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warden was to keep him there safely during the time of his sentence, and thus protect the community. It was assumed that, being there, he was a bad man, and that the first thing to do was to break his will, thus making him a nonentity. He was to be a number, not a man. After that he was to be held for the specified time, and then shuffled, rebellious, useless, back on the community which had broken him.

Indiana had a vision of an entirely different scheme in 1816, but that vision never became a fact until 1897, when the Indeterminate Sentence and Parole Law was passed. This was the initial step. It was soon followed by laws which removed the prison government from politics, provided for a system of benevolent supervision of criminals after their discharge, and placed the rules of prison management under the guidance of a non-partizan uniform board instead of under the changing disciplinary notions of various wardens.

For the last fifteen years Indiana has been steadily approaching the modern ideal of prison management. There is still much to be done in her prisons, but the foundation of a new and correct attitude toward the criminal himself is well laid. It is no quixotic sentimentality which will change with the years or with administrations, but is a distinct current of organic thought now deeply marked in civilization.

Indiana is only typical of the Union. Some States languish behind her; some stride ahead; many are abreast.

It remained, however, for the farWestern States to add the impulsive human note to the new common weal. The clarion peal came first from Colorado. To begin with, it was almost an accident, a curious accident, which, if it did not originate, at least gave great impulse to what is now known as the honor system of managing convicts.

A dozen years ago the warden at Cañon City, Colorado, was a taciturn political appointee, John Cleghorne. One day, without consulting any one, and apparently without much forethought, he sent a gang of convicts, over one hundred and fifty men in stripes, without a guard, to work on a road forty miles from the prison. They camped there for a week, just like any other gang of workmen. An

unarmed prison official accompanied them, to act as foreman.

Within a few days the State was in an uproar. Residents in the neighborhood of Cañon City were protesting righteously to the governor. They claimed that convicts were being loosed on the highways, to the imminent danger of every resident of the neighborhood. Near-by ranchers kept vigorous guard, with pistol and rifle, before their houses. The women folks were agitated with fear and dread. In a short while the opinion spread that the warden was crazy, and that he would have to be removed. To people who interrogated him he made only sarcastic replies.

At the end of the week he brought in the first gang, and then he sent out another one, without a guard, to stay all night. By this time the tension was such that no one would travel by the road where the convicts were working, and the governor had many requests for the instant dismissal of the warden.

Finally Cleghorne made an explanation.

"In the first place," said he, "there is not room enough in the prison for all the convicts that are sent here. Unless I crowd them as no man would crowd even pigs in a pen, some of them must sleep outside. In the second place, I have n't guards enough to man the prison walls, let alone sending any with the road gang. Now, then, there is road work to be done, and these convicts not only can do it, but ought to do it. They save money for the State, and it is good for their health. More than that, they are sentenced here to "hard labor." There is not room enough inside the walls, in the shops, to employ them all at hard labor. So I am obliged to send them out to work on the roads; not only obliged to, but I think I ought to, if I were not obliged. I can spare no more than a single guard to go with them. He acts as foreman."

"But why not arm the guard?" he was asked.

"What could one man with a rifle do with a hundred and fifty men if they took it into their heads to overpower him? No. I instructed him to go unarmed, and every convict knows that he is unarmed. I simply put it up to them that they are to go out there on their honor. If they

want to escape, they can easily do so. If they do escape, the chances are less than one in ten that they will not be caught again sometime, somewhere. If not, they would have to remain in hiding, skulking, dodging, for the rest of their lives. When caught, they would never again have any privileges, and their terms in prison would be lengthened.

"Most people," concluded Cleghorne, 'get the idea that convicts are unlike other men. They are mistaken. Convicts are human beings. They reason, just like other people, and they are usually a lot more ore sensitive to argument than any one else. I'll gamble my job against a nickel that if one of those convicts runs away and we catch him and bring him back here, the others will just about kill him. For the first time in the history of this prison the inmates have been told that they had honor, and it will go hard with the first man that tries to disprove it."

