When I was in England in 1892, I met a gentleman who claimed that they
were ahead of us in the respect they had for the law. "We hang our
murderers," he said, "but there isn't one out of twenty in your
country that is hung."
I said, "You are greatly mistaken, for they walk about these two
countries unhung."
"What do you mean?"
"I will tell you what I mean," I said; "the man that comes into my
house and runs a dagger into my heart for my money is a prince
compared with a son that takes five years to kill me and the wife of
my bosom. A young man who comes home night after night drunk, and when
his mother remonstrates, curses her gray hairs, and kills her by
inches, is the blackest kind of a murderer."