The Penitentiary as a Model of the Ideal Society

Abstract

Man in prison is the virtual image of the bourgeois type which he still is to become in reality ….

Appendices

Appendix 1: Subordination of the Institutionalised Being (Inquiry at the Philadelphia Penitentiary, October 1831)

Gustave de Beaumont and Alexis de Tocqueville visited the Philadelphia penitentiary in October 1831. At this time the principle of solitary confinement was being seriously challenged by the silent system of Auburn. The impressions of this visit and detailed notes on prison treatment were completed and combined with written records of interviews with staff and inmates; all this was then carefully arranged in the form of appendices to their work on the American penitentiary system of 1832.⁵⁵

Through the attentive eyes of these explorers, through their lucid and analytical writing, we can enter the labyrinth of social abnormality in early nineteenth century America. However, a few points must be classified before we quote certain parts of the enquiry:

• 1. We have considered it significant for the discussion we have conducted up to now to use this material because life in the Philadelphia prison – the nearest to the ‘model’ of the cellular penitentiary – embodies, in paradigmatic terms, the extreme destruction and reduction of the inmate to ‘subject of need’, to ‘pure and abstract needful existence’.

• 2. It appears from this inquiry that the inmate is already an ‘institutionalised subject’ in the sense that the manipulative mechanisms have already turned the inmate into ‘virtual being’. What emerges therefore is a monstruous phantom a new animal, once savage, now tame.

• 3. In fact, the softening-up or the ‘programming’ (the so-called admission procedure) following which the inmate is categorised as an institutional object, as an ‘object for the process of manipulation’ have already made their effectiveness plain. The law of 23 April 1826, which sets out the disciplinary norms for the Eastern Penitentiary of Philadelphia, prescribes in Article 5 that the new prisoner be:

  Examined…in order to become acquainted with his or her person and countenance, and his or her name, height, eye, place of nativity, trade, complexion, color of hair and eyes, length of feet, to be accurately measured and that these shall be entered in a book provided for that purposes together with such other natural or accidental marks, or peculiarity of feature or appearance, as may serve to identify him or her, and if the convict can write, his or her signature shall be written under the said description of his or her person.⁵⁶

• 4. Therefore, once the inmate is ‘relieved’ of his belongings (necessary for his identity), the administration diligently seeks to turn them into ‘disinfected objects’ in order that they cannot be identified as ‘personal’.

  After ‘registration’:

  A physician verifies the state of his health. He is washed; his hair is cut, and a new dress, according to the uniform of the prison is given to him. In Philadelphia he is conducted to his solitary cell, which he never leaves; there he works, eats and rests…At Auburn…the prisoner is first plunged into the same solitude but it is only for a few days, after which he leaves it, in order to occupy himself in the workshops.⁵⁷

• 5. The ‘total expropriation’ of the prisoner (being seen without seeing) gradually breaks down the ‘boundary that the individual places between his being and the environment’,⁵⁸ and in this way, ‘the embodiment of self’ is profaned.

• 6. These standardised processes, by means of which the inmate’s ‘self’ is mortified, induce the manipulated subject to assume – by way of defence – the ‘practice of simulation’: or better: the ‘external reproduction’ of behaviour deemed ideal by the administration.⁵⁹ On this point, de Beaumont and de Tocqueville acutely observe:

  We have no doubt, but that the habits of order to which the person is subjected for several years, influence very considerably his moral conduct after his return to society. The necessity of labour which overcomes his disposition to idleness; the obligation of silence which makes him reflect; the isolation which places him alone in presence of his crime and suffering; the religious instruction which enlightens and comforts him; the obedience of every moment to inflexible rules; the regularity of a uniform life, in a word, all the circumstances of belonging to this severe system, are calculated to produce a deep impression upon his mind.

  Perhaps, leaving the prison he is not an honest man; but he has contracted honest habits.⁶⁰

In the extracts we have selected⁶¹ madness and simulation, bewilderment and hypocrisy abound; a hotchpotch of attitudes which, though antagonistic, describe a state of profound degradation and subordination on the part of the ‘institutionalised being’.

