PRISONS—WHY THEY FAIL!
It is generally admitted that prison life, with its discipline and
punishments, very largely fails to reform or deter those that are
submitted to it.
The reasons are not far to seek. The very fact of a number of men, who
are prone to commit certain actions, being detained in prison, makes
it certain that many of them will again commit those actions when they
are again restored to liberty. For with liberty comes the temptation of
opportunity, and with opportunity the fall.
Moral strength cannot be developed in the absence of temptation, for
moral qualities must be free or die!
Prisons are at their best but unnatural places; for though the
machinery, discipline and even the spirit that animates the whole of
the officials be of the very best, still goodness, manhood, honesty and
sobriety cannot grow inside a prison wall.
Doubtless tens of thousands of good resolutions are formed in prison.
To many prisoners it seems impossible that they should repeat the
actions that brought about their imprisonment when once more they
are free. But they do repeat them, again and again. Prison life,
then, neither deters nor reforms. But it does other things: it
deadens, demoralises, or disgusts according to the temperament and
characteristics of the individual prisoner.
The fixed belief in the virtue and necessity of prison has had
disastrous consequences, for the State has hitherto considered it the
one great cure-all for law-breaking. It has till quite recently been
the first resource of the law, instead of its last resource, when
called upon to deal with its erring children.
Roughly, the men and women who inhabit our prisons may be classified
under five heads: First: the feeble-minded; second: the physical
weaklings; third: the vagrant; fourth: the casual offender; fifth: the
habitual offender. I believe that all our prisoners can be placed in
one or more of these divisions, though of course there are variations.
Should this be approximately the case, it is certain that a tremendous
difficulty arises when the discipline and routine of any one prison,
however well conducted, is made to serve for the whole of the classes.
This is where prisons fail, and must continue to fail if the present
methods are continued, for in our endeavours to administer equal
justice to all classes, we commit the greatest injustice; and in our
attempts to be merciful, we are cruel to many of our prisoners.
For the feeble-minded, the weaklings, the vagrants and the habituals,
prison has no terrors. To them it is at once a sanatorium and a
lodging-house, as necessary for their health and personal cleanliness
as quarantine is for those smitten of the plague.
To them the bath and the change of clothing, the clean cell, and the
regular food are comforts, even refinement. But to the casual offender
such things may be sickening and maddening beyond endurance.
To the former, the semi-idleness of prison, which makes no demand on
their physical and mental powers, is grateful and comforting. To the
man of industry, brain, imagination and culture this idle monotony
is exasperating to a degree, unless he be endowed with philosophical
stoicism.
The effect of prison discipline, then, is determined not by the rules
and routine of any particular prison, but by the temperament of the
individual under detention.
This failure to reform must not be attributed, then, to prison system
altogether, still less must it be attributed to any lack of sympathy
in the prison officials; but rather to the two facts, that prisons are
unnatural places, and that a prison population is made up of strange
and motley individuals, each differing widely from his fellows in
temperament and taste, in physical and mental capacity.
An educated and refined man, one who loves liberty and social life,
must of necessity find prison a terrible place. Should he be of a
nervous, imaginative or morbid temperament, he suffers the torments of
Hell. He knows in his heart that he has been a fool, probably he is
never tired of reminding himself of the fact; but he gets no comfort
from his knowledge, it adds no reasonableness to his disposition. He
reviews his life again and again, not with feelings of shame or sorrow,
but for the purpose of finding some excuse for himself or fixing some
blame upon others.
He is full of fear for the future, but he has no sorrow for the past;
he has no desire to undo the wrong he has done, no particular desire to
avoid such wrongs in the future.
He lives in a state of chronic irritation; he is morose or excitable
by turns. He does not find the officials sympathetic or courteous, for
they, too, are human, and even in prison like meets with like.
The sufferings of these men are intense. The iron enters into their
souls—and though their sufferings are largely self-created, they are
none the less real.
