell on her face and knocked her knee. during this year her weakness daily increased, but she thought herself stronger than she was. she appeared at table always much dressed, and between the meals she remained in her apartments. i kept myself patient, and wrote the following:-_contemplation on memory and courage, recorded to the honour of god by the suffering christian woman in the sixty-third year of her life, and the almost completed twenty-first year of her captivity._ the vanished hours can ne'er come back again, still may the old their youthful joys retain; the past may yet within our memory live, and courage vigour to the old may give. yet why should i thus sport with memory's truth, and harrow up the fairer soil of youth? no fruit it brings, fallow and bare it lies, and the dry furrow only pain supplies! in my first youth, in honourable days upon such things small question did i raise. then years advanced with trouble in their train, and spite of show my life was fraught with pain. the holy marriage bond--my rank and fame, increased my foes and made my ill their aim. go! honour, riches, vanish from my mind! ye all forsook me and left nought behind. 'twas ye have brought me here thro' years to lie; thus can man's envy human joy deny! my god alone, he ne'er forsook me here, my cross he lightened, and was ever near; and when my heart was yielding to despair, he spoke of peace and whispered he was there. he gave me power and ever near me stood, and all could see how truly god was good. what courage can achieve i next will heed; he who is blessed with it, is blest indeed. to the tired frame fresh power can courage give, raising the weary mind anew to live; i mean that courage reason may instil not the foolhardiness that leads to ill. far oftener is it that the youth will lie helpless, when fortune's favours from him fly, than that the old man should inactive stay, who knows full well how fortune loves to play. fresh courage seizes him; from such a shield rebound the arms malicious foes may wield. courage imparts repose, and trifles here, beneath its influence, as nought appear; but a vain loan, which we can only hold until the lender comes, and life is told. courage pervades the frame and vigour gives, and a fresh energy each part receives; with appetite and health and cheerful mind, and calm repose in hours of sleep we find, so that no visions in ill dreams appear, and spectre forms filling the heart with fear. courage gives honied sweetness to our food and prison fare, and makes e'en death seem good. 'tis well! my mind is fresh, my limbs are sound, and no misfortune weighs me to the ground. reason and judgment come from god alone, and the five senses unimpaired i own. the mighty god in me his power displays, therefore join with me in a voice of praise and laud his name: for thou it is, oh god, who in my fear and anguish nigh me stood. almighty one, my thanks be ever thine! let me ne'er waver nor my trust resign. take not the courage which my hope supplies, till my soul enters into paradise. written on february 28, 1684, that is the thirty-sixth anniversary since the illustrious king christian the fourth bade good-night to this world, and i to the prosperity of my life. i have now reached the sixty-third year of my age, and the twentieth year, sixth month, and fifteenth day of my imprisonment. i have therefore spent the third part of my life in captivity. god be praised that so much time is past. i hope the remaining days may not be many. anno 1685, january 14, i amused myself with making some verses in which truth was veiled under the cloak of jest, entitled: 'a dog, named cavaillier, relates his fate.' the rhymes, i suppose, will come into your hands, my dearest children.[e66] [e66] this poem still exists, and is printed in the second volume of hofman's work on danish noblemen. it is intended to convey an account of her own and her husband's fate. on february 20, the queen dowager sophia amalia died. she did not think that death would overtake her so quickly; but when the doctor warned her that her death would not be long delayed, she requested to speak with her son. but death would not wait for the arrival of his majesty, so that the queen dowager might say a word to him. she was still alive; she was sitting on a chair, but she was speechless, and soon afterwards, in the same position, she gave up her spirit. after the death of this queen i was much on the lips of the people. some thought that i should obtain my liberty; others believed that i should probably be brought from the tower to some other place, but should not be set free. jonatha, who had learned from ole the tower-warder, some days before the death of the queen, that prayers were being offered up in the church for the queen (it had, however, been going on for six weeks, that this prayer had been read from the pulpit), was, equally with ole the tower-warder, quite depressed. ole, who had consoled himself and her hitherto with the tidings from the queen's lacqueys, that the queen went to table and was otherwise well, though she occasionally suffered from a cough, now thought that there was danger, that death might result, and that i, if the queen died, might perhaps leave the prison. they did their best to conceal their sorrow, but without success. they occasionally shed secretly a few tears. i behaved as if i did not remark it, and as no one said anything to me about it, i gave no opportunity for speaking