The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, June 6, 1897, Page 18

18 THE SA N FRANCISCO CALL SUNDAY, JUNE 6. THROUGH THE GATES DURING THE REBELLION AT SAN QUENTIN THE which tt were | in THE CALL writer’s experiences were essentially thrillir succeeded in witnessi ded and dimmed | has executed more criminal beyond t bay 1tself tw d while the even- | inal of the century y over all. Oneby | But it was noib The nkled | for is his next victim not to be own slc 1z more back their shoulders and | in height and four or five feet il d aimiessly, keeping | among them, with armed gu their weary feet totne idle | wails and Gatling guns ma e water and the short, trilling | them, awaiting only the slig meadow | Back 10 pass | from the captamn. doc parate and 1 ber! 2 from their | man was an unerring shot, an. Down the | Gailing guns from the hills w ween the blos- | on them not one could esca nt | death, these men rebelled. is o they wal ps locked in | thei folde indeed, every thought silence. And one by one they answ tes and passed in to be | wrecked a dungeon. fashioned | brute force; but it was force. form and O e dare not pass the iron ¥y the | not even to visit the wrecked gs they we be rest of us s to ht—they are bound, by r moveme to the | looked down. oing hither ana | The scene was beautiful or willingly, ption. The tide was of fiercer ones be- | out to the sea beyond, laus in s which made one’s blood | itself the while. Over,zhe fair esglesmed and their | with their canyons of deep d hame upon them, | lowers, stole up ail about childish, and one | moment nature seemed sppa an lield in his folded hauds a | denly, trom those heavy, glarin fashioned bunch of dainty sweet | below, one voice pealed forth, as—carry e of the beauty of | qu the world he was leaving for back into the prison cell with him, and | sound. h spirit, a childi: And there were many e, and they | those below. They jeered an received the nod f uards with a | and shouted like madm ! as the years | deep, or shrill, or clear, rang these men become as little children, | that fair place ; to their keepers as the faithful | clashing, blasting d to his master. e desperate | the musicof heaven. All at cri 1 is It is a horror | shouted, in such a wild jumble of words to watch such beings, compelied | that the horror of what they said was live to i eud the bitter fa:lure | drowned in the dread of the noise, and it which they cal life. | was only when they screamed out in the And the guards wandered up and down | pauses, a few at a time, that the mind inside the e, and the sen conceived the meaning of their words. pac ir corrers up | Even then they were so vile, so incon- s the waiche wh 1 ceivably vile, that it was sickening to | s kept their ey reatize that human lips could pronounce low or human minds conceive such filth. pricon, inalittle guard- | But as we burried away silenced | ho r the smiling waters, 8 man |and dazed by what we had heard, walked up and dov or s with their deep | laughter. Then a aid some one n the hangman — Amos | sound ting for his next vi d the fading da the midst of it victim.”’ | less horrible; for the oaths | and b They howled exuitantly like And suddenly | the dead of night and laughed varfed. In all that fair and peace of San the contines of blot upon it was hu- Darkne-s had settled about nature’s fairness. And mos was in that hour, when degra belching forth such filih, We passed down the walk an So it must have been in the garden of Eden, for so it has been ever since. I suppose y to be heard about this | souncs born of hell—in fact, I way toward the hills | other by the women’s wards. the «xecutiones comes | Straight across at the far si yoa sce it in the expecta- | dinirg-room, kitchen and th ith which the occupant strolls [end beyond, standing tall an He feels impo! his man who | building where the death ce \e bay near | man in tne State; he feels doubly so now, from their work in | than the strike that constituted my mis- pgs in | sion. It was the secondary consideration Slowly, after | —the 1900 men who, thouzh bound in v, with their | every way, confined by walls twenty feet the cool evening | with guards that paced back and fortn d great high ‘With the knowledge tbat every armed vy one with the:r | more. Knowing that every movement of red | known, still they planned murder and It was desperation, of course, and mere lice no | dungeons. But we walked up in the dim | nd and | halt light to the crest of the hill and pping la brows were bent. | the evening stars brightened perceptibly. 