DISCHARGED PRISONERS
It was, of course, inevitable, considering the large space prison reform
and discharged prisoners have occupied in the public mind, that some
influence, not altogether healthy, would be exercised on both prisoners
and public. The leniency of sentences, or of treatment whilst undergoing
sentences, has upon most prisoners a humanizing and softening effect. On
others it produces a very different feeling, for in a measure it
confirms them in wrong-doing. Personally, I have great faith in wise and
discriminate leniency, preferring the risk of confirming the few to the
certainty of hardening the many. Still, it is worth while, in our
efforts for prison reform and for ex-prisoners' social salvation, to
pause sometimes and inquire not only what success is being achieved, but
also what is the general effect of our efforts. The constant stream of
appeals on behalf of discharged prisoners that flows throughout the
length and breadth of our land, while productive of good, is of a
certainty productive of much evil. The efforts made in prison to get
prisoners to attach themselves to some recognized Prisoners' Aid Society
before discharge, good as they are, are not without some ill
consequences. The sympathy of the community for men and women who have
broken their country's laws, and who are undergoing, or have undergone,
terms of imprisonment, has been so often and so earnestly proclaimed
that even this expression of sympathy has had consequences that were not
anticipated, but which might have been expected if a little more thought
had been given to the matter. It is, I know, impossible that any
movement or trend of thought can be absolutely free from evil, and every
influence for good has something connected with it that acts in an
opposite direction. One result of all this public sympathy and effort
has been to lead a large number of people to think and believe that
because they have been criminals, and have suffered just punishment for
their evil-doing, it is someone's bounden duty to help them, and provide
them not only with the means of living when discharged from prison, but
also with suitable employment.
So far has this kind of belief permeated, that several of my
acquaintances, educated men who have suffered well-merited terms of
imprisonment, contend that the community ought to receive them back with
open arms, and not only restore them to a position, but give them again
the confidence and respect they had forfeited. Their offences having
been purged, they argue, by the term of imprisonment suffered, the law
has been satisfied; and the law now holding them guiltless, nothing else
ought to be considered. These men, as I have said, were educated men,
and well able to win back the public confidence if they set themselves
to the task. But I am more concerned for the effect of this belief upon
the ordinary prisoners, who have but little education, and for them it
has disastrous effects. If there is one virtue that is absolutely
necessary to a discharged prisoner, it is the virtue of self-reliance.
Without it he is nothing. No matter what sympathy and what aid be
extended to him from societies or individuals, without self-reliance he
is a certain failure. Anything that tends to lessen self-reliance in
discharged prisoners has, then, a tendency to reduce their chances of
reformation. After all has been done that can possibly be done for
discharged prisoners, one is compelled--reluctantly compelled--to the
conclusion that the only men who can be rescued are those who possess
grit and self-reliance. Many--I think that I can with safety say
most--discharged prisoners appear to believe that assistance once given
gives them a claim to other assistance. I have met with very few to whom
I have given material help who thought that the help given them was
exceptional and given with the view of helping them to a little start,
that they might afterwards rely upon themselves. On the other hand, I
have met with hundreds who actually believed that help previously given
constituted an absolute claim to continued assistance. Sometimes it has
taken much persuasion, and occasionally a display of physical force,
before I have been able to get some discharged prisoners to accept my
view of the matter.
The complete assurance with which many of them present themselves at my
door and inform me that they are "Just come out of prison, sir," is of
itself astounding, but a little conversation with them reveals more
surprising things still. About eleven o'clock one winter night there was
a loud rap at my front-door, to which I responded. When I opened the
door, a big man stood before me, and he promptly put his foot across the
doorstep, and the following conversation took place: "What do you want?"
"Oh, you are Mr. Holmes. I want you to help me." "Why should I help you?
I know nothing of you." "I have just come out of prison." "Well, you are
none the better for that." "Well, you help men that have been in
prison." "Sometimes, when I see they are ashamed of having been in."
"Well, I don't want to get in prison again." "How do I know you have
been in prison?" "Why, didn't you speak to us like a man last Sunday?"
"Yes, I was at Pentonville last Sunday, and I hope I spoke like a man."
"Ah, that you did! And when I heard you, I said: 'I'll see him when I
come out. He will be sure to give me half a dollar.'" "How did you get
my address?" "From another chap." "When did you come out?" "This
morning." "How long have you been in?" "Six months." "Got all your
conduct marks?" "Every one." "Then you had eight shillings when you left
the prison. How much have you got left?" "Never a sou!" "What have you
done with it?" "I bought a collar, a pocket-handkerchief, a necktie, and
a bit of tobacco, and a good dinner." "You saved nothing for your
lodging?" "No; I thought you would see me right." "I see! How old are
you?" "Thirty-four." "How tall?" "Six feet one." "What is your weight?"
"Fourteen stone." "My friend, you are big enough, strong enough, and
young enough to help yourself. You seem to be making a bad job of it;
but you will get no help from me." "Not half a dollar?" "Not half a
penny." "What are you for?" "Well," I said, "I appear to exist for a
good many purposes, but at the present time I am for the purpose of
telling you to move off. Take your foot from my doorstep and clear!"
