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Title: The old man's home
Author: William Davenport Adams
Illustrator: S. Weir Mitchell
Release date: March 18, 2025 [eBook #75652]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: General Prot. Episcopal S. S. Untion, 1847
Credits: Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OLD MAN'S HOME ***
[Frontispiece: "And I also shall go home." Page 31]
THE
OLD MAN'S HOME.
BY THE REV. WILLIAM ADAMS, M. A.
AUTHOR OF "THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS,"
AND "THE DISTANT HILLS," ETC.
With Engravings from Original Designs,
BY WEIR.
NEW-YORK:
GENERAL PROT. EPISCOPAL S. S. UNION,
DANIEL DANA, Jr., AGENT,
Depository 20 John Street.
1848.
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ENTERED according to act of Congress, in the year 1847, by JOHN W.
MITCHELL, (as TREASURER of the General Protestant Episcopal Sunday
School Union,) in the Office of the Clerk of the United States
District Court for the Southern District of New York.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
TO
JOHN ADAMS,
Serjeant at Law,
AS A MARK OF FILIAL GRATITUDE
And Affection,
THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED
BY
THE AUTHOR.
FOR THEY
THAT SAY SUCH THINGS
DECLARE PLAINLY
THAT THEY SEEK A COUNTRY.
HEB. xi, 14.
The Old Man's Home.
CHAPTER I.
Each in his hidden sphere of joy or woe,
Our hermit spirits dwell and range apart;
Our eyes see all around in gloom or glow--
Hues of their own, fresh borrow'd from the heart
CHRISTIAN YEAR.
There is a scene on the coast of the Isle of Wight with which I have
long since become familiar, but which never fails to exercise a
soothing influence on my mind. It is at the eastern extremity of the
landslip. Large portions of the cliff have fallen away, and formed a
dell so broken and irregular, that the ground has the appearance of
having at one time been agitated by an earthquake. But Nature has
only suffered the convulsion to take place, in order that afterwards
she might bestow her gifts upon this favoured spot with a more
unsparing hand. The wild and picturesque character of the landscape
is now almost lost sight of in its richness and repose. The new soil
is protected from the storms of winter by the cliff from which it has
fallen, and, sloping towards the south, is open to the full warmth
and radiance of the sun. In consequence of this, the landslip has as
it were, a climate of its own; and often when the more exposed parts
of the country still look dreary and desolate, is in the enjoyment of
the blessings of an early spring. Such was the season at which I
first visited it. The grey fragments of rock which lay scattered on
the ground are almost hid by the luxuriance of the underwood, and
countless wild flowers were growing beneath their shade. Below, the
eye rested upon a little bay, formed by the gradual advance of the
sea; and all was so calm and peaceful, that as I watched the gentle
undulation of the waters, I could fancy them to be moving to and fro
with a stealthy step, lest they should disturb the tranquillity of
the scene.
I have said that a visit to this favoured spot never fails with me to
have a soothing influence. I feel as though I were treading on
enchanted ground, and the whole scene were allegorical; for it
reminds me that, in like manner, the wreck of all our earthly hopes
and plans may but lay open our hearts to the influence of a warmer
sunshine, and enrich them with flowers which the storms of life have
no longer power to destroy. But I cannot now tell whether these
thoughts have their origin in the scene itself, or in an incident
that occurred the first time I visited it.
It was on the evening of the 18th of April, 1843. I had been long
gazing upon it, and had imagined that I was alone, when my attention
was arrested by a sigh from some one near me. I turned round, and
saw a venerable old man seated upon a fragment of the fallen cliff,
beneath which the violets were very thickly clustering. His hair was
white as silver; his face deeply furrowed, and yet pervaded by a
general expression of childish simplicity, which formed a strong
contrast to the lines which must have been indented upon it by care
and suffering, no less than the lapse of years. I cannot recall the
words of the chance observation which I addressed to him; but it
related to the lateness and inclemency of the season, and I was at
once struck by the singularity of his reply: "Yes, yes," he said,
musingly, "the winter has indeed been very long and dreary; and yet
it has been gladdened, from time to time, by glimpses of the coming
spring."
I now observed him more closely. There was a strangeness in his
dress which first excited my suspicion, and I fancied that I could
detect a restlessness in his light blue eye which spoke of a mind
that had gone astray. "Old man," I said, "you seem tired; have you
come from far?"
"Ah, woe is me," he replied, in the same melancholy tone as before;
"I have indeed travelled a long and solitary journey; and at times I
am weary, very weary; but my resting-place now must be near at hand."
"And whither, then," I asked, "are you going?"
"Home, sir, home," he replied; and while his voice lost its sadness,
his face seemed to brighten and his eye grow steady at the thought;
"I hope and believe that I am going home."
I now imagined that I had judged him hastily, and that the answers
which I had ascribed to a wandering intellect proceeded in truth from
depth of religious feeling. In order to ascertain this, I asked:
"Have you been long a traveller?"
"Four score and thirteen years," he replied; and observing my look of
assumed wonder, he repeated a second time, more slowly and sadly than
before, "Four score and thirteen years."
"The home," I said, "must be very far off that requires so long a
journey."
"Nay, nay, kind sir, do not speak thus," he answered: "our home is
never far off; and I might perhaps have arrived at it years and years
ago. But often during the early spring I stopped to gather the
flowers that grew beneath my feet; and once I laid me down and fell
asleep upon the way. And so more than four score and thirteen years
have been wanted to bring me to the home which many reach in a few
days. Alas! all whom I love most dearly have long since passed me on
the road, and I am now left to finish my journey alone."
During this reply, I had become altogether ashamed of my former
suspicion, and I now looked into the old man's face with a feeling of
reverence and love. The features were unchanged; but instead of the
childish expression which I had before observed, I believed them to
be brightened with the heavenliness of the second childhood, while
the restlessness of the light blue eye only spoke to me of an
imagination which loved to wander amid the treasures of the unseen
world. I purposely, however, continued the conversation under the
same metaphor as before. "You have not, then," I said, "been always
a solitary traveller?"
"Ah, no," he replied: "for a few years a dear wife was walking step
by step at my side; and there were little children, too, who were
just beginning to follow us. And I was so happy then, that I
sometimes forgot we were but travellers, and fancied that I had found
a home. But my wife, sir, never forgot it. She would again and
again remind me that 'we must so live together in this life, that in
the world to come we might have life everlasting.' They are words
that I scarcely regarded at the time, but I love to repeat them now.
They speak to me of meeting her again at the end of our journey."
"And have all your children left you?" I asked.
"All, all," he replied. "My wife took them with her when she went
away. She stayed with me, sir, but six years, and left me on the
very day on which she came. It seems strange now that I could have
lived with them day after day without a thought that they were so
near their journey's end, while I should travel onward so many
winters alone. It is now sixty years since they all went home, and
have been waiting for me there. But, sir, I often think that the
time, which has seemed so long and dreary to me, has passed away like
a few short hours to them."
"And are you sure, then," I said, "that they are all gone home?" It
was a thoughtless question, and I repented the words almost before
they were spoken. The tears rose quickly in the old man's eyes, and
his voice trembled with emotion, as he replied: "Oh! sir, do not bid
me doubt it. Surely, every one of them is gone home; one, at least,
of the number is undoubtedly there; and they all went away together,
as though they were travelling to the same place; besides, sir, my
wife was constantly speaking to them of their home; and would not
their journey as well as my own have been prolonged, if their home
had not been ready for them? And when I think of them, I always
think of home; am I not, then, right in believing that all of them
are there?"
There were allusions in this answer which I did not at the time
understand; but the old man's grief was too sacred for me to intrude
further upon it. I felt, also, that any words of my own would be too
feeble to calm the agitation which my thoughtless observation had
caused. I merely repeated a passage from holy Scripture, in reply,
"Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord, even so saith the Spirit,
for they rest from their labours."
The old man's face again brightened, and as he wiped away the tears,
he added, "And 'Blessed,' also, 'are they that mourn, for they shall
be comforted.' There is not only a blessing for those who have been
taken to their rest, but there is the image of that blessing to cheer
the old man who is left to pursue his solitary journey."
At this moment, the sun, which had been obscured by a passing cloud,
suddenly shone forth, and its rays were reflected by a path of gold
in the silent waters. The old man pointed to it with a quiet smile;
the change was in such harmony with his own thoughts, that I do not
wonder at the metaphor it suggested to him. "There," said he, "is
the blessing of the mourner! See! how it shines down from the heaven
above, and gilds with its radiance the dreary sea of life."
"True," I replied; "and the sea of life would be no longer dreary, if
it were not for the passing clouds which at times keep back from it
the light of Heaven." His immediate answer to this observation
proved the image which he had employed, to be one long familiar to
his own mind. "There are indeed clouds," he said, "but they are
never in Heaven; they hover very near the earth; and it is only
because our sight is so dim and indistinct that they seem to be in
the sky."
A silence of some minutes followed this remark. I was, in truth,
anxious that the old man should pursue the metaphor farther. But the
gleam of light passed away as the sun sunk behind the western hills.
His feelings appeared to undergo a corresponding change, and he
exclaimed, hastily, "The day is fast drawing to a close; and the
night must be near at hand: I must hasten onward on my journey.
Come, kind sir, and I will show you where my friends are waiting for
me."
I was wondering whether he now spoke metaphorically or not, when my
thoughts were suddenly turned into a new channel, and my former
painful suspicions returned. As the old man leant upon his staff,
his wrists became exposed to view, and I saw that they were marked
with deep blue lines, which could only have been caused by the
galling of a chain in former years.
The poor wanderer observed the look I gave them. A sudden flush of
shame overspread his countenance, and he hurriedly drew down his
garment to conceal them. It was, however, but a momentary impulse;
he again exposed them to my view, and himself gazed sadly upon them,
as he said, "Why should I try to hide them, when they are left there
to remind me constantly of my true condition? For in times past I
have borne the pressure of more wearing bonds than those; and though
I have been released from them now, no one can tell how dark and deep
is the stain that they have left upon the soul." Something more he
added, but his eye was turned meekly towards Heaven, and it was only
from the movement of his lips that I fancied I could trace the words
of the prayer, "Though we be tied and bound with the chain of our
sins, yet let the pitifulness of Thy great mercy loose us."
He now began to move slowly forward. The ground was rough and
uneven, and his step so very feeble, that I expected every instant to
see him fall. He struck his foot against a stone, and I sprang
forward to his assistance. "Thank you, kind sir," he said, in his
quiet way; "but do not fear for me; my own frail limbs could not
support me for an instant: but I have a staff on which I lean; and
though I may stumble at times, I cannot fall."
Again I was in doubt whether to interpret his words literally or not;
but my belief was that the old man almost unconsciously used the
language of allegory. Long habit had so taught him to blend together
the seen and the unseen world, that he could not separate them. Life
was to him a mirror, and in the passing objects of sight and sense,
he never failed to recognise the images of spiritual things.
CHAPTER II.
So wanderers, ever fond and true,
Look homeward through the evening sky,
Without a streak of heaven's soft blue,
To aid affection's dreaming eye.
CHRISTIAN YEAR.
At the conclusion of the last chapter I gave the opinion that I
formed of the old man from the brief conversation I myself had with
him. The following incident cast, as it were, a shadow upon it, and
robbed it of its brightness, but did not really alter it. My
intercourse with him was brought to a sudden and painful conclusion.
It was at my persuasion that he crossed a stile which separated the
wild scenery of the landslip from the public road leading to the
little village of B----. I thought it would be easier for him to
walk along the more beaten track. He had yielded with apparent
reluctance to my request. His unwillingness appeared to proceed from
instinct rather than reason. It may in part have arisen from a kind
of natural sympathy which attracted him to that wild luxuriant spot;
in part from an unconscious dread of the danger to which he actually
became exposed. He simply said, "This smooth way was not made for
the like of me, kind sir; but under your protection I will venture
along it."
Alas! I little thought of the kind of protection he required. We
had advanced but a few hundred yards, and had just reached the summit
of the hill which commanded the first view of the village church.
The old man had paused for a little while, and appeared to gaze upon
it with a feeling of the most intense interest; I was afraid, even by
a passing question, to interrupt the quiet current of his thoughts;
when the silence was suddenly broken by the creaking of a cart-wheel,
which grated harshly on my ear; and almost before I could look round,
I heard a voice of rude triumph behind me, crying out, "There he
is--there he is--there goes the old boy! Stop him, stop him, sir! he
is mad."
