To a certain extent, the prisoners have the privilege of corresponding
with their friends. But this privilege, like many others, loses much
of its value from the circumstances under which it is enjoyed. No
prisoner is allowed to state his real condition, nor intimate that he
is not kindly treated. Every letter must be examined before it is
sent, and if a single word is too _significant_ for the pleasure of
the keeper, it is destroyed. The same is true of all letters sent to
the prisoners by their friends. I find no fault with the keepers
examining all letters sent by or to the prisoners. This is perfectly
right. And it would be equally right to suppress all letters not
written in a respectful style, or containing information that might
afford facilities for an escape from the prison; but to interrupt a
prisoner's correspondence with his friends, merely to gratify the
capricious disposition of an unfeeling keeper, is unjust, inhuman, and
criminal.
In order to ensure a passport for their letters, the unmanly conduct
of the keepers has driven the prisoners into a style of writing which
must be disgusting to all but those who love to be flattered. They
generally devote one paragraph to the praise of the keepers. This
paragraph is usually a very fine one; and as it contains some high
sounding words of commendation, it tickles the vanity of those who
examine it, and finds its way abroad.
When a letter is condemned, the prisoner is sometimes permitted to try
again, and sometimes he is left to guess its fate. Should any one
write a true account of the place, its laws, and customs, and
regulations, it would be as impossible for the letter to get into the
Post Office, as it is for a guinea to pass by the fingers of a Jew.
And it is a very frequent case that a man is most shamefully abused by
his keeper, on account of some lines in his letters, which he penned
as innocently as a martyr, but which did not happen to be worded
according to the _grammar of the place_. I write this from experience;
for I am the man. But I am not the _only_ man. Should any one ask the
names of the others, I might answer--"_legions_," for they "_are
many_." And for some offence innocently committed in this way, many
have been marked for the arrows of vengeance, which have not lingered
long on the string.
Should a letter to any prisoner be deemed inadmissible, he would not
know that any had been sent to him. No matter how interesting it might
be to him, the keeper destroys it and is silent. Many facts confirm
this statement. I have now by me a letter which I recently received
from my brother, in which he writes--"I received not one letter from
you all the time you were there, though I wrote you many." Not one of
_his_ letters ever reached me, and I wrote very many to him. This is
not a singular case; I know of _many_ similar ones.
Another circumstance ought to be mentioned here.--There is no
provision made to pay the postage on letters sent to the prisoners,
and as they are generally destitute of money, it often happens that
their letters are never taken out of the office. When any letter _is_
taken out of the Post office, the postage is charged to the prisoner,
and he must pay it, whether he gets the letter or not.
All other communications are subject to the same vexatious rules as
the letters are. If a prisoner wishes to send a petition to his
friends for them to sign in his behalf, and forward to the Governor
and Council; or if he wishes to send one to that body with his own
signature, it must be worded _just so_, or it cannot be sent. The
keeper of the prison takes it upon himself to decide what _is_ and
what is _not_ proper to go before the Executive. He also, as if
possessed of omniscience, knows all the _facts_ in the case, better
than the man that has _experienced_ them; and as there is no law
binding him but his own will, he acts in such cases, very frequently,
as if there were no God to take notice of his conduct, and no judgment
for the guilty.
That the conduct of the keepers in respect to the correspondence of
the prisoners is highly improper, no one will attempt to deny. That
correspondence is sacred, and no unfeeling or capricious regulations
ought ever to interrupt it. The tender sympathies of friendship are
not destroyed, though the heart that contains them is chilled by a
dungeon's damps and a prison's gloom. A father is a father still. A
husband is a husband still. And dear to the heart are the thoughts of
his children, and the recollections of his wife. These are as
imperishable as his nature, and who that ever had a heart could touch
lightly the sacred ark of his happiness? How infernal must be the
nature of that man who can wantonly crucify the holy sympathies of a
trembling sufferer? But it is not the _sinner_ alone who suffers by
this conduct of men in power, it is the _innocent_ too; and who but a
fiend would punish the innocent with the guilty? It would denote a
moral and perfect fitness for any place but heaven, to take pleasure
in afflicting, unnecessarily, even the vilest sinner; what then must
be the moral complexion of that man's soul, who can sport with the
unmerited sufferings of the crimeless, and take an unearthly
satisfaction in multiplying the tears and agony of the innocent wife
and the stainless orphan? But such men there are, and well I know
them.