Serves 55 Years As Convict

1920

So What's a Mere Sixty Days to Man With That Record?

Frank Hood, 78 years old, heard Judge Hugh R. Stewart of Chicago sentence him to sixty days in the house of correction and grinned.

"It's easy for me to take," he told the court. "I've done time in every big prison in the country. My total time behind the bars is fifty-five years. Sixty days is a cinch."

He was found guilty of stealing a suit of clothing.

—The Saturday Blade, Chicago, Aug. 7, 1920, p. 2.

Refuses Freedom for Prison Term

1920

ST PAUL, Minnesota. — Given his choice of freedom or an indeterminate sentence in the State reformatory by Judge Waite in Hennepin County District Court, Frank Kingsbury, 26 years old, chose the latter.

"I am of no use to myself or any one else the way I am," asserted Kingsbury. "Freedom would not do me any good. Maybe I could learn something at the reformatory."

On his examination before sentence was imposed Kingsbury told how rather than be a burden to his parents, who already had a large family to care for, he had voluntarily become a derelict and a wanderer.

Even in court Kingsbury shielded his parents by refusing to give his true name.

—The Saturday Blade, Chicago, Aug. 7, 1920, p. 2.

Jesse Pomeroy Ends 40th Year in Prison

1916

Notorious Prisoner Longer in "Solitary" Than Any Other "Lifer" in Country.

BOSTON, Massachusetts — Jesse Pomeroy, serving a life sentence for murder, has just completed his fortieth year in solitary confinement at the state prison in Charlestown. Pomeroy is said to have served in solitary longer than any other prisoner in this country, and, unless the commitment order is changed, he will have to be kept in that manner until he dies.

He began his sentence at the age of 16, after having been convicted of diabolical attacks on several small children. In recent years numerous efforts have been made to secure for him the privileges of a "trusty," but all of these have been unavailing.

Numerous attempts at escape have been made by the notorious prisoner, and these, together with his known predilection for taking human life, have influenced the authorities in strictly adhering to the conditions of the original sentence which prescribed solitary imprisonment.

While "solitary imprisonment" is the name given to the punishment Pomeroy is undergoing, it does not mean that he never leaves his cell. He goes out in the yard every day in charge of a guard and spends an hour there. But that is while the other prisoners are at work in the shops. During the forty years that he has been confined Pomeroy has seldom seen the face of a human being other than those of his keepers and of his aged mother, who died several years ago.

—The Saturday Blade, Chicago, Sept. 16, 1916, p. 5.

A Solomon and Hypnotism

1900

A story is told in Collier's Weekly of a judge who lately had the hypnotic plea raised before him by a burglar. The prisoner claimed that he did not know that he was "burgling," that he did it automatically and unconsciously, under the direction of a hypnotist.

The judge said he would give him the full benefit of the law, and also of his hypnotic misfortune. He therefore sentenced the man to five years' penal servitude, but told him he could, if he chose, send for the hypnotist and have himself made unconscious for the entire term of his imprisonment.

"The same power," said the judge, "which enabled you to commit burglary and not know it ought also to enable you to suffer imprisonment with hard labor and not be aware of it. At any rate, this is the best I can do for you."

A Glimpse of Caracas

1896

What Correspondent Saw in Venezuela's Capital

Comparatively few of the men here ever venture into the street unarmed, writes a Caracas correspondent of the New York Herald. There are laws prohibiting the carrying of concealed weapons, but they are never observed. One of the professors in the university here assures me that he is convinced that every one of the students who attends his lectures has a revolver in his hip pocket. Weapons are often worn as much for ornaments as for protection or aggression. The caballero with silver spurs and gay trappings who prances about on a frisky mule or Peruvian horse is not fully equipped without a brace of revolvers. The humbler fellows who trudge the country lanes afoot or on burros' backs take special pride in the knives they carry in fancy sheaths at their waists, and which are equally available for cutting food or enemies. The far-famed machete is so long that the most convenient way to carry it is in the hand. It is the most terrible weapon in war and is used for every possible purpose in times of peace, opening virgin forests, cutting down trees, digging and building.

Human life is held very cheap in Venezuela, except by the law of the land in dealing with murderers. There is no capital punishment here, and a man who is caught red-handed in crime knows that the heaviest sentence that could be imposed on him is ten years' imprisonment. The worst cases, I am told, are sent to a prison in the marshy districts near the western frontier, where the man who survives his term is a phenomenon, and where two years is as much as most men can endure. Stabbing and shooting affrays are very common and rarely receive more attention than half a dozen lines in the local papers, in which sympathy is expressed for the relatives of the deceased.

