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[Illustration: pp. 29]

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                  THE RUNAWAY;

                    OR, THE

         ADVENTURES OF RODNEY ROVERTON.

   "He cast his bundle on his back, and went,
    He knew not whither, nor for what intent;
    So stole our vagrant from his warm retreat,
    To rove a prowler, and be deemed a cheat."

                                       CRABBE.


    APPROVED BY THE COMMITTEE OF PUBLICATION.


                   BOSTON:
       NEW ENGLAND SABBATH SCHOOL UNION.
           W. HEATH, 79 CORNHILL.


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  Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1852, by

                     WILLIAM HEATH,

  In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the
              District of Massachusetts.

                     Stereotyped by
                    HOBART & ROBBINS,
                        Boston.


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INTRODUCTION.


A truthful narrative, not a tale of fiction, is presented in
the following chapters to our readers. All that the imagination
has contributed to it has been the names of the actors,--true
names having been withheld, lest, perhaps, friends might be
grieved,--the filling up of the dialogues, in which, while
thoughts and sentiments have been remembered, the verbiage that
clothed them has been forgotten, and, in a few instances, the
grouping together of incidents that actually occurred at wider
intervals than here represented, for the sake of the unity of
the story.




CONTENTS.


                                          PAGE

         CHAPTER I.
         RODNEY UNHAPPY IN A GOOD HOME       7

         CHAPTER II.
         REVOLVING AND RESOLVING            18

         CHAPTER III.
         RODNEY IN NEW YORK                 26

         CHAPTER IV.
         RODNEY FINDS A PATRON              33

         CHAPTER V.
         RODNEY IN PHILADELPHIA             44

         CHAPTER VI.
         THE PUNISHMENT BEGINS              53

         CHAPTER VII.
         THE WATCH-HOUSE                    60

         CHAPTER VIII.
         RODNEY IN JAIL                     73

         CHAPTER IX.
         THE DUNGEON                        88

         CHAPTER X.
         THE HOSPITAL                       99

         CHAPTER XI.
         THE TRIAL                         118

         CHAPTER XII.
         CONCLUSION                        128




THE RUNAWAY.




CHAPTER I.

RODNEY UNHAPPY IN A GOOD HOME.


It was a lovely Sabbath morning in May, 1828, when two lads, the
elder of whom was about sixteen years old, and the younger about
fourteen, were wandering along the banks of a beautiful brook,
called the Buttermilk Creek, in the immediate vicinity of the city
of Albany, N. Y. Though there is no poetry in the name of this
little stream, there is sweet music made by its rippling waters, as
they rush rapidly along the shallow channel, fretting at the rocks
that obstruct its course, and racing toward a precipice, down which
it plunges, some thirty or forty feet, forming a light, feathery
cascade; and then, as if exhausted by the leap, creeping sluggishly
its little distance toward the broad Hudson. The white spray,
churned out by the friction against the air, and flung perpetually
upwards, suggested to our sires a name for this miniature Niagara;
and, without any regard for romance or euphony, they called it
Buttermilk Falls. It was a charming spot, notwithstanding its
homely name, before the speculative spirit of progress--stern foe
of Nature's beauties--had pushed the borders of the city close upon
the tiny cataract, hewed down the pines upon its banks, and opened
quarries among its rocks.

It was before this change had passed over the original
wilderness, that the lads whom we have mentioned were strolling,
in holy time, upon the banks of the little stream, above the
falls.

"Rodney," said the elder of the boys, "suppose your mother finds
out that you have run away from Sunday-school, this morning;
what will she say to you?"

"Why, she will be very likely to punish me," said Rodney; "but
you know I am used to it; and, though decidedly unpleasant, it
does not grate on my nerves as it did a year or two ago. Van
Dyke, my teacher, says I am hardened. But I would rather have a
stroll here, and a flogging after it, than be shut up in school
and church all day to escape it. I wish, Will, that mother was
like your grandfather, and would let me do as I please on
Sunday."

"Now that I am an apprentice," replied Will Manton, "and shut up
in the shop all the week, it would be rather hard to prevent my
having a little sport on Sunday. I think it is necessary to
swallow a little fresh air on Sunday, to blow the sawdust out of
my throat; and to have a game of ball occasionally, to keep my
joints limber, for they get stiff leaning over the work-bench,
shoving the jack-plane, and chiseling out mortices all the
week."

"Well, Will, I, too, get very sick of work," replied the
younger boy. "I do not think I ever shall like it. When I am
roused up early in the morning, and go into the shop, and look
at the tools, and think that, all day long, I must stand and
pull leather strands, while other boys can go free, and take
their sport, and swim, or fish, or hunt, or play, just as they
please, it makes me feel like running away. Now, here am I, a
little more than fourteen years old; and must I spend seven
years in a dirty shop, with the prospect of hard work all my
life? It makes my heart sick to think of it."

The boys threw themselves upon the ground, under the shade of a
large pine, and, reclining against its trunk, remained some
minutes without uttering a word. At length, William Manton,
whose thoughts had evidently been running in the channel opened
by the last remarks of Rodney, said,

"I have often thought of it."

"Thought of what, Will?"

"Of running away."

"Where could you go? What could you do? How could you live?"
were the quick, eager inquiries of Rodney.

"Three questions at once is worse than the catechism," was the
laughing response; "but, though I never learned the answers out
of a book, yet I have them by heart. I will tell you what I have
thought about the matter. You know Captain Ryan?--he was in our
shop last week, and was telling how he came to be a sailor. He
said that his uncle, with whom he lived when he was a boy,
promised him a beating, one day, for some mischief he had done;
and, as he had often felt before that his lashes were not light,
he ran off, went on board a ship as a cabin-boy, learned to
handle sails and ropes, and, after five or six voyages, was made
mate of a ship; and now he is a captain. I have been thinking
about it ever since. Now, if I could get a place in a ship, I
would go in a minute. I am sure travelling over the world must
be pleasanter than spending a life in one place; and pulling a
rope is easier work than pushing a plane."

Rodney sprang up from his reclining posture, looked straight in
his companion's face for a moment, and exclaimed, "That would be
glorious! How I should like to go to London, to Canton, to
Holland, where the old folks came from,--to travel all over the
world! But,"--and he leaned back against the tree again as he
spoke,--"but it is of no use to think about it; mother would not
consent, and nobody would help me; no ship would take me. I
suppose I must pull away at the leather all my life." He spoke
bitterly, and leaned his face upon his hands; and, between his
fingers, the tears were seen slowly trickling. In truth, he had
no taste or inclination for the trade to which he was forced. If
the bias of his own mind had been consulted, he might have been
contented in some employment adapted to his nature.

"Bah, Rodney, don't be a baby!" was the jeering expostulation
of Will Manton, when he saw the tears; "crying never got a
fellow out of a scrape. I believe it is easy enough done. If we
could only get off to New York, they say that boys are so much
wanted on ships, that the captains take them without asking many
questions."

"Do you think so?"

"Don't you think it is worth a trial?"

"But I should have to leave my mother, and grandmother, and
sister, and all."

"Of course; you would not want to take them with you, would
you?"

"But I could not tell them I was going. I should have to steal
away without their knowledge."

"You could write to them when you started."

"I might never see them again."

"You are as likely to live and come back as Captain Ryan was."

"But they would feel so much hurt, if I should run away."

Will Manton curled his lip into a sneer, and said, scornfully,
"Why, Rodney, I didn't think you was so much of a baby. You are
a more faint-hearted chicken than I thought you."

"Well, Will, the thought of it frightens me. I have a good
mother and a good grandmother; and, though they make me learn a
trade I hate, yet I do not think I should dare to run away."

"Well, you poor mouse-heart, stay at home, then, and tie
yourself to your mamma's apron-strings!" was the reply. "Do as
you please; but, I tell you,--and I trust the secret to you, and
hope you won't _blow_ it,--I have made up my mind to go to sea."

"Will you run away?"

"Indeed I will."

"When?"

"Why should I tell you, if you will not go with me?"

"Well, I want to be off with you, but how can I?"

"Easy enough. But I will see you to-morrow night, and we will
talk it over. It is time to go home."