on the subject. a long time previously i had said to jonatha (as i had done before to the other women) that i did not think i should die in the tower. she remembered this and mentioned it. i said: 'all is in god's hand. he knows best what is needful for me, both as regards soul and body; to him i commend myself.' thus jonatha and ole lived on between hope and fear. on march 15, the reigning queen kept her easter. jonatha came quite delighted from her majesty's church, saying that a noble personage had told her that i need not think of getting out of the prison, although the queen was dead; she knew better and she insisted upon it. however often i asked as to who the personage was, she would not tell me her name. i laughed at her, and said, 'whoever the personage may be, she knows just as much about it as you and i do.' jonatha adhered to her opinion that the person knew it well. 'what do you mean?' i said; 'the king himself does not know. how should others know?' 'not the king! not the king!' she said quite softly. 'no, not the king!' i answered. 'he does not know till god puts it into his heart, and as good as says to him, "now thou shalt let the prisoner free!"' she came somewhat more to herself, but said nothing. and as she and ole heard no more rumours concerning me, they were quite comforted. on march 26, the funeral of the queen dowager took place, and her body was conveyed to roskild. on april 21, i supplicated the king's majesty in the following manner. i possessed a portrait engraving of the illustrious king christian the fourth, rather small and oval in form. this i illuminated with colours, and had a carved frame made for it, which i gilded myself. on the piece at the back i wrote the following words:- my grandson, and great namesake, equal to me in power and state; vouchsafe my child a hearing, and be like me in mercy great! besides this, i wrote to his excellency gyldenlöve, requesting him humbly to present the supplique to the king's majesty, and to interest himself on my behalf, and assist me to gain my liberty. his excellency was somewhat inconvenienced at the time by his old weakness, so that he could not himself speak for me; but he begged a good friend to present the engraving with all due respect, and this was done on april 24.[e67] [e67] this picture is still preserved at the castle of rosenbourg, in copenhagen. of all this jonatha knew nothing. peder jensen tötzlöff was my messenger. he has been a comfort to me in my imprisonment, and has rendered me various services, so that i am greatly bound to him. and i beg you, my dearest children, to requite him in all possible ways for the services he has rendered me. on may 2, it became generally talked of that i should assuredly be set at liberty, and some asked the tower-warder whether i had come out the evening before, and at what time; so that ole began to fear, and could not bear himself as bravely as he tried to do. he said to me in a sad tone: 'my good lady! you will certainly be set at liberty. there are some who think you are already free.' i said, 'god will bring it to pass.' 'yes,' said he, 'but how will it fare with me then?' i answered, 'you will remain tower-warder, as you now are.' 'yes,' said he, 'but with what pleasure?' and he turned, unable to restrain his tears, and went away. jonatha concluded that my deliverance was drawing near, and endeavoured to conceal her sorrow. she said, 'ole is greatly cast down, but i am not.' (and the tears were standing in her eyes.) 'it is said for certain that the king is going away the day after to-morrow. if you are set at liberty, it will be this very day.' i said, 'god knows.' jonatha expressed her opinion that i was nevertheless full of hope. i said i had been hopeful ever since the first day of my imprisonment; that god would at last have mercy on me, and regard my innocence. i had prayed to god always for patience to await the time of his succour; and god had graciously bestowed it on me. if the moment of succour had now arrived, i should pray to god for grace to acknowledge rightly his great benefits. jonatha asked if i were not sure to be set free before the king started for norway; that it was said for certain that the king would set out early on the following morning. i said: 'there is no certainty as to future things. circumstances may occur to impede the king's journey, and it may also happen that my liberty may be prevented, even though at this hour it may perhaps be resolved upon. still i know that my hope will not be confounded. but you do not conceal your regret, and i cannot blame you for it. you have cause for regret, for with my freedom you lose your yearly income and your maintenance.[148] remember how often i have told you not to throw away your money so carelessly on your son. you cannot know what may happen to you in your old age. if i die, you will be plunged into poverty; for as soon as you receive your money, you expend it on the apprenticeship of your son, who returns you no thanks for it.