them, but perhaps those to whom it means the most, are those who have
never had much of a home to remember. It is to them a revelation, and
it is wonderful to watch the development in disposition and character
that takes place under the new experience. My secretary was driving
away from Hope Hall after one of the evening gatherings, and as the
carriage turned out of the driveway into the road, there was a pause
that she might look back at the brightly lighted windows gleaming
hospitably through the shade-trees which so prettily surround it. After
a long look the man who was driving turned and said, "Ah! you don't
know what this means to us 'boys'; the Little Mother does not, well as
she understands us. No one can know but an old-timer. I tell you when
you have never had a place in all your life to call home, it means
something to pass through these gates and say, 'This is _my_ home,' to
go into a room at night and feel, 'This is _my_ room,' to lie down on
a bed of which you can say, 'This is _my_ bed.'" Then, as they drove
on, he spoke of his past, and coming to the last imprisonment, which in
his case was, I believe, five or six years, he added: "When the Little
Mother came, I used to go into the chapel and listen with the other
'boys.' I liked to hear her talk, and I respected the men who joined
the League, but I did not think of joining or becoming a Christian. I
felt religion wasn't in my line. One day, however, she said, 'Boys,
I've got a home for you.' That is what first made me think. I said to
myself, 'Here is a woman who thinks enough of me to offer me a home,
something I never had before, and if she cares that much, it is time I
began to care a little myself.' So I began from that day to try and get
ready for my home. When the day of liberty came, the officer on my gang
said, 'I shall keep your job for you, for we expect you back before
three months are out.' And no wonder he said it, for I had never been
able to keep out that long before; but this time I knew it would be
different."
A fine tall fellow walked into my office years ago, and the greeting
that he would have spoken died on his trembling lips. He could only
hold my hand in his, and battle with the tears that unnerved him.
When he had taken his seat by my desk, and I had told him how glad I
was over his home-coming, he said, "Little Mother, I don't know what
I should do, were it not for Hope Hall to-day. I am so confused and
bewildered by the rush of the great city. So strange to outside life
I feel as helpless as a new-born child." Truly he was unnerved. The
trembling hand, the nervous start at every sound, the stammering tongue
all told the tale too painfully for any mistake. He was not naturally
a nervous, emotional man. There was nothing weak or cowardly about
him. I was told by companions who had known him that he was a most
desperate criminal; nothing thwarted him in his past deeds, even if he
had to force his point with the threatening muzzle of a revolver. He
was a man of education, could speak and write several languages, was
a thorough musician and had much talent and ability in other lines,
but he had misused his gifts and had become a notoriously successful
forger. Though for years an infidel he had proved himself an earnest
Christian as a member of our League and naturally he turned to us after
an experience of fifteen years within the walls. The prison from which
he came was one from which no part of the surrounding town can be seen.
The high walls and close confinement bury the men absolutely from the
world they have left. From years of service, he was turned out to face
life with but one dollar as capital with which to start in honest
living. In his case the warden supplemented the bill with five dollars
from his own pocket, which however the man lost in his confusion and
hurry at the station. I am glad to add that when I brought the matter
to the notice of the governor, and told him that our prisoners were
being sent forth into the world in that state, with absolutely no means
between them and starvation, he saw to it that better provision was
made for them; but even where five or ten dollars is given, it is a
very slender barrier between the one-time criminal and the temptations
of the old life. The money is soon spent for food, lodging and car fare
hither and thither, as they seek work, and what then can they do if
they do not find employment? In many stores and factories the men are
not paid until the end of the second week after obtaining employment,
and during those two weeks while working, they must have money for food
and lodging. The man of whom I have just spoken went to Hope Hall and
remained there until he was thoroughly able to cope with life. He has
since held a position of trust where he had the control of many men and
the oversight of responsible work. He won the confidence of all who
knew him in the town where he settled. They backed him in starting in
business for himself and he is now married and happily settled in life.
The prison experience is six years away in the shadow of the sad almost
forgotten past.
