Crime a Mental Disease
When will those connected with prisons awake to the fact that the criminal is mentally diseased? Ninety-nine out of a hundred criminals, when not such by accident, through poverty, or environment, come to their lot through inherited, malformed brains. It ought to be the sacred duty of earnest men to deal kindly, intelligently, and patiently with them. The prison, which is now a dreadful place of punishment and humiliation, ought to be made a home of regeneration and reformation, in which intelligent effort is made to raise the prisoner to a higher level; and this surely is not done by withdrawing all the refining influences.
I hope the time is not far off when men and women will take more of a heart interest in prisoners, and when, no matter how low they may have sunk, an opportunity to live honestly will be given them on their release; when the society against which they have sinned will treat them so kindly that for very shame they will seek to do better, and repentance shall enter into the most darkened soul. The “eye for an eye and tooth for a tooth” doctrine is not a part of the Christian dispensation. Our Lord Jesus Christ gave his last supreme lesson, as he turned toward the thief at his side on the cross, and there put an end to that old law forever.
Something Good in the Worst Criminal
There is some good to be found in the worst criminal, which, if nourished by patience and sympathy, will grow into more good. I speak from a large, intimate personal experience, for during my imprisonment it was my happy fortune to evoke kindly reciprocations from some of the worst and most degraded characters. I will cite an instance.
One day I was crossing the hall when a fight occurred. I can not describe it—it was too horrible. The crowd surged toward me, and I was being drawn in among the combatants, when one of them, catching sight of me, stepped out with a face streaming with blood, and pushed me into an open cell, closing the door after me. When I thanked her the next day she replied:
“Why, bless your heart, Mrs. Maybrick, did you think I would let them hurt a hair of your head?”
I believe I had the sympathy and respect of all my fellow prisoners, and when I left Aylesbury, my feelings were those of mingled relief and regret. I could not but feel attached to those with whom I had lived and suffered and worked for so many weary years. I knew, perhaps, more of the life history of these poor women, their inner thoughts and feelings, than any one else in the prison. In suffering, in sympathy, in pity, we were all akin. In the association hour they would bring me their letters from home to read, and show me the photographs of their children or other dear ones, while tears would course down their cheeks at the memory of happier days.