I had just settled down at my work when once more I was informed that a man wished to see me. The inevitable front-door again. I sometimes wonder how many silent vows I have registered on my own doorstep. The broken ones, I know, have been numerous enough to condemn me.
Another old acquaintance this time. As I stand on the doorstep, the rain sweeps in at the open door. The poor fellow is soaked through; it is nearly ten o'clock; he is homeless and penniless. I can spare half a crown; he has it, and I direct him to the nearest lodging-house--not that he needed directions--feeling quite sure that he will there meet with my two previous visitors; possibly, too, will tell them of his success, and chaff them about their failure. But it was the rain that did it, and I hope that fact may be taken into consideration when judgment is delivered. True, by their continual coming they had wearied me, and by their persistence they had annoyed me; but the sight of a homeless vagabond in the pelting rain acted as a counter-irritant, and pity had to triumph over censorious judgment. So I went back to my desk knowing that I had done wrong; but somehow I had received satisfaction, for my temper was soothed. Perhaps it was good for me that I was not visited again that night by any discharged prisoners. For, poor fellows! they demand our pity; but how to transmute that pity into practical help is a difficult problem.
When a discharged prisoner possesses health, skill, and self-reliance, he has a hard battle to fight, one that will call forth either the best or the worst that is in him. But the great bulk of discharged prisoners have but indifferent health, and possess no technical skill or self-reliance; any service they can render to the community is but poor service, and of a kind that many thousands of honest men are only too anxious to secure for themselves. If the great bulk of them could, when discharged, be put into regular employment, and be enabled to earn a living, they would, if under a mild compulsion, conduct themselves decently; but if work and reasonable payment were provided, compulsion would still be necessary, for the greater part of them have no continuity of purpose, and are as thoughtless of to-morrow as butterflies, and they would very soon, were it possible, revert to an aimless, wandering life. It is the lack of grit, of continuity of purpose, of moral principles, combined with inferior physical health and a low standard of intelligence, that renders the position of many discharged prisoners so hopeless. We may blame them--perhaps it is right to blame them--for not exercising qualities they do not possess, but it is certain they do not possess the qualities I have named. They do, however, possess qualities that are not quite so estimable, for irresponsibility and low cunning are their chief characteristics. These men are nomads: settled life, regular work, the patient bearing of life's burden, and the facing of life's difficulties, are foreign to their instincts and nature. This kind of character is developed at an early age, for it is very prevalent in our growing youths; it is one of the signs of our times, and it bodes no good to our future national welfare.