"Not without half a dollar." "Take your foot away!" "No fear! I am going
to have some money for my lodgings." "You will get no money here. Clear
off!" "You don't mean to say that, after speaking to us like a man, you
won't give me any money?" "That is exactly what I do mean to say." "What
are you for?" "I will show you what I am for"; and I called three
stalwart sons. "I ask you once more to withdraw your foot, or we shall
be compelled to put you as gently as possible in the gutter." He then
left us, muttering as he went: "I wonder what he's for?"
The sight of an ashamed and broken ex-prisoner touches me, and my heart
goes out to him. Neither sympathy nor help will I deny him. But when
unabashed fellows confront me, and show not the slightest evidence of
sorrow or shame, but trade, as far as they can trade, upon the shameful
fact that they have been rogues and vagabonds, very different feelings
are evoked. My experience leads me to the belief that the greater
majority of ex-prisoners are by no means ashamed of having been in
prison, or of the criminal actions that preceded prison; neither are
they anywise reticent about their actions or thoughts.
So well is the public desire to help prisoners understood that I have
sometimes been the victim of specious scoundrels who probably had never
been in prison, but who richly deserved the unenviable distinction.
One morning, when I was leaving home for the day, I saw on the opposite
side of the street a young man, who looked intently at me when I bade my
wife good-bye. As he was an entire stranger to me, I did not speak to
him, but went about my business. During the evening my wife said to me:
"Oh, you owe me ten shillings!" "What for?" I inquired. "I gave young
Brown his fare to Birmingham." "What young Brown?" I inquired. "That
nice young fellow that got into trouble two years ago, and you helped
him when he came out of prison. He kept the place you got for him, and
now he has got a much better one at Birmingham." I tried to recall young
Brown, but my memory was vacant on the matter. At length I asked for his
description, when the young man I had seen in the morning was revealed.
He noted my departure, and when quite sure that I was not in the way, he
came to the door and asked to see me. He told my wife a long tale about
his imprisonment and of my kindness to him, of his struggle for two
years on a small salary, and of the good position open for him in
Birmingham; and also of his certainty that I would, had I been at home,
have advanced his fare, and wound up by expressing the great sorrow that
he had missed me. He did wish so much to tell me of his success, for it
was all due to my kindness. He got his fare, and I sincerely hope that
by this time he has got his deserts too.
But, independently of specious rogues, it is high time the fact was
recognized that a feeling does largely exist among prisoners and
ex-prisoners that the fact of having been in prison is a sure passport
to public sympathy, and constitutes a claim upon public assistance. A
large proportion of prisoners are, of course, people of low
intelligence, who cannot estimate things at a proper value or see things
as ordinary-minded people see them, and to these the belief becomes a
certainty and the hope almost a realization. Let me repeat, then, that
the duty of the community to help and "rescue" discharged prisoners has
been so insistently and persistently proclaimed that prisoners now quite
believe it, and are eagerly ready to leave to societies, organizations,
or individuals other than themselves those efforts that are undoubtedly
necessary for their own reformation and re-establishment.
I hold, and very strongly hold, that there is no hope of any prisoner's
reformation who has no sorrow for the wrong he has done, and no sense of
shame for the disgrace he has brought upon himself and others. I am not
sure which is the more hopeless and repulsive kind of an individual--the
man who blatantly demands assistance because he has been a rogue, or the
fawning hypocrite who professes repentance, tells of his conversion,
and thanks God that he has been in prison; but I do know that both have
the same object in view, and that both are but specimens of a numerous
class.
While giving a course of lectures in our large prisons I had
opportunities of becoming acquainted with many of the prisoners. At the
conclusion of each lecture those prisoners who had expressed during the
week a wish to consult me were allowed to do so in strict privacy. I had
some very interesting talks with them. For many of them I felt
profoundly sorry, and made some arrangement to meet with them when they
were once more at liberty. For others I felt no pity, for I realized
that they were barely receiving a just reward for their deeds.
One young man, with a heavy face and a leering kind of a look, came to
me, and informed me that he had asked permission to see me, because he
wanted my help in a fortnight's time, when he would be at liberty. Clad
in khaki and marked with broad arrows, there was nothing to
differentiate him from the ordinary prisoner, excepting, perhaps, that
his face was duller and less intelligent than the majority. I asked him
how long he had been in prison. "Six months." "What are you in for?"
"Forgery." "How much money did you get by it?" "Five hundred pounds."
"You were a bank clerk, then?" "Yes." "Is your father alive?" "No."
