SCENES DURING VISITING HOURS IN THE TOMBS
The Tombs Prison is in the nature of a detention barracks, where persons
awaiting trial are kept for a season, and where one-half are discharged
for lack of evidence and other legal loopholes through which men and
women slip to freedom. Here prisoners are permitted to see their friends
every day of the week, except Sundays and legal holidays. At the present
time when the Tombs contains about 400-500 state and federal prisoners,
it can be readily seen that one-half of the inmates are visited daily,
which would average a thousand visitors a week.
What a Babel of tongues operate here from every part of the world! What
scenes may be witnessed during the visiting hours! Here may be found
wives and mothers, fathers, brothers, children and friends all in tears!
Sometimes as many as eight to ten different nationalities are found
speaking their own peculiar language on one tier of forty
prisoners,—English, German, French, Spanish, Russ, Bohemian,
Scandinavian, Polish and even Chinese.
With their arms stretched out through the bars, taking hold of each
other in the anguish of a death bed scene, they kiss each other, weep
and groan over one another and frequently become hysterical. And these
scenes continue during the entire visiting hour, and when the gong rings
for the recess, they are so loath to depart that often the keepers have
to drag them from each other. As the wives, mothers, children and
friends pass along the corridors toward the gate, you can see their eyes
still full of tears and red with weeping.
These scenes, which are unspeakably pathetic, are almost daily witnessed
in the New York Tombs. Here, for example, is an aged mother at a cell
door, whose heart is wrung with anguish over the downfall of a son. She
holds his hand while the tears trickle down her kindly, motherly face.
Oh, how sad that the innocent have to suffer because of the wrong doing
of others, that human love and sympathy are so interwoven that the crime
of one individual causes many to sorrow, and renders life burdensome! At
the cell of a man charged with murder stands his sorrowing wife and
three children. Their plain and faded garments indicate poverty. The
pinched and careworn face of the wife tells of the terrible struggle for
a livelihood she is making because deprived of her husband’s help. The
chances are that both she and her children will become inmates of the
almshouse or some charitable institution. The prisoner apparently fully
realizes the gravity of his position and seeks to comfort his wife and
caress into cheerfulness his unfortunate children. The evidence against
the prisoner, however, is so positive and convincing that he will be
electrocuted. He realizes this but conceals from his wife his feelings,
and assures her that he will be acquitted. She becomes hopeful and with
a kiss and a smile on her tearful face, departs. Picture if you can the
scene in the home of this murderer when the news of his conviction is
received, the wringing of hands, the moans of anguish, the appeals to
God, and the frenzied outcry of inconsolable grief! The innocent
suffering because of the guilt of another. Home broken up, mother and
children separated, the looks askance of the neighbors, the world’s
frown, and a heritage of shame and woe for mother and children!
At another cell door stands a father silently weeping, while the guilty
son tries to comfort him with asservations of innocence, but the father
does not believe him; he knows his boy is guilty; he knows that for
years he has been dishonest and intemperate, and has at last reached the
end of his wayward career. The father reminds the son of the earnest
warnings, the wise advice, the prayers and the tears of his dear mother.
The son pleads for forgiveness and renewed efforts in his behalf. The
father gently, lovingly, yet firmly says, “My son, you are guilty. My
respect for the law is so powerful that I must uphold it, though it
means the imprisonment of my only son. Had this been your only offence
to my knowledge, I would do my utmost to secure your release. I have
shielded you several times to my sorrow. Had you been imprisoned for
your first offence, you would not perhaps be where you are to-day; you
might have reformed and been a great comfort to your good mother and
myself.” To some extent this father was right, even if he did take a
stand contrary to that taken by most men whose sons have violated the
law. I do not believe in sending any man to prison who demonstrates his
fitness for freedom. If prisons reclaimed and uplifted men and women I
would say otherwise, but they do not. I believe that seventy-five out of
every hundred leave prison worse than when they entered.
One day my attention was called to a young woman who was silently
weeping by a cell door. She was richly attired, and very much of a lady
in appearance, and could not be more than twenty years of age. I became
interested and on inquiring learned that she was a bride of only a few
weeks. She had been wooed and won by a handsome, talented, clever rascal
under false pretensions. He had spent a number of months in a
Massachusetts town, where his faithful attendance at church and earnest
prayers and eloquent exhortations had gained him the confidence of the
leading people of the place. At a sociable he had formed the young
lady’s acquaintance and by his ingratiating ways, scholarly address and
earnest protestations of affection, soon induced her to consent to marry
him. Her parents at first stoutly protested, but yielded to the
importunities of the much loved daughter. A brilliant wedding was the
result, with guests from New York and all parts of New England. To the
bride the father gave $10,000 as a wedding gift. A trip to Montreal,
where the wily rascal obtained control of the money, terminated her
dream of a happy married life. In three days he had gambled away the
entire sum. To New York city they then journeyed, where at one of the
leading hotels the rascal passed a worthless check, which led to his
apprehension and confinement in the Tombs to await the action of the
grand jury. Earnest petitions to the bride’s father were stubbornly and
wisely denied. A careful investigation established the fact that the
rascal who had so cruelly and unpardonably deceived the estimable young
lady, had been an inmate of four prisons, and was one of the most
notorious criminals in the country. It furthermore became known that at
the time he was in Massachusetts, he was wanted in St. Louis for
defrauding an Insurance Company to the extent of five thousand dollars.