I have no heart to describe the scene that followed: the poor
wanderer shuffled forward, with a nervous, hurried step; but in a few
seconds the cart was at his side; the driver immediately jumped out,
and, seizing him by the collar, with many a rude word and coarse
jest, tried to force him to enter it. For a moment, surprise and
indignation deprived me of speech, for I had began to regard the old
man with such a feeling of reverent love, that it almost seemed to me
like a profanation of holy ground. When, however, he turned his eyes
towards me, with an imploring look, I recovered myself sufficiently
to demand by what authority he dared thus molest an inoffensive
traveller on his journey. In my inmost heart, I dreaded the answer I
should probably receive; neither was my foreboding wrong; the man
laughed rudely as he replied, "He has been mad, quite mad, for more
than fifty years; he escaped this morning from the Asylum, and one of
the keepers has been with me all day long scouring the country in
search of him."
It was in vain that I sought a pretext for disbelieving the truth of
the story. I could not help feeling that it did but confirm a
suspicion which, in spite of myself, had kept crossing my own mind;
for the bright colouring which was shed by faith on the thoughts and
words of the old man was not alone a sufficient evidence that they
were under the guidance of reason. Yet, of one thing, at least, I
felt sure, that, whatever were the state of his intellect, it could
be no imaginary cause that now so strongly moved him. My heart bled
for him, as I listened to the pathetic earnestness with which he
implored the protection that I was unable to afford. He even forgot
to use the language of metaphor in the agony of his grief. "Indeed,
indeed, sir," he said, "they call me mad, but do not believe them,
for I am not mad now. There, there," he added, pointing towards the
church, "my wife and children are waiting for me. It was on this
very day that they went away, and we have now been parted sixty
years. I have travelled very far to join them once again before I
die. Oh, have pity upon me! I only ask for one little half hour,
that I may go on in peace to the end of my journey."
Large drops of moisture trembled on his forehead as he uttered these
words; his whole face became convulsed with emotion, and he clung
with such intensity to my garment, that his rude assailant tried in
vain to unloose his grasp. The man himself was evidently frightened
by the agitation which his own violence had caused, and appeared
doubtful how to proceed, when the scene was fortunately interrupted
by the arrival of his companion.
He was the keeper who had been sent from the Asylum with the cart,
but had left it in order to search the pathway which led through the
landslip. His look and manner afforded a striking contrast to those
of the first comer, who proved to be merely the owner of the vehicle,
which had been hired for the occasion. Immediately on his arrival,
he reprimanded him for his rude treatment of the old man, and
insisted on his returning to the cart, and desisting from all farther
interference. My hopes were greatly raised by this, and I flattered
myself that I should now have little difficulty in obtaining for the
poor wanderer the indulgence which he sought. But I soon found my
mistake; and, under the irritated feelings of the moment, almost
preferred the rude conduct of the first comer to the quiet
determination with which his companion listened to my request.
He merely smiled at the account I gave of my own interview with the
old man; and when I suggested that it contained no evidence of
insanity, shook his head, and replied, "You do not know poor Robin.
His notions about home are the peculiar feature of his madness; but
you are not the first person that has been deceived by them."
He spoke in a low tone, as though he were anxious not to be
overheard. But the precaution seemed unnecessary; for, though the
old man had mechanically retained his grasp on my garments, he was
now looking eagerly towards the village church, and I could see, from
the expression of his countenance, that his thoughts had passed away
from the scene around him.
When I found my arguments of no avail, I changed my ground, and
besought as a favour that he would make the trial of letting the old
man proceed to the end of his journey, and trust to his promise to
return quietly from thence. "Sir," he replied, in a louder voice, "I
should have no more hesitation in trusting the word of poor Robin
than your own. He never deceived me; and, under ordinary
circumstances, I would at once grant his request; but the hour is
late, and, as it is, the night will close in upon us before we can
get back to the town of N----. The responsibility will rest upon me,
if mischief should arise from any additional delay. I am sure Robin
himself would not desire it." As he said this, he turned towards the
old man, but his countenance was unchanged, his eye still fixed upon
the church, and he either had not heard the words at all, or they had
failed to convey any distinct impression to his mind.
After a pause, I again renewed my entreaties, urging that it would at
least be a better plan than having recourse to violence, which must
eventually produce a far more serious delay. "Of course," said the
attendant, "anything is better than having recourse to violence."
"Then," said I, "you accede to my request?" "Only," replied he, with
a provoking smile, "in case all other methods fail; but as the delay
would be a real inconvenience to us, you must permit me first to try
my powers of persuasion. Let me now beg of you, whatever surprise
you may feel, to be careful to express none." He again lowered his
voice as he said these words, and, in spite of the dislike inspired
by the self-confidence of his manner, and of other stronger emotions,
my curiosity was excited to know how he would proceed. He placed
himself opposite to the old man, so as to intercept his view of the
village, and then, having fixed his eye calmly and stedfastly upon
him, with an appearance of real interest, thus soothingly addressed
him:--"I would gladly go on with you, Robin; but am sure you are
under some mistake. Your wife and children cannot be in yonder
village,--they are not there, they are at home. Come quietly with me
now, and perhaps this evening you may go home also."
These simple words touched some hidden chord in the old man's heart,
and their effect was almost magical. All other feelings passed away,
and I forgot the presence of his companions, as I watched the change
which they produced. His features became composed, his hand relaxed
its hold, and his voice resumed its former tranquil tone, as he
slowly repeated: "They are not there, they are at home; they are not
there, they are at home. True, very true, they are not there, they
are at home."
Presently he raised his eyes to Heaven, and the attendants, no less
than myself, were overawed by the solemnity of his manner. There was
a silence of a few seconds, during which he seemed to listen
intently; and then, as though he had heard some echo from above,
which confirmed the hope that had been held out to him, he
confidently added: "And I also shall go home,--and this very evening
I shall be there."
