What a spiritual uplift I experienced by the sudden appearance of a female of uncertain age, who demanded: “Where are you going to spend eternity?” and before I could answer, “Not with _you_ if I can help it,” she put her second question. “Do you pray, brother? Do you get right down on your knees and lift yourself up?” (wouldn’t that be a stunt? it is also a mixed metaphor, but what do missionaries care for rhetoric?) On the first day of my incarceration a good lady (she is also a type of all the others) introduced herself to me in this manner: Transfixing me with an awful glance she said, “Man’s nature is _three_fold: physical, intellectual, spiritual. I am here to minister to your _spiritual_ necessities.” This she proceeded to do by telling me to “look up, hope on, it is brighter further off”; and that I was in a prison cell—“for a _purpose_.” Hardly had she passed on and left me happy in my solitude when her place was taken by another, and then another, who gave place to still another, all with the same tracts and expostulations. Not one of them neglected to tell me, that even St. Paul had been put in prison (for a purpose, doubtless), and that John Bunyan, although in a similar state of durance, had written that great and good book, “Pilgrim’s Progress.” Had I ever read it? I pleaded guilty, and was sentenced to read it again for my own good. After several hours of this, I also was in the mood to write—I wrote this and to my mother—begging her to come and sit in front of my cell all day, and to bring a broom; but still they came. My mother’s presence and the absence of the broom but gave them the opportunity to inflict her also. Oh, the missionaries! are there no bandits in America? Why, oh why, do they insist on questioning me about my soul, and offering to wrestle with my most secret sins, when there is a man in the next cell who needs underclothes? After hearing the missionaries and being promised another call on the morrow, I wonder that the men do not rush to the District Attorney’s office and accept “pleas.” Sing Sing would seem preferable to another visitation. I must not forget Sister “Goo-Goo,” who is so sympathetic. She stands outside, looking into my cell through the barred door; she also looks alluring. She sighs, then whispers, “This may be your door of hope.” “Then why is it kept locked?” I beg to inquire. Sometimes they come on Sundays with last year’s religious papers and magazines; they come and gossip with the keepers; or they bring a friend to whom they show the sights and point out us poor unfortunates. It is pleasant to watch them as they meet and compare dress goods patterns which they produce from their pocket-books; how briefly the hours go by, what brotherly and sisterly love; how they enjoy themselves; how happy _we_ are while they do _this_.