There are few who can describe life in the Death-Chamber at Sing Sing. The officials can, but will not. Visitors there are few; and most of us who know it so well, come and go like our predecessors, saying nothing afterwards about our experiences, for an excellent reason. The corridor in the Death-Chamber is not large. Ten cells for the condemned men face it, most of them on one side. Their inmates are not supposed to see much of each other. When one of our number walks in the corridor for exercise, curtains are drawn down in front of all the cells, and we see upon them what our fellow-inmate often resembles—a shadow. A shadow, and a voice which calls to us, that is his identity. There are no windows in these cells; three sides are solid wall; their fronts face the corridor, and are barred like cages. In them one can easily imagine himself a bear in a menagerie, even to the sore head that animal is afflicted with more or less occasionally. In front of the bars and curtains are wire nettings to keep our visitors from coming too near us. There are no hand-clasps, no kisses. The corridor and cells constitute the Death-Chamber. It has two doors; an entrance—few of the condemned ever use that door for any other purpose; and an exit—a final one—leading into the Execution Room and to the “Chair.” It is very light indeed in the Death-Chamber. Glass skylights by day, and gas and electric light by night, throw their beams into every corner of our cages of steel and stone. There is no privacy. The guards pace up and down night and day, always watching. There is no sound while they do this, as their shoes, like ours, are soled with felt. It is like living, eating, sleeping, and bathing in a search-light. It is like being alive, yet buried in a glass coffin. We enter the front door; exist for a year or so, and then go out through the “little door,” as we call it, some morning to a very welcome release. From the moment we arrive the monotony begins, and continues always, broken now and then by such excitement as a half hour’s exercise in the corridor, the weekly bath and shave, and, best of all, a visit, which must be from some member of our immediate family. We see our guest through those miserable bars and netting which divide us. A keeper must hear everything we say. These things are all that ever happen in that chamber of death, except greeting new arrivals, and saying good-by now and then to a fellow we have suffered with. No newspapers come to us, but books from the excellent library, as many as one wants, are supplied. We receive our mail after it has been opened and read, provided it is thought proper for us to have it. If the letter contains the news we are all awaiting—the final news—it is improper. That information is kept from one as long as possible. All the tobacco is provided. It is called “State.” It puts you in a “state” when you first attempt to smoke it. No clock ticks in that room, and none is needed, because the value of time