"I must see Dick Vanderpool, and find out where the text was,
so that I can tell the old folks."




CHAPTER II.

REVOLVING AND RESOLVING.


Conversations similar to those recorded in the last chapter,
were frequently held between the two lads, during the next
month. Will Manton's determination was fixed, and he was making
secret preparations to start upon his wild journey. Rodney,
though equally desirous to escape the restraints of home, could
not yet make up his mind to risk the adventure. He regarded his
comrade as a sort of young hero; and he wished he had the
courage to be like him.

One Monday morning, in June, as he was returning from his work,
he saw Will Manton's old grandfather standing before the door,
looking up and down the street; and he noticed that he seemed
very uneasy, and much distressed. When he came opposite the
house, on the other side of the street, the old gentleman called
him over, and asked him, "Rodney, do you know where Will is?"

The boy's heart beat wildly, and his cheek turned pale; for he
at once surmised that his comrade had carried out his purpose.
He stammered out, in reply,

"I have not seen him since last Friday night."

"It is very strange," said the old man. "He has not been at
home since last Sunday, at dinner-time. What has become of him?"

Will Manton was gone!

To the anxious inquiries that were made, his friends discovered
that he had left Albany in the evening boat, on Tuesday, for New
York. Though a messenger was immediately sent after him, no
trace of him could be discovered. A few months after, they
received a letter from him, written from Liverpool, where he had
gone in a merchant-ship, as a cabin-boy. His friends were very
much grieved and distressed, but hoped that he would soon grow
weary of a hard and roving life, and return to his home.

There was a romantic interest in all this for young Rodney. In his
imagination, Will Manton was a hero. He was scarcely ever out of
his thoughts. He would follow him in fancy, bounding over the broad
sea, with all the sails of the majestic ship swelling in the
favoring breeze, now touching at some island, and looking at the
strange dresses and customs of a barbarous people; now meeting a
homeward-bound vessel, and exchanging joyful greetings; and now
lying to in a calm, and spearing dolphins and harpooning whales.
When the storm raged, he almost trembled lest he might be wrecked;
but, when it was over, he fancied the noble ship, having weathered
the storm, stemming safely the high waves, and careering gracefully
on her course. Or, if he was wrecked, he imagined that he must be
cast upon some shore where the hospitable inhabitants hurried down
to the beach to the relief of the crew, bore them safely through
the breakers, and pressed upon them the comforts of their homes.
His wild imagination followed him to other lands, and roved with
him along the streets of European cities, among the ruins of
Grecian temples, over the gardens of Spain and the vineyards of
Italy, through the pagodas of India, and the narrow streets of
Calcutta and Canton.

"O," thought he, "how delightful must be such a life! How
pleasant to be roaming amid scenes that are always new! And how
wretched to be tied to such a life as I lead, following the same
weary round of miserable drudgery every day!"

But it was Rodney's own fancy that painted this enjoyment of a
sailor-boy's life. Will Manton did not find it so pleasant in
reality. There was more menial drudgery to the poor cabin-boy on
ship-board, than he had ever known in the carpenter's shop. He
was sworn at, and thumped, and kicked, and driven from one thing
to another, by the captain, and mates, and steward, and crew,
all day long. And many a night, when, weary and sore, he crept
to his hard, narrow bunk, he lay and cried himself to sleep,
thinking of his kind and pleasant home.

When Fancy pictures before the restless mind distant and
unknown scenes, she divests them of all the rough realities
which a nearer view and a tried experience find in them. The
mountain-side looks smooth and pleasant from a distance, but we
find it rugged and wearisome when we attempt to climb it.

One idea had now gained almost sole possession of poor Rodney's
mind. He must go to sea! He thought of it all day, and dreamed
of it at night. He did not dare to speak about it to his mother,
for he knew that she would refuse her consent. He must _run
away_! He formed a hundred different plans, and was forced to
abandon them. Now Will Manton was gone, there was no one with
whom he could consult. He was afraid to speak of it, lest it
should reach the ears of his mother. Alone he nursed his
resolution, and formed his plans.

He was very unhappy, because he knew that he was purposing
wrong. He could not be contented with his employment, and he
knew how it would grieve the hearts of those who loved him, if
he should persist in his design. Yet, when he pictured to
himself the freedom from restraint, the pleasure of roaming from
place to place over the world, and the thousand exciting scenes
and adventures which he should meet by becoming a sailor, he
determined, at all hazards, to make the attempt.

Unhappy boy! He was sowing, for his own reaping, the seeds of a
bitter harvest of wretchedness and remorse.




CHAPTER III.

RODNEY IN NEW YORK.


On a beautiful Sabbath morning in July, Rodney stood in the hall of
the old Dutch house in which successive generations of the family
had been born, and paused to look the last farewell, he dare not
speak, upon those who loved him, and whom, notwithstanding his
waywardness, he also loved.

There sat his pious and venerable grandmother, with the little
round stand before her, upon which lay the old family Bible,
over which she was intently bending, reading and commenting to
herself, as was her custom, in half-audible tones. He had often
stood behind her, and listened, unobserved, as she read verse
after verse, and paused after each, to testify of its truth, or
piously apply it to herself and others. And now he thought that,
in all probability, he would never see her again, and he half
repented his determination. But his preparations were all made,
and he could not now hesitate, lest his purpose should be
discovered.

He looked at his mother, as she was arranging the dress of a
younger and only brother, for the Sabbath-school. As she leaned
over him, and smoothed down the collar she had just fastened
round his neck, Rodney, with heart and eye, bade farewell to
both.

He stood and gazed for a moment upon his only sister, who sat
with her baby in her arms, answering the little laughing
prattler in a language that sounded like its own, and which
certainly none but the two could understand. Some might doubt
whether they understood it themselves; but they both seemed
highly interested and delighted by the conversation.

That dear sister, amiable and loving, is long since dead. She
greeted death with a cheerful welcome, for the messenger
released her from a life of domestic unhappiness, and introduced
her into that blessed heaven "where the wicked cease from
troubling, and the weary are at rest."

And that prattling infant has become, in his turn, a runaway
sailor-boy, flying from an unhappy home to a more wretched
destiny, of whose wanderings or existence nothing has been heard
for many years.

It was one hasty, intense glance which Rodney cast over these
groups, and each beloved figure, as it then appeared, was fixed
in his memory forever. He has never forgotten--_he never can
forget_--that moment, or the emotions that thrilled his heart as
he turned away from them.

He had hidden a little trunk, containing his clothing, in the
stable, and thither he hastened; and, throwing his trunk upon
his shoulder, he stole out of the back gate, and took his course
through bye streets to the dock, where he went on board a
steamboat, and in half an hour was sailing down the Hudson
towards New York.

He had no money with which to pay his passage. He had left home
without a single sixpence. When the captain came to collect the
passengers' fare, he told him a wicked, premeditated lie. He said
that, in taking his handkerchief from his pocket, he had
accidentally drawn out his pocket-book with it, and that it had
fallen overboard. Thus one sin prepares the way to the commission
of another.

He offered to leave his trunk in pledge for the payment of the
passage; and the captain, after finding it full of clothing,
ordered it to be locked up until the money was paid. Rodney
expected to be able to get a situation in some ship immediately,
and to receive a part of his wages in advance, with which he
could redeem his clothing.

He slept on board the steamboat, and on Monday morning started
in search of a ship that would take him. He wandered along the
wharves, and at first was afraid to speak to any one, lest he
should be questioned and sent home. At last he made up his mind
to ask a sailor, whom he saw sauntering on the dock, if he knew
where he could get a place on board a ship.

The sailor looked at him a moment, turned his huge tobacco quid
over in his mouth, hitched up his trowsers, and said:

"Why, you young runaway, do you want to go to sea? What can
such a chap as you do on a ship? Go home, and stick by your
mammy for five years more, and then you'll have no trouble in
shipping."

Rodney was a good deal frightened at such a reply, and walked on
for some time, not venturing to ask again. Toward noon he went
on board a large vessel, and seeing a man, whom he took for the
captain of the ship, asked him if he could give him a place.

"No, my boy," he replied; "we don't sail for three weeks, and we
never ship a crew before the time."