1, and passed in with | The warm air, laden witi the br y by a thousand more, that the he time | very air shivered and shrank beneath the la quiver with his broken Come,’”” said my companion guickly, his eyes glowed a trustful, | “come away, they have scen us.” We turned back, but not in time to escape Their voices e a blight of sin—a | scord in the midst of ood and lcoked | the men paused and we caught their hriek went up, such as a comvany of the lost might have | rme. | utterei. It was different from th , but that which followed wasno sphemies fell from wome umed adark hue, and | ter that was only shrieking, and the world seemed filled with demons. | Durrant. I: is in the |a fiend would shudderat them—on the | guards will s chan any “The crim- sensational n thickness, nards on the nned above htest orders d that if the | ere trained | ape instant | v, and | —would be gates now, | and empty | i beyond de- | Iy g lightly to brown hills, ense green, ath of | us. For a lling. d- ng buildings | followed so | d screamed | out around | once they oiher and curses s lips. hyenas in with laugh- [ [ | { us, veiling t fitting it | dation was | A / S mwitofts A “CALL” WRITER VISITING THE WRECKED DUNGEONS AT SAN QUENTIN. S e s (ommer prison doors. We climbad the stairs of | me to see about Dur- | the building and stood looking down | rds standing about | upon the prison court, bounded on one viled significantly, | side by the tanks, whence came those| “One m ALL succeeded in getting a reporter through the gates of San Quentin prison one day this week. She was the only person not officially connected with the institution who was permitted to view the interior of-the cells and corri > mutinous convicts had wrecked. In the late hours of the night she stole through the gates, attended by four guards, and made her way silently to the late scene of confusion and rebellion. It was a hazard_ou§ undertaking ; tl.\e cugeg conv. h animai-like ferocity for the sight of some one to hurl maledictions at; they burned with a particular thirst for some one from the outside free world to pass within earshot of their curses and \v1thm-eyeshot of their m-nu;d glares. I g, aside from the main part of her quest in the dark corridors, which was to get an actual view of the scene about which so many reports had been written and which no one save the officials had g. The following article and drawing describe her eventful mission : W b // NS e \‘\‘.‘ .\ QY = A\ %. ors, rections great streams of water with force encugh in each to knock a man over. The noise ceased as they realized what their punishment was to be. And arose again howls and curses and crie making the night hideous. On! the awfulnessof it, the sickening borror of realizing that such human be- ings exist tocrush out the good in the | world? | Gradually the yells decreased until | nothing more than mutterings and sounds | of buffled rage came to the ear, m | with the sound of the splashing wat Still we stood and watched, sp | word, too sad at heart to even t | one by one the streams of ter wero | stopped and silence reigned. And a cool | breeze sighed across the quiet court and | just then rang out from the north wall: “Ten o’clock! Ali’s welll | And it was taken up and re-echoed from [ every portion of tne great place u at | 1ast silence reigned. “Poor wretches!” said Captain Birlem. “Imagine them shivering in the cor of their half-filied cells.” ‘‘Are they penitent?” “Nota bit of it,” Le laughed. imasine they are badly treated think that we are brutes and are will depriving them of their rightiul libert | Strangeit is that they do not realize | | that all this costs tnem more, and places liberty further from them, but they seem to have lost the power of reasoning and to care only to cause all the trouble possible. Eleven o'clock, and the sama call that all was well. Twelve, and— “Would it b: possible to pass the dun- geon?” Every one looked discouraging, a few shook their heads. I waited the while my fate was discussed, and in about a half hour they beckoned to me from the door. Silently we stole in through the gate, the guards carrying dark-lanterns. Softly we crept over the stone waiks, around the | fountain in the center and past the lawns and gardey beds. Ttseemed a long way. We passed the stairs leading to the cell where Darrant waited the passing of ths hours. We stole by the tall, dark furniture factory and to the door of the dungeons. The guards paused and softly opened the door and silently passed in to the wrecked and deser.ed place. At first by the flash of the lanternsit seemed buta i]anz dark tunnel, but gradually I could | discern wrecks of chairs lying about upon the floor at our feet, and unhinged dcors set back to one side of the corridor. | Aiong the sides were cells, fourteen in all, into which it seemed no ray of daylight couid ever hope to penetrate. The walls of the ceils were damaged un- til they iooked as though a child might | have shaken them down. Chis wouldn’t hold a baby safely some one said. *“Just look at those doors! They’ll