FRIDAY
In my cell, Friday evening, October 3.
This morning breaks gray and cloudy again. I wake early and hear the night
officer, some time before six o'clock, come and wake my neighbor in the
next cell. He and I tap each other "Good night" regularly now; and this
morning I send through the stone wall a greeting for the day. He returns
my message; and when the keeper comes again at six o'clock, this time to
open his cell, he waits, apparently, until that officer's back is turned
and then, putting his head only just so far past the opening of my cell
that his voice can reach me, utters a hoarse and hasty "Good morning" and
vanishes. This puts me in thorough good humor, and as I hear the factory
bells and whistles greet the new morn I turn over to take just one final
nap before beginning my own preparations for the day's work, wondering
what new turn my adventure will take before night again falls.
Is it imagination, or is there more friendliness than usual in the nods
and smiles which greet me from the faces upturned in the corridor below,
as I traverse the gallery with my heavy bucket? It was extensively
questioned among the convicts, in advance of my coming, whether I would do
this particular part of the prison duty. As one of them told me, it was
thought I would find some way to escape it; and the fact that I did not
try to escape it, but assumed it cheerfully and as a matter of course, has
much impressed them. As Joe put it to me three days ago, it was proof that
I "meant business," and took the thing seriously, meaning to do exactly
what I said--live the actual life of a convict up to the possible limit.
Bucket duty performed and while I wait in my cell for the breakfast hour,
Dickinson comes running to my door. The good fellow has heard from the
Chaplain that his job is ready for him and he can go out to-morrow. "And I
can never be grateful enough to you, sir," he says with much feeling. "I
shall never forget what you and the Chaplain have done for me; and I
assure you you will never regret it, for I intend to go straight and show
you that I mean every word I say."
"I'm sure you do; and I'm sure you will go straight," is my comment. "But
how about your clothes? Have you anything but the prison suit you get on
your discharge?"
"No, nothing."
"Well, but you can't go to work outside in those. People will spot you as
an ex-con at once. Don't you want me to fix it so that you can get a
decent suit?"
"Oh, if you only would!" is his heartfelt exclamation. "And, say, Mr.
Osborne--pardon me--I mean Mr. Brown, if you'll please consider them not
as a gift, if you'll let me have the money as a loan, I shall be greatly
obliged. And I'll pay it back just as soon as I possibly can."
So we make arrangements by which he can be aided in this way, and I sit
down to write a note relative to the matter, but am interrupted by
breakfast.
As we march to breakfast I try my hand, or rather my throat, at motionless
conversation. Wishing to get word to one of the prisoners to procure a
certain definite piece of information about the Wednesday evening
incident, I seize upon a favorable moment to communicate with Roger
Landry, who is marching ahead of me. In the faintest whisper and without
moving my lips, I say: "Cun to ny cell a'ter dreak'ast." The ghost of a
nod shows that he has heard and understood, and so we march in to our
morning meal.
This time it is again hash, with the usual accompaniments--the rather sour
bread and nasty coffee. (Whatever else changes, the bootleg remains the
same.) The hash is better than that which we had for breakfast
on--Wednesday, was it? I place aside only one piece of bone and one of
gristle.
During the meal I look around more closely than I have previously done at
the officers within my range of vision. There is one who wears a flannel
shirt, and is so unshaven that he looks like a tramp. I'm glad I'm not
under that Captain. At first I thought he was some one who had been
drafted temporarily for duty, but I find he is one of the regular
officers.
Here is an interesting psychological fact: that much as a man dislikes
being treated as a slave, yet if he is to be so treated he wants his
master to be the most efficient and best-looking master of the lot. I find
myself comparing our Captain with this untidy-looking person in the
flannel shirt, and having a distinct feeling of pride in the good looks
and clean-cut appearance of our master. I know that if I were serving
under that flannel-shirted and collarless officer I should have very
little respect for myself and none for him. I don't know who he is, and he
may be one of the kindest and best tempered of men; but I would be willing
to wager that the prisoners under his charge are difficult to handle. It
does not speak well for the general discipline of the prison that such a
breach of official decorum should be permitted. The officer's cap on top
of the unshaven face and the flannel shirt looks ridiculously out of
place.
Soon after our return to the cells comes Landry, having understood
perfectly my first attempt at convict conversation. I give him my message
and he engages to see that it is delivered. As we are talking, another of
the trusties passes by; and, before I can see who it is, a large sheet of
paper is thrust under the door and the man is gone. I turn the paper over
and on the other side is a most elaborate pencil sketch of myself, copied
with extraordinary pains, apparently from some newspaper cut, and with it
a slip of paper with this inscription: "Auburn Prison, September 30, 1913.
To Hon. Thomas M. Osborne, Auburn, N. Y. As a memento of the days spent in
our midst and sacrificed in our behalf. Auburn No. 31----."
Arrived at the basket-shop and soon after Jack and I have started working,
I have a bad attack of nausea. I was very thirsty at breakfast time and
inadvertently drank some bootleg. That must be the reason. No human
stomach, without practice, can stand that stuff. I keep on working, hoping
the feeling will wear off, but it does not. Then I walk up and down
energetically while we are waiting for a new stock of rattan, but that
has no better effect. Jack is much concerned and insists upon appealing to
the Captain, who promptly sends to the hospital for medicine. In the
meantime I go to the large door in the rear of the shop with a hope of
relief from the cause of disturbance, but am only partially successful. A
young prisoner who is washing windows asks me if I would not like some hot
water. Indeed I would, it is the very thing I want. So he goes and gets
it. He is a good-looking lad, a Greek, with the appealing eyes I have
noticed in some of the Italian prisoners. I drink large quantities of hot
water and rest awhile before continuing my work. Jack and all the other
men about me are most kind and solicitous for my comfort, and I have never
seen a more ready and friendly expression of sympathy. It is worth being
ill to experience it.
The young Greek keeps my jar of hot water filled as fast as I empty it,
and even before the medicine arrives from the hospital I already feel
better. I take a dose, however, and go to work again. By the time the
morning work hours are over I am in shape to march back to the north wing,
although for a moment at the bucket stands I feel as if I were about to
keel over.
In my cell I slump into the chair. (I don't think I have mentioned that
the large chair which gave so much trouble on Tuesday night was replaced
the next day by one of more manageable proportions.) I rest my head
against the mattress, as it hangs over the bed, and feel ill for a few
moments. But I take another dose of the Doctor's medicine and by the time
the march to dinner comes I feel better; so much better that, carefully
avoiding the bootleg, I manage to make a fairly good meal.
The menu to-day consists of very excellent hot soup, cold salmon, and
pickles. I avoid the salmon and pickles, passing them along to another
man, and contenting myself with the soup and sour bread. This passing to
others of what one does not want seems to be very general. As it has to be
done without visible conversation it is a little difficult for the
newcomer always to know what is expected of him, and I'm afraid I have not
always disposed of my meal to the best advantage. I notice that Landry
eats sparingly. As he has what might be called a semi-official position, I
suspect that he reserves some of his gastronomic energies for the back
pantry.
Again in my cell I address myself to sleep; and succeed in getting a brief
nap, which is broken by my good friend Joe, who comes to make anxious
inquiries after my health. He has heard that I am sick and is much
concerned. I suppose he has learned it in the mysterious way so much news
travels--by prison wireless.
I relieve Joe's anxiety; and then comes Landry with whom I have a pleasant
talk on things in general, ending with religion. We are interrupted by the
arrival of Captain Martin; and I am considerably amused at the deft way in
which Landry has effaced himself and vanished before the officer regains
his breath after climbing the stairs. Captain Martin comes from the Doctor
to know whether I should like some milk.
"Thank you, sir, I think not now." I am on the point of adding that it
would be extremely welcome this evening--well or ill; but the Captain does
not offer it, and I do not quite like to ask for it. So I vouchsafe the
information that I'm feeling better now and think I shall be all right in
a very short while.
The Captain takes his departure; and my next caller is Dickinson, who is
still radiant over the idea of leaving to-morrow. I give him the note I
have written, which will enable him to get his clothes; and, when he tells
me that owing to the late fine weather the authorities have refused to
give him an overcoat, I add that item to his list.
When the time comes to go back to work I am feeling refreshed by my brief
nap and the hour's rest after dinner. So I fall into line as usual with
the company--I wonder what would happen if I stayed behind in my cell--and
we march down the yard as usual. When I arrive at the shop, Jack is at my
side in an instant.
"How are you feeling, Tom?" he inquires, anxiously.
I tell him that I am doing fairly well, and we set to work. In a very
short time, however, the feeling of nausea returns; and Jack then gives me
a remedy of his own which he says is often taken in the prison, where
indigestion is only too common. It consists of bicarbonate of soda in
vinegar and water. To show me that it is quite safe Jack takes a dose
himself, I follow suit, and the result is satisfactory in both cases. I am
also provided with plenty of hot water by my young Greek friend, who is
apparently ready to take any amount of trouble for me.
While I am trying to do my fair share of the basket-making this afternoon
one of my shopmates passes behind me and then pauses in the shadow of the
post. "Say, Brown," he says, "you don't seem to realize that you are
violating one of the fundamental laws of this institution, you're working
too hard," and he goes off chuckling. I don't know that I am working too
hard, but I do know that there seems to be about as little incentive to do
a good, honest day's work as could well be devised. At a cent and a half a
day the financial result is farcical, and my surprise is great that the
state gets as good work as it does. Certainly it is far better than the
state deserves. Looking about the shop I see a great many men who are
doing their allotted tasks faithfully and well. Yet they have absolutely
nothing to gain by it except the satisfaction of work well done.
In the course of the afternoon Jack and I resume our discussion about
Sunday afternoons and the Good Conduct League. Further consideration has
rendered both of us enthusiastic over the plan.
"Why, I know it would work, Tom," is Jack's decided statement. "The big
majority of fellows in this prison the Warden don't have any trouble with.
Well, just keep the rest of 'em out of the League. There's no reason why
the men who are tryin' to make good should suffer because those miserable
degenerates won't stand for what's right."
"Then you think that if the right men were trusted they could take care of
the bad ones?" I ask.
"Sure!" replies my enthusiastic partner.
"Well, now let's see about this thing," I say, becoming more and more
interested as the great possibilities of the plan present themselves to my
mind. "Suppose it is Sunday afternoon and Superintendent Riley has given
permission to use the yard. You can't have the officers coming back and
spoiling their day off. How would you manage?"
"Why, just let the League fellows manage themselves," is Jack's answer.
"Yes, but how?" I persist. "You'd probably have an occasional fight of
some sort, and you'd have to have some means of enforcing discipline.
Could each company have a convict officer, a lieutenant to assist the
regular captain?"
Jack looks grave. "That would be too much like Elmira," he says. "I'm
afraid the fellows wouldn't fall for it. You know they just hate those
Elmira officers; they're nothing but stool-pigeons."
Right here is where my Junior Republic experience comes to our aid.
"Yes," I say, "but we wouldn't have any Elmira stool-pigeons. Down there
the inmate officers are appointed by the prison authorities, aren't they?
Well, here we'd have the members of the League elect their own officers."
Jack stares at me a moment, and then his quick mind grasps the point.
"That's it, that's it," he assents, eagerly, "we've got it now. Of course
if the men elect their own officers they won't be stool-pigeons."
"Certainly not, they can't be," I rejoin, feeling now on familiar and
secure ground, "for if the men elect them, they will be representatives of
the men and bound to feel themselves responsible to the men. They may
turn out to be poor officers--dictatorial, or weak, or incompetent--but
they will not be stool-pigeons. Then you can guard against it still
further by providing that whenever the men of a company lose faith in
their officer he can be recalled and a new one elected."
As we discuss the matter new possibilities open up. Some sort of governing
body of the League which shall plan ahead for its work, so that every
Sunday something interesting may be presented. Perhaps the men might get
up an entertainment themselves; or, as I suggest, possibly athletic sports
on a holiday in the yard. This last makes Jack fairly gasp.
"Gee! I guess that we'd have everybody wantin' to join the League, all
right," is his comment.
"And you really think the men would take an interest, and make such a
thing go?" is my final question.
"Go!" says Jack. "The only trouble will be if we ever had a fight in the
yard everybody'd want to stop it to show that they didn't stand for it.
And I'm afraid that fourteen hundred men would come pretty near to putting
the two fighters out of business."
"Well, then, let us think over this matter fully and carefully, Jack, and
later on I'll take it up with you and see what we can work out of it. I
think you've got hold of the right end and struck a big thing."
The next time Stuhlmiller comes to our table I say, "Harley, listen to
this," and give him a rough outline of what Jack and I have been
discussing. Stuhlmiller listens with smiling attention and gives the plan
warm approval. This is encouraging.
