Of course all this would not have been possible had not the attitude of both officers and inmates been just what it was. As I look back, it seems to me that all hands played their parts to perfection. The strict orders of the Warden that I was to receive no favors whatever and must be treated exactly like any ordinary inmate, were literally carried out—except in the two or three unimportant instances noted in my journal. But far more remarkable was the attitude of the prisoners. An outsider would never have detected a look or an action to indicate that there was any difference between “Tom Brown” and any other inmate of the institution. Of course it could not be absolutely the same; it was not possible for me to escape being an object of interest; and I often felt around me a sort of suppressed excitement; although, as I glanced again at the stolid gray automatons, among whom I marched or sat at mess, I would think it must be only my imagination—a reflex of my own excitement. Still I would catch an occasional smile, a wink, a lifting of an eyebrow, the ghost of a nod—to show that those silent figures were not really indifferent to my presence among them. And as I went to my cell for the night, there might be a momentary pause by a gray-clothed figure at the door, and a low whisper, “How does it go, Tom?” All such things, however, might well have been in the case of any new convict who had figured in the public prints and had thus become an object of common interest.
After all possible deductions have been made, the fact remains that my experiment met conditions at the prison which, thanks to officers and inmates, led to a large measure of gratifying success. It is hard to see how, from any point of view, the experience could have been improved upon; it is hard to see how I could possibly have learned more in a week than I did. If it were to be done over again, there is nothing whatever that I would change. It has been not only a novel and most interesting experience, it has been a wonderful revelation. I have come out of prison with a new conception of the inherent nobility of human nature, a new belief in the power of men to respond to the right conditions and the right appeal. I have come out with a new sense of human brotherhood, a new faith in God.
CHAPTER II
SUNDAY’S JOURNAL
September 28, 1913. 9.30 P. M.
All is ready for my great adventure. Indeed the first steps have been taken. This morning I went down to the Prison to speak at the chapel exercises as planned; but arrived early, about nine o’clock, at Warden Rattigan’s request, in order to inform the Chaplain as to what I am proposing to do. He seemed very much surprised and pleased. The Warden also explained the matter to the Principal Keeper; but I shall not attempt to venture a guess at his feelings, for I was not present. I can imagine, however, that the official view may not be one altogether in sympathy with my experiment. The official mind, as a rule, prefers to have things viewed strictly from the “congregation side”; it does not approve of interlopers behind the scenes; which is not, perhaps, altogether unnatural.
When the prisoners are all assembled, the Chaplain leads the way and we walk down the aisle of the chapel or assembly room—the latter name seems more appropriate, as there is very little there to suggest religion. Ascending the platform, we are greeted by a cordial round of applause; the men have apparently not forgotten my talk to them in the yard last July, when I explained what our Prison Reform Commission hopes to accomplish, and asked their assistance.
I take my seat upon the platform and, while awaiting my turn to speak, endeavor to listen to the service. Before me sit rows and rows of men in gray trousers and faded shirts, upward of 1,300—not a full house, for a considerable number are out in the road-building camps. Gray predominates—not only in the gray clothes but in the heads and faces. There are a few bright spots of youth and manly vigor, and some black negro heads, but the general impression is gray; gray, and faded, and prematurely old. It is a sad audience, to which a sinister aspect is given by the sight of the guards—silent, alert, blue-clothed figures, youthful for the most part, seated with watchful eyes and weapons handy, each in a raised chair near his own particular company.