GIFT OF Hearst Fountain 806 1 A N limps? of iJrtBim ffitft BY J. WESS MOORE LIFE CONVICT, No. 18759 CALIFORNIA STATE PRISON SAN QUENTIN, CAL. J. WESS MOORE TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN 1 he writer of the modest lines presented in "GLIMPSES" has been intimately known to me during the period of his incarceration, and I have known him only as a most kindly, generous and ever-courteous gentleman, honest, truthful and sincere, and I cannot speak in terms too highly as to these qualities. They eminently merit the consideration of all charitable persons in his most unfortunate predicament, and I trust, will win him the friendship and assistance he deserves, both by reason of his past services and suffering for his Country and his unfortunate incarceration in this Prison 1 commend him to the favorable consideration of all, especially to my 1 ellow-comrades of the Grand Army of the Republic. AUGUST DRAHMS, Past Chaplain-in-Chief, G. A. R. Resident Chaplain, State Prison San Quentin rqjBp flf Prison ICtfr /. WESS 3SCOORE Issued by the SOCIETY FOR THE FRIENDLESS OF CALIFORNIA THE PICTURE IN STRIPES. Knowing as I do, that the children hardly ever see a prisoner, and never one dressed in these hideous garments, it is for thoir benefit, and to assist them to understand the "awfulness" of the shameful and degraded look of a " convict," I present heroin my own picture, (not someone else) in the prison garb, and this picture is true to life. I leave the children to their own imaginations as to how much more awful this picture would appear had it been made when I had just had a close hair cut and all the beard off my face, as is the cnse with every boy and man convict entering the prison. GLIMPSE OF PRISON LIFE Convict s Wife Dies of a Broken. Heart Prefu>j:?,tio2?,S .f off :ttie Hangings. ; \l* \ ?"*Vt** " (From the San Francisco Daily "News/ June 5, 1909.) If you chance to meet J. Wess Moore, you won t have any trouble in identifying him. He looks more like Uncle Sam than any one you know, with the shrewd, kindly features familiar to the caricature and inevitable chin beard. He will offer you, if you seem approachable, a pamphlet of verse entitled, "Glimpses of Prison Life." Its price is whatever you are inclined to give, but whatever that may be, it will be well applied. "Echoes" were written before Moore was admitted to parole. Every one of them was suggested by some experience of his eight years in stripes, part of his life sentence for kill ing the man who had "jumped" his claim. The verse form is simple, often crude, but the thoughts ,are not, for they are thoughts that would not down. Moore did not begin life either as a poet or philosopher. He was a farmer boy in the old Quaker town of Dublin, Indiana. Wheii barely 15 years of age he ran away to war. He was too ? young to enlist, so he went as a drummer boy and camp fol- v lower with the village volunteers in the Army of the Cumber land. A year later he was sent home sick, when he obtained his mother s consent to enlist. Then he served two years and two months more, with Sherman to the sea, and in the bloody fields of Atlanta. When mustered out, he farmed in Indiana until ruined by floods, which sent him west to Nebraska. Here a cyclone demolished his buildings and he came on to Califor nia. With him came his wife. She died of a broken heart after 28 years of married life while he was still in San Quentin. "O precious, faithful, gentle wife, how can I bear this sorrow, Alone, bereft, a felon s life, today, perhaps tomorrow," Wrote the prisoner. Capt. Ellis of the guard broke the news to Moore. She had followed her husband to the prison, where she found work, first in the steward s home and then with the family of Guard White. Two or three times a week she used to see him, when she would give him delicacies made with her own hands to vary the rough prison fare. OFFERS TO BE HOSTAGE. Mrs. E. G. Humphrey, a missionary, offered to act as a hos tage could Moore be allowed to follow his helpmate to the grave, but Warden Aguirre could find no such precedent in the regulations. So the prisoner prayed in his cell. Moore is a cautious talker. But he tells how he spent his time and of the general life of the prisoners freely enough, though without comment. For the first 14 months Moore worked in the jute mill, when, on account of poor health, he was given the congenial employ ment of prison librarian under Warden Aguirre. Then came Warden John W. Tompkins. Moore was summoned one night before Warden Tompkins. He came in hobbling on two canes. Tompkins accused him of having received smuggled tobacco from a guard. Moore gave an answer that brought swift pun ishment. Clad in dungeon clothes he spent three days in the incorrigible cell, condemned to silence. But Prison Director James Wilkins heard of it and ordered his release. Tompkins* GLIMPSE OF PRISON LIFE reasc;n .was^that^ he heard Moore was trying to smuggle out an ai iicie- to a, ne^yppupor. The :next 20 months the old man sat with aching back ami ^numbed fingers picking jute. He had learned what it meant to incur the displeasure of Warden Tompkins. Perhaps this is why he wrote: "I ve masters here within these walls Who guard my every move, But One there is above them all Who guides me with His love. GETS EASIER JOB. But a change was coming. Warden Tompkins was deposed. Under Warden Edgar, succeeding, the sick prisoner was allowed to loaf about in the prison yard, to bask in God s sunshine and look up into the blue vault of heaven. And when he had be come well enough, he was put in charge of the condemned cells. This is an envied post, says Moore, for the work is light and the food the finest in the market. The beef that is fattened for slaughter gets the best in the bin. So is the gallows choice of diet. The men that are to hang are fed on the best in the land, and