Part 2
The prisoners seek to mitigate their misery. One asks: “Say fellows! what would you say now to a nice thick juicy steak with fried potatoes?” One “sings an excellent ragtime ditty;” another “follows with the Toreador’s song from Carmen, sung in a sweet, true, light tenor voice that shows real love and appreciation of music.
“This is the place where I had expected to meet the violent and dangerous criminals; but what do I find! A genial young Irishman, as pleasant company as I have ever encountered, and a sweet voiced boy singing Carmen.”
These entertainments over, the night drags on. The wooden floor proves a hard bed until a prisoner instructs him how to make a pillow of his felt shoes and his shirt. Bed bugs infest the place and after killing one, he imagines multitudes. The sick prisoner accidentally upsets his water can and soon becomes delirious, seeming likely to become a raving maniac. There is no way to summon an officer, but one of the prisoners with amazing tact and patience soothes his agitation until he finally falls asleep.
At last Brown falls into a doze but is speedily awakened by a patrolling officer who awakens the prisoners at 12:30 and 4:30 A. M. but refuses his request to renew the water spilled by the sick prisoner because it is “’gainst the rules.”
At 6 A. M. on Sunday, Tom Brown is released from his punishment, convinced that the “System” is illogical, antiquated, barbarous, cruel and destructive to the character of prisoners and officers alike. He is exhausted, body and soul; but he finds strength to make a chapel address to the prisoners, which must have been memorable. The prisoners are tremendously impressed by the fact that this man of education, culture and wealth has voluntarily endured for six days the same treatment as themselves, in the endeavor to understand their situation and, if possible, to improve it; they recognize that the cell, the march, the shock and the dungeon affect the man of culture and refinement more keenly than the ordinary prisoner; but the thing which affects them most profoundly is the vicarious character of his act. They would almost apply to it the words of the prophet Isaiah: “Surely he hath borne our griefs and carried our sorrows.”
Mr. Osborne is not content to discover and reveal the vices of the prison system but he seeks a practical remedy. To this end he has taken counsel, not only with the prison authorities and students of penological science, but also with the prisoners who live under the system and, some of whom, are keenly alive to its destructive influence. A prisoner in the shops gave him the basic idea. He says:
“For some years I have felt that the principles of self-government might possibly be the key to the solution of the prison problem; but as yet I have not been able to see clearly how to begin its application. There have seemed to be almost insuperable difficulties. In this connection Jack” (Jack Murphy, a prisoner) “made a suggestion which supplies a most important link in the chain.
“In discussing the various aspects of prison life we reached the subject of the long and dreary Sundays. Jack agrees with all those with whom I have talked that the long stretch in the cells, from the conclusion of the chapel service, between ten-thirty and eleven o’clock Sunday morning until seven Monday morning--over twenty hours, is a fearful strain both physical and mental upon the prisoners.
“‘Well, Jack,’ I say, ‘from what I have heard Superintendent Riley say, I feel sure he would like to give the men some sort of exercise or recreation on Sunday afternoons; but how could it be managed! You can’t ask the officers to give up their day off, and you don’t think the men could be trusted by themselves, do you!’
“‘Why not?’ says Jack.
“I look at him enquiringly.
“‘Why, look here, Tom. I know this place through and through. I know these men; I’ve studied ’em for years. And I tell you that the big majority of these fellows in here will be square with you if you give ’em a chance. The trouble is they don’t treat us on the level. I could tell you all sorts of frame-ups they give us. Now if you trust a man, he will try and do what’s right; sure he will. That is, most men will. Of course, there are a few that won’t. There are some dirty curs--degenerates--that will make trouble, but there ain’t so very many of those. Look at that road work! Haven’t the men done fine! How many prisoners have you out on the roads! About 130; and you ain’t had a single runaway yet. And if there should be any runaways you can just bet we’d show ’em what we think about it.’
“‘Do you really think, Jack, that the Superintendent and the Warden could trust you fellows out in the yard on Sunday afternoons in summer!’
“‘Sure they could,’ responds Jack.... ‘And there could be a band concert.... And it would be a good sight better for us than being locked in our cells all day. You’d have fewer fights on Monday, I know that.’
“‘But how about the discipline! Would you let everybody out in the yard! What about those bad actors who don’t know how to behave! Won’t they quarrel and fight and try to escape?’
“‘But don’t you see, Tom, that they couldn’t do that without putting the whole thing on the bum, and depriving the rest of us of our privileges? You needn’t be afraid we couldn’t handle those fellows all right! Or why not let out only those men who have a good conduct bar! That’s it!’ He continues, enthusiastically warming up to the subject, ‘That’s it, Tom, a good conduct league, and give the privilege of Sunday afternoons to the members of the league.’”
