In the promotion of this cause, the city of Boston at this moment occupies a position of signal advantage. It has determined to erect a new county jail, and the plans are still under consideration. It is easy to perceive that the plan it adopts and the system of discipline it recognizes will become an example. No narrow prejudice and no unworthy economy should prevent the example from being such as becomes a city of the wealth, refinement, and humanity of Boston. It is a common boast, that her schools and various institutions of beneficence are the best in the world. The prison about to be erected should share this boast. Let it be the best in the world. Let it be the model prison, not only to our own country, but to other countries. The rule of separation, considered of such importance among the ripe convicts of the penitentiary, is of greater necessity still in a prison which will receive before trial both innocent and guilty. From the first moment he is touched by the hand of the law, the prisoner should be cut off from all association, by word or sight, with fellow-prisoners. The State, as his temporary guardian, mindful of his weakness, owes him this protection and this means of reformation.
The absolute separation of prisoners, so that they can neither see, hear, nor touch each other, is the pole-star of Prison Discipline. It is the Alpha, or beginning, as the reformation of the offender is the Omega, or the end. It is this principle, when properly administered, which irradiates with heavenly light even the darkness of the dungeon, driving far away the intrusive legion of unclean thoughts, and introducing in their vacant place the purity of religion, the teachings of virtue, the solace of society, and the comfort of hope. In this spirit let us build our prisons. The jail will no longer be a charnel-house of living men; the cell will cease to be the tomb where is buried what is more precious than the body,—a human soul. From their iron gates let us erase that doom of despair,
"All hope abandon, ye who enter in,"
and inscribe words of gentleness, encouragement, love.
[THE EMPLOYMENT OF TIME.]
Lecture before the Boston Lyceum, delivered in the Federal Street Theatre, February 18, 1846.
"I have lost a day," was the exclamation of the virtuous Roman Emperor,—"for on this day I have done no good thing." The Arch of Titus still stands midway between the Forum and the Colosseum, and the curious traveller discerns the golden candlesticks of conquered Judæa sculptured on its marble sides; but this monument of triumph, and the memory it perpetuates of the veteran legions of Rome and the twenty cohorts of allies before whose swords the sacred city yielded its life in terrible fire and blood, give not to the conqueror such true glory as springs from these words,—destined to endure long after the arch has crumbled to dust, and when the triumph it seeks to perpetuate has passed from the minds of men. That day was not lost. On no day wast thou so great or beneficent as when thou gavest this eternal lesson to man. Across the ages it still reaches innumerable hearts, even as it penetrated the friendly bosoms that throbbed beneath its first utterance. The child learns it, and receives a new impulse to labor and goodness. There are few, whether old or young, who do not recognize it as more than a victory.