The proportion of men that one sees in the streets of Caracas who are minus an arm or a leg is greater by far than it was in the United States at the close of the Civil War. Comparatively few of the cripples here were maimed in battle during the revolutions, most of them having been hurt in private brawls.

The Vargas Hospital, in Caracas, is a large institution, admirably located on a hillside and excellently managed. No public building in Venezuela is complete without a statue, and as one enters the main door of the hospital one sees in the central patio a statue of Vargas, who was, I believe, President of the Republic at the time the hospital was founded. There are ten wards for women, all opening on a long courtyard to the left of the entrance, and as many for men on the other side.

The tiny hack horses of Caracas are mainly skin and bones, and the drivers, like their prototypes all over the world, show them very little consideration. Besides the little native horses one sees in the streets many Peruvian horses, which are one size larger and are excellent for riding, and big American horses in swell carriages. Burros far outnumber the horses, and mules are very common.

Teams of oxen are used to haul the heavy wagons, and cows are driven by milkmen from door to door with their calves by their sides. Most of the calves have their muzzles tied in rags to prevent them from getting any milk before all the customers have been supplied. It is also a common thing to see a boy driving a flock of turkeys through the main streets, usually in the direction of the markets. In the corrals are usually many live animals that have been brought in from the country and left for sale — deer and wild pigs, with bristles like porcupines, predominating.

About the market place are kept the skins of huge snakes and wild animals, for which fancy prices are asked if they are in reasonably good condition. The prettiest fur is that of the leopard-tigre they call it here. The tigre is very ferocious and is dreaded by all who have occasion to travel. The puma, which is dignified by the name of lion, is far less common, and about equally dangerous to meet.

I fancy that the supply of dogs has always been large in Caracas, as the Cathedral here has an odd functionary called a perero, or dog boy. The office dogs bark to the colonial dogs, and the present occupant is an urchin with a black face, very bright eyes and a beautiful set of teeth. In the street he looks like any other little fellow who does not keep his face particularly clean, but in the Cathedral he is quite imposing in his long gown of dark purplish blue and his big white collar. He carries in his hand a stout whip, with a long, knotted lash, and he walks about with all the pride of a recruit in the army carrying a gun for the first time. He is quite expert, and loud yelps occasionally prove that his whip hurts.

Lily-White Record is Lost to County

1920

Along Comes Burglar and Spills the Precious Beans

JEFFERSON CITY, Missouri — The record of St. Clair County as a lily-white community has at last been broken. For seven years the residents of St. Clair, with a population of 17,000, boasted that not a single prisoner at the State penitentiary had been sent from the county. They pointed out their lack of representation in the institution was not due to laxity in the enforcement of the law, but to the law-abiding character of its citizens. Then along came Ivy Schuby.

Ivy forced an entrance into a dwelling and helped himself to the contents. It was burglary.

"Two years," said the judge.

And St. Clair County is no longer without representation.


Bitten by Ex-Prince's Dog

WIERENGEN, Holland. — A huge mastiff which the former Crown Prince Frederick William has adopted as a pet and which accompanies him on his daily strolls through this village, has been made the subject of an official complaint to the village council. Schoolmaster de Ruyter charged that the dog bit him, and wanted it declared a nuisance, but the petition apparently was tabled.

An Old-Time Hanging Remembered

Philadelphia, 1878

Samuel Hulett, whose death at an advanced age was reported a few days ago, was one of the passengers in the mail coach between Philadelphia and Reading in 1830, when the horses were stopped and the passengers plundered by Wilson, Porter and Potete, whose arrest and trial, and execution of Porter were causes of much public feeling at the time.

The mail coach was on its way to Reading, and had reached Turner's lane, a mile or two above the built up portion of the city, when the lead horses were suddenly brought to a stand and a pistol put at the head of the driver and one or more of the passengers, to intimidate them and prevent resistance. The money and jewels were surrendered upon demand, and no violence was used. It was supposed that the bank messenger, William Miller, who held for many years the situation of bailiff in the United States district court, would be in the coach, but he had been unable to reach the White Swan Hotel in time to take son were captured in Philadelphia, but passage that morning.