Ask such a man to give a description of prison life, and he will give
one worthy of Charles Reade.
But suppose we ask a different type of man to give us his opinion; he
may be equally well educated with the former, he may have served a
similar sentence in the same prison at the same time, none the less, he
will present us with a striking contrast.
He will tell you that the prison was dull and monotonous, but just what
he expected; that the food was unpleasant, till he got used to it;
that many things disgusted him in his early prison days, but he put
up with them. He kept all the rules, got all his “marks,” and obtained
full remission of sentence. In a word, he made the best of things.
He will tell you that he had no real work to do; that the officials
were all good to him, but they had their duty to perform, and that he
never insulted them. There was nothing of much interest going on, and
that in reality formed his punishment, for he had many interests in the
outside world.
Let me select another; this man may be considered an authority, for
although he is under sixty years of age, his sentences amount to
more than forty years. He knows Portland, Dartmoor, Parkhurst and,
of course, many local prisons. He has had as much as fifteen years
at a stretch, and as I understand he is again in prison, it is quite
possible that ultimately (unless Mr. Gladstone’s Preventive Detention
Act takes possession of him), the accumulation of his sentences may
outnumber the years of his life.
For he, too, got all his “marks” and has never failed to get three
months off every year served.
There is not an idle bone in his body; he is industrious, skilled and
intelligent; he loves liberty; to him the song of the birds and the
smiling of the flowers are pleasant; he is kind to dumb animals, and to
him children are a joy.
His health is not broken, his intelligence is not atrophied, he is
still alert and brisk—in fact, he is too much so. He knows all there
is to be known about prisons, and he knows the “ropes” too.
At liberty, he makes war upon society. In prison, he bows to the
inevitable and makes the best of things. He is, and always has been,
prepared to take the consequences, if caught, of his crime. But he has
never yet persuaded himself, or tried to persuade himself, that he is a
fool.
If again allowed liberty, he will cheerfully prepare for another
campaign, and hope for a “long run.” He weighs things up, for he is a
logician, and so many crimes are equal to so much detention.
I have many of this man’s letters from various prisons. I have details
of his daily life. He tells of being in hospital and of his better
food; he tells me that he is hoping for liberty and means to see me
again. But he never makes any complaint, neither does he complain at
liberty. Many hours have I spent with him discussing his life and
prospects, crime and prison, but no complaint about his treatment has
he ever uttered. Although habitually criminal, he considered himself
much above the bulk of prisoners, and he will tell, ingenuously
enough, that “prison is too good for most of them.” Yet he had carried
fire-arms and shot a policeman. He was not well educated, but he had
read a great deal while in prison, where he had picked up a smattering
of French.
He was a clever workman, and had developed a special branch of his
trade during his many detentions. As a prisoner he is perfect, as a
citizen he is atrocious and impossible.
If we ask the half-mad fellow who is constantly in prison for deeds
of violence to whom uncontrolled liberty means joy and life, we shall
be able to read his answer in his eyes; they tell us that revenge is
his great hope. But if we ask the aimless and hopeless wanderer who
has been certified again and again as “unfit for prison discipline,”
we find no evidence of passion, no sense of grievance and no signs to
indicate that prison was an undesirable place. Did not old “Cakebread”
go cheerfully to prison, although her detentions numbered over three
hundred!
If we seek an opinion from tramps and vagrants, they, if honest, will
tell us that from time to time prison is a necessity to them; that if
they cannot obtain entrance for vagrancy, why, then they will break
somebody’s window and so make sure of prison comforts, for it is
“better than the workhouse.”
If we consult youthful ex-prisoners, _i.e._ juvenile-adults, of whom
unfortunately I know many, we get an altogether too favourable picture
of prison life.
Many of them do not hesitate to tell us that they can “do it on
their heads.” Though physically this may be an exaggeration, yet
the expression conveys a pretty accurate description of the effect
imprisonment has had upon them. Lest it be thought that I am satisfied
with prisons as they are at present, I will point out the reforms
which I consider necessary in our penal system and our prison
administration.
