The supposed or real criminal was
shut up in a room, supplied with every convenience and luxury; and
at first mourned little over his imprisonment. But day by day he
became aware that the space between the walls of his apartment was
narrowing, and then he understood the end. Those painted walls
would come into hideous nearness, and at last crush the life out of
him.
And so day by day, nearer and nearer, came the diseased thoughts of
John Barton. They excluded the light of heaven, the cheering sounds
of earth. They were preparing his death.
It is true much of their morbid power might be ascribed to the use
of opium. But before you blame too harshly this use, or rather
abuse, try a hopeless life, with daily cravings of the body for
food. Try, not alone being without hope yourself, but seeing all
around you reduced to the same despair, arising from the same
circumstances; all around you telling (though they use no words or
language), by their looks and feeble actions, that they are
suffering and sinking under the pressure of want.
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