He was hiding in a quiet Massachusetts town and improved the time in
winning for a bride the daughter of one of the most influential and
aristocratic families in old New England. He was sent to Sing Sing
Prison for several years, and the wife well nigh brokenhearted and bowed
to the dust in humiliation, returned to her parents a sadder and a wiser
woman. A divorce was the result.
I have seen mothers and wives kneeling at cell doors and pleading with
God for the deliverance and reclamation of sons and husbands. I have
seen prisoners so conscience stricken and so moved by the tears and
sufferings of dear ones, that they wept in their agony and firmly
resolved to lead moral lives, and they kept the resolve.
I have said nothing about the poor and their sufferings, and more
especially the children of the poor when for some unknown reason they
came within the meshes of the law. Some years ago I had occasion to meet
a German lad in the Boys’ Prison. He was what the boys call a
“tenderfoot.” He cried night and day. I felt very sorry for him. He was
indeed inconsolable and it seemed nothing could be said which would make
him dry his tears or infuse new hope into his discouraged heart. He
cried continually for his mother and although word was sent to her, no
mother came. His sufferings became so acute that I would have done
anything in my power for the boy. After waiting ten days and no mother
came, at the urgent request of one of the keepers I went in search for
her. She lived on the East side, near Station Street, about five blocks
from the Bowery. She was bloated, coarse, unmotherly, without any
natural affection, and I saw at once that she cared more for her vile
business than her own child. I could do nothing with her.
I do not think I shall ever forget the case of the newsboy, who was
arrested at the Brooklyn Bridge entrance for selling papers. Complaints
had been made to the police of some ruffian boys who took pleasure in
insulting people who would not buy papers. The officers had received
orders to arrest the first offender and make him an example. Frank Smith
was then at the desk in the old prison. He had just taken a boy to the
ten day house, and asked me to go and see him. I did so. I found the
poor boy inside the big iron gate crying his life out. No one could
comfort him. I tried to find out his offence, but he would not stop his
crying long enough to tell me. I went over to the police court, but as
there was a large calendar that day, I could get no information. I
returned to the Tombs. As I came near the boy I found that his two
little sisters had come to see him. They had heard of his misfortune and
had sought him out as soon as possible. It was one of the most pathetic
sights that I ever witnessed. The boy lived with his mother and sisters
on East Broadway. They were Jews and very poor. The mother was ill at
home, suffering from an incurable disease, and was then on her death
bed. Reuben, the diminutive newsboy, was trying to support the family by
selling papers. The sentence of the court was thirty days in the city
prison or a hundred dollars bond. But this was out of question for the
family. When I returned from court I found the two sisters crying
bitterly at the gate and begging Rubie to come home. Their cry was, “O
Rubie, come home, won’t you? Mamma is sick and ready to die. Won’t you
come home with us, Rubie?” All this time they were weeping bitterly and
everybody was affected, even the tiermen. I could not stand it any
longer. I saw the magistrate at once and told him the situation. He
would not discharge him under any circumstances. When I saw that I could
make no further impression I offered myself as Rubie’s bondsman, and the
Judge accepted me and the boy was at once discharged and went home with
his sisters. I saw one of the Bridge policemen and asked that Rubie be
not arrested on account of his poverty and the fact that he had a dying
mother at home, and he kindly spoke to the others at the Bridge and
Rubie was never molested after that day.
The scene which had the most powerful effect on me and which has stayed
by me the longest, moving me to tears even to this day, was the
beholding two little girls, sisters, conversing with their brother who
was accused of burglary. The oldest sister was about thirteen years of
age, the youngest about three. All were crying bitterly, with the little
one sobbing out, “Oh brother Willie, come home, please come home, we
have had nothing to eat all day, and we had no supper last night. Why
don’t the naughty man (the keeper) let you come home?”
What were the facts about this little sorrowing group? Three orphans,
the boy about nineteen had cared for his sisters faithfully and
tenderly. His record was good, had been employed by one firm for more
than nine years, and had given general satisfaction. One evening while
passing along Second Avenue, a thief rushed by pursued by a policeman;
as he passed Daly (so we will call him) he thrust into his pocket a gold
watch and chain, which the policeman observed. Daly was arrested as a
confederate of the thief and turned over to the police. After learning
these facts and fully verifying them, I succeeded in securing the
release of the prisoner, who to-day is one of the best and most
prosperous carpenters in the city. The pathetic face of the baby sister
I have never forgotten, nor her innocent pleading for the return home of
her dearly and deservedly loved brother.
