Earlier text: Translation and DeathTHE DEPENDENT CONDITION OF SOCIETY.
By T.
THE machinists have been on a strike for some weeks, and at this writing the strike promises to get much worse. San Francisco has had a succession of strikes and boycotts. Various classes of men in other parts of the country have also been striking. When these strikes are in operation, business is always more or less affected, and in many places it comes to a practical standstill. Not only are the strikers themselves made to suffer because of the cutting off of their income, but almost every one is embarrassed or distressed in some way. One class of men raise the fruit, another raise the vegetables, another raise the grains, another raise the cotton, another raise the sheep, and so on. There are very few farms comparatively, on which is raised more than one or two kinds of produce. And after these commodities are produced, another class of men take them on the railroads or steamships to the city where they are to be marketed. When the city is reached, another class of men must unload them from the cars or ship and dray them to the commission house; then another class of men must take them from the wholesaler to the retailer, and finally another class must take them from the retailer to the consumer. The hands on the railroad may feel all right and be willing to work; but the coal miners decide to strike, so that it is with difficulty that fuel can be supplied to turn the wheels of commerce or manufacture. The teamsters have a grievance, and strike, and then after a little while they think it necessary to call for a sympathetic strike from others, and so the difficulty spreads. Business may be brought to a stand-still, and much want and suffering result from any break in this complex machine that we call society. Strikes have become the order of the day, and they are getting more frequent and more unmanageable. Men will finally get to rioting, and the most serious troubles will follow. Tranquillity in business will not be enjoyed much longer in this world. There doubtless will be short periods of calm in the storm, but there will be no settled conditions of peace. There are principles at work in the world that can not fail to result in every form of violence and disorder, and the time for furious outbreaks can not be long postponed. It is as absolutely inevitable as that effect invariably follows its cause. When these troubles reach their worst, there will be but little peace on the earth anywhere, but the country districts will be the places of the most tranquillity. And as we view these complex conditions in society,—every man dependent upon the faithful working of other men who are to bring him his coal, and oil, and bread, and so on,—is it not high time that we were studying how to live more independent lives? One person has truly said, “There is hope in the soil.” And if instead of crowding into the cities, we turn our attention to the opportunities and blessings and joys of a country life, we will be saved from much of the bitterness into which this whole world is driving. Think of these things now, before conditions get any worse. For in the days just ahead of us everything will be in such turmoil that it will be difficult, if not impossible, to make changes that could now be made with comparative ease. T. A PREACHER-SHERIFF.
By W. N. G.
The sheriff of Cumberland County, Me., in which is the city of Portland, is also a preacher. A correspondent of the Union Signal notes the fact of his recently supplying a Congregational pulpit in the absence of the pastor. Speaking of his appearance in the pulpit, the correspondent says:— His sermon was on the great love of God as expressed for needy humanity by the life and teachings of Christ. . . . As he stood there full of fire and hope, a close observer might have noticed a look of weariness upon his face, easily accounted for by the fact that a murder trial of which he, as high sheriff, has had the charge, has just closed, and the murderer has been sentenced to prison for life, the severest penalty in the State of Maine. As we note the two prominent points in these two sentences, we are reminded of the now popular query, “What would Jesus do?” He never set any such example, or gave any such commission to His ministers. A poor criminal was once brought before Him for judgment. She was a woman, and the evidence was positive, and the penalty was death. But, notwithstanding the magnitude of the offense, He said, “He that is without sin among you, let him ‘first cast a stone at her.’” Christians are in the world to manifest the Spirit of Christ, and not to execute judgment upon their fellow-men. “The ‘Son of man is not come to destroy men’s lives, but ‘to save them.’” Hunting down criminals to punish them is a necessary work in the world, but it is not Gospel work; it is not Christian work.9Of the man-worshiping church, the church that does homage to the powers of earth, the Lord says, “Come out of her, My people, that ye be not partakers of her sins, and that ye receive not of her ‘plagues.’” Rev. 18: 4. Returning to the incident to which we have referred, which was the more out of place, a condensed-milk advertisement on a painted eagle, or a church service—a professedly Christian church service—in honor of a body of men whose profession is the art of using “carnal weapons”? A NATIONAL REFORM STATE.