Inmate No. A

This prisoner knows how to read and write; has been convicted of murder; says his health, without being bad, is not so good as when he was free; denies strongly having committed the crime, for which he was convicted; confesses to having been a drunkard, turbulent and irreligious. But now, he adds, his mind is changed; he finds a king of pleasure in solitude, and is only tormented by the desire to see once more his family, and to give a moral and Christian education to his children – a thing which he had never thought of when free.

Q.:

Do you believe you could live here without labour?

A.:

Labour seems to me absolutely necessary for existence. I believe I should die without it.

Q.:

Do you often see the wardens?

A.:

About six times a day.

Q.:

Is it a consolation to see them?

A.:

Yes, Sir; it is with joy I see their figures. This summer, a cricket entered my yard; it looked to me like a companion. If a butterfly, or any other animal enters my cell, I never do it any harm.

Inmate No. B

A young man; confesses to being a criminal; sheds tears during our whole conversation, particularly when he is reminded of his family. “Happily,” he says, “nobody can see me here;” he hopes then to return into society without being stamped with shame, and not to be rejected by it.

Q.:

Do you find it difficult to endure solitude?

A.:

Ah! Sir, it is the most horrid punishment that can be imagined!

Q.:

Does your health suffer by it?

A.:

No: it is very good; but my soul is very sick.

Q.:

Of what do you think most?

A.:

Of religion; religious ideas are my greatest consolation.

Q.:

Do you see now and then a minister?

A.:

Yes, every Sunday.

Q.:

Do you like to converse with him?

A.:

It is a great happiness to be allowed to talk to him. Last Sunday, he was a whole hour with me; he promised to bring me tomorrow news from my father and mother. I hope they are alive; for a whole year, I have not heard of them.

Q.:

Do you think labour an alleviation of your situation?

A.:

It would be impossible to live here without labour. Sunday is a very long day, I assure you.

Q.:

Do you believe your little yard might be dispensed with, without injury to your health?

A.:

Yes, by establishing in a cell a continued current of air.

Q.:

What idea have you formed of the utility of the system to which you are subject?

A.:

If there is any system which can make men reflect and reform, it is this.

Inmate No. C

Was convicted for horse-stealing; says he is innocent. Nobody, he says, can imagine the horrid punishment of continued solitude. Asked how he passes his time; he says there are but two means – labour, and the Bible. The Bible is his greatest consolation. He seems to be strongly actuated by religious ideas; his conversation is animated; he cannot speak long without being agitated and shedding tears. (We have made the same remark of all whom we have seen so far.) He is a German by birth; lost his father early, and has been badly educated. Has been above a year in the prison. Health good.

Inmate No. D

A negro of twenty years of age; has received no education, and has no family; was sentenced for burglary; has been fourteen months in the penitentiary; health excellent; labour and visits of the chaplain are his only pleasure. This young man, who seems to have a heavy mind, hardly knew the letters of the alphabet previously to his entering the penitentiary; he has, however by his own exertions, attained to reading fluently his Bible.

Inmate No. E

A negro of twenty-four years, convicted of theft a second time; he seems full of intelligence.

Q.:

You have been a prisoner of Walnut Street. What difference is there between that prison, and this penitentiary?

A.:

The prisoners were a great deal less unhappy in Walnut Street than here because they could freely communicate with each other.

Q.:

You seem to work with pleasure: was it the same with you in Walnut Street?

A.:

No; there labour was a burden, which we tried to escape in all possible ways; here it is a great consolation.

Q.:

Do you read the Bible sometimes?

A.:

Yes, very often.

Q.:

Did you do the same in Walnut Street?

A.:

No; I never found pleasure in reading the Bible or hearing religious discourses but here.

This prisoner has been here six months; health excellent.

