1,300--not a full house, for a
considerable number are out in the road-building camps. Gray
predominates--not only in the gray clothes but in the heads and faces.
There are a few bright spots of youth and manly vigor, and some black
negro heads, but the general impression is gray; gray, and faded, and
prematurely old. It is a sad audience, to which a sinister aspect is given
by the sight of the guards--silent, alert, blue-clothed figures, youthful
for the most part, seated with watchful eyes and weapons handy, each in a
raised chair near his own particular company.

But, although a sad audience to look upon, it is, as I have found on
previous occasions, a most wonderfully sensitive and responsive audience
to address. Each point of the discourse is caught with extraordinary
quickness; every slight attempt at humor is seized upon with pathetic
avidity. The speaker soon finds himself stimulated and carried along, as
by a strange and powerful force he has never felt before. It is an
exciting and exhilarating experience to talk to a prison audience; but one
must take good care not to be a bore, nor to try any cheap oratorical
tricks; for it is not only a keen and critical audience, it is a merciless
one.

This morning I am not at all afraid of boring the hearers; but I do wonder
whether they will fully take in my meaning; and how those who do
understand will like the idea of my coming among them; and if some of them
understand and sympathize, will it be a few only, or a majority; and if a
majority, how large; and will the minority resent it sufficiently to be
disagreeable?

These are some of the questions which go buzzing through my mind as I sit
trying in vain to listen to the singing of the prison choir and the
Scripture lesson which the Chaplain is reading. Finally I am called upon
to speak; and as I advance to the front of the stage another round of
applause comes from the audience. It has rather a startling effect upon
one, for applause in the prison chapel has always somewhat the character
of an explosion--an explosion of pent-up feelings denied any ordinary
freedom of expression. Hand-clapping is the only form permitted, and it
sounds like the snapping of firecrackers.

I advance to the front of the stage and stumble through the first words of
explanation as to the reasons for having my speech carefully written
out--in order to avoid any possible misunderstanding afterward as to what
I really have said. Then I cle