never be fit to be used again. It costs the State some money to keep such charitably; “no good on made & movement to go 1 followed slowly out oi the dark, canny vlace. It held the same cha earth,” and hs ck. ly inhabited by wild animals and the white-frosted w ws of the execution- | north wall, when suddenly from the direc- | But the rest of the sentence lost. |tened. So greatwas the outery in the|Dbreath of their wildness lingers about | room are. tion of the tanks there came such yells| We waited a few seconds, s still the | tanks that the men could hear nothingof | b0!ding with it a kind of terror. a id my . “The | and screams d shouting, and withal | noise kep: up—de: the movements of the guards. | The stars were shining peacefully over fancy that | bugle will sound mome the | such pounding and rattling of bars and | *‘Can they It could not huve been long, though iv | the old prison. The searchlight from hour and *All is | doc 1 coains, that the very air refus=d | My compani e-med to us who were watching and lis- | tue hill flashed upon us as we made our | wet to e the scund and the buildings ng to a in the yards b:- | tening, almost overpowered by the dread | way back, but the oniy sound that dis- le were the | And justat that in the ored | shook ith an earthquake. We listened | | ng somet of the situation, more than an hour, when | turbed the utter silence was the call of e hospitals, | eilence the bu aled forth for hts | clos-ly, keeping back in the shadows. | “Whatisit?? | the men paused for a secoud and waited | the guards as we pass through the door: d clear, the | out. . ! are pounding on the cell doors’| “Hose,” sai ! my companion. | for further or‘ers. And almost instantly “One o'clock—alil’s well!"” Il and the! “Nine o’clock,” bezan the guard on the | and ! Almost breathless we watched and lis- ! there flashed acros: the court from ali ai- MURIEL Baruy. Signor Romeo, immacule >od in front of a ontemplated t ves, and smiled pleasantly | one girl with a face that Kap with bis swell-mustached mouth, bave loved to paint, so full “Now-a, don’-a be sausages,” he said. | strange moodiness and inner s: “We will-a begin1” robbed the cheek of its you He gave a sign fo the musician, who {but replaced it with a pallor that was | scholar and is wild to go on. Sne really lost nothing of | has talent. I thought I nad, commenced operations with a great deal | beautiful. Her eyes ha of wi v attired,| Why? I asked .them—er—some of | mean—and played—iid the legitimate, | our question. wd of giris, | them—as we waited for Signor Rom-o n composedly withi his | 10 get his musician in time. Iasked it of | stagestruck any more, dear me, how endless scemed his task in | *What is s ou know—for quite a while. I'm not| “Teil usabout your double?” said tne|its be-inning. For they would notand| “She's going to dince. See! that big|ana she was as graceful as one could well | one who had called her. seemingiy could not limber up, and they | man teaches her, and ['m waiting.” | m1 gine. Indeed Signor Romeo himself A CHARACTER STUDY OF THE CHORUS GIRL'S HIGH AMBITIONS ster doing?"” | But she could dance—indeed she could, hael _would “What changed you?” | You were just speaking with her. |could notd. as he told them. | ster'”” came over then and smiled. vraised her by telling her that she was was it ot a “I don’t know; bare realities mostly | Didn’t she talk for herself?” she asked, After all the dance was nothing tome | I haven’t any one to leave her with,” | ot like the others. adness that | and hard facts, I gu. My sister there | looking in the direction of the girl who |and I crossed to the back and spoke to a | she explained—*'that is, any one so that I “They are all alike as a sack o’ pota- thful flush, | is studying. She’s quite a Shakespearean | ad just left us. that we should m it 1 had “It is funny, though, | tall girl in a short warm dress, made | woutdn't be worried about her. And you | toes,” he said, getting excited and pulling t here, isn’t it? Some- | Mother Hubbard fashion. | know I couldn’t leave whken Ionce got | off his collar in haste. “I can—a no do | thing must be going to habpen. If not, 3 *My purpose in life? I wanttogo on | here for rehearsal, no matter how worried | anything—ugh " . but in such a fashion that the | their brightness, but they had an added | —not a bit. I just wasted the time | why should it have been this way? Most | in light comedy,” she said. I don’t care | I was, so I think it best to bring he:‘ He shrugged his shoulders and looked s lauzhed quietly and looked at ome | intensity that made you want 10 gaze and | She spoke lightly and lauched at it, as | people’s doubles are on the other side of | for tragedy—indeed, 1 can’t do it. My | here. | at them in dismay. a ier, while the signor went wild at | gaze