Believe me, sir, you have the love and respect of every man behind these prison walls.

With God's blessing, a long life and a happy one to you, dear sir.

I beg to remain yours truly,

TOM CURRAN, Steamfitter, Auburn Prison.

I am going to work Tuesday morning at my trade in Syracuse.

The writer, Curran is not his real name, also refused to accept a loan of money which I offered to him so that he could fit himself out with the tools of his trade. He did not get the job in Syracuse, but drifted into another state to a city where, quite by chance three months later, I ran across him in the county jail. The trouble with Tom was the same as in the case of so many others. Perfectly straight when sober, he could not help stealing when drunk, and he hadn't enough strength of mind to keep out of saloons. How could he have? What had the prison done to aid him in developing strength of character?

The following letter is a very characteristic one.

Auburn, N. Y., October 6, 1913.

Mr. Thomas M. Osborne.

Dear Sir: I trust you will pardon the liberty I take in writing you.

But I wish to thank you for the interest you have taken in the men here. I know there are hundreds of people who have our interests at heart, but they imagine we are a sort of strange animal, and treat us as such. You know if you put a dog in a cage for five or ten years, he will become unfit as a pet. Just so with us, we enter here intending to become better men, but the treatment we receive from some of those who are in immediate charge of us, causes us to become embittered at the world in general.

You have done more good in the past few days than any other man or woman interested in Prison Reform. You was not ashamed to make yourself one of us (if only for a week); you lived as we live, ate what we ate, and felt the iron hand of discipline. You came among us as man to man and I heartily thank you for it. When you stood in the chapel last Sunday, and talked to us like a father with tears in your eyes and hardly able to speak, I prayed as I never prayed before, and asked God to care for you and watch over you in your coming struggle to better conditions here. I know you will meet with opposition both here and outside. By that I do not mean the Warden, as he has proven himself to be a just man in every respect. I mean those who are in immediate charge of us. Some of them are not in accord with your project, and showed their disapproval by reprimanding us for greeting you as we did last Sunday. But they are not to blame in one sense, for they have been here so long their feelings have become stagnated and any new movement appears to them an intruder. They may be in a position to prevent us from showing our feelings physically, but, thank God, they cannot control us mentally. And just so long as I can think, so long will I think of you as our friend.

You have caused the men here to see things in a different light, and you can be assured of their utmost loyalty; for I do not believe there is a man here who would not call you his friend. And in closing I wish to thank Warden Rattigan and Supt. Riley for their hearty support of you, and hope to God I may be able some day to thank you in person. I am now and always,

Loyally yours, FRANK MILLER, No. 32--, Auburn Prison.

Certain fundamental facts have never been more clearly expressed than in the first paragraph of that letter. People "imagine we are a sort of strange animal, and treat us as such." The prisoners "enter here intending to become better men," but the treatment they receive "causes us to become embittered at the world in general."

There is the Prison Question in a nutshell.

Perhaps it will be remembered that each evening at 6:40, while in my cell, I heard a violin played with rare feeling. Two weeks after my visit ended I made the acquaintance of the player--a young man who received me with rather painful embarrassment. He had an air of constraint and reticence as I spoke of his probable intention to make use of his talent after leaving prison. He told me that he was a graduate of Elmira, and also of the United States navy. I left him with the feeling that our interview had not been very much of a success. I was therefore the more surprised to receive the following letter a few days afterward.

135 State St., Auburn, N. Y., Oct. 17, 1913.

Hon. Thos. M. Osborne, Auburn, N. Y.

Dear Sir: Ever since Tuesday I have been trying to muster up sufficient courage to write you. After you left and I had finally regained control of myself it occurred to me that I had forgotten to ask you inside; but coming as you did I was completely taken by surprise and forgot everything, for which I hope you will pardon me.

Your unexpected visit, brief as it was, furnished me much food for thought. I can not truthfully say that I was not flattered by your kind approbation--but it has not turned my head; to the contrary, it has caused me to think a bit harder than I ever have before. As you undoubtedly know by your brief experience here, the subject which occupies a man's mind mostly is reflection; and while a large amount of my time has been tempered with reflection, up until now it had never led me into this particular channel.

I have made various plans as to the course I shall pursue in regaining all that I have lost, when I shall have been released. But until now I had never considered music as the medium to accomplishing this end. Perhaps I am overestimating my ability--I probably am--but at least I mean to attempt it. When I was sentenced to Elmira I cursed the day that I ever learned to play; after I had been there a while I began to miss my violin even more than the cigarettes of which I was likewise deprived. As the time progressed, and I was not getting any nearer home, through non-compliance with the rules, I finally banished music from my mind and everything connected with it; and from then on I seemed to get on better.

The period I was in the navy was too strenuous to admit of anything but adapting myself to the life; with the exception of dodging ex-convicts with which the navy is amply supplied.

After I found myself beached and began life again, I had completely forgotten the fact that I had ever played unless some one who knew me of old questioned me in this regard.

It was not until I came here that I had the desire to play at all, and never while here has that desire framed into a resolve until now.

Were I never to see you again I will always remember you, your kindness has awakened long buried impulses.