left to lie and fatten in their cells. Once a day they take the air in the corridors for an hour and a half. * They are a quiet lot of men, says Moore. Some of them pray a great deal, and some not at all. Then comes the time when they are led to the death cells, where none sees them but the guard and the minister. But the guard always sees them, asleep and awake, for the gallows must not be cheated of its prey. Moore made many friends among the condemned men. He knew Siemsen and Dabner, the gas pipe thugs, well. As Siem- sen passed to the death watch, he held out a shackled hand with a cheery "Good-bye, Dad." But Dabner did not say "Good-bye, Dad," as he followed with sullen and unseeing -eyes. DEATH DEPRESSES MEN. When a man is led from the condemned cells to the death watch, says Moore, gloom falls over the prison. Moody looks are passed, and things whispered behind the guards backs. Three or four days elapse, then the prison yard is cleared. Vis itors pass by in the early- morning. The men pick and twist their jute, or labor in laundry or shop in the unusual prison rou tine. Then the visitors walk out. There is no need to say that a neck has been snapped and a soul loosed to face its Maker. The day seems endlessly long, the food tastes bitter and no pleasantry passes among the men on the day a neck is snapped. In one of his poems, Moore writes: "Had we no thorns among our flowers, No sorrows and no tears, We might get careless and forget This life is but few years." So a hanging is therefore nothing but an emblem of mortality. PRISON S BRIGHTER SIDE. But there is a brighter side to San Quentin life. The men turn out at 6 o clock in summer and 7 m winter. In the after noon they are in their quarters at 10 minutes to 5 or on Sun- davs and holidays at a quarter to three On * he n 4 % ** and Christmas Day there is a minstrel show. On Sundays, GLIMPSE OF PRISON LIFE "Dad" Moore taught Sunday school in the morning among the younger prisoners and preached when the chaplain had finished, and picked up his fiddle at 4 o clock and play the "Arkansaw Traveler" and other old tunes for the boys to dance by, play ing until they were tired. He learned to fiddle in the army. Moore s happiest memories of prison life attach to Warden John Hoyle. It was not that Hoyle let him loaf about the yard because his legs were half paralyzed, to write letters for illit erate prisoners. It was that Hoyle would go out of his way to hear a prisoner s tale. There had been wardens who regarded the prisoners as beasts, to be thrown into dungeons on the words of stool pigeons. But big-hearted John Hoyle is not of these. ACTS OF DEVOTION. "The sweetest acts of devotion I have ever seen in my life," says Moore, have been in prison. There have been instances, though rare, of ingratitude too base for belief, he adds, but charity is far the more common. A man will step in and take the punishment for an act, be cause the real culprit is sick or unfortunate. But these acts are known only to the prisoners. There is no fraternity so strong as among outcast men. Not every man that wears stripes is a criminal. Indeed, many of them are like Moore. They have acted on impulse, more than likely when crazed with drink. It is Moore s work now to help them start in life. He writes of the prison hill "where sleep the convict dead:" "Those little mounds that dot the hill, And the weeds that o er them grow, May cover hearts both kind and true Yet none but God may know. So it is of the living. MY HAPPY HOME. In the valley green by the mountain s side, A home of joy I did provide. My wife hath labored at my side As we in life no ills betide, Xow, looking sadly back through years Fraught with dangers and with tears, All my hopes like all my fears Now are crushed by cruel sneers. Our home, no longer filled with mirth, In which our joy was given birth, Is now another s home and hearth, My peace and joy returned to earth. MY PRESENT HOME. Here sorrowed lives are seldom cheered, Nor duties lightened through the years, Hearts made sad by convict jeers, And Heaven s beauty drowned by sneers, Where a friendly word in kindness said Will cheer the convict, living dead. This is my home, so it is said; A home for many convict dead. GLIMPSE OF PRISON LIFE MY HOME PRAYER Lord, forgive my evil deeds, In Thee I trust for all my needs; No more I ll sow the cruel seeds, For now, dear Lord, tis Thou who leads. 1 know my home in the valley old Was a home of toil and love for gold, Not so that home which did unfold, On Calvary s brow by Scripture told. O home, sweet home, O home of love, May I ere long go home above And dwell with Him in peace and love, Within that home, sweet home above. HOME OF THE LIVING DEAD San Quentin s a home where convicts groan, A home of fear and dread, Where prayer s unheard and hope s deferred, A home for the living dead. This is the place where the convict s face Sure despair bespeaks, The sunken eye, the deep drawn sigh, Are brands like the hollow cheeks. This is the spot that men love not, And friendships are seldom known, Where the traitorous knave will deceive the brave And the gallows claim its own. This is the place where the assassin s face Is looking for one to kill, Just a word, then a stab, a stain on a slab, A numbered grave on the hill. His task now done, life s song is sung, His rest has come at last, Where the serpent s creep won t disturb his sleep In heaven: compared with his past, W T e sometimes fear we may not hear The voice of a mother true, Or enjoy the bliss of the loved one s kiss, Who have waited our sentence through. And some there are who will look afar, And see no joy ahead; Just the task of the slave, a numbered grave, By the home of the living dead. The widow will weep while the orphans sleep, After their prayers are said, But the mother from grief will find no relief. As she tucks the babies in bed. San Quentin s a home of brick and stone, Her walls with doors ajar For those who incline to cast hope behind And appear at her judgment bar. So children dear, I pray you keep clear Of the home of fear and dread, Where prayers are unheard and hope s deferred, Tis a home for the living dead. GLIMPSE OF PRISON LIFE MOTHER TEACH ME teach me, mother, how to pray and how my soul to fill, With love for all mankind today, and do God s holy will; For I am but a little child, dear mother, teach me how To grow in strength and love and power to keep my sacred vow. For I have vowed to serve the Lord, I vowed in earnest, too, And I must trust His Holy word and you to help me do. 1 love you, mother, father, too, and we three love each other, We love the Lord who with us dwells more closely than a brother. 