It must have just
happened--one of those miracles in the way of gilding refined gold and
painting the lily which are so common nowhere else as in our model penal
institutions.
I had ample opportunity to study the subject personally while a guest at
the prison table, and to compare my impressions with those of my fellow
prisoners, as well as to enlarge them by conferences with persons
employed in the kitchen and commissary department. Men who had served in
other prisons--and their combined experiences covered a great many--were
unanimous and emphatic in declaring that the table at Atlanta was the
worst they had ever known, not only as to scantness of supply, but as to
the unwholesomeness or positively poisonous quality of the food
furnished. But let me tell a little of what I saw and knew myself.
When the change was made from long tables and benches to tables seating
eight and chairs, it was announced that table cloths would also be
supplied, and napkins. That was two or three years ago, but table cloths
have not yet appeared, and the eaters still wipe their mouths on the
backs of their hands in the good old way. Pepper and salt were on the
table, and a bottle of something that looked like beer and was supposed
to be vinegar, but was sampled only by the more reckless or
inexperienced convicts. Sugar was not provided except on rare occasions,
and to "diet" prisoners--men who were restricted to bread and milk and
oatmeal.
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