1. There is too much indiscriminate and unnecessary gaoling;
prisons should be the last resource, not, as too frequently
happens, the first.
In England and Wales alone nearly 100,000 persons are committed to
prison every year because they cannot promptly pay fines that have been
imposed for minor offences.
I hold that every offender fined, if she or he possesses a settled
home, should be allowed adequate time to pay the fine. Probably this
would keep 40,000 first offenders out of prison every year, with a
corresponding reduction in the number of second offenders in the
following years.
What folly can equal the plan of bundling a decent man or youth into
the prison van, and putting all the machinery of prison into operation
because he cannot pay forthwith a few shillings!
2. The old law of restitution and reparation must be revised. The
First Offenders Act, now superseded by the Probation Act,
was not an unmixed blessing, for, while it kept thousands of
dishonest persons out of prison, it never convinced them of
the serious nature of dishonesty. To use their own expression,
“they were jolly well out of it”; consequently the wrong done to
the individual was not impressed upon them. The law had been
satisfied, to them nothing else mattered.
At the instigation of the Howard Association, Mr. Gladstone added a
clause to the Probation Act empowering courts of summary jurisdiction
to order restitution for goods or money stolen up to the value of £10.
But magistrates do not put this clause in force; yet such a clause is
not only just, but merciful.
Nothing can be worse for a young rogue than to know that he has stolen
a considerable sum of money, and spent it in wicked waste without
anything happening to him. Undoubtedly prison is bad for youths, for
a month soon goes, but during that time character, aspiration and
industry go also.
For the life of me I cannot see why orders for restitution should not
be made; neither can I see any objection to our numerous probation
officers having charge of these cases and collecting by instalments the
money ordered.
For nothing will so effectually bring home to dishonest youths the
enormity of the offences more than compulsion to pay back that which
they have stolen.
Restitution would also be the greatest punishment for adult offenders
in this direction.
For the forger, the burglar, the maker of counterfeit coins, the
manufacturer of spurious notes, and all clever, calculating and
persistent rogues other methods should be tried, for prison cannot
demoralise them.
But for a first offender, even though he be of years, who has committed
some breach of honesty, restitution seems the most effective way: the
only reasonable plan for the prevention of demoralisation and the
expense of prison.
Given, then, reasonable time for the payment of fines, a thorough
application of the Probation Act, and the establishment of compulsory
but limited restitution—given these, half our prisons may be closed.
Quite recently the governor of a large London prison declared that
one-fourth of the daily average of his prisoners ought not to be
in prison at all. I believe that statement to be below, not beyond
the truth. We can easily see that if our prison population were
reduced by one-half, great reforms would naturally follow in prison
administration. Practically there would be the same amount of work
to do in prison, for the various government departments would still
require the commodities that prison labour supplies.
Prisons would then become hives of industry instead of castles
of indolence, and prisoners would, of course, be given a much
larger financial interest in the work done. Under such conditions,
prisons, too, would naturally become pathological and psychological
observatories. With proper men, and proper time to make the
observations, prisons would reveal to us some of the dark wonders
incident to the strange mixture of humanity we thoughtlessly dub
criminal. When that happy day comes we shall be able to differentiate
between crime and disease; we shall no longer punish men for their
afflictions, but we shall treat them as patients in places other
than prisons. Look for a moment at that growing, ever-growing army
of people, the feeble-minded and irresponsibles—prisoners who are
perpetually haled in prison, and to whose ranks four hundred are added
every year. From prison to the streets, from the streets to the police
station, from the station to the police court, and from thence to
prison forms the vicious circle of their hopeless lives.