Cleghorne's prediction was justified. One of the men ran away from the road gang, and he got clear of the State of Colorado; but about three months afterward he was caught in Montana. He was brought back to Cañon City, and the first night he was in the yard with his fellows the members of the road gang from which he had escaped beat him very nearly to death. They would have killed him had the guards not intervened.

Shortly afterward, Cleghorne was replaced at Cañon City by the present warden, Tom Tynan, who has elaborated, popularized, and entirely justified the honor system which Cleghorne said he never would have attempted had he not been short of guards and crowded for room. Thus economical common sense, not statecraft or benevolence, first virtually demonstrated the efficacy of the modern penological idea. Tynan was not a sociologist, but a traveling salesman, before he became a warden.

Tynan usually has from a quarter to a third of his prisoners at work in the open air "on honor." Yet he carefully chooses the convicts whom thus he is to distinguish. He holds membership in the "honor squad" as a prize to be earned, not as a privilege inherent with incarcera tion. After a man has demonstrated obedience to the rules, Tynan calls him to his office and has a talk with him.

In effect the talks are all alike. Tynan

says:

"You have shown me you can be trusted. trusted. I believe in you. Therefore I am going to send you out to work in the camp. It will probably be easy for you to escape if you try, and I only ask you to remember this: if you escape or try to escape, I shall be held responsible for you. I know you don't want to put me in bad, and I believe you have sense enough to know the probable consequences to yourself if you make a mistake."

In the course of a decade the people of Colorado have largely lost their fear of convicts. The ranchers in the neighborhood of the camps no longer guard their homes at night. Some of them say they even feel safer than before. The honor system is no longer even a novelty there. It would be impossible to revert to the old ways, the lock-step, the dungeon, and the lash. It is enough to punish a man by taking from him his chance to be placed "on honor." That is more efficacious than any physical punishment formerly

was.

Tynan reports that less than one per cent. of his men fail to justify his faith. This does not seem to be a much larger percentage of faithless men than would be found outside of prison.

Other parts of the country, however, have still to be educated in this respect. Early in October, 1913, Clancy; the new warden at Sing Sing, wrote to the chairman of the board of supervisors of Westchester County that he would like to offer forty or fifty convicts, "judiciously chosen for trustworthiness," for labor on the county highways. He added that he thought this would be a good way to begin dissipating the public fear of the inmates of Sing Sing.

"This is a beautiful dream," replied the chairman, "but it does not appeal to me as a practical plan for the crowded roads of Westchester County." Dreams, it appears, are separated from facts. Eighty-one years separated them in Indiana. How long will it be in New York?

Yet New York presents a far different problem from Colorado, and the Empire State is not dragging so far behind as the condition of Sing Sing and Auburn prisons might seem to indicate. Tom Ty

nan's system of an honor squad in which membership is held forth as a prize for which all convicts may strive has been incorporated in the penological system of the commonwealth by the establishment at Comstock of the Great Meadow prison farm. There the State owns eleven hundred acres on which it has built a prison capable of holding over a thousand convicts.

He

No man, however, goes to Great Meadow directly after sentence. must earn a sojourn there by behaving himself for at least a year either at Sing Sing, Auburn, or Clinton. Then, if the warden approves, and as a reward of merit, he is sent to Great Meadow.

What a difference between Sing Sing and Great Meadow! There is no worse prison on the continent than Sing Sing. It destroys the health and corrupts the morals of those confined there. Every cell is literally a hole in the wall, slimy, foul, infested with vermin, and containing only 164 cubic feet of air. Until last July two convicts were usually placed in each cell. The sanitary arrangements are unspeakable. There is no recreation. Labor is not enforced. Convicts are locked up on Saturday afternoon and stay locked up, except for an hour at chapel on Sunday, until Monday morning. Silence is enforced. No one can speak to his neighbor, not even to his guard. Grade A men may write one letter a month, Grade B men one letter in two months, and Grade C men may not write at all. A large percentage of those who go in clean physically come out with some loathsome disease.

At Great Meadow all is different. Every cell is clean, airy, and about twice the size of those in Sing Sing, and every man is given a separate cell. Plumbing and sanitation are well provided for. Prisoners may talk when and where they please except in the mess-hall. They may write as often as they please, at the discretion of the warden, if their letters are censored. They bowl and play foot-ball and base-ball. For occupation they operate the farm, and are employed in various ways in developing the state property.