"Have you a mother?" "Yes, and two sisters." "In what way do you want me
to help you?" "I want to go to Canada." I looked at him closely and
said, "Tell me what you did with the five hundred pounds." For the
first time I saw brightness in his eyes and face, and he promptly
replied, "Oh, I had a high old time." I saw sensual enjoyment written
very largely about his lips and eyes; but I repeated his words, "A high
old time?" "Yes; a good time, you know." So I enumerated drink,
gambling, women, and to each of them he replied, "Yes." He evidently
looked back to that wicked period with great pleasure. I felt that he
was far beyond my prentice hand, for I thought of his mother and
sisters, of the employer he had so ruthlessly robbed, and of his own
certain future. So I said to him, "My son, I cannot help you; no one can
help you. It is no use wasting money in sending you to Canada. Canada is
no place for you, for you cannot get away from yourself." He said, "I
shall be away from temptation in Canada." "No," I said; "that is
impossible: the devil is always to hand, even in Canada." "Won't you
help me to get away from London?" "No," I said. "Stop in London, where
you have been a wicked rogue; face life where you are known; show
yourself a man by living decently and working honestly at anything you
can get. Try and win back your mother's and sisters' respect. Write to
your employer and ask his forgiveness; tell him that at some time in
life you will endeavour to repay him. Feel ashamed that you have been a
disgusting rogue; don't rejoice in having a 'high old time.'" He did not
blush, or appear in any way concerned, but said: "If you won't help me,
others will." It needs no great knowledge of life to forecast that young
man's future. I often feel dismayed when I consider some of the
present-day tendencies. There is such a feverish and manifest desire
among thousands of people to stand between a prisoner and the law, and
to relieve him at any cost from the legal consequence of his
wrong-doing.
Indeed, some folk would move heaven and earth, if it were possible, to
keep a heartless young rogue out of prison. I would not lift my finger;
to me it seems a most serious matter, for the consequences of criminal
actions ought to be certain as daylight. I would, however, do much to
make those consequences, not only certain, but swift, reasonable, and
dignified, but not vindictive or revengeful. Punishment should be severe
enough to convey an important and a lasting lesson. There ought to be no
element of chance about it, but at present there is a great deal of
uncertainty whether a prisoner, even if found guilty, will receive any
punishment or be merely admonished.
I am aware that the views I have just expressed are not held by many
people, but I am speaking from a long experience, during which I have
dealt personally with individuals, and have taken infinite pains to
learn something of those individuals. From this knowledge and experience
I am forced to the conclusion that, as a rule, it is not a wise or a
good thing to prevent the consequence of crime falling upon the
criminal; but, as I have previously said, those consequences ought to be
reasonable and sensible. We need a healthier public feeling on this
question, and I earnestly long for the time when we shall all feel and
acknowledge that the real disgrace lies in the action, and not in the
degree of punishment awarded the perpetrator.
A thief discharged on "probation" is still a thief equally with the one
who had received a term of imprisonment, but the community thinks
otherwise. I am quite sure that I shall be hardly judged and condemned
for giving expression to this opinion; it will doubtless be said that I
have grown hard-hearted late in life, and have lost my sympathy for
unfortunate people. I ask my readers to accept my assurance that this is
not the case; my sympathy is larger than ever, for poor broken humanity
is with me an ever-present sorrow. I never refuse assistance to a
hard-up scoundrel without a heart-wrench and subsequent feelings of
uneasiness. I love men, but I hate the very thought of "coddling"
humanity. I know what it leads to, and I think how poor broken humanity
catches on to the process, and becomes more and more willing to be
"coddled." But poor humanity is the poorer for the process.
A man that has committed some crime, and has then taken his gruel in
both senses, who faces the world, and by pluck, perseverance, and
rectitude regains his footing in life, is to me a hero; for I can
appreciate his difficulties, and appreciate, too, his moral worth. It is
my privilege to know such men, and it is my joy sometimes to meet them.
When I pass one of them in the street, I always feel inclined to cry,
"There goes a man." Thank God, men of this sort are more numerous than
might be expected, and it is only fair to our prison authorities to say
that among a number that I know none complain of their treatment. Whilst
undergoing sentence they did not like prison, of course, but they had to
put up with it, and made the best of it. But while I am writing
this--on July 16, between 9 and 10 p.m.--I have been called three times
to speak to young men who claimed--and I have no doubt in their cases
truly claimed--to be discharged prisoners. Each time it was a young man
under thirty that required help; two were absolute strangers to me; one
I had known previously, for, unfortunately, six years ago I met him
before he was consigned to prison, and also after he came out. At that
time I did my best for him, and gave him a suit of clothes, and procured
him, after great difficulties, some employment. During the last year he
had called on me several times, when I had resolutely declined to assist
him. He seemed astonished, and said, "But you helped me before."
To-night I was a bit angry, and said, "Oh, is it you again? You are
troubling me too often; I can do nothing for you." He resented the idea
that he was a too frequent visitor. "Why, it is six weeks since I was
here." My next visitor was a strong, healthy young man, who promptly
touched his forehead with his fingers by way of salute. "Just come out
of prison, sir." "Well, what of that?" "I am a married man, with two
children." "I am sorry for your wife and children." He misunderstood me.
"I thought you would be. We must pay our rent to-night, or we shall be
put out in the street." "Where are you living?" "In Campbell Road,
Finsbury Park. We have furnished apartments; we have been there one
week, and they want the rent." I said, "You came out of prison a week
ago, and paid a deposit on your room?" "Yes, sir." "You pay, or should
pay, seven shillings a week for that wretched room. You have not paid,
so you ask me to help you; but I cannot do it: I know nothing whatever
of you. Please go away: I am busy." He looked at me and said: "But I
stole boots, you know, and I got three months. What are my wife and
children to do?" "Well," I said, "if you did steal boots, you were a
thief, and I cannot think the better of you on that account. You may or
may not have a wife and two children; I do not know. Furnished
apartments in Campbell Road are too dear and too nasty. I cannot give
away money to keep the landlord of Campbell Road." With great difficulty
I got rid of him, and I am afraid that my temper was not sweetened in
the endeavour.
