THE DUNGEON.
HE 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.