In our next chapter we are going back to meet this house a bit more intimately, and find out something of those who built it and lived in it, that fine gentleman, Sir.  Peter Warren and his beautiful lady,—­Susannah.

But let us not forget.

Greenwich was not exclusively a settlement of the rich and great nor even solely a health resort and refuge.  There were, besides the fine estates and the mushroom business sections, two humbler off-shoots:  Upper and Lower Greenwich.  The first was the Skinner Road—­now Christopher Street; the second lay at the foot of Brannan Street—­now Spring.  To the Upper Greenwich in 1796 came a distinction which would seem to have been of doubtful advantage,—­the erection of the New York State Prison.  It stood on Amos Street, now our Tenth, close to the river and was an imposing structure for its time—­two hundred feet in length with big wings, and a stone-wall enclosure twenty feet in height.

Strange to say the Greenwichers did not object to the prison.  They were quite proud of it, and seemed to consider it rather as an acquisition than a plague spot.  No other village had a State Prison to show to visitors; Greenwich held its head haughtily in consequence.

A hotel keeper in 1811 put this “ad.” in the Columbia: 

“A few gentlemen may be accommodated with board and lodging at this pleasant and healthy situation, a few doors from the State Prison.  The Greenwich stage passes from this to the Federal Hall and returns five times a day.”

Janvier says that the prison at Greenwich was a “highly volcanic institution.”  They certainly seemed never out of trouble there.  Behind its walls battle, murder and sudden death seemed the milder diversions.  Mutiny was a habit, and they had a way of burning up parts of the building when annoyed.  On one occasion they shut up all their keepers in one of the wings before setting fire to it, but according to the Chronicle “one more humane than the rest released them before it was consumed.”

Hugh Macatamney declares that these mutinies were caused by terrible brutality toward the prisoners.  It is true that no one was hanged in the jail itself, the Potter’s Field being more public and also more convenient, all things considered, but the punishments in this New York Bridewell were severe in the extreme.  Those were the days of whippings and the treadmill,—­a viciously brutal invention,—­of bread and water and dark cells and the rest of the barbarities which society hit upon with such singular perversity as a means of humanising its derelicts.  The prison record of Smith, the “revengeful desperado” who spent half a year in solitary confinement, is probably of as mild a punishment as was ever inflicted there.

In the grim history of the penitentiary there is one gleam of humour.  Mr. Macatamney tells it so well that we quote his own words: