CUI BONO?
February 1, 1914.
Since the eventful week I have attempted to describe in the foregoing
chapters, I have received a large number of letters which throw light on
the Prison Problem. Letters from the Auburn prisoners, letters from men in
other prisons, letters from ex-convicts, giving ideas based upon their own
experiences, letters from prison officials in other states, expressing
keen interest in the results of my experiment, letters from sympathetic
men and women of the outside world, proving the existence of a large
amount of sentiment in favor of a rational reform of our Prison System.
Many of these letters are valuable in connection with the broad question
of Prison Reform but have no direct bearing upon my personal experiences
in Auburn Prison; they would therefore be out of place here. Others of
them do deal directly with that incident, reflecting the prisoners' side
of the matter. A selection from these letters has a distinct place in the
story of my stay within the walls. If the tone of some of them seems
unduly laudatory, let it be understood that they have been included not
for that reason, but simply to enable us to gauge the actual results of
the visit of Tom Brown--that fortunate representative of the sympathy of
the outer world. These expressions of friendship and gratitude should not
be considered as personal tributes, their importance lies not in the
character of the recipient but in the state of mind of the writers.
In other words, the vital point of this matter, as in all others connected
with the Prison Problem, is this: After all has been said and done, what
manner of men are these prisoners? Are they specimens of "the criminal" we
have had pictured to us in so many works on "Penology"? Or are they simply
men from the same stock as the rest of us--some of them degenerate, some
mentally ill balanced, some slaves to evil habits, diseased, sinful, or
simply unfortunate--whatever you like--but still men? I think these
letters may help others to an answer as they have helped me.
A few days after the memorable Sunday on which I left prison, Warden
Rattigan found a paper placed upon his desk. It came from the slight, pale
man with whom I had talked in July, the man who struck me as being such a
cynic--so discouraged and discouraging, the one with whom I had not shaken
hands upon leaving, because--Heaven forgive me--I thought he had no
interest or confidence in me or my experiment.
It seems, according to the Warden, that this man (his name is Richards)
had at first been very sceptical concerning my visit; but he had, as will
appear, watched me very carefully; and, after having changed his own point
of view, was much irritated by certain sarcastic editorials in the
newspapers. So he applied to the Warden for permission to write a letter
on the subject to one of the great New York dailies.
When the Warden showed the letter to me I advised against its
publication--as I cared for no personal vindication. But I treasured the
letter, and Richards and I have since become the warmest of friends. Here
is what he wrote to the Warden:
I think that in justice to the prisoners in this institution that
objection should be taken to some of the editorials which are being
printed about Mr. Osborne's experience as a voluntary prisoner in
Auburn prison. I for one desire to protest and take exception against
some of the editorials which appear in the papers--especially in the
New York A---- and S----.
I have only used my privilege of letter writing on one occasion
during my nearly two years' incarceration here, and I wish that I
could be allowed to write to one of these papers a letter setting
forth my exceptions in the following strain, and I want to assure you
that I mean every word of what I have written.
The following is his draft of the proposed letter to the New York paper.
I am one of those whom society calls a confirmed criminal. I have had
the misfortune to be unable to resist temptation on several
occasions, with the result that I carry upon my left sleeve the red
disc of shame. But I want to say to you, and to the rest of the
world, that although society looks upon me as a creature unworthy of
sympathy, as one whose life has been a waste, as one not fit to
associate with the people at large, yet I still have left within me a
little spark of gratitude.
I have watched with careful eye and keen interest this self-imposed
imprisonment. My cell was very close to Tom Brown's, and at night I
could look straight from my cell into the window opposite and see
there reflected the cell of Tom Brown, No. 15 on the second tier, and
its occupant. I know that everything he went through was real. I know
that there was no fake about his imprisonment. And I know this, that
he went through a great deal more hardship and mental torture as a
voluntary prisoner than he would had he been regularly committed to
the prison. With his education and knowledge he would have been put
to work in a clerical capacity, instead of making baskets, and his
labor would not have been so hard. His incarceration in the cooler
was real. I know this for a positive fact. I heard him coming from
the cooler early Sunday morning in his stocking feet, so as not to
wake up his fellow prisoners.
The editorial in the A-- is unjust. It speaks of Jack London and
others writing about prison conditions. It says that the convicts in
the penitentiary "cannot get out," and that "they are locked in at
night." Granted that all this is what you want to ridicule it to be,
the man that wrote this editorial would be accused of being inhuman
if he were to put his dog through what Mr. Osborne went through
during his week of imprisonment.
There is one thing I want to emphasize, and it is this. Mr. Osborne
has seen with his own eyes, heard with his own ears and felt with his
own feelings just what it is to be an outcast, even for so short a
time as a week--just what it is to be deprived of your liberty for
even so short a period, and your editorial writers and no one else
that has not gone through the actual experience are qualified to
criticise his efforts.
These papers would not believe a prisoner who came out of prison and
told you of these facts; you must believe Mr. Osborne--you can't do
otherwise.
I want to say that this self-sacrifice is going to do much to make
better men of us criminals, not only now but in the future when we
are again thrust upon society; and if there was just a little more
Osbornism and a little less Journalism the prisoners would have a
greater incentive to reform than they now have.
I speak not only for myself, but for many other old timers with whom
I have talked. I claim as an old timer and one who knows what he is
talking about, as I have been through the mill since childhood, that
one act of kindness will do more toward reforming a criminal than a
thousand acts of cruelty and than all the punishment that you can
inflict.
Men will err, men will fall, and men will continue to commit crime,
and society must be protected. We must have prisons; but I claim that
the better way to treat a criminal in order to try and reform him is
to use a little more kindness in our prisons and a little less
punishment and cruelty.
I don't want to be misunderstood in this matter. I have no favor to
ask of anyone. I expect to do my time--all of it. But I want to take
exception to the insinuation that Mr. Osborne's stay was made any
softer by the fact that the editor of his paper is Warden of Auburn
Prison. The fact is that Warden Rattigan was away from the prison
during the most of the week of Mr. Osborne's imprisonment, and I know
positively and from my own knowledge that his orders were to treat
Tom Brown the same as any other convict in this prison; and 1,329 men
here can testify that these orders were carried out to the letter.
If some of these editorial writers could have heard the spontaneous
applause in our chapel when Mr. Osborne, clad in the garb of a
convict, rose from his seat and walked to the platform to address us,
and could have seen the tears in the eyes of hardened rogues, I am
sure that they would never treat this experiment in the light way
they do. It was really a sorrowful and heart-rending spectacle and
one which will never be forgotten by those who witnessed it. And if
they could have witnessed the tears which flowed from Mr. Osborne's
eyes after he had once again put on the clothes of civilization, they
would have been convinced that his heart was almost breaking for the
men whom he was leaving for a time.
I am firmly convinced that Mr. Osborne is as much a friend of society
as he is of the prisoner--there is no question about that; that he
has at heart the interest and welfare of society, as well as the
interests of the under dog, and that his motives are not inspired by
any wholly sympathetic feeling, but by a feeling of brotherly love
and justice and the feelings of one who believes in all of the words
in the little line of the Lord's Prayer:
"Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against
us."
L. RICHARDS, No. 31--.
I leave it for any one to judge whether the writer of that letter is a
hopeless criminal. Yet he speaks of himself as an old-timer, who bears
upon his sleeve that cruel symbol of a repeated failure to make good--"the
red disc of shame."
To gauge this one man's ability, his latent power for good, I add another
letter from him, written at a time when the whole prison population was
fearful that the new order of things in the prison department of New York
State might be upset by the change of governors.
Auburn Prison,
October 20, 1913.
Mr. Thomas Mott Osborne, Auburn, N. Y.
My dear Sir:
I learn of your expected visit to Albany during the present week, and
I most earnestly request that if you take up any of the matters with
reference to the work of your Commission, that you present a plea of
the prisoners here for a continuance of the work which you have
started.
I have read numerous criticisms of your acts, most of them coming to
the one conclusion--that you could not during your stay here undergo
mentally what other prisoners were enduring. I know that was not
calculated on by you; and I, as well as quite a number of others with
whom I have spoken, fully understand and appreciate your motive.
Were not one of your ideas adopted, were not a single thing done to
better the physical condition of the prisoners in the penal
institutions of the state, yet you have brought into our hearts and
minds a desire to make better men of ourselves, to prove to the world
that kindness and not punishment is the reformative agency.
We wonder what there is in us that impels men to take up our cause. I
have given considerable thought to this in my solitary moments at
night, and have come to the conclusion that there must be some good
still left in even the most wretched and degenerate, that there must
be some seed of righteousness, some spirit of manhood still left
which only needs the proper nourishment to bring it into life.
Punishment has been tried for centuries, and has failed. The doctrine
of kindness and brotherly feeling as set forth by you will, I am
sure, succeed; and I wish that you would plead our cause and lay
before the proper authorities the importance of continuing the work.
A spirit of hope has sprung up in our hearts. Is this to be crushed
and turned to despair? Are we to see the efforts of your Commission
defeated at this time? God forbid.
I do not plead for myself. I plead for the wives and the innocent
babes of some of our unfortunates. For their sakes, if for no other
reason, this work should continue. I know that the prisoners here
will show by their conduct, not only now but in the future, that they
have been influenced to do good and to do right, by the efforts which
you have made and are making in their behalf.
I am one of those dyed deep with crime, in the opinion of society. I
have been in several prisons, but I still feel that I have a chance,
that there is still hope; and this feeling has been strengthened
within the past month by your act of self-sacrifice; and I see around
me 1,300 other men whose lives are worth something to society--worth
the effort which your Commission is making for their uplift.
Very truly yours,
L. RICHARDS, No. 31--.
It may be urged that Richards is a man of very considerable literary
ability, which is obvious, and that his case is an exceptional one.
Let us, therefore, take a man of entirely different caliber, of but little
education, one whose experience has been a rough one. Following is a
letter from a man who is as unlike Richards mentally and physically as one
man can very well be from another.
135 State St., Auburn, N. Y.
Oct. 5, 1913.
Mr. Thomas M. Osborne.
Honorable Sir: It affords me great pleasure to write you these few
lines. I really do not know how to begin to express myself as I have
not got a very good education. But I hope you will understand that my
motive in writing you this letter is to congratulate you for your
good work. I fully realize the fact that it was no easy task for you
to come down here and live here in this place for one week as you
did. After hearing and seeing you in the chapel Sunday I came to my
cell and got to thinking. The outcome was that I could not remember
ever being touched so as I was when I left the chapel and while
sitting there hearing you talk. I fully realize what a big thing you
have undertaken. At one time I was under the impression that there
was no such a thing as a square man, but I have changed my opinion
and I am safe in saying that quite a number of other men have also
changed their mind about that same thing.
* * * * *
Men who love their fellow man are very few. When I think of you I am
reminded of a postal that I received from my brother not long ago,
after him not knowing that I was in prison. When he found it out he
sent me a postal and on it were these few words: "A friend is one who
knows all about you and likes you just the same." Well, Mr. Osborne,
I leave here on the 20th of this month and believe me--never again
for me. I have played the crooked game in every way it can be played,
most every kind of crooked game there is. Now I am done. It is a fast
and excitable game, but I come to realize that it is not living and
is bound to come to a bad end. But I want to say that prison life did
not reform me, nor will it reform any man, for no man learns good in
prison. My opinion is that the only way that a man can be reformed is
get to his conscience, wake up the man in him. You are aware of the
fact that the police make many criminals. I don't believe there is
such a thing as a hardened criminal. If the police were not so
anxious to send men to prison there would be no so-called hardened
criminals. I know what I am talking about. There are too many men
sent to prison innocently and there will always be so-called hardened
criminals until that is stopped. I done my first bit innocently.
Believe me, it is a terrible thing to sit in one of those cells and
know in your heart that you are there in the wrong. Well I wish I had
the paper to write you more for I deem it a pleasure to write you.
Yours truly,
JAMES MCCABE, No. 32.--
Soon after receiving this letter and before his release, I had an
interview with the writer. I found him a very frank and engaging person, a
crook by profession, with most excellent ideas on the subject of Prison
Reform--which was the main topic of our conversation.
On the day of his release Jim visited me at my office; my first thought
was that he had come to strike me for money, but I did him injustice. He
came simply to ask my interest and help for a young man who locked in on
his gallery and in whom he had become interested.
"Can't you do something for him, Tom," he urged. "That kid's no crook. If
you can only keep him out of the city he'll go straight. He sure will. You
see him and have a talk with him, and see if you don't think so."
That was all Jim wanted of me, and at first he refused to take the small
loan I pressed upon him, although the money he received from the state
would not go very far in New York City. "I don't want to take it, Tom," he
objected, "and I'll tell you why. You'd be giving me that money thinking I
was going straight. Now I'm going to try to go straight; but you've no
idea of the difficulties. How am I going to get an honest job? The cops
all know me well, they'll follow me wherever I go. I can't enter a
theater, I can't get on to a street car. If anything happens I'll be one
of the first men the coppers'll be after. How much of a chance have I to
get an honest job? Now, if I take your money and then didn't go straight I
should feel like the devil."
"Jim," said I, "you'll take that money because you _are_ going straight.
I'll bank on you."
My confidence was not misplaced. Jim went to New York and, having the luck
to have a home with a good mother and a brother who is straight, Jim had
time to hunt his job until he found it. About two weeks after his release
Jim lunched with me in New York, and in the course of conversation
remarked, "Say, Tom, don't you think there's such a thing as an honest
crook?"
"Sure, Jim," I answered, "you're one."
A little taken aback by this direct application, Jim said, "Well, you know
what I mean. I'll tell you a case. There was three of us pulled off a
little piece of business once, and afterward one of those fellows wanted
me to join with him and freeze out the other fellow. Now, that's what I
don't call honest, do you?"
"I certainly do not," I said. "And now I'll tell you what was in my mind.
I call you an honest crook, Jim, because while you've been a crook you
have been square with your pals. Because the operations of your mind are
honest, you haven't tried to fool yourself. There is nothing the matter
with your mental operations. You have been simply traveling in the wrong
direction. Make up your mind to shift your course, and you'll have no
trouble going straight, because you are naturally an honest man."
Space forbids my going further into Jim's interesting history, but up to
the time of writing my diagnosis seems to have been correct. Jim has a
good job, is going straight, and just before Christmas he said to me,
"Tom, I never was so happy in my life!"
How many more men like Jim are there in prison? Are they not worth saving?
Jim said in his letter, "Prison life did not reform me, nor will it reform
any man." That is true; and no man will find help in prison for reforming
himself until the conditions are greatly changed--until a system has been
established in which a man can gain some sense of civic responsibility
toward the community in which he lives. If such a sense of responsibility
could be developed while in prison, would it not greatly help in a man's
conduct after his release?
The following is not a letter, but a typewritten statement which Grant,
the Superintendent of Prison Industries, found on his desk the morning
after my last day's talk in chapel. One of the prisoners in Grant's
office, upon returning to his cell, had felt moved to write down a
description of the incident. This is it.
Sunday, Oct. 5, 1913.
Truly the past week, and to-day in particular, will mark an epoch in
the history of Auburn Prison, if indeed, it does not in the entire
state.
Mr. Osborne's stay among us has awakened new thoughts and higher
ideals among the men confined here than any other agency hitherto
tried or thought of.
His coming as he did, precisely the same as the most lowly of
malefactors, and receiving no better treatment than would be accorded
any others, has awakened feelings among the majority that can hardly
be credited, much less described.
Those who in the past week have written articles in the various
newspapers ridiculing Mr. Osborne's experiment, would have been put
to shame had they been present at the chapel services this morning.
Never in my life before have I witnessed such a scene. When the
Chaplain invited Thomas Brown to the platform, the audience could
hardly restrain themselves, so great was their enthusiasm. It was at
least five minutes before Mr. Osborne could be heard, and during his
remarks it was about all any of us could do to keep the tears back.
As he ascended the platform, garbed as the rest of the audience,
minus his usual attire but with the same air of determination and
force that has always characterized him, he was greeted by the
Chaplain and some ladies and gentlemen from one of the churches here;
and his acknowledgment of the greeting was exactly as courteous and
dignified as if he had not just been through one of the most
memorable experiences of his life; and one could not help seeing the
man and not the clothes he wore.
His remarks were of a character to cheer the downhearted and to urge
to stronger endeavor for the right those who have made errors and
find the path none too easy. His advice, as usual, was listened to
with the greatest attention, and I have never seen an audience so
wholly and unreservedly with a speaker as the boys seemed to be with
him.
Where can you find a man who has the many interests that Mr. Osborne
has, who will give up everything he has been accustomed to, and risk
his health, yes, you might almost say his life--for one never knows
what may occur in an institution of this kind--for the sake of those
who are apparently nothing to him? We might understand it better if
he were doing this for some immediate member of his family, instead
of for strangers and outcasts.
* * * * *
Of one thing we are sure, and that is that Thomas Mott Osborne will
never be forgotten by the inmates of this prison, and I firmly
believe that he has been the means of inspiring love for himself in
the hearts of the men here that will never die. In my own case, at
least, I can speak with certainty. Although I have never spoken to
the man in my life and never expect to, he has certainly inspired
thoughts in my heart that never were there before; or if they were,
they have been so warped and obstructed by the exigencies of my life
for ten years past that I did not realize that I possessed them at
all.
He is a man who is entitled to the best love of every human being
that comes within the range of his influence, whether they know him
personally or not. And he has won hearts to-day that nobody else on
earth could.
In closing let me repeat his last words to us this morning. I shall
always remember them.
"Look not mournfully upon the past; it cannot return.
"The present is yours; improve it.
"Fear not the shadowy future; approach it with a manly heart."
This is as I recall it. It may possibly not be exact--however the
sense is the same.
If Mr. Osborne half realized what an influence for good his stay here
had been to every single man in the place, I feel sure that he would
not feel that his privations and hardships of the past week had been
in vain.
Sincerely,
E. O. I., No. 32--.
Of course it may be urged with some force that such letters are not
conclusive, for it can not be proved that the writers have received any
permanent help; that even those, like Jim, who straighten out may get
tired of a virtuous life and relapse. That is perfectly true. For
instance, my lively jail friend in Cell Four, Joe, in spite of all efforts
to help him upon his release, failed to make good.
But such an argument misses the point. The important thing is that these
men have good in them--a statement that can not be made too often. It is
true that they are bad--in spots. But they are also good--in spots. And
with a right system the good could be developed so as to help in driving
out the bad. If Joe had received proper training in prison he would have
gone straight after he got out. What I am just now trying to prove is the
existence of good--and a large measure of it.
Here, for instance, is a letter from a man who has failed to go straight
since his release.
135 State St., Auburn, N. Y.,
Sunday, Oct. 19, 1913.
Hon. Thomas Mott Osborne, Auburn, N. Y.
Dear Sir: As this is the last letter yours truly will ever write in a
prison cell (that is, I hope to God and his blessed and holy Mother
it is the last), I don't know of a person other than T. M. Osborne I
would rather write to. I don't know of a single case ever recorded
in the U. S. if not in the world where fourteen hundred men left a
meeting house--men, understand, in public life who would not stop at
anything--those same men left that chapel on Oct. 5 crying like
babies! And I, being prison steam-fitter here, I heard some very good
stories of Mr. Osborne--going around to the different shops Monday
morning. It only shows that with a little kindness shown toward these
same men that you could do most anything with them, and make better
men of them in the future. Before God, I honestly swear and believe
that Mr. Osborne could have taken that same bunch of men from Auburn
Prison that Sunday, and put them on the road to work and 99 per cent.
would have made good--and that's a very good percentage. I have seen
a good deal of this country--east, west, north and south--but believe
me Oct. 5 beats everything. It is a scene which I shall always
remember. Well, Mr. Osborne, I expected to have a little talk with
you on Prison Reform but you have been very busy, so if I get a
chance some time I'll drop in and see you. I leave the Hotel Rattigan
to-morrow morning a wiser and better man.
Believe me, sir, you have the love and respect of every man behind
these prison walls.
With God's blessing, a long life and a happy one to you, dear sir.
I beg to remain yours truly,
TOM CURRAN, Steamfitter, Auburn Prison.
I am going to work Tuesday morning at my trade in Syracuse.
The writer, Curran is not his real name, also refused to accept a loan of
money which I offered to him so that he could fit himself out with the
tools of his trade. He did not get the job in Syracuse, but drifted into
another state to a city where, quite by chance three months later, I ran
across him in the county jail. The trouble with Tom was the same as in the
case of so many others. Perfectly straight when sober, he could not help
stealing when drunk, and he hadn't enough strength of mind to keep out of
saloons. How could he have? What had the prison done to aid him in
developing strength of character?
The following letter is a very characteristic one.
Auburn, N. Y., October 6, 1913.
Mr. Thomas M. Osborne.
Dear Sir: I trust you will pardon the liberty I take in writing you.
But I wish to thank you for the interest you have taken in the men
here. I know there are hundreds of people who have our interests at
heart, but they imagine we are a sort of strange animal, and treat us
as such. You know if you put a dog in a cage for five or ten years,
he will become unfit as a pet. Just so with us, we enter here
intending to become better men, but the treatment we receive from
some of those who are in immediate charge of us, causes us to become
embittered at the world in general.
You have done more good in the past few days than any other man or
woman interested in Prison Reform. You was not ashamed to make
yourself one of us (if only for a week); you lived as we live, ate
what we ate, and felt the iron hand of discipline. You came among us
as man to man and I heartily thank you for it. When you stood in the
chapel last Sunday, and talked to us like a father with tears in your
eyes and hardly able to speak, I prayed as I never prayed before, and
asked God to care for you and watch over you in your coming struggle
to better conditions here. I know you will meet with opposition both
here and outside. By that I do not mean the Warden, as he has proven
himself to be a just man in every respect. I mean those who are in
immediate charge of us. Some of them are not in accord with your
project, and showed their disapproval by reprimanding us for greeting
you as we did last Sunday. But they are not to blame in one sense,
for they have been here so long their feelings have become stagnated
and any new movement appears to them an intruder. They may be in a
position to prevent us from showing our feelings physically, but,
thank God, they cannot control us mentally. And just so long as I can
think, so long will I think of you as our friend.
You have caused the men here to see things in a different light, and
you can be assured of their utmost loyalty; for I do not believe
there is a man here who would not call you his friend. And in closing
I wish to thank Warden Rattigan and Supt. Riley for their hearty
support of you, and hope to God I may be able some day to thank you
in person. I am now and always,
Loyally yours,
FRANK MILLER, No. 32--, Auburn Prison.
Certain fundamental facts have never been more clearly expressed than in
the first paragraph of that letter. People "imagine we are a sort of
strange animal, and treat us as such." The prisoners "enter here intending
to become better men," but the treatment they receive "causes us to become
embittered at the world in general."
There is the Prison Question in a nutshell.
Perhaps it will be remembered that each evening at 6:40, while in my cell,
I heard a violin played with rare feeling. Two weeks after my visit ended
I made the acquaintance of the player--a young man who received me with
rather painful embarrassment. He had an air of constraint and reticence as
I spoke of his probable intention to make use of his talent after leaving
prison. He told me that he was a graduate of Elmira, and also of the
United States navy. I left him with the feeling that our interview had not
been very much of a success. I was therefore the more surprised to receive
the following letter a few days afterward.
135 State St., Auburn, N. Y.,
Oct. 17, 1913.
Hon. Thos. M. Osborne, Auburn, N. Y.
Dear Sir: Ever since Tuesday I have been trying to muster up
sufficient courage to write you. After you left and I had finally
regained control of myself it occurred to me that I had forgotten to
ask you inside; but coming as you did I was completely taken by
surprise and forgot everything, for which I hope you will pardon me.
Your unexpected visit, brief as it was, furnished me much food for
thought. I can not truthfully say that I was not flattered by your
kind approbation--but it has not turned my head; to the contrary, it
has caused me to think a bit harder than I ever have before. As you
undoubtedly know by your brief experience here, the subject which
occupies a man's mind mostly is reflection; and while a large amount
of my time has been tempered with reflection, up until now it had
never led me into this particular channel.
I have made various plans as to the course I shall pursue in
regaining all that I have lost, when I shall have been released. But
until now I had never considered music as the medium to accomplishing
this end. Perhaps I am overestimating my ability--I probably am--but
at least I mean to attempt it. When I was sentenced to Elmira I
cursed the day that I ever learned to play; after I had been there a
while I began to miss my violin even more than the cigarettes of
which I was likewise deprived. As the time progressed, and I was not
getting any nearer home, through non-compliance with the rules, I
finally banished music from my mind and everything connected with it;
and from then on I seemed to get on better.
The period I was in the navy was too strenuous to admit of anything
but adapting myself to the life; with the exception of dodging
ex-convicts with which the navy is amply supplied.
After I found myself beached and began life again, I had completely
forgotten the fact that I had ever played unless some one who knew me
of old questioned me in this regard.
It was not until I came here that I had the desire to play at all,
and never while here has that desire framed into a resolve until now.
Were I never to see you again I will always remember you, your
kindness has awakened long buried impulses.
I have gone into this thing further than I intended; my intention was
to thank you for your kindness in coming to see me. I little thought
when you came into the P. K.'s office to have your record taken, the
first day of your self-imposed term, that I should be in your
thoughts even for a little while. I knew you were over me when I
commenced to play, but never dreamed or hoped that it would have any
more than a passing effect upon you. And when I passed you at
different times I avoided you, as I did not think there was anything
about me which would attract your interest, knowing as I do how
little consideration I deserve from anyone.
Your kindness will never be forgotten. Nothing can happen during the
remainder of my term which will afford me greater happiness. A
happiness accompanied with a deep regret for all that I have
neglected and opportunities unaccepted, but for which I thank you
from the bottom of my heart.
Very respectfully,
CHARLES F. ABBOTT (P. K.'s Clerk),
Auburn Prison, October 17, 1913.
I think most schools and colleges might be successfully challenged to show
a letter better expressed or showing a finer spirit of manliness. In fact
one finds in all these letters, and in many others not included here, a
peculiar note of clearness; it is to be found also in the talk of many of
these men, after you have succeeded in gaining their confidence; a rare
note of sincerity and strength--as if the unimportant hypocrisies of life
had been burned away in their bitter experiences.
In the month of December, 1913, immediately upon my return from a six
weeks' business trip to Europe, I visited my friends at the prison. Then I
found that my shopmate, Jack Bell, had been transferred to Clinton Prison
on account of his health. A day or two later I received the following
acknowledgment of some postcards I had sent him.
Dannemora, New York, Sunday, Dec. 14, 1913.
The Hon. Thomas Mott Osborne.
Dear friend: A line to try and explain to you the way I am longing to
again have the pleasure of seeing and speaking to you. After I
received your cards, which were very pretty, it is only necessary for
me to say here that I appreciated your loving kindness of thinking to
send them. By this time no doubt you know of my transfer from Auburn
to Dannemora which I thought would not be. But now that it has, I am
pleased to say all is well, and find this place better than my
previous home; see! There is only one thing I regret, and that is
I'll not have as many opportunities of seeing and talking with you.
For in the short time spent in your company can only say I miss your
presence more and more. If in the future you will write me a line or
so, such will cheer me in my moments of thought. Would be pleased to
hear of your trip abroad. I hope you had a more pleasanter time than
while at Auburn. I can not say in this letter the way I appreciated
your cards. I sat for some time looking at them and thinking. I must
say in closing that you have my sincere wishes for a merry Christmas,
as this is the last letter till after it has passed. May you enjoy it
and many to come. Give Jack my love and tell him to be good.
Believe me to be sincerely yours,
JOHN J. BELL.
Once I heard Bell described as "just an ordinary fellow who likes to
appear tough." Reading between the lines of his letter I think one can
discern the fine instincts of a gentleman. I thought I recognized such
when I met him in the basket-shop; this letter and others I have had from
him confirm that belief.
As I think my narrative must have shown, there is a very soft spot in my
heart for my comrades of the dark cells. It has been a source of deep
regret to me that Joe, Number Four, did not make good on his release; and
I hope that the others will have stronger purposes and better results.
Perhaps there may be some interest in the fate of the poor lad in Cell
Two, who tipped over his water, and whose mental and physical sufferings
added so much to my own distress during that horrible night. Upon his
release the next day he went back to the hospital, where he remained for
some time. In the month of November, while I was in Europe, he wrote me
the following letter.
135 State St., Auburn, N. Y.,
Monday, Nov. 16, 1913.
My dear Friend, "Number One":
How little those words convey, and again how much. That I may write
them to you, in the consciousness that they mean all that the words
"dear friend" imply, is a greater happiness than I dared hope for. I
have been in "Lunnon" with you for the past two weeks. That means, I
have been allowing myself the daily luxury of thinking of you, and
now the rare one of writing.
I presume you are wondering if I have been to the bungaloo since your
departure. No, sir! My promise will hold good. In the past I have
formed good resolutions, not one but many. Most of them died in their
infancy; others lived long enough to make me unhappy. This time,
though, circumstances are different, and I sincerely hope that
confidence placed in me will not have been wasted.