While I was still pondering on these words, the old man had of his
own accord quietly placed himself in the cart, and his companions had
seated themselves by his side. They were on the point of driving off
before the thought occurred to me of offering him money. I drew out
my purse, half expecting him to refuse the proffered gift; and it was
with a strong feeling of disappointment that I observed the look of
satisfaction, almost amounting to eagerness, with which he took the
silver from my hand. I said within myself, "Can it be, then, that
the taint of covetousness is to be found in a mind from which every
earthly affection seems so entirely to have been withdrawn?" But I
wronged him by the thought. The money was immediately taken from
him, and he resigned it to another no less gladly than he had
received it from me. "It will not do," said the keeper, "to let him
have it himself: he will merely give it away to the first beggar that
he meets. He has not the slightest notion of the real value of
money. It shall be laid out for his benefit; and till then it will
be safe in my keeping."
My countenance may have expressed dissatisfaction at the change,
though, in truth, I had no objection to make to it. But the old man
himself interrupted me before I could reply, and said, "Do not be
afraid, kind sir, whether it remain with me or him; your treasure
will be safe, quite safe; it matters not now whether it remain with
me or him;" and then added, in a more solemn tone, "safe 'where
neither rust nor moth doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break
through and steal.' I will take it home with me; and when you also
go home, you will find it there." And I now understood how it was
for my sake that he had so gladly welcomed the gift; and I thought,
too, that if in truth money had a real value at all, it must be the
one which was assigned to it by him.
The men were in a hurry to depart, and I was now forced to bid adieu
to the old man. He appeared so sorry to leave me, that I promised on
the morrow to come and see him. I did not like to use the word
Asylum, so I said at his dwelling-place. The expression at once
caught his ear, and re-awakened the train of thought which my gift
had interrupted for a time.
"Not in my dwelling-place," he said, "for to-morrow I shall not be
there. If you see me again, kind stranger, it must be at home. May
God bless you, and guide you on your way." The cart was already in
motion, but he looked back once more, and waved his hand as he said,
"Good bye, sir. Remember that we all are going home!"
They were the last words I heard him speak, and it is perhaps from
that cause that they made so strong an impression on my mind; for
often since then, when I have been tempted to wander from the right
path, or murmur as I walked along it, I have thought upon the old
man's parting warning, and asked myself the question, "Am I not going
home?"
CHAPTER III.
Two worlds are ours: 'tis only Sin
Forbids us to descry
The mystic heaven and earth within,
Plain as the sea and sky.
CHRISTIAN YEAR.
Very early on the following morning I proceeded on foot to the town
of N----. The scenery through which I passed was rich and beautiful,
but it was lost upon me at the time; for there were busy thoughts
within which would not suffer my eye to rest on any external object.
I was on my way to visit the old man, and had a presentiment, almost
amounting to conviction, that I should not find him alive. The
words, "I also shall go home, and this very evening I shall be
there," in spite of myself, kept recurring to my mind. It was to no
purpose that I endeavoured to set them aside, as part of the
wanderings of a disordered intellect: there was a solemnity in the
look and manner of the poor wanderer, which gave a reality to their
meaning; and I believed the shadow of the future to have been resting
on his spirit at the time he spoke them.
These fears gradually increased as I approached the Asylum. At the
entrance, there stood a little girl, weeping as though her heart
would break. A woman, who appeared to be her mother, was trying in
vain to comfort her. Her only reply to every caress, was a fresh
burst of sobs and tears. The scene was so in harmony with my own
thoughts, that the very instant I saw her, I guessed the cause of her
sorrow. Nor was my conjecture wrong: the child had dearly loved the
old man, and wept because he was no more.
The father of this girl was the superintendent of the Asylum. He
also was standing by, and offered to accompany me through the
building. On the way, he proved very willing to gratify my curiosity
concerning the stranger who had excited in me so singular an
interest. I soon found him to be an intelligent, kind-hearted man,
who had entered instinctively into the thoughts and wishes of poor
Robin, and yet had failed to appreciate what I may call the religion
of his character. His daily familiarity with the varied forms of
insanity, may in part have been the cause. He had at once regarded
him as a patient labouring under a peculiar kind of mental delusion,
without looking beyond. In consequence of this, there was much in
our conversation which grated harshly on my own feelings. I loved
better to think of the old man as I had first seen him, sitting in
the midst of the picturesque scenery of the landslip, than confined
within the gloomy walls of a pauper Asylum. The close rooms through
which we passed, the dull tones of the superintendent's voice, his
conviction of poor Robin's insanity, and even the compassionate
interest with which he spoke of him, all interfered with the
brightness of the image which my own mind had previously formed. It
would have been more in harmony with my thoughts, to have heard from
the child who was weeping for him, the simple narrative of the old
man's life: but, perhaps, the contrast in the colouring of the
picture only brings out the more strongly its intrinsic beauty; and,
for this reason, I will still endeavour to trace it as it was first
presented to my own view.
The outline is soon drawn. Poor Robin had, for more than half a
century, been an inmate of the Asylum. No one could tell from whence
he had been brought there, or say anything with certainty of his
previous history. It was, however, generally believed that he had
known better days, but that some very heavy affliction had brought on
mental derangement; and that, in consequence of this, his property
had gradually gone to ruin, until at length he was consigned to a
pauper asylum. He had been placed there under a very different
system of treatment from that which now prevails. It had even been
thought necessary, in the first instance, to confine him with chains
and handcuffs: and he would often struggle, in a paroxysm of passion,
to set himself free. But after a few years, all the more violent
symptoms of his disorder had entirely disappeared, and he became so
quiet and resigned, that the physician had considered it safe to
release him from his bonds, and suffer him to wander at large within
the precincts of the Asylum.
"There can be no doubt of the facts, sir," continued my guide, "for
the marks on poor Robin's wrists prove him to have, at one time,
undergone a very rigorous confinement; and yet, when I came here, I
found that he had been long in the enjoyment of comparative freedom.
But it is a case that always perplexes me, when I think of it; for
the general effect of harsh treatment is to render the patient more
violent and intractable than before: and I cannot understand from
what cause the change in poor Robin's conduct could in the first
instance have arisen."
"Do you not think," I asked, "that it may have been a sign of
returning reason?" He smiled at the question, as he replied, "So far
from it, sir, that it was accompanied by a new and extraordinary
delusion, which never afterwards entirely left him. He fancied that
the bonds which he felt and saw, were merely imaginary, and that
there were other invisible chains which were the real cause of his
confinement. They say, that from the time this idea once gained
possession of his mind, he made no farther effort to recover his
freedom, but even thanked the attendants for the care they were
taking of him, and became as gentle and submissive as a child." Then
I remembered the metaphor, which the old man had employed when the
marks on his wrists had attracted my attention; and I said within
myself that it was not indeed the return of reason, but a brighter
and a far holier light, which had thus shone on the poor captive, and
brought peace and resignation to his soul.
