 The National Broadcasting Company, in conjunction with the Fund for Adult Education, presents Democracy in America by Alexis de Tocqueville. In 1831, there are in America estimable men whose minds feed upon philosophical reveries, and whose extreme sensibility fills the want of some illusion. These men, for whom philanthropy has become a matter of necessity, find in the penitentiary system a nourishment for this generous passion. Starting from abstractions which deviate more or less from reality, they consider men, however far advanced in crime, as still susceptible of being brought back to virtue. And pursuing constantly this opinion, they hope for an epoch when all criminals may be radically reformed, the prisons be entirely empty, and justice find no crimes to punish. The Heavenly Prison A study in American reform, item 8 in the series Democracy in America, prepared by the Division of General Education of New York University under the direction of George Probst, American historian. A series designed to bring to life the America of 1831, as recorded by Alexis de Tocqueville, and so to illuminate the image of democracy itself. A study in American reform, The Heavenly Prison. When Beaumont and I arrived in America in 1831, we were impressed by the fact that everybody was a success. The whole world here, man turns and fashions to his pleasure. Not a man, but may reasonably hope to gain the comforts of life. Not one who does not know that with love of work, his future is certain. But even in America, Beaumont, there are persons who have come into conflict with society, persons therefore whom their fellow Americans wish to reform. But this passion for reform is made more complicated by the American belief that their democracy peculiarly expresses the will of God. The attitude towards American democracy is permeated by religion. And hence, to the American, a criminal is also a sinner. Americans are very zealous in promoting schemes to reform one another. It is part of their belief in the indefinite perfectibility of man. Do you remember Tocqueville, our trip up the Hudson River and the American who chatted to us? In America, if we think anything needs to be changed, we know it can be changed and that we can change it. That great stone building there is a machine for changing human nature. It's the new penitentiary of Sing Sing. Welcome to Sing Sing, gentlemen. How do you like our penitentiary? Mr. Warden, this word penitentiary, it interests us very much. These places you very often seem to call penitentiaries rather than prisons. Why is this? A prison is a place to shut a man up, to keep him away from society as a monastery shuts up a fierce tiger. Very well, a penitentiary is a place for penitence, a place for a man to do penance. In other words, a place to reform him and send him back to society, converted and improved. And by what means do you attempt this difficult task, Mr. Warden? Work and silence. Almost the Mededictine rule. I would know nothing about that, sir. As far as I'm concerned, this is the rule of Mr. Elam Lins, who was the first warden of Sing Sing. Sometimes we call it the Arburn system because Mr. Lins started the system when he was at Arburn Prison, upstate a piece. That was ten years ago. And do you find this system works? You gentlemen will be here for a week or more. You'll judge for yourself how it works. We have here nearly a thousand desperate criminals, kept without walls. We put the convicts in cell blocks at night, and by day they all work together in the open, under a few guards, in absolute silence. To prevent possible conspiracy. Yes. And also to prevent possible contamination. Even a bad man can be contaminated by a worse. And also to give the men a chance to meditate on their crimes. And to realize that they offended against the laws of man and of God. Mr. Elam Lins, recognized even by his enemies as the father of the present penitentiary system, was indeed a very remarkable man. We finally met him at Arburn, near Syracuse. We found him in a hardware store that he owns. He was dressed like a salesman and acted like one. But when he came over to see us, we soon saw that Elam Lins, for all his coarse appearance, is very intelligent and singularly energetic. All right, gentlemen. Elam Lins at your service. This is a great pleasure, Mr. Lins. That's right. You've had a great deal about you. That's right. Some good, I hope, sometimes. But what of course? I've got enemies, don't tell me. I retired from ten years of prison work a year ago, and now I look after my store. Done enough with the common good. I'll look after myself. We shall not detain you long. Glad to hear it. What's on your mind, Mr. Tocqueville? Reform is on my mind. The American faith in the power to reform the heart of man. That's right. A penitentiary is not just a lock-up. It's a place to learn new habits, preferably good ones. Should be, anyway. We hear that your system, Mr. Lins, is extreme discipline. That's right. Silence