Number One, did you ever have the blues--real, dark, deep indigo,
bluey blues? I do frequently, and the cause I attribute to my ear.
There is a continual buzzing, with short, shooting pains; and the
doctors have informed me there is no cure. I receive a syringe of
twenty-five per cent. alcohol daily, that gives relief for the time
being. Well, Thanksgiving is near at hand; so I ought to be thankful
that my other ear is not performing like a motor in need of oil.
Believe me, I am.
Mr. Peacock called Sunday (8th) and we had an agreeable talk. He
seemed a very pleasant gentleman, and warned me to walk a chalk line,
so you see I dare not go to jail. As you once upon a time were in
prison, to a certain extent, you realize what pleasures a visit
brings. I appreciate yours, Mr. P.'s, and Mr. Rattigan's kindness
very much.
* * * * *
I know all the boys would wish to be remembered if they knew I were
writing. I didn't tell them for that would mean fifty sheets of
paper, and I hadn't the nerve to ask Mr. R. for that. But I will say
this: that we all want to hear, see, and talk to our own Tom Brown,
even if he is an ex-convict. Don't let our English cousins keep you
over there too long.
Wishing you the best of everything, I am, anxiously awaiting a
letter, your Jail Friend Number Two--or
EDWARD R. DAVIS, No. 32--.
Is it merely prejudice that makes me think that letter an exceptionally
charming one? Has that boy no good in him worth developing?
These letters are enough, I believe, to prove my point. I could give many
more, including those from Dickinson who, united with his wife and
children, is working honestly and happily at his trade, earning money to
pay his obligations and justifying the Chaplain's faith in his character.
But there is not space for all the letters, so I have selected only those
which seem to show most clearly what they all show--the good that is in
the hearts of all men, even those who have seemed to be most evil; the
wonderful possibilities which lie stored up, five tiers high, in our
prisons.
Room must be made, however, for one short missive which I found on my desk
the Sunday I came out of prison. It was anonymous and came from New York
City. It reads as follows.
Damn Fool! Pity you are not in for twenty years.
The postmark is that of the substation in the city which is nearest to a
certain political headquarters on Fourteenth Street.
Is there any possible connection between these two facts? Perish the
thought!
One more before closing this bundle of letters. In the first chapter
reference was made to a friend to whom I first mentioned my plan of going
to prison. Soon after that incident I received a letter from him enclosing
one coming from an imaginary Bill Jones to the imaginary Tom Brown. Its
cleverness, its wisdom, its underlying pathos, its witty characterization
of social conditions and their relation to the Prison Problem make it a
real contribution to the discussion.
Oct. 9, 1913.
Hon. T. M. Osborne, Auburn, N. Y.
My dear Friend: Enclosed you will please find a note for a very dear
friend of mine, Tom Brown by name, who was recently released from
Auburn Prison. Brown is a perfectly good fellow, although you
wouldn't believe so if you were to judge him by his prison record
alone; but the truth of the matter is that he is a party of decided
views, possessing an individuality of his own; and being of this type
he was bound to bump into things while on the inside looking out.
Hand him this note, do what you can for him, and believe me as ever,
Yours most sincerely,
W---- N. R----.
Enclosed in this letter was the following.
Oct. 9, 1913.
Thomas Brown, Esq.,
Auburn, N. Y.
Dear Tom:
I note by the papers that you have served your bit and are now out
again digging around for your own meal ticket.
I also note from the same informative sources, that following your
usual proclivity for action, you started something while in the hash
foundry, and consequently got a fine run for your money; the result
being that you were shook down for your large and munificent earnings
when discharged, and turned loose on a warmhearted world without any
change in your jeans. But why worry? You've got a good and lucrative
trade now, learned at the expense of the state of New York; and you
know as well as I do that a good clever basket and broom maker,
besides becoming a competitor of the unhappy blind, who are wont to
follow this trade, can also earn as much as one dollar per day
weaving waste-paper baskets for the masses.
I also note that a guy by the name of Osborne interviewed you after
your release, and that you immediately put up a howl about your not
liking the basic principles which call such joints as the one which
you just quitted into existence; and that as per usual the
foresighted and profound-thinking editorial writers on several of the
big New York joy-sheets, which are published as accessories to the
Sunday comic supplements, immediately broke into song and wanted to
know what in hell you expected such places to be.
But don't mind these newspaper stiffs, Tom. One discovers on coming
in personal contact with them that, as a rule, their writings are all
based on inexperience and the writers may be classified as belonging
to the same species as Balaam's ass. So forget them.
I know this Osborne party personally; and take it from me that if he
had been born and brought up in the neighborhood of the gas-house
he'd sure have been some rough-neck. He is full of pep and actually
thinks for himself. He also has some peculiar ideas relative to the
rights and duties of humanity, and your experiences truthfully
related to him will probably bring results.
This Osborne guy is no novice in prison dope, and for years has been
beefing about society throwing away its so-called "waste material,"
when it might just as well be turned into valuable by-products by an
intelligent application of the laws of synthetic social chemistry.
It's his dope that if some Dutch guy can beat it into some big
industrial joint, say like those of the United States Steel Company
or the Standard Oil, and by an intelligent application of the laws of
nature change waste material into valuable by-products and big
dividends, that it is up to society to experiment a little with its
social junk pile and see what a little of the right kind of chemistry
will do to the waste material to be found therein.
I can distinctly remember when the big blast furnaces around this
man's town were cussed right along for dumping slag and cinders into
the local river as waste material. The aborigines and other natives
hereabouts used to form committees to call on our old college friend,
Andy Carnegie, and tell him about it. Andy, of course, felt badly,
but used to come back with a "What's biting you people, anyway?
Nobody can eat this slag, can they?" He had to put his waste
somewhere, so why not use the rivers? Along about this time, however,
in blows a Dutch boy named Schwab, he studies the question of slag
and other waste material and its utilization; and now said slag is
converted into high grade cement, price, $15 per ton, f. o. b. cars,
Pittsburgh, Pa.
Ditto the juice from the oil refineries which polluted the rivers
when I was a kid. At present writing this former waste material that
used to wring hectic curses from all the river water-users from
Pittsburgh to Cairo is changed into thirty-two separate compounds;
and yet some people actually think that John D. stole his coin when
the truth of the matter is that he simply hired a guy to study out
plans for the utilization of waste and then beat the other stiffs to
it before they were next.
Same way with the slaughter houses. When Charley Murphy was wiping
his beezer on the bar towel and asking, "Wot'll youse guys have
next?" most every town had an unlovely spot known as the
slaughter-house district, and property was valued in an increasing
ratio based on its distance therefrom. Because why? Foul-smelling
waste. But along comes P. Armour, Esq., studies the waste question
and says to the slaughter-house stiffs, "Gimme the leavings and other
things you throw away and I'll not only put Chicago on the map, but
I'll likewise build one of the loveliest trusts that ever allowed a
fourth-rate lawyer to bust into public life by the attacking of the
same."
Well, that's what's wrong with this Osborne party. While he lets
other ginks browse around the waste-heaps of the mills and factories
seeing what can be done with their junk, he pokes around in the
social waste-heap trying to find out if its contents can't be
converted into something useful. One might call him a social
engineer; though as a rule men of original and new ideas are usually
called nuts. But be that as it may, I note that Stevenson, Bell,
Morse, Edison, and a whole list of folks who have done useful things,
were at one time classed as being a bit odd but harmless.