[149] you have yourself told me of his bad disposition, and how wrongly he has answered you when you have tried to give him good advice. latterly he has not ventured to do so, since i read him a lecture, and threatened that i would help to send him to the house of correction. i fear he will be a bad son to you.' upon this she gave free vent to her tears, and begged that if i obtained my liberty i would not abandon her. this i promised, so far as lay in my power; for i could not know what my circumstances might be. [148] in the margin is added: 'the woman who attended on me received eight rix-dollars monthly.' [149] in the margin: 'she had him learn wood-carving.' in this way some days elapsed, and jonatha and ole knew not what the issue might be. on may 19, at six o'clock in the morning, ole knocked softly at my outer door. jonatha went to it. ole said softly, 'the king is already gone; he left at about four o'clock.' i know not if his hope was great; at any rate it did not last long. jonatha told me ole's news. i wished the king's majesty a prosperous journey (i knew already what order he had given), and it seemed to me from her countenance she was to some extent contented. at about eight o'clock tötzlöff came up to me and informed me that the lord chancellor count allefeldt had sent the prison governor a royal order that i was to be released from my imprisonment, and that i could leave when i pleased. (this order was signed by the king's majesty the day before his majesty started.) his excellency had accompanied the king. tötzlöff asked whether i wished him to lock the doors, as i was now free. i replied, 'so long as i remain within the doors of my prison, i am not free. i will moreover leave properly. lock the door and enquire what my sister's daughter, lady anna catharina lindenow, says, whether his excellency[e68] sent any message to her (as he promised) before he left. when tötzlöff was gone, i said to jonatha, 'now, in jesus' name, this very evening i shall leave. gather your things together, and pack them up, and i will do the same with mine; they shall remain here till i can have them fetched.' she was somewhat startled, but not cast down. she thanked god with me, and when the doors were unlocked at noon and i dined, she laughed at ole, who was greatly depressed. i told her that ole might well sigh, for that he would now have to eat his cabbage without bacon. [e68] the excellency alluded to is ulrik frederik gyldenlöve, a natural son of frederik iii. anna catharina lindenow was daughter of leonora's sister, elizabeth augusta, who married hans lindenow. tötzlöff brought me word from my sister's daughter that his excellency had sent to her to say that she was free to accompany me from the tower, if she chose. it was therefore settled that she was to come for me late the same evening. the prison governor was in a great hurry to get rid of me, and sent the tower-warder to me towards evening, to enquire whether i would not go. i sent word that it was still too light (there would probably be some curious people who had a desire to see me). through a good friend i made enquiry of her majesty the queen, whether i might be allowed the favour of offering my humble submission to her majesty (i could go into the queen's apartment through the secret passage, so that no one could see me). her majesty sent me word in reply that she might not speak with me. at about ten o'clock in the evening, the prison governor opened the door for my sister's daughter. (i had not seen him for two years.) he said, 'well, shall we part now?' i answered, 'yes, the time is now come.' then he gave me his hand, and said 'ade!' (adieu). i answered in the same manner, and my niece laughed heartily. soon after the prison governor had gone, i and my sister's daughter left the tower. her majesty the queen thought to see me as i came out, and was standing on her balcony, but it was rather dark; moreover i had a black veil over my face. the palace-square, as far as the bridge and further, was full of people, so that we could scarcely press through to the coach. the time of my imprisonment was twenty-one years, nine months, and eleven days. king frederick iii. ordered my imprisonment on august 8, a.d. 1663; king christian v. gave me my liberty on may 18, 1685. god bless my most gracious king with all royal blessing, and give his majesty health and add many years to his life. this is finished in my prison. on may 19, at ten o'clock in the evening, i left my prison. to god be honour and praise. he graciously vouchsafed that i should recognise his divine benefits, and never forget to record them with gratitude. dear children! this is the greatest part of the events worth mentioning which occurred to me within the doors of my prison. i live now in the hope that it may please god and the king's majesty that i may myself show you this record. god in his mercy grant it. 1685. written at husum[e69] june 2, where i am awaiting the return of the king's majesty from norway: [e69] this husum is a village just outside copenhagen, where leonora remained for some months before she went to maribo, as is proved by a letter from her dated husum, september 18, 1685. of course the last paragraphs must have been added after she left her prison, and the passage 'this is finished in my prison' refers, at any rate, only to what precedes. a.d. 1683. new year's day. to myself. men say that fortune is a rare and precious thing, and they would fain that power should homage to her bring. yet power herself is blind and ofttimes falleth low, rarely to rise again, wherefore may heaven know. to-day with humorous wiles she holds her sovereign sway, and could one only trust her, there might be goodly prey. yet is she like to fortune, changeful the course she flies, and both, oh earthly pilgrim, are but vain fraud and lies. the former is but frail, the other strives with care, and