All day he wandered about the wharves, and to all his questions
received repelling replies, mingled oftentimes with oaths,
jeers, and insults. No one seemed to feel the least interest for
him.




CHAPTER IV.

RODNEY FINDS A PATRON.


Late in the afternoon Rodney strolled up the East River wharves.
He was hungry, for he had eaten nothing all day. He was very
sad, and sat down on a cotton bale, and cried. In what a
position had a single day placed him! He had no place where he
could lay his head for the night, no bread to eat, and he knew
nobody whom he dared to ask for a meal; and so, with a sorrowful
heart, he sat down and wept.

He buried his face in his hands, and for a long time sat there
motionless. He did not know that a man was standing before him,
watching him, until he was startled by a voice:

"Why, my boy, what is the matter with you?"

He looked up, and saw a tall man in a sailor's dress standing
near him.

"I want to get a place on a ship, sir, to go to sea," replied
Rodney; "I can't find any place, and I have no money and no
friends here."

The man sat down beside him, and asked him, "Where are your
friends?"

"In Albany, sir."

"What did you leave them for?"

"Because I wanted to go to sea."

They talked some time together, and Rodney told him truly all about
himself and his friends. The man seemed to pity him, and told him
that he was a sailor, and had lately been discharged from a United
States vessel, where he had served as a marine,--that he had spent
almost all his money, and was looking for another ship. He told
Rodney to go with him, and he would try what could be done for him.
They went into a sailors' boarding-house, and got something to eat.

Then the man,--who said his name was Bill Seegor, and that he
must call him Bill, and not Mister, nor sir,--took him with
himself into a ball-room. Here he saw a great many sailors and
bad women, who danced together, and laughed, and shouted, and
cursed, and drank, until long past midnight. Rodney had never
witnessed _such_ a scene. He had never heard such filthy and
blasphemous language, nor seen such indecent behavior.

"Come, my lad," said a bluff sailor to him; "if you mean to be a
man, you must learn to toss off your glass. Your white face
don't look as if you ever tasted anything stronger than tea.
Here is a glass of grog,--down with it!"

And Rodney, who wanted to be a man, drank it with a swaggering
air, though it scorched his throat; and then another, until he
became very sick;--and the last he remembered was, that the
sailors and the women all seemed to be swearing and fighting
together.

The next morning he was awaked by Bill Seegor, and found
himself in a garret, on a miserable bed, with all his clothes
on. How he had ever got there he could not tell. His head ached,
and his limbs were stiff and pained him when he moved. His
throat was parched and burning, and he felt so wretchedly, that,
if he had dared, he would have begged permission to stay there
on the bed. But Bill told him that it was time to start and look
up a ship, for he had only money enough to last another day.
After breakfast they started, and inquired at every place which
Bill knew, but without success; no men or boys were wanted.

In the afternoon, Rodney was terribly frightened at seeing his
brother-in-law walking along the wharves. He knew in a moment
that he had come to New York to search for him; and he darted
round a corner into an alley, and hid himself behind some
barrels, till he had passed by. He afterwards learned that his
brother-in-law had been looking for him all day, and that he had
found and taken his trunk, and had been several times at places
which he had just left. O! if he had then abandoned his foolish
and wicked course, and gone home with his brother, how much
misery he would have escaped! But he contrived to keep out of
his way.

That evening Bill said to him, as they were eating their supper
in a cellar--

"Rodney, to-morrow morning we must start for Philadelphia."

"But how shall we get there?"

"We shall have to tramp it."

"How far is it?"

"About a hundred miles."

"How long will it take?"

"Four or five days."

"But how shall we get anything to eat, or any place to sleep on
the road?"

"Tell a good story to the farmers, and sleep on the hay-mows."

Rodney began to find out that "_the way of the transgressor is
hard_."

That night they went to the theatre. Bill had given Rodney a
dirk, which he carried in his bosom. They went up into the third
tier of boxes, which was filled with the most wicked and debased
men and women. While the rest were laughing, and talking, and
cursing, Rodney sat down on the front seat to see the play; but
they made so much confusion behind him that he could not hear,
so he turned round, and said, rather angrily: "I wish you
wouldn't make so much noise."

"Who are you talking to?" shouted a rough, bully-looking man
behind him, with a terrible oath; "I'll pitch you into the pit,
if you open your head again."

He rushed towards him, but, quick as thought, Rodney snatched
the dirk from his breast, drew his arm back over his head, and
told the bully to keep off. The man stopped, and in an instant
the whole theatre was in confusion. The play on the stage
ceased; and there, in full view, leaning over the front of the
box, stood the boy, with the weapon in his hand, gleaming in the
eyes of the whole audience.

Bill Seegor rushed to him, pulled him back toward the lobby, and
took the dagger from his hand. The bully then aimed a tremendous
blow at the boy's face, which fortunately was warded off by one
of the women. Just then a police-officer came up, and, taking
Rodney by the collar, led him down stairs. Half a dozen men, who
were Bill's friends, followed; and when they got into the
street, they dashed against the officer, and broke his hold,
when Bill caught Rodney by the arm and told him to run. They
turned quickly through several streets, and escaped pursuit.

Do you think that Rodney was happy amid such scenes? Ah! no; he
was alarmed at himself. He felt degraded and guilty; he felt
that he was taking sudden and rapid strides in the path of
debasement and vice. He thought of his home and its sweet
influences. He knew how deep would be the grief of those who
loved him, should they hear of his course. His conscience
condemned him, and he thought of what he was becoming with
horror. But he seemed to be drawn on by his wild desires, and
felt scarcely a disposition to escape the meshes of the net that
was winding around him.

The sailors praised him, and patted him on the back; told him
that he was a brave fellow,--that he was beginning right, and
that there was good stuff in him. And Rodney laughed, tickled by
such praises, and drank what they offered, and tried to stifle
his conscience and harden himself in sin. Yet often, when he was
alone, did he shrink from himself, and writhe under the lashings
of conscience; and the remembrance of home, and thoughts of his
conduct, rendered him very wretched.




CHAPTER V.

RODNEY IN PHILADELPHIA.


Young Rodney was prepared for an early start on the following
morning; and, in company with Bill Seegor, he crossed the ferry
to Jersey City just as the sun rose, and together they commenced
their journey to Philadelphia. They were soon beyond the
pavements of the town, and in the open country. It was a lovely
morning, and the bright summer developed its beauties, and
dispensed its fragrance along their path. The birds sang
sweetly, and darted on swift wing around them. The cattle roamed
lazily over the fields, and the busy farmers were everywhere
industriously toiling. All nature seemed joyously reflecting the
serene smile of a benevolent God.

Even the wicked hearts of the wanderers seemed lightened by the
influence of the glorious morning, and cheerily, with many a
jocund song and homely jest, they pressed on their way. Even
guilt can sometimes forget its baseness, and enjoy the bounties
of the kind Creator, for which it expresses no thankfulness and
feels no gratitude.

At noon they stopped at a farmer's house, and Bill told the
honest old man that they belonged to a ship which had sailed
round to Philadelphia; that it had left New York unexpectedly,
without their knowledge, and taken their chests and clothes
which had been placed on board; and that, being without money,
they were compelled to walk across to Philadelphia to meet it.

The farmer believed the falsehood, and charitably gave them a
good dinner. They walked on till after sunset, and then crossed
over a field, and climbed up into a rack filled with hay, where
they slept all night.

In the morning they started forward very hungry, for they had
eaten nothing, since the noon before, except a few green apples.
They stopped at the first farm-house on the road, and, by
telling the same falsehood that had procured them a meal the day
before, excited the pity of the farmer and obtained a good
breakfast.

Thus did they go on, lying and begging their way along.

On the third day there were heavy showers, accompanied by fierce
lightnings and crashing thunders. They were as thoroughly soaked
as if they had been thrown into the river, and at night had to
sleep on a haystack, in the open field, in their wet clothes.
Rodney's feet, too, had become very sore, and he walked in great
and constant pain.