I had just settled down at my work when once more I was informed that a
man wished to see me. The inevitable front-door again. I sometimes
wonder how many silent vows I have registered on my own doorstep. The
broken ones, I know, have been numerous enough to condemn me.
Another old acquaintance this time. As I stand on the doorstep, the rain
sweeps in at the open door. The poor fellow is soaked through; it is
nearly ten o'clock; he is homeless and penniless. I can spare half a
crown; he has it, and I direct him to the nearest lodging-house--not
that he needed directions--feeling quite sure that he will there meet
with my two previous visitors; possibly, too, will tell them of his
success, and chaff them about their failure. But it was the rain that
did it, and I hope that fact may be taken into consideration when
judgment is delivered. True, by their continual coming they had wearied
me, and by their persistence they had annoyed me; but the sight of a
homeless vagabond in the pelting rain acted as a counter-irritant, and
pity had to triumph over censorious judgment. So I went back to my desk
knowing that I had done wrong; but somehow I had received satisfaction,
for my temper was soothed. Perhaps it was good for me that I was not
visited again that night by any discharged prisoners. For, poor fellows!
they demand our pity; but how to transmute that pity into practical help
is a difficult problem.
When a discharged prisoner possesses health, skill, and self-reliance,
he has a hard battle to fight, one that will call forth either the best
or the worst that is in him. But the great bulk of discharged prisoners
have but indifferent health, and possess no technical skill or
self-reliance; any service they can render to the community is but poor
service, and of a kind that many thousands of honest men are only too
anxious to secure for themselves. If the great bulk of them could, when
discharged, be put into regular employment, and be enabled to earn a
living, they would, if under a mild compulsion, conduct themselves
decently; but if work and reasonable payment were provided, compulsion
would still be necessary, for the greater part of them have no
continuity of purpose, and are as thoughtless of to-morrow as
butterflies, and they would very soon, were it possible, revert to an
aimless, wandering life. It is the lack of grit, of continuity of
purpose, of moral principles, combined with inferior physical health and
a low standard of intelligence, that renders the position of many
discharged prisoners so hopeless. We may blame them--perhaps it is right
to blame them--for not exercising qualities they do not possess, but it
is certain they do not possess the qualities I have named. They do,
however, possess qualities that are not quite so estimable, for
irresponsibility and low cunning are their chief characteristics. These
men are nomads: settled life, regular work, the patient bearing of
life's burden, and the facing of life's difficulties, are foreign to
their instincts and nature. This kind of character is developed at an
early age, for it is very prevalent in our growing youths; it is one of
the signs of our times, and it bodes no good to our future national
welfare.
After giving the last of a course of weekly lectures to youths under
twenty-one in one of our provincial prisons, I spoke a few friendly
words to them, and asked those to put up their hands who had been
previously in prison. A number of hands were put up. On questioning
them, I found that they by no means resented short terms of imprisonment
alternated with irresponsible liberty.
During the present summer, when commencing a similar course of lectures
in one of our large London prisons, I asked the youthful prisoners who
had previously met me to put up their hands. Here again a number of
hands went up. I found, to my astonishment, at least six youths who had
listened to my lectures in other prisons were detained in this
particular prison. I could not help telling them that I thought my
lectures had not done them much good. "We liked them, sir," was the
response. "Well," I said, "I wish those addresses had been a great deal
better or a great deal worse; they were not good enough to keep you out
of prison, neither were they bad enough to frighten you away."
What place is there in strenuous life for such young fellows? The
difficulties outside a prison's wall are so great that they cannot face
them. But the saddest part of it is that they do not want to face them,
and it must be confessed that they have not the slightest idea how to do
so.
Weakness, then, not wickedness, is the great characteristic of what are
termed "the criminal classes." Who can rescue them? Who can reform them?
No one, unless they can infuse into their very bones, blood, and marrow
the essence of vigour and the germ of self-reliance. Prisoners' Aid
Societies are powerless with them. Church Army and Salvation Army and
all the Labour Homes combined can do nothing with them or for them; for
prison life is easier than wood-chopping, and the comforts of prison are
superior to those of a Labour Home. The Borstal system is good, so far
as it goes, but it does not go half far enough; it is not vigorous
enough. Possibly, if these young men were detained three times as long
as they are at present, and given three times the amount of work they
have to do at the present time, with the rough up-to-date technical
training, many of them would profit; but I am certain that no
half-measures can be effectual with the large army of young prisoners
who have either acquired or inherited the love of an idle and
irresponsible life.
I was speaking a short time ago to a young man whom I knew had been
several times in prison, and asked him: "What are you in for this time?"