By W. N. G.
PENNSYLVANIA is the citadel of the National Reformers. Their staunchest supporters are in that State, and their organ has been printed within its confines for many years. Moreover, Pennsylvania has a strong Sunday law, and its people cling tenaciously to that particular statute. As the fundamental doctrines of the association are morality by civil law, and a union of religion and politics, one would naturally look to that State for the highest form of morality. Indeed, the reformers are wont to cite the zealous acts of their partisans, and their success in the matter of enforced Sunday observance in their larger cities. But after all, Pennsylvania is the veritable bed of the labor strike with all its horrors. There is not a State that equals it in that respect. And as to politics, well we will let the Christian Statesman, the National Reform organ, tell the story itself. It does so in a few words, as follows:— The Pennsylvania Legislature assembled early in January last and adjourned on June 28. It is probable that no legislature in the history of the United States has been so obedient to the dictation of a party “boss,” so daring in the abuse of legislative power, or so open to the charge that corrupt motives have inspired its action. One of the first acts of this body of lawmakers was to elect Matthew Stanley Quay United States Senator from Pennsylvania. Mr. Quay is a professional politician of consummate ability as an organizer of the party machine which he unblushingly controls in the interest of himself and his friends. This organization extends into every county of the State, and every voting precinct of every county. It includes the governor of the State and the other senator from Pennsylvania; for both were elected by Mr. Quay’s influence, and are entirely subservient to his will. The same is true of the mayor of Philadelphia and the majority in both branches of the city councils. Controlling thus all the patronage of the State and of the principal city of the State, and all the appointments of the general government to offices in Pennsylvania, and holding for disbursal the millions of dollars in the State, city, and county treasuries, it is easy to see how vast a body of office-holders and expectants can be subjected to the control of a single shrewd intellect and masterful will. This is the State in which the National Reform movement has maintained headquarters for nearly forty years, and this is the report of political conditions as given in the association’s own organ. A worse record, if even one so bad, could hardly be found in the whole federation of States. Another striking fact in this connection is that Senator Quay was the special champion in the United States Senate of the resolution to compel the closing on Sunday of the Columbian Exposition in 1893. History has emphasized the fact that compulsory religion (the9real doctrine of the so-called National Reformers) is the bane of civil government. It is always safe to assume that when a politician begins to champion any kind of civil law religion, he has a political ax to grind, and wishes to appear as an advocate of morality. Over twelve billion cigars are used in the world each year. This does not take into account the tobacco used in pipes or smoked in cigarettes. Some of the most eminent physicians of the world say that it has been demonstrated that tobacco is a greater nerve-destroyer than strong drink. And it is quite largely true that the man who uses tobacco also uses wine or liquor of some kind. In view of the vast amount of these nerve-destroying things that are being used, is it to be wondered at that so many men are dropping dead in the very prime of life? The strain in business is tremendous, and it is growing in intensity as greed gets a stronger and still stronger hold on men, and what may not be expected in the way of nervous breakdowns? The nerve-force is being taxed to the utmost in business, and while these straining demands are made on the nerves, they are being recklessly destroyed by narcotics and stimulants. There is also another phase of the situation that should not be overlooked. This strong, nervous tension, with these nerve-irritants and nerve-destroyers being used so freely, makes the people very excitable. And with the great social and international problems that confront the world, it is easy to see that in the attempt to settle them there will be much room for strife that will end in the worst of violence. When a strike is on, the saloons and tobacco stores are open, and men who have not been in the habit of drinking very much will indulge freely. Thus is the fire of strong drink added to the flame that is already burning high. These forces that are working so strongly are bound to produce correspondingly strong results. The conclusion is as inevitable as the effect that invariably follows the cause. To close our eyes to these things is to invite an irresistible and inevitable destruction. T. Kansas Drought and Manila Friars
