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    Chapter 52

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    Chapter 51
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    Chapter 52
    A Burning Brand

    ALL at once the thought came into my mind, 'I have not sought
    out Mr. Brown.'

    Upon that text I desire to depart from the direct line of my subject,
    and make a little excursion. I wish to reveal a secret which I have
    carried with me nine years, and which has become burdensome.

    Upon a certain occasion, nine years ago, I had said, with strong feeling,
    'If ever I see St. Louis again, I will seek out Mr. Brown, the great
    grain merchant, and ask of him the privilege of shaking him by the hand.'

    The occasion and the circumstances were as follows.
    A friend of mine, a clergyman, came one evening and said--

    'I have a most remarkable letter here, which I want to read to you,
    if I can do it without breaking down. I must preface it with
    some explanations, however. The letter is written by an ex-thief
    and ex-vagabond of the lowest origin and basest rearing, a man
    all stained with crime and steeped in ignorance; but, thank God,
    with a mine of pure gold hidden away in him, as you shall see.
    His letter is written to a burglar named Williams, who is serving
    a nine-year term in a certain State prison, for burglary.
    Williams was a particularly daring burglar, and plied
    that trade during a number of years; but he was caught
    at last and jailed, to await trial in a town where he had
    broken into a house at night, pistol in hand, and forced
    the owner to hand over to him $8,000 in government bonds.
    Williams was not a common sort of person, by any means; he was
    a graduate of Harvard College, and came of good New England stock.
    His father was a clergyman. While lying in jail, his health
    began to fail, and he was threatened with consumption.
    This fact, together with the opportunity for reflection afforded
    by solitary confinement, had its effect--its natural effect.
    He fell into serious thought; his early training asserted itself with
    power, and wrought with strong influence upon his mind and heart.
    He put his old life behind him, and became an earnest Christian.
    Some ladies in the town heard of this, visited him,
    and by their encouraging words supported him in his good
    resolutions and strengthened him to continue in his new life.
    The trial ended in his conviction and sentence to the State
    prison for the term of nine years, as I have before said.
    In the prison he became acquainted with the poor wretch
    referred to in the beginning of my talk, Jack Hunt,
    the writer of the letter which I am going to read.
    You will see that the acquaintanceship bore fruit for Hunt.
    When Hunt's time was out, he wandered to St. Louis;
    and from that place he wrote his letter to Williams.
    The letter got no further than the office of the prison warden,
    of course; prisoners are not often allowed to receive letters
    from outside. The prison authorities read this letter,
    but did not destroy it. They had not the heart to do it.
    They read it to several persons, and eventually it fell
    into the hands of those ladies of whom I spoke a while ago.
    The other day I came across an old friend of mine--
    a clergyman--who had seen this letter, and was full of it.
    The mere remembrance of it so moved him that he could
    not talk of it without his voice breaking. He promised
    to get a copy of it for me; and here it is--an exact copy,
    with all the imperfections of the original preserved.
    It has many slang expressions in it--thieves' argot--but their
    meaning has been interlined, in parentheses, by the prison
    authorities'--

    St. Louis, June 9th 1872.

    Mr. W---- friend Charlie if i may call you so: i no you are surprised
    to get a letter from me, but i hope you won't be mad at my writing to you.
    i want to tell you my thanks for the way you talked to me when i was
    in prison--it has led me to try and be a better man; i guess you thought
    i did not cair for what you said, & at the first go off I didn't, but i
    noed you was a man who had don big work with good men & want no sucker,
    nor want gasing & all the boys knod it.

