And truth crushed to earth did rise again; for not long after the death of Shannon, in the eighth year of his imprisonment, George Brett was pardoned, with the public statement that he had been convicted on doubtful evidence and that the confession of Shannon had been accepted in proof of his innocence.
No adequate compensation can ever be made to one who has suffered unjust imprisonment, but there are already indications of the dawn of a to-morrow when the state, in common honesty, will feel bound to make at least financial restitution to those who have been the victims of such injustice.
[12] The crime was committed after the midnight of Hallowe'en.
[13] This letter was written twenty-five years ago. The logic of Shannon's argument is unquestionably sound. The futility of imprisonment as a reformatory agent is now widely recognized. But better than transportation is the system of conditional liberation of men after conviction now receiving favorable consideration--even tentative adoption--in many States.
There is another chapter to my experience with prisoners; it is the story of what they have done for me, for they have kept the balance of give and take very even between us. I have an odd collection of souvenirs and keepsakes, but, incongruous as the different articles are, one thread connects them all; from the coarse, stubby pair of little mittens suggesting the hand of a six-year-old country boy to the flask of rare Venetian glass in the dull Oriental tones dear to the æsthetic soul; from the hammock that swings under the maple-trees to the diminutive heart in delicately veined onyx, designed to be worn as a pendant.
The mittens came from Jackson Currant, a friendly soul who unravelled the one pair of mittens allowed him for the winter, contrived to possess himself of a piece of wire from which he fashioned a hook, and evenings in his cell crocheted for me a pair of mittens. Funny little things they were, but a real gift, for this prisoner took from himself and gave to me the one thing he had to give.
Another gift which touched me came from an old Rocky Mountain trapper--then a prisoner for life. His one most cherished possession was a copy of "A Day in Athens with Socrates," sent him by the translator. After keeping the precious book for three years and learning its contents by heart, he sent it to me as a birthday gift and I found it among other birthday presents one February morning. Then there is the cherry box that holds my stationery, with E. A.'s initials carved in the cover; E. A., who is reclaiming his future from all shadow of his past. It was E. A. who introduced me to my Welsh boy, Alfred Allen, and it was Alfred who opened my heart to all the street waifs in the universe.