As there are no personal dividends in the way of kale coming to any
one who tries to convert the social waste-heap into something useful,
the average stiff can't understand why a guy with a bean on him like
Osborne should want to waste his good time monkeying with it, when
he might be more socially useful by inventing a new tango step.
You see, Tom, society is so constituted at present that it can't
understand why any man should want to do something that will bring
him no financial returns; and yet this self-same society, that does
all of its reasoning on a dollar and cents basis, can't understand
why some poor stiff interred in a penal institution should register a
kick against being compelled to work five, ten, or fifteen years for
nothing.
Society also doesn't seem to realize that it constitutes and creates
its own temptation--to wit, when a gink sizes up the class of stiffs
big cities like New York and elsewhere pick up to run their public
business, and the shake-downs they stand for from their own duly
chosen and elected grafters, the little gink feels it to be his
almost bounden duty to stock up a flossy silver quarry and lead them
to it.
Of course there have been many changes in prison conditions since
this Osborne party got fussing around, both inside and out, but
nevertheless there is still room for more. Speaking of old
conditions, I am personally acquainted with a party who could throw a
piece of Irish confetti up in the air, and who, if he didn't duck,
would get it on his conk and be reminded of old times, who can most
distinctly remember when the social unit who happened to land in the
waste heap lost his hair, manhood, and faith in man and God Almighty,
all inside of twenty-four hours.
This was in the days of zebra clothing, short hair, the lock-step,
contract labor, and all around soul-murder.
I know, however, that there have been many changes since then; so
that although your experience, while proving that the great and
assinine waste of good material is still going on in the social mill,
and therefore most heart-stirring, will never carry with it the
soul-blighting memories of one who for fourteen years marched the
lock-step.
Of course, now that you are free, you will be in for your knocks as
an ex-con and all that, but why worry? You will still have the
privilege of the free air with opportunity always before you. Of
course you are bound to meet with that duty loving stiff who knowing
of your having been in the social waste heap believes in advertising
the fact. But again, why worry? If you feel that you can make
good--why?
Some time I want to tell you about my old friend O'Hoolihan and the
bird. He spent twenty-seven years in the place you just left and made
one of the greatest sacrifices for a little robin redbreast that I
ever knew a man to make--well, say for the benefit of a bird.
Yours very truly,
BILL JONES.
CHAPTER THE LAST
THE BEGINNING
February 15, 1914.
"The vilest deeds, like poison weeds,
Bloom well in prison air;
It is only what is good in Man
That wastes and withers there."
So wrote the poet of Reading Gaol, whose bitter expiation has left an
enduring mark in literature. But the lines do not express the whole truth.
The Prison System does its best to crush all that is strong and good, but
you can not always destroy "that capability and god-like reason" in man.
Out of the prison which man has made for his fellow-man, this human
cesspool and breeding place of physical, mental and moral disease, emerge
a few noble souls, reborn and purified.
All about me while I was in prison--that hard and brutal place of revenge,
I felt the quiet strivings of mighty, purifying forces--the divine in man
struggling for expression and development. Give these forces free play,
and who knows what the result may be? The spirit of God can do wondrous
things when not thwarted by the impious hand of man.
It will not be forgotten, I hope, the conversation Jack Murphy and I had
about the formation of a Good Conduct League among the prisoners. My
partner lost no time in getting the affair under way. On the very
afternoon of our parting in the Warden's office he wrote me the following
letter. It is made public with considerable reluctance, because it seems
like violating a sacred confidence. On the other hand when I spoke to Jack
about the matter his reply was characteristic. "Print it if you want to,
Tom. Whatever I have said or written you can do anything you like with;
and especially if you think it will help the League."
So here is the letter.
Sunday, Oct. 5, 1913.
My dear friend Tom:
No doubt you must think me a great big baby for the way I acted while
in your presence this afternoon. I had no idea that you would call
upon me so soon after your release, although I hardly think it would
of made any difference whether it had of been a week from this
afternoon; I would have acted the same.
The week that I spent working by your side was the most pleasant as
well as the most profitable one of my life, and God, how I hated to
see you go.
But your lecture this A. M. in chapel was the most wonderful I ever
heard. Many was the heart that cried out its thankfulness to God for
sending you into us, and many a silent promise was made to the cause
for which you gave up a week of your happiness and freedom to solve.
And Tom, you have made a new man of me, and all that I ask and crave
for is the chance to assist you in your works. I would willingly
remain behind these "sombrous walls" for the rest of my life for this
chance. I know and feel that I can do good here, for there are a good
many in here that knows me by reputation; and if I could only get
them under my thumb and show them that it does not pay to be a
gangist or a crook, or a tough in or out of prison. As I told you
to-day, I have no self-motive for asking this request; for if
successful I know and feel that the reward which awaits you in the
hereafter mayhap awaits me also; and I am willing to sacrifice my
freedom and my all in order to gain the opportunity of once more
meeting face to face and embracing my good, dear mother whom I know
is now in Heaven awaiting and praying for me.
To-morrow, Monday, Oct. 6, I shall request one of the boys in the
basket-shop to draw up a resolution pledging our loyalty to your
cause; and I shall ask only those who are sincere to sign it. After
this has been done I am going to ask our Warden for permission to
start a Tom Brown League; its members to be men who have never been
punished. Tom, I hope that you and your fellow-commissioners as well
as Supt. Riley and Warden Rattigan will approve of this, for I am
sure that such a League will bring forth good results. I have
associated so many years among the class of men in this prison that I
believe them to be part of my very being; and that is why I have so
much confidence in the success of a Tom Brown League.
Trusting that God and his blessed Son shall watch over you and yours,
and that he may spare and give you and your co-workers strength to
carry out your plans, is the sincere wish of one of your boys.
I am sincerely and always will be,
JACK MURPHY, No. 32177.
With some difficulty I persuaded my loyal partner to forego the name of
Tom Brown in connection with the League. Before my departure for Europe,
just a month after the day of my release, Jack was able to report a very
satisfactory interview with Superintendent Riley, who had granted
permission to start the League. Warden Rattigan's approval had been
already secured.
During my six weeks' absence there was much talk on the subject, so far as
it was possible for the prisoners to talk; and many kites passed back and
forth among those most interested.
After my return events moved quickly, and on December 26 a free election
was held in the different shops of the prison, to choose a committee of
forty-nine to determine the exact nature and organization of the League,
the general idea of which had been unanimously approved by show of hands
at the conclusion of the chapel services on the Sunday previous.
Much interest was taken in the election, and there were some very close
contests.
Three days after the election the members of the committee of forty-nine
were brought to the chapel, and the meeting called to order by the Warden.
By unanimous vote Thomas Brown, No. 33,333x, was made chairman; and then
the Warden and the keepers retired. For the first time in the history of
Auburn Prison a body of convicts were permitted a full and free discussion
of their own affairs. The discussion was not only free but most
interesting, as the committee contained men of all kinds, sentenced for
all sorts of offenses--first, second and third termers.
This is not the place to go into details concerning the Mutual Welfare
League of Auburn Prison; that is another story. It is enough to say that
the by-laws of the League were carefully formulated by a subcommittee of
twelve; and after full discussion in the committee of forty-nine were
reported by that committee to the whole body of prisoners on January 11
and unanimously adopted. On February 12 the first meeting of the League
was held.
