University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.
JAIL COMRADES.

Clapham was committed for trial by the justice at
L—. The sittings of the Court of Common
Pleas began the following week. He was instructed
that he might have counsel allowed him, and might
have the privilege, common to all criminals, of pleading
not guilty; but he was, at the same time, told that
the proofs were too strong against him to admit a
hope of escape, and was advised to plead guilty, and
gain favor by occasioning the least possible trouble.
No boy ever more dreaded being shut up in a jail,
but he was in a state of despair. He had lost, as
he believed, forever, the affection, so well earned, of
his beloved friends; he had lost every thing but his
self-respect. This was not gone, and it was so strongly

indicated in his upward, straightforward glance, in
the open expression of his face, and his quiet, and
almost dignified demeanor, that his counsel did not find
it difficult to get an abatement of the usual sentence
in like offences, and, instead of being sent to the
State Prison, he was remanded to the County Jail,
to remain there for two years, beginning with one
month's confinement in a dark cell.

It is a punishment almost too heavy to be borne,
to be, at any age, shut up in solitude and darkness;
but to this mountain boy, this free ranger over hill
and valley, who had lived with

to be thus caged in the growing time of youth, when
activity was the law of his nature, was most painful.
His hours dragged heavily. At first, the future was
all a blank to him. He shrank from it. It held out
no hope to him, no prospect of any thing pleasant
or inviting. The past was all. And over the past,
in spite of the evil that had attended it, there was
a golden light from the friendship of that blessed
little family that had encouraged and stimulated him.
He reviewed, again and again, his past life, and he
had infinite comfort in remembering many temptations
he had resisted, many good resolutions he had formed,
and kept; and, gradually, as his ideas became more
settled, he felt more patient. A great many things
he had heard Mrs. Davis say, and which, at the time,
made little impression, and which he had quite forgotten,
now recurred to his memory, and seemed to
come out in letters of light. “God does not see as
man sees!” “Despair and a good conscience don't
keep company.” “Trust in God, do right, and all
will come right.” These, and many others of her
good, familiar sayings, were on his horizon like the
first faint streaks of dawn, and, after the first throbbing
agony was past, he had many peaceful waking
hours. But, when he was asleep, owing to bad air
and want of exercise, he had horrid dreams. His
mother would seem to be lying dead-drunk upon him,
and he could not remove her. His father was dragging
him over stones, and through sloughs, and then he
would hear smothered cries of “Murder!” and “Fire!”
and awake in a cold sweat, and shivering with ague.
Once in a great while, he would have a sweet sleep,
and pleasant dream of fishing down Rhigi's sparkling
brook, and Annie would be standing with a basket of
berries beside him, and he would feel little Lucy's warm
kiss on his cheek. O, then how dreary the waking!

It seemed to Clapham, when he had passed one
day in that dark cell, that the month would never
come to an end; but it was soon gone — gone with
its record to Him who awardeth judgment; and most
happy for Clapham, that he had used some of these
hours for meditation, for penitence and prayer, and for
good resolutions against the day of freedom and outward
temptation.

The month was gone, and Clapham was removed
to a large apartment, in which were several persons,
some already sentenced to a term of imprisonment,
and others awaiting their trial. Some were in for
grave offences, others for trivial ones. The proved
guilty and the possibly innocent in close companionship!
Few improvements had then been made in the
jails. They were strictly places of punishment. Correction

and reformation were worns almost unwritten
in the penal code. The criminal was then considered
a hopeless outcast, not, as now, a weak, neglected,
unfortunate brother, to be pitied and cared for; not, as
now, an infirm child, to be restrained because dangerous,
to suffer because disobedient, and to be restored
to trust as soon as he deserved it.

At the period of Clapham's imprisonment, there were
no employments provided. If a man were industrious
and ingenious, he might, perhaps, obtain materials for
labor, and work on his own account; but, for the most
part, the prison at L—, like others, was a scene of
complete idleness. One man had a dirty pack of
cards, with which he and a comrade played from
morning till night, with interludes of telling fortunes,
and playing tricks with them.