Inmate No. F

Convicted of an attempt to commit murder; fifty-two years of age; has seven children; has received a good education; was a prisoner in Walnut Street; makes a frightful picture of the vices of that prison; but believes most of the convicts would prefer to return to Walnut Street, than to enter the penitentiary; they shun solitude so much.

Asked his opinion respecting the system of imprisonment; he says that it cannot fail to make a deep impression on the souls of the prisoners.

Inmate No. G

A negro of thirty-four has been convicted for theft once before; eighteen months here; health pretty good.

Q.:

Do you find the discipline to which you are subject as severe as it is represented?

A.:

No: but that depends upon the disposition of the prisoner. If he takes solitary confinement bad, he falls into irritation and despair; if, on the contrary, he immediately sees the advantages which he can derive from it, it does not appear insupportable.

Q.:

You have been imprisoned already in Walnut Street?

A.:

Yes, Sir; and I cannot imagine a greater den of vice and crime. It requires but a few days, for a person not very guilty to become a consummate criminal.

Q.:

Do you think that the penitentiary is superior to the old prison?

A.:

That is as if you were to ask me, whether the sun was finer than the moon?

Inmate No. H

Age thirty-eight; convicted of theft; has been here eight months. Health good. Became a shoemaker in the prison, and makes six pairs of shoes a week.

This individual seems to have naturally a grave and meditative mind. Solitude in prison has singularly increased this disposition. His reflections are the results of a very elevated order of ideas. He seems to be occupied only with philosophical and Christian thoughts.

Inmate No. I

This prisoner, the first who was sent to the penitentiary, is a negro. Has been here more than two years. His health is excellent.

This man works with ardour; he makes ten pairs of shoes a week. His mind seems very tranquil; his disposition excellent. He considers his being brought to the penitentiary as a signal benefit of Providence. His thoughts are in general religious. He read to us in the gospel the parable of the good shepherd, the meaning of which touched him deeply – one who was born of a degraded and depressed race, and had never experienced anything but indifference and harshness.

Inmate No. J

A well-educated man, thirty-two years old. He was a physician.

Solitary confinement seems to have made a profound impression upon this young man. He speaks of the first time of his imprisonment with horror; the remembrance makes him weep. During two months, he says, he was in despair; but time has alleviated his situation. At present, he is resigned to his fate, however austere it may be. He was allowed to do nothing; but idleness is so horrid, that he nevertheless always works. As he knew no mechanic art, he occupies himself with cutting leather for the shoemakers in the prison. His greatest grief is not to be allowed to communicate with his family. He ended the conversation by saying: ‘solitary confinement is very painful, but I nevertheless consider it as an institution eminently useful for society.’

Inmate No. K

Aged forty. Imprisoned for robbery on the highway with arms in his hand; seems very intelligent; told us his story in the following terms:

I was fourteen or fifteen years old when I arrived in Philadelphia. I am the son of a poor farmer in the west, and I came in search of employment. I had no acquaintance, and found no work; and the first night I was obliged to lie down on the deck of a vessel, having no other place of rest. Here I was discovered the next morning; the constable arrested me, and the mayor sentenced me to one month’s imprisonment with a number of malefactors of all ages. I lost the honest principles which my father had given me; and on leaving the prison, one of my first acts was to join several young delinquents of my own age and to assist them in various thefts. I was arrested, tried and acquitted. Now I thought myself safe from justice, and, confident in my skill, I committed other offences, which brought me again before the court. I was sentenced to an imprisonment of nine years in Walnut Street prison.

Q. :

Did not this punishment produce in you a feeling of the necessity of correcting yourself?