1 love the ones who labor hard the sorrowed hearts to cheer. And also those who ve not been taught just how the Lord to fear; I wish to love all those who dwell in palace, field or jail, T love those too, who do not know God s promise cannot fail. Dear mother, teach me how to pray that God my plea will hear, And help me bring to some poor soul a blessing of good cheer; Snould that poor soul in dungeon dwell behind great locks and bars, Shut out from freedom s liberty, the sun, the moon and stars. Then more I ll pray and more I ll do to serve the water cold. Which Jesus taught was better far than the refiner s gold. Dear mother, help me heed the call and teach me day by day, O teach me how to love Him more. Please teach me how to pray. THE PENITENT CONVICT S PRAYER. Thou nearest, O God, in the morning, Thou hearest at noon and at night, Thou hearest my prayer in the evening. My sins lay bare to Thy sight; I mourn my awful condition, While sorrows make heavy my heart, Because from the dear ones Thou gave me, My sins hath set me apart. Father of love and great mercy, I pray Thee while humbled I be, To grant my prayer of repentance, My sins I bring all to Thee. My wrongs were cruel and many, While Satan was leading along, Shame hath hidden my gladness, I live with the convict throng. And now, dear Lord, I acknowledge, Although my confession is frail, That Thou, in great love and mercy, Hath found me and saved me in jail. Through the great, high walls of my prison Thy sun in my soul did shine; I received Thy love and forgiveness, So now, dear Lord, I am Thine. O Father, forgive me for breaking The heart of a mother so dear, And unite us again by Thy Spirit, And bring to her soul good cheer. GLIMPSE OF PRISON LIFE Dear Lord, forgive me for sowing The tares in the place of grain, O Father, please grant my petition, Then forever with Thee will I reign. A LETTER TO WIFE. -. h,y loved and 1 ailliful wif(\ for tlioc this night I pray, : -iiee I d <;rrifif c my lift? could this thy sorrows stay;" Thy cup is full and overrun with trials, tears and strife, Thy face with tears doth ever burn, thou faithful gentle wife. Twas five and twenty years ago that thou and I were wed, We ve labored Hand in hand, we know, to earn our daily bread; We lived a life of honest toil, we loved the Lord our God, While trials many bout us coil, as w r e through life have trod. I, buried now neath prison walls, under sentence for my life, Will pray with thee till Jesus calls, my gentle, faithful wife. Then hand in hand we toil no more, then soul with soul we ll love And over on the heavenly shore we ll dwell with Christ above. LORD S DAY IN SAN QUENTIN. There s many long years in the past, Years so filled with sorrow, Years in which we have suffered, Dreading to see the tomorrow; Years of strife and conflict, Years both cruel and sad, Years of woe and misery, Years when wardens were mad. Why should a warden be cruel, To helpless ones locked in, W T hom the law itself will punish For crime committed with sin. Why should he not be gentle, Seeking the power from on high, Or pray for our redemption, While we for mercy must cry? O Lord, we thank Thee with fervor, Thy love is manifest now, W T ithin the walls of San Quentin, Where humbly before Thee we bow To thank, and praise Thee forever, For thy blessings have come to stay, Bringing peace with joy and comfort, And bringing to us, Lord s Day. Lord s day in wicked San Quentin! Who hath heard of any such thing? Yes, today, in prison San Quentin, Her walls with praises ring. And now in wicked San Quentin, Our love is mingled with toil; Lord s day in prison San Quentin Was the day Thou sent us John Hoyle. Every day we pray Thee to bless him, With wisdom sent from above, To help him reform the penitent, For we our warden love. GLIMPSE OF PRISON LIFE Lord bless his beautiful effort. To gladden each soul on the wa} , And help us Father, assist him In keeping in memory Lord s day. We thank Thee, O Lord, most gracious, All voices unite in Thy praise, Because from the ranks of the humble, A warden so kind did Thou raise, Like Noah of old doth he labor, That wicked old serpent to foil, Like Noah of old, a reformer, God bless our warden, John Hoyle. LETTER TO PAPA Dear Papa, why don t you come home. Poor mamma is sick and in bed, Why should you leave us alone, My mamma with grief is most dead. 1 am hungry, dear papa, and tired, Our house is as cold as can be. I m barefoot, and mamma keeps crying, Please papa, have pity on me. Dear papa, when you were not here At morning, at noon, or at night, We thought it so strange at the time, In the window we set you a light. All night and all day have we waited, While watching for you to come. My mamma with sorrow is dying. Please papa, dear papa, come home. Your poor little Nettie is weeping. The Nettie you love so dear, And praying that God will now send you, And bring my mamma good cheer. Now papa, I bid you good-night, At mamma s bedside I will pray That God will send you to us, Before taking poor mamma away. Now papa, she s weeping most bitter, And she s so weak and so frail, Just now to me she has whispered, Poor Nettie, your papa s in jail. Dear Lord, if thus I must suffer, Increase my strength and my reason; I m alone with the corpse of my mother, Poor papa s away in the prison. HAD WE NO THORNS. Had we no thorns among our flowers, No sorrows and no tears, We might get careless and forget, This life is but few years. 