upon her face and then to turn back | though it ware a trifle to waste the years | the earth. Oh, I hope something will ‘ sister is the tragedian. I have another| “You aren’t cold, dear, are you!” “Follow me!" he called, as he snatched once. and look once more after you had turned | of youth. happen that's good.” sister who is a singer. She singsin Ital- | She s'ooped down and kissed the baby | off his coat. *‘One-a two-a th ree-a four-a “You no-a play!” he exclaimed, rush- awav. | “What will vou do now?” T questioned. | *“What would you rather have?” ian, too, and to-morrow night 1s going to | as she questionea her and received the | five-a six-a seven-a stop-a. No that-a is ing to the piano. - 4 Piay | ‘Yes, she said, “I am going on the| “Haven't the slightest idea,” she said. | “Oh, 1’d rather succeed on the stage,”” | sing in opera.’’ | negative answer with a world of motherly\ not-a right,” he screamed forth, and he bim this-a way. La—la la—la la—" and in | stage.” | ‘Tl dance in this balict and take part in | she exclaimed. “I want to be a star—like | I looked for the Italian opera-singer and | tenderness in her smile. took off his vest. his rare southern fashion he bect time| “'And what fine will you follow—the | oneor two private affairs, and pass the | Bernbarat—I iook like her, you knew.”” |found s meck-eyed, bright-faced little | “She is ail I have,” she said gently, | The girlslooked at each other signifi- patiently and sang it all as it shou!d have | lesitimate?” | | : been played. | “Ob, no,’” she said, *I shall Meanwhile the girls stood on one foot 3 time. I'm not good for anything much, I hadn’t known dance.” but I'm certainly no good on the stag cause I hadn’t thou, it before—perhaps be- | girl. | ght of it, but when I *Yes, I expect to go on the stage—the | jncentive 'and I'm all she has, so I have a special | cantly but he did not mind. He was all to work for her sake. Her fu- | afire, all in a tension. He called forth his fellows.” ‘Qught to be hung.” growled one t ’ ‘, | | e it . c oubrette parts? | Well, it was wel: that her ambition was | looked at her more closely I fancied there | operatic stage, you know. I want to stuay | tare depends upon me.” orders in a voice in which there was an or leaned against the wall or chalted in Yes,” she answered. | not rooted deeply; and then again, if it | was a faint resemblance, just a shadow of | hard and be able to do something worth | *But the responsi bility ?* inspiring note which vibrated through groups over some idle fancy. There was| ‘“And areyou ambitious! Is that the | had been, would she not have succeeded? | an idea of Bernhardt in the pink and | doing.” “Ob, I don’t think of that. One only | and througn every one. o Joud talking; no boisterous conduct. | reason you are working here?” Determination corquers every difficuity | white face before me. She smiled up into my face and her own | begins to consider the resp onsibility when | *Dare-a” he calied. *Now one-a two-a' Chey were quict pleasantly proper. No,” she said slowly; “Iaon’t think I | and makes light the heaviest burdens. | Now we will-a begin,” called Signor | took on a wonderfuliy bright look. they want to shirk. Why, she doesn’t and they aid dance with their lips apart No one chewed gum or whistled, or even | am so very ambitious; it isall too real.” | But she did not care that the fair y ars | Romeo, rushing to the center of the “Do you think I shall succeed?’ she | think about it, but day by day she bright- | and their eyes shining. They danced as 1 l,)ed aloud. Perhaps, indeed I am “Then why?’ I began. had been wasted and tbat she had been | <tage and collecting the girls around him. | asked earnestly. ens my life and I hers, 1 hope. You see | though possessed with his spirit and the ) lqmltlsl:\rvlevluu'. scme of them posed a bit, | “For a living,” she answered, aimost | tried and found wantine. It did not m —ze hops!” And I certainly did. There was a little | one doesn’t have to live all their life at | musician caught the spirit and piayed harmlessly. you know; just a languid | fiercely, and turned away. ter at all 1o her that the future years held v of girls gathered in front of him | to:—a tiny little baby, with golden hair | once; it comes gradually, and one event | with all the soul ke had. motion of the head 1o one side, a faint np- | “Itisa hard world,” I said. | nothing but a humdrum existence. and gazed expectanily into his eves. and great brown eyes. She played around |at a time. We couldn’t live at all ifit| And I heard the baby in her corner of iung h'v"l: eyes 1o the uninte esting | ““You bet!” said a quick girl just bebind | “There’s the tragedian,” said & com- ere are ze—cabbages?’ he asked, | the wings conteniedly and laughed softly | didn’t.” the stage lauch. j‘ 8, i-\Bg.au ul motion of I‘lu-_v plifted | me, and sl_.e looked not a day out of her! panion. *‘There’s the girl that bas a pur- g around. to herseif now and then, with that note of And where did tbis little girl learn all Then I watked out into the world again =it L vat stage-struck giri couid | teeus—a girl such as you see passing with | pose.” ey, too, came forward. happiness in her laughter which always | this and how aid she happen to be here? | and left them there with their ambitions Sl o ey and on the Baldwin ‘ h‘e.rlcumpnulrm: daily to and from schoo! | He called her over, and she came read- | *'All-a right. Zore 18 -a Whole vege-ta- | touches a_peculiar chord in one's heart. | She aid not seem the kind of a girl for a | and their work. JEAN MoE A ; | with her books swinging in the strap and | ily. She had a broad, fair brow anl biue | ble garden -a—all right-a.” He laughed | She raised her baby eves to my face and | ballet, with the cauze and tinsel and . ‘»-{ e ! course they are— | her face radiant with girlish expectation. | eyes, a sweet mouth and ligitly-curled | lightly and motioned them back to ihe | nodded. tights. She seemed homelike. You would In oll their wars tie British have won most of them. Else whv should they be| “Iused to be stagestruck. I traveled | hair. wall and began with the “hops.” a vou doing?"” | expect to see her among the comforts of a | the splendid average of 82 per cent of the there. !'around the country—tihe country towns, I She stood in front of us and waited (u»l This way and that he led them, and oh, “Waiting for sister.” cheery home. batties. The nineiecnth century has added no more splendid achievement to its record of benefits conferred on mankin® than in demonstrating that thie dumb ean be taught to speak. The invention of the sign language was a wonderful accomplishme but was only the beginning, merely the alphabet of the education of the deaf and dumb. That tie dumb could speak wasan alterthought and that they could be taught to articulate was tbe conception of a man born without elther faculty, as he supposed, who patiently labored over the prob'em and eventually became so adept in the art of speech and in read- ing the language of others from the motion of their lips that his loss of hearing was never suspected except by those who were his intimates. Zerah Whipple was the first deaf mute in the United States to acquire EW SYSTEM OF “CONVERSA~ the faculty of speech. He was a man of remarkable attainmens and car- ried on a successful business. By greatdetermination and the exerc'se of infinite vatience he taught himself to speak, and, filled with sympathy for others sfilicted as he was, reduced the principles which he had acquired by paiient study and observation to writing ana brought the ::dhubet of the dumb almost to the periection which it has attained ay. The alphabet is a series of symbolic pictures which set forth in outline the positions of the vocal organs in the very act of articulation. It enables one quite accurateiy and successfuliy to catch the transient word impressions of the vocal muscles and decipher their meaning. Itis easily acquired by the pupil, for with life-like vividness it displays the position ION” F of each sound and illustrates the mechanism of speech in its appropriate picture langnage. As soon as the siphavet is mastered by the pupil his advance in the art of lip-reading is most rapid. The expression given by the speaker to tue muscles of the face greatly assists in conveying the idea to the mute. Alertness of the eve is a requi- site for the art of lip-reading. Just as the auditory organs catch and tn- terpret the waves that vibrate in the atmosphere, so the trained eyes of the mute, watching the movement of the lips of the speaker, at once cateh the meaning to be expressed. A knowledge of the natural alphabet promotes the faculty of swift apprehension of wo: To the uninitiated the scribt of the natural alphabet'resembles the hieroglyphics of ancient Egypt or the characters DUMB ow of the written Chine-e, and it will not be forgotten that the fir-t uwmpx? 1 at convering or of recording historical records were by meuns of picture. The history of the Aztecs prioz to the Spanish occupation of Mexico s exisis in the piciorial representations of sculptured rocks found in their great temples, and we only awxit the discovery of the lost key to the symbols to enable us to add to our literary ireasures the annais of the nations who firs: occupied this American continen'. The movement for the abolition of the sign language altogether for deaf mutes and the substitation of lip-reading is making rapid progress, Such & radical innovation will, in all probability, not be determined upon. for some years to come, bat that the change will be at some time effected there is but little doubt,