In the afternoon of the fourth day they stopped on the banks of
the Delaware, five or six miles from Philadelphia, to wash their
clothes, which had become filthy in travelling through the dust
and mud. As they had no clothing but what they wore, there was
nothing else to be done but to strip, wash out their soiled
garments, and lay them out on the bank to dry, while they swam
about the river, or waited on the shore, with what patience they
could summon.

A little after sunset they reached the suburbs of the great
city; and now the sore feet and wearied limbs of the boy could
scarcely sustain him over the hard pavements. Yet Bill urged him
onward with many an impatient oath, on past the ship-yards of
Kensington,--on, past the factories, and markets, and farmers'
taverns, and shops of the Northern Liberties,--on, through the
crowded thoroughfares, and by the brilliant stores of the
city,--on, into the most degraded section of Southwark, in
Plumb-street, where Bill said a friend of his lived. This friend
was an abandoned woman, who lived in a miserable frame cabin,
crowded with wicked and degraded wretches, who seemed the
well-known and fitting companions of Rodney's patron. The woman
for whom he inquired was at a dance in the neighborhood, and
there Bill took the boy in search of her.

They went up a dark alley, and were admitted into a large room
filled with men and women, black and white, the dregs and
outcasts of society.

A few dripping candles, placed in tin sconces along the bare walls,
threw a dim and sickly glare over the motley throng. A couple of
negro men, sitting on barrels at the head of the room, were drawing
discordant notes from a pair of cracked, patched, and greasy
fiddles. And there were men, whose red and bloated faces gave
faithful witness of their habitual intemperance; and men, whose
threadbare and ragged garments betokened sloth and poverty; and
men, whose vulgar and ostentatious display of showy clothing, and
gaudy chains, and rings and breast-pins, which they did not know
how to wear, indicated dishonest pursuits; and men, whose blue
jackets and bluff, brown faces showed them to be sailors; and men,
whose scowling brows and fiendlike countenances marked them as
villains of the blackest and lowest type. And there were women,
too, some old--at least, they looked so--and haggard; some young,
but with wretched-looking faces, and dressed in tawdry garments,
yet generally faded, some torn and some patched, and all seeming to
be brought from the pawnbroker's dusty shop for the occasion.

In a little filthy side-room was a bar covered with bottles and
glasses, behind which stood a large, red-faced man, with a big
nose, and little ferret, fiery eyes, now grinning like a satyr,
now scowling like a demon, dealing out burning liquors to his
miserable customers.

A man fell beastly drunk from a bench upon the floor. "Take him up
stairs," said the man at the bar. Rodney followed the two men who
carried him up, and looked into the sleeping apartment. The floor
was covered with dirty straw, where lodgers were accommodated for
three cents a night. Here the poor wretches were huddled together
every night, to get what sleep they could in the only home they had
on earth.

Thus does vice humble, and degrade, and scourge those who are
taken in its toils. From the threshold of the house of guilty
pleasure there may issue the song and laugh of boisterous mirth;
but those who enter within shall find disgrace and infamy, woe
and death.




CHAPTER VI.

THE PUNISHMENT BEGINS.


Bill Seegor found the woman he sought, and soon they returned
to her house. Here the bottle was brought out and passed round;
and, after much blasphemous and ribaldrous conversation, a straw
bed was made up on the floor, and Rodney laid down. Before he
went to sleep, he heard Bill tell the woman that he was entirely
out of money, and beg her to lend him five dollars for a few
days. After some hesitation she consented, and drew out from
under the bed an old trunk, which she unlocked, and from which
she took five dollars in silver and gave it to him. Bill,
looking over her shoulder, saw that she took it from a little
pile of silver that lay in the corner of the trunk.

For a long time Rodney could not sleep. The scenes of the last
eventful week were vividly recalled to his mind, and, in spite
of his fatigue, kept him awake. He tried to make himself believe
that it was a glorious life he had begun to lead,--that now he
was free from restraint, and entering upon the flowery paths of
independence and enjoyment. Though he had met with some
difficulties at the start, he thought that they were now nearly
passed, and that soon he should be upon the blue water, and in
foreign countries, a happy sailor boy.

But conscience would interpose its reproaches and warnings, and
remind him of the horrible company into which he had been
cast,--of the scenes of sin which he had witnessed, and in which
he had participated; and he could not but shudder when he
thought of the probable termination of such a life.

But he felt that, having forsaken his home,--and he was not
even yet sorry that he had done so,--he was now in the current,
and that there was no way of reaching the shore, even had he
been disposed to try; and that he must continue to float along
the stream, leaving his destination to be determined by
circumstances.

It is very easy to find the paths of sin. It is easy, and, for a
season, may seem pleasant, to travel in them. The entrance is
inviting, the way is broad, companions are numerous and gay. But
when the disappointed and alarmed traveller, terrified at the
thought of its termination, seeks to escape, and hunts for the
narrow path of virtue, he finds obstacles and entanglements
which he cannot climb over nor break. It requires an Omnipotent
arm to help him then.

Rodney fell asleep.

How long he had slept he knew not; but he was awakened by a
violent shaking and by terrible oaths. The side-door leading
into the yard was open, and three or four wretched-looking women
were scolding and swearing angrily about him. He was confused,
bewildered, but soon perceived that something unusual had
happened; and he became very much frightened as he at last
learned the truth from the excited women.

Bill Seegor was gone. He had got up quietly when all were
asleep, and, drawing the woman's trunk from under her bed, had
carried it out into the yard, pried open the lock, stolen the
money, and escaped.

The woman was in a terrible passion, and her raving curses were
fearful to hear. Rodney pitied her, though she cursed him. He was
indignant at his companion's rascality, and offered to go with her
and try to find him. It was two o'clock in the morning. He looked
round for his hat, collar, and handkerchief; but they were gone.
The thief had taken them with him. Taking Bill's old hat, he went
out with the woman, and looked into the oyster-cellars and
grog-shops, some of which they found still open; but they could
find no trace of Bill Seegor.

The woman met a watchman, and made inquiries, and told him of
the robbery.

"And this boy came with the man last night, did he?" inquired
the watchman.

"He did," said the woman.

"Do you know the boy?"

"I never saw him before."

"Well, I guess he knows where he is, or where he can be found
to-morrow."

Rodney protested that he knew nothing about him, that his own
hat, collar, and handkerchief had been stolen, and that he had
had nothing to do with the robbery. He even told him where he
had met with Bill, and how he came to be in his company.

"All very fine, my lad," said the watchman; "but you must go
with me. This must be examined into to-morrow."

And he took Rodney by the arm, and led him to the watch-house.




CHAPTER VII.

THE WATCH-HOUSE.


For poor Rodney there was no more sleep that night, even had
they placed him on a bed of roses. But they locked him up in a
little square room, with an iron-barred window, into which a dim
light struggled from a lamp hung outside in the entry, showing a
wooden bench, fastened against the wall. There were four men in
the room.

One, whose clothes looked fine and fashionable, but all covered
with dirt, lay on the floor. A hat, that seemed new, but crushed
out of all shape, was under his head for a pillow. His face was
bruised and bloody. He was entirely stupefied, and Rodney saw at
a glance that he was intoxicated.

On the bench, stretched out at full length, was a short, stout
negro, fast asleep. On another part of the bench lay a white
man, who seemed about fifty years old, with a sneering,
malicious face, and wrapped up in a shaggy black coat. The
remaining occupant of the cell sat in one corner, with his head
down on his knees, and his hat slouched over his face.

Rodney stood for a few moments in the middle of the cell, and,
in sickening dismay, looked round him. Here he was with felons
and rioters, locked up in a dungeon! True, he had committed no
crime against the law; but yet he felt that he deserved it all;
and the hot tears rolled from his eyes as he thought of his
mother and his home.

Hearing his sobs, the man in the corner raised his head, looked
at him for a moment, and said:

"Why, you blubbering boy, what have you been about? Are you the
pal of these cracksmen, or have you been on a lay on your own
hook?"

Rodney did not know what he meant, and he said so.

"I mean," said the man, in the same low, thieves' jargon, "have
you been helping these fellows crack a crib?"

"Doing what?" said Rodney.

"Breaking into a house, you dumb-head."

