The fear of punishment may deter some, the fear of exposure others; but
there is no real reforming power in fear or punishment. Men cannot be
tortured into greatness, into goodness. All this, as I said before, has
been thoroughly tried. The idea that punishment was the only relief,
found its limit, its infinite, in the old doctrine of eternal pain; but
the believers in that dogma stated distinctly that the victims never
would be, and never could be, reformed.
As men become civilized they become capable of greater pain and of
greater joy. To the extent that the average man is capable of enjoying
or suffering, to that extent he has sympathy with others. The average
man, the more enlightened he becomes, the more apt he is to put himself
in the place of another. He thinks of his prisoner, of his employee, of
his tenant--and he even thinks beyond these; he thinks of the community
at large. As man becomes civilized he takes more and more into
consideration circumstances and conditions. He gradually loses faith in
the old ideas and theories that every man can do as he wills, and in the
place of the word "wills," he puts the word "must." The time comes
to the intelligent man when in the place of punishments he thinks of
consequences, results--that is to say, not something inflicted by some
other power, but something necessarily growing out of what is done. The
clearer men perceive the consequences of actions, the better they will
be. Behind consequences we place no personal will, and consequently do
not regard them as inflictions, or punishments. Consequences, no matter
how severe they may be, create in the mind no feeling of resentment, no
desire for revenge.' We do not feel bitterly toward the fire because it
burns, or the frost that freezes, or the flood that overwhelms, or the
sea that drowns--because we attribute to these things no motives, good
or bad. So, when through the development of the intellect man perceives
not only the nature, but the absolute certainty of consequences, he
refrains from certain actions, and this may be called reformation
through the intellect--and surely there is no better reformation than
this. Some may be, and probably millions have been, reformed, through
kindness, through gratitude--made better in the sunlight of charity.
In the atmosphere of kindness the seeds of virtue burst into bud
and flower. Cruelty, tyranny, brute force, do not and can not by any
possibility better the heart of man. He who is forced upon his knees has
the attitude, but never the feeling, of prayer.
I am satisfied that the discipline of the average prison hardens and
degrades. It is for the most part a perpetual exhibition of arbitrary
power. There is really no appeal. The cries of the convict are not heard
beyond the walls. The protests die in cells, and the poor prisoner feels
that the last tie between him and his fellow-men has been broken. He is
kept in ignorance of the outer world. The prison is a cemetery, and his
cell is a grave.
In many of the penitentiaries there are instruments of torture, and now
and then a convict is murdered. Inspections and investigations go
for naught, because the testimony of a convict goes for naught. He is
generally prevented by fear from telling his wrongs; but if he speaks,
he is not believed--he is regarded as less than a human being, and so
the imprisoned remain without remedy. When the visitors are gone, the
convict who has spoken is prevented from speaking again.
Every manly feeling, every effort toward real reformation, is trampled
under foot, so that when the convict's time is out there is little left
on which to build. He has been humiliated to the last degree, and his
spirit has so long been bent by authority and fear that even the desire
to stand erect has almost faded from the mind. The keepers feel that
they are safe, because no matter what they do, the convict when released
will not tell the story of his wrongs, for if he conceals his shame, he
must also hide their guilt.
Every penitentiary should be a real reformatory. That should be the
principal object for the establishment of the prison. The men in charge
should be of the kindest and noblest. They should be filled with divine
enthusiasm for humanity, and every means should be taken to convince
the prisoner that his good is sought--that nothing is done for
revenge--nothing for a display of power, and nothing for the
gratification of malice. He should feel that the warden is his unselfish
friend. When a convict is charged with a violation of the rules--with
insubordination, or with any offence, there should be an investigation
in due and proper form, giving the convict an opportunity to be heard.
He should not be for one moment the victim of irresponsible power. He
would then feel that he had some rights, and that some little of
the human remained in him still. They should be taught things of
value--instructed by competent men. Pains should be taken, not to
punish, not to degrade, but to benefit and ennoble.
We know, if we know anything, that men in the penitentiaries are not
altogether bad, and that many out are not altogether good; and we feel
that in the brain and heart of all, there are the seeds of good and bad.
We know, too, that the best are liable to fall, and it may be that the
worst, under certain conditions, may be capable of grand and heroic
deeds. Of one thing we may be assured--and that is, that criminals will
never be reformed by being robbed, humiliated and degraded.
Ignorance, filth, and poverty are the missionaries of crime. As long as
dishonorable success outranks honest effort--as long as society bows and
cringes before the great thieves, there will be little ones enough to
fill the jails.