The room in the Inquisition, whose circular walls, studded with long, sharp spikes, gradually closed upon and pierced the victim, had its spiritual counterpart in his present condition.  He was shut in on every side.  If he made a push for liberty by abstaining from the drug, he was met and driven back by many nameless agonies.  He seemed to recoil, inevitably, as if from steel barbs.  Meanwhile the walls were closing in upon him.  In order to prevent life from being a continuous burden, in order to maintain even the semblance of strength and manhood, so that he might have some chance of finding employment, he had to increase the quantity of morphia daily; but each succeeding indulgence brought nearer the hour when the drug would produce pain—­pain only, and death.  After a week or two of futile and spasmodic effort he drifted on in the old way, occasionally suffering untold agony in remorse and self-loathing, but stifling conscience, memory, and reason, as far as possible, by continuous stimulation.

His quest of employment was naturally unsuccessful.  The South was impoverished.  Weak from the wounds of war, and the deeper enervation of a system that had poisoned her life for generations, she had not yet begun to rally.  There was not enough business in the city for the slow and nerveless hands of its citizens, therefore there was little prospect for a new-comer, unless he had the capital and energy to create activity in the midst of stagnation.  A few were slightly imposed upon at first by Mr. Jocelyn’s exalted moods, and believed that he might do great things if he were given the chance; but they soon recognized that he was unsound and visionary, broaching plans and projects that varied widely with each succeeding interview.  The greater number of his former friends and acquaintances were scattered or dead, and those who remembered him had their hands too full to do more than say a good word for him—­saying it, too, more and more faintly as they saw how broken and untrustworthy he was.  The story of his behavior on the ship, and correct surmises of the true cause of his manner and appearance, soon became current in business circles, and the half-pitying, half-contemptuous manner of those with whom he came in contact at last made it clear, even to his clouded mind, that further effort would be utterly useless.

Meanwhile his habit now began to inflict a punishment that often seemed beyond endurance.  The increased quantities of morphia with which he sought to sustain himself, combined with his anxiety, remorse, and solicitude for his family and his own future, filled the hours of darkness with one long nightmare of horror.  His half-sleeping visions were more vivid and real than the scenes of day.  From some harrowing illusion he would start up with a groan or cry, only to relapse a few moments later into an apparent situation more appalling and desperate.