RISTOFALO AND THE RECTOR.

Be Richling’s feelings what they might, the Star Bakery shone in the retail firmament of the commercial heavens with new and growing brilliancy. There was scarcely time to talk even with the tough little rector who hovers on the borders of this history, and he might have become quite an alien had not Richling’s earnest request made him one day a visitor, as we have seen him express his intention of being, in the foul corridors of the parish prison, and presently the occupant of a broken chair in the apartment apportioned to Raphael Ristofalo and two other prisoners. “Easy little tasks you cut out for your friends,” said the rector to Richling when next they met. “I got preached to—not to say edified. I’ll share my edification with you!” He told his experience.

It was a sinister place, the prison apartment. The hand of Kate Ristofalo had removed some of its unsightly conditions and disguised others; but the bounds of the room, walls, ceiling, windows, floor, still displayed, with official unconcern, the grime and decay that is commonly thought good enough for men charged, rightly or wrongly, with crime.

The clergyman’s chair was in the centre of the floor. Ristofalo sat facing him a little way off on the right. A youth of nineteen sat tipped against the wall on the left, and a long-limbed, big-boned, red-shirted young Irishman occupied a poplar table, hanging one of his legs across a corner of it and letting the other down to the floor. Ristofalo remarked, in the form of polite acknowledgment, that the rector had preached to the assembled inmates of the prison on the Sunday previous.

“Did I say anything that you thought was true?” asked the minister.

The Italian smiled in the gentle manner that never failed him.

“Didn’t listen much,” he said. He drew from a pocket of his black velveteen pantaloons a small crumpled tract. It may have been a favorite one with the clergyman, for the youth against the wall produced its counterpart, and the man on the edge of the table lay back on his elbow, and, with an indolent stretch of the opposite arm and both legs, drew a third one from a tin cup that rested on a greasy shelf behind him. The Irishman held his between his fingers and smirked a little toward the floor. Ristofalo extended his toward the visitor, and touched the caption with one finger: “Mercy offered.”

“Well,” asked the rector, pleasantly, “what’s the matter with that?”

“Is no use yeh. Wrong place—this prison.”

“Um-hm,” said the tract-distributor, glancing down at the leaf and smoothing it on his knee while he took time to think. “Well, why shouldn’t mercy be offered here?”

“No,” replied Ristofalo, still smiling; “ought offer justice first.”

“Mr. Preacher,” asked the young Irishman, bringing both legs to the front, and swinging them under the table, “d’ye vote?”

“Yes; I vote.”

“D’ye call yerself a cidizen—with a cidizen’s rights an’ djuties?” “I do.”

“That’s right.” There was a deep sea of insolence in the smooth-faced, red-eyed smile that accompanied the commendation. “And how manny times have ye bean in this prison?”

“I don’t know; eight or ten times. That rather beats you, doesn’t it?”

Ristofalo smiled, the youth uttered a high rasping cackle, and the Irishman laughed the heartiest of all.

“A little,” he said; “a little. But nivver mind. Ye say ye’ve bin here eight or tin times; yes. Well, now, will I tell ye what I’d do afore and iver I’d kim back here ag’in,—if I was you now? Will I tell ye?”

“Well, yes,” replied the visitor, amiably; “I’d like to know.”

“Well, surr, I’d go to the mair of this city and to the judge of the criminal coort, and to the gov’ner of the Sta-ate, and to the ligislatur, if needs be, and I’d say, ‘Gintlemin, I can’t go back to that prison! There is more crimes a-being committed by the people outside ag’in the fellies in theyre than—than—than the—the fellies in theyre has committed ag’in the people! I’m ashamed to preach theyre! I’m afeered to do ud!’” The speaker slipped off the table, upon his feet. “‘There’s murrder a-goun’ on in theyre! There’s more murrder a-bein’ done in theyre nor there is outside! Justice is a-bein’ murdered theyre ivery hour of day and night!’”

He brandished his fist with the last words, but dropped it at a glance from Ristofalo, and began to pace the floor along his side of the room, looking with a heavy-browed smile back and forth from one fellow-captive to the other. He waited till the visitor was about to speak, and then interrupted, pointing at him suddenly:— “Ye’re a Prodez’n preacher! I’ll bet ye fifty dollars ye have a rich cherch! Full of leadin’ cidizens!”

“You’re correct.”