A. :

Yes Sir; yet the Walnut Street prison has never produced in me any regret at my criminal actions. I confess that I never could repent them there, or that I ever had the idea of doing it during my stay in that place. But I soon remarked that the same persons reappeared there, and that, however great the finesse, or strength of courage of the thieves was, they always ended by being taken; this made me think seriously of my life, and I firmly resolved to quit for ever so dangerous a way of living, as soon as I should leave the prison. This resolution taken, I conducted myself better, and after seven years’ imprisonment, I was pardoned. I had learnt tailoring in prison, and I soon found a favourable employment. I married, and began to gain easily my sustenance; but Philadelphia was full of people who had known me in prison; I always feared being betrayed by them. One day, indeed, two of my former fellow prisoners came into my master’s shop and asked to speak to me; I at first feigned not to know them but they soon obliged me to confess who I was. They then asked me to lend them a considerable sum; and on my refusal, they threatened to discover the history of my life to my employer. I now promised to satisfy them and told them to return the next day. As soon as they had gone, I left the shop also, and embarked immediately with my wife for Baltimore. In this city, I found easy employment, and lived for a long time comfortably enough; when one day my master received a letter from one of the constables in Philadelphia, which informed him that one of his journeymen was a former prisoner of Walnut Street. I do not know what could have induced this man to such a step. I owe to him my being now here. As soon as my employer had read the letter, he sent me indignantly away. I went to all the other tailors in Baltimore, but they were informed of what had happened, and refused me. Misery obliged me to seek labour on the rail road, then making between Baltimore and Ohio. Grief and fatigue threw me after some time into a violent fever. My sickness lasted a long time, and my money was at an end. Hardly recovered, I went to Philadelphia, where the fever again attacked me. When I was convalescent, and found myself without resources, without bread for my family; when I thought of all the obstacles which I found in my attempts to gain honestly my livelihood, and of all the unjust persecutions which I suffered, I fell into a state of inexpressible exasperation. I said to myself: Well then! Since I am forced to do it. I will become a thief again; and if there is a single dollar left in the United States, and if it were in the pocket of the President, I will have it. I called my wife, ordered her to sell all the clothes which were not indispensably necessary, and to buy with the money a pistol. Provided with this, and when I was yet too feeble to walk without crutches, I went to the environs of the city; I stopped the first passenger, and forced him to give me his pocket-book. But I was arrested the same evening. I had been followed by the persons whom I had robbed, and, my feebleness having obliged me to stop in the neighbourhood, there was no great pains necessary to seize me. I confessed my crime without difficulty and I was sent here.

Q. :

What are your present resolutions for the future?

A. :

I do not feel disposed, I tell you freely, to reproach myself with what I have done, nor to become what is called a good Christian: but I am determined never to steal again, and I see the possibility of succeeding. If I leave in nine years this prison, no one will know me again in this world; no one will have known me in prison; I shall have made no dangerous acquaintance. I shall be then at liberty to gain my livelihood in peace. This is the great advantage which I find in this penitentiary and the reason why I prefer a hundred times being here to being sent again to the Walnut Street prison, in spite of the severity of the discipline which is kept up in this penitentiary.

Has been in prison a year; health very good.

Inmates Nos. L and M

These two individuals are insane. The warden of the prison has assured us that they arrived in this state at the prison. Their insanity is very tranquil. Nothing appears in their incoherent speeches which would justify a suspicion that their unhappy disorder is attributable to the penitentiary.

Inmate No. N

Was a physician; has the charge of the pharmacy of the penitentiary. He converses intelligently and speaks of the various systems of imprisonment, with a freedom of thought which his situation makes very extraordinary. The discipline of this penitentiary appeared to him, taken in its entire operation, mild, and calculated to produce reformation. ‘For a well-educated man’, he says, ‘it is better to live in absolute solitude than to be thrown together with wretches of all kinds. For all isolation favours reflection and is conducive to reformation.’

Q.:

But have you not observed that solitary confinement is injurious to health? In your quality of prisoner and physician, you are more able to answer this question than anybody else.

A.:

I have not observed, that, on the whole, there are here more diseases than in society. I do not believe that people here feel worse as to health.

Inmate No. O

Age thirty-eight years; has been but three weeks in the penitentiary, and seems to be plunged in despair. ‘Solitude will kill me’, he says, ‘I shall never be able to endure my sentence until its expiration. I shall be dead before that time arrives.’