"For making a false attestation," was his reply. He had tried to enlist
under false pretences. But he is now in the army, for I have received
letters from him. Three other young fellows whom I had met in prison
when at liberty consulted me about joining the army. I warned them of
the risk, and told them they would have to tell lies. Nevertheless, they
are now in the army. Why there should be any difficulty about such
fellows joining the army I don't understand. They are animals, and they
can fight! If their teeth are not good, what does it matter? They are
not now required to bite cartridges. They can be taught to discharge
rifles, and a bullet from one of their rifles may prove as deadly as a
bullet from the rifle of a better man. "The character of the army must
be maintained." By all means keep up the character of the army. Some
people are advocating conscription. Well, here is a chance. Form a
regiment, or two regiments, of young men who have been three times in
prison. Give them ten years of thorough discipline and sound manual and
technical training. Under discipline they will be obedient, and at the
worst they will be as good men as those that manned Nelson's ships, and
would prove quite as good as those that fought at Waterloo, or captured
India for the East India Company.
I am no advocate of war, but I am afraid that the prospect of universal
peace is remote. Devoutly I wish that it was close at hand. We must
look at things as they are. Let me state the case: Here are thousands of
young men who have no settled places of abode, no technical skill, no
great physical strength, no capabilities, and no desire for continuous
honest labour. No one can provide them with employment. There is no
place for them in industrial life. They are content to spend their lives
in cheap lodging-houses or in prison. They beg or they steal when at
liberty. Occasionally they do a little work, when that work does not
require much strength or brains. They graduate in idleness and crime;
they become habituated to prison, and finally they become hopeless
criminals. Large sums of money are expended in a vain endeavour to
reform them; larger sums still are expended in maintaining public
institutions that we call prisons, in which they are kept for a short
period, and in which they are submitted to lives of semi-idleness. Large
numbers of warders are maintained to look after them when in prison;
large numbers of police are required to look after them when they are at
liberty. Innocent people suffer through their depredations; innocent
people, honest and hardworking people, have to keep them when they are
submitted to the comparatively comfortable life of prison. They become
fathers of children, and future generations will be compelled to bear
heavy burdens because of them.
Many of them, when young, join local regiments of militia. Once a year
they are called up for training, but their few weeks of training soon
pass, after which they hark back to lodging-houses or prisons.
They get some liking for a soldier's life; but if they have been in
prison, there is no honest place for them in the army. They are not good
enough to be shot at! They are not good enough to shoot at others! It
would appear that a large amount of moral excellence is required before
a man can be allowed to be the recipient of a bullet, or before he can
receive a State licence to kill.
I am persuaded that nothing but a long period of strict discipline will
avail the mass of young men who constantly find their way into prison.
At present prison discipline is too short to be effectual, too deadening
to be useful, too monotonous to be elevating. Compulsory discipline,
with a fair degree of liberty, a reasonable remuneration for their
services, and a lengthened training, are the only things that are at all
likely to be effectual with young men who will not, cannot, submit
themselves to the higher discipline that is self-imposed.
Failing the army, there is but one alternative--national workshops, with
manual and technical training. But that means socialism pure and simple;
for if workshops were provided for young criminals, there could be no
possible objection against a similar provision for the children of the
industrious poor.
The State needs to be careful not to hold out any inducements to
youthful criminality, for of a surety it will be a bad day for England
when idle and dishonest youth stands a better chance in life than youth
that is industrious and honest. Even now certain signs point to danger
in that direction.
Prisoners' Aid Societies have an impossible task when they attempt to
reform these young men. They are heavily handicapped from the start,
inasmuch as they cannot enforce discipline even in a Labour Home;
neither can they compel continuity of work; neither can they secure
regular employment for any that might be inclined to perseverance and
industry. No Prisoners' Aid Society can do this, and it would be well
for everybody concerned if this fact were honestly admitted and the
truth fairly faced. In justice to many of the societies, it is only fair
to say that they freely admit that they have nothing to offer to those
that have been several times convicted.
During 1906, 10,700 men and women, each of whom had already been in
prison more than twenty times, were again received into the local
prisons of England and Wales.
Think of it. In one year only, and that the very last year for which
criminal statistics are available, 10,700 men and women who had been
committed to prison more than twenty times each were again sent to
prison in England and Wales alone!
These official figures not only bring a grave indictment against our
prison system, but they also serve to show the inability of Discharged
Prisoners' Aid Societies to deal with the bulk of discharged prisoners
in ways that can be called satisfactory. The fault does not lie with the
societies, for they are all animated with an earnest desire to help
discharged prisoners. Every society that exists, and every individual
member of every society, would be more than delighted--they would be
thankful to God--if they could in some effectual way help every
discharged prisoner. But they cannot. The difficulties are too great,
too stupendous. Of a truth, they have no work to offer discharged
prisoners; for they cannot create work at will, neither can they produce
from some mysterious and inexhaustible store situations to suit the
varying capabilities of ex-prisoners.
Social conditions are dead against the work of these societies, though
the sympathy--that is, the abstract sympathy--of the public is with
them. For every situation that is vacant, or likely to be vacant, where
skill and experience are not required, a hundred honest men are
waiting--waiting to fight each other for a remote chance of getting it.
Employers will not hold situations in abeyance till some Prisoners' Aid
Society can supply them with a doubtful servant. They would act
foolishly--I might say wickedly--if they did. Again I say--for I would
have this fact emphasized--no organization, be it large or small, can
offer situations to discharged prisoners. Certain things they can do.