    I used to think at nite what you said, & for it i nocked off swearing months
    before my time was up, for i saw it want no good, nohow--the day my time
    was up you told me if i would shake the cross (QUIT STEALING) & live on
    the square for months, it would be the best job i ever done in my life.
    The state agent give me a ticket to here, & on the car i thought more of
    what you said to me, but didn't make up my mind. When we got to Chicago
    on the cars from there to here, I pulled off an old woman's leather;
    (ROBBED HER OF HER POCKETBOOK) i hadn't no more than got it off when i
    wished i hadn't done it, for awhile before that i made up my mind
    to be a square bloke, for months on your word, but forgot it when i saw
    the leather was a grip (EASY TO GET)--but i kept clos to her & when she
    got out of the cars at a way place i said, marm have you lost anything.
    & she tumbled (DISCOVERED) her leather was off (GONE)--is this it says i,
    giving it to her--well if you aint honest, says she, but i hadn't got
    cheak enough to stand that sort of talk, so i left her in a hurry.
    When i got here i had $1 and 25 cents left & i didn't get no work for 3
    days as i aint strong enough for roust about on a steam bote (FOR A
    DECK HAND)--The afternoon of the 3rd day I spent my last 10 cts for moons
    (LARGE, ROUND SEA-BISCUIT) & cheese & i felt pretty rough & was thinking
    i would have to go on the dipe (PICKING POCKETS) again, when i thought
    of what you once said about a fellows calling on the Lord when he was
    in hard luck, & i thought i would try it once anyhow, but when i tryed
    it i got stuck on the start, & all i could get off wos, Lord give a poor
    fellow a chance to square it for 3 months for Christ's sake, amen; & i
    kept a thinking, of it over and over as i went along--about an hour after
    that i was in 4th St. & this is what happened & is the cause of my being
    where i am now & about which i will tell you before i get done writing.
    As i was walking along herd a big noise & saw a horse running away with a
    carriage with 2 children in it, & I grabed up a peace of box cover from
    the side walk & run in the middle of the street, & when the horse came up i
    smashed him over the head as hard as i could drive--the bord split to peces
    & the horse checked up a little & I grabbed the reigns & pulled his head
    down until he stopped--the gentleman what owned him came running up & soon
    as he saw the children were all rite, he shook hands with me and gave
    me a $50 green back, & my asking the Lord to help me come into my head,
    & i was so thunderstruck i couldn't drop the reigns nor say nothing--
    he saw something was up, & coming back to me said, my boy are you hurt?
    & the thought come into my head just then to ask him for work; & i asked
    him to take back the bill and give me a job--says he, jump in here &
    lets talk about it, but keep the money--he asked me if i could take care
    of horses & i said yes, for i used to hang round livery stables & often
    would help clean & drive horses, he told me he wanted a man for that work,
    & would give me $16 a month & bord me. You bet i took that chance at once.
    that nite in my little room over the stable i sat a long time thinking
    over my past life & of what had just happened & i just got down on
    my nees & thanked the Lord for the job & to help me to square it,
    & to bless you for putting me up to it, & the next morning i done it
    again & got me some new togs (CLOTHES) & a bible for i made up my mind
    after what the Lord had done for me i would read the bible every nite
    and morning, & ask him to keep an eye on me. When I had been there
    about a week Mr. Brown (that's his name) came in my room one nite and saw
    me reading the bible--he asked me if i was a Christian & i told him no--
    he asked me how it was i read the bible instead of papers & books--
    Well Charlie i thought i had better give him a square deal in the start,
    so i told him all about my being in prison & about you, & how i had almost
    done give up looking for work & how the Lord got me the job when I asked him;
    & the only way i had to pay him back was to read the bible & square it,
    & i asked him to give me a chance for 3 months--he talked to me like a father
    for a long time, & told me i could stay & then i felt better than ever
    i had done in my life, for i had given Mr. Brown a fair start with me &
    now i didn't fear no one giving me a back cap (EXPOSING HIS PAST LIFE)
    & running me off the job--the next morning he called me into the library
    & gave me another square talk, & advised me to study some every day,
    & he would help me one or 2 hours every nite, & he gave me a Arithmetic,
    a spelling book, a Geography & a writing book, & he hers me every nite--
    he lets me come into the house to prayers every morning, & got me put in a
    bible class in the Sunday School which i likes very much for it helps me
    to understand my bible better.