Q.:

Do you not find some consolation in your labour?

A.:

Yes, Sir; solitude without labour is still a thousand times more horrible; but labour does not prevent me from thinking, and being very unhappy. Here, I assure you, my soul is sick.

This unfortunate man sobbed when speaking of his wife and children, whom he never hoped to see again. When we entered his cell, we found him weeping and labouring at the same time.

Inmate No. P

Age twenty-five; he belongs to the most comfortably situated classes of society. He expresses himself with warmth and facility. He has been convicted of fraudulent bankruptcy.

This young man shows a great pleasure in seeing us. It is easily seen that solitude is for him a terrible torment. The necessity of intellectual intercourse with others seems to torment him much more than those of his fellow prisoners who have received a less careful education. He hastens to give us his history; he speaks of his crime, of his standing in society, of his friends, and particularly of his parents; his feelings towards his family were extraordinarily developed. He cannot think of his relations without melting into tears; he takes from under his bed some letters which his family has succeeded in sending to him. These letters are almost in pieces, in consequence of being read so often; he reads them still, comments upon them, and is touched by the least expression of interest which they contain.

Q.:

I see that the punishment inflicted upon you seems extremely hard. Do you believe it conducive to reformation?

A.:

Yes, Sir; I believe that this whole system of imprisonment is better than any other. It would be more painful to me to be confounded with wretches of all kinds, than to live alone here. Moreover, it is impossible that such a punishment should not make the convict reflect deeply.

Q.:

But do you not believe that its influence may injure the reason?

A.:

I believe that the danger of which you speak must exist sometimes. I remember, for my part that during the first months of my solitude, I was often visited by strange visions. During several nights in succession, I saw, among other things, an eagle perching at the foot of my bed. But at present I work, and am accustomed to this kind of life; I am not any longer troubled with ideas of this kind.

One year in prison. Health good.

Appendix 2: The Administration of the ‘Silent System’ (Conversations with G. Barrett, B. C. Smith and E. Lynds)

De Beaumont and de Tocqueville, in their pilgrimage to the North American prison world in the early part of the nineteenth century, visited prisons based on the Auburn silent system. This time, they spoke with the governors, the chief warders and the staff in general; they furnished ample documentation in their report to the French government.

It is interesting to observe from a reading of this rich source how both the actual situation and the ideology of the penitentiary system emerge with great clarity. We should not forget that in 1830 the dispute over solitary confinement and the silent system divided public opinion, academic polemicists and, of course, the political administrations of the various states without there being any sign as to which of the two systems would eventually triumph. Obviously, the bodies with a direct interest tended to stress the positive aspects of their choice to these illustrious foreign ‘visitors’ and criticised what occurred in the ‘opposing’ camps.

Notwithstanding the patently partisan tone of contacts with the prison administration, both direct and by letter, it seems to us that there are two tendencies here which are only apparently contradictory. The first and most obviously ideological, championed by the chief warders, highlights the ‘wickedness’ of the criminal and the ‘moral strength’ of punitive process capable of transforming a ‘bestial universe’ into an army of pious and religious men; the second, decidedly more crude and pragmatic, saw prison as a ‘private and productive concern’ ruled exclusively by symbols of managerial authority; the cold calculation of the ‘manager-entrepreneur’, contempt for the mass of the ‘convict labourers’, economic ruthlessness and deep pessimism about the ‘moral regeneration’ of the inmate.

Although both these perspectives were undoubtedly presented to the two foreigners in the hope of soliciting their admiration and agreement, we can still see elements of truth in them. In particular, the interviewees inevitably exalted the implacable severity of the discipline imposed when they were asked to give evidence of the difficulties encountered by the administration.

Letter of Mr. Barrett, Chaplain of the Penitentiary of Wethersfield.

Wethersfield.

October 7th, 1831.