In a postal card directed to this paper, dated Kansas City, Mo., July 16, the writer says: “In traveling over the State we see for ourselves the wonderful distress which has come to the people on account of the drouth that now almost covers our State. In many places pastures are burned up, hay and oat crops destroyed, streams drying up, and springs giving out, so that it is difficult to find feed and water for the stock. The heat also is so great that people are in danger who are exposed to the sun’s rays. Further, on account of the drouth, provisions are very scarce and consequently very high.” Manila advices say that Catholic authorities have no intention to withdraw the Spanish friars from the Philippines. They maintain that the Filipinos will not object to them as spiritual advisers when well assured that they will no longer exercise temporal authority. There is some basis for this supposition, as the Filipino revolts have always been against the tyrannical rule of the priests in secular affairs, the government of Spain in the islands being entirely manipulated under the dictation of the church. The people having failed to secure entire independence, as they so fondly hoped, will no doubt acquiesce in the spiritual administration of the friars under the new conditions—especially as they are about convinced that they can not help themselves. The friars have a much stronger backing in the United States Government than they had in Spain. And this government is bound by the treaty of peace with Spain to respect existing property rights, and that includes the title of the friars to all the lands they held under Spanish law. The only thing to do now is to give the Gospel in its purity to the Filipino people, and show them that, after all, this is the only medium of entire freedom from Rome. No civil government, either foreign or domestic, can give spiritual freedom; nor can any power, civil or ecclesiastic, enslave the soul that is conscious of freedom in Christ. IN a number of the Pacific Coast towns provisions and fuel are getting very low, and the sufferings that will result from this want are beginning to stare the people in the face. This result is produced by the big strike that has grown out of the teamsters’ strike in San Francisco. Facts like these should emphasize the importance of placing ourselves and families just as quickly as possible where we will not be compelled to suffer so keenly from these tie-ups. Every one should think on these things seriously. No arguing on the subject is needed. The conditions in the world just now make all the necessary arguments. In a very few days the sheriff and detectives have captured the thief, and by his assistance located the $283,000 in gold bullion that was stolen from the Selby Smelting Works near San Francisco on the night of August 5. The robbery was committed by one John Winters alone, and it is a pleasure to record the fact that he was so soon discovered and arrested. He had dumped the bars of gold in the shallow waters of the bay, and it has been nearly all recovered. It is to be earnestly hoped that the speedy manner in which this criminal has been run down will be an admonition to others who may be tempted to do like evil deeds. THE Colombian Minister with his staff has withdrawn from Caracas, the Venezuelan capital. This is a definite acknowledgment that a state of war exists between the two countries. The authorities at Washington have not been able to secure any very definite knowledge in regard to the situation, but enough is known to cause them to take the precaution of having several war-ships in readiness to hasten there to protect American interests. ALTHO the Boer war has lasted much longer than any one believed it ever could last, the end is still out of sight. A despatch states that Mr. Kruger has just received a report to the effect that 89,000 of his countrymen are still under arms against the British. Mr. Kruger made the prediction in the beginning that the results of the war would “stagger humanity.” His prediction is certainly coming true. NEW YORK City continues to be agitated about the corruption that is carried on there under the protection of the police. This agitation comes up continually, and has done so for more than a quarter of a century. Strong men have taken a hand in it, but conditions continue to grow worse and worse. Such facts should cause serious reflection by those who are persuaded that the world is growing better. A MACHINIST of San Juan, Cal., Mocartoa by name, claims to have perfected a process of so magnetizing steel that it will attract gold, silver, copper, or tin. It was accidentally discovered while experimenting with a hope of finding the lost art of tempering copper. THE Hill-Morgan combine are buying up a great fleet of steamers for the Pacific Coast and Oriental trade, to be operated in connection with the Great Northern Railroad. Four ships have already been purchased, for the sum of $1,000,000. MAJOR GENERAL LEONARD WOOD, Governor-general of Cuba, says that he would “advise every young man in the United States looking for opportunities, to emigrate to Cuba.” This is a good hint for missionaries. AMERICANIZING NOT GOSPEL WORK.