Others pitched coppers all day long. One man,
whose wife supplied him with tobacco, smoked unceasingly;
and all, with the exception of one Frenchman
and a shoemaker, chewed and spit to the right
hand and the left, from morning till night — a fitting
pastime for a jail.

Clapham had come forth from his solitary cell with
feelings that made this society most odious to him.
The vulgar, profane, and indecent language he heard
shocked him, and, incredible as it may seem, he sometimes
wished for his solitude.

Slocum, the owner of the cards, invited him to
take a hand, and offered to teach him. He saw the
boy was wretched, and probably had a good-natured
desire to make him less so. But, when Clapham declined
his advances, he and his companion laughed at
him, and, as they called it, poked fun at him. One
called him a toad, and advised him to crawl back to
his hole; and the other an owl, who had no use of
his eyes now he had come back to daylight. The
Frenchman, Delean, took his part. He was a kindhearted
man, and ingenious, and diligent, as most
Frenchmen are; for, in the worst circumstances, they
can find something to do. Deleau had been in partnership
with a pedler. It was proved their goods were
stolen. Deleau maintained that he was ignorant of
this; but the pedler escaped, and Deleau was taken,
and, as he could not prove his innocence, he was

sentenced to fifteen months' imprisonment in the L—
jail. He spoke broken English, and was mimicked
and laughed at by the jail company; but this he did
not mind. He was always good humored, and ready
to do small favors, and, by degrees, he became a general
favorite. Even the worst people feel those little
hourly acts of kindness that are the cement of society,
and spread over its face cheerfulness and smiles.

“What for trouble you this little lad?” said Deleau;
“you should be, for him, father and mother.”

“Come to your ma', my dear,” screamed Slocum,
and he caught Clapham in his arms, and swung him
backward and forward, singing “Rock-a-by, baby bunting.”
Clapham resisted manfully, struggled and kicked,
till Slocum, feeling himself hurt, flew into a passion,
and hit Clapham a blow in the face. He staggered
and fell, bruised and bloody. The noise called up the
jailer, who, on opening the door, and perceiving, as he
said, that the boy had “got into a fight already,”
threatened to send him back to the solitary cell; and
then, as if he had quite done his duty, he relocked the
door.

“Monsieur Jailer is one very good keeper for de
wild beast,” said Deleau, “but a miserable for de young
man. It signify not. I will do what I can do, in this
very pretty place.” He then filled his basin with
water, (he had procured some comforts for his own
private use,) and called Clapham to his end of the
room, and while he was washing off the blood, he said,
“Listen me, my dear; I will be your good friend;
when you cannot be master, stay quiet.”

“But I'll not be made a baby and a fool of!” said
Clapham, whose temper was thoroughly roused.

“Quite to the contrary, my friend; he is the fool
who makes the wrong, and he the wise little man
who suffers it.”

“I am not so very little either,” replied Clapham,
“and I'll let those fellows know I'll not be imposed on.”

“You have reason, my friend; but if dey kindle a
fire, what for you burn yourself up in it? No, no; keep
clear of bad fellow; do nothing wid 'em; say noting to
'em. 'Tis not one very pretty place here! but we can
make place for ourself. I am not happy man to be
here. I do not merit it; but I could not help it. I

was stranger in de country. Nobody knew me. I was
de sheep found wid de fox. But what for, my dear,
cry, and lose life—de laugh is more for de health!”

“I, too, was the poor sheep found with the fox,”
thought Clapham; “but I cannot laugh.”

However, the kind philosophy of the Frenchman
had a good effect, and it was followed by substantial
services. Deleau had purchased favors of the jailer
by making rings of horse-hair for his wife and daughters.
They were made of black and white hair, with
names interwoven. These rings were shown, and Deleau
had many applications to make more; so that, for
some time, he drove quite a gaining trade. He told
this to Clapham.