I have stood opposite “Murderers’ Row” and counted more than twenty-five
visitors eagerly talking with men whose brutal appearance and awful
crimes rendered them repulsive even to their fellow men. Some of these
twenty-five visitors did not even so much as know the prisoners, and had
merely read of their crimes in the papers and prompted by curiosity, and
a mawkish sentimentality, had called to express sympathy and tender
their help. Some of the visitors were richly gowned and daintily gloved
men and women. They brought hampers of food and large bouquets. One
would think that these murderers were heroes and martyrs, from the
treatment accorded them by these women whose conduct seemed to me almost
inexplicable. The man whose crime was most awful and grewsome in its
details received the most attention. What is there about a murderer to
attract refined women I cannot understand, and I have given the subject
considerable thought. To see a cultured woman almost caressing a brutal
murderer who is an entire stranger to her is a sight sufficient to cause
any sane man to wonder. It seemed to me it would be more consistent if
they called on the family of the victim and offered them help and
sympathy.
To the student of human nature, visiting hours at the Tombs afford a
good opportunity to study phases of life not found elsewhere. Let him
pass from cell to cell, carefully observing the visitors at each, the
expression of their features, their gestures, their attitudes. On some
faces sits hope, radiant, beautiful and very encouraging to the
prisoner. On another face the stamp of fear, doubt and uncertainty is
clear. The son or husband is in danger. The evidence points to guilt and
conviction, too much indeed to encourage even the shadow of hope.
Another face bears sorrow and tears, and discouragement has left its
unmistakable impress. One finds on few faces the stamp of resignation.
Hard it is for a mother or a wife to become reconciled to the thought of
a son or a husband, serving a term in prison, however guilty he may be.
Negro criminals have the most cheerful and encouraging visitors. The
Black race is blessed with a disposition to view the bright side of all
situations and experiences. It is a cheerful race. The Negro is a foe to
gloomy thoughts. It is hard to depress him. He will dance, sing and make
merry at the foot of the gallows. The Negro visitors enter smiling and
so depart. They talk with prisoners just as though they were free and
comfortably ensconced in pleasant homes. They cheer instead of
depressing the prisoner.
The Italians are really distressing in their efforts to comfort friends
in prison. They jabber, whine, cry, caress and condemn and reproach
until they have the prisoner in a state bordering on insanity. They
leave him in a condition truly pitiful. Instead of cheering him, he has
been rendered far more miserable by his visitors. He dreams of electric
chairs, prisons, policemen and handcuffs. The bananas his visitors bring
he could well do without, as he could the visits of friends who so
greatly depress him.
Fritz appears and says to Hans, “I think you go by the prison alretty,
ain’t it?” “Naw, I thinks I go by the shudge bimeby, pretty quick, and
he lets me go home to mine Louisa. I am not guilty alretty,” responds
the hopeful Hans. German visitors as a general thing conduct themselves
sensibly. They are not emotional, but hardheaded and sensible. They
smoke with the prisoner, laugh and joke, and leave him in a cheerful
frame of mind. The German is sociable and not easily rendered gloomy or
depressed. The German visitors try to imbue prisoners with the idea that
their trouble will soon end, and in a few days they will be sitting in
Hoffmans’ beer garden with a glass of lager, and a plate of sauerkraut
before them. So believing, the prisoner lies down to pleasant dreams.
The privilege of seeing and conversing with friends, all things
considered, is a great boon to prisoners and should never be denied
them, especially those awaiting trial. Many a man naturally inclined to
take a dark view of his trouble has been kept sane and sound from
self-murder by the daily appearance of some loved one. The human heart
when filled with fear and foreboding yearns for sympathy, encouragement
and comfort. If these influences be withheld, the sufferings are so
terrible as to pass human understanding. To an imprisoned man who is
friendless, the coming of sympathy and kindly helpful interest is like a
visit from God’s Holy Angels.
No wonder the prisoner cries out in the night in the agony of soul. No
wonder he offers a plaint that is sad and sorrowful. The following lines
from the pen of an unfortunate show the harshness of even our modern
prison life:
“I know not whether the law be right,
Or whether the law be wrong;
All that we know who lie in jail
Is that the bars are strong;
And that each day is like a year—
A year whose days are wrong!
And this I know that every law,
That men have made for man,
Since man first took his brother’s life,
And the wretched world began,
But scatters the wheat and saves the chaff
With a most unlucky fan!
This too I know and wise it were
If each could know the same
That every prison that men have built,
Is built of bricks of shame,
And bound with bars lest Christ should see
How men their brothers maim.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------