Let me try to describe it.
It is the afternoon of Lincoln's Birthday. Once again I am standing on
the stage of the assembly room of Auburn Prison, but how different is the
scene before me. Busy and willing hands have transformed the dreary old
place. The stage has been made into a real stage--properly boxed and
curtained; the posts through the room are wreathed with colored papers;
trophies and shields fill the wall spaces; the front of the gallery is
gaily decorated. Everywhere are green and white, the colors of the League,
symbolic of hope and truth. Painted on the curtain is a large shield with
the monogram of the League and its motto, suggested by one of the
prisoners, "Do good. Make good." At the back of the stage over the
national flag a portrait of Lincoln smiles upon this celebration of a new
emancipation.
At about quarter past two the tramp of men is heard and up the stairs and
through the door come marching nearly 1,400 men (for all but seventeen of
the prisoners have joined the League). Each man stands proudly erect and
on his breast appears the green and white button of the League, sign and
symbol of a new order of things. At the side of the companies march the
assistant sergeants-at-arms and the members of the Board of Delegates--the
governing body of the League; and on the coat of each is displayed a small
green and white shield--his badge of authority.
No such perfect discipline has ever been seen before in Auburn Prison, and
yet there is not a guard or keeper present except the new P. K. or Deputy
Warden, who in an unofficial capacity stands near the door, watching to
see how this miracle is being worked. In the usual place of the P. K.
stands one of the prisoners, the newly-elected Sergeant-at-Arms, whose
keen eye and forceful, quiet manner stamp him as a real leader of men.
In perfect order company after company marches in, and as soon as seated
the men join in the general buzz of conversation, like any other human
beings assembled for an entertainment. There is no disorder, nothing but
natural life and animation.
I look out over the audience--and my mind turns back to the day before I
entered prison, when I spoke to the men from this stage. What is it that
has happened? What transformation has taken place? It suddenly occurs to
me that this audience is no longer gray; why did I ever think it so? "Gray
and faded and prematurely old," I had written of that rigid audience--each
man sitting dull and silent under the eye of his watchful keeper, staring
straight ahead, not daring to turn his head or to whisper.
Now there are no keepers, and each man is sitting easily and naturally,
laughing and chatting with his neighbor. There is color in the faces and
life in the eyes. I had never noticed before the large number of
fine-looking young men. I can hardly believe it is the same gray audience
I spoke to less than five short months ago. What does it all mean?
For this first meeting, the Executive Committee of the League has planned
a violin and piano recital. For two hours the men listen attentively and
with many manifestations of pleasure to good music by various composers
varying from Bach and Beethoven to Sullivan and Johann Strauss.
Between the first and second parts of the programme, we have an
encouraging report from the Secretary of the League, none other than our
friend Richards, whose cynical pessimism of last July has been replaced by
an almost flamboyant optimism as he toils night and day in the service of
the League. We have also speeches of congratulation and good cheer from
two other members of the Commission on Prison Reform, who have come from a
distance to greet this dawn of the new era.
Then after the applause for the last musical number has died away, the
long line of march begins again. In perfect order and without a whisper
after they have fallen into line, the 1,400 men march back and shut
themselves into their cells. One of the prison keepers who stands by,
watching this wonderful exhibition of discipline, exclaims in profane
amazement, "Why in Hell can't they do that for us?"
Why indeed?
The men have been back in their cells about an hour when an unexpected
test is made of their loyalty and self-restraint. As I am about to leave
the prison and stand chatting with Richards at his desk in the back
office, the electric lights begin to flicker and die down.
Richards and I have just been talking of the great success of the League's
first meeting and the good conduct of the men. "Now you will have the
other side of it," says Richards. "Listen and you will hear the shouts and
disorder that always come when the lights go out."
Dimmer and dimmer grow the lights, while Richards and I listen intently at
the window in the great iron door which opens onto the gallery of the
north wing.
Not a sound.
The lights go entirely out, and still not a sound. Not even a cough comes
from the cells to disturb the perfect silence.
We remain about half a minute in the dark, listening at the door. Then the
lights begin to show color, waver, grow lighter, go out altogether for a
second, and then burn with a steady brightness.
I look at Richards. He is paler than usual, but there is a bright gleam
in his eyes. "I would not have believed it possible," he says
impressively, "such a thing has never happened in this prison before. The
men always yell when the lights go out. In all my experience I have never
known anything equal to that. I don't understand it.
"If anyone had told me the League could do such a thing," he continues, "I
would have laughed at them. Yet there it is. I have no further doubts now
about our success."
As I leave the prison again, there ring in my ears the questions: What has
happened? What does it all mean?
It means just one thing--my friend--for it is you now, you individually,
to whom I am speaking; it means that these prisoners are men--real
men--your brethren--and mine.
It means that as they are men they should be treated like men.
It means that if you treat them like beasts it will be hard for them to
keep from degenerating into beasts. If you treat them like men you can
help them to rise.
It means that if you trust them they will show themselves worthy of trust.
It means that if you place responsibility upon them they will rise to it.
Perhaps some may think that I am leaving out of consideration the direct
religious appeal that can be made to the prisoners. By no means. I have no
intention of underrating the religious appeal. Under the old depressing
conditions it is about the only appeal that can be made. But the religious
appeal, to be really effective, must be based upon a treatment of the
prisoner somewhat in accordance with the precepts of religion. Preaching a
religion of brotherly love to convicts while you are treating them upon a
basis of diabolical hatred is a discouraging performance.
Give the prisoner fair treatment; discard your System based upon revenge;
build up a new System based upon a temporary exile of the offender from
Society until he can show himself worthy to be granted a new opportunity;
and then give him a chance to build up his character while in retirement
by free exercise of the faculties necessary for wise discrimination and
right choice of action. Then your religious appeal to the prisoner will
not be flagrantly contradicted by every sight and sound about him.
In one of the prisons in a neighboring state, I saw hanging up in the
bare, unsightly room they called a chapel, a large illuminated text: Love
One Another.
It seemed to me I had never before encountered such terrible, bitter,
humiliating sarcasm.
At first sight it seems almost a miracle--the change that is being wrought
under Superintendent Riley and Warden Rattigan in Auburn Prison. But in
truth there is nothing really extraordinary about it--it is no miracle;
unless it be a miracle to discard error and to replace it by truth. The
results of a practical application of faith and hope and love often seem
miraculous, but as a matter of fact such results are as logical as any
geometrical demonstration.
When a man, treated like a beast, snarls and bites you say, "This is the
conduct of an abnormal creature--a criminal." When a prisoner, treated
like a man, nobly responds you cry, "A miracle!"
What folly! Both these things are as natural as two and two making four.
The real miracle is when men who have been treated for many years like
beasts persist in retaining their manhood.
A prisoner is kept for half a generation in conditions so terrible and
degrading that the real wonder is how he has kept his sanity, and then he
asks only for a chance to show where Society has made a mistake, begs only
for an opportunity to be of service to his brethren.
Donald Lowrie and Ed Morrell, laying aside their own wrongs and making
light of their own sufferings, as they arouse not only the state of
California but the whole nation to a sense of responsibility for the
shocking conditions in our prisons; Jack Murphy, turning his back upon
the chance of a pardon, asking nothing for himself, seeking only how he
can do the most good to his fellow-prisoners; these are the real miracles;
when the spirit of God thus works in the hearts of men.
