Within Prison Walls / being a narrative during a week of voluntary confinement in the state prison at Auburn, New York

by Thomas Mott Osborne

So the idea of some day entering prison and actually living the life of a convict first occurred to me more than three years ago. Talking with a friend, after his release from prison, concerning his own experience and the need of changes in the System, I brought forward the idea that it was impossible for those of us on the outside to deal in full sympathy and understanding with the man within the walls until we had come in close personal contact with him, and had had something like a physical experience of similar conditions. We discussed how the thing could be done in case the circumstances ever came about so that it would become desirable for me to do it. He agreed as to the general proposition; but nevertheless shook his head somewhat doubtfully. “There is no question but that you’d learn a lot,” he said; then added, “but I think you’d find it rather a tough experience.” He made the suggestion that if ever the plan were carried out autumn would be the best season, as the cells would be least uncomfortable at that time of year.

Time passed, and while I continued to have an interest in the Prison Problem, the interest was a passive rather than an active one. Then on a red-letter day in the summer of 1912, being confined to the house by a slight illness, I read Donald Lowrie’s book, “My Life in Prison.” That vivid picture of prison conditions, written so simply yet with such power and such complete and evident sincerity, stirred me to the depths. It made me feel that I had no right any longer to be silent or indifferent; I must do my share to remove the foulest blot upon our social system.

Thereafter when called upon to speak in public, I usually made Prison Reform the subject of my talk, advancing certain ideas gathered from my experience with the boys of the Junior Republic, endeavoring not only to crystalize my own views as to the prisons but to get others to turn their thoughts in the same direction.

Finally came an appointment by Governor Sulzer to a State Commission on Prison Reform, suggested to the Governor by Judge Riley, the new Superintendent of Prisons. My position as chairman of the Commission made it seem desirable, if not necessary, to inform myself to the utmost as to the inner conditions of the prisons and the needs of the inmates. I do not mean that it was necessary to reinvestigate the material aspect of the prisons—it is known already that the conditions at Sing Sing are barbaric, and those at Auburn medieval—but that it was desirable to get all possible light regarding the actual effect of the System as a whole, or specific parts of it, upon the prisoners.

I began to feel, therefore, that the time had come to carry out the plan which had been so long in the background of my mind. I discussed it long and earnestly with a certain dear friend, who gave me needed encouragement; the Superintendent of Prisons and the Warden at Auburn approved; and, last but not least, an intelligent convict in whom I confided thought it a decidedly good idea. None of us, to be sure, realized the way in which the thing was actually to work out. It became a much more vital and far-reaching experiment than we had any of us expected or could have dared to hope. We were not prepared for the way in which the imaginations of many people, both in and out of prison, were to be touched and stimulated.

Originally I had intended to enter the prison in disguise. In that way I thought one could learn the most, as one would stand a much better chance of seeing the System in its normal working order. Upon mature reflection, however, this idea was given up. The Warden felt strongly that there would be danger of the best possible disguise being penetrated where so many pairs of sharp eyes were on the watch; and I agreed with him that in such event I could not avoid being set down as a spy by both officers and prisoners, and my real object fatally misunderstood. The little additional knowledge I might secure by being unknown would not pay for the danger of complete failure. In this conclusion the intelligent convict joined, for he had pointed out from the first that, while there were certain obvious disadvantages in being known, yet there were also certain advantages great enough to more than counterbalance. He said that if I could spare two months for the visit it would be better to come disguised, but that it would certainly take as long as that to get into the game. “You know we’re awful suspicious,” he added, by way of explanation; “and we don’t open up to any new fellow until we know he’s on the level.” He maintained therefore that, having only a week, I had much better make no secret of it, but come in my own person. His view was confirmed by the event. I not only learned far more than if I had been unknown, but I so gained the confidence of the prisoners that many of them have become my devoted and valued friends.

The account in the following chapters of my week in Auburn Prison is taken from the pages of a journal I kept during my confinement. In that I jotted down, day by day, every incident no matter how trivial it seemed at the time; so that I possess a very complete record of my week in prison.

As I have transcribed the pages of the diary I have lived over again every moment of that remarkably vivid experience, finding that almost every act, every word, every detail, is fairly burned into my memory. I have scarcely needed the pages of the journal, nor the long account of our week together which my working partner in the basket shop, Jack Murphy, wrote out at my request.

I shall not attempt to draw up any bill of indictment against the Prison System, or to suggest specific improvements, either in general principles or administrative details; I shall simply set down the facts and my feelings as accurately as I can.

One final word by way of introduction. Many newspapers, presumably reflecting the impressions of a considerable number of individuals, have expressed the idea that nothing of value could possibly have been obtained because I was not a real convict; although the same newspapers would probably be the first to discredit any statements a real convict might make. Foreseeing such criticism, I had tried to forestall it in the remarks I addressed to the prisoners the day before my experiment began; and if some of my editorial critics had taken the trouble to read their own press dispatches, they might have been saved some distress of mind. No one could have understood better than I did at the outset, that it is impossible to place yourself exactly in the shoes of a man who has been sentenced to prison for an actual crime; I did not expect to do so. No one, so far as I know, has ever yet succeeded in putting himself precisely in the place of another in any given set of circumstances; yet that does not keep us from constantly studying and analyzing the human problem. It still remains true that “The proper study of mankind is man.” In this particular instance, perhaps some things of value were obtained for the very reason that I was not a criminal. Possibly I could judge of some matters with a juster appreciation than could any man suffering involuntary imprisonment. It did, in fact, surprise me very much that anyone could succeed to so great an extent in putting himself in the place and in sharing so many of the sensations of an actual prisoner. Time and again I heard from others the expression of thoughts and feelings which I recognized as those which had swept over me; and I found that, partly by force of imagination and environment and partly by the actual physical conditions of confinement, one could really come into astonishingly close sympathy and understanding with the prisoner. The truth of this can, I believe, be seen in my narrative and has been demonstrated many times since my release.