and the whip. I regard whipping as the most effective and humane punishment. It never injures the health, forces the inmates to live an essentially healthy life, and makes them prudent. Do you think this would work outside America? It'll work anywhere it's put to work, given a chance. I'd say it worked better in, oh, say, France than in America. Your prisons are solidly supported by the government. Over here with the slaves of something that's always changing. Public opinion. But Americans say that your system works because, fundamentally, Americans respect the law. I don't believe it. At Sing Sing, a quarter of the inmates are foreigners. I'd discipline them as if they were Americans. The French, by the way, submitted with the least trouble. I'd rather direct a French prison than an American. Mr. Lins, you speak frankly. That's right. Then, frankly, do you really believe that a penitentiary reforms a great number of the inmates? Let's understand each other, Mr. Tarkville. I don't believe in complete reform, except maybe for juveniles. Never? I'll say this. I don't think you often see a mature criminal become a religious and virtuous man. I don't have any faith in the saintliness of those who leave prison. And I don't believe that the exhortations of the chaplain or the private reflections of the inmate ever makes a good Christian of them. The chaplain at Auburn Prisoners have the opinion that out of 650 inmates, there are already at least 50 who are radically reformed into what he considers good Christians. That's the chaplain's opinion, isn't it? It is, Mr. Lins. He's entitled to it. My opinion is that a great number of former convicts don't relapse into crime. They even become good citizens. But the reason is that they learn to trade in prison and picked up the habit of doing little useful work. Is that reform? It's the only reform I ever hope to produce. And I think it's the only one that society can reasonably ask for. The conduct of the inmate actually in the prison, what do you think that proves about his future reform? Nothing. I'll go further. If I had to bet, gentlemen, I should even say that the inmate who behaves perfectly in prison will probably pick up his old habits on the outside. The worst characters are excellent inmates, just fine. They're usually more clever, more intelligent. They see through the system, if you like. They calculate the way to get by is to stay out of trouble, stay clear of the whip. And that's right, of course. So, of course, they act well. But as to being reformed, why, that's another matter. Oh, you are very frank, Mr. Lins. Your candor leaves us speechless. There's really no conclusion to be drawn. Yes, there is. But some impractical reformers might not like to hear it. It's the conclusion that you should never, never under any circumstances grant pardons for good conduct in prison. All you do is put a high value on hypocrisy. And you're no nearer reform than you were in the beginning. So, pondering on the American dream of the infinite perfectability of man, we came at last to the great city of the Quakers, Philadelphia. Philadelphia, beyond all other cities, is infatuated with the penitentiary system. And since, of course, the penitentiary system is our trade, the Philadelphians compete in pampering us. There are here, above all, two kinds of men who take a prodigious interest in prisons, although they look upon the subject quite differently. These are the theorists and the practical men, those who ride and those who act. Our own interest is to listen to everybody freely without taking anybody's word for anything and accept the books and dinners pressed upon us by these zealous Quaker philanthropists. Philadelphia gentlemen like Mr. Robert Vo, who is ardently dedicated to the reform of man. I tell thee this, Fred Tarkville, that in Philadelphia we believe that it is the duty of those that have seen the light to reform those that still walk in darkness. What exactly do you mean by reform, Mr. Vo? Reform. Reform. To make again. If these never seen before, a man made again by God's grace, then I can assure thee they can see it here. There are many eloquent testimonials to the powerful working of the inner light. Well, this I have no doubt. It seems to me that you have undertaken a very formidable task. Very formidable. Formidable? To change human nature. Thee has forgotten we are not alone. If God be for us, who can be against us? Most commendable sentiments, but surely sometimes a little difficult to achieve in practice. No friend, not for us. We are clothed in the whole armor of righteousness. There are many frail men and women in Philadelphia, who have broken the laws of God and man. We do not punish them so much as provide them through God's grace with the means of salvation. That is why the eastern state penitentiary was built on Cherry Hill. We've spared no expense. The wall alone cost $200,000. $200,000? Then how much did each cell cost? In the neighborhood of $1,600? A very