But what avails intermittent wood-chopping? Of what use is casual
bill-distributing? Can an irregular supply of envelope-addressing,
continued for a few weeks, be considered work? Paper and rag sorting,
and the carrying of advertising boards at intervals, must not be
dignified by the word "work." All these things are useful to a limited
extent and to a certain class. They suit those men, and those men only,
who have no desire for the discipline of real work, by which I mean
regular and continuous labour. Any discharged prisoner who possesses a
fair amount of health and strength and an atom of grit stands a much
better chance when he relies upon himself than when he seeks the aid of
an organization; for life in a Labour Home does not procure him, or help
him to procure, honest and continuous work. Even a lengthened stay in a
Labour Home leaves him in the same position as when he left prison.
Relying on himself, an ex-prisoner can take his chance among the hundred
who are scrambling or fighting for the coveted job; and if his health
and appearance are satisfactory, he is as likely to get it as any other
man. But even though a large number of discharged prisoners enter Labour
Homes, the managers have no power to compel them either to work or
remain in the home. As a consequence, the majority depart in a very
short time, preferring liberty and semi-starvation to the non-compulsory
restraint of the home. So they pass into freedom, glorious freedom!
Free, but with no desire, and with very little chance, of doing right;
free, with little desire and no ability to live by honest labour.
Freedom to them means liberty or licence to do wrong, and only serves to
give them opportunities of getting once more into prison.
It follows, then, as a matter of course, that Aid Societies concern
themselves, and rightly concern themselves, with first-time prisoners.
They are younger; they are not so hopeless; they stand a much better
chance in the labour world; they have not been so often through the
deadening mill of prison. All these things are true, but with all these
things in their favour, only a very limited amount of success is
obtained in the reformation of first-time prisoners. The reasons are
obvious. First, no society has the power to enforce any discipline or
impose any restraint upon them; secondly, no society can procure, even
for young ex-prisoners, continuous and progressive employment. I know
the difficulties, and something of the anxieties that societies
experience in this direction, for I have shared them. Honesty is
essential even for porters, vanmen and milkmen. The choice of occupation
for ex-prisoners under twenty-one is very limited. The pick and shovel
are of no use to them. Trades they have none. Clerkships are out of the
question. Positions--even humble positions--of trust are not for them.
Too old for boys' work, yet not fitted for men's, although first-time
prisoners, they are in a difficult position. So are those who try to
help them. "Send them to sea!" Well, we are a nation of sailors, but
those who go down to the sea in ships do so of their own choice. For
them the sea has an attraction; they love it--or they think they love it
when they enter on the life. But all English youths do not love the sea;
neither are all fitted for a sailor's life.
But supposing the sea be decided upon, in what capacity are they to go?
They cannot go as sailors, nor yet as apprentices; neither can they go
as stewards or cooks. The difficulty of sending them to sea is scarcely
less than that of finding them occupation ashore. Numbers of them are
put on coasting vessels, it is true; but this course is certain to
fail--and it does fail. Their first voyage, in sight of land all the
time, may last a week--maybe a fortnight. At the end of the voyage they
are paid off at the port where the ship discharges its cargo. During the
time aboard they have had a rough time. The voyage has lasted long
enough to make them heartily and bodily sick of the sea; but it has not
lasted long enough to inure them to the life and give them a liking for
it, while the comfort aboard a "collier" makes them sigh for the
comforts of prison. If not paid off at the first port, a good many
youths, to use their own expression, "can't stick it," so they "bunk" at
the first opportunity. Still, they have been "sent to sea," and figure
accordingly in the published report and statistics. This course is, I
contend, unfair even to discharged prisoners. It is not only a
foredoomed failure, but it lands youths in positions where they are
certain to get into mischief. Some of them tramp back to London, after
having sold their "kit," which had been bought for them out of their
prison earnings. No; it is idle to suppose that youths who have been
subject to no discipline other than that of prison will be reformed and
induced to work steadily and persistently by a few days' unpleasant
experience on a coasting vessel.
Quite recently a strong youth came to see me. I had met him in prison,
where the Governor quite wisely had him trained for a ship's cook. He
had behaved well in prison and obtained all his marks, and his sentence
was long enough to allow him to earn a substantial gratuity. This was
spent by an agent of a society in buying a very meagre outfit and a
railway-ticket to Hull. The youth supposed that he was going to have a
berth on an ocean-going steamer, but no such berth was forthcoming.
Ultimately he was shipped aboard a small coaster with a cargo of coals
for Southend. At the end of seventeen days he was paid off at Southend.
