It is a principle of evidence that the testimony of a witness with a
favorable bias is to be taken at a discount, whereas the admissions
of one with an unfavorable bias are of face value. Therefore, when
an ex-prisoner speaks good of the prison in which he has been
incarcerated, we listen with nearly full credence. Recently the
Philadelphia _North American_ published the story of a forger who had
served his term in the state prison at Charlestown, Mass.
“That was a red-hot prison fifteen years ago,” says the _North
American_. “It was infamous as a hell on earth, from the punishments,
which included stringing up by the thumbs, the humiliating paddle and
the water cure by means of the fire hose turned on the recalcitrant in
his tiny cell, to the prisoners’ own contribution to the pandemonium
in the way of riots and stabbing affrays. The discipline was as
shamefully farcical as the prison officials were brutal.”
Then the conscience of New England rebelled, continues the _North
American_. A change in wardens made General Benjamin F. Bridges head
of the institution and N. D. Allen deputy warden. These men abolished
all cruel and inhuman punishments, stopped regarding the prisoners as
they would wolves, treated them like men of “decent honor and probity,”
and established, in a word, the “friendship system.” The spirit and
atmosphere of the place changed.
The story of the treatment now accorded the prisoners in this
institution, as told by the time-expired forger mentioned above, is in
part as follows:
“The convict learns, the minute he enters, that the whole world is not
against him.
“‘I don’t care,’ Mr. Allen says to him, ‘what your past life has been.
We intend to take you as you are, and we’ll treat you as a man until
it is shown by your actions that our confidence is misplaced. Your
treatment here will rest entirely with you. We will give you every help
in our power to equip you for the struggle you will have to face at the
time of your release.’
“Can you conceive the effect of such an exordium on a man whose spirit
is sullen in its resentment against the society that has begun to
punish him? His feeling of antagonism vanishes. He realizes that no
needless humiliation awaits him. He is known by his name, not by a
number. He can wear his hair and beard as he chooses. He can shave with
his own razor—or he can go to the prison barber. There is no lockstep
march to mess. He quits work ten or fifteen minutes before dinner
and chats with his fellow-workmen as freely as if he were on his job
outside.
“Apart from the regular school there is a correspondence school
service, which teaches languages, mathematics, bookkeeping,
stenography, custom tailoring, designing, arts and crafts and
mechanical and electrical engineering. The convict can join the prison
band or orchestra, or take a course in painting, if his talent
inclines either way.
“There are two first-class baseball teams and Saturday afternoon in the
prison yard lets everybody loose to root as joyfully for his favorite
team, and as loudly, as if he’d paid his half dollar to chase the
pennant at home. During the winter, vaudeville and moving-picture shows
take place in the chapel, which I have known to be completely darkened,
simply on the word of honor of 860 convicts that they would take no
advantage of the gloom.
“The visits of friends are not the cruel mockeries of a steel screen
and a keeper’s open eye and ear. The prisoner can sit side by side with
his visitor and talk free of jealous watch, for a full hour. He is
permitted to buy luxuries—fruit, pies, candies, tobacco—and the prison
will take care of them for him so that they sha’n’t spoil. He has his
private bank account and can earn money by work for himself after the
regular hours. They can even trade among themselves, by a special
transfer system. When their private supplies arrive—two and three tons
some days—the prison office looks like a grocery store.
“If a system has ever been devised which has succeeded in transforming
a convicted criminal into an honest man, this is the one. There are
very, very few men who go out of Charlestown prison who, at the time,
are not honest, law-abiding citizens.”
Once, when a visiting warden saw General Bridges’ convicts pass him and
his host, he remarked:
“Why, say, general, these men don’t look like prisoners. They walk
upright and look you straight in the face. I haven’t a man in my
penitentiary who doesn’t look hangdog.”
“They look at us like men,” rejoined Bridges, “because they feel like
men. And they feel like men because they are treated like men.”
“Oh, that may all be, general. I have men that stare at me sometimes,
too. But these prisoners actually smile and laugh at you. Maybe they’re
just feeling good. But what gets me most is that you speak to them just
as they do to you.”
That criticism took all the wind out of the general’s intellectual
sails. All he could do was to answer lamely:
“Why, my dear sir, if I didn’t speak to them they’d be offended. They’d
imagine I was angry over something.”