Ch. 5 - The Prison Cells

By separation from other men, by solitary confinement, in continual
silence, the criminal is to be punished and amended; therefore were
prison-cells contrived. In Sweden there were several, and new ones
have been built. I visited one for the first time in Mariestad. This
building lies close outside the town, by a running water, and in a
beautiful landscape. It resembles a large white-washed summer
residence, window above window.

But we soon discover that the stillness of the grave rests over it. It
is as if no one dwelt here, or like a deserted mansion in the time of
the plague. The gates in the walls are locked: one of them is opened
for us: the gaoler stands with his bunch of keys: the yard is empty,
but clean--even the grass weeded away between the stone paving. We
enter the waiting-room, where the prisoner is received: we are shown
the bathing-room, into which he is first led. We now ascend a flight
of stairs, and are in a large hall, extending the whole length and
breadth of the building. Galleries run along the floors, and between
these the priest has his pulpit, where he preaches on Sundays to an
invisible congregation. All the doors facing the gallery are half
opened: the prisoners hear the priest, but cannot see him, nor he
them. The whole is a well-built machine--a nightmare for the spirit.
In the door of every cell there is fixed a glass, about the size of
the eye: a slide covers it, and the gaoler can, unobserved by the
prisoner, see everything he does; but he must come gently,
noiselessly, for the prisoner's ear is wonderfully quickened by
solitude. I turned the slide quite softly, and looked into the closed
space, when the prisoner's eye immediately met mine. It is airy,
clean, and light within the cell, but the window is placed so high
that it is impossible to look out of it. A high stool, made fast to a
sort of table, and a hammock, which can be hung upon hooks under the
ceiling, and covered with a quilt, compose the whole furniture.

Several cells were opened for us. In one of these was a young, and
extremely pretty girl. She had lain down in her hammock, but sprang
out directly the door was opened, and her first employment was to lift
her hammock down, and roll it together. On the little table stood a
pitcher with water, and by it lay the remains of some oatmeal cakes,
besides the Bible and some psalms.

In the cell close by sat a child's murderess. I saw her only through
the little glass in the door. She had had heard our footsteps; heard
us speak; but she sat still, squeezed up into the corner by the door,
as if she would hide herself as much as possible: her back was bent,
her head almost on a level with her lap, and her hands folded over it.
They said this unfortunate