  February 1, 1914. Since the eventful week I have attempted to describe in the foregoing chapters, I have received a large number of letters which throw light on the Prison Problem. Letters from the Auburn prisoners, letters from men in other prisons, letters from ex-convicts, giving ideas based upon their own experiences, letters from prison officials in other states, expressing keen interest in the results of my experiment, letters from sympathetic men and women of the outside world, proving the existence of a large amount of sentiment in favor of a rational reform of our Prison System. Many of these letters are valuable in connection with the broad question of Prison Reform but have no direct bearing upon my personal experiences in Auburn Prison; they would therefore be out of place here. Others of them do deal directly with that incident, reflecting the In other words, the vital point of this matter, as in all others connected with the Prison Problem, is this: After all has been said and done, what manner of men are these prisoners? Are they specimens of “the criminal” we have had pictured to us in so many works on “Penology”? Or are they simply men from the same stock as the rest of us—some of them degenerate, some mentally ill balanced, some slaves to evil habits, diseased, sinful, or simply unfortunate—whatever you like—but still men? I think these letters may help others to an answer as they have helped me. A few days after the memorable Sunday on which I left prison, Warden Rattigan found a paper placed upon his desk. It came from the slight, pale man with whom I had talked in July, It seems, according to the Warden, that this man (his name is Richards) had at first been very sceptical concerning my visit; but he had, as will appear, watched me very carefully; and, after having changed his own point of view, was much irritated by certain sarcastic editorials in the newspapers. So he applied to the Warden for permission to write a letter on the subject to one of the great New York dailies. When the Warden showed the letter to me I advised against its publication—as I cared for no personal vindication. But I treasured the letter, and Richards and I have since become the warmest of friends. Here is what he wrote to the Warden: I think that in justice to the prisoners in this institution that objection should be taken to some of the editorials which are being printed about Mr. Osborne’s experience as a voluntary prisoner in Auburn prison. I for one desire to protest and take exception against some of the editorials which appear in the papers—especially in the New York A—— and S——. I have only used my privilege of letter writing on one occasion during my nearly two years’ incarceration here, and I wish that I could be allowed to write to one of The following is his draft of the proposed letter to the New York paper. I am one of those whom society calls a confirmed criminal. I have had the misfortune to be unable to resist temptation on several occasions, with the result that I carry upon my left sleeve the red disc of shame. But I want to say to you, and to the rest of the world, that although society looks upon me as a creature unworthy of sympathy, as one whose life has been a waste, as one not fit to associate with the people at large, yet I still have left within me a little spark of gratitude. I have watched with careful eye and keen interest this self-imposed imprisonment. My cell was very close to Tom Brown’s, and at night I could look straight from my cell into the window opposite and see there reflected the cell of Tom Brown, No. 15 on the second tier, and its occupant. I know that everything he went through was real. I know that there was no fake about his imprisonment. And I know this, that he went through a great deal more hardship and mental torture as a voluntary prisoner than he would had he been regularly committed to the prison. With his education and knowledge he would have been put to work in a clerical capacity, instead of making baskets, and his labor would not have been so hard. His incarceration in the cooler was real. I know this for a positive fact. I heard him coming from the cooler early Sunday morning The editorial in the A— is unjust. It speaks of Jack London and others writing about prison conditions. It says that the convicts in the penitentiary “cannot get out,” and that “they are locked in at night.” Granted that all this is what you want to ridicule it to be, the man that wrote this editorial would be accused of being inhuman if he were to put his dog through what Mr. Osborne went through during his week of imprisonment. There is one thing I want to emphasize, and it is this. Mr. Osborne has seen with his own eyes, heard with his own ears and felt with his own feelings just what it is to be an outcast, even for so short a time as a week—just what it is to be deprived of your liberty for even so short a period, and your editorial writers and no one else that has not gone through the actual experience are qualified to criticise his efforts. These papers would not believe a prisoner who came out of prison and told you of these facts; you must believe Mr. Osborne—you can’t do otherwise. I want to say that this self-sacrifice is going to do much to make better men of us criminals, not only now but in the future when we are again thrust upon society; and if there was just a little more Osbornism and a little less Journalism the prisoners would have a greater incentive to reform than they now have. I speak not only for myself, but for many other old timers with whom I have talked. I claim as an old timer and one who knows what he is talking about, as I have been through the mill since childhood, that one Men will err, men will fall, and men will continue to commit crime, and society must be protected. We must have prisons; but I claim that the better way to treat a criminal in order to try and reform him is to use a little more kindness in our prisons and a little less punishment and cruelty. I don’t want to be misunderstood in this matter. I have no favor to ask of anyone. I expect to do my time—all of it. But I want to take exception to the insinuation that Mr. Osborne’s stay was made any softer by the fact that the editor of his paper is Warden of Auburn Prison. The fact is that Warden Rattigan was away from the prison during the most of the week of Mr. Osborne’s imprisonment, and I know positively and from my own knowledge that his orders were to treat Tom Brown the same as any other convict in this prison; and 1,329 men here can testify that these orders were carried out to the letter. If some of these editorial writers could have heard the spontaneous applause in our chapel when Mr. Osborne, clad in the garb of a convict, rose from his seat and walked to the platform to address us, and could have seen the tears in the eyes of hardened rogues, I am sure that they would never treat this experiment in the light way they do. It was really a sorrowful and heart-rending spectacle and one which will never be forgotten by those who witnessed it. And if they could have witnessed the tears which flowed from Mr. Osborne’s eyes after he had once again put on the clothes of