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.