I have talked with no sensible person who proposes to sentimentalize over
the law-breaker. Call the prison by any name you please, yet prisons of
some sort we must have so long as men commit crime; and that from present
indications will be for many generations to come. So far from setting men
free from prison you and I, sensible people as I trust we are, would, if
we could have our own way, put more men in prison than are there now; for
we should send up all who now escape by the wiles of crooked lawyers, and
we should include the crooked lawyers. But behind the prison walls we
should relax the iron discipline--the hideous, degrading, unsuccessful
system of silence and punishment--and substitute a system fair to all men,
a limited freedom, and work in the open air.
A new penology is growing up to take the place of the old. The Honor
System is being tried in many states and, to the surprise of the old
expert, is found practicable. But at Auburn Prison an experiment is in
progress that goes straight to the very heart of the Problem. In the
minds of many the reform of the Prison System has been accomplished when
a cold-hearted, brutal autocrat has been replaced by a kindly, benevolent
autocrat. But so far as the ultimate success of the prisoner is concerned
there is not much to choose. The former says, "Do this, or I will punish
you." The latter says, "Do this, and I will reward you." Both leave
altogether out of sight the fact that when the man leaves the shelter of
the prison walls there will be no one either to threaten punishment or
offer reward. Unless he has learned to do right on his own initiative
there is no security against his return to prison.
"Do you know how men feel when they leave such a place as this?" said one
of the Auburn third-termers to me, during the League discussions. "Well,
I'll tell you how I felt when I had finished my first term. I just hated
everybody and everything; and I made up my mind that I'd get even."
There spoke the spirit of the old System.
During the same discussion another member of the committee, an Italian,
had been listening with the most careful attention to all that had been
said and particularly to the assertions that when responsibility was
assumed by the prisoners at their League meetings there must be no fights
or disorder. Then when someone else had said, "The men must leave their
grudges behind when they come to the meetings of the League," Tony stood
on his feet to give more effect to his words and spoke to this effect:
"Yes, Mr. Chairman, the men must leave their grudges behind. Let me tell
you some thing.
"Two months ago at Sing Sing I did have a quarrel with my friend, and this
is what he did to me"; and the speaker pointed to a large scar which
disfigures his left cheek. His "friend," when Tony was lying asleep in the
hospital, had taken a razor and slit his mouth back to the cheekbone.
A hard glint of light came into Tony's eyes as he said, "And I have been
waiting for my revenge ever since. And he is here--here in this prison."
Then the light in the eyes softened and the hard look on the face relaxed
as Tony added, slowly and impressively, "But now I see, Mr. Chairman, that
I can not have my revenge without doing a great wrong to fourteen hundred
other men.
"So I give it up. He can go."
There spoke the prison spirit of the future.
THE END
Footnotes:
[1] One of the men in Auburn Prison, explaining the feelings of their
inmates in chapel this Sunday morning, writes the following comment: "The
men could not realize what was actually meant by this at first; and as
they grasped the idea it sort of staggered them and some thought, myself
among others, 'What's the matter? What manner of man is this?'"
[2] Mine was one of the larger cells. Many of them are only three and a
half feet wide.
[3] It is perhaps needless to point out how much inaccuracy there must be
in any statistics made up from records taken in such a manner. The
prisoner gives such answers as he pleases. If he is found out in a lie he
is punished--but how often is he found out?
[4] The writer is mistaken, for as a matter of fact the state was not so
generous; the handkerchief was my own--as was also my toothbrush.--T. M.
O.
[5] For fear that I may be condemned upon purely circumstantial evidence,
I hasten to state that neither of these suppositions is correct.--T. M. O.
[6] I have since learned that I committed a breach of the rules every
morning; one which laid me open to punishment. Men who awake before
six-thirty must stay in bed until the bell rings.
[7] Jack Murphy gives me the following information: When a new man arrives
in prison and is assigned to a shop the waiter or captain puts his name on
a requisition letter list. If this inmate's surname begins with A, he gets
his monthly letter on the first Sunday of each month; if his name begins
with some other letter, he gets his monthly letter on some other Sunday.
If, upon A's arrival, his Sunday has just passed, he has to wait until the
first Sunday of the next month comes around; unless some one puts him wise
on how to write to the warden for an extra or special letter.
[8] On this point Jack Murphy writes: "We are allowed one box of matches a
month. The men split each match into two parts, so as to make this one box
last as long as possible. Each box contains 62 matches. After they are
split up into two the prisoner has 124 matches. These will last him about
10 days; then he must use his flint and steel. This is the most
intelligent thing the convicts are taught, for it teaches them the art of
economy, which, if lived up to, will help them to overcome their
extravagance when freed." I believe our friend B. intimated that Jack is
something of a joker.
Since my week in prison the inmates are allowed to buy a dozen boxes of
matches a month. Why they should not always have been allowed to do so is
beyond my comprehension.
[9] This, of course, is the same incident that has already been given in
the supplementary pages of the previous chapter, but I insert it again as
a part of my journal. It illustrates the way news circulates about the
prison.
[10] There were some small inaccuracies in Jack's tale, especially this
account of the trusty and the P. K. The facts are as stated in the last
chapter. I have let this passage remain, however, as it represents what I
heard and understood at the time.
[11] There had been no runaways from the road camps at the time Jack was
speaking. Before the camps were broken up at the end of the season, and
the road work was suspended for the winter, there were four. Two were
recovered and brought back; one returned of his own accord; and one made
his getaway. The lives of the two who were brought back were made
miserable by the abuse heaped upon them by their fellow prisoners for
having violated the confidence placed in them. They finally petitioned the
Warden to be transferred to some other prison.
[12] Both Stuhlmiller and Laflam were elected on the original committee
which prepared the organization of the Mutual Welfare League, and have
worked enthusiastically for its success.
[13] The mystery has been explained by one of my fellow-prisoners. "On the
roof of the bucket-house and on the walls are some grape vines from which
the sickly looking grapes are picked by the bucket-house man and given to
friends. I tried them, but they were too much for me, and it's lucky you
did not tackle them."
[14] As a matter of fact I was testing the Captain's mettle far more than
I supposed, for Grant's warning to be on the watch for such a move on my
part had not yet reached him, as I thought it had. All the more must one
admire the admirable way in which Captain Kane handled the matter. He
showed himself cool and collected under rather embarrassing circumstances,
for which he was totally unprepared. An excellent officer.
[15] I have been told, on very good authority, that it was seriously
debated whether all the prisoners should not be removed from the jail
before my arrival and stored elsewhere temporarily. But one of the
trusties pointed out to a certain officer high in authority that it would
be rather awkward if I heard of it, as I was almost sure to do; and thus
in the end it would have a worse result than if things were allowed to
drift. This view carried the day, so that the removal of Lavinsky was the
only change made. The effort to place the two fellows in the screen cells,
upon which Captain Martin was too wise to insist, was by Number Four's
shrewdness defeated.
[16] The original has the full name.
[17] A. P. K. = Acting Principal Keeper.
[18] Considerably more than a year's pay.
Transcriber's Notes:
Punctuation has been corrected without note.
The misprint "cal" has been corrected to "call" (page 310).
Other than the correction listed above, inconsistencies in spelling and
hyphenation have been retained from the original.
End of Project Gutenberg's Within Prison Walls, by Thomas Mott Osborne