This suggestion of Jack Murphy bore practical fruit. Soon after his “discharge,” Mr. Osborne, with the co-operation of the Superintendent of Prisons and the Warden of Auburn Prison, succeeded in establishing a Good Conduct League composed of prisoners, with officers elected by their fellow prisoners. The prisoners are given the liberty of the yard on Sunday afternoons, with a greatly reduced force of guards. They march to and from their cells and their work under the direction of prisoners. They prepare entertainments with the permission and approval of their officers. This plan has now been in operation for several months without the slightest disorder or accident and with marked improvement in the spirit and behaviour of the men.
This inspiring demonstration represents no new discovery by Jack Murphy or by Mr. Osborne. It is only a re-discovery of what was practiced by Captain Alexander Machonochie at Norfolk Island with transported British convicts seventy years ago. The writer saw Colonel Gardner Tufts doing similar things with convicts at Concord, Massachusetts, nearly thirty years ago, where prisoners were carrying on evening literary societies in perfect order without the presence of an officer. He saw similar things done by Captain Hickox at the Michigan State Prison more than twenty years ago, where the old chaplain gathered 200 men in a single room for an evening assembly with no officer present but himself. This same principal is being worked out in the State prisons of Oregon and Colorado, in the Ohio State Reformatory at Mansfield and in Doctor Gilmour’s splendid work at Guelph, Ontario. In all of these places it has been found that when you build a wall around a man he immediately wants to climb over it and that when you turn him loose and say, “I trust you and I know that you will not betray me,” there is almost always an instant response.
Mr. Osborne believes that this is the first instance of the application of the democratic principle to the management of convicts in a large convict prison, and that the Auburn experiment differs from others in that the prisoners there themselves originated the movement. He says that “the good conduct of the prisoners is in reality an outward expression of an outward spiritual impulse.” “Hence the name, ‘Mutual Welfare League,’; hence the motto, ‘Do good, make good.’ By doing good to others the man makes good for himself.”
Mr. Osborne’s demonstrations make it clear that those who believe that severity is an essential part of prison methods need not worry. Every convict is punished. When you pillory a man before the world as a criminal, transport him by public conveyance and march him through the streets in irons, put him behind prison walls, deprive him of his liberty, subject him absolutely to the will of another man who holds practically the powers of life and death, lock him in an ill-ventilated prison cell, 4½ by 7 feet (perhaps with an uncongenial cell mate), dress him in prison garb, exhibit him to curious visitors at 25 cents per head, subject him to strict compliance with thirty to fifty exacting rules on pain of loss of privileges and increase of term, restrict his correspondence to two censored letters per month, permit him to see his wife and children only in the presence of an officer and clad in prison garb--under these circumstances no one need question that the prisoner is punished, even though he may have the privilege of listening to a band concert and watching a baseball game once a week, conversing with his fellow convicts in subdued tones at meals and witnessing a moving picture show once or twice a month. Let it never be forgotten that the convict is punished!
Those who ridicule or condemn Mr. Osborne’s adventure make a mistake. It may have been sensational, but there was need of a sensation. His experiment was valuable because it was sincere and because it has brought out the truth. But it has brought out only part of the truth.
We wish that Mr. Osborne would secure an opportunity to be installed as prison guard in some one of the great prisons of the United States like the Illinois State Penitentiary, the Indiana State Prison of Michigan City, or the Penitentiary at Pittsburgh, Pa. Let him go incog., unknown to anyone except the prison warden, and let him come into the same intimate familiarity with the life and thinking of the prison guard as that which he has acquired in the case of the prison convict. He has already discovered the demoralizing tendency of life of the prison guard, and has discovered its chief flaw, namely, the ruling principle of fear, to which must be added the lack of psychological understanding of the prisoner and the entire lack of any adequate preliminary training. There must be taken into account also the fact that there exists among prison guards, in an exaggerated degree, the sentiment that it is dishonorable to “snitch” upon a fellow officer and, while a superior officer is likely to report a subordinate for cruelty or misconduct, the exposure of such actions by a guard of equal rank is very unusual. The difficulty can only be overcome by improving the personnel and raising the moral standards of prison guards. The day is not far distant when training schools for prison guards will hold the same relation to prison work which training schools for nurses hold to well-conducted hospitals.
