SHROUD AND COFFIN PRISON.

Waikato Argus, Volume II, Issue 115, 3 April 1897, Page 4

SHROUD AND COFFIN PRISON .

*■ Entombed in a grim castle (writes ;i contemporary) on ike outskirts of Lisbon, hoping for death to release them, are the most miserable men on earth. 1 hey are the inmates of a prison of perpetual silence ; their prison garb is a shroud ; their coffins face them in their cells ; they know that everything is being done to deprive them of reason, and they wait from day to day wondering if their release will come by death or insanity. The unfortunates have been sentenced to penal servitude in the Portuguese criminal colonies of Africa. Lut before they are allowed to go they are forced to serve eight years iu the Lisbon fortress, it is doubtful if one of these prisoners has ever lived through the allotted eight years. Two, or at most three, is the limit. At the end of that time they go mad and disappear. The deportation at the end is therefore a joke—a grim pleasantry on the part of the judge. The construction of the fortress, which is built iu the form of a wheel ; the unbroken silence of the prison life ; the stealthy tread of the attendants, who creep about in felt slippers, all work together to deprive the unfortfinate of bis reason. The ingenuity of man in the torture of his fellow creatures has reached its limit in the construction of this building. The corridors, piled tier on tier, five storeys high, extend out from the centre like the spokes of a ' wheel. Within the cells, like sentry boxes, stands a coffin for each prisoner. There is an average of 500 prisoners in the fortress. Once a day at a certain hour the cell doors arc unlocked, and the half thousand hopeless wretches, in different stages of madness march out. They are clad in shrouds, once white, but now begrimed with prison dirt. Their faces are concealed by masks, for it is patt of the hideous punishment that they may not look upon the faces of their fellow prisoners. Oucc they are outside their cells the attendant closes the doors with a resounding click. This daily clicking of the locks is the only sound that intrudes upon their lives of unbroken silence. They may not exchange one glance of sympathy at their daily meeting. All that each arcs is a throng of shrouded creatures, like himself horribly grotesque, making their way over the prison stones. The click of door after door is the only sound. The tread of their naked feet along the corridors gives back no sound as they make their way to the “ exercise triangles,” which arc a unique feature of this prison. They take die place of a prison yard, as a convict here never draws a breath of fresh air. Clad in shrouds and masks, the lonely men are marched out under an escort of guards to the “ triangles,” six or seven prisoners at a lime, and left to pace up find down for one hour. This march must continue uninterrupted till the hour is up, no halts being permitted. Should two of thrse miserable ones draw nearer each other they would be warned apart by the sharp crack of a bullet, perilousl}' near their ears. The Sultan of Turkey, the Shah of Persia, the Ameer of Afghanistan, and all the other Oriental potentates who beguile their leisure hours ‘iu devising tortures for political offenders, cannot boast of reducing their enemies to such pitiable human wrecks as King Carlos of Portugal does. How most of them look the world will never know, hut the few who have, by special favour, been allowed to take off their masks before travellers were ghastly wrecks of men, pallid and shrunken, hollow-eyed and twisted of mouth. About a year ago King Carlos visited the principal countries ot Europe with a view of bringing a few modern ideas into his little dilapidated 1108 by 100 mile kingdom. The prison of silence has been lidding its average of .'OO unfortunates ever since. So much of the Imperial and Royal kissing that punctuated Don Carlos’ visits to his brother sovereigns failed in its ennobling effects. Queen Amelia prides herself on being a high priestess of new womanhood. She studied medicine to make profess ons lire thing among ladies of the Court circle at Lisbon. She took X ray photographs of the ladics-in-waiting to show the errors of tight lacing. Vet the grim, grey, fortress on the outskirts of tiro capital lias never appealed to her passion for reform.