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