After his partial release, the manners and language of Robin had soon
excited observation, and strengthened the belief that he must at one
time have known better days. It was not, however, till the milder
system of treatment was introduced generally into the Asylum, that
the full beauty of his character had developed itself. Since that
time, he had gradually won the affection of many of the patients, and
had become an object of deep interest to all visitors. They had
often come for the express purpose of talking with him. "And,"
continued my conductor, "I often listened with wonder to the various
interpretations they put upon his answers. Some would discover in
them poetry; some, philosophy; some, religion; some, I know not what,
according to the previous bias of their own minds." I inquired in
what light he himself was disposed to view them? "As the wanderings
of insanity," he replied; "for poor Robin was, undoubtedly, mad:" but
presently added, more thoughtfully, "yet there was something in his
peculiar kind of madness which I could never exactly fathom."
I asked, whether no friend or relative had come to inquire after the
old man, during the long period of his confinement? "No one,"
answered my conductor; "and so far, it was a mercy that he had been
deprived of his reason, since his madness prevented his being aware
of his own solitary condition."
"How do you mean?" I said; "surely he could not help feeling that he
was alone?"
"On the contrary," he replied, "he fully believed that he had a wife
and children and home, and would speak, from day to day, of going to
join them. Poor fellow! at one time, those who had the care of him
would argue with him, and endeavour to explain to him that he was
under a delusion. And the old man would soon get confused in his
reasoning, and end by wringing his hands, in an agony of grief. But,
since I have come here, I have thought it best to humour him in the
belief; and not only forbidden all contradiction on this subject, but
encouraged the attendants to talk to him about his home, and promise,
that if he behaved well, he should go there very soon. You will
hardly believe that I have seen tears of joy run down his cheeks at
these simple words. Yet some have said, that it was almost cruel to
encourage a hope which must end in disappointment at last."
"But did it end in disappointment?" I said, following my own
thoughts, rather than addressing my companion. He seemed struck by
the remark, and, after a pause, replied, "Why, sir, one can hardly
say that it did; for the hope seemed to grow stronger, instead of
weaker, as year after year passed by; and he continued in the same
happy delusion to the very hour of his death. I have often thought
that this imaginary home was a source of greater joy and comfort to
him than the possession of any actual home could have been. When
anything vexed or disturbed him, he would say, that when at home, he
should feel it no more. When he felt dull and depressed, he would
rouse himself by the thought that he was going home. I myself have,
at times, felt disposed to envy him his belief: and there was
something very wonderful in the influence it gave him over his
companions."
I inquired, how this belief could influence others? "Because," said
he, "Robin was unable to separate the present from the future; and so
it was part of his confusion of ideas to believe that those with whom
he lived here, would live with him in his home also. It is the only
instance I have known of a person under the influence of insanity
being able to impart his own views to his companions. But there
seemed to be a kind of infection in the old man's madness; and more
than one patient, who had previously been plunged in hopeless
despondency, was gradually led to take interest in Robin's home. The
effect has been so salutary with us, that I have often wished the
same happy delusion could be introduced generally into other asylums."
I was following the deep train of reflection awakened by this remark,
and wondering how far it might indeed be possible to graft religion
on the imagination, and so to soothe and cheer the dreams of insanity
with the hope of Heaven; when my conductor again resumed the
conversation. "There was, sir," he said, "another delusion of the
old man, scarcely less happy in its consequences than his belief
about his home. You might have fancied that, from having once known
better days, he would have felt bitterly the degradation of his new
condition; but the whole time that he was in the Asylum he seemed
utterly unconscious that he was dependent on the parish for support."
"Do you mean," I asked, "that he imagined something had been
preserved from the wreck of his own property?"
"Not in the least," he replied; "he was fully aware that his own
property was gone; but he believed his daily wants to be supplied by
a kind of miracle; and would often observe that he had gone on for
more than fifty years without making provision for the morrow, and
yet had never known what it was to be without clothing or food. Of
course, sir, I did everything in my power to encourage him in the
belief: but, one day, I was greatly annoyed to find a visitor, who
was not aware of the old man's peculiarities, endeavouring to explain
to him that the parish was bound to find him support."
"And did he," I asked, "appear much hurt at the discovery?"
"Fortunately not, sir," he replied; "and this I own quite took me by
surprise, for I greatly feared lest the consciousness of his
dependence might destroy that feeling of self-respect, which, in all
cases of insanity, it is so important to preserve. But Robin was
rather pleased than vexed at the idea of the parish providing for
him. Presently, however, he grew bewildered, and shook his head, and
said, that, after all, the parish could not provide for him beyond a
single day, and that, perhaps, to-morrow he might be at home. The
visitor was beginning to say something in reply; but Robin's home was
with me sacred ground, and I would not suffer the argument to proceed
further."
Another pause of some minutes followed, until I broke it by inquiring
whether the child that I had observed at the entrance were related to
the old man.
"Oh, no, sir," he replied, "little Annie is my own daughter, and many
persons have wondered that I suffered her to be so constantly with
him. But I consider the society of children to be very beneficial to
the insane; there is something in their ways and language which they
can understand far better than our own; and this was peculiarly the
case with poor Robin."
"And do you suppose," I said, "that the child liked to be with him?"
"Undoubtedly," he replied; "for the choice was her own. I merely
encouraged it. But Robin had an inexhaustible stock of fairy tales,
which made him a great favourite with children; and Annie would sit
and listen to them for hours together."
"Do you really mean," I asked, in some surprise, "that they were
fairy tales?"
"Why, sir, for that matter," he answered, "poor Robin himself
believed them to be true, and it was that which gave a peculiar
interest to his manner of telling them. Some visitors have fancied
them to be a kind of allegory; and I have often traced in the words a
double meaning, of which the old man himself could hardly have been
conscious. But, however this may have been, it is clear that they
were connected with his particular mental delusion, from the way in
which his imaginary home formed the prominent feature of every story."