Porter and Wilson were captured in Philadelphia, but Potete was arrested in Baltimore, and, upon being brought on here, consented to take the witness stand against his confederates. Samuel Hulett was a material witness, and Porter and Wilson were convicted and sentenced to be hanged. The robbery of the mail was then a capital offense, when the lives of passengers or any one was put in jeopardy, as was done. Wilson was saved through the intercession of influential friends, but Porter expiated his crime upon the gallows, having on the day of the execution ridden upon his coffin from the Arch street prison to the hanging ground, not far from the Eastern penitentiary. Potete, who had committed a crime in Baltimore, was taken back there and served out a term of imprisonment. Wilson became an exemplary citizen, and was living when last heard of a few years ago. — Philadelphia Ledger.

By God's Judgment — Will Purvis Slipped Through the Noose

1899

And Accordingly the Man Convicted of Murder Most Cowardly is Let Free by the Executive of the Bayou State — Cannot Be Retried

A case of modern "judgment" has just been brought to the attention of many who had forgotten the strange case of Will Purvis of Mississippi, through the pardon that was granted to him a few days ago by Gov. McLaurin. Purvis figured conspicuously in the great whitecap sensation of several years ago, and his release from the penitentiary terminates a case which for sensational developments and dramatic details stands remarkable in the history of criminal jurisprudence.

In 1895 Purvis was accused of the murder of Will Buckley, a fellow whitecapper of Marion county. Buckley had fallen out with the band with which Purvis was said to have been one of the most aggressive members, and he had made open threats that he would divulge their secrets and bring them all to punishment. One of the oaths of the band prescribed to each member upon initiation was that the first man who turned traitor was to suffer death. Accordingly, a meeting was held to try Buckley, and he was condemned to die. Purvis participated at this meeting.

Shortly afterwards a second meeting was held to select the men who should execute the sentence of the band. This meeting Purvis failed to attend, whether from excess of caution, from accident or from qualms of conscience is not clear. Naturally his absence aroused the suspicions of his comrades. Nobody but the men present will ever know what took place at this second meeting, and there is nothing positive but that shortly afterwards Buckley was assassinated one evening after sundown on his way home from work. It was rumored around the neighborhood that Purvis was the guilty man. The rumors gained credence, and Purvis was arrested. At the trial Buckley's brother, was with him on the night he was murdered, testified that he recognized Purvis as the murderer.

Whether innocent or guilty, Purvis was sentenced to be hanged, and the day of execution was fixed and the gallows erected. The hanging was to be a public one, and as there had not been one in many a year in the neighborhood, crowds from all over the country gathered to witness the gruesome event. There were the usual preliminaries which attend such occasion. The prisoner was led upon the scaffold and allowed to say a last word. A minister of the gospel walked with him in the shadow of death and offered up prayers for the salvation of his soul.

At last the fatal moment came. The black cap was pulled down over the horrified eyes of the prisoner, and the noose was made fast around his neck. There was a hush in the great multitude of spectators, a pause, and then the trap was sprang and the body shot downward through the trap. Many sickened at the sight and turned away. For a moment the body writhed and quivered in midair, and then the knot slipped and the prisoner fell heavily to the ground. A wild shout greeted this denouement, the first of its kind the people of Marion county and the adjacent counties had ever witnessed. Eagerly the crowd pressed forward and assisted Purvis to his feet. As soon as he began to revive he called God to witness that he was innocent of the crime of which he was accused, and for which he had almost paid with his life.

But law is law, and the sheriff soon ordered the people to stand back and began preparations for a second attempt at execution. The people now asserted themselves. They cried down this act and threatened violence. To them it was an inscrutable sign on the part of Providence that Purvis was really innocent, and that a judicial murder had been prevented by divine interference. Purvis was taken back to jail, and soon afterwards was rescued by a mob. Gov. Stone, who was then in office, was besieged by pleading and threatening letters in behalf of the culprit, but he remained firm. When Gov. McLaurin came into office Purvis was recaptured, or, rather, he was brought back to jail by his friends, and his sentence was commuted to imprisonment for life.

"God's judgment" seems to have deeply impressed the people of Marion county. A brother and an uncle the murdered man signed the petition to the governor clamoring for Purvis' pardon, and all the Marion county folks attached their names to the document. The entire state of Mississippi seems to be on the side of Purvis, and very likely on the side of justice, so far as any one knows.

—The Lima News, Lima, Ohio, Feb. 11, 1899, p. 3.