large sum of money. But it is needed to provide every prisoner with the silence and solitude necessary for him to repent his sins and become a true penitent. But do you rarely keep the prisoners in silence? In complete silence. And always alone? Always completely alone. He's not this very cruel, Mr. Vo. No friend, it is not cruel. It is the greatest kindness. For it gives every prisoner the best chance to hear the still small voice. The guilty conscience never stings with keener pain or smites the soul with greater grief than when we are alone. Are they well in good health? Are they penitent? They are well looked after. They are alone with their consciences. They must be penitent. If I can talk to some of these prisoners myself, talk to many who have not had a conversation with a fellow human being for months, perhaps years, then I shall have a real idea about what the value of your prison system may be. No one has ever been permitted to speak to the prisoners. This would violate the heart of the system. We believe in it and are sure of its worth. I know. But... But thee come from France to learn, and we have no other interest than the truth. We shall arrange it, so thee may speak to the prisoners, friend Tocqueville. What use it may be is up to thee. But if there is something vicious in the prison we direct, it is important that we learn of it. As thee see, friend Tocqueville, some of the cell blocks over in that direction are incomplete, the prisoners but two years old. These prison cells appear to radiate out like a wheel they do. Here, friend, is number 28, condemned for murder, protests his innocence, knows how to read and write. He has nothing but his work and the Bible. He has talked to no one for several years. Well, open the door, Warden. I shall wait for the outside. Good day to you. My name is Alexis Tocqueville. I have come here from France. France? France. They have given permission, and I have come to talk to you a little, and find out what it is like for you in this prison. Would you like to talk to me? Yes, sir. Sir, I am innocent. Be sure I shall tell the authorities. I've been a drunkard, sir, and very turbulent and not religious, but I'm not a murderer. Of course not. But I've repented, sir. I've repented for the bottom of my heart. Excuse me, sir, I can't help tears. It's rather a shock being alone, you know. Is it very bad to be alone? Well, sir, I don't know. Sometimes there's almost a kind of pleasure in the solitude. I am tormented. You are tormented? Tormented by desire to see my family again. I want to give my children the right sort of bringing up, but I never used to think about that. I think a lot, sometimes. You see, sir, I'm not a murderer, though I did do other things. I see you at work when I came in. Do you think you could live here without work? No, sir. Don't mention the idea. Work isn't a burden here. It's a privilege. Sometimes a solitude is frightful, and then work is all there is. It's absolutely necessary to exist, sir. I should die without it. Do you see the keepers at all? Through the bars, I see them go past, that's all. How often? I'm able to see them six times a day. Is that any help to you? Well, it's a consolation. It's a sort of joy to glimpse a human face. This summer, you know, a cricket came into my yard. Each prisoner has a little bit of yard alone, of course. I was glad to see that cricket. It looked like company for me. When a butterfly or any other animal comes into my cell, I never do it any harm. They often told me that though their bodily health was good here, the soul was sick. In these solitary cells, I interviewed 42 prisoners. They were all anxious to talk, and many of them wept when they spoke to me. They all tried to prolong the conversation and detain me. It took eight days to see them, one by one. Work and the Bible was all they had. Many of them professed themselves were formed, made new men, as the good but stern Quakers who had built the prison would have wished and prayed for. Others, however, were not affected by their punishment in this particular way. One man, aged 40, imprisoned for armed robbery on the highway, told me, I was 14 or 15 years old when I arrived in Philadelphia. I was the son of a poor farmer in the West and found no work. And the first night I was obliged to lie down on the deck of a vessel, having no other place to rest. And here I was discovered the next morning. The constable arrested me, and the mayor sentenced me to one month's imprisonment as a vagrant. Confounded during my short imprisonment, with a number of male factors 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 into a system in various thefts. I was arrested, tried and acquitted. Now, I thought myself safe from justice and confident in my skill, I committed other offenses which brought me again before the court. I was sentenced to an imprisonment of nine years in Walnut Street Prison. Didn't this make you feel that you needed to correct yourself? 