I expressed a wish to hear one of them, and yet was hardly sorry when
he confessed himself to be unable to comply with my request. He told
me that he had only heard them in detached portions, for the patients
in the Asylum were too numerous to allow him to devote as much time
to poor Robin as he might otherwise have done. "But, sir," he
continued, "little Annie knows them all by heart, though I am afraid
to-day she is feeling too deeply the loss of her companion to be able
to repeat one. There certainly was something very singular in her
fondness for the old man, and I have often been perplexed at the kind
of influence he had over her. She herself was sometimes a sufferer
from his delusions, and yet always fancied poor Robin must be in the
right, and would submit to his wishes without a murmur or complaint.
On one occasion, I myself felt called upon to interfere."
I begged him to relate the circumstance to which he referred.
"It was, sir," he said, "on Annie's ninth birth-day, in November
last. I had given her in the morning a new Victoria half-crown, and
she went immediately to exhibit her treasure to her friend. She
looked grave and thoughtful on her return; and, when I asked what
purchases she had made with her present, she confessed that the old
man had begged it of her, and she had given it him. The next day, I
told Robin how wrong he had been to take the poor child's money. But
he answered, with his usual strangeness, that he did not in the least
want it, and had asked for it because he loved little Annie, and
wished to do her a kindness. Now, most people would have thought
that this was rather a reason for giving her a present than for
taking one away. And yet the old man spoke the truth, for he knew no
better. It was one of his peculiarities to imagine that he was
conferring a favour whenever he received one."
There was a passage from Holy Scripture which this answer suggested
to my mind. I remembered "the words of the Lord Jesus, how He said,
It is more blessed to give than to receive,"* and I repeated it
rather to myself than to my companion. The words, however, caught
his ear, and he observed that it was very likely I had hit upon the
truth; for the understanding texts of Scripture in their literal
meaning, was one feature of poor Robin's insanity.
* Acts xx. 35.
With a view to pursuing the subject farther, I inquired whether the
old man had restored the money.
"No, sir," replied my guide; "and this is the most provoking part of
the story. I should not so much have minded if he had wished for it
as a keepsake from the child; but he said he had lent it to some
companion who had more need of it than himself. He did not even so
much as remember his name. I told him he had much better have given
it at once, as he had no chance of seeing it again. His own mind,
however, was perfectly at rest about it, and he assured me that it
was only lent, and would undoubtedly be restored, if not sooner, at
least when he went home. Of course, sir, when he touched upon his
home, I did not venture to press him farther. But this was another
of his delusions, which, though comparatively harmless while he was
staying here, must of itself have entirely unfitted him for the
management of his own affairs. He would lend all that he had to his
brother paupers, and, though no one ever thought of repaying him, was
just as happy as if the things remained in his own possession."
And another passage of Holy Scripture rose to my remembrance, "He
that hath pity on the poor, lendeth unto the Lord; and look, what he
layeth out, it shall be paid him again." And I did not wonder that,
with so sure a promise, the mind of poor Robin should have been at
rest.
CHAPTER IV.
Ever the richest, tenderest glow
Sets round th' autumnal sun--
But there sight fails; no heart may know
The bliss when life is done.
CHRISTIAN YEAR.
I have reserved for a separate chapter that part of my conversation
within the walls of the Asylum, which led to a description of the
closing scene of the old man's life. I was still reluctant to admit
his insanity, for it seemed to me that he had only so fully realized
the presence of the unseen world, as to have forgotten altogether the
things of sight in the things of faith. I inquired, therefore, of my
companion, whether any more decided symptoms of madness had ever
exhibited themselves than those which he had already mentioned. He
appeared surprised at the question, but replied, that, though the old
man was always more or less under the influence of the disorder,
there undoubtedly were certain periodic returns of it, and that these
uniformly occurred at the commencement of spring.
"And did these," I asked, "render him for the time violent and
intractable?"
"Oh, no, sir," he answered; "ever since I have known him he has been
the same quiet and inoffensive creature, and his madness used rather
to assume a melancholy form. He became sad and dejected, and refused
to eat, and would pass whole days together in his own solitary cell.
On one occasion, my wife sent little Annie, in the hope that she
might cheer him; but he would not even admit the child; he told her
that his father was then with him, and that he would not talk to her.
I went myself when I heard this; but, upon opening the door, I found,
as I expected, that he was alone."
"Perhaps," said I, "he may have meant that he was praying to his
Father in Heaven.
"It is not unlikely," he replied; "for prayer was one way in which at
these seasons his madness most frequently exhibited itself. I mean,"
he added, observing my look of surprise, "that he did not then pray
like other people, but would often remain whole hours together upon
his knees."
And I remembered how the prophetess Anna was said to have served God
with fastings and prayers night and day, and how our blessed Lord
Himself had continued a whole night in prayer to God; but I made no
farther reply.
"The doctor," resumed my conductor, "considered the long solitude to
be so bad for him, that for the last few days he had not suffered him
to remain in his cell. It was, perhaps, this circumstance which
turned the current of his thoughts into another channel, and led to
his wandering from the Asylum."
I was not sorry to change the conversation, by inquiring how he had
contrived his escape.
"Nay," he replied, "it is hardly fair to speak of it as an escape.
We were never very strict with the old man, and often suffered him to
go beyond the boundaries. On the present occasion, he had made no
secret of his intention, and told one of the attendants that he was
anxious to pay his wife and children a visit, and should soon be
back. I have no doubt myself that he intended to keep his word; but
he probably started, in the first instance, in a wrong direction, and
so lost his way."
"What do you mean," I asked, "by his starting in a wrong direction?
I thought you were ignorant from what part of the island he had been
brought here."
"True, sir," he replied; "but Robin himself always fancied that his
home lay towards the East: the little window of the cell he occupied
looked in that direction; and, though it was too cold for him in the
winter months, we never could persuade him to change it for one with
a southern aspect. He always said that he did not feel the cold, as
long as he could see his home. Now, there is nothing but a small
hamlet visible from the window, and, of course, when the old man did
not return, I sent to it to inquire after him."
"And had he been there?" I said.
"No, sir," he replied; "and, after wasting many hours in the search,
we at length heard that he had been seen walking along the road which
led direct to the Undercliff. It was this circumstance which enabled
him to get so many miles from the Asylum before he was overtaken.
But, as I said, I do not think that he intentionally misled us, but
only missed his way."