By arrangement, he was to receive 30s. per month for his services, and
should therefore have received at least 17s. He was considerably
surprised to find that only 9s. was forthcoming, the skipper telling
him, and producing a document to that effect, that there was a lien upon
his first wages of 8s. for a "shipping fee" which he, the skipper, had
paid to the man who introduced him. He stayed in Southend for a short
time looking for another berth, for his discharge-note was in order, and
his conduct appears to have been satisfactory. But berths are not to be
had at Southend, so with his last money he paid his fare to London,
where he landed penniless. This custom of paying "hangers-on" at the
docks of large seaports a sum of money for "shipping" youths prevails
largely, and a most unsatisfactory practice it is. I have personally
known several men engaged in what is termed rescue work resort largely
to this method of getting rid of responsibilities they themselves have
undertaken, and which they ought to bear, or honestly say at the outset
that they cannot undertake them. The fact is that prison youths are not
wanted even at sea, or, if they are, it is under such circumstances that
the hope of their doing any good for themselves must be abandoned. "Send
them to sea" has too long been a catchword. Whether it ever did cure
youths of idleness and dishonesty I am doubtful, but I am certain, at
any rate, that it does not at the present time act as the grand
specific.
The navy will not accept prison youths; the mercantile marine will have
none of them, and short coasting voyages are worse than useless; for
honesty and industry are estimable qualities even at sea. It would be
well indeed if all Prisoners' Aid Societies and all those engaged in
similar work would plainly and unmistakably state the difficulties they
experience when called on to find situations or employment for
discharged prisoners, be they young, middle-aged, or old; well for the
discharged prisoners themselves to know the truth at once, rather than
that they should go on calling day after day at any office, and waiting
hour after hour among many others to see if anything has "come in," for
nothing with the least resemblance to regular work can "come in" well,
too, for the public if they could understand the difficulties under
which societies labour, and the difficulties which ex-prisoners have to
face. Better still would it be for our authorities to clearly understand
these matters, for then surely more effectual methods would be found for
dealing with those who, either from incapacity, desire, or social
circumstances, appear quite willing to spend their days in prison. With
the older prisoners I am not now concerned, for the Home Secretary and
his advisers fully recognize that for them new methods must be tried,
and their Bill now before Parliament makes it sufficiently evident; but
why not begin with them earlier in life? Surely, if the fact of an
elderly man having been committed four times on indictment is sufficient
to stamp him as "habitual," for whom a more drastic treatment must be
provided, then the fact of a youth or young man under twenty-five having
been in prison an equal number of times, coupled with the fact that he
is homeless and workless, ought to be quite sufficient to ensure him a
long period of useful discipline in some place other than prison. By
some such means the supply of young criminals, that at present seems
inexhaustible, would be stopped, and the difficulty with regard to older
criminals would almost vanish. And pity demands it, for the bulk of
these young men have had but little chance in life. Birth and
environment have been against them; of home life in its full sense they
have known nothing; to discipline they have been strangers, and they are
a product of our present civilization. Can we expect them to exhibit the
rarer qualities of human nature? Temptation is, I know, no respecter of
persons, for not seldom do young men of good parentage and splendid
environment fail; but to the young of whom I write temptation is as
nothing, for they do not understand the beauty of moral worth, the
dignity of man, and the virtue of honest labour. For the future they
care nothing; they live in the present, content to be idle. To eat, to
sleep, to enjoy themselves in an animal way, is their idea of life.
Their wits are only sharpened to deceive. To get the better--or, as they
put it, "to best"--others is their one aim, and a shilling obtained by
the "besting" process is worth ten obtained by honest work.
Honesty! They have heard of it, but to them it has no meaning. They
have no moral sense, or at the best but very little. Preach to them! You
might as well preach to the east wind. But they have one soft spot, for,
as young cubs have an affection for their dams, so have these youths
some affection for their "muvvers"; but that affection does not prevent
them striking or kicking their mothers. Oh no, for every passion and
whim must be indulged. Oh, the pity of it all! Shall we deny these
youths the greatest blessing given to humanity--discipline? Punish them,
you say. My friend, you cannot confer moral worth with stripes. Longer
terms of imprisonment! They will eat your food, lie in your beds, and
make themselves as comfortable as possible. Like animals, they will
"nestle down." But they behave themselves in prison. Ay, they do that,
for they want all the advantages they can obtain. But they behave
themselves principally because they are under authority, and obedience
means to them some creature comfort. Discipline! They understand it only
when it is compulsory. Let us give these lads a chance; let us make up
to them the loss society has inflicted on them by refusing them
opportunities of wholesome discipline; let us stop for ever the
senseless round of short terms of imprisonment; let us find some method
for giving them lengthened--wholesome manual and technical training--for
their own sakes, if you will; if not, then for our own.
I have mentioned the army for them, not because I am enamoured of the
army, but because it appears to offer at once restraint and discipline,
with a measure of freedom, and opportunities for technical training. But
wiser heads than mine may formulate a better plan; if so, I am for it.
My heart goes out to the lads, though they sometimes weary me, for I
know--and no one knows better--that they have had as yet no fair chance
in life.
