A BOY IN PRISON.
The most mournful thing that I have ever witnessed was a child in
prison. Once I saw a hardened little sinner of twelve years, laughing at
his mother through the gratings of a cell-door. This child was evidently
proud of the adroit theft that had brought him to that disgraceful pass,
and put on airs that an old criminal would have been ashamed of, while
the poor mother looked on speechless with wonder and distress.
In the same prison, and in a cell like that, a boy younger than twelve,
knelt the week after Mrs. Carter’s party—knelt and prayed by the meagre
prison-bed, which shook under the fearful power of his weeping. Once he
lifted up his face, and looked wildly around his dungeon. Then his face
fell, and a shudder passed over him. A grave, walled in with stone,
could not have been so terrible. Eternal disgrace seemed to have closed
him in forever. Alas! alas! what had he done to deserve such hard
treatment! What would become of his mother, whom he had fondly believed
himself protecting? The two sisters, so lovely and good, who had really
looked up to him, and loved him dearly—would they ever speak his name
again without blushes!
How fearfully lonesome it was. The strange, close atmosphere oppressed
him like the breath of a pestilence. The cold whiteness of the walls
chilled him. Over and over he repeated the Lord’s Prayer—the most holy
words that ever came from a child’s lips; but they seemed insufficient
to his anguish, and he cried out, “Oh, Father! Oh, my God! keep this
from them! Let me drop down dead here, and I will not say a word; only
do not let them know. It would kill them! It would kill them!”
Then the poor boy would rest a little time in deadly quiet, as if he
expected God to answer him then and there; but instead of the still,
small voice that he listened for, came the clang of the cell-door, and a
fierce cry of distress from some prisoner just brought in. This
semi-lunatic from drink, pleaded for brandy just as earnestly as he
prayed for help, but in language which made him shudder, as if the
torment of some great crime were already upon him.
The night closed in upon him, filling the prison with heavy gloom,
inexpressibly mournful. The grating of that iron-door was closed: slowly
the gray shadows of sunset fell through the long, narrow slit of stone,
so cut in the wall that God’s beautiful sunshine could never creep
through, and an awful darkness fell upon him. The clang of each door, as
it swung into place along those long iron galleries, had gone through
and through him like a dull sword. The heavy step of the keeper, walking
from cell to cell, seemed to fall on his heart.
The boy did not sleep that night, but shrunk away from his bed
shuddering. Its heavy, gray blankets seemed laden with disease and
sorrow left by some one who had gone before. The dull atmosphere of the
prison settled down upon him with sickening density. Into the farthest
corner of his whitewashed cell he shrunk, and cowering there, like some
poor wounded fawn in its covert, listened to all the noises of the night
with ears rendered keen by terror. The smothered moans of the prisoners,
the scuttle of rats about the water-pipes, the tramp of the keeper on
the stone pavement, far below, all had a weird effect upon him, which
amounted almost to madness.
Is it strange that the boy did not sleep, and that he crouched low in
that dark corner all night long? The dull gray of the morning found him
there pale, still, and wildly expectant, as if the next thing that could
reach him must be death itself. Then came the clang of opening doors,
the harsh sound of feet moving to and fro on the stone pavement, a
confusion of voices in command, complaint, piteous expostulation, and
coarse oaths; for bad men might be chained by the ankle, but nothing
could manacle the vile speech to which they had become so used that it
was second nature to them.
Now this boy had been bred among women, gentle, good women who feared,
or rather loved God, and were kind to each other. Even his mother,
though silent, and sometimes a little unsympathetic, was rigid in her
ideas of religion, and sanctioned nothing coarse or wicked, either in
speech or thought. So the boy had learned all that a delicate girl
should have known; and this, added to his natural manliness, had made
him far more refined and gentle than lads of his age usually are. He was
not the less spirited and ambitious because of the refinement which
sprang out of his home life. Real energy is, in fact, all the more
effective when a clear conscience and cultivated mind directs it, both
in child and man.
But what could energy avail the lad in that dreary place? He had nothing
to struggle against; a vague idea that he was suspected of crime, and
brought there to suffer some terrible punishment, preyed upon him, but
what the charge was, or how to help himself, was beyond his power of
conjecture.
Some bread, and a teacupful of dark liquid the keeper spoke of as
coffee, was brought to the cell where he sat trembling and fearfully
expectant. The poor boy turned his face away from this food with sick
loathing. It seemed as if he could never eat or drink again.
The keeper, who was at heart a kind man, took compassion on the gentle
helplessness of this poor child, and strove to comfort him with hopes of
a speedy relief; but James only shook his head, and great tears rose and
trembled in his eyes. He could have stood abuse bravely, but kindness
melted his young heart, and tears dropped like rain from his downcast
eyes while that sympathetic voice filled the dungeon. As he sat thus the
shadow of another official fell across the threshold of his cell, and a
loud and indifferent voice called out,
“James Laurence!”
The boy started up and followed this man into the prison yard. He had
scarcely stepped upon the stone-flags, when two officers passed him,
leading a woman toward the female prison. The boy saw her face, and
flinging out his arms cried out,
“Mother! mother! oh, mother!”