Now I knew full well that the village of B---- was not the home of
which the old man had spoken; but, when I remembered the agony with
which he had implored to be allowed to proceed thither, I could not
believe that mere accident was the cause of his journey. I resolved
to return thither to prosecute my inquiries; but before I left the
Asylum, asked to see the room which poor Robin had occupied.
"This is it, sir," said my conductor, as he threw open the door of a
low narrow cell. "You will find it smaller and more comfortless than
many others, but it is the one in which he was placed when he was
first brought here; and he had become so fond of his little window,
and the view towards the East, that it would have been a mistaken
kindness to force him to change it."
I scarcely heard the words of apology, for I felt a sudden thrill as
I found myself ushered thus unexpectedly into the chamber of death.
The old man was lying upon his narrow bed, and a stream of light
through the open window fell upon his tranquil countenance. A single
glance was sufficient to tell me not only that he was indeed dead,
but that his end had been full of peace. There was no convulsion of
the features, and the first symptoms of decay had not yet appeared.
His eyes had been left unclosed, but the wandering light was no
longer there, and the smile which from time to time had been wont to
play across his lips, rested quietly upon them now. The one idea
that his look and posture alike conveyed to the mind was that of
perfect tranquillity and repose. I felt that his long journey had at
length been finished, and that the old man was at rest in his home.
My companion also seemed for awhile absorbed in thought. He advanced
softly to the bedside, and it was not until, with a gentle hand, he
had closed the old man's eyes, that he broke the silence by
observing, "Ah, sir, morning after morning I have found him lying
thus, and gazing through the open window. His sight was gradually
becoming very weak from the glare of light, but he was unconscious of
it himself. And it was but yesterday he told me that in a little
while he should be no longer dazzled by the brightness of his home.
Poor fellow! when I came into the room a few hours since, and saw his
eyes so calm and motionless, though the full rays of the sun were
falling upon them, I knew that he must be dead, and could not help
thinking how singularly his words had come true."
There was something in the tone of voice in which this description
was given, that proved the speaker to have some secret feeling of its
allegorical meaning, though he himself would probably have been
unable to define it.
A Bible and Prayer-Book were lying on the table by the bedside. I
turned to the fly-leaf of the former, in the hope that I might at
least gather from it the poor wanderer's name. There was written in
it, "Susan Wakeling; the first gift of her husband, April 18th,
1776." And when I remembered the old man's great age, I conjectured
that the sacred volume must formerly have been his own wedding
present to his bride. I replaced it on the table, and it opened of
its own accord at the eleventh chapter of the Epistle to the Hebrews.
The page was much worn, as though it had not only been often read,
but many tears had fallen upon it. My eye quickly rested on the
passage, "These all died in faith .... and confessed that they were
strangers and pilgrims on the earth. For they that say such things
declare plainly that they seek a country. And, truly, if they had
been mindful of that country from whence they came out, they might
have had opportunity to have returned. But now they desire a better
country, that is, an Heavenly."* And while I read, it seemed as
though I had found the text to the old man's history.
* Heb. xi. 13-15.
Another smaller volume was near them, which proved to be the
Christian Year. My conductor told me that it was the gift of the
chaplain. For a moment I wondered at his choice, for I knew that it
contained much which poor Robin must have been unable to understand.
But the hymn for Septuagesima Sunday, and many others, were marked
with pencil. And as my eye glanced over them, my wonder ceased.
They were all in such perfect unison with the old man's own thoughts,
that, however faint may have been the image which they conveyed, they
could not have failed to exercise a soothing influence on his mind.
I inquired whether the chaplain used to come often to see him. "Very
frequently," was the reply. "He took great interest in poor Robin,
and the old man was grateful for it." "It certainly was singular,"
he added, thoughtfully, "that on his return yesterday evening, he
should have expressed so earnest a wish that the chaplain should be
sent for."
"And did you refuse?" I asked.
"Fortunately not, sir," he replied. "I hesitated at first, for it
was very late, and poor Robin was evidently much exhausted with the
fatigue and excitement of the day. But he became so anxious about
it, that my wife interceded for him, and told me she thought he would
go to sleep more quietly after he had been here. I well remember now
the peculiar emphasis with which the old man repeated her words, and
said, 'Yes, yes, I shall doubtless go to sleep more quietly after he
has been here.' It almost seemed as though he felt his end to be
near at hand."
I begged to know what passed at his interview with the chaplain. My
companion, however, could give me no information as to the first part
of it, for the old man had desired to be left alone with him, and his
wish had been at once indulged. "But," he continued, "on our return
to the room, we found him looking more light and cheerful than we had
ever before seen him; and when I congratulated him, he said that it
was no wonder, for a very heavy burthen had been taken away. The
chaplain then told us that he proposed to administer to him the Holy
Communion, and invited my wife and myself to partake of it with him.
It is a point on which I have always felt doubtful, for persons in
the state of poor Robin must have very indistinct views of the real
nature of a sacrament. In this case the old man's own expression
proved it; for, as he joined in the chaplain's request, he told us
that he was going on a long journey, and might require the food to
support him on the way."
"Nay," I could not help observing, "surely his journey lay through
the valley of the shadow of death, and he meant that his soul would
be refreshed on its passage by the body and blood of Christ, even as
the body is by bread and wine."
My companion shook his head as he replied, "I believe, sir, Robin
used the words literally, but the chaplain took the same view of them
with yourself, and it was a point for him and not me to decide.
Certainly nothing could be more grave or attentive than the old man's
manner during the whole ceremony. And it may be that some glimmering
of returning reason was sent to prepare him for the approach of
death. Such cases are not of uncommon occurrence."
I could not help thinking that, in spiritual things, poor Robin had
not needed its light; but I made no further reply; and my companion
resumed his narrative.
"When the service was over, the old man merely squeezed the
chaplain's hand in parting, but did not speak to him. I also soon
afterwards went away, but my wife stayed for some time longer
watching by his bedside. He remained perfectly still and silent,
though his eyes were open. At length she asked him whether he did
not feel tired, and wish to go to sleep? And she tells me, that he
smiled like a little infant as he replied, 'Oh no, not at all tired;
for all that wearied me has been taken away.' And then, after a
pause, he added, 'But you may wish me good night now, for I shall be
asleep very soon;--and tell dear Annie I am going home.' He spoke in
so cheerful a tone, that my wife little thought they were his last
words, and she left him, as she fancied, to repose. But it was a
sleep from which he never woke again. Ah, sir," he continued, "it
seems a sad thing to die thus forsaken and alone; and yet, after all,
many who have kind friends and relatives round their sick beds might
envy poor Robin his peaceful end. He went off so quietly at last,
that those who slept in the room adjoining were not disturbed during
the night by the slightest sound. But early this morning, when I
came to inquire after him, he was lying just as you now see him,
quite dead!"