By G.
An appeal comes from Rev. A. H. Lambert, a Methodist missionary in Porto Rico, to “help in the noble task of Christianizing and Americanizing the people” of that island. It is one of the fads that too extensively prevail among American missionaries, that everywhere people must be “Americanized.” Suppose we read the commission, “Go ye into all the world, and preach the Gospel to every creature, and Americanize him. He that believeth and is baptized, and Americanized, shall be saved; but he that believeth not, and is not Americanized, shall be damned.” This idea that American missionaries must Americanize the heathen has blinded many of them. They have been led to confound Americanism with Christianity, and have looked upon all Americans—rumsellers and all—as Christians. Thus Christianity has been greatly depreciated in their eyes. When we reflect that the United States (commonly known as America, abroad) is to become a full-fledged “image” to Rome, we see that “evangelizing” Roman Catholics in Porto Rico, and Americanizing them, is nominally bringing out of Rome, but it is leading them by the American route back into Rome. Professed Protestants would better leave out the Americanizing idea in presenting the Gospel to the heathen. The Porto Rican sinner or the Zulu sinner can be reconciled to God through Jesus Christ just as well as the American sinner. Becoming an American, either before or after conversion, adds nothing to his Christian character. A Christian Porto Rican is just as good as a Christian American, and making Americans is no part of the Gospel work. WHICH WAS MORE OUT OF PLACE?
It is a quite common incivility to laugh at the mistakes of others. It is especially common to note and to publish the errors of people who are trying to learn a language different from their native tongue. But here is a “joke” that illustrates a great deal more than was intended:— A church service was being held in a Filipino town in honor of some American soldiers. The interior of the church had been bedecked by the natives in red, white, and blue, the masterpiece of decoration being a painted eagle on a shield hung above the image of one of the saints. On the banner which streamed from the eagle’s bill was this legend: “The Old Reliable Condensed Milk.” It seems that the artist who painted the eagle had copied it, inscription and all, from the label on an old milk can, believing that the banner bore the American motto. There is a serious feature in this incident, which is destined to be felt when the amusing side has been forgotten. And that is the spectacle of a “church ‘service’” in honor of men whose profession is to kill and destroy. A church service that is in honor of any other man than the Lord Jesus Christ is a travesty on Christianity and Christian worship. The sad part, and the ominous part, of such practise is that it is becoming so prevalent in the so-called “Christian lands,” by those who boast a “Christian civilization.” Hero-worship is heathen in its origin, and is heathen in principle wherever practised. When encouraged by professed Christians, it is a sure sign of gross apostasy. Church service in honor of the soldiers of any human government is a species of spiritual retrogression, a mimicry of medieval custom, a glorification of mortal man instead of the Lord God of heaven, that is ominous in the extreme. It is that fornication of the Church with the State to which Babylon and her daughters are so fast returning in these perilous times. But the pace is set, the momentum is on, the course is down grade, and only an individual here and there will be able to turn aside and extricate himself from the deluded throng. “Thus saith the Lord: Cursed be the man that trusteth in man, and maketh flesh his arm, and whose heart departeth from the Lord. For he shall be like the heath in the desert, and shall not see when good cometh; but shall inhabit the parched places in the wilderness, in a salt land and not inhabited. Blessed is the man that trusteth in the Lord, and whose hope the Lord is.” Jer. 17: 5-7. Speaking of the recent move, inaugurated by the evangelical churches of Toledo, Ohio, to form a combine and limit the building of churches throughout the country, the Plain Dealer says:— The erection of unnecessary churches will be opposed. Where a neighborhood has sufficient church accommodation of whatever denomination, the federation will stand against the erection of other churches. When it is conceded that a neighborhood needs a church, a canvass of the people will be made, and the denomination possessing the most adherents will be aided in the erection of a suitable edifice. A prime idea of the federation will be to stand as a unit for Sunday observance, and for