NEW YORK AND LONDON D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 1928 Copyright, 1914, by D. APPLETON AND COMPANY Printed in the United States of America THIS LITTLE VOLUME IS DEDICATED TO OUR BROTHERS IN GRAY AND ESPECIALLY TO THOSE WHO, DURING MY SHORT STAY AMONG THEM IN AUBURN PRISON, WON MY LASTING GRATITUDE AND AFFECTION BY THEIR COURTESY, SYMPATHY, AND UNDERSTANDING  ...

Many years back, in my early boyhood, I was taken through Auburn Prison. It has always been the main object of interest in our town, and I was a small sized unit in a party of sightseers. No incident of childhood made a more vivid impression upon me. The dark, scowling faces bent over their tasks; the hideous striped clothing, which carried with it an unexplainable sense of shame; the ugly close cropped heads and shaven faces; the horrible sinuous lines of outcast humanity crawling along in the

September 28, 1913. 9.30 P. M. All is ready for my great adventure. Indeed the first steps have been taken. This morning I went down to the Prison to speak at the chapel exercises as planned; but arrived early, about nine o’clock, at Warden Rattigan’s request, in order to inform the Chaplain as to what I am proposing to do. He seemed very much surprised and pleased. The Warden also explained the matter to the Principal Keeper; but I shall not attempt to venture a guess at his feelings, for I was

Cell 15, second tier, north, north wing, Auburn Prison. September 29. It is noon hour; somewhere about 12:45 I should think. I am a prisoner, locked, double locked. By no human possibility, by no act of my own, can I throw open the iron grating which shuts me from the world into this small stone vault. I am a voluntary prisoner, it is true; nevertheless even a voluntary prisoner can’t unlock the door of his cell—that must be done by someone from outside. I am perfectly conscious of a horrible fe

Later in the day; about 5:30, I think; I have no watch and nowhere does there seem to be a clock in sight, so I am necessarily rather vague as to the exact time. I am again double locked in my cell, this time for the night—fourteen mortal hours. For me there is plenty to do—to write, to read, to think about; but how about those who do not care for reading, who write with difficulty, or who can neither read nor write? Then again, I look forward to only six nights in this stone vault; but how abou

Still Monday, but later in the evening. The hour is about—but why attempt to specify the exact time? In this place there seems to be no time—only eternity. Having finished in my journal the account of this afternoon’s occurrences, I shall continue to chronicle the events of this evening as long as the light holds out, or as long as there is anything to write about. So I begin where I left off in the last chapter, just after being locked in for the night, as I sat writing and eating my evening me

In my cell, after dinner; Tuesday, September 30. At about seven o’clock this morning the long iron bar, which locks the whole tier, is raised; and the Captain pauses a moment at my cell. “Good morning, Thomas, how did you get through the night?” “I didn’t sleep very well, sir.” “They seldom do the first night. How are you feeling now?” “Well, fairly good third rate, thank you, sir.” He leaves me; but soon returns along the gallery, unlocking the levers as he comes. Immediately after him walks hi

In my cell, Tuesday evening, September 30. Laying aside my journal this noon, I don my coat and cap and stand ready at the cell door. The Captain passes by, unlocking the levers; then repasses, pushing them down, and I am ready to fall in line as usual; but one of the gray figures stops suddenly and whispers to me, “Your cup! You’ve forgotten your cup!” So I create a momentary halt and confusion in the gallery as I dash back into the cell to get my tin cup and out again, leaving it on the shelf

In my cell, Wednesday evening, October 2. Looking out of the upper windows in the outer wall, from the door of my cell, I can see that the morning is cloudy and threatening. It is also warmer; up to now it has been clear and cool. I feel in good condition after a very fair night, and rise soon after hearing the six o’clock westbound train and the factory whistles. This gives me ample time to wash, dress, and get completely ready for the day. The new acting Captain starts in this morning—Captain

In my cell, later Wednesday evening, October 2. Upon arriving back here this afternoon, and before sitting down to my usual supper of bread and water, I shave leisurely. In spite of the jar of hot water which George has kindly brought to the cell before I am locked in for the night, my toilet arrangements leave much to be desired. It is true I have shaved at times under greater disadvantages. As, for instance, in camp, when I have had to use the inside of my watch-cover for a mirror. Here in pri

In my cell, Thursday evening, October 2. This morning is cloudy and dark; it has been raining heavily during the night, and the atmosphere is damp and oppressive. Oppressive too is the feeling left by the unexplained occurrences of last evening. My first visitor is Officer X, the man who wouldn’t answer my question last evening when he was standing back of the Warden and I asked him what that noise was. This morning he is exceedingly bland and also, like the weather, oppressive. He is so very an

In my cell, Friday evening, October 3. This morning breaks gray and cloudy again. I wake early and hear the night officer, some time before six o’clock, come and wake my neighbor in the next cell. He and I tap each other “Good night” regularly now; and this morning I send through the stone wall a greeting for the day. He returns my message; and when the keeper comes again at six o’clock, this time to open his cell, he waits, apparently, until that officer’s back is turned and then, putting his h

In my cell, Saturday noon, October 4. This morning,—the morning of my last full day in prison,—dawns bright and sunny; a pleasant change from the dark, cloudy and oppressive weather we have been having. The routine of my day has become firmly established now; and I conform to it almost without thought. At six I arise. As I sleep in my one suit of underclothes, my dressing may be said to have already begun. I add my socks and the clumsy state shoes, which are on the chair close at hand. Then I am

As Captain Martin and I traverse the long stone passage leading from his office to the death chamber, I listen intently to catch any sound from the jail, for I am wondering whether or not I shall have any companions in misery; but nothing can be heard. Even when the Captain unlocks and opens the door on the right at the end of the passage and I step into the dungeon, there is no indication of any other inhabitants. Except for our own movements the silence is complete, although there is a peculia

After the emotional crisis I have just passed through, I find myself quite unstrung. For nearly half an hour I can do nothing but sit, limp and exhausted, in the chair and give way to my feelings. On the whole, this is a relief, although it leaves me very weak and wretched. At length, the realization that I must soon take my place in line for the duties of the early morning pulls me together; and after pouring cool water from the meager supply in my pail over my head and face, rearranging my clo

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 th

February 15, 1914. 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 abo