Thomas Mott Osborne

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.