To Messrs. de Beaumont and de Tocqueville:

Gentlemen:

The population of Connecticut amounts to about 280,000 souls. During thirty-six years, the old shafts near Timesbury and called Newgate, served as a state prison. The new prison has been inhabited only for about four years.

During the forty years preceding the month of July, 1831, the number of individuals sent to these two prisons amounted to 976. Their crimes were of the following classes; 435 had committed burglary; 139 horse stealing; 78 passing counterfeit money; 41 assault and battery; 47 attempt to commit rape; 3 attempt at poisoning; 1 murder (the punishment had been commuted); 11 robbery on the highway; 1 robbing the mail; 1 bestiality; 60 forgery; 25 misdemeanors; 15 had been committed for attempting to deliver prisoners; 34 for arson; 9 for manslaughter; 4 for rape (the punishment had been commuted); 2 for cheating; 5 for bigamy; 23 for adultery; 16 for breaking fences; 3 for attempts at escape; 9 for theft, to the injury of the prison; 4 for incest; 3 for perjury; and 5 for crimes not known.

There are, in Connecticut, about 3 coloured people to 100 white. In the prison, the proportion of the negroes is about 33 to 100.

Of 182 convicts whom I have examined, there were 76 who did not know how to write, and 30 who had not learned to read.

Sixty had been deprived of their parents before their tenth year; and 36 others had lost them before their fifteenth year.

Of 182, 116 were natives of Connecticut.

Ninety were from twenty to thirty years old, and 18 were sentenced for life.

The prison contains at present 18 women. Some are employed in the kitchen, and in washing for the prisoners; others in sewing shoes.

For a pair of shoes they receive 4 cents; a woman can finish from 6 to 10 pair a day. During night they are in separate cells.

Morning and evening, prayers are said in the presence of the prisoners; passages of the Bible are read and explained to them. The convicts show themselves attentive and collected on these occasions. Every one finds in his cell a Bible furnished by the state, and in which he may read when he likes. Generally they are disposed to this kind of reading. The other day, passing by their cells, I observed 23 prisoners out of 25, who were seriously occupied in reading.

On Sunday, a sermon is preached in their presence, which they never fail to hear with great attention. They often make, afterwards, curious questions respecting the meaning of what they have heard.

When the principles of the Holy Scriptures are impressed on the heart of a convict, it certainly may be believed that his reform is complete: we have reason to believe that this result has been sometimes obtained. I should think that fifteen or twenty of the actual number of prisoners are so affected in this case. It is, however, impossible, so far, to establish this point in a positive way. It is necessary to wait until the state of liberty, and resistance to temptations, finally prove their reformation.

None of the convicts refuse at least religious instruction; and I have not yet found a single one who has shown the least want of respect, when I have come to visit him in his cell.

I have observed that ignorance, neglect on the part of parents, and intemperance, formed, in general, the three great causes to which crime must be attributed.

The majority of convicts show themselves anxious to be instructed. There were some who arrived without knowing a letter, and learned to read within two months. Yet they could make use of the Bible only, and received no other lessons than those which could be given through the grates of their cell.

The result to be expected from a prison depends much upon the character of the keepers. They ought to have moral habits, to speak little, and to be ready to see everything.

If the keepers are what they ought to be; if the convicts, separated during night, labour during day in silence; if continued surveillance is joined with frequent moral and religious instruction, a prison may become a place of reformation for the convicts, and a source of revenue to the state.

I am, respectfully &c.

G. BARRETT, Chaplain of the Prison.

The Opinion of the Chaplain of Auburn Prison, the Rev. Mr. B. C. SMITH.

The fact which, of all others, is the most striking to a person conversant with the religious history of convicts, is that of their great and general ignorance of the Bible … Without mentioning particular instances of ignorance, which would scarcely be credited, it is sufficient to remark, that many, upon being questioned, have betrayed their inability to name any one of the books or part of which the Bible is composed ….