A stream runs by the prison. At its side one day I saw two old men with poles and lines and bait. I asked the warden who they were.

"A lifer and a twenty-year man. They

are old and decrepit, so I let them go fishing. They like the air."

On Saturday afternoons in summer, when the base-ball nines are at play, with the warden and keepers as spectators, groups of men go into the hills berrying without guards. I was driven about the place by a highway robber who was serving a seven-year sentence. We came to the farm boundary-line. Nothing separated us from free soil but a fence. Canada was less than two hundred miles away. There was no one in sight.

"Why not escape?" said I. "You have a fine pair of horses and a good start."

"Not I," replied the convict; "for that would probably make me a criminal for the rest of my life. If they did not catch me, I should never dare show my face again in this part of the country; and what is liberty worth if you cannot see your old friends? If they did catch me and bring me back, I think those boys in the yard would kill me. I should not dare. Besides, the warden is a good fellow, and I 'd hate to put him in bad."

The best part of the new scheme lies in the parole board. Indeterminate sentences are the rule now. A man may be released, at the discretion of the board, at the expiration of his minimum time, but he must report acceptably, in person or by letter, until the expiration of his maximum time. For all convicts who have no place to go or no work waiting them at the expiration of their sentence the parole board finds employment.

Thus one of the worst features of prison life is virtually eliminated. This feature is that period of time when a man comes out of prison disgraced, depressed, weak. It is the period of moral convalescence, the moment when the man is least able to meet life, and when life comes at him in its severest aspects.

The majority of States now have parole boards and the indeterminate sentence. Yet only the minority have learned to treat the convict while he is a prisoner as a human being, with the same instincts, reason, and desires as men out of prison.

The old idea of Lombroso that the criminal is a man apart, marked for crime from birth, distinct from other men, dies hard, despite the fact that numerous scientific investigators have disproven Lombroso's theory. Robert Pinkerton, the

detective who spent his life studying crime and its perpetrators, when asked to define the criminal classes, said: "There is no criminal class. A criminal is a human being, and every human being is potentially a criminal; every criminal of sound mind is potentially a good citizen."

The old wardens and guards who came into constant touch with criminals would never subscribe to such a theory. Letting the light into their minds has proved a difficult task. One of the pioneers of the new movement is Frank Randall, now at the head of the prison system of the State of Massachusetts. Several years ago he was the warden of the St. Cloud penitentiary in Minnesota. He was studying ways to enhance the self-respect of prisoners, yet going about it slowly, realizing that sudden changes might be harmful at first.

Among other prison customs he found one that prohibits all convicts from having razors. Up to his time no prison in the country had ever permitted its inmates the luxury of individual razors. Prison barbers were supplied, but no man was allowed to shave himself.

Randall determined to change this, and told two of his fellow-wardens about it. They looked at him in astonishment.

"If you give them razors, they'll all commit suicide," exclaimed one. "It never was done in any prison I ever heard about. You'll ruin your discipline and you'll have your place full of suicide, murder, and escape."

"I think not," said Randall. "I know what the custom has been, but it does not sound reasonable to me. If a man wants to commit suicide, he will do it, razor or no razor. In fact, I know a physician who, when asked the best way to commit suicide, always gives a method, with graphic details. He proceeds on the theory that suicide is merely a last desperate attempt to overcome opposition, and that if you remove the opposition, the desire for suicide is largely dissipated. My experience tells me that convicts are very similar to other men. Moreover, if I give them razors, I appeal to their honor, and anything which can legitimately

build up a prisoner's sense of honor is highly desirable."

Randall bought three hundred razors and distributed them in his prison. In eighteen months he had just one suicide, and that was by hanging.

So it was with James Johnston when he was made warden of Folsom penitentiary, in California, in June, 1912. A thousand of the worst men in the West are imprisoned in Folsom. They are murderers, burglars, highwaymen, embezzlers, forgers, or perpetrators of sex crimes. Before Johnston's advent they had never had a Sunday out of their cells and never any recreation.

