How true this was I could not then realize, but as in time I came to know well so many of these men the words of the warden were fully3 confirmed.
The law classes the killing4 of one person by another under three heads: murder in the first degree; murder in the second degree; and manslaughter. The murder deliberately5 planned and executed constitutes murder in the first degree; and for this, in many of our States, the penalty is still capital punishment; otherwise, legal murder deliberately planned and officially executed, the penalty duplicating the offence in general outline. This is the popular conception of fitting the punishment to the crime; and its continuance ignores the obvious truth that, so long as the law justifies6 and sets the example of taking life under[Pg 122] given circumstances, so long will the individual justify7 himself in taking life under circumstances which seem to him to warrant doing so; the individual simply takes the law into his own hands. War and the death penalty are the two most potent8 sources of mental suggestion in the direction of murder.
In every execution within the walls of a penitentiary the suggestion of murder is sown broadcast among the other convicts, and is of especial danger to those mentally unsound. As long as capital punishment is upheld as necessary to the protection of society each State should have its State executioner; and executions should take place at the State capital in the presence of the governor and as many legislators as may be in the city. In relegating9 to the penitentiary the ugly office of Jack10 Ketch we escape the realization11 of what it all is—how revolting, how barbarous—and we throw one more horror into the psychic12 atmosphere of prison life.
Several factors have combined to hold the death penalty so long on the throne of justice. Evolution has not yet eliminated from the human being the elementary savage13 instinct of bloodthirstiness, so frightfully disclosed in the [Pg 123]revolting rush of the populace eager to witness the public executions perpetrated in France in the present century; public executions in defiance14 of the established fact that men hitherto harmless have gone from the sight of an execution impelled15 to kill some equally harmless individual.
Many good men and women, ignoring the practical effect of anything so obscure as "suggestion," honestly believe that fear of the death penalty has a restraining influence upon the criminal class. In those States and countries which have had the courage to abolish the death penalty the soundness of the "deterrent16 effect" theory is being tested; statistics vary in different localities but the aggregate17 of general statistics shows a decrease in murders following the abolition18 of the death penalty.
A silent partner in the support of capital punishment is the general assumption that the murderer is a normal and a morally responsible human being. Science is now leading us to a clearer understanding of the relation between the moral and the physical in human nature, and we are beginning to perceive that complex and far-reaching are the causes, the undercurrents, the abnormal impulses which come to the surface[Pg 124] in the act of murder. Some years ago in England, upon the examination of the brains of a successive number of men executed for murder, it was ascertained19 that eighty-five per cent of those brains were organically diseased. Granting that these men were criminally murderers, we must grant also that they were mentally unsound, themselves victims of disease before others became their victims. Where the moral responsibility lies, the Creator alone can know; perhaps in a crowded room of a foul20 tenement21 an overworked mother or a brutal22 father struck a little boy on the head, and the little brain went wrong, some of those infinitesimal brain-cells related to moral conduct were crushed, and years afterward23 the effect of the cruel blow on the head of the defenceless child culminated24 in the murderous blow from the hand of this child grown to manhood. And back of the blow given the child stand the saloon and the sweat-shop and the bitter poverty and want which can change a human being into a brute25. Saloons and sweat-shops flourish in our midst, and cruel is the pressure of poverty, and terrible in their results are the blows inflicted26 upon helpless children. When the State vigorously sets to work to remove or ameliorate the social conditions[Pg 125] which cause crime there will be fewer lawless murderers to be legally murdered.
Time and again men innocent of the crime have been executed for murder. Everything is against a man accused of murder. The simple accusation27 antagonizes the public against the accused man. The press, which loves to be sensational28, joins in the prosecution29, sometimes also the pulpit. The tortures of the sweat-box are resorted to, that the accused may be driven to convict himself before being tried; and one who has no money may find himself convicted simply because he cannot prove his innocence—although the law professes30 to hold a man innocent until his guilt31 is proven.
For years I was an advocate of the death penalty as a merciful alternative to life imprisonment32. Knowing that the certainty of approaching death may effect spiritual awakening33 and bring to the surface all that is best in a man; believing that death is the great liberator34 and the gateway35 to higher things; knowing that a man imprisoned36 for life may become mentally and spiritually deadened by the hopelessness of his fate, or may become so intent on palliating, excusing, or justifying37 his crime as to lose all sense of guilt, perhaps eventually to believe himself a[Pg 126] victim rather than a criminal; knowing the unspeakable suffering of the man who abandons himself to remorse38, and knowing how often the "life man" becomes a prey39 to insanity40, in sheer pity for the prisoner I came to regard the death penalty as a merciful means of escape from an incomparably worse fate.