Not long since, the chaplain of Charlestown, Massachusetts, wrote me
of a man whom he very much wanted me to help. He said he believed the
authorities would give this man a chance in liberty, if there was some
one to vouch for him. He believed that the man was sincere and earnest
in his desire to do right. He further stated that the Board whose
duty it was to look into the cases of men who might be paroled had
expressed their willingness to turn him over to me, if I were disposed
to try him and give him a chance. Though only forty-six years of age,
this man had spent thirty-one years in prison, counting a juvenile
reformatory as the first place of incarceration. The last sentence was
for thirty years under the Habitual Criminal Act. We wrote at once
offering to take him to Hope Hall and the authorities gave him over to
us, thus saving him twelve weary years he would otherwise have had to
serve. He was unnerved and strangely restless when he first arrived.
The hammock in the sunshine seemed the best place to put him that first
day. In six weeks he was a new man, physically and mentally; he had
gained fifteen pounds in weight and when I came across him down on his
knees weeding the flower-beds, the face that looked up into mine was
brown with summer tan and bright with new hope and courage. It could
be truly said of this man that he had never had a chance. When his
mother died, he told the chaplain he wished he could weep. He wished
there was one thing in her life that could be a sweet memory, something
he could think of as done for his good, but there was not one bright
spot. Mother, father, sister and brother are buried in drunkards'
graves and the same curse so wrecked and ruined his life that in the
past he thought there was never to be any escape for him. How much
Hope Hall with its fresh air, quiet surroundings, good food and cheery
companionship mean to such a man only the men themselves can understand.
It is difficult in a work of this kind to chronicle its growth. To us
who have been in the midst of it, the development and improvement,
advance and victory are very evident, but it would need a carefully-kept
journal of many volumes to impart its history to others.
The old farmhouse on Long Island has been altered and enlarged. Old
walls and ceilings have been torn down to be replaced by new plaster
and paint. The new wing has given us a longer dining-room for our
increased family, new kitchens, laundry and storeroom, with overhead
a number of new bedrooms. The farm which was somewhat of a wilderness
has been put under cultivation; fruit trees, rose-bushes, vines and
shrubs added each spring and fall. Each addition means much to us, far
more than if we had had large capital to expend. This Home is not only
for the "boys" of New York State, but for all the Eastern prisons.
They come to us as readily from Charlestown and Trenton as from Sing
Sing. Even the prisons we have not visited send to us some, who through
the reading of the _Gazette_ have come to realize that they too are
welcome.
The Western Home in Chicago has meanwhile been doing a splendid work
for the "boys" from Joliet and the middle Western prisons. There we
have men mostly on parole; men who would have no chance of getting
their parole were it not that we are willing to be sponsors for them.
We find them work, keep in touch with them month by month, and report
to the prison, until we have the pleasure of handing them their final
discharge papers.
The third Hope Hall is in Iowa, and has been founded and given to the
"boys" of that state by our dear friend and co-laborer, Hon. L. S.
Coffin. Mr. Coffin was one of the pioneers of the state and a large
land owner. For a lifetime he has been earnest in temperance work and
has proved himself especially the friend of the railroad men. Sometime
since, his heart went out to the "boys" in prison. He met and talked
with me about the work and expressed his longing to see a Hope Hall
opened for them in his state. Being convinced of the wisdom and success
of the Hope Hall scheme he came to New York to study our Home. Going
back to Iowa he dedicated the choicest piece of his own farm to this
purpose and built upon it, at a cost of over ten thousand dollars, a
beautiful home.
I went on for the opening of Hope Hall number three and shall never
forget the scene. Judges, lawyers, ministers and farmers, the warden
and chaplain of State Prison and the members of the Prison Board of
Control were all present, and in their midst an old man of over eighty
whose face shone with joy, and whose voice trembled with emotion,
as he realized that the day for which he had worked so faithfully
single-handed had come at last. When our League work was started in
Iowa, we enrolled Father Coffin (as he is lovingly called) as a member
of the League, giving him its oversight for that state. When we think
of his energy and devotion at his advanced age; of the new and heavy
responsibilities he has shouldered in facing this great problem, we can
but feel that he sets a valiant example that others will follow some
day in the many other states where there is a similar need.