“The trade,” he said, “has now abated; still I
make two, sometime three, four a week, and four make
one dollar. I have one little sum to begin the world
when I leave this place. Now you shall be my partner.
I teach you, and you shall have a share of my
business, and in two month more, all to yourself.”

Clapham's face brightened. He had again found a
friend. He set about learning to weave the rings

with good heart. At first, he was awkward enough;
but he was patient. Deleau encouraged him, and
when Clapham thanked him, he said, “Very well, my
dear. I like to hear `thank you;' it is good of manner;
and de boy of your country are as fraid of manner
as if dey were small-pox; but what please me
more than words is your face, and your voice, no
no longer miserable. Dere, dat bit is fine! Now
make one all yourself. Put in dat name you like
best.”

Clapham began with fresh zeal. Deleau, who was
singing over his own work, now and then cast a sidelong
glance at Clapham, to assure himself the boy
made no mistake. “It is done!” said Clapham, showing
it to his master, with a smile of satisfaction, “and
all right, I—I believe.”

“Bravo! bravo, my friend! as right as if Monsieur
Deleau had done it himself! `Annie!' dat is de name
you like best?”

“No, no. Harry is the name I like best in the
world; but boys do not wear rings, so I made it for
Harry's sister Annie; but neither Harry nor Annie,”

he concluded, with a sigh, “will wear a ring of my
making, now.”

“Never despair, my dear friend; good people forgive
and forget. Put up de ring safe; one bright day
you may put it on Mademoiselle Annie finger for a
wedding-ring.”

“O, never! never! never in the world! A wedding-ring!
How foolish, Mr. Deleau!”—“As if I
should ever he married,” thought Clapham; “and if
I were, as if ever Annie Davis would look at such
a thing as I am — a jail-bird.”

Not many days after this, fortunately for Deleau,
unfortunately for Clapham, Deleau received a permit
to leave the prison. The pedler, his former partner,
had been taken. He had confessed his guilt, and
averred Deleau's innocence. This came to the knowledge
of a young lawyer, who had defended Deleau at
the time of his commitment, and who had then become
interested in the poor Frenchman. He had
voluntarily taken the pains to procure Deleau's release.
“I am as sorry to leave you,” he said to
Clapham, at parting, “as if you were my own poor

little boy. I had once one little boy.” For the first
time, Clapham saw his eyes fill with tears; he wiped
them away, and proceeded, “He is gone to de good
God. De sweetest flowers are always taken for de
Paradise.”

“So they are!” exclaimed Clapham. He thought
of little Lucy.

“Ah, we must all finish!” resumed Deleau;
“perhaps de sooner de better.”

“I think so, Mr. Deleau.”

“Ah, you must not tink so. You are too young
to tink so. A cloudy morning may turn out very
bright day — first rate! So, I expect, will Clapham.
Courage, my good boy! When you come out of dis
pretty place, write to Paul Delean, New York.
While you stay here, make de ring; or do someting,
always do someting. Above all, keep away from de
bad fellow wid de cards and de pitch-penny.”

They parted, and poor Clapham felt desolate
enough. The ring trade had become very dull.
The jailer took no pains to dispose of them. Clapham,
however, went on making them as long as his

materials lasted. Then the jailer was surly, and
would procure him no more. So Clapham fell back
into inevitable idleness. His days dragged heavily
on. He very civilly asked the jailer to bring him a
spelling-book, at the same time telling him he had
plenty of money to pay him for it. The jailer, at
first, made a sort of half promise he would attend
to it; but, when Clapham again and again reminded
him of it, he became vexed, and said he had something
else to do than to be bothered with buying
spelling-books for chaps. Slocum had been for some
days watching Clapham, and had become wonderfully
civil to him. Slocum's wife had brought him a
basket of apples and gingerbread. He offered Clapham
a share. Clapham took it, and thanked him.