So far my point of view was taken only in relation to the prisoner for life. Later, when I had studied the subject more broadly, in considering the effect of the death penalty upon the community at large and as a measure for the protection of society, I could not escape the conviction that in the civilized41 world of to-day capital punishment is indefensible. Christianity, humanity, sociology, medical science, psychology43, and statistics stand solid against the injustice44 and the unwisdom of capital punishment. Public sentiment, the last bulwark45 of the death penalty, is slowly but surely becoming enlightened, and the final victory of humanitarianism46 is already assured.
Throughout the United States the legal penalty for murder in the second degree is imprisonment for life; then follows the crime called manslaughter, when the act is committed in [Pg 127]self-defence or under other extenuating47 circumstances; the penalty for which is imprisonment for a varying but limited term of years. Practically there is no definite line dividing murder in the second degree from manslaughter. A clever expert lawyer, whether on the side of prosecution or the defence, has little difficulty in carrying his case over the border in the one direction or the other. Money, and the social position of the accused, are important factors in adjusting the delicate balance between murder in the second degree and manslaughter.
Various are the pathways that lead to the illegal taking of life; terrible often the pressure brought to bear upon the man before the deed is done. Deadly fear, the fear common to humanity, has been the force that drove the hand of many a man to strike, stab, or shoot with fatal effect; while anger, righteous or unrighteous, the momentary48 impulse of intense emotional excitement to which we are all more or less liable, has gathered its host of victims and caused the tragic49 ruin of unnumbered men now wearing life away in our penitentiaries50.
And terribly true it is that some of the "life" men are among the best in our prisons, the "life"[Pg 128] men who are all indiscriminately called murderers. That some of them were murderers at heart and a menace to the community we cannot doubt; doubtless, also, some are innocent of any crime; and there are others for whom it would be better for all concerned if they were given liberty to-day.
It seems to be assumed that a man unjustly imprisoned suffers more than the one who knows that he has only himself to blame. Much depends upon the nature of the man. Given two men of equally sound moral nature, while the one with a clear conscience may suffer intensely, from the sense of outrage51 and injustice, from the tearing of the heart-strings and the injury to business relations, his mental agony can hardly equal that of the man whose heart is eaten out with remorse. The best company any prisoner can have is his own self-respect, the best asset of a bankrupt life. I have been amazed to see for how much that counts in the peace and hope, and the great power of patience which makes for health and gives strength for endurance.
I was deeply impressed with this fact in the case of one man. His name was Gay Bowers52, a name curiously53 inconsistent with his fate, and, "life man" though he was, no one in that big[Pg 129] prison ever associated him with murder; no one who really looked into his face could have thought him a criminal. It was the only face I ever saw, outside of a book, that seemed chastened through sorrow; his gentle smile was like the faint sunshine of an April day breaking through the mists; and there was about the man an atmosphere of youth and springtime though he was near forty when we first met; but it was the arrested youth of a man to whom life seemed to have ended when he was but twenty-two.
Gay was country born and bred, loved and early married a country girl, and was known throughout the neighborhood as a hard-working, steady young fellow. He lived in a village near the Mississippi River, and one summer he went down to St. Louis on some business and returned by boat. On the steamboat a stranger, a young man of near his age, made advances toward acquaintance, and hearing his name exclaimed:
"Gay Bowers! why my name is Ray Bowers, and I'm looking for work. I guess I'll go to your town and we'll call each other cousins; perhaps we are related."
The stranger seemed very friendly and kept with Bowers when they reached the home town;[Pg 130] there Ray found work and seemed all right for a while.
And here I must let Gay Bowers tell the rest of the story as he told it to me, in his own words as nearly as I can remember them. I listened intently to his low, quiet voice, but I seemed reading the story in his eyes at the same time, for the absolutely convincing element was the way in which Bowers was living it all over again as he unfolded the scene with a certain thrill in his tones. I felt as if I was actually witnessing the occurrence, so vividly54 was the picture in his mind transferred to mine.
"My wife and I had just moved into a new home that very day, we and our little year-old girl, and Ray had helped us in the moving and stayed to supper with us. After supper Ray said he must go, and asked me to go a piece with him as he had something to say to me.
"So I went along with him. Back of the house the road ran quite a way through deep woods. We were in the middle of the woods when Ray stopped and told me what he wanted of me. He told me that he had been a horse-thief over in Missouri, that his picture was in 'the rogues55' gallery' in St. Louis over his own name, Jones;[Pg 131] that it wasn't safe for him to be in Missouri, where he was 'wanted' and that he had got on the boat without any plans; but as soon as he saw me, a working, country man, he thought he might as well hitch56 on to me and go to my place. But he said he was tired of working; and farmer Smith had a fine pair of horses which he could dispose of if I would take them out of the barn into the next county. Ray wanted me to do this because of my good reputation. Everybody knew me and I was safe from suspicion; and he said we could make a lot of money for us both if I went into the business with him.