Certified as “unfit for prison discipline,” yet everlastingly in
prison; not fit for liberty, yet constantly thrust into liberty;
homeless, hopeless, friendless, battered from pillar to post, eyesores
to humanity, they tread the vicious circle. Some day we shall pity
them and care for them and give them, under control, as much childlike
happiness as they can appreciate—such work as they can do with simple
comforts and controlling discipline; but no useless liberty, no
opportunities of perpetuating their kind, no more of the vicious circle
and no more prison. And the tramps and the loafers, too, must be taken
in hand, and not with a gloved hand either, for prison is no place for
them. The month or six weeks is soon over. They have been cleansed,
they have recuperated. Then, heigho! for the hedgerows if it is summer,
the Embankment or shelters if it is winter.
Their vagrant days must end, and end in detention in some place where
the wholesome Pauline advice may be carried out—if they will not work,
neither shall they eat! but with no chance of a second generation.
And there is another class of whom I must speak, but I do so with
fear and trembling: I refer to the wild and gross women who live upon
our streets, and whose individual convictions number anything between
twenty and four hundred. Look! during the year 1906, 933 women, each of
whom had served more than ten imprisonments, were once more in Holloway
Gaol.
Some hundreds of them had been in that gaol more than twenty times
each! Many of them were known personally to me; for I had seen them in
the cells, and I had seen them at liberty; I had seen them drunk, and I
had seen them sober.
But whether sober or drunk, they are slaves of a gross, overmastering
passion elemental in its intensity—to them nothing else matters.
But the State says they are inebriates, and treats them as such. Yet
drink is but an incident in their lives and effect, and the cause of
their condition lies deeper, much deeper. Down through generations
some germs have come and have found an abiding-place in their bodies,
bearing fruition in their terrible and hopeless lives. Is an ordinary
prison a place for them? is one month’s, two months’ or six months’
detention of any avail in their case? I think not!
But ask the prison authorities, or consult the records, and you will
get an answer! Do the claims of humanity ask for no consideration?
has science nothing to say upon the matter? Are we to go on for
ever tinkering with a vital question, giving such women an endless
succession of short imprisonments which only serve the purpose of
renewing their health that their lives may be devoted to the most
fearful purpose to which any human being can be subjected?
But when all these unfortunate classes are properly cared for, we shall
still require prisons; but they must be specialised prisons, and our
officials must be properly qualified and equipped for their work.
The science of healing must play a more important part; the doctor must
be a student of mental as well as physical diseases.
When the days of short imprisonments are ended we shall probably
have a “receiving prison” to which the offenders will be sent on
conviction for “observation” and “classification,” and thence drafted
to different prisons suitable to their age, condition and ability.
For a plan of this description would bring the duties of governors,
doctors, chaplains and warders, within the sphere of possibility.
Failing this, strive as they may and do, we ask them to perform the
impossible. But in the prisons of the future, specialised as they will
be, classification will still have to play an important part; but
classification will be no longer governed by the number of convictions
a youth or adult has received but by the real character, temperament
and ability of the prisoner.
And in these prisons there will be work demanding the use of muscle or
fingers; there will be opportunities for the use of brains, and some
chance for the emotions of the heart to have play.
Consider for a moment the life of a man undergoing a five years’
sentence. It is one of deadening routine! With mechanical certitude his
actions are controlled and ordered: the same food in amount and kind at
the same time each day and served in the same manner.
The same amount of cell, the same amount of bed, no opportunities of
doing kindnesses, no opportunities for receiving kindnesses, his brain,
heart and muscles alike are kept stagnant. Yet he schools himself to
deceive, for he knows that if he plays the hypocrite long enough he
will reduce his sentence by fifteen months. Consequently he develops
a servile manner and a low cunning. Let any otherwise decent man live
this life for three years and nine months, always having before him
the one object—that of shortening his term—and I need not ask what the
psychological result will be.
Yes! this bribe to good behaviour must be abolished, even though
Captain Maconachie arise from his grave to defend it. And the prisons
of the future will know it not, for the prisoner’s release will be
determined by other conditions than mere mechanical obedience. And
with the passing of the “ticket-of-leave,” “police supervision”
is also passing; truly it is time that both were dead and buried.