10 GLIMPSE OF PRISON LIFE Our home outside these high stone walls, Where live the ones we love, Was an earthly home and only brief, Not so, that home above. O precious hour when from myself, I throw these garments down, And wake up in the home of love, To wear a righteous crown. My God my cup hath wisely filled, With sorrow, joy and grief, Xow I shall seek a home above, And find a sure relief. I ve masters here within these walls Who guard my every move. But One there is above them all, Who guides me by His love. So I must faithful serve them each, As best I can and know, For truly we, who evil reap, Did of the evil sow r . We must atone for our mistakes, Assisting those more frail, Who seem to have no earthly friend, Except within the jail. Dear Lord, direct my every move As Thou hast done the Pilgrim; And help me help the weak and sick, God help me help the children. THE PRISONER S PRAYER. Kneeling on the cold stone floor dressed in convict garb, Pleading with God for mercy from a heart once cruel and hard; Humbled before his cell-mates who scorn his simple plea, He breathes the prayer of the penitent, seeking from sin to be free. Eyes are blinded from weeping, tears unbidden must flow, Soul in anguish is calling for more of God s love to know. Dear Lord, forgive me the errors committed while angered and mad, And bless the wife of my bosom now sorrowed so lonely and sad, God bless our innocent children who suffer much more than we, Because of my transgressions, committed, which now I see. Forgive me, dear Lord, for sowing the tares among the grain, Lord, forgive me for using the filth that maddened my brain, Forgive, O Heavenly Father, in mercy forgive me now, For the sake of ou/dear Savior who died on Calvary s brow. 1 pray Thee bless my enemies, likewise my friends so dear, And bless my brethren in prison who need Thy love and cheer. Dear Lord, my prayer is simple and Thou hast willed it so, O help me, Heavenly Father, some seeds of good to sow. May I not atone for errors recorded in Heaven above, By faithfully serving the Master who died for me in love. O bless our "prison officials who treat us so kindly now, GLIMPSE OF PRISON LIFE 11 And spare them Heavenly Father, their souls with power endow. Thy blessings, dear Lord, are many which Thou hast willed to men, Thou gave Thy Son as a ransom, Hallelujah to God! Amen! SHE HAS LEFT ME. O precious, faithful, gentle wife, how can I bear this sorrow, Alone, bereft, a felon s life, today, perhaps tomorrow, No more at old San Quentin s gate we 11 meet to talk and pray, No more out there for me she ll wait, we ll meet on Judgment day. When over on the heavenly shore we ll pass through heaven s gate, Where we shall live forevermore and angels on us wait. They ll show us round the great white throne whereon our Savior stands, And welcome us to home, sweet home, where are no prison bands. O precious one, tis sweet to know thy sorrows had an end, Into thy presence soon I ll go, our tears no more to blend; Out on Mount Tamalpais lawn, close by Pacific s tide, They buried her with prayers and song. Left room for me close by her side. SAN QUENTIN S BUGGED HILL. There s a rugged hill by Pacific s tide. Where the weeds do not grow tall; A r>lace of dread to the passers by. When the evening s shadows fall. The laugh grows mute, their voices hush, Thev pass with quickened tread; This little spot on this big e?rth. Where sleep the convict dead. There many lives that promised fail- In boyhood s early time, Lie stranded there, poor battered hulks Wrecked by the waves of crime. Those little mounds that dot the hill And the weeds that o er them grow, Mav cover hearts both kind and true. Yet none but God may know. The hope of many a household fair And many a mother s pride, Lies here unwept, unsought, unknown, Close by Pacific s tide. God grant that in their life somewhere. They did some deed of love. To balance with their errors in Thy book of life above. God bless and keep those anxious hearts In near and far-off homes, Who wait in tender, patient love, For him who never conies. 12 GLIMPSE OF PEISON LIFE They wait to hear that familiar step, That s now forever still, They re watching for the boy that lies On Quentin s rugged hill. And while the breakers nearer creep, And ships sail on the bay, That mother, sister, loyal wife, Will wait and watch and pray. ASLEEP IN THE STREET. A little child lay in the street, Her golden locks a tangled mass: Her hands were bare, so were her feet, And many people did her pass. There chanced to come a lady kind, And roused this little sleeper, Inquired of her, her mother s name, But she could only whisper, I m sleepy, ma am, please let me sleep, I s sick and pain all over, Please let me in some warm place creep, My hands and feet to cover. What is your name, sweet precious child, And where s your home and mother, Have you no parents, kind and mild, Xo sister or a brother? My mamma s gone away to stay, Her name was Rachel Wilson; And brother died last Christmas day. My papa, he s in prison. O, I s so tired and sleepy, ma am. Just let me lay and rest, For soon I shall be going home To sleep on Jesus breast. This little child so poorly clad, Her soul so crushed with sorrow. Was taken up and tucked in bed, They ll bury her tomorrow. Then raise a marble at her grave, And carve this simple tale; 1 My mamma s gone away to stay, And papa, he s in jail. JOSIE, DON T THEE "EVER" DESERT: FAREWELL. (This paper was read at our camp-fire here, May 30. 