[Illustration]

The boy shuddered at the thought of being taken for an accomplice
of house-breakers; and told him he knew nothing about them. He had
read that boys are sometimes employed by house-breakers to climb in
through windows or broken pannels, to open the door on the inside;
and now he was thought to be such a one himself.

It was a dismal night for him.

Early in the morning the prisoners were all taken before a
magistrate.

The drunkard, who claimed to be a gentleman, and who had been
taken to the watch-house for assaulting the barkeeper of a
tavern, was fined five dollars, and dismissed.

The negro and the old white man had been caught in the attempt
to break into a house, and were sent to prison, to await their
trial for burglary; and the other white man was also sent to
prison, until he could be tried, for stealing a pocket-book in
an auction store.

Rodney was then called forward. The watchman told how and why he
had taken him; and the boy was asked to give an account of
himself. He told his story truthfully and tearfully, while the
magistrate looked coldly at him.

"A very good story," said the magistrate; "it seems to be well
studied. I suspect you are an artful fellow, notwithstanding
your innocent face. I shall bind you over for trial, my lad. I
think such boys as you should be stopped in time; and a few
years in some penitentiary would do you good."

What could Rodney say? What could he do? He was among strangers.
He could send for no one to testify of his good character, or to
become bail for him. And, if his friends had been near, he felt
that he had rather die than that they should know of his
disgrace.

The magistrate gave an officer a paper--a commitment--and told
him to take the boy to the Arch-street jail. The constable took
him by the arm, and led him out.

As they walked along the street, Rodney looked around him to
see if there was no way of escape. If he could only get a chance
to run! As they came to the corner of a little alley, he asked
the constable to let him tie his shoe, the string of which was
loose. The man nodded, and Rodney placed his foot upon a
door-step, sheering round beyond the reach of the officer's
hand, and towards the alley. Rodney, as he rose, made one
spring, and in a moment was gone down the alley. The officer
rushed after him, and shouted, "Stop thief! stop thief!"

"O, that I should ever be chased for a thief!" groaned Rodney,
clenching his teeth together, and running at his best speed.

That terrible cry, "_Stop thief!_" rung after him, and soon
seemed to be echoed by a hundred voices, as the boy dashed along
Ninth street and down Market street; and, from behind him, and
from doors and windows, and from the opposite side of the
street, and at length from before him, the very welkin rung with
the cries of "Stop thief! stop thief!" A hundred eyes were
strained to catch a glimpse of the culprit; but Rodney dashed
on, the crowd never thinking that _he_ was the hunted fox, but
only one of the hounds in pursuit, eager to be "in at the
death." At the corner of Fifth and Market-streets, a porter was
standing by his wheelbarrow. He saw the chase coming down, and
truly scented the victim; and, as Rodney neared the corner, he
suddenly pushed out his barrow across the pavement. Rodney could
not avoid it; he stumbled, fell across it, and was captured.

"You young scoundrel! is this one of your tricks?" said the
constable, as he came up; "I'll teach you one of mine;" and he
struck him a blow on the side of the head, that knocked the poor
boy senseless on the pavement.

Those who stood by cried, "Shame! shame!" and the officer glared
furiously around him; but, seeing that the numbers were against
him, he raised the boy from the ground. Rodney soon recovered;
and the constable, grasping him firmly by the wrist of his coat,
and, drawing his arm tightly under his own, led him, followed by
a crowd of hooting boys, up Fifth, and through Arch-street,
toward the old jail.

What a walk was that to poor Rodney! The officer, stern and
angry, held him with so firm a grip as to convince him of the
uselessness of a second attempt.

Fatigued, and nearly fainting as he was from the race and the
blow, he was compelled almost to run, to keep up with the long
strides of the constable. A crowd of boys pressed around, to get
a glimpse of his face.

"What has he done?" one would ask of another.

"Broke open a trunk, and stole money," would be the reply.

Rodney pulled Bill Seegor's old hat over his face, and hung
his head, in bitter anguish of soul, as he heard himself
denounced as a thief at every step; and as he heard doors dashed
open, and windows thrown up, similar questions and replies smote
his heart. He knew that he was innocent of such a crime; his
soul scorned it; he felt that he was incapable of theft; but he
felt that he had been too guilty, too disobedient and too
ungrateful, to dare to hold up his head, or utter a word in his
own defence. It seemed as though that long and terrible walk
with the constable would never end, and he felt relieved when he
reached the heavy door of the jail, amid two files of staring
boys, who had ran before him, and arranged themselves by the
gate, to watch him as he entered. He was rudely thrust in, the
bolt shot back upon the closed door, and he was delivered over
to the keeping of the jailer, with the assurance of the
policeman, that "he was a sharp miscreant, and needed to be
watched."




CHAPTER VIII.

RODNEY IN JAIL.


Such are the rewards which sin gives to its votaries; full of
soft words and tempting promises in the beginning, they find, in
the end, that "it biteth like a serpent, and stingeth like an
adder." Thoughts like these passed through Rodney's mind, as the
jailer led him to a room in which were confined three other
lads, all older than himself. At that time, the system of
solitary confinement had not been adopted in Pennsylvania, and
prisoners were allowed to associate together; but it was deemed
best to keep the boys from associating with older and more
hardened culprits, whose conversation might still more corrupt
them, and they were therefore confined together, apart from the
mass of the criminals.

At first Rodney suffered the most intense anguish. A sense of
shame and degradation overwhelmed him. He staggered to a corner
of the room, threw himself on the floor, and, for a long time,
sobbed and wept as though his very heart would break. For a
while the boys seemed to respect his grief, and left him in
silence. At last one of them went to him, and said,

"Come, there's no use in this; we are all here together, and we
may as well make the best of it!"

Rodney sat up, and looked at them, as they gathered around him.

They were ragged in dress, and pale from their confinement, and
Rodney involuntarily shrank from the idea of associating with them,
regarding them as criminals in jail. But he soon remembered his own
position,--that he was now one of them,--and he thought he would
take their advice, and "make the best of it."

"Well, what did they squeeze you into this jug for, my covey?"
asked the eldest boy.

Rodney told them his story, and protested that he was innocent
of any crime.

The boy put his thumb to the end of his nose, and twirled his
fingers, saying, "You can't gammon us, my buck; come, out with
it, for we never _peach_ on one another."

Rodney was very angry at this mode of treating his story. But, in
spite of himself, he gradually became familiar with the companions
thus forced upon him, and, in a day or two, began to engage with
them in their various sports, to while away the weary hours.
Sometimes they sat and told stories, to amuse one another; and thus
Rodney heard tales of wickedness and depredation and cunning, that
almost led him to doubt whether there was any honesty among men.
They talked of celebrated thieves and robbers, burglars and
pirates, as if they were the models by which they meant to mould
their own lives; and, instead of detesting their crimes, Rodney
began to admire the skill and success with which they were
perpetrated. The excitement and freedom, and wild, frenzied
enjoyment of such a life, as depicted by the young knaves, began to
fascinate and charm his mind. Something seemed to whisper in his
ear, "As you are now disgraced, without any fault of your own, why
not carry it out, and make the most of it? They have put you into
jail, this time, for nothing; if they ever do it again, let them
have some reason for it." Who knows what might have been the result
of such temptations and influences, had these associations been
long continued, and not counteracted by the interposition of God?

But then the instructions of childhood, the lessons of home and
of the Sabbath-school, were brought back to his memory, and he
said to himself, "What, be a thief! Make myself despised and
hated by all good people! Live a life of wickedness and
dread,--perhaps die in the penitentiary, and then, in all
probability, lose my soul, and be cast into hell! No, never! I
shall never dare to steal, or to break into houses; and as for
killing anybody for money, I shudder even at the thought!"

So did the bad and the good struggle together in the heart of
the poor boy. How many there are who, at the first, feel and
think about crime as he did, but who, in the end, become
familiar with vice, lose their sense of fear and shame and
guilt, become bold and reckless in sin, having their consciences
seared as with a hot iron, and violating all laws, human and
divine, without compunction, and without a thought save that of
impunity and success!