“Now, that's friendly,” he said; “I knew you was
not a boy to bear malice. I told Dick Hunt, when
that outlandish Frenchman went away, you would find
out we were full as good friends to you as he.
Come, don't be sucking your thumbs all day. Sit
down here, and look over the cards. You will soon
know how to play as well as we.” Clapham drew up

to them and became interested. Slocum winked to
his companion. “To-morrow you shall take a hand,”
he said; “there's no harm in life in playing when
there's nothing else to do.” It soon became too
dark to discern the spots on the cards; and, no
lights being allowed in the prison, the cards were
put aside.

Clapham had no sooner lain down on his bed
for the night, than the thought came to him like a
blow, “How could I forget Mr. Deleau's advice to
keep clear of Slocum? I am sorry! sorry! But
what shall I do with these everlasting long days?
If I had any kind of a book, perhaps I might spell
out the words. Perhaps Plum will let me wax his
threads for him. I'll try him.” It was a good
consequence of Clapham's solitary confinement, that
he had acquired the habit, so soon as he laid himself
down, of considering his past conduct and future
duties.

When the jailer presented himself the next morning,
Clapham begged him to lend him any old book.
“But you can't read,” said the man, gruffly. “Perhaps

I can learn,” urged Clapham. “And what use
will you make of it? No, no; the less such as you
know the better.” And thus this ignorant man disappointed
Clapham, and himself lost one golden opportunity
of doing good and kindness.

Thus rebuffed, Clapham turned to his last hope;
and a forlorn hope was that forbidding-faced man,
Plum. Poor Clapham timidly approached him. “I say,
Mr. Plum,” he began, in a low voice, for he dreaded
Slocum and Hunt's laugh; “don't you want a 'prentice?”
No answer; and he repeated the question.
Plum shook his head. “I'll not plague you,” continued
Clapham; “I'll begin with waxing the threads.”

“You'll break and waste.”

“Only try me, Mr. Plum.” Again Plum shook his
head. “I can at least hammer the soles for you.”
Again a decisive shake of the head. “Do let me
try, Mr. Plum, I am so tired doing nothing. I soon
learned to make rings of Mr. Delean; why can't I
learn to make shoes?”

“And then sell them on your own account, as
you did the rings, hey? I can make myself all that

will sell. If you don't learn it will be bother, and
if you do learn it will be loss.” Still Clapham
urged. He had felt the good and happiness of occupation
— that it could even make the hours glide
lightly on in that loathsome jail. “I will try my
best, Mr. Plum,” he said; “as long as I stay in
this place, I will work for you. I promise you.”

“Promise! hum! What is the promise of the
like of you worth?”

“I am not a liar!” said Clapham, coloring up to
the very roots of his hair.

“That's more than I know or believe. Boys is no
use; I hate them — I always did.”

“And they will hate you,” replied Clapham, his
too quick temper rising beyond his control; “you
are a hateful and hard-hearted man!”

Clapham had unconsciously raised his voice. Slocum
and Hunt cried out, “Hurrah! that's it, my boy!
go it, Clap! you're coming on; pay it on to the old
carrion!”

Clapham did not answer them. He slunk away
by himself, ashamed of having said any thing these

bad men applauded. Slocum and Hunt thought
this too good an occasion to renew their attack on
Clapham to be lost. They knew he had two or three
dollars which he had earned in the ring trade; this
money — this precious means of procuring rum and
tobacco, for which they were always hankering — they
were pretty sure of getting possession of, if they
could once cajole him into playing. But all their
solicitations were, as yet, in vain. The poor, tempted
boy was, as yet, steadfast in his firm resolutions.
The memory of his friends was, as yet, a guardian
angel to him.