"All of a sudden I knew then that for some time I'd been feeling that Ray wasn't quite square. There had been some little things—of course I said I wouldn't go in with him; and I don't know what else I said for I was pretty mad to find out what kind of a man he was and how he had fooled me. Perhaps I threatened to tell the police; anyway Ray said he would kill me before I had a chance to give him away if I didn't go into the deal with him, for then I wouldn't dare 'peach.' Still I refused.
"And then"—here a look of absolute terror came into Bowers's eyes—"then he suddenly[Pg 132] struck me a terrible blow and I knew I was in a fight for my life. He fought like the desperate man that he was. I managed to reach down and pick up a stick and struck out: I never thought of killing the man; it was just a blind fight to defend myself.
"But he let go and fell. When he did not move I bent57 over him and felt for his heart. I could not find it beating; but I could not believe he was dead. I waited for some sign of life but there was none. I was horror-struck and dazed; but I knew I could not leave him in the road where he had fallen, so I dragged him a little way into the woods. There I left him.
"I hurried back home to tell my wife what had happened; but when I opened the door my wife was sitting beside the cradle where the baby was. Cynthy was tired and sleepy with her day's work, and everything seemed so natural and peaceful I just couldn't tell her, and I couldn't think, or anything. So I told her she'd better go to bed while I went across the road to speak to her father.
"It wasn't more than nine o'clock then, and I found her father sitting alone smoking his pipe. He began to talk about his farm work. He[Pg 133] didn't notice anything queer about me and I was so dazed-like that it all began to seem unreal to me. I tried once or twice to break into his talk and tell him, but I couldn't put the horror into words—I couldn't.
"Perhaps it wouldn't have made any difference if I had told him; anyway I didn't. When the body was found next morning of course they came right to our house with the story, for Ray had told folks that he was a relation of mine. I told just what had happened but it didn't count for anything—I was tried for murder and not given a chance to make any statement. Because I was well thought of by my neighbors they didn't give me the rope, but sent me here for life."
Bowers had been sixteen years in prison when I first met him. He had accepted his fate as an overwhelming misfortune, like blindness or paralysis58, but never for a moment had he lost his self-respect, and he clung to his religion as the isle59 of refuge in his wrecked60 existence.
"Mailed in the armor of a pure intent" which the degradations61 of convict life could not penetrate62, as the years passed he had achieved true serenity63 of spirit, and that no doubt contributed to his apparently64 unbroken health. His work was[Pg 134] not on contract but in a shop where prison supplies were made, canes66 for the officers, etc. One day Bowers sent me a beautifully made cane65, which I may be glad to use if I ever live to have rheumatism67.
Bowers, like all life men, early laid his plans for a pardon and had a lawyer draw up a petition; but the difficulty in the case was that there wasn't a particle of evidence against the dead man excepting Bowers's own word. But Bowers's mind was set on establishing the truth of his statement regarding the character of the other man, and he saw only one way of doing this. Ray had said that his real name was Jones, and his photograph was in the rogues' gallery in St. Louis under the name of Jones. Now, if there was such a photograph in St. Louis Bowers determined68 to get it, and at last, after ten years, he obtained possession of the photograph, with the help of a lawyer, and again he looked upon the face of Ray, named Jones, with the record "horse-thief." The proven character of Jones did not alter the fact that he had been killed by Bowers; nor in that part of the country did it serve as a reason for release of Bowers; and the years went on the same as before.
[Pg 135]
Bowers's wife had not learned to write, but the baby, Carrie, grew into a little girl and went to school, and she wrote regularly to her father, who was very proud of her letters. When still a little girl she was taken into a neighbor's family. After a time the neighbor's wife died and Carrie not being equal to the work of the house her mother came to help out—so said Carrie's letters. And Bowers, who still cherished the home ties, was thankful that his wife and child were taken care of. Every night he prayed for them and always he hoped for the day when he could take them in his arms.
His letters to me were few as he wrote regularly to his daughter; but after he had been in prison eighteen years he wrote me the joyful69 news that he would be released in a few weeks, for his lawyer had proven a faithful friend. The letter was a very happy one written in December, and the warden had allowed Bowers to tinker up some little gifts to be sent to the wife and daughter. "They stand in a row before me as I am writing, and I think they are as beautiful as butterflies," his letter said.
On his release Bowers, now a man past forty, had to begin life over again. He had lost his[Pg 136] place in his community, he had no money, but he had hope and ambition, and as a good chance was offered him in the penitentiary city he decided70 to take it and go right to work. He wrote his daughter that he would arrange for her and her mother to come to him, and there they would start a new home together.
Little did he dream of the shock awaiting him when the answer to that letter came, telling him that for several years his wife had been married to the man who had given Carrie a home. Both the man and the woman had supposed that when Bowers was sent to prison for life the wife was divorced and free to marry. She was hopeless as to her husband's release, and tired and discouraged with her struggle with poverty. Her brief married life had come to seem only a memory of her youth, and she was glad of the chance to be taken care of like other women, but a feeling of tenderness and pity for the prisoner had caused her to protect him from the knowledge of her inconstancy.
The second husband felt that to Bowers must be left the decision as to the adjustment of the tangled71 relationships, and Bowers wrote me that he had decided that the second husband had the[Pg 137] stronger claim, as he had married the woman in good faith and made her happy; one thing he insisted upon, however—that if the present arrangement were to continue, his former wife must take her divorce from him and be legally married to the other man. And this was done.
To find himself another Enoch Arden was a hard blow to Bowers, but the years of work and poverty must have wrought72 such changes in the girl wife of long ago that she was lost to him forever; while the man who came out of that prison after eighteen years of patient endurance and the spiritual development that long acquaintance with grief sometimes brings was a different being from the light-hearted young farmer's boy that the girl had married. They must inevitably73 have become as strangers to each other.
With the daughter the situation was different. From childhood she had faithfully written to an imaginary father whom she could not remember, but with whom a real tie must have been formed through their letters; and Carrie had now come to be near the age of the wife he had left. The daughter was to come to him, and she must have found in the real father something even finer than her imagination could have pictured.
[Pg 138]
Gay Bowers had been a prisoner for those eighteen years, with never a criminal thought or intention. As human courts go he was not the victim of injustice nor could "society" be held in any way responsible. There was no apparent relation between his environment or his character and his tragic experience. It was like a Greek drama where Fate rules inexorable, but this fate was borne with the spirit of a Christian42 saint. What the future years held for him I do not know, since through carelessness on my part our correspondence was not kept up.
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1
penitentiary
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| n.感化院；监狱 | |
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warden
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| n.监察员，监狱长，看守人，监护人 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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justifies
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| 证明…有理( justify的第三人称单数 )； 为…辩护； 对…作出解释； 为…辩解（或辩护） | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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relegating
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| v.使降级( relegate的现在分词 )；使降职；转移；把…归类 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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psychic
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| n.对超自然力敏感的人；adj.有超自然力的 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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deterrent
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| n.阻碍物，制止物；adj.威慑的，遏制的 | |
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aggregate
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| adj.总计的，集合的；n.总数；v.合计；集合 | |
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abolition
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| n.废除，取消 | |
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ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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culminated
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| v.达到极点( culminate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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brute
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inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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sensational
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| adj.使人感动的，非常好的，轰动的，耸人听闻的 | |
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prosecution
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| n.起诉，告发，检举，执行，经营 | |
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professes
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| 声称( profess的第三人称单数 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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liberator
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| 解放者 | |
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gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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justifying
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| 证明…有理( justify的现在分词 )； 为…辩护； 对…作出解释； 为…辩解（或辩护） | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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bulwark
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| n.堡垒，保障，防御 | |
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humanitarianism
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| n.博爱主义；人道主义；基督凡人论 | |
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extenuating
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| adj.使减轻的，情有可原的v.（用偏袒的辩解或借口）减轻( extenuate的现在分词 )；低估，藐视 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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penitentiaries
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| n.监狱( penitentiary的名词复数 ) | |
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outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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bowers
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| n.（女子的）卧室( bower的名词复数 )；船首锚；阴凉处；鞠躬的人 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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rogues
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| n.流氓( rogue的名词复数 )；无赖；调皮捣蛋的人；离群的野兽 | |
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hitch
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| v.免费搭(车旅行)；系住；急提；n.故障；急拉 | |
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57
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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58
paralysis
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| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
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59
isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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60
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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61
degradations
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| 堕落( degradation的名词复数 )； 下降； 陵削； 毁坏 | |
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62
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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63
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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64
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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65
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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66
canes
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| n.（某些植物，如竹或甘蔗的）茎( cane的名词复数 )；（用于制作家具等的）竹竿；竹杖 | |
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67
rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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68
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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69
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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70
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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71
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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72
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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