I have gone into this thing further than I intended; my intention was to thank you for your kindness in coming to see me. I little thought when you came into the P. K.'s office to have your record taken, the first day of your self-imposed term, that I should be in your thoughts even for a little while. I knew you were over me when I commenced to play, but never dreamed or hoped that it would have any more than a passing effect upon you. And when I passed you at different times I avoided you, as I did not think there was anything about me which would attract your interest, knowing as I do how little consideration I deserve from anyone.

Your kindness will never be forgotten. Nothing can happen during the remainder of my term which will afford me greater happiness. A happiness accompanied with a deep regret for all that I have neglected and opportunities unaccepted, but for which I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Very respectfully, CHARLES F. ABBOTT (P. K.'s Clerk), Auburn Prison, October 17, 1913.

I think most schools and colleges might be successfully challenged to show a letter better expressed or showing a finer spirit of manliness. In fact one finds in all these letters, and in many others not included here, a peculiar note of clearness; it is to be found also in the talk of many of these men, after you have succeeded in gaining their confidence; a rare note of sincerity and strength--as if the unimportant hypocrisies of life had been burned away in their bitter experiences.

In the month of December, 1913, immediately upon my return from a six weeks' business trip to Europe, I visited my friends at the prison. Then I found that my shopmate, Jack Bell, had been transferred to Clinton Prison on account of his health. A day or two later I received the following acknowledgment of some postcards I had sent him.

Dannemora, New York, Sunday, Dec. 14, 1913.

The Hon. Thomas Mott Osborne.

Dear friend: A line to try and explain to you the way I am longing to again have the pleasure of seeing and speaking to you. After I received your cards, which were very pretty, it is only necessary for me to say here that I appreciated your loving kindness of thinking to send them. By this time no doubt you know of my transfer from Auburn to Dannemora which I thought would not be. But now that it has, I am pleased to say all is well, and find this place better than my previous home; see! There is only one thing I regret, and that is I'll not have as many opportunities of seeing and talking with you.

For in the short time spent in your company can only say I miss your presence more and more. If in the future you will write me a line or so, such will cheer me in my moments of thought. Would be pleased to hear of your trip abroad. I hope you had a more pleasanter time than while at Auburn. I can not say in this letter the way I appreciated your cards. I sat for some time looking at them and thinking. I must say in closing that you have my sincere wishes for a merry Christmas, as this is the last letter till after it has passed. May you enjoy it and many to come. Give Jack my love and tell him to be good.

Believe me to be sincerely yours,

JOHN J. BELL.

Once I heard Bell described as "just an ordinary fellow who likes to appear tough." Reading between the lines of his letter I think one can discern the fine instincts of a gentleman. I thought I recognized such when I met him in the basket-shop; this letter and others I have had from him confirm that belief.

As I think my narrative must have shown, there is a very soft spot in my heart for my comrades of the dark cells. It has been a source of deep regret to me that Joe, Number Four, did not make good on his release; and I hope that the others will have stronger purposes and better results.

Perhaps there may be some interest in the fate of the poor lad in Cell Two, who tipped over his water, and whose mental and physical sufferings added so much to my own distress during that horrible night. Upon his release the next day he went back to the hospital, where he remained for some time. In the month of November, while I was in Europe, he wrote me the following letter.

135 State St., Auburn, N. Y., Monday, Nov. 16, 1913.

My dear Friend, "Number One":

How little those words convey, and again how much. That I may write them to you, in the consciousness that they mean all that the words "dear friend" imply, is a greater happiness than I dared hope for. I have been in "Lunnon" with you for the past two weeks. That means, I have been allowing myself the daily luxury of thinking of you, and now the rare one of writing.

I presume you are wondering if I have been to the bungaloo since your departure. No, sir! My promise will hold good. In the past I have formed good resolutions, not one but many. Most of them died in their infancy; others lived long enough to make me unhappy. This time, though, circumstances are different, and I sincerely hope that confidence placed in me will not have been wasted.

Number One, did you ever have the blues--real, dark, deep indigo, bluey blues? I do frequently, and the cause I attribute to my ear.

There is a continual buzzing, with short, shooting pains; and the doctors have informed me there is no cure. I receive a syringe of twenty-five per cent. alcohol daily, that gives relief for the time being. Well, Thanksgiving is near at hand; so I ought to be thankful that my other ear is not performing like a motor in need of oil.

Believe me, I am.

Mr. Peacock called Sunday (8th) and we had an agreeable talk. He seemed a very pleasant gentleman, and warned me to walk a chalk line, so you see I dare not go to jail. As you once upon a time were in prison, to a certain extent, you realize what pleasures a visit brings. I appreciate yours, Mr. P.'s, and Mr. Rattigan's kindness very much.

I know all the boys would wish to be remembered if they knew I were writing. I didn't tell them for that would mean fifty sheets of paper, and I hadn't the nerve to ask Mr. R. for that. But I will say this: that we all want to hear, see, and talk to our own Tom Brown, even if he is an ex-convict. Don't let our English cousins keep you over there too long.

Wishing you the best of everything, I am, anxiously awaiting a letter, your Jail Friend Number Two--or

EDWARD R. DAVIS, No. 32--.