The New York Tombs Inside and Out! Scenes and Reminiscences Coming Down to the Present. A Story Stranger Than Fiction, with an Historic Account of America's Most Famous Prison

My first visit to the grim old Tombs Prison was in the early part of 1875. I have never forgotten that visit and the deep impression it left on my mind. The scenes I witnessed that day have come back to me scores of times and I have wished that I had the power to have changed the things I then saw. At any rate, that memorable experience started in my soul a deeper sympathy and pity for erring humanity.

Afterwards I spent much time visiting the old prison, as I had the opportunity, and I found it a splendid place for the study of human nature, and especially the criminal side of life.

When speaking to New Yorkers of the scenes I had witnessed in this prison, I found them to be densely ignorant of its history and management. Why should they take any interest in the old Tombs? New Yorkers are too busy in commercial pursuits to give much time to such trifles! I found, however, after they were aroused on the subject of abuses they wished to know everything, and they wondered like myself why politics should be allowed to have such a controlling power in the City Prison.

At this time I was a lay missionary. My field of labor was the old “Red Light District.” This part of New York was not as densely populated as now. It contained a large number of people, mostly of the thrifty Irish and German class. It had many large tenements which contained from eight to twelve families, which were veritable “bee hives” of the human species.

While visiting, not far from Essex Market Court, a lady informed me that a member of my Sunday School was then in the Tombs, and asked me to go and see him. This was new work for me and I confess, I did not know how to go about it. I called to see the boy’s mother, who kept a beer garden in the neighborhood. But I could get nothing out of her, and came away feeling that my labor was all in vain. The woman was so much absorbed in her saloon business and so benumbed and besotted with beer that she seemed devoid of all motherly instinct and feeling. And she seemed not to care the snap of her finger about her boy.

After a good deal of difficulty I made my way to the Boys’ Prison in the Tombs, which was in the rear of the building. To my amazement I found a crowd of young thieves and pickpockets huddled together, and this Sunday School lad in the midst. In those days the authorities made no attempt at segregation or discrimination. The boys were all together, cursing and howling like a lot of devils! I was pained beyond measure, and I regret to say when I returned to the City Prison after nearly twenty years, almost the same condition existed. I found the Boys’ Prison in a filthy condition—damp and foul, more fit for hogs than human beings, and this besides the continual noises, yelling, howling, cursing, swearing and cat-calls in ten languages!

I made a hurried investigation and saw the authorities, after which the boy was discharged and returned home. He never forgot his experience in that gloomy old prison! I kept watch of him but I do not think he was ever the same person. Those few days in the Tombs as the companion of thieves and pickpockets not only marred his future life but came near blasting his usefulness forever!