the abolition of gambling and other evils. Little or nothing is said of late about church union, of which we used to hear considerable. The problem now is federation for the enforcement of such ideas as can be agreed upon. The principal one of these is compulsory Sunday observance; others are, a mild protest against the liquor traffic, and invective against certain forms of gambling. The movement in the matter of church building is a kind of denominational protection against the church-debt evil. The latest despatches from Paris give more definite information of the existing situation produced by the passage of what is known as “the Associations Bill,” which has just received the signature of President Loubet. The bill asserts the absolute freedom of religious or secular associations, except (1) in the case of mixed organizations of Frenchmen and foreigners, (2) in case the headquarters of organizations are in foreign countries, or (3) in the cases of organizations the members of which live in common. The bill has a twofold purpose: first, to all French citizens it secures the widest freedom of action; secondly, it places just restraints upon certain monastic orders, whose possessions dot France like the holes in a pepper box. The bill simply aims to protect the State against the encroachments of the wealthy monastic orders and especially their resistance of taxation; but no less, we need not say, against such deliberate plotting against the republic as the Assumptionists indulged in during the Dreyfus trial, which brought such scandal to the church. The intelligent peasants, the moral backbone of France, dread nothing more than government by priests and monks, and it is the protection of these that the bill has largely in view. It is therefore provided in the bill that all kinds of “associations, a majority of whose members are ‘foreigners, or which have foreigners to administer ‘them, or have their headquarters abroad, shall be ‘liable to be dissolved by a decree of the president ‘of the republic made in the council of ministers.” As will be seen, while the bill interferes with no existing rights of Frenchmen, it has the object in view of suppressing the religious orders, which are administered from Rome, and which interfere with matters of State. The bill will not lessen the real spiritual power of the church, but it effectually divorces it from affairs of State and is therefore largely approved by the Catholic laity. It remains to be said that Pope Leo has issued a letter denouncing the enactment of the French Associations Act, and censuring the French republic for an act of such hostility to the brotherhoods. No less could be expected from his holiness, who in this matter will not have public opinion with him except in the limited circles of his special adherents.—Christian Work. THE NEED OF HELPING HEARTS AND HANDS.
[In the following story, which is one from real life, occurring only four years since, and printed at that time in a great daily, we have suppressed the names of persons and places. It is the moral, missionary lessons which we wish to inculcate.] HERE is a study for the humanitarian, the sociologist, and the criminologist. There are thousands of men in prison scheming, hoping, struggling, trying to move justice and mercy to get out, longing, praying, imploring for “just one more chance” in the world of free men; but in all the length and breadth of California, there is only one man trying to get into prison. He is an ex-convict, and he wants to go back to prison, not because he found life pleasant there, but because he finds there is neither room, nor help, nor hope for the man who has once worn stripes; because he finds that when he has paid the full penalty the law exacts for his crime, he still faces a life-punishment imposed by society. So he doesn’t want another chance. He has accepted defeat. He has had his tussle with the world and got his knock-out blow. He has thrown up the sponge. His name is ——. He is waiting apathetically in the county jail for the sentence to be pronounced that will send him to prison. “And my only wish,” he says, “is that it will be such a long one that I can end my days in prison.” The preliminary steps that lead to prison he has taken with deliberation. He has committed the necessary crime—the forging of a check; promptly submitted to arrest, and is waiting to plead guilty. “Why do you—” I begin, as he stands opposite me in the jail sitting-room, a man of middle age and slight physique, “an office man” with an office stoop, and above it an impressive head, the brow deeply lined more by thinking than reasoning, the eyes looking out from under it steady and joyless, dejection and dissipation traced around the mouth. “Because