Only by a special cultivation of vice such as was carried on in these establishments, could a Russian be brought to the state of these tramps, who excelled Nietzsche's newest teaching, holding everything allowable and nothing forbidden, and spreading this teaching, first among the convicts and then among the people in general. The only explanation of what was being done was that it aimed at the prevention of crime, at inspiring awe, at correcting offenders, and at dealing out to them "lawful vengeance," as the books said. But in reality nothing in the least resembling these results came to pass. Instead of vice being put a stop to, it only spread farther; instead of being frightened, the criminals were encouraged (many a tramp returned to prison of his own free will); instead of correction, every kind of vice was systematically instilled; while the desire for vengeance, far from being weakened by the measures of Government, was instilled into the people to whom it was not natural. "Then why is it done?" Nehlúdof asked himself, and could find no answer. FROM THE PSALMS He hath looked down from the height of his sanctuary ... to hear the sighing of the prisoner; to loose those that are appointed to death. Ballade of Misery and Iron BY GEORGE CARTER (Some years ago the _Century Magazine_ received several poems from an inmate of the State penitentiary of Minnesota. Upon investigation it was found that the poet, a young Englishman, had been driven to stealing by starvation. Subsequently his pardon was procured) Haggard faces and trembling knees, Eyes that shine with a weakling's hate, Lips that mutter their blasphemies, Murderous hearts that darkly wait: These are they who were men of late, Fit to hold a plow or a sword. If a prayer this wall may penetrate, Have pity on these my comrades, Lord! Poets sing of life at the lees In tender verses and delicate; Of tears and manifold agonies-- Little they know of what they prate. Out of this silence, passionate Sounds a deeper, a wilder chord. If sound be heard through the narrow grate, Have pity on these my comrades, Lord! Hark, that wail of the distant breeze, Piercing ever the close-barred gate, Fraught with torturing memories Of eyes that kindle and lips that mate. Ah, by the loved ones desolate, Whose anguish never can pen record, If thou be truly compassionate, Have pity on these my comrades, Lord! L'ENVOI These are pawns that the hand of Fate Careless sweeps from the checker-board. Thou that know'st if the game be straight, Have pity on these my comrades, Lord! BY KENKŌ HOSHI (See page 135) So long as people, being ill-governed, suffer from hunger, criminals will never disappear. It is extremely unkind to punish those who, being sufferers from hunger, are compelled to violate laws. The Red Robe BY EUGÈNE BRIEUX