We wish that Mr. Osborne, or someone equally discerning, might put himself in the place of the convict all the way through and tell an equally convincing story. Let him go forth with a five-dollar discharge suit on his back so marked as to betray to every passing policeman the shop where it was made. Let him go out with five dollars or possibly ten dollars in his pocket to satisfy a sharpened appetite and find a job in these hard times. Let him meet the watchful policeman, or the plain clothes man, who advises him that “We’re on to you.” Let him meet the discharged convict who solicits the loan of a dollar with implied threat of exposure. Let him take a job in good faith and render faithful service, only to be discharged at the end of the second week because somebody has given him away.
Let him be arrested, guilty or not guilty, as a suspect of some crime. Let him be subjected to the inquisition of “the third degree,” regardless of the rights which are supposed to be guaranteed to every citizen that he shall be deemed to be innocent until proven to be guilty. Let him experience the starvation, buffeting insults and detectives’ lies which are incident to this inquisition.
Then, by all means, let Mr. Osborne’s representative await trial in a county jail and discover the beauties of a System which is twice as vicious as the Auburn Prison System which he describes. Thrust him into a steel cage and exhibit him to all comers like a wild beast in a menagerie. Let him share his cell with five other prisoners in a place where he cannot keep himself free from vermin, where he cannot take a bath, and force him into intimate association, day and night, with a mob of prisoners who are kept in idleness, with no occupation except to corrupt one another and to concoct plans to escape by bribing or mobbing the jailer or by cutting out of jail.
Let him stand trial in a court whose judge is overwhelmed with business or is fixed in the tradition that severity is the only remedy for crime, with a prosecuting attorney whose reputation depends upon making as many convictions as possible. Let him have assigned to his defense an attorney who, because of inexperience, incompetency, or indifference, cannot present his case properly, in order that his innocence may be demonstrated, if he is innocent, or any mitigating facts may be made clear if he is guilty.
Or let Mr. Osborne’s representative essay the role of a paroled prisoner, going out as a ward of the State under the direction of a parole officer, in order that he may discover the efficiency and equity of the Parole Board, the fidelity and good-will of the parole officer, the patience and fair dealing of the employer, and the advantages and disadvantages generally of the parole system.
It is a good thing to call the attention of the public to the deficiencies of the convict prisons, and the public ought to know that Sing Sing is, and has been for many years, far worse than Auburn. Think of a prison where rheumatism and tuberculosis form an inevitable part of the prison sentence for a large proportion of the prisoners, whose number can be definitely predicted! But the prison problem of the State of New York can only be solved by a thoroughly organized and persistent attack under the leadership of men and women who have social and economic vision.
And the prison problem of the State of New York will not be solved until it is recognized as a technical problem, demanding the services of tried and expert men. Prisons, like other educational institutions, should be headed by superintendents of demonstrated training and efficiency, selected without reference to geographical lines.
THE NEW FREEDOM AT AUBURN PRISON
By O. F. Lewis, General Secretary, Prison Association of New York.
[This article has been reprinted from The Outlook, by special permission of that periodical. The editor of _The Delinquent_ begs to say, that although he himself is the author of this article, he believes the new development of self-government at Auburn, as described in the following article, is of sufficient importance to warrant being called earnestly to the attention of our readers.]
The afternoon of the Fourth of July was drawing to a close in the long building-inclosed yard of Auburn Prison, in the State of New York. Fourteen hundred gray-suited inmates were playing a score of different games. The afternoon’s track events had come to an end. The South Wing, with between four and five hundred prisoners, had won from the North Wing, with some nine hundred prisoners, in the varied contests. A silver cup, given by the president of a prominent mortgage company in New York, was the tangible goal of the exciting battle.
Suddenly the clear bugle notes of the “Retreat” sounded far down the yard, slowly and melodiously. Instantly the boys in gray began to fall into line at their appointed places. There was now silence where a moment before there had been bowling, baseball, running, dancing, piano, band, and the shouts of swarming inmates. Then came the first bars of the “Star-Spangled Banner,” played by the prison inmate band. Off came the caps, and down across the breast. The flag sank slowly, lowered from the tall pole by three inmates. The music ceased, the caps were again donned, and from the extreme end of the yard rose suddenly a cheer:
“Rah! Rah! Rah! Rah! Rah! Rah! South Wing! South Wing! Rah! Rah! Rah!”
Then, preceded by the band and with banners flying, the victorious athletes of the South Wing marched up the center walk between the files of other prisoners, to receive the silver cup from the hands of the donor, Mr. Richard M. Hurd.
I wish I had the power to make the readers of The Outlook sense in full the enormous significance for both present and future of this recent Fourth of July in Auburn Prison. You have read in these recent months so often of the greatly increased liberties granted to prisoners that mere games or the unchecked intercourse of prisoners on holidays seems no epoch-making novelty.