there’s nothing left me in the world to live for. In all the world there isn’t one human being bound to me by the ties of blood or friendship, and I can make no friends and inspire no confidence because I’ve been a convict.” “I couldn’t,” he adds, intuitively catching the thought that flashes through my mind, “I couldn’t commit suicide. I haven’t the courage, the brute courage, necessary to cut my throat, or blow my brains out, or take poison. I have wanted to, I have felt like it many a time since I came out of —— gates, but I just couldn’t do it—and after all, going to prison again amounts to the same thing. The world goes on without you, and it doesn’t reach you.” Then he sat down opposite me and told me, in an even, passionless voice, as one man telling the story of another, how he had tried to live down his past and failed; how the world, in which hearts filled with sympathy and faith and charity are said to dwell, turned from him wherever the prison brand was laid bare—and it always was laid bare wherever he went. “Eight years ago I was discharged from —— after serving out a sentence for forgery. Why I committed the crime doesn’t matter a great deal. Poverty, no work, association with men who are worse than I am and have suffered less for it, may have had their effect. I make no excuses. I committed forgery; I pleaded guilty; I took the punishment the law imposed. Three years and seven months of my life I spent behind the bars at ——, at the rock-pile and in the commissary department. No man ever grows to like prison life. Each day of it is harder to bear. I never wanted any more of it. The day I passed out of —— a free man, I made a resolution to live an honest life, never to do another wrong act, and God knows I tried to live up to it in spite of temptations and conditions that only a man who has been a convict can understand.” “I hadn’t been out of prison forty-eight hours when three ex-convicts tried to get me to join them in a job, and the argument they used was: ‘You might as well be crooked. No one will ever give you the chance to be honest.’” “I didn’t believe them, and I tried to make an honest living, to blot out my prison experience, and be a good man and a good citizen. I have always been accustomed to desk work. I am an accountant, and a good one. I couldn’t get that kind of work, so I tramped up and down the State, working as a ranch hand. Wherever I went, my prison comrades found me out. I ran across them everywhere, and was a victim of blackmail. It was pay them or stand exposure. People don’t care to employ an ex-convict, in town or country. They fear him and distrust him. Place after place I lost in that way, until I was utterly discouraged and so harassed that I knew no peace. “I made my way back to —— the very town that I went to prison from. ‘Here,’ I said to myself, ‘I’ll make a fresh start in life. I’ll be blackmailed no longer; I will succeed in life in spite of the mistake I’ve made. I’ve paid for that. The debt is cleared, and my new account shall be straight.’ I felt new courage.” “I had had Christian teaching from a Christian mother, and I wanted to turn back to the church again. I went to several churches in ——, and finally wandered into the —— Baptist church. I heard the Rev. ——. His earnestness and sincerity impressed me. I went the next Sunday to both morning and evening services to hear him. I felt confidence in him. I wanted to know him—to make a friend of him. After the evening services I waited in the darkness outside the church door to speak to him. He met me kindly.” “I went to his study one night that week, and I told him my whole story. I told him of my past.” “Why did you tell him?” I asked. The ex-convict turned his eyes on me wonderingly and then said, quite simply, as tho all the world should understand,— For a moment or two he looked out of the window on the bustling world going about its business—not longingly or regretfully, but with that filmy wistfulness that sees nothing—then he continued:— “Don’t you know it is an awful thing to keep your wrong-doing to yourself, to know that you have done wrong and that no one else knows it; to—do you see what I mean?