both alas! are subject to many a plot and snare. thou hast laid hold on fortune with an exultant mind, affixed perhaps to-morrow the fatal _mis_ we find; then does thy courage fail, this prefix saddens thee, wert thou thyself goliath or twice as brave as he. and thou who art so small--already grey with care- thou know'st not whether evil this year thy lot may share. for fortune frolics ever, now under, now above, emerging here and there her varied powers to prove. all that is earthly comes and vanishes again, therefore i cling to that which will for aye remain. on march 14, 1683, i wrote the following:- true is the sentence we are sometimes told: a friend is worth far more than bags of gold. yet would i gladly ask, where do we find a friend so virtuous that he is well inclined to help another in his need and gloom without a thought of recompense to come? naught is there new in this, for selfish care to every child of eve has proved a snare. each generation hears the last complain, and each repeats the same sad tale again;- that the oppressed by the wayside may lie, when naught is gained but god's approving eye. see, at bethesda's pool, how once there came the halting impotent, some help to claim among those thousands. each of pity free, had no hand for him in his misery to bring him to the angel-troubled stream. near his last breath did the poor sufferer seem, weary and penniless; when one alone who without money works his wise own will, turned where the helpless suppliant lay, and gently bade him rise and go his way. children of grief, rejoice, do not despair; this helper still is here and still will care what he in mercy wills. he soothes our pain, and he will help, asking for naught again. and in due time he will with gracious hand unloose thy prison bars and iron band. a.d. 1684. the first day. to peder jensen tötzlöff. welcome, thou new year's day, altho' thou dost belong to those by brahe reckoned the evil days among, declaring that whatever may on this day begin can never prosper rightly, nor true success can win. now i will only ask if from to-day i strive the evil to avoid and henceforth good to live, will this not bring success? why should a purpose fail, altho' on this day made? why should it not prevail? oh brahe, i believe, when we aright begin, to-day or when it be, and god's good favour win, the issue must be well, and all that matters here is to commend our ways to our redeemer dear. begin with jesus christ this as all other days. pray that thy plans may meet with the almighty's praise, so may'st thou happy be, and naught that man can do can hinder thy designs, unless god wills it so! may a rich meed of blessing be on thy head bestow'd, and the lord jesus christ protect thee on thy road with arms of grace. such is my wish for thee, based on the love of god; sure, that he answers me. london: printed by spottiswoode and co., new-street square and parliament street * * * * * transcriber's note: the following corrections were made: p. 53: length the good-for-nothing[good-for nothing] fellow came down, and p. 55: there for ten days[25] a letter from gul...[gl...] which he p. 56: patacoon[patacon] to those who were to restrain her, saying, p. 59: came to see her, no one in consequence[consequenec] consoled her, p. 61: when the lawyer had said that they[t hey] had now taken p. 64: lose in dan...[den...]. p. 67: it was necessary[neccessary] to descend the rampart into the p. 92: he persuaded[pursuaded] me to undertake the english journey, p. 106: with my attendant. i answered nothing else than[then] that p. 114: silk camisole[camisolle], in the foot of my stockings there were p. 132: castle[cstale], i had sent a good round present for those in p. 135: sad day, and i begged them, for jesus'[jesu's] sake, that p. 137: decree? i only beg for jesus'[jesu's] sake that what i say p. 172: might easily injure herself with one.'[[76]] p. 174: synge'[[e31]]:-p. 230: of listening to reason, for she at once exclaimed �ach[!] p. 239: karen, nils'[nil's] daughter, left me one evening in 1669, p. 241: and the frenchman[frenchmen] was conveyed to the dark church, p. 241: through uldrich[udrich] christian gyldenlöve. gyldenlöve p. 246: her word moreover, and i so arranged it[at] six weeks p. 259: in the same year, 1671, karen, nils'[nil's] daughter, left p. 264: silent, not if i were standing before the king's bailiff![?]['] p. 268: in the time of karen, nils'[nil's] daughter. chresten, who p. 272: in the same year karen, nils'[nil's] daughter, left me for p. 276: and a half after her marriage, and that suddenly, suspicion[suspipicion] p. 300: supper in the queen's church[[e65]]. once, when she came p. 311: [60] in[in] the margin is added: �the sorrow manifested by many would far p. 311: [117] in the margin is added: �1666. while karen, nils'[nil's] daughter, waited p. 311: nils'[nil's] daughter. when anything gave her satisfaction, she would take p. 311: to set copenhagen[copenagen] on fire in divers places, and also the p. 311: autobiography[autobiograpy] of leonora as �notre vieillard;' he was a faithful p. 311: which placed it at the disposal of hannibal sehested[schested] when he p. 311: [e38] �anno 1666, soon after karen, nils'[nil's] daughter, came to me, p. 311: [e51] hannibal sehested[schested] was dead already in 1666, as leonora p. 311: disposed to hannibal sehested[schested]. p. 311: entitled �martilogium (for martyrologium[matyrologium]) der heiligen' (strasburg 