On the other hand, when we open up the subject to Blackie Laflam, he takes
a different view. He is quite ready to accept the blessings of Sunday
afternoons in the yard or chapel; but he balks at the idea of inmate
lieutenants.
"Cut it out," is his comment. "I wouldn't be bossed by no convict. Ain't
the keeper enough? What's he paid for? No Elmira stool-pigeons for mine!"
So there we have the two views very well outlined, and the two currents of
public opinion fairly contrasted. Harley sees the point at once, is ready
to join in and accept the responsibilities which must go along with the
privileges; Blackie has to overcome his prejudices and be convinced of the
benefit which may accrue to him personally. We shall have to take into
account both groups of which these two men are types.[12]
Except for these discussions this last afternoon passes without any new
excitement. I find myself frequently wondering about to-morrow. In my
present condition it would be very foolish to attempt the jail.
Fortunately I am feeling better every moment, even if I am "working too
hard"; perhaps because of doing so. By the time the order comes to fall in
at the end of the afternoon I am quite myself again--thanks to Jack's
remedy, the Doctor's medicine, and the Greek boy's hot water, to say
nothing of the League discussion.
One incident of the afternoon touches me extremely. Working not far from
us is a young lad from Brooklyn. He can't be more than eighteen or
nineteen years of age--a good-looking youth, having no special friends
apparently and speaking but little to any one. Every moment when he is not
working he is either vigorously walking, or poring over some book, a lurid
dime novel I should judge from its appearance. I have tried to make
friends with him, but without much success. My advances are received
pleasantly enough, but awaken apparently very little response. To be sure
we do not have a chance to enjoy much real conversation, but his face does
not light up as do those of most of the prisoners with whom I get the
chance to exchange even a word or two.
This afternoon, while I am working away at the bench, I suddenly see a
hand outstretched in front of me, and in its palm a small bunch of about
two dozen green, dyspeptic-looking grapes. A more forlorn attempt at fruit
I have never seen.
I turn, and it is my young friend of the dime novel. The lad has somehow
or other come into possession of these sickly grapes, and is making to me
the best offering he can. I dare say it sounds like a very commonplace
occurrence, but in reality there is something infinitely pathetic in this
poor imprisoned boy's attempt to express friendliness. I wish I could give
him in return some of the real fruit that is at this moment wasting on the
vines at home. As it is, I can only tell him that I do not dare eat fruit
while my stomach is out of order, but that I appreciate his kindness none
the less. So he goes back to his exercise; and I am left wondering how in
the world--or rather, how away from the world--did the boy come by those
grapes.[13]
Thus I close my last full day's work in the shop. Where shall I be at this
time to-morrow, I wonder? It occurs to me that this was the same question
I was asking myself only five nights ago, before I came to prison.
We march back up the yard without incident; and in due time I regain my
cell, after getting my bread for supper.
Here Dickinson comes again, to express his gratitude and have me share in
his joy at deliverance. I say, "And now I suppose it's good-bye."
"Oh, no," he replies; "I shall come and see you again to-morrow morning
before I go." Then he tells me all his plans, and how he expects to rejoin
his wife and children. His joy is pathetic when one reflects upon the
individual sorrows and disappointments that must await him, with always in
the background the horrible dread of having his past discovered. Even his
children do not know the truth; they think their father has only been away
on a long journey. I give him my very best wishes and plenty of good
advice, and again he assures me of his undying gratitude. It seems to be
very easy to make these poor fellows grateful. Just a little human
feeling, that is all that is necessary.
This evening, having little appetite and bread and water not seeming quite
adequate to tempt what little there is, I turn to Landry's apples which
have been awaiting just such an occasion. I eat one; and it goes to just
the right spot. I have seldom tasted anything more delicious. On the
whole, it appears well to be on good terms with a gallery man; and I can
see that it would be especially so if he is the captain's trusty. I can
imagine that then he might be of great service; or might, on the other
hand, work one a deal of mischief if he wanted to. The trusty must have it
in his power very often to prejudice the captain for or against certain
prisoners by what he tells; and the captain would have no practicable
means of verifying the trusty's statements. A system of petty and very
exasperating tyranny would thus grow up. It is bad enough to be tyrannized
over by an officer, but to be tyrannized over by an officer's stool-pigeon
must be almost unendurable. While I have seen no examples myself, I
imagine from what I have heard that this state of things is not unknown,
as of course it is inevitable. One has only to recall one's own school
days to know that.