All the elements of a life of crime were in the heart of this
wayward boy; and had it not been for the instructions of his
childhood, which counteracted these evil influences, and the
providence and grace of God, which restrained him, he would have
become a miserable outcast from society, leading a wretched life
of shame and guilt.

"I wish we had a pack of cards here," said one of the boys, one
weary afternoon.

"Can't we make a pack?" inquired another.

And then the lads set their wits to work, and soon manufactured
a substitute for a pack of cards. They had a couple of old
newspapers, which they folded and cut into small, regular
pieces, and marked each piece with the spots that are found on
playing cards, making rude shapes of faces, and writing
"_Jack_," "_King_," "_Knave_," &c., under them. With these, they
used to spend hours shuffling and dealing and playing, until
Rodney understood the pernicious game as well as the rest.

"Joe," said Rodney, one day, to the oldest boy, "what did they
put you in here for?"

"Well," said he, "I'll tell you. Sam and I run with the
Moyamensing Hose Company. Many a jolly time we have had of it,
running to fires, and many a good drink of liquor we have had,
too; for when the people about the fires treated the firemen, we
boys used to come in for our share of the treat. There was a
standing quarrel between us and the 'Franklin' boys, and we used
to have a fight whenever we could get at them. I heard one of
the men say, one day, that if there was only a fire down Twelfth
or Thirteenth-street, and the 'Franklin' should come up in that
direction, we could get them foul, and give them a good
drubbing. Well, there _was_ a fire down Twelfth-street the next
night! I don't mean to say who kindled it; but a watchman saw
Sam and me about the stable, and then running away from it as
fast as we could. The fellow marked us, and as we were going
back to the fire with the machine, he nabbed us, and walked us
off to the watch-house, and the next day we were stuck into this
hole."

"But _did_ you set fire to the stable?"

"What would you give to know? I make no confessions; and if you
ever tell out of doors what I have said here, I'll knock your
teeth down your throat, if I ever catch you."

These two boys had actually been guilty of the dreadful crime
of setting fire to a stable. It was used by two or three poor
men for their horses and carts, which was the only means they
had of making an honest living; and yet these wicked boys had
tried to burn it down, just for the fun of going to a fire, and
getting up a fight! There are other boys, in large cities, who
will commit similar acts; but such young villains are ripe for
almost any crime, and must, in all human probability, come to
some dreadful end.

"Hank," said Rodney to another boy,--his real name was Henry,
but Hank was his prison name,--"tell us now what you have done."

"I'll tell you nothing about it."

"What is your last name, Hank?" inquired Sam, after a few
moments' pause.

"Johnson," said Hank.

"Ah! I know now what you did. I read it in the paper, just
before I came in, and, somehow, I thought you was one of the
larks as soon as I clapped eyes on you.

"You see, Hank and some of his gang, watching about, saw a house
in Arch-street, and noticed that it was empty. The family, I
suppose, had all gone to the country, and it was shut up. So,
one Sunday afternoon, four of them climbed over the back gate
into the yard, pried open a window-shutter, got in, and helped
themselves to whatever they could lay their hands on. After dark
they sneaked out at the back gate with their plunder. One of
them was caught, trying to sell some of the things, and he
peached, and they jugged them all. Isn't that the fact, Hank?"

"Well, it's no use lying; it was pretty much so."

"What became of the other fellows, Hank?"

"Why, their fathers or friends bailed them out, and I have no
father, or anybody who cares for me. But"--and he swore a
fearful oath--"if ever I catch that white-livered Jim Hulsey,
who was the ringleader in the whole scheme, and got me into the
scrape, and then blowed me, to save himself, I'll beat him to a
mummy, I will."

And _these_ were the companions with whom Rodney was compelled
to associate! Sometimes he shrank from them with loathing; and
sometimes he almost envied the hardihood with which they boasted
of their crimes. Had he remained in their company much longer,
who can tell to what an extent he would have been contaminated,
and how rapidly prepared for utter moral degradation and eternal
ruin?

What afterwards became of them, Rodney never knew; but they are
probably either dead,--God having said, "The wicked shall not
live out half their days,"--or else preying upon society by the
commission of more dreadful crimes, or perhaps spending long
years of life in the penitentiary, confined to hard labor and
prison fare.

One day, after he had been about two weeks in jail, Rodney took
the basin in which they had washed, and threw the water out of
the window. The grated bars prevented his seeing whether there
was any one below. He had often done so before. It had not been
forbidden. He did not intend to do any wrong.

But it happened that one of the keepers was walking under the
window, and the water fell upon his head.

He came to the door, in a great rage, and asked who had thrown
that water out. Rodney at once said that he had done it, but
that he did not know that he had done any harm.

The man took him roughly by the arm, and, telling him he must
come with him, led him through a long corridor to another part
of the prison, and thrust him into a small, dark dungeon.




CHAPTER IX.

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.




CHAPTER X.

THE HOSPITAL.


Upon a narrow cot, in the Hospital apartment of the jail, they
laid Rodney, and immediately prepared the medicines suited to
his case. The medicines were at length administered, and, with a
pleasant consciousness of comfort and attention, he fell asleep.

When he awoke, it was evening; he was perfectly conscious, and felt
better; but it was a long time before he could recall his thoughts,
and understand where he was, and how he had come thither. He looked
around him, and saw a line of cots on each side of him. About a
dozen of them were occupied by sick men. A large case of medicines,
placed on a writing-desk, stood at one end of the room. Two or
three men, who acted as nurses, were sitting near it, talking and
laughing together. In another part of the room, by a grated window,
looking out upon the pleasant sunset, were two of the convalescent
prisoners, pale and thin, conversing softly and sadly. There was
not a face he knew,--none that seemed to feel the slightest
interest for him; and the wicked scenes of the past two months, and
the unhappy circumstances of the present hour, flashed through his
mind, and he hid his face in his pillow and wept.

He heard steps softly approach his cot, and knew that some one
was standing beside him. But he could not stifle his sobs, and
he did not dare to look up.

"I am glad to see that you are better, though I am sorry to see
you so much troubled, my poor boy," said a soft, kind voice.

It was long since he had been spoken to in a kind tone, and he
only wept the more bitterly, and convulsively pressed his face
closer to the pillow. Presently he felt an arm passed slowly
under the pillow, which wound around his neck, and gently drew
his head toward the stranger.

"Come, come," said the same soft voice, "don't give way to such
grief; look up, and talk to me. Let me be a friend to you."

Rodney yielded to the encircling arm, and turned his tearful
eyes to the man who spoke to him.

He was a tall, slender man, pale from sickness, decently
dressed, and with an intelligent, benevolent countenance. He was
one of those whom Rodney had observed looking out of the window.

"What is the matter?" said he; "what has brought you into this
horrible place?"

The confidence of the boy was easily won. He had felt an
inexpressible desire to talk to some one, and now he was ready
to lay open his whole heart at the first intimation of sympathy.

"I ran away from home," was the frank and truthful reply.

"But they do not put boys in jail for running away; you must
have done something else."

"I was charged with something else; but indeed, indeed, I am
innocent!"

"That is very possible," said he, with a sigh; "but what did
they charge you with doing?"

And Rodney moved closer to him, and leaned his head upon his
breast, and told him all. There was such an evident sincerity,
such consistency, such tones of truth in the simple narrative,
that he saw he was believed, and the sympathizing words and
looks of the listener inspired him with trust, as though he was
talking to a well-known friend.

For several days, they were constantly together; the stranger
waited upon Rodney, and gave him his medicine, and helped him
from his cot, talked with him, and manifested for him the
kindness of a brother. From several conversations, Rodney
gleaned from him the following history.