1908.) Away back in the sixties, in the quiet old quaker town of Dublin, Indiana, when I was a fatherless, beardless lad of fifteen summers, I wanted to go to war. When I saw Joe Modlin, Will Jay, Tommie Smith, Griff Cooney, Lon Ried, John Long and other of my boy chums enlist, some of whom were but little older than myself, I determined to go also. But owing to my youth, it first became necessary for me to have my mother s written consent, and GLIMPSE OF PEISON LIFE 13 this I failed to obtain until my mother discovered my plans to run away, change my name and go with strangers. This she could not stand, and at last, when the hour for the departure of my boy chums had arrived, she yielded to my request and gave consent. Seizing the little note, and with little Dora Johnson trotting at my side, we hastened to the office of Cap tain M. D. Leeson, where I was enlisted as private Joseph W. Moore, Co. B, 5th Indiana Cavalry Volunteers, and soon on my way back to mother s house to spend my last night in how long, God alone knew. On the following morning, when I had taken a long last look about the dear old home, had drank once more from the little gimlet hole in the old wood pump spout, and mother, my little brother Allie and myself had discussed the possibilities of my soon home-coming, mother threw her arms around me and pressed me to her heart as only a mother can, and as the tears fell from her sweet face she said, "Josie, don t thee ever desert. God bless and keep my boy. Farewell. I then walked away to join my comrades and to follow the fortunes of active service in times of war. In the days that followed, when on the march, on the picket line or on the post of the lone sentinel in the darkness of night, I would hear constantly ringing in my ear: Josie, don t thee ever desert; yea, and unto this day, and over and above that awful sentence pronounced upon me on the 5th day of Sept., 1900, in the court-house in AYeaverville, Trinity County, Cali fornia, by that eminent and beloved jurist, Edward Sweeny: "To be confined in State Prison at San Quentin during your natural life," I yet hear my mother s prayer to be true to my country and flag. Today, the few battered old hulks we see around us, which were, in days past flowers in full bloom in the once mighty armies of the Potomac, the Cumberland, the Miss issippi, and the navies of the sea, are but a fragment of the remnant of those great armies now vanishing forever, as one by one in quick succession we challenge the lone sentinel along the grand march from Bull Run, Shilo, Mission Eidge and the swamps and wilderness drenched in human blood, to our eternal tenting ground just over the divide. Our beloved leaders: our martyred Lincoln, the brave Grant, Sherman, Sheridan, McPherson, Logan, Lyon and a host of others whose memory is dear have already saluted the last lone sentinel and have pitched their everlasting habitation in that beautiful valley where the "well-done, faithful servants," for ever rest in peace. Today, my mind slips back down the line to where the rank and file rubbed elbows in the dust, mud and storm, neath smoke enshrouded skies, where streams run acrimsoued red with the blood of American boys and men, and graves marked "unknown" contain the bodies of heroes, who, rather than desert gave their all that our government may live on and on. Costly as it was, we fought a winning fight and our people have no lost cause to mourn, and the government we saved will provide our temporal needs w 7 hen aged, infirm and needy, and thus w r ill compensate our services, and as long as we cling to the battered old flag of the republic as we hobble along in 14 GLIMPSE OF PRISON LIFE rcvi.-w on crutch, cane or wooden peg, each reviewer will have a warm spot within the heart for us. Surrounded by misery and woe as I am today, how can I be generous in thought, deed or act, while I see men of my own country and home, some of whom were my comrades in the blue uniform of the United States standing over me with rifle shotted, listening to catch my every word, noting my every move, keeping an hourly record of my life and ready to shoot me down unarmed as I am at the very first move I may make looking that I shall attempt to flee this enduring death without lawful procedure; and thus it is that I sometimes wonder "have our people fully appreciated my services to our country? Yet, with all this I am willing to concede that the existing conditions must of necessity continue indefinitely. But. in the last evening s twilight of a life of hard honest toil and patriotic services to society and country, a life charac terized as that of good citizenship, it does seem hard that I must be adjudged by my own neighbors and fellow country men to be wholly unfitted to longer enjoy the sacred home circle, which has cost so many years of toil and endurance to establish and acquire, or to mingle again with respectable society. Now, I look just beyond the walls of my prison home and there see that beautiful star spangled banner, so proudly floating on the waves of air from off the mighty Pacific, and as f remember that I now have no flag, save these stripes of scorn and everlasting contempt, no country save the little spot within the grim walls of old San Quentin my heart sinks within me and I cry out, how long, O Lord, how long, will this be: then to remember that I must patiently endure this living death for how long G-od alone knows, I say, it seems hard, and such reflections must bring sorrow to the strongest, but the most sad of all moments are those in which I contemplate grim old death tapping on my cell wicket and calling as does the guard who stands over me when a friend visits with me for half an hour. No. 18,759, Moore, time s up come along; and to know there will be none there who were near and dear in this life to bear away this wornout