In every prison and in every prisoner there are lessons for each of us. You will not waste time to-day if you walk through this great Auburn prison and think of the men there think why they came there, think how they could have been saved, think what will gradually empty prisons and make them unnecessary.
A man with one arm opens the first iron gate—his mutilated body foreshadows the mutilated minds and souls within.
Before the door of the prison there are bright flowers—the name of the prison itself stands out in brightly colored blossoms to prove the gardener's ability and strange sense of the appropriate. Many of the causes that bring men there are written out in just such bright colors—when first seen—and many a prisoner must have thought of that as he passed through the iron door.
A party of six or seven go through the prison with you.
There is a woman of middle age, stout and cheerful, in a bright purple dress. There are two children, a moon-faced man, a tall, thin man, and others whom you do not notice.
Carelessly they look at a nervous woman sitting in the reception room talking to a convict. They take no interest in her, no interest in the convict. To you the prison guide says:
"She comes here to see him as often as the rules allow. She's his wife. She's been coming for seven years. I tell you, women get the hard end of it in this world."
Women do indeed get the hard end of it. There are twelve hundred men in that prison—and every one of them has caused some woman to suffer. And every one has broken the heart of one other woman—his mother.
Through a narrow door you travel with your fellow-visitors.
At every step you marvel at the curious indifference of average humanity to the one interesting thing—their fellow-man.