ing himself precisely
in the place of another in any given set of circumstances; yet that does
not keep us from constantly studying and analyzing the human problem. It
still remains true that "The proper study of mankind is man." In this
particular instance, perhaps some things of value were obtained for the
very reason that I was not a criminal. Possibly I could judge of some
matters with a juster appreciation than could any man suffering
involuntary imprisonment. It did, in fact, surprise me very much that
anyone could succeed to so great an extent in putting himself in the place
and in sharing so many of the sensations of an actual prisoner. Time and
again I heard from others the expression of thoughts and feelings which I
recognized as those which had swept over me; and I found that, partly by
force of imagination and environment and partly by the actual physical
conditions of confinement, one could really come into astonishingly close
sympathy and understanding with the prisoner. The truth of this can, I
believe, be seen in my narrative and has been demonstrated many times
since my release.

Of course all this would not have been possible had not the attitude of
both officers and inmates been just what it was. As I look back, it seems
to me that all hands played their parts to perfection. The strict orders
of the Warden that I was to receive no favors whatever and must be treated
exactly like any ordinary inmate, were literally carried out--except in
the two or three unimportant instances noted in my journal. But far more
remarkable was the attitude of the prisoners. An outsider would never have
detected a look or an action to indicate that there was any difference
between "Tom Brown" and any other inmate of the institution. Of course it
could not be absolutely the same; it was not possible for me to escape
being an object of interest; and I often felt around me a sort of
suppressed excitement; although, as I glanced again at the stolid gray
automatons, among whom I marched or sat at mess, I would think it must be
only my imagination--a reflex of my own excitement. Still I would catch an
occasional smile, a wink, a lifting of an eyebrow, the ghost of a nod--to
show that those silent figures were not really indifferent to my presence
among them. And as I went to my cell for the night, there might be a
momentary pause by a gray-clothed figure at the door, and a low whisper,
"How does it go, Tom?" All such things, howe