After I have finished my supper of apples, bread and water, one of the
trusties comes to the front of the cell, and I have a long talk with him.
He grows confidential, and tells me his story. It is a mournful but
perfectly natural one. An active boy, inclined to wildness; bad
companions; a father whose business called him from home; a mother unable
to cope with her wilful son; a life of dissipation; a picnic and drinking;
a row with some other toughs; a handy pistol and an unpremeditated
murder. Then comes the punishment which falls upon him, although others
are equally to blame.
What surprises me about this, like other tales that have reached me, is
the frank acknowledgment of the sin. There is usually an admission that
punishment was deserved, occasionally an admission that on the whole
prison has been useful--"I've learned my lesson"; but along with any such
acknowledgment, an expression of intense resentment at unintelligent
treatment and unnecessary brutality.
The tales of this brutality are almost beyond belief. They do not come out
directly, put forward to arouse sympathy; very far from that. They crop
out incidentally in the course of conversation and are only related when I
ply the prisoner with questions. One man tells of being sent to a dark
cell because he would not reveal to the warden something he did not know,
and therefore could not reveal, about one of his fellow prisoners.
"Didn't you really know, or wouldn't you be a stool-pigeon?" is my natural
question.
"I really didn't know," replies the trusty.
But the warden chose to think that the poor fellow did know, and sent him
to the dark cell on bread and water for eight days. Then he was brought
up, more dead than alive, given a single meal, and sent back to the dark
cell for twelve days more.
Twenty days in darkness--on bread and water--for withholding information
which he did not possess.
(It should be added that this did not happen under any warden now holding
office.)
What are men made of who can treat human beings like that? I supposed that
the Middle Ages were safely passed; but here is the medieval idea of the
torture chamber to extract information right over again.
Then there is that other story of the man who committed suicide in the
jail. This is what is told to me:
A number of years ago a poor fellow was sent here. His first night in
prison was so terrible a nervous strain upon him, as it apparently is to
all prisoners, that he could not keep from hysterical crying. The officer
on guard ordered him to stop, but he could not control himself. So the
officer chalked him in.
The next day he was reported for punishment and sent down to the jail,
although he protested that it would kill him. That night he strangled
himself with his handkerchief.
It is the jail which, apparently, either sends a man bughouse, or which
lays such a foundation that he becomes so later on. But even when the time
spent in the dark cell is short, as in Jack Murphy's case, who spent only
eight hours there, there seems to be left an impression of horror--for
which I find it difficult to account. I certainly cannot make a full test
of prison life without having a jail experience. For me surely it can hold
no such horror as for these poor fellows who are kept so many days on
starvation diet. Yes, if I do not feel physically unfit to-morrow I must
undertake the experience.
Soon after eight o'clock the Warden and Grant appear at my cell door. My
ears are becoming sharper, I think. I can tell now the moment the door
opens into the corridor below whether or not it is the Warden that is
coming. Of course he arrives about the same time every evening, but also
about this time the door is opening and closing a number of times. I
recognize also the Warden's footfalls on the stone pavement below. It
would not be very long, I imagine, before I should have a hearing as acute
as my fellow prisoners seem to have.
The Warden begins with an apology. "I'm very sorry," he says, "but I
forgot your newspaper to-night." Then he adds the usual remark, "I don't
know how I came to forget it."
"Don't worry," I say, "it doesn't make any difference. I've read it."
The Warden stares at me incredulously. "You've read it! To-night's
paper?"
"Certainly," I answer, "from beginning to end. Don't you believe it?" And
in proof of my statement I produce the paper.
The Warden gasps. "Well, how in the devil did you get that?"
"Oh, come now! Don't you understand that I'm a convict?" I say jeeringly.
"You mustn't expect me to answer such a question."
The Warden takes it all in good part. "Well, Dan," he says, turning to
Grant, "this man seems to be on to the game all right. What shall we do to
him for violating the rules and smashing our system?"
"Don't you know," I remark with a serious air, "that so long as you hold
me a prisoner I don't care a pin for your rules, and even less for your
damn'd system. What do you say to that?"
"I say you're a dangerous man, and the sooner we get you off on parole the
better," laughs the Warden. "But you will have to promise you won't make
more trouble for us after you get outside."
