“She was the keeper of a beer-saloon in San Francisco, and led a life of drunkenness and licentiousness until she broke down, and she was brought here.”

“Is there any hope of her restoration?”

“I fear not—­nothing short of a miracle can, retune an instrument so fearfully broken and jangled.”

I thought of her out of whom were cast the seven devils, and of Him who came to seek and to save the lost, and resisting the impulse that prompted me to hurry away from the sight and hearing of this lost woman, I tried to talk with her, but had to retire at last amid a volley of such language as I hope never to hear from a woman’s lips again.

“Listen!  Did you ever hear a sweeter voice than that?”

I had heard the voice before, and thrilled under its power.  It was a female voice of wonderful richness and volume, with a touch of something in it that moved you strangely—­a sort of intensity that set your pulses to beating faster, while it entranced you.  The whole of the spacious grounds were flooded with the melody, and the passing teamsters on the public highway would pause and listen with wonder and delight.  The singer was a fair young girl, with dark auburn hair, large brown eyes, that were at times dreamy and sad, and then again lit up with excitement, as her moods changed from sad to gay.

“She will sit silent for hours gazing listlessly out of the window, and then all at once break forth into a burst of song so sweet and thrilling that the other patients gather near her and listen in rapt silence and delight.  Sometimes at a dead hour of the night her voice is heard, and then it seems that she is under a special afflatus—­she seems to be inspired by the very soul of music, and her songs, wild and sad, wailing and rollicking, by turns, but all exquisitely sweet, fill the long night-hours with their melody.”

The shock caused by the sudden death of her betrothed lover overthrew her reason, and blighted her life.  By the mercy of God, the love of music and the gift of song survived the wreck of love and of reason.  This girl’s voice, pealing forth upon the still summer evening air, is mingled with my last recollection of Stockton and its refuge for the doubly miserable who are doomed to death in life.

San Quentin.

“I want you to go with me over to San Quentin next Thursday, and preach a thanksgiving-sermon to the poor fellows in the State-prison.”

On the appointed morning, I met our party at the Vallejo-street wharf, and we were soon steaming on our way.  Passing under the guns of Fort Alcatraz, past Angel Island—­why so called I know not, as in early days it was inhabited not by angels but goats only—­all of us felt the exhilaration of the California sunshine, and the bracing November air, as we stood upon the guards, watching the play of the lazy-looking porpoises, that seemed to roll along, keeping up with the swift motion of the boat in such a leisurely way.  The