Lewis Warren,--so will we call him--(indeed, Rodney never knew
his true name),--was born and had lived most of his life in a
New England village. He was the son of a farmer; a pious man,
and deacon of a church, by whose help he received a liberal
education. Soon after he had graduated at ---- College, he came
on to Philadelphia, with the expectation of getting into some
business. At the hotel where he stopped, he became acquainted
with a man of very gentlemanly appearance and address, who said
that he, too, was a stranger in the city, and proposed to
accompany him to some places of amusement. Warren went with him
to the theatre, and, on succeeding evenings, to various places
of amusement. As they were one evening strolling up Chestnut-street,
this friend, Mr. Sharpe, stopped at the well-lighted vestibule
of a stately building, that had the air of a private house,
although it was thrown open, and proposed that they should go
in, and see what was going on there. Warren consented, and,
after ascending to the second floor, and passing through a hall,
they entered a large, brilliantly-lighted billiard saloon.
Around several tables were gathered gentlemanly-looking men,
knocking about little ivory balls, with long, slender wands or
cues, and seeming, evidently, engrossed in their respective
games. After looking around for a while, Sharpe proposed going
up stairs into the third story. They ascended to the upper
rooms. In the upper passage stood a stout, short negro-man, who
glanced at Sharpe, stepped one side, and permitted them to pass
unquestioned. They entered another smaller room,--for the third
story was divided into several rooms,--and found other games
than those exhibited below. After walking through some of the
rooms, and observing the different games, most of which were new
to Warren, his companion said to him:

"Do you understand anything about cards?"

"Not a great deal; I have occasionally played a game of whist or
sledge."

"Well, that is about the sum of my knowledge. Suppose we while
away a half-an-hour at one of these vacant tables."

Warren consented, and they sat down. After playing a game or
two, Sharpe proposed having a bottle of wine, and, said he,
laughingly, "Whoever loses the next game, shall pay for it."

"Agreed," said Warren; and the wine was brought, and he won the
game.

"Well, that is your good luck; but I'll bet you the price of
another bottle you can't do it again."

Warren won again.

They tried a third, and that Sharpe won; a fourth, and Warren
rose the winner.

The next evening found them, somehow, without much talk about
it, at the same place. They played with varied success; but when
they left, Warren had lost ten dollars.

He wanted to win it back, and himself proposed the visit for the
third night. He became excited by the game, and lost seventy
dollars.

Still his eyes were not open; he did not dream that he was in
the hands of a professed gambler, and, hoping to get back what
he had lost, and what he felt he really could not spare from his
small amount of funds, he went again.

"There!" said he, after they had been about an hour at the
table, "there is my last fifty-dollar bill; change that, and
I'll try once more."

"Well," said Sharpe, "here is the change; but the luck seems
against you. We had better stop for to-night."

But Warren insisted upon continuing, and he won thirty dollars
in addition to the fifty which Sharpe had changed for him. The
gambler then rose, and told him that he would give him a chance
to win all back another time, as fortune seemed to be again
propitious to him.

Warren never saw him after that night. The next morning he
determined to seek a more private boarding house, and economize
his remaining funds, and seek more assiduously some business
situation. He stepped to the bar to pay his board, handing the
clerk one of the notes he had received in change for his last
fifty-dollar bill. The clerk examined it a moment, and passed it
back, saying, "That is a counterfeit note, sir." He took it
back, amazed, and offered another.

"This is worse still," said the clerk. "I think we had better
take care of you, sir. You will please go with me before a
magistrate."

"But I did not know----!"

"You can tell that to the squire."

"You have no right to take me," said Warren; "you have no
warrant."

"No; but I can keep you here till I send for one, which I shall
certainly do, unless you consent to go willingly."

And Warren, conscious of his own innocence in this respect, and
never thinking of the difficulty of proving it, went to a
magistrate's office with the clerk at once.

The clerk entered his complaint, and, besides swearing to the
offer of the notes, swore that he had seen him, for several days
past, in the company of a notorious gambler.

Warren was stunned, overwhelmed, by this declaration. No
representation that he made was believed. His pockets were
searched, and all the money he had, except some small change,
was found to be counterfeit. A commitment was at once made out
against him, and he was sent to jail, to await his trial on the
charge of passing counterfeit money.

This is one of the methods by which professional gamblers
"pluck young pigeons." No young man is safe who allows himself
to play with cards, or to handle dice.

Rodney believed that Warren had told him the truth, and
fellowship in misfortune drew the hearts of the duped man and
the wronged boy towards each other; for though both had been
very much to blame, yet duped and wronged they had been by
knaves more cunning and wicked than themselves.

They had many serious conversations together, for both had been
piously instructed, and Warren, who seemed truly penitent for
his wanderings, as he sat by the bed-side of the sick boy,
encouraged him in his resolutions to lead a different life,--to
seek the forgiveness and grace of God through a merciful
Redeemer. Seldom has a poor prisoner received sweeter sympathy,
or more salutary counsel, than was given to Rodney within the
walls of that old Arch-street jail, by his fellow-prisoner.

[Illustration]

"Rodney," said Warren to him one day,--it was the first day
that he had left his cot,--"I shall soon leave this place; I
have written to my father, and he will be here at the trial with
such evidences in my favor, from the whole course of my life, as
cannot fail to secure me an acquittal. I feel no doubt that this
stain upon my character will be wiped away. And I believe that I
shall have reason to thank God, as long as I live, for having
permitted this trouble. It is a very hard lesson, but I trust it
will be a salutary one. Since I have been here, I have prayed
earnestly to God for the pardon of my sins. I have resolved, in
sincerity of soul, to consecrate my affections and my life to
his service. I have had a severe struggle; but I believe, I
_feel_, that God has heard my prayers, forgiven my iniquities,
and the last few days in this jail have been the happiest of my
life. I feel that I hate the sins of which my heart has been so
full, and that I love God even for the severe providences that
have checked my course of impenitence. I feel like a new man;
and if I am not deceiving myself,--and I pray that I may not
be,--I have experienced that regeneration of heart of which I
have so often heard, but which I could never before comprehend.

"I hope that you, too, will try and seek the Saviour, pray to
him for forgiveness, and beg the guidance of His Holy Spirit for
your future life. If we both do this sincerely, we shall have
reason forever to bless God for the way in which he has led us."

"Pray for me," said Rodney; while tears rolled down his pale
cheeks. "I want to be a Christian, and I hope that God will have
mercy upon me, and guide me, for the future, in the right path."

A few days after, Warren was called into court to take his
trial; and, to Rodney's great delight,--for he had learned to
love him like a brother,--he heard from one of the nurses that
he had been honorably acquitted.

During the same week, the case of Rodney was called up, and he
was conducted by an officer to the court-house.




CHAPTER XI.

THE TRIAL.


Justice was now to be administered, and Rodney was brought into
the crowded court-room for trial. The officer led him to the
prisoner's narrow dock, an enclosed bench, at each end of which
sat a constable, with a long staff in his hand. There were five
or six other prisoners sitting in the dock with him. Next to him
was a woman, her garments ragged, her hair matted, and her face
red and bloated. Next to her sat a squalid negro, who seemed
totally indifferent to the scenes that were passing around him.
On the other side of him was a young man, apparently about
twenty years old, of thin, spare form, with a red flush at
intervals coloring his cheek, and a hollow cough that sounded
like an echo from the grave. He was evidently in a deep
consumption, and had been already several months in prison. And
he leaned his head upon the railing, as though he would hide
himself from every eye. He had been tried a few days before, for
having been associated with others in a burglary, and found
guilty, and he was now present to hear his sentence.

After the formal opening of the court, this young man was the
first called upon, and, with trembling limbs, he rose to hear
the sentence of the judge. After some remarks upon the enormity
of his crime, and the clear evidence upon which he had been
convicted, the judge sentenced him to five years' imprisonment
in the penitentiary. When those words, _five years_, reached
him, he dropped back upon the seat, as if struck with a bullet,
and then raising his face to the judge, with an expression of
profound anguish, said, "Half the time would be more than
enough, your honor; I shall be in the grave before one year is
past."

The case of the negro-man was immediately called up, but Rodney
heard nothing of it. He hid his face in his hands, and wept. A
sense of his terrible position flashed upon him, and he could
not keep back his tears, or stifle his sobs. He wept aloud, and
_felt_, though he might not see, that all eyes were turned upon
him. His whole frame shook with the anguish of his soul.

Presently a hand was laid upon his, and a head was bent over the
bar near him, and a voice addressed him kindly: "Be calm, my
boy; there is no good in crying; who is your counsel?"

Rodney looked up, and saw a young man, well dressed, and with an
affable and winning countenance, standing before him. His face
looked kind and benevolent, at least in Rodney's eyes, for he
had spoken to him gently and encouragingly.