We may as well conclude this chapter with a
brief notice of Plum, who was a very strong illustration
of a passion that, in a greater or less degree,
wofully prevails in our land, — a strong but a singular
illustration of it, — for, if our people are avaricious,
they are often very generous, sometimes profuse. If
Clapham had not been urged on by the keenest desire
of employment, Plum's aspect must have repelled
him. He was short and spare, with a little head
bent forward; his face was shrunken, and his skin

shrivelled like an overbaked pear; his sunken eye
glowed like a coal of fire in a dark place; his
thin lips, sharply closed, seemed scarcely to have
smiled, even when he was a baby in his mother's
arms; he did not appear as if there had ever in
his life been a period of youth and freshness. One
passion — a greed of gain — had ruled him from childhood;
he was now past fifty. He had no wife, no
children, no one to provide for, and certainly he never
allowed himself an indulgence from the fruit of his
labor. Still, for fifty years, he had toiled from daylight
to dark, as if to save himself from starvation.
His shoe-shop was in a small town near L—. He
was a man of few words, quiet and inoffensive;
doing, as was believed, neither good nor harm. It is
true that he had been several times suspected of
making false charges; but they were so petty, and
the man so industrious, and so free from temptation
to fraud, that the persons wronged concluded there
was some mistake, and let it pass.

There was a tannery in Plum's neighborhood,
from which its proprietor had missed leather; never,

however, more than one hide at a time; so he made
no fuss about it, though he was much troubled by
being forced to suspect one person after another.
He was detained in the tanyard, one day, much beyond
his usual time; it was starlight. He perceived
a man crouched, burdened, and stealing along by the
fence. He followed him till the person entered
Plum's house; and he saw that it was Plum himself.
One may imagine Plum's dismay, when, two
hours after, the tanner entered his dwelling with a
sheriff and search-warrant. What a dwelling for an
industrious man! One apartment was a work-shop,
and the other — not much larger than a coffin —
served him for kitchen and bed-room. The tanner
and sheriff proceeded to a loft and cellar, and both
were filled with stolen property, for the most part
of little value; and, except the few hides he had
stolen from the tanner, of no worth to Plum. It
was almost laughable that, among other lumber, there
was a bat and ball, and a sled that a little boy,
through all the pleasant coasting days of winter, had
missed and mourned. Plum seemed to have stolen them
from the mere passion of acquisition, or, perhaps, as
he said to Clapham, he truly hated boys, and had a
dreary pleasure in spoiling their sport. At last,
buried in the cellar, under every thing else, the
searchers discovered bags of specie, assorted; dollars
in one, half dollars in another, and so on, down to a
bag of cents. While they were counting the money,
— which amounted to fourteen hundred and forty
dollars and thirty-two cents, — Plum, who, till then,
had been silent, only becoming more and more livid,
began to cry and wring his hands, and offer to pay
double the price of the hides if they would go away
and leave him. The tanner told him the matter had
gone too far; he was in the sheriff's hands; but he
would befriend him if he would tell him how he
had come to the pass of prowling about nights like
a hungry fox, and preying upon others' property, when
he had plenty of his own.

The amount of his confession was, that he had
been a working, saving lad from the beginning;
that he was honest at first, but he loved money (the
poor wretch called it gain) so well that he sold his

school-books, and whatever little presents were given
him, and laid up the money. Even in those early
days, nothing pleased him like making “a good
bargain.”

His first theft was during his apprenticeship, —
small bits of leather, with which he cobbled shoes
at an under price when the shop was shut, and his
master believed he was in bed. Then he took
leather enough for a pair of shoes, of which he
made private sale; and so he had gone on, from
year to year, increasing his burden of guilt and
fear, and gaining — what? some round bits of silver
and copper to bury in his cellar, when stones would
have served that purpose as well.

But are there not men with a wider horizon
than Plum's, as diligent, and more fortunate, who
accumulate gains and go on getting, each new load
pressing a little more of the life-blood out of their
hearts? The earth, instead of being fed from their
fountains with streams of liberality and gladness, is,
for them, converted into a banking-house, whose

vaults are filled with gold and silver; (fearful witnesses
at the last tribunal!) and Heaven is to them
a brazen, arid vault, to which no breath of love or
gratitude ascends from others; which no prayer of
faith or hope of theirs can pierce.