But history was made at Auburn Prison on Independence Day. For the fourteen hundred men not only ran off their own sports during the afternoon, but they practically ran themselves, through their appointed “delegates,” chosen from among their own numbers by their own votes. And assuredly no more orderly group could have been found on that Fourth of July anywhere between the Atlantic and the Pacific.
A year ago Auburn Prison was austere indeed. The holidays and the Sundays were grievously dreaded by the inmates--dreaded as they had been for generations, because a Sunday or a holiday meant that the inmates had been locked into their miserable little cells at about five o’clock on the previous day, and that, except for a few brief hours for chapel or for an entertainment on holidays, they were locked in all through the holiday until the next morning, when work recommenced. Thirty-six hours, more or less, in a wretched little cell, hardly large enough to turn around in, with no modern conveniences of toilet or wash-basins--simply a hole in the solid masonry wall of a building ninety-eight years old, built at a time when prison meant physical torture and oblivion, and when prison architecture aided to the maximum that purpose.
Is it any wonder that a prisoner recently said to me, on a Sunday afternoon at Clinton Prison in New York State, where they still lock up their prisoners from Saturday until Monday, with the exceptions noted: “My God! It’s a wonder we don’t all go insane in here!” Is it any wonder that at Auburn Prison, according to the words of one of the leading prisoners, the inmates used to consider themselves supremely lucky if by some means they could get “dope” on Saturday, with which to “put a shot into themselves” on Sunday morning? Then they would lie befuddled and bevisioned during Sunday--the Lord’s Day! “And on Monday morning,” laconically said the prisoner, “we used to have the biggest number of fights in the shops of any day in the week. The effects of the drug were wearing off, you know.”
This summer the difference is enormous and fundamental. For an hour or a little more on each week-day, and for four full hours on Sunday, the prisoners are turned out to recreation according to their bent. And coincidentally with this all-important change in the prison’s policy toward the inmates has come an all-important reduction in the number of prison guards needed to supervise the prisoners at their play. On the morning of the Fourth, for instance, an entertainment was given in the auditorium by a local theatrical company. Practically all the inmates--fourteen hundred--were present. Many of the guards sat in one little corner of the room, in the extreme rear. They had been invited by the Mutual Welfare League, the prisoners’ organization, to attend if they desired!
In the afternoon there were four keepers in all in the yard, so I was informed. They were thoroughly inconspicuous. The “P. K.” (which is short for Principal Keeper) started the afternoon in uniform, but shortly changed to street clothes. “You’ll find him playing ball with the boys later today,” said one inmate to me. All the guarding at the several exits of the yard was done--apart from the few guards--by the “delegates” of the Mutual Welfare League.
The Mutual Welfare League! To many prison officials, long in the service, the name undoubtedly has a very sentimental sound. I frankly confess that several of us in the little party invited by Mr. Thomas Mott Osborne to attend the League’s celebration of the Fourth of July were skeptical. We were afraid it might prove to be amateurish and mushy, even though we knew of the signal value of Mr. Osborne’s self-imposed incarceration at Auburn Prison last fall, as shown by the Nation-wide attention given to his subsequent story of the fearful and unnecessary monotony and desperation of prison life. But, as one of our party said on Sunday morning, after we had sat for several hours with the Executive Committee of the League: “I didn’t exactly come to scoff and remain to pray; but I did come with doubt, and I go away converted.”
What is it, then, about this new freedom at Auburn Prison that has not only converted a cautious, conservative president of a board of reformatory managers in another State, but has led him within a week from his experience at Auburn to urge successfully the introduction of a similar league in his own institution? Two facts, principally, I think. In the first place, the Mutual Welfare League plan works. Secondly, there is a convincing air of sincerity, and even devotion, about it all.
May I repeat what seems to me the all-important fact about this development at Auburn? The prisoners, in their hours of recreation, in their attendance at chapel, in their attendance at Sunday afternoon concerts or entertainments, _run themselves in large measure_. They have not only given their promise to be good, but they have chosen their own inmate officers to see that they keep their promise. There is all the difference in the world between being run by a group of prison guards, even under the best of benevolent prison despotisms, and being run by prisoner guards of one’s own election.
If, then, the most sacred prerogative of the traditional prison official can thus be usurped by the prisoners themselves, and if, in their own expressive language, they can “get away with it,” in the sense of securing better order, more work in the shops, a marked reduction in the number of offences committed or reported, and a radical betterment in the always limited joy of life in a penal institution, what is the inference?