THE DUNGEON.
The room was very small,--a mere closet,--lighted only by a narrow
window over the door, which admitted just light enough from the
corridor to enable Rodney to see the walls. There was some
scribbling on the walls, but there was not light enough, even after
his eyes became accustomed to the place, to distinguish a letter.
There was neither chair nor bench, not even a blanket, on which
to lie. The bare walls and floor were unrelieved by a single
article of comfort. Here, for four long days and nights, Rodney
was confined. There was nothing by which he could relieve the
dreadful wearisome time. He heard no voice save that of the
surly jailer, once a day, bringing him a rough jug of water and
half a loaf of black bread. He had no books with which to while
away the long, tedious hours, nor was there light enough to
read, had there been a whole library in the cell.
The first emotions of the boy, when the door was locked upon
him, were those of indignation and anger. "Why," said he to
himself, "am I treated in this way? They are brutes! I have done
nothing to deserve this barbarity. I am no felon or thief, that
I should be used in this way. I have broken no rule that was
made known to me, since I have been in this place. The heartless
wretch of a jailer thrust me into this hole, to gratify his own
spite. He knows that I couldn't have thrown water on him
purposely, for I couldn't see down into the yard. He never told
me what I was to do with the dirty water, and there was no other
place to throw it. He deserves being shut up in this den
himself! O, I wish I had him in my power for a week! I would
give him a lesson that he would remember as long as he lived.
"Was there ever such an unlucky boy as I am? Everything goes
against me. There is no chance for me to do anything, or to
enjoy anything, in this world. I wish I was dead!"
A bitter flood of tears burst from him, which seemed, as it
were, to quench his anger, and gradually his heart became open
to more salutary reflections.
"Do you not deserve all this?" whispered his conscience. "Have
you not brought it upon yourself by your own wickedness and
disobedience? You had a good home and kind friends; and if you
had to work every day, it was no more than all have to do in one
form or another. Blame yourself, then, for your own idle,
reckless disposition, that would not be satisfied with your lot.
You are only finding out the truth of the text you have often
repeated,--'The way of the transgressor is hard.'"
He thought of his home, as he lay upon that hard floor. The
forms of his pious old grandmother, and of his mother and
sister, all seemed to stand before him, and to look down upon
him reproachfully. He remembered now their kindness and good
counsel. He groaned in bitterness, "O! this _would_ break their
hearts, if they knew it! I have disgraced myself, and I have
disgraced them." He had leisure for reflection, and his mind
recalled, most painfully, the scenes of the past. He thought of
the Sabbath-school, of his kind teacher, and of the instructions
that had been so affectionately imparted. How much better for
him would it have been, had he regarded those instructions!
And then he thought of God! He remembered that His _all-seeing
eye_ had followed all his wanderings, and noted all his guilt.
He had sinned against God, and some of the bitterness of
punishment had already overtaken him. The idea that God was
angry with him, and that _He_ was visiting his sins with the rod
of chastisement, took possession of his soul. Now he ceased to
blame others for his sufferings, and acknowledged to himself
that all was deserved. Again he wept, but it was in terror at
the thought of God's anger, and in grief that he had sinned so
ungratefully against his Maker.
He tried to pray; but the words of the prayers he had been
taught in his childhood did not seem to be appropriate to his
present condition. Those prayers were associated with days and
scenes of comparative innocence and happiness. He now felt
guilty and wretched, and felt deeply that other forms of
petition were necessary for him. But he could not frame words
into a prayer that would soothe and relieve his soul. "God will
not hear me," was his bitter thought. "I do not deserve to be
heard. O! if God would have mercy upon me, and deliver me from
this trouble, I think I would try to serve and obey Him as long
as I lived."
He kneeled down upon the hard floor, and raised his clasped
hands and streaming eyes toward heaven; but he could find no
utterance for his emotions, save in sobs and tears. Prayer would
not come in words. Again and again he tried to pray, but in
vain; he felt that he could not pray; and, almost in despair, he
paced the narrow cell, and was ready to believe that God's favor
was forever withdrawn from his soul,--that there was no ear to
listen, and no arm to save, and that nothing was left for him in
the future but a life of misery, a death of shame, and an
eternity of woe!
On the third morning, he awoke from a troubled sleep, and, as
he rose with aching bones from the bare planks, his limbs
trembled and tottered beneath him. Finding that he could not
stand, he sat down in the corner of the dungeon, and leaned
against the wall. His head was hot, and his throat parched, and
the blood beat in throbs through his veins. A sort of delirious
excitement began to creep over him, and his mind was filled with
strange reveries.
He saw, or fancied he saw, great spiders crawling over the wall,
and serpents, lizards, and indescribable reptiles, creeping
about on the floor; and he shouted at them, and kicked at them,
as they seemed to come near him. Soon they were viewed without
dread or terror. He laughed at their motions, and thought he
should have companions and pets in his loneliness; still he did
not wish them to come too near.
Then there seemed to be other shapes in his cell. His old
grandmother sat in one corner, reading, through her familiar
spectacles, the well-worn family Bible. His sister sat there,
playing with her baby, and his mother was singing as she sewed.
And he laughed and talked to them, but could get no answer.
Occasionally he felt a half-consciousness that it was all a
delusion,--a mere vision of the brain; and yet their fancied
presence made him happy, and he laughed and talked incessantly,
as if they heard him, and were wondering at his own strange
emotions.
And then the gruff voice of the jailer scared away his visions,
and roused him for a moment from his reveries.
"You are merry, my boy, and you make too much noise," said the
keeper.
The interruption made his head swim, and he attempted to rise;
but he was very weak and faint, and fell back again. He turned
to say, "I believe I am sick;" but before the words found
utterance, the man had set down his pitcher and bread, and was
gone.
There was an interval of dreary, blank darkness, and then there
were other visions, too wild and strange to describe, and soon
the darkness of annihilation settled upon his soul. How long a
time elapsed while in this state of insensibility, he could not
say; but he was at length half-aroused by voices near him, and
he was conscious that some hand was feeling for his pulse, and
that men were carrying him out of the dungeon. He afterwards
learned that it was the jailer and the physician.