“Well, I’d go an’—an’—an’ I’d say, ‘Dawn’t ye nivver ax me to go into that place ag’in a-pallaverin’ about mercy, until ye gid ud chaynged from the hell on earth it is to a house of justice, wheyre min gits the sintences that the coorts decrees!’ I don’t complain in here. He don’t complain,” pointing to Ristofalo; “ye’ll nivver hear a complaint from him. But go look in that yaird!” He threw up both hands with a grimace of disgust—“Aw!”—and ceased again, but continued his walk, looked at his fellows, and resumed:—

“I listened to yer sermon. I heerd ye talkin’ about the souls of uz. Do ye think ye kin make anny of thim min believe ye cayre for the souls of us whin ye do nahthing for the bodies that’s before yer eyes tlothed in rrags and stairved, and made to sleep on beds of brick and stone, and to receive a hundred abuses a day that was nivver intended to be a pairt of annybody’s sintince—and manny of’m not tried yit, an’ nivver a-goun’ to have annythin’ proved ag’in ’m? How can ye come offerin’ uz merrcy? For ye don’t come out o’ the tloister, like a poor Cat’lic priest or Sister. Ye come rright out o’ the hairt o’ the community that’s a-committin’ more crimes ag’in uz in here than all of us together has iver committed outside. Aw!—Bring us a better airticle of yer own justice ferst—I doan’t cayre how crool it is, so ut’s justice—an’ thin preach about God’s mercy. I’ll listen to ye.”

Ristofalo had kept his eyes for the most of the time on the floor, smiling sometimes more and sometimes less. Now, however, he raised them and nodded to the clergyman. He approved all that had been said. The Irishman went and sat again on the table and swung his legs. The visitor was not allowed to answer before, and must answer now. He would have been more comfortable at the rectory.

“My friend,” he began, “suppose, now, I should say that you are pretty nearly correct in everything you’ve said?”

The prisoner, who, with hands grasping the table’s edge on either side of him, was looking down at his swinging brogans, simply lifted his lurid eyes without raising his head, and nodded. “It would be right,” he seemed to intimate, “but nothing great.”

“And suppose I should say that I’m glad I’ve heard it, and that I even intend to make good use of it?”

His hearer lifted his head, better pleased, but not without some betrayal of the distrust which a lower nature feels toward the condescensions of a higher. The preacher went on:—

“Would you try to believe what I have to add to that?”

“Yes, I’d try,” replied the Irishman, looking facetiously from the youth to Ristofalo. But this time the Italian was grave, and turned his glance expectantly upon the minister, who presently replied:—

“Well, neither my church nor the community has sent me here at all.”

The Irishman broke into a laugh.

“Did God send ye?” He looked again to his comrades, with an expanded grin. The youth giggled. The clergyman met the attack with serenity, waited a moment and then responded:—

“Well, in one sense, I don’t mind saying—yes.”

“Well,” said the Irishman, still full of mirth, and swinging his legs with fresh vigor, “he’d aht to ’a’ sint ye to the ligislatur.”

“I’m in hopes he will,” said the little rector; “but”—checking the Irishman’s renewed laughter—“tell me why should other men’s injustice in here stop me from preaching God’s mercy?”

“Because it’s pairt your injustice! Ye do come from yer cherch, an’ ye do come from the community, an’ ye can’t deny ud, an’ ye’d ahtn’t to be comin’ in here with yer sweet tahk and yer eyes tight shut to the crimes that’s bein’ committed ag’in uz for want of an outcry against ’em by you preachers an’ prayers an’ thract-disthributors.” The speaker ceased and nodded fiercely. Then a new thought occurred to him, and he began again abruptly:—

“Look ut here! Ye said in yer serrmon that as to Him”—he pointed through the broken ceiling—“we’re all criminals alike, didn’t ye?”

“I did,” responded the preacher, in a low tone.

“Yes,” said Ristofalo; and the boy echoed the same word.

“Well, thin, what rights has some to be out an’ some to be in?”

“Only one right that I know of,” responded the little man; “still that is a good one.”

“And that is—?” prompted the Irishman.

“Society’s right to protect itself.”

“Yes,” said the prisoner, “to protect itself. Thin what right has it to keep a prison like this, where every man an’ woman as goes out of ud goes out a blacker devil, and cunninger devil, and a more dangerous devil, nor when he came in? Is that anny protection? Why shouldn’t such a prison tumble down upon the heads of thim as built it? Say.” “I expect you’ll have to ask somebody else,” said the rector. He rose.

“Ye’re not a-goun’!” exclaimed the Irishman, in broad affectation of surprise.

“Yes.”

“Ah! come, now! Ye’re not goun’ to be beat that a-way by a wild Mick o’ the woods?” He held himself ready for a laugh.

“No, I’m coming back,” said the smiling clergyman, and the laugh came.

“That’s right! But”—as if the thought was a sudden one—“I’ll be dead by thin, willn’t I? Of coorse I will.”

“Yes?” rejoined the clergyman. “How’s that?”

The Irishman turned to the Italian.

“Mr. Ristofalo, we’re a-goin to the pinitintiary, aint we?”

Ristofalo nodded.

“Of coorse we air! Ah! Mr. Preechur, that’s the place!”

“Worse than this?”

“Worse? Oh, no! It’s better. This is slow death, but that’s quick and short—and sure. If it don’t git ye in five year’, ye’re an allygatur. This place? It’s heaven to ud!”