In 1815 prison reform was a dim dream in the hearts of a few. Men incline toward a theory of retributive justice, and are keen to assume the judgment rôle and fasten a stigma to sin, forgetful that although the sin may be outgrown, the stigma rarely is wiped away. The orthodoxy of society was as fixed as the theological dogma of that early day; leniency was license to the common mind; and the culprit was faced with continual reminders of his guilt as a necessary step toward repentance. The wrath of man, like the wrath of God, was to be known and feared; the evil-doer was beaten into the path of the righteous, not led by the law of love. Too much of this spirit exists at the present time, but seventy-five years ago the force of public opinion tended in that direction. The prisoners were permitted to come forth on Sabbath morning and listen, many of them with bound limbs, to a long exhortation from the strait-laced clergy, who pointed a finger of scorn as well as reproach at the guilty, and it was little wonder that their hearts were hardened by what they heard, and that when they went forth again into the world it was often with a determination to revenge themselves on society at large. The home of Daniel and Lucretia Chester was a resting place for such Friends as repaired to that locality for religious purposes, and Daniel was frequently charged with bearing one of them company to the county jail, which stood on the outskirts of their little town. Here he never failed to be impressed with the terrors of sin, and to exhort his family afterward to tread the straight and narrow way. More than once Dorcas had been allowed to accompany her father on such visits, with the idea of permeating the maiden’s consciousness with a correct view of righteous punishment. On such an occasion, when she had just passed her sixteenth birthday, the Friend who had a “concern” to speak to the erring, aroused her indignation by his harsh denunciations. So touched was she that her sympathies far outran her judgment, and in passing through the room where the prisoners had assembled for worship, Dorcas let her eyes rove over the throng and tender smiles play about her mouth. One face among the many never faded from her memory. He was but a lad, scarcely greater in years than herself, but tall and well built. His keen glance was riveted to her face from the instant of her entrance, and when she kindly nodded to the sullen group, this youth fairly started from his seat. His bronze brow, his piercing black eyes, his clean-cut limbs--all were instantly photographed upon her mind. She lingered a moment at the door, while Daniel turned his carryall, and as she paused, she was conscious that the boy had reached far over his companions and was eagerly watching her. “Father,” she said, “does thee suppose all those prisoners are really guilty?”