Another fact, little less remarkable, respecting this class of men, is their general ignorance of letters … and prevalence of intemperance among this class of men … The number of convicts now in this prison is 683; of these, 385 were under the influence of ardent spirits at the time they committed their crimes; and of the number, 219 have acknowledged that either one or both of their parents, or their masters, were more or less intemperate ….

Is not the proportion of unmarried convicts also worthy of remark? It would be an interesting subject of inquiry, and perhaps lead to some important conclusions, to ascertain and compare this proportion between married and unmarried adults in the community at large. I have not the means at hand of ascertaining the proportion of marriages among the latter, but give that of the former in this prison, to enable, any one, who may be curious enough, to prosecute to inquiry.

Conversation with Mr. Elam Lynds.

I have passed ten years of my life in the administration of prisons, he said to us; I have been for a long time a witness of the abuses which predominated in the old system; they were very great. Prisons then caused great expense, and the prisoners lost all the morality which they yet had left. I believe that this system would have led us back to the barbarous laws of the ancient codes. The majority at least began to be disgusted with all philanthropic ideas, the impracticability of which seemed to be proved by experience. It was under these circumstances that I undertook the reform of Auburn. At first I met with great difficulties with the legislature, and even with public opinion: much noise was made about tyranny; nothing short of success was requisite for my justification.

Q.:

Do you believe that the discipline established by you might succeed in any other country than in the United States?

A.:

I am convinced that it would succeed wherever the method is adopted which I have followed. As far as I can judge, I even believe that in France there would be more chances of success than with us. I understand the prisons in France stand under the immediate direction of government, which is able to lend a solid and durable support to its agents: here we are the slaves of a public opinion which constantly changes. But, according to my experience, it is necessary that the director of a prison, particularly if he establish a new discipline, should be invested with an absolute and certain power; it is impossible to calculate on this in a democratic republic like ours. With us, he is obliged to labour at once to captivate public opinion, and to carry through his undertaking – two things which are often irreconcilable. My principle has always been, that in order to reform a prison, it is well to concentrate within the same individual, all power and all responsibility. When the inspectors wished to oblige me to act according to their views, I told them: you are at liberty to send me away; I am dependent upon you; but as long as you retain me, I shall follow my plan; it is for you to choose.

Q.:

We have heard it said to Americans, and we are inclined to believe it, that the success of the penitentiary system must be partly attributed to the habit, so general in this country, of obeying scrupulously the laws.

A.:

I do not believe it. In Sing-Sing, the fourth part of the prisoners is composed of foreigners by birth. I have subdued them all, as well as the Americans. Those whom it was most difficult to curb, were the Spaniards of South America – a race which has more of the ferocious animal, and of the savage, than of the civilized man.

Q.:

What is then the secret of this discipline so powerful, which you have established in Sing-Sing, and of which we have admired the effects?

A.:

It would be pretty difficult to explain it entirely; it is the result of a series of efforts and daily cares, of which it would be necessary to be an eye-witness. General rules cannot be indicated. The point is, to maintain uninterrupted silence and uninterrupted labour; to obtain this, it is equally necessary to watch incessantly the keepers, as well as the prisoners; to be at once inflexible and just.

Q.:

Do you believe that bodily chastisement might be dispensed with?

A.:

I am convinced of the contrary. I consider the chastisement by the whip, the most efficient, and, at the same time, the most humane which exists; it never injures health, and obliges the prisoners to lead a life essentially healthy. Solitary confinement, on the contrary, is often insufficient, and always dangerous. I have seen many prisoners in my life, whom it was impossible to subdue in this manner, and who only left the solitary cell to go to the hospital. I consider it impossible to govern a large prison without a whip. Those who know human nature from books only, may say the contrary.

Q.:

Don’t you believe it imprudent at Sing-Sing, for the prisoners to work in an open field?

A.:

For my part, I should always prefer to direct a prison in which such a state of things existed, than the contrary. It is impossible to obtain the same vigilance, and continual care from the guardians, in a prison surrounded by walls. Moreover, if you have once completely curbed the prisoner under the yoke of discipline, you may, without danger, employ him in the labour which you think best. It is in this manner, that, the state may make use of the criminals in a thousand ways, if it has once improved the discipline of its prisons.