civilization, they would I am firmly convinced that Mr. Osborne is as much a friend of society as he is of the prisoner—there is no question about that; that he has at heart the interest and welfare of society, as well as the interests of the under dog, and that his motives are not inspired by any wholly sympathetic feeling, but by a feeling of brotherly love and justice and the feelings of one who believes in all of the words in the little line of the Lord’s Prayer: “Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.” L. Richards, No. 31—. I leave it for any one to judge whether the writer of that letter is a hopeless criminal. Yet he speaks of himself as an old-timer, who bears upon his sleeve that cruel symbol of a repeated failure to make good—“the red disc of shame.” To gauge this one man’s ability, his latent power for good, I add another letter from him, written at a time when the whole prison population was fearful that the new order of things in the prison department of New York State might be upset by the change of governors. Auburn Prison, Mr. Thomas Mott Osborne, Auburn, N. Y. My dear Sir: I learn of your expected visit to Albany during the present week, and I most earnestly request that if you I have read numerous criticisms of your acts, most of them coming to the one conclusion—that you could not during your stay here undergo mentally what other prisoners were enduring. I know that was not calculated on by you; and I, as well as quite a number of others with whom I have spoken, fully understand and appreciate your motive. Were not one of your ideas adopted, were not a single thing done to better the physical condition of the prisoners in the penal institutions of the state, yet you have brought into our hearts and minds a desire to make better men of ourselves, to prove to the world that kindness and not punishment is the reformative agency. We wonder what there is in us that impels men to take up our cause. I have given considerable thought to this in my solitary moments at night, and have come to the conclusion that there must be some good still left in even the most wretched and degenerate, that there must be some seed of righteousness, some spirit of manhood still left which only needs the proper nourishment to bring it into life. Punishment has been tried for centuries, and has failed. The doctrine of kindness and brotherly feeling as set forth by you will, I am sure, succeed; and I wish that you would plead our cause and lay before the proper authorities the importance of continuing the work. A spirit of hope has sprung up in our hearts. Is this to I do not plead for myself. I plead for the wives and the innocent babes of some of our unfortunates. For their sakes, if for no other reason, this work should continue. I know that the prisoners here will show by their conduct, not only now but in the future, that they have been influenced to do good and to do right, by the efforts which you have made and are making in their behalf. I am one of those dyed deep with crime, in the opinion of society. I have been in several prisons, but I still feel that I have a chance, that there is still hope; and this feeling has been strengthened within the past month by your act of self-sacrifice; and I see around me 1,300 other men whose lives are worth something to society—worth the effort which your Commission is making for their uplift. Very truly yours, It may be urged that Richards is a man of very considerable literary ability, which is obvious, and that his case is an exceptional one. Let us, therefore, take a man of entirely different caliber, of but little education, one whose experience has been a rough one. Following is a letter from a man who is as unlike Richards mentally and physically as one man can very well be from another.
Mr. Thomas M. Osborne. Honorable Sir: It affords me great pleasure to write you these few lines. I really do not know how to begin to express myself as I have not got a very good education. But I hope you will understand that my motive in writing you this letter is to congratulate you for your good work. I fully realize the fact that it was no easy task for you to come down here and live here in this place for one week as you did. After hearing and seeing you in the chapel Sunday I came to my cell and got to thinking. The outcome was that I could not remember ever being touched so as I was when I left the chapel and while sitting there hearing you talk. I fully realize what a big thing you have undertaken. At one time I was under the impression that there was no such a thing as a square man, but I have changed my opinion and I am safe in saying that quite a number of other men have also changed their mind about that same thing. ******** Men who love their fellow man are very few. When I think of you I am reminded of a postal that I received from my brother not long ago, after him not knowing that I was in prison. When he found it out he sent me a postal and on it were these few words: “A friend is one who knows all about you and likes you just the same.” Well, Mr. Osborne, I leave here on the 20th of this month and believe me—never again for me. I have played the crooked game in every way it can be played, most every kind of crooked game there is. Now I am done. It is a fast and excitable game, but I come to Yours truly, 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. 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 “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 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, 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 ******** 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, 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., 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 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 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 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, Certain fundamental facts have never been more clearly expressed than in the first paragraph of that letter. People “imagine we are a sort of 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., 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. 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 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, 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 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 Believe me to be sincerely yours, 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 135 State St., Auburn, N. Y., 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 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. 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. 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, Enclosed in this letter was the following. Oct. 9, 1913. Thomas Brown, Esq., 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 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 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 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 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 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, |
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