Statistics are not of very great interest, for they often fail to
convey anything like an idea of the work accomplished. They are of
course added to as months pass by, so that while the printers are at
work, they have materially changed. We can say briefly, however, that
of those who have come to our two Hope Halls (Hope Hall number three is
only just opened), seventy-five per cent. have done well; twenty per
cent. may be all right, and are often found to be so after we have
apparently lost track of them; five per cent. have perhaps returned to
prison. Over three thousand have passed through the two Homes. This of
course does not speak of the many hundreds who were once League members
and are to-day doing well all over the country, who did not need the
shelter and help of Hope Hall.
The real loving pride the "boys" feel for their home has been to me
very touching. Often when a man comes to say "good-bye" he can hardly
do so for the tears that make his voice unsteady, and the first letters
are full of homesick longing for the place that has so truly become
"home, sweet home."
For the graduates who are working within reach, it is possible to
run "home" for a visit on holidays, and then many happy reunions
take place. On the occasion of our seventh anniversary, over seventy
sat down to supper together. It had been a very bright sunny day and
the grounds represented a pretty picture. The teams composed of Home
"boys" and graduates were playing each other on the baseball ground;
little children whose fathers had been given back to them played in the
shade of the big trees; wives who had come to see the much talked of
starting place that had made all life different to their dear ones,
walked about the farm or listened to the music on the broad piazza and
from each glad face and each cheery voice came the same expression of
unutterable thankfulness for what God had accomplished.
VIII
THE SAME STORY FROM OTHER PENS
The idea of this book has been to show the subject as far as possible
from the standpoint of the cell. My life has become closely enough
linked with those in prison to see and feel, to know and understand the
problem from their view-point. I have tried to speak for them. Now I
will let them speak for themselves, that the touch may be closer and
more direct than it could be through the medium of my thought and pen.
The following letter was written to the editor of our _Volunteer
Gazette_ in the early days of the work, by one who had fought his
own way out of difficulty, but who knew well the hard path that his
one-time companions still had to tread.
"Dear Mr. Editor: I have been reading much lately in your paper, and
also in the daily papers about the 'Little Mother's' work in providing
a home for the fellow just out of prison. I am very glad indeed that
such a work is being carried forward, for if ever there existed a
class of men who need looking after it is the ex-prisoner. I recently
attended one of Mrs. Booth's meetings and was deeply impressed as she
made plain to her audience the great need of 'her boys.' It is very
probable that I was all the more interested in view of the fact that I,
many years ago, was sentenced to a term of eighteen months in the ----
Penitentiary and to-day, after the lapse of years, I very vividly
recall the utter friendlessness that was my lot at that time.
"The prison was one in which the prisoners were compelled to observe
the rule of silence; and my sentence carried with it also the
requirements of hard labor. No person can realize fully the meaning of
such a sentence except he pass through it. To sit at a work bench day
after day touching elbows with your fellows, not daring to say a word
becomes exquisite torture as the months pass slowly by.
"I understand that the Little Mother not only looks after the 'boys'
when they come out of prison, but takes to them a gospel of love and
light and peace. I do not want to disparage the work done by other
Christian workers. God bless them; they mean well, but some of them
fail to grasp the fact that what we wanted to hear were words of love
and sympathy.
"But what I want to bring out in this is the decided contrast between
coming out of prison years ago and coming out now.
"The majority of the men confined in that prison had no hope of being
met at the prison door by a friend or a relative when the day of their
discharge arrived, and I was one of that number. When my sentence had
expired, I was given a suit of clothes and a small sum of money, and
was told I was free. So I reentered the world. Free; but where could I
go? My first thought was to find employment. Need I tell you of that
weary search? I could furnish no recommendations. The prison pallor
showed all too plainly on my face. The shuffle of the lock-step still
clinging to me, with the instinctive folding of my arms when spoken to,
told plainer than words where I had last been employed.
"After many days I secured work only to be dismissed when my employer
was warned by a detective that he was employing an ex-convict.
"Then, at last discouraged, I joined that great army of men, known as
tramps, and for a time I wandered over the country, living an aimless,
hopeless life. That I am not now a tramp is due to my having been saved
by the precious blood of Jesus Christ.
