Liberty Prison Ministries Tracts

I do not attempt this record of my life from any feeling of vainglory, or any craving for notoriety. Neither is it because I have had a remarkable history. I have been a great sinner, and have found Jesus a great Saviour; and this is why I would tell my story, that others may be led to adore and seek the blessed Friend who saved, and has thus far kept me by his grace.

I was born in Ireland. Our family was broken up by sin, for my father was a counterfeiter, and left home to escape the law, before I knew him. I was placed at a very early age in the family of my grandmother, who was a devout Catholic.

I was never taught or sent to school, but left to have my own way; to roam about in idleness, doing mischief continually, and suffering from the cruel and harsh treatment of those who had the care of me.

At the age of thirteen I was sent to this country, to the care of a married sister in New York City. Here I ran errands in the family, and assisted my brother-in-law in his business, and soon, by the practice of little tricks, became well-used to dishonesty, and was as great a rogue as one of my years could be. After a while I felt I could live by my own wits, and left my sister’s home to take care of myself. I took board in a family in Water Street, where were two young men with whom I associated myself in business. I earned what I could, and stole the rest, to supply my daily wants.

We had a boat, by means of which we boarded vessels in the night, stealing whatever we could lay our hands on. Here I began my career as a river thief. In the daytime we went up into the city and sold our ill-gotten goods, and with the proceeds dressed up, and then spent our time, as long as our money lasted, in the vile dens of Water Street, practicing all sorts of wickedness. Here I learned to be a prize-fighter, and by degrees, rapid degrees, rose through all the grades of vice and crime, till I became a terror and a nuisance in the Fourth Ward.

I was only nineteen years of age when I was arrested for highway robbery—a child in years, but a man in sin. I knew nothing of the criminal act which was charged to my account; but the rum sellers and inhabitants of the Fourth Ward hated me for all my evil ways and were glad to get rid of me. So they swore the robbery on me, and I couldn’t help myself. I had no friends, no advocate at court (it is a bad thing, sinners, not to have an advocate at court), and without any just cause I was sentenced to fifteen years in State Prison. I burned with vengeance; but what could I do! I was handcuffed, and sent in the cars to Sing- Sing.

That ride was the saddest hour of my life. I looked back on my whole past course, on all my hardships, my misery and sins, and gladly would I have thrown myself out before the advancing train, and ended my life. It was not sorrow for sin that possessed me, but a heavy weight seemed to press me down when I thought of the punishment I had got to suffer for my wrong-doings, and an indignant, revengeful feeling for the injustice of my sentence. Fifteen years of hard labor in a prison to look forward to, and all for a crime I was as innocent of as the babe unborn. I knew I had done enough to condemn me, if it were known; but others, as bad as I, were at liberty, and I was suffering the penalty for one who was at that hour roaming at will, glorying in his lucky escape from punishment, and caring nothing for the unhappy dog who was bearing it in his stead. How my heart swelled with rage, and then sank like lead, as I thought of my helplessness in the hands of the law, without a friend in the world.

I concluded, however, before I reached the end of that short journey, that my best way was to be obedient to prison rules, do the best I could under the circumstances, and trust that somebody would be raised up to help me.

When I arrived at the prison—I shall never forget it—the first thing that attracted my attention was the sentence over the door:

"The way of transgressors is hard."

Though I could not read very well, I managed to spell that out. It was a familiar sentence, which I had heard a great many times. All thieves too, that it is out of the Bible. It is a well-worn proverb in all the haunts of vice, and one confirmed by daily experience. And how strange it is that, knowing so well that the way is hard, the transgressors will still go in it.

But God was more merciful to me than man. His pure eyes had seen all my sin, and yet he pitied and loved me, and stretched out his hand to save me. And his wonderful way of doing it was to shut me up in a cell within those heavy stone walls. There’s many a one beside me who will have cause to thank God for ever and ever that he was shut up in a prison.

I was put to the carpet weaving business, and for two years not a word could be said against me. All the keepers and guards spoke well of me. I minded my work, and was quiet and orderly. I used to say my prayer—the Lord’s prayer—every day, from a feeling that it was right to say it, and that in some way or other it would do me good. I tried to learn to read and write, and improved very much, more especially in reading. Then I got cheap novels and read, to pass away the time. I read many and many of them. It was all the recreation I had, and diverted my mind from my dreary surroundings. I was supplied with them constantly, and, in consequence, my head was filled with low and wicked thoughts. I took a fancy, from some of the remarkable stories I read, that I might by some good fortune by and by effect my escape from the prison, and then my heart would fill up with murderous intentions toward the man that put me in.

After this I was sick, and suffered a good deal for two or three years, and became at times uneasy and intractable. Then I had to suffer severe punishment; but punishment never did me a particle of good, it only made me harder and harder.

I had been in the prison four or five years, when, one Sunday morning, I went with the rest to service in the chapel. I was moody and miserable. As I took my seat, I raised my eyes carelessly to the platform, and who should I see there beside the chaplain but a man named Orville Gardner, who had been for years a confederate in sin. "Awful Gardner" was the name by which I had always known him. Since my imprisonment he had been converted, and was filled with desire to come to the prison, that he might tell the glad story to the prisoners. I had not heard he was coming, and could not have been more surprised if an angel had come down from heaven. I knew him at the first glance, although he was so greatly changed from his old rough dress and appearance. After the first look I began to question in my mind if it was he after all, and thought I must be mistaken; but the moment he spoke I was sure, and my attention was held fast.

He said he did not feel that he belonged on the platform, where the ministers of God and good men stood to preach the gospel to the prisoners; he was not worthy of such a place. So he came down and stood on the floor in front of the desk, that he might be among the men. He told them it was only a little while since he had taken off the stripes which they were then wearing; and while he was talking his tears fairly rained down out of his eyes. Then he knelt down and prayed, and sobbed and cried, till I do not believe there was a dry eye in the whole crowd. Tears filled my eyes, and I raised my hand slowly to wipe them off, for I was ashamed to have my companions or the guards see me weep; but how I wished I was alone, or that it was dark, that I might give way to my feelings unobserved. I knew this man was no hypocrite. We had been associated in many a dark deed and sinful pleasure. I had heard oaths and curses, vile and angry words from his mouth, and I knew he could not talk as he did then unless some great, wonderful change had come to him. I devoured every word that fell from his lips, though I could not understand half I heard. One sentence, however, impressed me deeply, which he said was a verse from the Bible. The Bible! I knew there was such a book, that people pretended it was a message from God; but I had never cared for it, or read a word in it. But now God’s time had come, and he was going to show me the treasures that were hid in that precious book.

I went back to my cell. How dreary is Sunday in prison! After the morning service in the chapel, the prisoners are marched back to their cells, taking their plate of dinner with them as they pass the dining hall, and the rest of the day is spent in solitude. Oh, those long, dismal hours! I had generally contrived to have a novel on hand, but that day I had none. What I had heard was ringing in my ears, and the thought possessed me to find the verse which had so struck me. Every prison cell is supplied with a Bible; but alas! few of them are used. Mine I had never touched since the day I entered my narrow apartment, and laid it away in the ventilator. I took it down, beat the dust from it, and opened it. But where to turn to find the words I wanted I knew not. There was nothing to do but to begin at the beginning, and read till I came to them. On and on I read. How interested I grew! It seemed better than any novel I had ever read, and I could scarcely leave it to go to sleep. I became so fascinated, that from that day on it was my greatest delight. I was glad when I was released from work, that I might get hold of my Bible; and night after night, when daylight was gone, I stood up by my grated door to read by the dim light which came from the corridor. I had supposed it to be a dry, dead thing—a book only fit for priests and saints, but now, whenever I could get a chance to communicate with my mates in the workshop, I told them that it was a "splendid thing, that Bible."

I never found that verse. I had forgotten it in my new interest in the book. But I found a good many verses that made me stop and think. Then I read the whole book through again, and liked it better the second time than I did the first. The book of Revelation particularly astonished me. I tried to believe, but I could not understand it.

I was resting one night from reading, walking up and down and thinking what a change religion had made in Gardner, when I began to have a burning desire to have the same. I could not get rid of it; but what could I do? Something within me said, "Pray." I couldn’t frame a prayer. The voice said, "Don’t you remember the prayer of the publican, ‘God be merciful to me a sinner’!" "But that will not save me as Gardner’s does him," I thought; "It does not keep me from my sins." There was a struggle in my mind. "If I send for the priest," I said to myself, "he will tell me I must do penance, say so many prayers, and do something for mortification, and such as that. If I ask the chaplain, he will tell me to be sorry for my sins, and cry to God for forgiveness. Both can’t be right." The voice within said, "Go to God; He will tell you what is right."

What a struggle I went through! I knew I ought to pray; but if there had been ten thousand people there I couldn’t have been more ashamed to do it than I was there all alone. I felt myself blushing. Every sin stared me in the face. I recollected the "Whosoever" in the Bible. "That means you," said the inward voice. "But I am so wicked," I urged; "everything but a murderer, and that many a time in my will." The struggle did not seem all my own; it was as if God was fighting the devil for me. To every thought that came up there came a verse of Scripture. I fell on my knees; and was so ashamed I jumped up again. I fell on my knees again, and cried out for help, and then, as ashamed as before, I rose again. I put it off for that time and went to bed.

This conflict went on for three or four weeks. It was fearful. I wonder now at the long-suffering mercy of my God. I wonder that the Holy Spirit was not grieved to depart from me forever. But at last the Lord sent a softness and a tenderness into my soul, and I shed many tears. Then I cried unto the Lord, and began to read the Bible on my knees.

The Sunday services seemed to do me no good. They were dry and dead to me. Once in a while a man full of the Holy Ghost preached for us, and at such times I got a little help. About that date Miss D——— began to visit the prison, and I was sent for one day to meet her in the library. This young lady had learned that I was seeking the Saviour, and had asked to see me. She talked with me, and then knelt down to pray. I felt ashamed, but I knelt beside her. I looked through my fingers and watched her. I saw her tears fall. An awe I cannot describe fell on me. It seemed dreadful to me, the prayer of that holy woman. It made my sins rise up till they looked to me as if they rose clean up to the throne of God, and it appeared to me as if they troubled God, they rose up so high. What should I do? Oh, what can a poor sinner do when there is nothing between him and God but a life of dark, terrible sin?

That night I fell on my knees on the hard stone floor of my cell, resolved to stay there, whatever might happen, till I found forgiveness. I was desperate. I felt just like the words of the hymn,

"Perhaps he will admit my plea,
 Perhaps will hear my prayer,
 But if I perish I will pray,
 And perish only there."

I prayed, and then I stopped; I prayed again, and stopped; but still I continued kneeling. My knees were rooted to those cold stones. My eyes were closed, and my hands tightly clasped, and I was determined I would stay so till morning, till I was called to my work; "and then," said I to myself, "if I get no relief, I will never, never pray again." I felt that I might die, but I didn’t care for that.

All at once it seemed as if something super-natural was in my room. I was afraid to open my eyes. I was in an agony, and the sweat rolled off my face in great drops. Oh, how I longed for God’s mercy! Just then, in the very height of my distress, it seemed as if a hand was laid upon my head, and these words came to me: "My son, thy sins, which are many, are forgiven." I do not know if I heard a voice, yet the words were distinctly spoken to my soul. Oh, the precious Christ! How plainly I saw him, lifted on the cross for my sins! What a thrill went through me. I jumped from my knees; I paced up and down my cell. A heavenly light seemed to fill it; a softness and a perfume like the fragrance of sweetest flowers. I did not know if I was living or not. I clapped my hands and shouted, "Praise God! Praise God!"

One of the guards was passing along the corridor, and called out, "What’s the matter!" "I’ve found Christ," I answered; "my sins are all forgiven. Glory to God!" He took out a paper from his pocket and wrote the number of my cell, and threatened to report me in the morning. But I didn’t care for that. My soul was all taken up with my great joy. But the next morning nothing happened to me, and I think the Lord made him forget it. What a night that was! I shall surely never forget the time when the Lord appeared as my gracious Deliverer from sin.

Jerry McAuley won many of his fellow inmates to Christ. His life was so transformed that the governor gave him a pardon. Upon release he fell back into sin. Eventually he got the victory. In 1872 McAuley opened the Helping Hand Mission for Men (later called the Water Street Mission). Multitudes were soundly converted. Many became pastors, preachers, missionaries and rescue mission workers. He is credited with directly or indirectly influencing the start of 1,000 rescue missions around the world. When he died at age 45 he was one of the most influential Christian men in New York. Thousands mourned his passing.

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Revised: August 03, 2000