Having finished inspecting the building, I was unfortunately moved by I know not what national pride and knowledge of institutions superior to this at home, to say,"This is a pleasant jail, but it doesn't look much like our great prisons; we have as many as a thousand to twelve hundred men in some of our institutions.""Ay, ay, I have heard tell," said the jailer, shaking his head in pity, "it's an awfu' place, an awfu' place,--the United States.Isuppose it's the wickedest country that ever was in the world.Idon't know,--I don't know what is to become of it.It's worse than Sodom.There was that dreadful war on the South; and I hear now it's very unsafe, full of murders and robberies and corruption."I did not attempt to correct this impression concerning my native land, for I saw it was a comfort to the ****** jailer, but I tried to put a thorn into him by saying,"Yes, we have a good many criminals, but the majority of them, the majority of those in jails, are foreigners; they come from Ireland, England, and the Provinces."But the old man only shook his head more solemnly, and persisted, "It's an awfu' wicked country."Before I came away I was permitted to have an interview with the sole prisoner, a very pleasant and talkative man, who was glad to see company, especially intelligent company who understood about things, he was pleased to say.I have seldom met a more agreeable rogue, or one so philosophical, a man of travel and varied experiences.He was a lively, robust Provincial of middle age, bullet-headed, with a mass of curly black hair, and small, round black eyes, that danced and sparkled with good humor.He was by trade a carpenter, and had a work-bench in his cell, at which he worked on week-days.He had been put in jail on suspicion of stealing a buffalo-robe, and he lay in jail eight months, waiting for the judge to come to Baddeck on his yearly circuit.He did not steal the robe, as he assured me, but it was found in his house, and the judge gave him four months in jail, ****** a year in all,--a month of which was still to serve.But he was not at all anxious for the end of his term; for his wife was outside.
Jock, for he was familiarly so called, asked me where I was from.As I had not found it very profitable to hail from the United States, and had found, in fact, that the name United States did not convey any definite impression to the average Cape Breton mind, I ventured upon the bold assertion, for which I hope Bostonians will forgive me, that I was from Boston.For Boston is known in the eastern Provinces.
"Are you?" cried the man, delighted."I've lived in Boston, myself.
There's just been an awful fire near there.""Indeed!" I said; "I heard nothing of it.' And I was startled with the possibility that Boston had burned up again while we were crawling along through Nova Scotia.
"Yes, here it is, in the last paper." The man bustled away and found his late paper, and thrust it through the grating, with the inquiry, "Can you read?"Though the question was unexpected, and I had never thought before whether I could read or not, I confessed that I could probably make out the meaning, and took the newspaper.The report of the fire "near Boston" turned out to be the old news of the conflagration in Portland, Oregon!
Disposed to devote a portion of this Sunday to the reformation of this lively criminal, I continued the conversation with him.It seemed that he had been in jail before, and was not unaccustomed to the life.He was not often lonesome; he had his workbench and newspapers, and it was a quiet place; on the whole, he enjoyed it, and should rather regret it when his time was up, a month from then.
Had he any family?
"Oh, yes.When the census was round, I contributed more to it than anybody in town.Got a wife and eleven children.""Well, don't you think it would pay best to be honest, and live with your family, out of jail? You surely never had anything but trouble from dishonesty.""That's about so, boss.I mean to go on the square after this.But, you see," and here he began to speak confidentially, "things are fixed about so in this world, and a man's got to live his life.Itell you how it was.It all came about from a woman.I was a carpenter, had a good trade, and went down to St.Peter's to work.
There I got acquainted with a Frenchwoman,--you know what Frenchwomen are,--and I had to marry her.The fact is, she was rather low family; not so very low, you know, but not so good as mine.Well, Iwanted to go to Boston to work at my trade, but she wouldn't go; and I went, but she would n't come to me, so in two or three years I came back.A man can't help himself, you know, when he gets in with a woman, especially a Frenchwoman.Things did n't go very well, and never have.I can't make much out of it, but I reckon a man 's got to live his life.Ain't that about so?""Perhaps so.But you'd better try to mend matters when you get out.
Won't it seem rather good to get out and see your wife and family again?""I don't know.I have peace here."
The question of his liberty seemed rather to depress this cheerful and vivacious philosopher, and I wondered what the woman could be from whose companionship the man chose to be protected by jail-bolts.