"So much for my experience as an ex-prisoner; but if reports be true,
and if the stories told me by former associates in crime are to be
believed, there has in the past four years been a very great change in
the attitude of the world towards the ex-prisoner. A new sentiment has
been formed and where, in my case, practically no hands were held out
to help; now the world stands ready to help the ex-prisoner, who really
desires to live an honest life once more.
"Years ago no door was open as a home for the ex-prisoner. To-day
Mrs. Booth's three Hope Halls are spoken of all over this country of
ours where the prison-weary men may find rest. Indeed I have met and
talked with several of the V. P. L. men and all spoke of 'Home' in
the most endearing terms. I am glad this is the condition of to-day.
The vast majority of men in prison really desire to live honest lives
again. But they need a champion who will help them in their new-made
resolution, one who will aid them, while in prison to be true to God
and themselves. One who will meet them at the prison gate upon their
discharge and take them home. One who will stand between them and the
frown and censure of a world which forgets that they have already been
fully punished for their misdeeds. One who will aid them in finding
honest employment and to whom they can always turn for help and
counsel. This has in the past been the problem the prisoners had to
solve. To-day it is no longer a problem.
"And yet it seems to me that the work Mrs. Booth has undertaken is
still in its infancy. There are still prisons that are unreached. The
serious, thinking world has recognized in this work the true solution
of this mighty problem, and is grandly rallying to its support.
"I believe the day is fast approaching when every state shall have its
Hope Hall and no man shall step out of state prison but that he shall
find in one of them a way of escape from the temptations of crime. God
hasten the day."
The next message comes from the pen of one who can truly be said to
have gone through the bitterness and darkness of prison experience.
In the old days, when prisons were hard, he suffered for days and
nights in the dungeon. He went through the days of shame and sorrow
to those of bitterness and cynicism and after his conversion, when
liberty became his, he knew what it was to take up the hardest, most
menial work and do it faithfully and patiently that he might regain
the confidence that the life of wrong-doing had lost him. To-day
these hands that have been unshackled are stretched out lovingly to
help others and he goes as a messenger to homes that are bereaved and
saddened, to bring practical help to the little ones of our "boys" in
prison.
Speaking to me of that cry in prison which he mentions so graphically,
he said, "But what is the use to write about it. The people will not
understand. What we have felt and been through in prison is a foreign
language to them."
Then he told me more in detail how he had often lain awake in the great
still gloomy building where over a thousand men are locked away in
their narrow little cells. Suddenly in the darkness and stillness of
night, an awful unearthly shriek will ring out through the galleries--a
cry that will make the strongest man tremble. Never in his life
elsewhere has he heard anything so heart-rending and blood-curdling.
He speaks of it as the cry of a soul awake in its anguish, though the
weary body may be in the torpor of sleep.
"If you ask me what the V. P. L. means I should say that it is an
inspiration to self-help with Christ as our anchor.
"The need, the crying necessity of this work can only be entirely
known to the man who has been made over by the grace of God through
the influence of this unique and wonderful work. The vaporings of
alleged scientists have been taken with all seriousness by some,
in derision by others, according to the ideas of the individuals,
who, placing themselves in the position of the unfortunates under
discussion, tried themselves and found a true bill or not according
to their faith in themselves. From the adverse reports it is needless
to say that these self-appointed censors of humanity had a very poor
opinion of themselves and had entirely omitted God Almighty from the
problem. The people of the world at large who were not scientific, put
down the man behind the bars as 'no good' and dismissed the subject
with indifference, so that the unfortunate found himself between the
scientist and the world very much in the position of the man who fell
among thieves, and who in a most desperate condition and sorely needing
help, has been passed by on the other side by the priest and the
Levite. They took a look at him, examined him and passed along. What
the Good Samaritan means only the subject of the rescue can know. It is
from that point of view I speak.
"The real punishment of the prisoner commences after the liberty he has
so longed for comes. The day he looked forward to arrives, he steps out
into the world a man, alone in the crowd, marked, branded, not entirely
alone for he has chained to him a corpse, his dead past. At the time
that success seems almost in his grasp his past arises, like an evil
spirit and drags him down in the mire again. So he drifts back to his
only home, the prison. The glamour of his life of crime, the follies of
youth, give way to cynicism, a feeling of kismet arises that excuses
his failures as being part of a fate that could not be evaded. Gladly
would the man escape the wretched past and the inevitable future.