He replied to his question, "I have no counsel, sir; I have no
money."

"Well, I will try what I can do for you," said the young
lawyer. "Come out here, and sit by me, and tell me what you are
here for."

He led him out of the disgraceful dock, gave him a seat directly
in front of the jury, sat down beside him, and asked him to tell
him the truth about all the circumstances that led to his
imprisonment and trial. Rodney told him truly all that happened
from the time of his running away to his arrest. He told him,
too, who he was, and who were his relatives in the neighborhood
of Philadelphia. He had never spoken of these before.

"Well," said the lawyer, "I don't see that they can bring
anything out to hurt you, if that is the true statement of the
case. And now, my boy, you may cry as much as you wish."

Rodney looked up, surprised, wondering what on earth he wanted
him to cry for. He thought afterwards that the advice was
probably given that his weeping might affect the sympathies of
the jury, before whose eyes he was sitting. But he could
scarcely have shed a tear then if his liberty had depended upon
it. He felt as though he had a friend, and his consciousness of
innocence of any violation of human law, and his confidence that
his new friend could show that he was guiltless, set his
perturbed heart at rest, and he felt sure that he should be
acquitted.

When the court adjourned, the lawyer took out a card, and,
giving it to Rodney, said, "If your case should be called up
before I get here this afternoon, just tell them that I am your
counsel, and they will put it off till I come. Here is my name."

There was but one word on the card, and Rodney kept it long as a
grateful memento of the disinterested kindness that had been
shown him in the hour of his bitter trial. The name on the card
was

                   +-----------------------+
                   |                       |
                   |     WATMOUGH.[A]      |
                   |                       |
                   +-----------------------+

[A] This is not a fictitious but the real name of the
gentleman whose kindness it commemorates.

That young lawyer never knew the gratitude with which his name
was remembered for long, long years, and the thrill of emotion
which its utterance always excited in the heart of that
befriended boy. An act of kindness is never lost, and many a one
which the benefactor may have forgotten, has won for him the
prayers and blessings of a grateful heart.

During the recess, Rodney was conducted across Independence-square
to the old Walnut-street prison. He ate his scanty prison dinner
that day with a light and hopeful heart; and though he trembled at
the idea of the coming trial, yet he did not for a moment doubt
that the result must be his acquittal. He believed that the law was
framed to punish the guilty, and to do justice to the innocent; and
he could scarcely conceive that the guiltless could be made to
suffer by its administration.

Immediately after the opening of the court, in the afternoon,
the case was called up. The woman in whose house the robbery was
committed, and one other, were witnesses; but not one word was
said by either, in any way implicating Rodney in the robbery,
beyond the fact that he had come to the house in company with
the robber.

His friend made a very brief speech, demanding his acquittal;
the judge said a few words to the jury, who consulted together
for a moment, when the foreman arose, and pronounced the happy
words, "_Not Guilty_."

And now the tears again rained down the cheeks of Rodney, as he
came out of the infamous dock,--but they were tears of joy.

A few kind questions were asked him by the judge; and a small
sum of money, contributed by him and by several of the members
of the bar, furnished Rodney the means of returning to his
friends.




CHAPTER XII.

CONCLUSION.


Hastening to the end of our narrative, we pass by several
intervening months, and witness again another Sabbath morning in
May.

Some twenty miles from the city of Philadelphia, a sparkling
little brook passes through the meadow of a beautiful farm,
losing itself in a thick wood that divides the contiguous
estates.

On that lovely May morning,--that serene Sabbath,--there
might have been seen,--there was seen by the Omniscient eye,--a
lad, some fifteen years old, walking thoughtfully along the
margin of that little stream, and penetrating into the thickest
part of the wood. He carried a book in his hand, and sat down
close by the stream, under the shade of an old beech tree. And
as he read, the tears streamed from his eyes, and his sighs
indicated a burdened spirit. Indeed, his heart was very sad. He
was oppressed by the consciousness of the great sinfulness of
his life and heart against the holy and benevolent God. He
remembered the early instructions he had received at home and in
the Sabbath-school. He recalled the precious privileges he had
enjoyed, and he remembered, with anguish and shame, how wickedly
he had disregarded all these instructions, abused all these
privileges, and sinned against his own knowledge of right,
against his conscience and his God. He had long been burdened
with these distressing emotions; he had often prayed, but had
found little relief of his anguish, even in prayer. And now,
even on this calm and beautiful Sabbath morning, there seemed to
his heart a gloom in the landscape. There was a smile, he knew,
upon the face of nature, but he felt that it beamed not for him.
The carol of wild birds rung out sweetly around him; but the
music saddened his heart yet more, for there was no inward
response of gratitude and joy. The bright green of the Spring
foliage and of the waving grass seemed dark and gloomy, as he
gazed upon it through tearful eyes. His mourning spirit gave its
own sombre interpretation to all the lovely scenes of nature. He
deeply felt that he was a wretched sinner against God, and he
could not see how God could be merciful to one who had so
grievously transgressed. He scarcely dared to hope for the
pardon of his iniquities, and was in almost utter despair of
ever obtaining mercy.

The book he had taken with him in his morning walk, was
"Doddridge's Rise and Progress of Religion in the Soul." He read,
carefully, the twelfth chapter in that excellent work, entitled,
"The invitation to Christ of the sinner overwhelmed with a sense of
the greatness of his sins." He was convinced that Jesus Christ was
_able_ to save even _him_; and the strong assurances of his
_willingness_ to save, "even to the uttermost," furnished in the
promises of the gospel, began to dawn upon his mind as he read what
seemed like a new revelation to his soul. When he read these words
of Jesus, "Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and
I will give you rest,"--"Him that cometh unto me I will in no wise
cast out,"--though he had read, or heard them read, a thousand
times before, it seemed now as though they had been written
expressly for him. There seemed a freshness, a force, a glorious
personal adaptation in them which he had never seen before.

He turned over the leaves of the book, and the chapter on "Self
Dedication" caught his eye. He read it; and when he came to the
prayer with which that chapter closes, he kneeled down, with the
book open before him, and solemnly, and with his whole heart,
repeated that fervent prayer. It seemed to have been written on
purpose to express his emotions and desires. When he had
concluded, he closed the book, and remained still upon his
knees, and tried, in his own language, to repeat the sentiments
of that solemn act of Dedication. Never was a boy more sincere
and earnest than he.

How long he prayed he did not know; but when he rose and looked
round him, the sun had long passed its meridian, and the shadows
of the trees were cast towards the east.

There was a delicious, joyful calm in his soul. All doubts of
God's willingness to pardon and receive him had gone. A veil
seemed to have been removed from the character of God. He
thought of God as he had never thought before,--not as a stern
and unrelenting Judge, but as a forgiving, loving Father. He
saw, as he had never seen before, how sinners could be adopted
as children of God, for the sake of the sufferings and sacrifice
of Jesus.

His spirit was very calm, but O, how happy! He had solemnly given
himself to God, pleading the merits of Jesus as the reason for his
acceptance, and he believed that God had received him, pardoned his
transgressions, and accepted him as one of his own children. Again
and again did he throw himself on the greensward, and pour out his
soul in gratitude and in prayer. It was the happiest day his life
had ever known.

The whole aspect of nature seemed changed in his eyes. The
gloomy shroud, that seemed to envelop it in the morning, had
passed away. The smile of God seemed reflected from every
sunbeam that played upon the green leaves and danced over the
distant waving meadow. There was sweet melody now in the songs
of the birds, in the rippling of the brook, in the hum of the
bees, and in the sighing of the soft breeze. All seemed to sing
of the goodness and grace of the adorable Creator. "_Old_ things
had passed away, behold all things had become _new_."

That lad was the RODNEY ROVERTON of this little volume. That
change was wrought by the regenerating grace of God. It was the
"peace of God, that passeth all understanding," diffused through
all his soul. Where "sin had abounded, grace did much more
abound."

Rodney Roverton yet lives. He has been, for many years, a professed
disciple of Jesus Christ, and an honored and successful minister of
the Gospel.