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are also to be movable ventilators in the ceiling of the hall. The grates for the windows and the cell doors are to be of cast-iron lattice work.

The principal novelty of the plan consists in the arrangement of the end buildings for dwellings, offices, &c., and connecting them by spacious covered ways or halls, which make convenient halls for the keepers, and prevent any ingress or egress without their knowledge. In that climate, too, the convenience of such an arrangement is of much importance. The plan shows the ground floor of the dwellings and offices, and the basement of the building, where the dining-room, &c., are located. The chapel is above the dining-room, and the hospital directly over that; so that there shall be no noise over the heads of the sick.

It will be seen that this plan does not admit of increasing the number of cells beyond those contemplated without disarrangement. But gentlemen of experience and reflection have become convinced that from four to five hundred convicts are the greatest number that should ever be confined in any one prison; regard being had to their moral improvement or economical employment.

The first section of cells, 126 in number, is now erected, and covered by a temporary roof, to enable the mason work to dry, while the building to enclose the cells is in progress. About 300 feet of foundation work is laid, and the outer wall for the same distance nearly ready for setting the window frames and grates to the first story. Apprehensions were entertained by some, when this location for the prison was chosen, so remote from civilization, and buried in the profound depths of a primeval forest, that it would constitute a temptation to the convicts to rise upon the keepers in the hope of making their escape in the woods. The agent now, however, seems to have become convinced that the woods rather protect the prison than expose it to this danger. While he was absent at Auburn, on the occasion we have before referred to, two convicts who were at work in the yard, in which as yet there was much standing timber, erected a pole against the pickets, by which they climbed to their top, and then dropped on the other side. They were discovered by a guard, who gave the alarm,

and the signal gun (which is a twentyfour pounder,) was fired, in order to give notice to the few inhabitants of the surrounding country. The escape was made immediately after dinner, and the following is substantially the account they afterwards gave of their experience in the woods:

As soon as they were over the pickets, they ran up the mountain to the north, intending to make their way through the wilderness to Canada, the line being about twenty miles distant. They continued to run almost constantly until about dark, when they found themselves near the south-east corner of the prison yard-some fifty rods farther south than the place from which they had started-while they supposed they had been constantly travelling north. Wearied and hungry, their feet badly wounded and bleeding, as they had left their shoes behind in their flight, the flies annoying them on every side, with the prospect of a cold stormy night before them, they discussed the project of going up to the pickets and asking admittance. the fear of punishment finally determined them to make another effort, and as they were now near the south side of the prison yard, they imagined that it would be an easy matter to travel south and enter the road by which they had been taken to the prison. By the time they had decided on their course, a heavy fall of hail and rain commenced. After travelling about an hour, they found themselves in an extensive cedar swamp, in which they travelled around all night, much of the time in mire knee deep, the storm continuing unabated.

But

After taking a view of the swamp by daylight, they abandoned the idea of penetrating through it, and concluded to take an easterly direction, by which they hoped eventually to reach Lake Champlain.

They were this time more fortunate in their course, as the weather was clear. In the afternoon they approached a road, about seven or eight miles east of the prison. But at the time they discovered the road, they also discovered groups of men with guns and sticks, who were evidently on the lookout for them. The convicts lay still in the woods, concluding to take the road in the night, and conceal themselves during the day time, until they could

reach the lake. They were, however, so exhausted by hunger and fatigue, that they could scarcely move. After lying quietly until dusk, and seeing no person in the road, they found themselves unable to travel without first obtaining some food. After reconnoitering a cottage, which they believed at the time contained only a woman, they entered and enquired the road to Plattsburgh, telling her they had been lost in the woods, and were very hungry. The woman appeared to suspect them, and exhibited much alarm. She however, set before them a large quantity of johnny-cake, as they call it. Just as the famished creatures were commencing upon it, they heard a man running towards the house, and calling for his gun. The convicts sprang out at the door. One of them ran behind a hovel, and crawled under it, the other sped for the woods. The invader pursued him instantly, with a large stone in his hand, which he threw with such dexterity as to strike the convict upon the leg, and bring him to the ground. Still the pursuer dared not seize the man, but returned to the house, where, with assistance, the convict who had concealed himself under the hovel was secured. The one left in the woods crawled a short distance from the place where he fell, and lay there during the night. In the morning his hunger became so intolerable that he came out and surrendered himself to the men who were still watching along the road.

When returned to the prison they could scarcely stand. They were so spirit-broken and exhausted, that no flogging was inflicted upon them. They were, however, told that the punishment was suspended only until their ill behaviour should provoke it. Since that time, however, we are told they have conducted themselves with such perfect propriety as not to have deserved even a reproof.

Mr. Cook has very wisely, in our judgment, adopted the system practised at Auburn, of permitting men to eat at one common table.

He has also thus far purchased the provisions himself, without the intervention of contractors-undoubtedly the wisest and most economical course, where the fidelity of the agent can be ensured.

Mr. Cook is a firm believer in the efficacy of kind and considerate treatment of the convicts, and we have abundant reason for believing that every proper opportunity is embraced to cultivate their self-respect, to subdue their excessive propensities, and to awaken to a new action their more elevating sentiments. The punishments have only averaged one a week. A constant improvement of the convicts, both morally and intellectually, has been remarked by all the officers since their arrival.

Doubtless the novelty of their situation, and of their work, and the remoteness from all objects which remind them of their previous life and associations, contribute not a little to the im. proving moral condition of these unfortunate wretches, which is perceptible to the most casual observer. But more, much more, is due to Mr. Cook's habitual respect for what in them remains immortal and God-created-his habitual recognition of their rights as moral and accountable beings, which rights are paramount to all laws of man's devising. He looks upon those haggard outlaws, all scarred as they are with vice and suffering, more in sorrow than in anger; and leads them to the culture of virtue, by exemplifying in his own demeanor toward them some of her most beneficent influences.