Q.:

Do you believe it absolutely impossible to establish sound discipline in a prison, in which the system of cells does not exist?

A.:

I believe that it would be possible to maintain considerable order in such a prison, and to make labour productive: but it would be quite impossible to prevent a number of abuses, the consequences of which would be very serious.

Q.:

Do you believe that it would be possible to establish cells in an old prison?

A.:

This depends entirely upon the state of those prisons. I have no doubt, that, in many old prisons, the system of cells might be introduced without great difficulties. It is always easy, and not expensive, to erect wooden cells; but they have the inconvenience of retaining a bad smell, and consequently of becoming sometimes unhealthy.

Q.:

Do you really believe in the reform of a great number of prisoners?

A.:

We must understand each other; I do not believe in a complete reform, except with young delinquents. Nothing, in my opinion, is rarer than to see a convict of mature age become a religious and virtuous man. I do not put great faith in the sanctity of those who leave the prison; I do not believe that the counsels of the chaplain, or the meditations of the prisoner, make a good Christian of him. But my opinion is, that a great number of old convicts do not commit new crimes, and that they even become useful citizens, having learned in prison a useful art, and contracted habits of constant labour. This is the only reform which I ever have expected to produce, and I believe it is the only one which society has a right to expect.

Q.:

What do you believe proves the conduct of the prisoner in the prison, as to his future reformation?

A.:

Nothing. If it were necessary to mention a prognostic, I would even say that the prisoner who conducts himself well, will probably return to his former habits, when set free. I have always observed, that the worst subjects made excellent prisoners. They have generally more skill and intelligence than the others; they perceive much more quickly, and much more thoroughly, that the only way to render their situation less oppressive, is to avoid painful and repeated punishments, which would be the infallible consequence of insubordination; they therefore behave well, without being the better for it. The result of this observation is, that a pardon never ought to be granted, merely on account of the good conduct of a prisoner. In that way, hypocrites only are made.

Q.:

The system, however, which you attack, is that of all theorists?

A.:

In this, as in many other points, they deceive themselves, because they have little knowledge of those of whom they speak. If Mr. Livingston, for instance, should be ordered to apply his theories of penitentiaries to people born like himself, in a class of society in which much intelligence and moral sensibility existed, I believe that he would arrive at excellent results; but prisons, on the contrary, are filled with coarse beings, who have had no education, and who perceive with difficulty ideas, and often even sensations. It is this point which he always forgets.

Q.:

What is your opinion of the system of contract?

A.:

I believe it is very useful to let the labour of prisoners by contract, provided that the chief officer of the prison remains perfect master of their persons and time. When I was at the head of the Auburn prison, I had made, with different contractors, contracts which even prohibited them from entering the penitentiary. Their presence in the workshop cannot be but very injurious to discipline.

Q.:

Wages for the labour of a prisoner, are very low in France.

A.:

It would rise in the same degree as discipline would improve. Experience has taught us this. Formerly, the prisons were a heavy charge to the state of New York; now they are a source of revenue. The well-disciplined prisoner works more; he works better, and never spoils the materials, as it sometimes happened in the ancient prisons.

Q.:

Which is, in your opinion, the quality most desirable in a person destined to be a director of prisons?

A.:

The practical art of conducting men. Above all, he must be thoroughly convinced, as I have always been, that a dishonest man is ever a coward. This conviction, which the prisoners will soon perceive, gives him an irresistible ascendency, and will make a number of things very easy, which, at first glance, may appear hazardous.

During all this conversation, which lasted several hours, Mr. Elam Lynds constantly returned to this point – that it was necessary to begin with curbing the spirit of the prisoner, and convincing him of his weakness. This point attained, every thing becomes easy, whatever may be the construction of the prison, or the place of labour.