Perhaps I may astonish some folk by stating that “police supervision,”
notwithstanding its impressive sound, was a farce absolute and complete.
An ex-convict had no fear of it. He could “report” himself by letter!
and I have never, though I have often inquired into such complaints,
found the statements about detective and police interference with the
employment of discharged prisoners justified; neither have I known any
“old lag” who found the supervision irksome in the least degree.
The conditions were too easily fulfilled; an occasional visit to the
police station, and then reporting by letter sufficed. But sometimes we
are apt to forget that even employers and the public have a right to
consideration equally with the discharged prisoners. Supposing, as not
infrequently happens, a dangerous rogue obtains a situation of trust
by the aid of forged character and references. What can the police do?
What ought they to do if honest? but I am quite certain any officer
that needlessly interfered with an ex-convict who was honestly trying
to obtain a livelihood would get scant mercy from his superiors. The
police and detective force know this quite well.
Mr. Gladstone’s Preventive Detention Act will do much to lighten the
labour of Scotland Yard. The pity is that it limits a sentence of
preventive detention to ten years; for at the expiration of this time,
whatever be the age, mental and physical condition or past record of
the prisoner sentenced under the Act, he must be discharged though he
be homeless, hopeless and friendless. He may, of course, be discharged
much earlier if circumstances warrant, especially if he has friends and
work to take up.
Now the men who qualify for the provisions of this Act are of two
classes. First: the determined and persistent criminal who lives by
crime, desires to live by crime, and to whom no other life has any
attraction.
Against these men, after being adjudged by a jury to be habitual
criminals, we ought to be safeguarded even as we protect ourselves
against known madmen.
The second class are criminals because they are quite irresponsible—a
helpless class of individuals who have not the ability to maintain
themselves, who can do nothing useful unless under control. Most of
the men who comprise these two classes are of middle age, many of them
decidedly old. When their preventive detention expires they will be ten
years older. I question the mercy, as well as the justice of thrusting
these old men into useless liberty. Surely it would be better to detain
them under reasonable conditions, to let them quietly die out in the
hope that few will be found to take their places. And in the days to
come that most woefully afflicted human, the epileptic, will not wear
the criminal badge or the convict’s brand, and the hideous cruelty
inflicted on these unfortunates will be no longer perpetrated.
Their sorrows and their sufferings will make no vain appeal to our
pity and care, for we shall protect them and ourselves in a human and
scientific way; but not in prison! And when that time comes the horrid
term “criminal lunatic” will also disappear from our vocabulary, for
it is high time this classification was buried and numbered with the
monstrosities of the past.
I protest against this phrase and the consequences that attach to
it. Verily it passes the wit of men to conceive how any one can be a
criminal and a lunatic at one and the same time, for if he be the one
he cannot be the other. So Broadmoor will become the “State Asylum,”
and the cruel farce of putting undeniably insane people on their trial
will no longer be tolerated, for quietly and mercifully, after due
certification they will pass to the mental hospital with no brand of
criminality upon them. But I would ask: Are we to be for ever impotent
before disease of the brain? Are physical afflictions and deprivations
to remain for ever unconsidered when justice holds the scales, and when
punishment is decreed? I think not! nay, I am sure, for in the prisons
that are yet to be the paternal hand of the State, while exercising
a restraining power over its stricken children, will consider their
afflictions and limitations and have mercy upon them.
Then, blighted youth, blighted through poverty; disease, malformation
or accident will be no longer neglected even though it be criminally
inclined; then, the reproach that the State helps only those that can
help themselves will be wiped out; then, even in our prisons, the
weaklings will receive some portion of their due, and the days of
criminal neglect will be ended.
THE END
_Richard Clay & Sons, Limited, London and Bungay._
Transcriber’s Notes
Minor punctuation and printer errors repaired.
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.