old body, and after all, this body of mine must" repose in a felon s grave, unhonored, unwept and soon forgotten; I say, "It seems hard." J. \Vess Moore, life sentenced convict, No. 18759 California State Prison, San Quentin, May 30th, 1908. SAN FRANCISCO, WHAT OF THEE? O Frisco, Frisco, what of thee, To whom all nations bend the knee, Thy majesty has ceased to be, Thy fate was hurled from sea to sea. O er awful evils day and night, fhou sat a queen in jewels bright; God sent His power in His own might, Thy temples made an awful sight. GLIMPSE OF PRISON LIFE 15 Thy fame had gone from shore to shore, And cleft the clouds where eagles soar, And thou must mourn in trouble sore, Thy majesty can rise no more. Thou license gave to one and all, Who sought to run an evil hall; And snare the strangers great and small, Who came within thy towering wall. Proud, defiant, haughty queen, Some of thy children now are seen; Thy rich, thy poor, thy good and mean, Now are camping on the green. We hear no more their joyous shout In evil den or there-about, And on the hilltops round about We search for them but find them not. They fled from thee like frenzied sheep, And left their home a ruined heap, Some lie beneath the wreckage deep, And others in the grave do sleep. O Frisco, Frisco, can it be, That thou wast blind and could not see? No, thou refused thy children s plea And would not bend the humble knee. They prayed for thee but thou would not Forsake the sins thy evils brought, The battle, stubborn thou hast fought, Thy glory grand has come to naught. We sympathize with thee, fair queen, We pity thee and that most keen; And looking through thy future screen, Thou ne er can be what thou hast been. We d love again to hear thy mirth In every home, round every hearth, But dust to dust, so earth to earth, Thou must abide thy second birth. We d love to sing with thee in song, And help to swell thy temple s throng; But thou hast heard the fireman s gong, Thy race is run, it was not long. Thy children s virtue thou hast sold, Thy coffers held corrupted gold; Thy history now so quickty told, Is written in ashes gray and cold. O Frisco, Frisco, this is bad, Tis most enough to drive us mad; But thou must be sincerely glad Thy awful fate was not more sad. California State Prison, San Quentin, April, 29, 1906. J. Wess Moore, life convict No. 18759. 16 GLIMPSE OF PRISON LIFE A LETTER FROM WIFE. As I entered my cell Last night, my eyes fell, On something not seen there before, A little white sheet There lay at my feet, Bedecking my cold prison floor. As I stooped to the ground, My heart gave a bound, As I wondered from whom it could be, What a joyful surprise, When I feasted my eyes On this letter which wife wrote to me. As I sat there alone, In my chamber of stone, Seeming happy, contented and gay,- In my hand tight I hold, Something dearer than gold, This letter, from wife far away. The writing so clear, Old-fashioned and dear, Made my heart beat in deep ecstacy; It was written by wife, My partner in life, And a dear one, she s ever to me. TRIALS OF AN I left San Quentin s prison gate One morning in July, With five good dollars in my fist, And dressed up sort o fly. They gave me a ticket to Marys ville, But I don t care to go Where everybody knows every one, That everybody knows. And I do know they know me there, And know that I have been For ten years past behind the walls Of prison San Quentiu. Should I return to Marysville, In life there s no other, Excepting a mother, Could love me so fondly as she; Bitter tears do I shed, On my rude prison bed, O er the letters which wife writes to me. Two long weary years, Since I left her in tears, In the home that we both loved so well, She writes me to-day, Her locks have turned gray, Since I entered my dark prison cell. On your wife, Wcss, depend, She will stay to the end, Was the message this sweet missive bore; Though now far away, For her do I pray, As I kneel on my cold prison floor. Under sentence of life, Away from my wife, And the dear ones we both love so well, For me she will wait, At San Quentin s gate, How long, God only can tell. EX-CONVICT. They d look on me with scorn, They d say I d been a con vict too, Perhaps in prison born; And all such stuff they d at me fling, And think it only right, Because I fell once in my life, In a beastly drunken fight. They do not know that I ve reformed, Nor will they wait to see, They kick stray dogs just out of scorn, And thus they 11 look on me. So I went down to San Jose And got a job same day, And went to work with an honest heart, Under promise of good pay. GLIMPSE OF PRISON LIFE My boss was kind, nothing ill I m hungry as can be; did say, Please, can you help a poor And treated me fine a week; ex-con/ On Saturday night he paid me Who loves his liberty? off, There s hundreds more, and Saying, Some other place some I met, now seek. And they are sore distressed; I can not keep an ex-con here, They re hungry too, and And this you surely know, broke besides, So here s your pay, and And very poorly dressed. there s your duds, Or must I go and steal again, Just take your grip and go. Or rob some lady frail, I went to many places more, Of all her gold and jewels rare, In search of honest toil, And then go back to jail? But as I tramped from place O God forbid me think of this, to place, And curse me should I do it; Some one my chance would I ll seek till I have found a spoil. friend, And now I m broke, ain t got Or die and never rue it. a cent, FOR THE CHILDREN STUDY PENOLOGY, IT WILL PAY. A Word About Crime, Criminals and Deterrents. Some penologists suggest the abolishment of the death pen alty in cases of homicide and murder, but say inaugurate the death penalty in cases of robbery and other premeditated crimes. By a living, practical experience, and contact with all kinds of criminals the eight years last past, I