terrible question which men here have gone mad and died trying to answer.  I dare not put this secret into words.  I told you it was dumb.  These men, going by with drunken faces and brains full of unawakened power, do not ask it of Society or of God.  Their lives ask it; their deaths ask it.  There is no reply.  I will tell you plainly that I have a great hope; and I bring it to you to be tested.  It is this:  that this terrible dumb question is its own reply; that it is not the sentence of death we think it, but, from the very extremity of its darkness, the most solemn prophecy which the world has known of the Hope to come.  I dare make my meaning no clearer, but will only tell my story.  It will, perhaps, seem to you as foul and dark as this thick vapor about us, and as pregnant with death; but if your eyes are free as mine are to look deeper, no perfume-tinted dawn will be so fair with promise of the day that shall surely come.

My story is very simple,—­only what I remember of the life of one of these men,—­a furnace-tender in one of Kirby & John’s rolling-mills,—­Hugh Wolfe.  You know the mills?  They took the great order for the Lower Virginia railroads there last winter; run usually with about a thousand men.  I cannot tell why I choose the half-forgotten story of this Wolfe more than that of myriads of these furnace-hands.  Perhaps because there is a secret underlying sympathy between that story and this day with its impure fog and thwarted sunshine,—­or perhaps simply for the reason that this house is the one where the Wolfes lived.  There were the father and son,—­both hands, as I said, in one of Kirby & John’s mills for making railroad-iron,—­and Deborah, their cousin, a picker in some of the cotton-mills.  The house was rented then to half a dozen families.  The Wolfes had two of the cellar-rooms.  The old man, like many of the puddlers and feeders of the mills, was Welsh,—­had spent half of his life in the Cornish tin-mines.  You may pick the Welsh emigrants, Cornish miners, out of the throng passing the windows, any day.  They are a trifle more filthy; their muscles are not so brawny; they stoop more.  When they are drunk, they neither yell, nor shout, nor stagger, but skulk along like beaten hounds.  A pure, unmixed blood, I fancy:  shows itself in the slight angular bodies and sharply-cut facial lines.  It is nearly thirty years since the Wolfes lived here.  Their lives were like those of their class:  incessant labor, sleeping in kennel-like rooms, eating rank pork and molasses, drinking—­God and the distillers only know what; with an occasional night in jail, to atone for some drunken excess.  Is that all of their lives?—­of the portion given to them and these their duplicates swarming the streets to-day? —­nothing beneath?—­all?  So many a political reformer will tell you,—­and many a private reformer, too, who has gone among them with a heart tender with Christ’s charity, and come out outraged, hardened.

One rainy night, about eleven o’clock, a crowd of half-clothed women stopped outside of the cellar-door.  They were going home from the cotton-mill.