"Oh, you're in for trouble, all right; whether I'm inside or out." I say
it in jest, but we know there is many a true word spoken in that way. The
Warden will have many new problems to handle while he is in office; for
the old way is worn out and the new way is surely coming. Fortunately he
is a genuine progressive and the new has no terrors for him.
Taking up the serious part of our business, the Warden says he must go out
of town again to-morrow; and be gone over Sunday.
"What about that poor fellow they dragged down to the jail night before
last?" I ask.
"Oh, you're all wrong about that matter," the Warden answers. "He was
insolent and violent, flung his bucket at the keeper's head, and there was
nothing to do but punish him. I've inquired into it and the officers were
all right."
"You are being deceived," is my comment. "These men realize they are in
bad. They're afraid of the truth; and they're steering you wrong. Take my
word for it, Warden, there is more in that affair than they are permitting
you to know. And you are up against the System as well as the prisoners
themselves."
The Warden is troubled, no man has a heartier dislike of being made the
victim of dishonesty or hypocrisy than he. "Well, what had better be
done?" he asks. "I shall be very busy to-morrow before I go."
"Suppose we wait then," I suggest. "The man is probably not being abused
now, wherever he is; and after I get out of here you can have a thorough
examination made. I can guarantee plenty of material to enable you to get
to the bottom of it."
"I am more than ever sorry I have to go away," says the Warden. "Now how
about the jail? Are you still determined to go there? And, if so, how do
you propose to be sent?"
"Well, as you know, I don't wish to be a fool about this thing, nor do I
want to run any unnecessary risk. To-day I felt very sick; and, to be
quite frank, if I should feel to-morrow as I did to-day I couldn't be
hired to go to jail. But I feel so much better to-night that I think I
shall be in good condition to-morrow. So what I propose is this. Let Dan
come here to-morrow noon, and if I feel all right we can put through our
plan. I did intend to go down to the jail to-morrow morning, so as to have
the whole twenty-four hours there; but it would be better to wait until
after dinner. There is no use in taking too large a dose. I ought to get
all necessary information in--say, four hours.
"Some time in the afternoon, then, I will simply strike work. Grant can
tip off the Captain; and he will send me to the P. K. Of course, if a
fellow refuses to work, the only thing they can do is to send him to the
punishment cells. If you were to be here I had thought of putting in a
warden's call; and then of being so insolent to you that you would have no
recourse but to order me punished. I should quite enjoy telling you what I
think of your rotten old institution. But if you're going away that plan's
no good, so we'll try the other."
"I think your present plan is better," says the Warden. "I should hate to
have you tell me what you really think of us. Well, that ought to work out
all right. Now how long do you say you want to stay there?"
"Well, I don't know that I'm anxious to stay any longer than just to get a
good idea of what the place is like. I want to feel the flavor of it. But
if I should be down there alone, it won't be very exciting. Suppose I go
down about four o'clock; and Dan can come down and let me out about eight,
or half-past seven, or say, seven. I think three hours will be a big
enough dose."
"I've ordered some clothes cleaned for you," says the Warden, "so those
are all right. Well, Dan," he adds, turning to Grant, "is everything
perfectly clear?"
Thus it is arranged. I say good-bye to the Warden; and tell him that the
Chaplain has asked me to say a few words to the men in chapel on Sunday.
The Warden thinks it a good idea, and adds that the details about my
leaving the prison can be arranged with Grant to-morrow. The general plan
is that I shall go out on Sunday, marching back with the men after the
chapel exercises. I can then take my belongings from the cell and go
quietly up to the Warden's quarters, where I can wash and dress.
Our plans being thus settled, my visitors depart. Now to bed to see if I
can get a good sleep in preparation for the most exciting part of my
exciting adventure.
It is curious how far I have fallen into the prison rut. In the evening I
find myself no longer thinking of my home or wondering what my family and
friends are doing, unless I make a conscious mental effort. The tendency
of this life is always to flatten one's thoughts, like one's actions, to a
gray uniformity--a deadening routine.
Another sign that I had better be getting away from this place: I am
losing all respect for authority of every kind. It is a mistake to suppose
that rigid discipline increases respect for authority; it usually does
nothing of the sort. In this place it increases disrespect, for many
reasons which it is unnecessary to mention here. Whatever the reasons, the
fact is undeniable. I believe every man in this place hates and detests
the system under which he lives. He hates it even when he gets along
without friction. He hates it because he knows it is bad; for it tends to
crush slowly but irresistibly the good in himself.