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 deion--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 AFRAIDWHEN 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.