Johnston proceeded to organize several base-ball nines, and he let them play all day Sunday. His predecessor predicted the direst consequences. "They'll kill each other with the bats and beat up the prison," he said. Eighteen months have passed, and there has not yet been any disturbance in Folsom. Instead, the men are healthier and better workmen.

Five years ago the annual number of lashes administered to the bare backs of prisoners in the prisons of Kentucky averaged twelve hundred. For the last four years there has not been a lash struck officially in the Blue-Grass State. Most States are following their general trend.

It is yet too soon to note just what the new treatment of criminals has produced or will produce. That it will lessen crime is problematical. That it will have a beneficial effect on criminals is more than likely. There is no doubt that it pleases the quickened sympathies of humanity.

It has been stated on good authority that a country-wide census, if it could be made, would show that criminals constitute less than one per cent. of the population. The same authority asserts that it costs more to apprehend, convict, and incarcerate this group than it does to educate the other ninety-nine per cent. who are good citizens.

That so costly a machinery should have been operated in so antiquated a method for so long does not speak well of our economy. Perhaps it has been so costly because it has been so antiquated.

IMMIGRATION

BY EDWARD ALSWORTH ROSS

Professor of Sociology, University of Wisconsin

THIS paper frankly and fearlessly states the lamentable consequences to the American people, as Professor Ross sees them, that must follow upon the continuance of our opendoor policy toward the "sub-common" millions of the least desirable nationalities recently pouring into our land. He earnestly combats arguments against restricted laws which have been advanced by interests that favor turning this country into the melting-pot for the backward and outcast of the earth.-THE EDITOR.

THE RACIAL CONSEQUENCES OF

THE

IMMIGRATION

In

HE submergence of the "American" pioneer breed goes on apace. Atlanta still seven out of eight white men had American parents; in Nashville and Richmond, four out of five; in Kansas City, two out of three; and in Los Angeles, one out of two; but in Detroit, Cleveland, and Paterson one man out of five had American parents; in Chicago and New York, one out of six; in Milwaukee, one out of seven; and in Fall River, one out of nine. Certainly never since the colonial era have the foreignborn and their children formed so large a proportion of the American people as at the present moment. I scanned 368 persons as they passed me in Union Square, New York, at a time when the garment-workers of the Fifth Avenue lofts were returning to their homes. Only thirty-eight of these passers-by had the type of face one would find at a county fair in the West or South.

In the six or seven hundred thousand strangers that yearly join themselves to us for good and all, there are to be found, of course, every talent and every beauty. Out of the steerage come persons as fine and noble as any who have trodden American soil. Any adverse characterization. of an immigrant stream implies, then, only that the trait is relatively frequent, not that it is general.

In this sense it is fair to say that the blood now being injected into the veins of our people is "sub-common." To one accus

tomed to the aspect of the normal American population, the Caliban type shows up with a frequency that is startling. Observe immigrants not as they come travelwan up the gang-plank, nor as they issue toil-begrimed from pit's mouth or mill gate, but in their gatherings, washed, combed, and in their Sunday best. You are struck by the fact that from ten to twenty per cent. are hirsute, low-browed, big-faced persons of obviously low mentality. Not that they suggest evil. They simply look out of place in black clothes and stiff collar, since clearly they belong in skins, in wattled huts at the close of the great ice age. These oxlike men are descendants of those who always stayed behind. Those in whom the soul burns with the dull, smoky flame of the pineknot stuck to the soil, and are now thick in the sluiceways of immigration. Those in whom it burns with a clear, luminous flame have been attracted to the cities of the home land and, having prospects, have no motive to submit themselves to the hardships of the steerage.

To the practised eye, the physiognomy of certain groups unmistakably proclaims inferiority of type. I have seen gatherings of the foreign-born in which narrow and sloping foreheads were the rule. The shortness and smallness of the crania were very noticeable. There was much facial asymmetry. Among the women, beauty, aside from the fleeting epidermal bloom of girlhood, was quite lacking. In every face there was something wrong-lips thick, mouth coarse, upper lip too long, cheekbones too high, chin poorly formed, the

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