The following account, given to me by a young man who had served a
sentence of six months' hard labour in one of our large prisons, may
prove interesting, for it will serve to show the exact life of a
prisoner treated under the Borstal system. I give it as written by the
ex-prisoner himself. He was twenty-one years of age, was 5 feet 11
inches in height. As a boy he had been a telegraph messenger, and
afterwards a postman; but having stolen postal orders, he received the
above sentence. It will be observed that he was placed in the
bookbinding department, and that the greatest amount of hard labour he
performed was three and three-quarter hours per day, and this at a trade
of which he had not the slightest previous knowledge--a trade, too, that
requires not only skill, but celerity of movement, and, moreover, a
trade at which there was not the slightest chance of his obtaining
employment when at liberty. He did not average three hours' real work
per day, and this works out at forty-three days' work of ten hours per
day for the whole six months. It is obvious that no one can get a useful
knowledge of bookbinding in forty-three days of real hard work. In his
case, the "trade" taught proved of no use whatever on his discharge. He
was very quickly in another prison, again for dishonesty; but his
previous sentence not being discovered, his sentence was a very light
one. If I am to believe a letter that I received from him, he is now in
the army, and, of course, had to make a false attestation when he
enlisted.
It will be noticed that he speaks well of the treatment received in
prison, and testifies to the kindness of all the officials. On this
point I can corroborate him, for I know something of those who had
charge of him, and feel sure that it would have been a great
disappointment to them had he on a second occasion been committed to
their charge. His failure cannot be charged to the prison officials.
They honestly did their best, for they were genuinely interested in him.
Neither do I say that any prison system would have saved him, but I do
say--and in this I think most reasonable people will agree with me--that
very light work done at a very deliberate pace is not sufficient, even
in prison, for a young man of his health, build, and capacity. I think,
too, most people will agree that if young men are to be taught trades in
prison, they should be taught under conditions that approximate to
outside conditions so far as style, pace, and hours of work are
concerned.
Prison industries present a very difficult problem. I believe the
officials would be glad to give prisoners twice the amount of work they
are at present given; but they have not the work to give them, so a life
of semi-idleness results.
Finally, it is to be hoped that the new probation system will be so
thoroughly worked that large numbers of young men will be kept out of
prison, for at present prisons do not punish, neither do they reform in
the majority of cases.
I now give the ex-prisoner's statement:
HOW I SPENT MY LIFE IN PRISON.
_By a Juvenile Adult._
"Four o'clock was just striking, and there I stood in the prisoners'
dock at the Old Bailey. The judge, having considered the case,
pronounced the sentence: 'Six months' hard labour.' I was then taken
back and put into a cell, and was given a hunch of bread and a piece of
cheese. About six o'clock I was taken in a prison-van to prison, where I
arrived about 7.15. I was then taken to the reception-hall, and after
being searched and all particulars taken, I was told to strip, and all
my property was entered in a large book, and I had to sign to
acknowledge that all my belongings were duly entered. I then had a bath,
and was given my prison attire. I was then given a tin containing a pint
of porridge and 8 ounces of bread. After having eaten part of this--for
I tackled it--I was given two sheets, a pillow-sheet, and towel, and
then taken into a large hall containing 352 cells, and put into one of
them. Thus my arrival at that large establishment.
"My daily duty for the first fourteen days was: Arise at 6 a.m. and
clean my cell; breakfast at 7.15 a.m., and then I had to scrub and sweep
my cell on alternate days. At 8.30 I had to put out my dust or bucket,
and at 8.45 I went to chapel. At 9.40 to 10.40 drill, then back in my
cell for the rest of the day, having to work in my cell. Dinner was
given me at twelve o'clock, and supper at five o'clock. At seven o'clock
I had to put out my work.
"After the first fourteen days I was put into the J.A. bookbinders'
shop, and my days were then changed. I arose at 6 a.m., shop at 6.30 to
7.15, breakfast 7.15 to 8.30, chapel at 8.45 to 9.20, drill 9.40 to
10.40, school 10.45 to 11.45, dinner 12 o'clock to 1.30, shop 1.45 to
4.45, supper at 5 o'clock. Thus my change till the first of March. After
this I went to drill before breakfast, and my duties were as follows:
Arise 6 a.m., drill 6.30 to 7.15, breakfast 7.15 to 8.30, chapel 8.45 to
9.20, shop 9.30 to 10.30, school 10.45 to 11.45, dinner 12 o'clock to
1.30, shop 1.45 to 4.45, and back to my cell for that day.
"On Wednesday I went to the schoolroom, where a lecture was given by
gentlemen to all the J.A. prisoners who had done more than one month.
This was from 5.30 to 6.30, and on Friday there was a choir-practice at
the same time for the same prisoners.
"The food I could not get on with at all at first, but gradually I had
to eat, till after three months, when I did not find it enough; but when
I had done five months, I seemed perfectly satisfied with it. I found
that the Sundays were the worst of all prison life. I was awakened at 7
a.m., breakfast 7.15 to 8.30, chapel 8.50 to 10.30, exercise 10.50 to
11.20 (if weather permitted), dinner 12 o'clock to 1.30, chapel 1.45 to
2.45, and supper at about 4.15 to 4.30; and, as I could not bear to sit
about, I went to bed every Sunday by five o'clock the latest. I was
searched three times a day, but not on Sundays, and a general search
once a fortnight, when I was kept in my cell all the afternoon. The last
of every month I was weighed.
"I had obtained all good marks that could be given me, and had earned
twenty shillings whilst doing my six months. The Governor, the chaplain,
and all the officials were good to me. I was confirmed in prison. The
long nights and insufficiency of work were the hardest things to bear."