    Now, Charlie the 3 months on the square are up 2 months ago,
    & as you said, it is the best job i ever did in my life,
    & i commenced another of the same sort right away, only it
    is to God helping me to last a lifetime Charlie--i wrote
    this letter to tell you I do think God has forgiven my sins
    & herd your prayers, for you told me you should pray for me--
    i no i love to read his word & tell him all my troubles &
    he helps me i know for i have plenty of chances to steal
    but i don't feel to as i once did & now i take more pleasure
    in going to church than to the theater & that wasnt so once--
    our minister and others often talk with me & a month ago
    they wanted me to join the church, but I said no, not now,
    i may be mistaken in my feelings, i will wait awhile,
    but now i feel that God has called me & on the first Sunday
    in July i will join the church--dear friend i wish i could
    write to you as i feel, but i cant do it yet--you no i learned
    to read and write while prisons & i aint got well enough along
    to write as i would talk; i no i aint spelled all the words rite
    in this & lots of other mistakes but you will excuse it i no,
    for you no i was brought up in a poor house until i run away,
    & that i never new who my father and mother was & i dont
    no my right name, & i hope you wont be mad at me, but i have
    as much rite to one name as another & i have taken your name,
    for you wont use it when you get out i no, & you are the man
    i think most of in the world; so i hope you wont be mad--
    I am doing well, i put $10 a month in bank with $25 of the $50--
    if you ever want any or all of it let me know, & it is yours.
    i wish you would let me send you some now. I send you with this
    a receipt for a year of Littles Living Age, i didn't know
    what you would like & i told Mr. Brown & he said he thought you
    would like it--i wish i was nere you so i could send you chuck
    (REFRESHMENTS) on holidays; it would spoil this weather
    from here, but i will send you a box next thanksgiving any way--
    next week Mr. Brown takes me into his store as lite
    porter & will advance me as soon as i know a little more--
    he keeps a big granary store, wholesale--i forgot to tell
    you of my mission school, sunday school class--the school
    is in the sunday afternoon, i went out two sunday afternoons,
    and picked up seven kids (LITTLE BOYS) & got them to come in.
    two of them new as much as i did & i had them put in a class
    where they could learn something. i dont no much myself,
    but as these kids cant read i get on nicely with them.
    i make sure of them by going after them every Sunday
    hour before school time, I also got 4 girls to come.
    tell Mack and Harry about me, if they will come out here
    when their time is up i will get them jobs at once.
    i hope you will excuse this long letter & all mistakes,
    i wish i could see you for i cant write as i would talk--
    i hope the warm weather is doing your lungs good--
    i was afraid when you was bleeding you would die--
    give my respects to all the boys and tell them how i am doing--
    i am doing well and every one here treats me as kind as they can--
    Mr. Brown is going to write to you sometime--i hope some day
    you will write to me, this letter is from your very true
    friend

    C----W----

    who you know as Jack Hunt.

    I send you Mr. Brown's card. Send my letter to him.

    Here was true eloquence; irresistible eloquence;
    and without a single grace or ornament to help it out.
    I have seldom been so deeply stirred by any piece of writing.
    The reader of it halted, all the way through, on a lame and broken voice;
    yet he had tried to fortify his feelings by several private
    readings of the letter before venturing into company with it.
    He was practising upon me to see if there was any hope of his
    being able to read the document to his prayer-meeting with
    anything like a decent command over his feelings. The result
    was not promising. However, he determined to risk it; and did.
    He got through tolerably well; but his audience broke down early,
    and stayed in that condition to the end.

    The fame of the letter spread through the town. A brother
    minister came and borrowed the manuscript, put it bodily into
    a sermon, preached the sermon to twelve hundred people on a
    Sunday morning, and the letter drowned them in their own tears.
    Then my friend put it into a sermon and went before his Sunday
    morning congregation with it. It scored another triumph.
    The house wept as one individual.