We have confined ourselves to the history of this important enterprise, as it has thus far transpired. It would be premature to discuss its practical or anticipated results at present; but when the prison shall have gone into efficient operation, we shall hold ourselves at liberty to recur to this subject, and to state more at length the reasons for, and nature of, the success which we have now no hesitation in predicting to the labors of Mr. Cook.

SPANISH BALLADS.

Translated from the Spanish.

BY EDWARD MATUKIN.

BALLAD X.

THE VENGEANCE OF MUDARREZ.

Count Gonzalez Cordova leaves, and straight to Salas goes;
Within that fortress strong he grieves for years of countless woes:
With pain he ransacks mem'ry's stores, revives his wrongs afresh,
And rends again Time's half-clos'd sores,† as pincers tear the flesh.

Oh! blasted trunk! of ev'ry leaf bare and decay'd art thou;
O'er me hath past the storm of grief, as the tempests strips the bough:
There's not a single blossom left, to mark where once it stood,
Alike of bough and foliage reft !—a curse is in my blood!

"I once had seven noble sons-but they are dead and gone;
Curst be the hand that laid them low, and left me here alone!
There's one-but one is left me yet: I would he, too, were dead!
His craven falchion ne'er he'll wet, nor a foeman's blood he'll shed;

"For bastard's blood his veins doth warm-his is the coward's part-
Nor knightly strength is in his arm, nor valor in his heart;
E'en though his hoary sire were dead, no loyal son I have,
A pray'r to say, a tear to shed upon my lonely grave!

"My murder'd sons! how oft ye rise in the midnight lone and deep,
When your aged father's sleepless eyes their sorrowing vigils keep:
Anon I seem to clasp each form-anon it takes its flight!

Your necks, with life-blood dripping warm, assail my aching sight!

"Can the weary captive break his chain?-can he his wrongs redeem!
Can he avenge the bitter pain that shades life's holy stream?
No! no! my sons! The God who gave ye life will yet atone

Your wrongs in your foeman's bloody grave-your death-your dying groan!

Would God I'd died in Moorish land! for now were past in pain-
They would have used the naked brand, but never bound the chain;
But now I stand amid my own-shame on their recreant faith!
Christians!—what mercy have they shown? A slow and painful death!”

Such sad and wailing accents rise from the captive in despair-
He presses now his streaming eyes, anon he rends his hair,

When, on a sudden, he descries a knight in full career:

'Tis a Moorish knight! his pennon flies, and glanceth bright his spear.

He sees the dim and half-orb'd moon upon his rounded shield,
Pillow'd on piles of fleecy clouds-the ground its azure field-
And, wrought in letters of pure gold, upon its breast appears:
"Lost one! I go to find thee, tho' I brave a thousand spears!"

✦ “The flesh will follow where the pincers tear."-Young's Revenge. VOL. XVII.-NO. LXXXVIII. 23.

Upon his lance a streamer bright spreads far its snowy sheen;
Inscrib'd upon a ground of white, it bears a cross of green;
While dangles from his saddle-bow a head that drips with blood-
It is the head of a Christian foe who hath his lance withstood.

Still on the knight in full career presseth with breathless speed;
In rest he holds his slanted spear, and spurs his gallant steed:
At the dungeon-grate he quickly reins, and to his father cries:
"Sire! here is vengeance for thy chains, and the tears that dim thine eyes!”

"Here, is Velasquez's head-thy seven sons he slew;

I swore that I'd revenge the dead, tho' I the blow should rae.
I am thy bastard-son, my lord! Revenge thou didst not deem,
Could ever gild the bastard's sword, or his heart's polluted stream.

BALLAD XI.

BERNARDO DEL CARPIO.

Alfonzo sate in his castle-hall, his knights on either hand;
His warriors and nobles all held each his naked brand-

A stern and haughty suitor stood before the monarch's throne,

And while his brow was flushed with blood, 'twas thus the knight spake on?

"Within the walls of yonder tower in chains my father lies; Thou'st shut the sunny day, for aye, in darkness on his eyes;

Thou'st palsied strength of heart and limb, by the weight of the deadly chain And the youth that was light and joy to him hath closed in gloom and pain!

"Senseless we deem the stones that guard the captain's dungeon deepPity within their bosoms hard is lock'd in iey sleep:

And yet upon these senseless stones grief writes her sacred sign—

THEY hear my father's sighs and groans! Foul Tyrant, where are thine?

"The bloom of youth was on his brow, its light was in his eye; But both, alas! are faded now, by long captivity.

Bright and flowing was his hair, like noonday's golden light,

But Time hath set his signet there, and Age hath made them white!

The blood that warms my father's veins Alfonzo holds in scorn,
The flesh that moulders in his chains, he deems it lowly born;
Yet 'twas that foul and worthless blood that nerved Bernardo's heart,
When, in the blaze of fight, he stood, and dar'd the Frankish dart."

"When Charlemagne, his steel-elad horde marched proudly thro' thy realm,
Who was the first to draw the sword, and who to brace the helm?
Bernardo boldly took the field, with Leon's knightly band.
Seiz'd his broad and burnish'd shield, and bar'd his battle-brand!

"When civil discord's lawless rage swept thro' the realm of Spain,

Dyed deep with blood her virgin page, and forg'd thy country's chain,
Upon the instant out there flew, from ev'ry slumbering sheath,

Swords, that baptiz'd in life's warm dew, were stained with its last breath "

"I am thy sister's son, false king! Bernardo's blood is thine!

It were a foul and shameless thing, that King Alfonzo's line

Should bear upon his 'scutcheon bright the bastard's lowly stain-
The son demands the father's right, or vengeance upon Spain !

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