Sometimes he tries, every time with less success. The past always
arises. Then his physical condition is gradually changed, in many cases
the habit of drugs, of opium especially has been acquired. It makes a
man forget--he needs to forget by now! Again so-called liberty comes.
Where can he go? A few dollars in his pocket, a cheap suit of clothes
on his back, every one seems to point the finger at him. The saloon is
always open, the woman with the painted face meets him, a few old chums
are there, and he is welcomed back to Hell. Perhaps he is successful,
turns a few good 'tricks,' puts his 'fall money' away (money to defend
him in case he is arrested and also to square himself with the police)
but sooner or later it is the old story,--back again to prison, a
matter of course by now--but he will be more careful next time.
Sometimes he thinks of the better days of long ago--it won't do, he
closes the door with a snap--he hates himself, he hates the world, and
if you were on the inside in the dead of night, you too would sometimes
hear that awful cry of the tortured soul--that involuntary wail that
makes even the night watch shrink--the soul crying against its murder
while the body sleeps. Underneath all is that yearning for a better
life. We get sometimes almost on the edge of the pit only to slip back
farther into the abyss than before.
"You, who have lived in the beautiful country of home and loved ones,
have never heard that awful cry and you never want to, for, if you did,
you could never forget it.
"The men that the V. P. L. appeals to more than any others are those
who are men of determined and positive natures, those who are no longer
novices in crime. Strange as it may appear, these men, if you know them
and have their confidence, will tell you that their life is a mistake,
but that there is no escape. They are chained to the work. If a strong
man can be faced about, he is just as potent for good as he once was
for evil. The only way to get good out of a 'given-up' man is by the
love of God, and it must be brought to him by his fellow-creatures as
messengers, but, when he asks for bread, don't give him a stone. Your
man behind the bars is suspicious. It is not a wonder that he is, when
he is approached on the subject of help. He naturally wonders where the
'graft' comes in.
"Now this is what the V. P. L. does. When the leaders and officers of
this glorious work step forward to speak to the 'boys' they know they
are not in the position of 'the hired man,' that there is no 'graft'
in it, that their lives are lives of sacrifice. They talk of the love
of God to the men and they prove it. If you want to impress the men
behind the bars, you _must_ prove it--make it real, also talk straight.
Don't tell them that they should not be in prison,--they know better;
don't get sentimental and weep over them, for they don't want that. The
Little Mother tells them 'I don't come here to prevent you from paying
the just penalty of your crimes; take your medicine like men. You know
what is right, do it _now_. When you have paid the penalty, I will help
you. I will nurse you back to health, I will get you work, above all,
I will trust you and it depends upon you whether I keep on doing so or
not. Mind, I will help you over rough places, but I won't carry you. If
any of you have little ones, wives or mothers, I will help them, and as
long as you are true and faithful, I will help you.' 'What then?' you
ask. Well the Little Mother makes good her promise, she does all this
and more. In extending her invitation to the country of the good Hope
she says, 'I want you all to come. I don't care what your religion is
or what your color is. All I ask is that you turn away from the old
life.'
"Starving wives and little children are fed and clothed. No man in
state prison ever applied for aid for his suffering loved ones in vain.
When you save a man's loved ones from a fate often worse than death, he
does not doubt your sincerity, when you give instead of take all the
time, he believes you.
"Then he comes out of prison broken down with the nervous strain--the
nights of anguish--his confidence in himself is gone. Nothing but
the old life of Hell in front of him, a branded man, but the doors
of Hope Halls are open! 'WELCOME' is on the door-step. Does he find
some ill-smelling building with whitewashed walls that remind him of
the place he has just left, abundance of advice and nothing to eat?
Not at all! He enters a beautiful Home such as any gentleman in the
land might be proud of, institutionalism is lacking--Home and loving
sympathy greet him, dainty rooms with whitest of sheets upon nattiest
of beds, an air of comfort and repose, beautiful grounds, kindness and
helpfulness on every hand. Hope has its resting-place here. On the
walls of one of the restful rooms in an illuminated text are these
words, 'Christ is the head of this House, the unseen listener to every
conversation.'