    My friend went on summer vacation up into the fishing regions
    of our northern British neighbors, and carried this sermon
    with him, since he might possibly chance to need a sermon.
    He was asked to preach, one day. The little church was full.
    Among the people present were the late Dr. J. G. Holland,
    the late Mr. Seymour of the 'New York Times,' Mr. Page,
    the philanthropist and temperance advocate, and, I think,
    Senator Frye, of Maine. The marvelous letter did its wonted work;
    all the people were moved, all the people wept; the tears
    flowed in a steady stream down Dr. Holland's cheeks, and nearly
    the same can be said with regard to all who were there.
    Mr. Page was so full of enthusiasm over the letter that he said
    he would not rest until he made pilgrimage to that prison,
    and had speech with the man who had been able to inspire a
    fellow-unfortunate to write so priceless a tract.

    Ah, that unlucky Page!--and another man. If they had only been in Jericho,
    that letter would have rung through the world and stirred all the hearts of
    all the nations for a thousand years to come, and nobody might ever have found
    out that it was the confoundedest, brazenest, ingeniousest piece of fraud
    and humbuggery that was ever concocted to fool poor confiding mortals with!

    The letter was a pure swindle, and that is the truth.
    And take it by and large, it was without a compeer among swindles.
    It was perfect, it was rounded, symmetrical, complete, colossal!

    The reader learns it at this point; but we didn't learn it
    till some miles and weeks beyond this stage of the affair.
    My friend came back from the woods, and he and other clergymen
    and lay missionaries began once more to inundate audiences
    with their tears and the tears of said audiences; I begged hard
    for permission to print the letter in a magazine and tell the watery
    story of its triumphs; numbers of people got copies of the letter,
    with permission to circulate them in writing, but not in print;
    copies were sent to the Sandwich Islands and other far regions.

    Charles Dudley Warner was at church, one day, when the worn letter was read
    and wept over. At the church door, afterward, he dropped a peculiarly cold
    iceberg down the clergyman's back with the question--

    'Do you know that letter to be genuine?'

    It was the first suspicion that had ever been voiced;
    but it had that sickening effect which first-uttered suspicions
    against one's idol always have. Some talk followed--

    'Why--what should make you suspect that it isn't genuine?'

    'Nothing that I know of, except that it is too neat, and compact, and fluent,
    and nicely put together for an ignorant person, an unpractised hand.
    I think it was done by an educated man.'

    The literary artist had detected the literary machinery.
    If you will look at the letter now, you will detect it yourself--
    it is observable in every line.

    Straightway the clergyman went off, with this seed of suspicion
    sprouting in him, and wrote to a minister residing in that town
    where Williams had been jailed and converted; asked for light;
    and also asked if a person in the literary line (meaning me)
    might be allowed to print the letter and tell its history.
    He presently received this answer--

    Rev. -----

    MY DEAR FRIEND,--In regard to that 'convict's letter' there can be
    no doubt as to its genuineness. 'Williams,' to whom it was written,
    lay in our jail and professed to have been converted, and Rev. Mr.----,
    the chaplain, had great faith in the genuineness of the change--
    as much as one can have in any such case.

    The letter was sent to one of our ladies, who is a Sunday-school teacher,--
    sent either by Williams himself, or the chaplain of the State's
    prison, probably. She has been greatly annoyed in having so much publicity,
    lest it might seem a breach of confidence, or be an injury to Williams.
    In regard to its publication, I can give no permission; though if the names
    and places were omitted, and especially if sent out of the country,
    I think you might take the responsibility and do it.

    It is a wonderful letter, which no Christian genius, much less
    one unsanctified, could ever have written. As showing the work
    of grace in a human heart, and in a very degraded and wicked one,
    it proves its own origin and reproves our weak faith in its power
    to cope with any form of wickedness.

    'Mr. Brown' of St. Louis, some one said, was a Hartford man.
    Do all whom you send from Hartford serve their Master as well?

    P.S.--Williams is still in the State's prison, serving out a
    long sentence--of nine years, I think. He has been sick and threatened
    with consumption, but I have not inquired after him lately.
    This lady that I speak of corresponds with him, I presume,
    and will be quite sure to look after him.