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 noticed 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. And this made me think seriously of my life, and I firmly resolved to quit forever, so dangerous a way of living. So I conducted myself better, and after seven years in prison, I was impardoned. I had learned tailoring in prison, and I soon found a favorable employment. Then one day my master received a letter from one of the constables in Philadelphia, which informed him that one of his journeymen was a farmer 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 labor on the first railroad then building between Baltimore and Ohio. Grief and fatigue threw me after some time into a violent fever. Well, 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, I ordered her to sell all the clothes which were not indispensable 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 outskirts of the city. I stopped the first passenger and forced him to give me his pocketbook. But I was arrested the same evening. I had been followed by the person whom I had robbed, and my feebleness, having obliged me to stop in the neighborhood, there were no great pains necessary to seize me. I confessed my crime without difficulty, and I was sent here. What are your present resolutions for the future? I do not feel disposed, I tell you freely, to reproach myself for 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 the 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. Had this man reformed, as his jailors intended, had he grown more virtuous, or had he grown only more cautious? The penitentiary had made its impression, but what impression? On the surface, of course, everything was ideal, cannot be a combination more powerful for reformation than that of a prison which hands over the prisoner to all the trials of solitude, leads him through reflection to remorse, through religion to hope, and makes him industrious by the burden of idleness. It is incontestable, all this perfect isolation shelters the prisoners from all harmful contagion. It seems irresistible, but there are difficulties, there are indeed difficulties, all this mass of evidence, and so little that we can be sure of. Look, we have the materials to prove that the penitentiary system reforms and that it does not reform, that it is costly and that it is cheap, that it is easy to administer and that it is impracticable. In short, that it suits and that it does not suit France, according to the taste of the selector. And we guarantee to support each of these assertions with pertinent examples, but we still wonder how much these systems actually reform. What do you mean by reform? The radical change of a wicked person into an honest man, a change which produces virtues instead of vices? A thing like that must be very rare. Yes, to give back its primitive purity to a soul which crime has polluted. And here the difficulty is immense. It would have been much easier for the guilty individual to remain honest than it is to rise again after his fall. It is in vain that society pardons him. His conscience does not. Even when he resolves to live honestly, he cannot forget that he has been a criminal. And this remembrance which deprives him of self-esteem also deprives his honor of its rewards and its guarantees. But something still remains. The Americans' belief in perfectability in all its forms, whether through public progress or private reform, whether by forming associations to modify the laws and even the customs, or to work no less earnestly upon the souls of those citizens who stand in need of punishment, correction, and ultimately recovery and reinstatement in society. Such is the fixed belief of the Americans and to further it, they are willing to spend time, energy, and money. You have just heard The Heavenly Prison, a study in American reform, item eight, in a series based on Alexis de Tocqueville's Democracy in America. This series, presented by the National Broadcasting Company, was prepared by the Division of General Education of New York University under the direction of George Probst, American historian, produced in the studios of the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation by Andrew Allen, script by Lister Sinclair, music by Lucio Agostini. This series, Democracy in America, is made possible by a grant from the Fund for Adult Education as part of a general course of study of the nature of American society. Teachers of American history and American civilization and adult education leaders may be interested in using these dramatizations and other materials which are available for study and discussion at a reasonable charge. For information, write to American Foundation for Continuing Education. Post Office Box 749, Chicago 90, Illinois. Now this is Ben Grower inviting you to listen next week to The Tyranny of the Majority, item nine on Democracy in America. This has been an NBC Radio Network presentation. Relax and enjoy the companion listening of Radio NBC.