“‘No person, sir, who has never undergone the punishment, can even imagine the slow agony of solitary confinement. You could not stand it a year. I, who by this time, should be pretty well used to it, will be able to stand it ten or twelve years longer, when my life-imprisonment will be at an end. Save in the case of such visits as yours, no human face is seen by the prisoner.
“‘You probably wondered, when you entered this cell, why I worked so hard. When we first come here, we are given the choice of doing nothing or working. We always prefer the former at first; but not many days of thought—wild, mad, wearing, eternal, lonely thought—are required to drive us to the latter alternative, and we work so hard, so incessantly, in order to forget ourselves, that the authorities make much more out of us than they could out of honest workmen.
“‘You see, sir, we must forget ourselves, and that is what we try to do when we work so hard.
“‘Well, suppose my term expires, my cell door opened, I am conducted downstairs, change these striped clothes for those relinquished upon entering the prison, and am shown into the street—free to do as I will.
“‘Imagine my sensations. I have not seen a human face for years, perhaps, and now, suddenly, I see thousands.
“‘I am just as if I were translated into another planet—or like Rip Van Winkle after his thirty years’ nap. My clothes are out of fashion, houses have been built where I remember nothing but empty lots. The faces of men and women in the streets seem unreally vivid and distinct.
“‘The roar and rumble of the street confuse my brain. I am bewildered, lost. The few dollars I have earned through overwork in the prison are speedily expended for necessities. I am penniless in the world. It is difficult to obtain honest employment.
“‘Credentials are almost always required; and who would employ a convict? The only acquaintances whom I meet in the populated streets are those whom I knew of old—fellow-thieves. From these alone I receive the cordial smile of welcome, the warm handclasp of friendship. However deeply I may have resolved upon reformation, my old unprincipled feelings repossess me.
“‘I borrow money of thieves, visit the old cribs mostly frequented by thieves, meet and become intimate with women—often very pretty girls—who are thieves, and whom I have known before. This is my only sympathy in the world.
“‘There is nothing intentionally false or down-dragging in their smiles and their welcomes, because I belong to their tribe, and know that they are really glad of my release from the Penitentiary.