’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.