believe myself capable to judge as to the justice of such a measure, and do so, I am absolutely sure, in an unbiased manner, without prejudice. Experience, we all must admit, is the very best test, in fact, it is the crucial test which demonstrates the truth in all things, then why not in things criminal? In such cases as this of my own, the death, or any other penalty, is no deterrent at all, for: on the impulse of the mo ment all is done that is done, without any consideration of pen alties whatever, and free from all premeditations prior to the moment of action. That which deters the "criminal" is meas ured by his ability to avoid detection and conviction, only when his plans for escaping detection have been solved to his own satisfaction. He does not think of the "Penalty" but goes to his hazardous undertaking feeling that later on he will read in the papers under glaring head lines, "No clew to the perpetrator" and will enjoy peaceable possession of his ill- gotten gains, and laugh at the police as he listens to the many stories concerning the "boldness" of the crime, fully secure from detection for the time being. This, then, is the "criminal s delight" for he has at no time considered the penalty, no matter what it may be, and, if the death penalty will not deter men who are reputed to be good citizens, how can we expect it to deter the criminal? Men who are deterred, are the ones who are so deterred solely because of their knowledge of right and wrong. It is true a promise of punishment made to the child by the parent, will deter the child in most cases, but, we grown-up 18 GLIMPSE; OF PEISON LIFE children seem to have risen above the effectiveness of a " prom ise" to punish and seem to have ideas of our own until we find ourselves smarting under the folly, many times of our own carelessness. I can say without fear of successful contradic tion, that the penalty of life imprisonment, (or even the pen alty of a long term of years), will more successfully deter men and boys than will the death penalty. I am absolutely cer tain of this, although I am aware that it is not possible for many (who have not had a similar experience) to believe me to be correct in this, but I declare it to be true. I deem it proper here to say to the children, that I was tried and convicted in a court of justice, I was ably defended by the Honorable Horace E. Green of Weaverville, Cal., whose hon esty is as pure as the brightness of the sun; and His Honor, Edward Sweeny, of Eedding (at that time) now Supt. of the U. S. Mint, San Francisco, Cal., who sat as Judge at my trial, was in every way able, and did, protect my every interest, yet I was found guilty of murder in the first degree, the jury plac ing the punishment at life imprisonment. At the time of the homicide, I was alone, with no friend near save my hunting rifle, while there were three of my enemies, two of whom were armed (the deceased having gone armed at all times), and, having previously threatened my life in the presence of three reputable witnesses who were as friendly to him as to myself. I had gone to the district attorney, D. J. Hall, seeking a warrant of arrest, hoping that nothing more serious would befall him, or any one, than being placed under bonds to keep the peace and thereby restore quiet and order in our entire neighborhood, but, Mr. Hall refused me the warrant as he had likewise refused Frank Eobertson the same for this same man, (Alverson), for the same kind of threat against Eobertson but a few weeks prior; and by this refusal to grant to me the protection of the law, Hall s neglect became criminal to that degree which made him responsible for the threat of Alverson on May 19, 1901, for which crime he tried hard to hang me. Stye gwteiij far tty General Office 789 Market St., San Francisco, Calif. Organized March 6th, 1909. Samuel E. Mitchell, President, 789 Market St., San Fran cisco, Cal.; Ed. F. Spicer, Chairman, 142 Cortland avenue, San Francisco; Mrs. M. V. Newman, General Secretary, 2201 Ath- erton St., Berkeley, Cal.; Mrs. Maude Hazekamp, Correspond ing and Visiting Secretary, 789 Market St., San Francisco, Cal.; 0. W. Calhoun, Printing and Stationery Secretary, 2434 Dwight Way, Berkeley, Calif.; J. Wess Moore, Soliciting Financial Sec retary, 557 Sycamore St., Oakland; Mrs. Visalia Eees, Visiting and Corresponding Secretary, 994 Fourth avenue, East Oakland, Calif. Dear Friend: The Society for the Friendless appeals to you for support. We hope to receive your financial, as well as your moral sup port. When you understand that many men and boys have al ready been paroled from our two prisons, and, that nearly all GLIMPSE OF PRISON LIFE 19 have, and are, making good citizens of themselves; and when you understand that many good men and boys are now in prison who have earned all the credits laid down by the law in order to become eligible for parole, and whom the prison wardens are ready to recommend for parole, but having neither people, friends or money of their own in this State to assit them, and when you also understand that society will receive a Daroled prisoner much better and with more confidence than the dis- charged-at-expiration-of-term-convict, is received, we believe you will be willing to give this work not only your hearty moral but your financial support as well. Parole, before the sentence has been completed, inspires much hope in each convict, so paroled, and as a matter of reform, there is no greater reformatory measure. This is a fact, parole a criminal and treat him humanely and he will not lapse to crime. Parole the prisoner who is not yet a hardened criminal, and save him from a career of vice. The prisoner paroled has a chance to establish himsolf in society. If kept in prison until the expiration of his term he comes out an ex-convict, believing himself despised bv the world and is