—to have sinned and have people trust in you, and believe you are better than you know yourself to be? I can’t do anything wrong but that I’ve got to tell some one or other. I can’t keep it on my own soul. I can go just about so far in my wickedness, and then I must stop. I have committed crime, but I could not get up in a court of law and swear that I had not in order to save myself. I wanted that minister’s sympathy; I craved his help and friendship—not to bring me any material benefit—that is not what I mean, but to keep me from feeling so alone in the world. Yet I couldn’t win it or go to his church under false pretenses. So I told him. “Just as soon as I told him the truth about myself, the burden of it slipped from me. I felt easier. I could hold up my head before him. And he was kind to me. He made me welcome in his church, and treated me as an honored guest in his home. Never by word or look did he make me feel that I was unworthy. His kindness made me happier than I had been since I was sentenced to ——. “Little by little I made friends in the church. My own people were people of good standing in Iowa. They’re all dead, so it doesn’t matter who knows where I came from. I had good associations and good training as a boy, and when I found myself with a circle of friends again, things looked bright to me. I took an interest in the church work, and was a member of a little society connected with the church. I was making very little money, but I was content. “Then, just when everything seemed brightest, it leaked out among the members, somehow or other—I never knew how—that I was an ex-convict. It got noised about as such things do, until one person after another looked at me strangely; until one after another treated me coldly. They fell away from me, they avoided me, and of course I knew why. I saw then as I never saw before that there isn’t a chance in the world for me; that there’s no use trying to live a decent, honest life—no use trying to live down a past. “Most of the people I’d known just dropped me—made me understand that they didn’t want to know me; but one man seemed to want to punish me for having associated with them. It was just about election time, and I had registered as a voter. When I left the prison, the warden told me I had been restored to citizenship, but the papers were not there. I wanted to get away, so naturally I didn’t wait for papers. I supposed it was all right when I registered; but this man brought me up before the county clerk and made me have my name taken off the register. He wanted to have the reason put down, to have me put on record there as an ex-convict; but the county clerk had more kindness and wouldn’t do that. “Just before the story about me got out, one of the men who had been in prison with me ran across me. He was hard up and much discouraged. He told me that if he could raise $50, he could make his way to his people and live straight. I knew how he felt, for hadn’t I felt that way myself? I had been selling some tickets for an entertainment the society I belonged to was getting up, and had $35 which I had taken in for them. I hustled around and borrowed the other $15 and gave the ex-convict the $50 he needed. He gave me his solemn promise to send it to me within a week. I never heard from him. And then, altho I tried in every way I knew how to raise that money, I couldn’t do it. I had never the slightest intention of defrauding the society. I had no dishonest purpose. I had no sense of wrong-doing. My only thought was to help a man in a desperate position. The man who made the fight on me brought that up against me, to show that I couldn’t be honest. I told the members of the society frankly what I had done, and that I would turn over the money as soon as I could earn it. Nothing was done about the matter except that no one believed in me, no one wanted to have anything to do with me. I was friendless again, and with all the disgrace on me. “Crushed and disheartened, I started out in the world again without hope or courage or friends or money. I felt worse off than before; for my belief in my fellows had been destroyed, my faith in the Christian spirit they professed was gone, and with it went my last hope of a decent life. Of all those who had been my friends in that —— church circle, but one put out a helping hand. He wrote to me when I went away, telling me to come back and fight it out, that he would stand by me. I couldn’t do that. I’m alone in the world, and it wasn’t worth while. I gave it up, and began wandering up and down the State again, working where I could get work, moving on when exposure seemed likely—and living an honest life. I stood it as long as I could, and I can stand it no more. The only choice left for me is between prison and suicide, and I choose the prison. “Before making my choice I thought my whole life over, and came to the conclusion that prison is the place for me—it seems to be what fate intended me for. I was in prison in Colorado before ever I went to ——. I don’t want to hide that.11 “I started out in life all right with as good prospects as any boy who has to make his own way in the world, but things took a wrong turn when I was about twenty-three. And let me tell you what gave them the turn—my first drink of whisky!” “I was working as an accountant, and one night after working overtime I was completely tired out. A friend of mine came in to walk home with me, and seeing how tired I was he said, ‘Just let me look after you. I know what you need and what will do you most good.’ A drinking man himself, I quickly guessed his remedy and replied, ‘Whisky? O, no, not for me.’ We argued as we walked along, and ended before a bar. The drink I took affected me like an electric shock. I remember it yet, and I’ve had many a drink since then. It is astonishing to me how soon after that first drink of whisky I became a confirmed drunkard. Day after day I was at my desk so drunk I could scarcely sit up, but doing my work nevertheless. Three or four years after I began drinking, I married and sobered down. My married life was short and happy. When my wife died, I began drinking again. There was no reason why I shouldn’t, I was alone; so I told myself. “While working in Denver I stayed away from my desk several days, drinking. When I returned, $500 of the firm’s money was missing. I hadn’t taken it. I had an idea who did, but no proof. What could I do? I was culpable because of the neglect of my work, so I did the foolish thing that comes first to a man in my position—made a false entry on my books and trusted to luck. As a result, I was sent to prison and was there less than a year. When I got out, I left the State. I still drank occasionally, but I remained honest. In time I drifted to California, and here I did commit the crime that I paid the penalty for in ——. I’ve tried since then to live down the wrong I did, to make a place for myself in the world, no matter how humble, to be a man among men, and I’ve failed because of the prison brand. That brand sinks to the bone. It isn’t a mere matter of stripes that you lay aside within the prison gates. The world will never forgive a man for being a convict. It’s paying the penalty for his crime that ruins a man. He can lie and steal and forge; he can commit any crime in the calendar, even to murder, and society and the world will give him a chance to live, will forget and forgive, and take him in—if he doesn’t bear the prison brand. If he does, there is no place for him in church or home or office or shop. He is hounded on till in sheer desperation he turns for shelter to the prison walls. And that’s why I say, God help the ex-convict. There is no hope for him.” How far, think you, after Convict ——’s story, is man his brother’s keeper? I am debtor! Who can measure,
Father, what I owe to Thee?—
Life, with all its priceless treasure,
Wealth of sadness, wealth of glee. O what joy to be a debtor
To a God so great and good!
Bound by love, I love the fetter,
Would not break it if I could. Weak, unworthy, yet, Lord, send me
On the errands of Thy love;
Ever let me here attend Thee,
Then more nobly serve above.
I am ready!
Ready now, Lord—take Thine own! [SOME months ago the following appeared in Our Dumb Animals. The slaughter still goes on. Will our readers who wear this kind of millinery think about it?] Here, related in the hard, unsympathetic language of commerce, is the tragic story of a crime against nature and the commonwealth:— Milford, Del., March 7.—Contracts were closed here to-day for the bodies of 8,000 birds, to be killed for New York milliners, at from ten to fifty cents apiece. The contracts call for meadow-larks, blue-birds, red-wing blackbirds, crow blackbirds, English sparrows, and baby owls. This recital means that a cruel robbery is about to be committed in Delaware—a robbery which is made doubly wicked by the fact that it is perfectly legal. The bird-life of that State is to be sacrificed to the whims of fashion. The farmers are to be deprived of 8,000 of their most efficient crop-protectors, and the landscape despoiled of a charm which nothing can replace. The birds called for by this contract are nearly all of insect-destroying species. They exercise a function in the economy of nature which is almost indispensable to successful agriculture, and aside from their practical value, they constitute a part of the common property of the people which no person has the right to destroy for selfish purposes. The lark that feeds in Farmer Brown’s meadow, and nests in Farmer Smith’s grove, belongs alike to Brown and Smith, but in no greater degree than to the veriest tramp who walks the public highway. The owl that roosts in Gray’s forest and fattens on the mice in Johnson’s grain-fields is the property of the community. So are all the birds of the air. They belong to the people, and whosoever destroys them commits a crime against the commonwealth. The responsibility for this monstrous destruction of bird-life is easy to place. The birds would not be killed unless they could be sold.