    This letter arrived a few days after it was written--and up went
    Mr. Williams's stock again. Mr. Warner's low-down suspicion
    was laid in the cold, cold grave, where it apparently belonged.
    It was a suspicion based upon mere internal evidence, anyway;
    and when you come to internal evidence, it's a big field and a game
    that two can play at: as witness this other internal evidence,
    discovered by the writer of the note above quoted, that 'it
    is a wonderful letter--which no Christian genius, much less
    one unsanctified, could ever have written.'

    I had permission now to print--provided I suppressed names
    and places and sent my narrative out of the country.
    So I chose an Australian magazine for vehicle, as being far
    enough out of the country, and set myself to work on my article.
    And the ministers set the pumps going again, with the letter to
    work the handles.

    But meantime Brother Page had been agitating.
    He had not visited the penitentiary, but he had sent a copy
    of the illustrious letter to the chaplain of that institution,
    and accompanied it with--apparently inquiries. He got an answer,
    dated four days later than that other Brother's reassuring epistle;
    and before my article was complete, it wandered into my hands.
    The original is before me, now, and I here append it.
    It is pretty well loaded with internal evidence of the most
    solid description--

    STATE'S PRISON, CHAPLAIN'S OFFICE, July 11, 1873.

    DEAR BRO. PAGE,--Herewith please find the letter kindly loaned me.
    I am afraid its genuineness cannot be established.
    It purports to be addressed to some prisoner here. No such letter
    ever came to a prisoner here. All letters received are carefully
    read by officers of the prison before they go into the hands
    of the convicts, and any such letter could not be forgotten.
    Again, Charles Williams is not a Christian man, but a dissolute,
    cunning prodigal, whose father is a minister of the gospel.
    His name is an assumed one. I am glad to have made your acquaintance.
    I am preparing a lecture upon life seen through prison bars,
    and should like to deliver the same in your vicinity.

    And so ended that little drama. My poor article went into the fire;
    for whereas the materials for it were now more abundant and
    infinitely richer than they had previously been, there were parties
    all around me, who, although longing for the publication before,
    were a unit for suppression at this stage and complexion of the game.
    They said: 'Wait--the wound is too fresh, yet.' All the copies
    of the famous letter except mine disappeared suddenly; and from that
    time onward, the aforetime same old drought set in in the churches.
    As a rule, the town was on a spacious grin for a while, but there
    were places in it where the grin did not appear, and where it was
    dangerous to refer to the ex-convict's letter.

    A word of explanation. 'Jack Hunt,' the professed writer of the letter,
    was an imaginary person. The burglar Williams--Harvard graduate,
    son of a minister--wrote the letter himself, to himself: got it smuggled
    out of the prison; got it conveyed to persons who had supported and
    encouraged him in his conversion--where he knew two things would happen:
    the genuineness of the letter would not be doubted or inquired into;
    and the nub of it would be noticed, and would have valuable effect--
    the effect, indeed, of starting a movement to get Mr. Williams pardoned
    out of prison.

    That 'nub' is so ingeniously, so casually, flung in, and immediately
    left there in the tail of the letter, undwelt upon, that an indifferent
    reader would never suspect that it was the heart and core of the epistle,
    if he even took note of it at all, This is the 'nub'--

    'i hope the warm weather is doing your lungs good--I WAS AFRAID
    WHEN YOU WAS BLEEDING YOU WOULD DIE--give my respects,' etc.

    That is all there is of it--simply touch and go--no dwelling upon it.
    Nevertheless it was intended for an eye that would be swift to see it;
    and it was meant to move a kind heart to try to effect the liberation of a
    poor reformed and purified fellow lying in the fell grip of consumption.

    When I for the first time heard that letter read, nine years ago,
    I felt that it was the most remarkable one I had ever encountered.
    And it so warmed me toward Mr. Brown of St. Louis that I said that if ever
    I visited that city again, I would seek out that excellent man and kiss
    the hem of his garment if it was a new one. Well, I visited St. Louis,
    but I did not hunt for Mr. Brown; for, alas! the investigations
    of long ago had proved that the benevolent Brown, like 'Jack Hunt,'
    was not a real person, but a sheer invention of that gifted rascal,
    Williams--burglar, Harvard graduate, son of a clergyman.
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    Chapter 51
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