often, as he believes forced into the ways of the criminal. This is not so with those paroled, so let us secure home and parole for many of those unfortunate creatures and help make men of them, and restore them to useful citizenship. The cost of parole. Advertising, not less than $2, and in some instances, $6. Fare and meals en route to place of em ployment, $1 to $20. Clothing, (every garment worn from head to foot,) not less than $18. Deposit with the Warden, $25. Tf vou will help supply the means to carry on this good work, the Society for the Friendless will perform the labor. Each member of this Society has a business of his or her own to at tend, other than this work, yet, we will give all the time nec essary to perform our duties well. The Society for the Friendless will aid worthy prisoners now confined in San Quontin and Folsom, who have neither money or friends to assist them to secure parole, and will aid the needy and dependent mothers, wives and little ones of paroled and other prisoners, will look after the sick and distressed in all cases coming to our notice, no matter by whom so reported. There are, scattered throughout our State, many who suffer more than do those incarcerated, and upon whom the hand of scorn rests heavily. Let us help them. For all snch prisoners whom the wardens and the State Board of Prison Directors will recomm^d as worthy of such aid, and who are wiling to lead correct lives and becomp good ^citizens again, we will secure employment, will furnish clothing and the necessarv funds for depos t. and will do all that can be done to assist those who will make an effort to help themselves. Our labors will be confined strictlv to the work outlined above, and we shall work in harmonv with the Honorable State Board of Prison Directors and the prison wardens. Funds will be raised bv general subscriptions, and the sale of Glimpses of Prison Life. GLIMPSE OF PRISON LIFE The amount for clothing and other incidental expense money, may be replaced by the one paroled when he or she has earned and can spare it. The whole amount being considered by the prisoner, as a loan, except in extreme and worthy cases, when all but the deposit shall be a gift. Receipts bearing the stamp of the Society for the Friendless will be given all subscribers, who contribute $1 or more, giving date of payment and amount subscribed. Several of our best business men and business firms co-oper ate with us and will employ all the paroled men we can send them, at top notch wages. Endorsed by the Associated Chari ties. TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN. The undersigned, Prisoners of San Quentin, California, as a committee of the whole, representing the different races and creeds of people in this institution, desire to express to our departing comrade, J. Wess Moore, life sentenced convict, No. 18759, our sincere appreciation of his manly and Christian conduct, during the eight years last past within these walls. We express the general, and almost universal sentiment of good will and sincere appreciation felt here because of his heroic efforts to better the condition of his fellow prisoners, and his implicit trust and confidence in society at large, to aid this cause, when made conversant with the needs of the State condemned. We sincerely hope that our departing comrade may be blessed with health, strength and long life, and that his efforts to elevate and uplift humanity may be crowned with success, and that his end may be peaceful as his earnest life here has demonstrated he richly deserves, and to this end we shall ever pray. No. 19826. Jaun Zamora, speaking for the Mexican race. No. 21410. Jarrett Irving, speaking for the White race. No. 21518. Wm. Hutchersen, speaking for the Colored race. No. 20314. James R. Stokes, speaking for the White race. No. 18837. Justin Brown, speaking for the White race. Dated at San Quentin, California, November 27, 1908. San Quentin, November 28, 1908. We, the undersigned, inmates and co-dwellers of Room B, feel called upon at this time to express the deep feeling and sincere, heartfelt grati tude in which we hold our esteemed, noble patriot, J. Wcss Moore. It is with feelings of rare pleasure that we are assembled here to bid farewell to one who has endeared himself to all; his Christian heart, a heart which carries in it nothing but kindness and willingness to assist in uplifting of poor sinners, who have fallen by the wayside. We all know what a power of good he has been in aiding to elevate the spiritual welfare of the inmates of this room and as one man we u;iite in the wish that he may live long to do good outside of these prison walls. We could dwell long upon the character of our esteemed friend, but suflice to say that he will long dwell in our memory as a "Grand old man." The assiduous interest he has ever taken in us all impels our admira tion and love, and such expressions mean much in this "city of sighs and tears." These resolutions are prompted by a motive of sincere regard and as an assurance that it will be long before the tenants of Room B forget the kindly countenance of J. Wess Moore. M J. Burkhart, Chas. Butscher, J. McEvoy, G. M. Green, Carl Eggert, 19101, W H Lambert, A. J. Canaday, C. A. Davis, Allan B. Lewis, O. Blum, J. H. Pooler, J. McCarthy, J. C. Wade, B. Contreras, A L Larson, Raphael Caruso, 22590, C. S. Jones, J. A. Chavez, Reg. 21259, Frank J Williams, P. Middlemiss, Frank Johnson, Jesse Gibson, Albert H. Gotzentor, W. Wilson, Fred Rebolledo, W. C. James, John O Brien, Jos. Lorey, 19373, J. H. Williams, J. B. Stewart, 22733, 16650, M. M. Higuera, John Grady, Gripe x, R. Velarde, W. N. Chord, Pete Ford. 17733, W. Rhodes, EACH MEMBER OF THE SOCIETY OF THE FRIENDLESS IS AN AGENT FOR THIS BOOK. Press o MILLER & CO la?:) Bioailwuy YB ^ / ET t>Oo UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY