The New York Tombs Inside and Out! / Scenes and Reminiscences Coming Down to the Present. A Story Stranger Than Fiction, with an Historic Account of America's Most Famous Prison.

by John Josiah Munro

I have seen mothers and wives kneeling at cell doors and pleading with God for the deliverance and reclamation of sons and husbands. I have seen prisoners so conscience stricken and so moved by the tears and sufferings of dear ones, that they wept in their agony and firmly resolved to lead moral lives, and they kept the resolve.

I have said nothing about the poor and their sufferings, and more especially the children of the poor when for some unknown reason they came within the meshes of the law. Some years ago I had occasion to meet a German lad in the Boys’ Prison. He was what the boys call a “tenderfoot.” He cried night and day. I felt very sorry for him. He was indeed inconsolable and it seemed nothing could be said which would make him dry his tears or infuse new hope into his discouraged heart. He cried continually for his mother and although word was sent to her, no mother came. His sufferings became so acute that I would have done anything in my power for the boy. After waiting ten days and no mother came, at the urgent request of one of the keepers I went in search for her. She lived on the East side, near Station Street, about five blocks from the Bowery. She was bloated, coarse, unmotherly, without any natural affection, and I saw at once that she cared more for her vile business than her own child. I could do nothing with her.

I do not think I shall ever forget the case of the newsboy, who was arrested at the Brooklyn Bridge entrance for selling papers. Complaints had been made to the police of some ruffian boys who took pleasure in insulting people who would not buy papers. The officers had received orders to arrest the first offender and make him an example. Frank Smith was then at the desk in the old prison. He had just taken a boy to the ten day house, and asked me to go and see him. I did so. I found the poor boy inside the big iron gate crying his life out. No one could comfort him. I tried to find out his offence, but he would not stop his crying long enough to tell me. I went over to the police court, but as there was a large calendar that day, I could get no information. I returned to the Tombs. As I came near the boy I found that his two little sisters had come to see him. They had heard of his misfortune and had sought him out as soon as possible. It was one of the most pathetic sights that I ever witnessed. The boy lived with his mother and sisters on East Broadway. They were Jews and very poor. The mother was ill at home, suffering from an incurable disease, and was then on her death bed. Reuben, the diminutive newsboy, was trying to support the family by selling papers. The sentence of the court was thirty days in the city prison or a hundred dollars bond. But this was out of question for the family. When I returned from court I found the two sisters crying bitterly at the gate and begging Rubie to come home. Their cry was, “O Rubie, come home, won’t you? Mamma is sick and ready to die. Won’t you come home with us, Rubie?” All this time they were weeping bitterly and everybody was affected, even the tiermen. I could not stand it any longer. I saw the magistrate at once and told him the situation. He would not discharge him under any circumstances. When I saw that I could make no further impression I offered myself as Rubie’s bondsman, and the Judge accepted me and the boy was at once discharged and went home with his sisters. I saw one of the Bridge policemen and asked that Rubie be not arrested on account of his poverty and the fact that he had a dying mother at home, and he kindly spoke to the others at the Bridge and Rubie was never molested after that day.

The scene which had the most powerful effect on me and which has stayed by me the longest, moving me to tears even to this day, was the beholding two little girls, sisters, conversing with their brother who was accused of burglary. The oldest sister was about thirteen years of age, the youngest about three. All were crying bitterly, with the little one sobbing out, “Oh brother Willie, come home, please come home, we have had nothing to eat all day, and we had no supper last night. Why don’t the naughty man (the keeper) let you come home?”

What were the facts about this little sorrowing group? Three orphans, the boy about nineteen had cared for his sisters faithfully and tenderly. His record was good, had been employed by one firm for more than nine years, and had given general satisfaction. One evening while passing along Second Avenue, a thief rushed by pursued by a policeman; as he passed Daly (so we will call him) he thrust into his pocket a gold watch and chain, which the policeman observed. Daly was arrested as a confederate of the thief and turned over to the police. After learning these facts and fully verifying them, I succeeded in securing the release of the prisoner, who to-day is one of the best and most prosperous carpenters in the city. The pathetic face of the baby sister I have never forgotten, nor her innocent pleading for the return home of her dearly and deservedly loved brother.

I have stood opposite “Murderers’ Row” and counted more than twenty-five visitors eagerly talking with men whose brutal appearance and awful crimes rendered them repulsive even to their fellow men. Some of these twenty-five visitors did not even so much as know the prisoners, and had merely read of their crimes in the papers and prompted by curiosity, and a mawkish sentimentality, had called to express sympathy and tender their help. Some of the visitors were richly gowned and daintily gloved men and women. They brought hampers of food and large bouquets. One would think that these murderers were heroes and martyrs, from the treatment accorded them by these women whose conduct seemed to me almost inexplicable. The man whose crime was most awful and grewsome in its details received the most attention. What is there about a murderer to attract refined women I cannot understand, and I have given the subject considerable thought. To see a cultured woman almost caressing a brutal murderer who is an entire stranger to her is a sight sufficient to cause any sane man to wonder. It seemed to me it would be more consistent if they called on the family of the victim and offered them help and sympathy.

To the student of human nature, visiting hours at the Tombs afford a good opportunity to study phases of life not found elsewhere. Let him pass from cell to cell, carefully observing the visitors at each, the expression of their features, their gestures, their attitudes. On some faces sits hope, radiant, beautiful and very encouraging to the prisoner. On another face the stamp of fear, doubt and uncertainty is clear. The son or husband is in danger. The evidence points to guilt and conviction, too much indeed to encourage even the shadow of hope. Another face bears sorrow and tears, and discouragement has left its unmistakable impress. One finds on few faces the stamp of resignation. Hard it is for a mother or a wife to become reconciled to the thought of a son or a husband, serving a term in prison, however guilty he may be.

Negro criminals have the most cheerful and encouraging visitors. The Black race is blessed with a disposition to view the bright side of all situations and experiences. It is a cheerful race. The Negro is a foe to gloomy thoughts. It is hard to depress him. He will dance, sing and make merry at the foot of the gallows. The Negro visitors enter smiling and so depart. They talk with prisoners just as though they were free and comfortably ensconced in pleasant homes. They cheer instead of depressing the prisoner.

The Italians are really distressing in their efforts to comfort friends in prison. They jabber, whine, cry, caress and condemn and reproach until they have the prisoner in a state bordering on insanity. They leave him in a condition truly pitiful. Instead of cheering him, he has been rendered far more miserable by his visitors. He dreams of electric chairs, prisons, policemen and handcuffs. The bananas his visitors bring he could well do without, as he could the visits of friends who so greatly depress him.

Fritz appears and says to Hans, “I think you go by the prison alretty, ain’t it?” “Naw, I thinks I go by the shudge bimeby, pretty quick, and he lets me go home to mine Louisa. I am not guilty alretty,” responds the hopeful Hans. German visitors as a general thing conduct themselves sensibly. They are not emotional, but hardheaded and sensible. They smoke with the prisoner, laugh and joke, and leave him in a cheerful frame of mind. The German is sociable and not easily rendered gloomy or depressed. The German visitors try to imbue prisoners with the idea that their trouble will soon end, and in a few days they will be sitting in Hoffmans’ beer garden with a glass of lager, and a plate of sauerkraut before them. So believing, the prisoner lies down to pleasant dreams.