The deep feeling with which these words were pronounced, convinced me
that he was no less touched than myself by the contemplation of the
outward tranquillity of the old man's death. But who can realize the
inward peace that must have been there when the body fell asleep, and
the soul was released from its long imprisonment, and carried by
angels on its Homeward journey!
As we left the old man's room, I inquired whether there were many
besides little Annie who mourned his loss. A smile again crossed the
features of my companion, as he replied, "There were many of the
patients who loved him almost as dearly as the child herself, but I
can scarcely speak of them as mourners now. A report spread among
them this morning that Robin was going home; I cannot tell from what
quarter it arose, but when I came to them, they crowded round me to
know if it were true."
"And did you," I asked, "then tell them that he was dead?"
"Not in so many words," he replied. "I merely said that he was
already gone home, and that they must not expect to see him here
again. And more than one voice exclaimed in reply, 'Happy, happy
Robin, to be taken home!'"
Still I observed that I had remarked on the countenance of many of
the patients an expression of sadness.
"True," he answered, "for with them the transition of feeling from
joy to grief is very rapid. They are not, however, sorrowing for
poor Robin, but for themselves, because they have not been allowed to
accompany him. There were some, in the first instance, who were very
loud in their complaints; but I soothed them by saying that it was
right the old man should go first, because he had been here so long."
After a pause, he continued: "It is my own wish, as well as the
chaplain's, that many of them should attend the funeral, for I would
gladly pay this tribute of respect to Robin's memory. And yet I am
half reluctant to give way to it: the remembrance of the scene might
afterwards throw some gloom over the bright and happy notions which
they have now formed of his home."
I replied, that it might be so; "and yet," I added, "they would find
in the thanksgivings and prayers of the Burial Service only the exact
echo of their own joy and sorrow." And as I said this, I could not
help feeling that the scene after the old man's death had been in
perfect harmony with his life, and that poor Robin was rightly
rejoiced over and rightly mourned.
My account of my visit to the Asylum has already far exceeded the
limits which I had assigned it. And yet, at the risk of being
wearisome, I cannot refrain from adding one more fragment from my
conversation within its walls, before I proceed to the more pleasant
task that lies beyond. With a view to prosecuting my inquiries in
the village of B----, I asked my companion whether Robin had ever
dropped a hint of his former calling.
"Oh yes, sir," was the reply; "he used to say that he had enlisted as
a soldier very early in life, and had at one time been made a
prisoner. I have seen the tears run down little Annie's cheeks at
the piteous tale he would tell of the way in which his enemies had
bound him hand and foot, and cast him into a dark and terrible
dungeon, from which he had hardly escaped with his life. But I
believe the whole story to have been imaginary, and it is one that I
have little difficulty in accounting for. He doubtless referred to
the hardships he had endured at the period of his first imprisonment
in the Asylum. No one can wonder that they should have taken so
strong a hold on his imagination."
"Did he, then," I asked, "believe that his warfare had long been at
an end?"
"No, sir," he replied. "And perhaps it would be more correct to say
that the treatment to which he had been exposed was the origin of his
delusion, than that it accounted for it. The idea that he was liable
to the attacks of some secret enemy, seems from that time to have
taken a fixed possession of his brain; and if any one assured him
that he never could be subjected to the same ill usage again, his
invariable answer was, that there was no safety for him except at
home. And then he would maintain that having once enlisted, he could
never cease to be a soldier, and talk of treacherous foes and long
watchings and doubtful conflicts. You would have imagined him, from
his conversation, to have been one who was fighting and struggling
all day long, instead of the quiet, inoffensive character that he
really was. But this, sir, was not all; he would fancy that every
one else was a soldier also. He almost persuaded little Annie that
she had enlisted in the same army with himself; and often made her
sad by talking of the enemies who surrounded her, and the service she
was required to perform."
[Illustration: Page 76]
I here interrupted him by asking whether the child had not been
baptized. He at once perceived the drift of the question, and
replied, "I know what you mean, sir,--she was then made the soldier
and servant of Christ."
"Yes," I added, "and entered into a solemn engagement to fight
manfully under His banner, against sin, the world, and the Devil."
"True," he answered; "and it is very curious that it was the old man
himself who first pointed out that passage in the Prayer-Book to me.
I remember it struck me at the time that his peculiar notions about
soldiers might, in some way, be connected with it. And I think it
far from improbable; for Robin's madness seemed principally to
consist in his regarding metaphors as realities, and realities as
metaphors. The difference between him and ourselves would be, that
he believed little Annie to be really a soldier, and not merely to be
called one in the Prayer-Book."
I made no further reply, for my own thoughts grew perplexed, as I
tried to determine with myself what were truths and realities, and
what merely shadows and metaphors, of the things pertaining to our
present existence.
CHAPTER V
Oh, bliss of child-like innocence, and love
Tried to old age! creative power to win,
And raise new worlds, where happy fancies rove,
Forgetting quite this grosser world of sin.
CHRISTIAN YEAR.
The rooms of the Asylum were hot and close, and as the outer door
opened, it. was very pleasant to escape from them into the fresh,
open air. While we did so, my mind experienced a similar kind of
relief, as the plaintive accents of childhood broke in on my
prolonged conversation with the superintendent.
In spite of the interest I took in his narrative itself, it was with
a feeling of oppression that I had listened to it; and there was
something very refreshing in the sudden change. The sounds which I
now heard proceeded from little Annie. She was standing on the
threshold, just as I had seen her when I entered, except that her
grief was of a less quiet character than before, and something of
impatience seemed to be mingled with it.
"It is no use," said her mother, as we approached; "the poor child
will fret herself into a fever, and I cannot persuade her to come
away. She does nothing but beg and entreat to be allowed to see poor
Robin again. I really believe it will be the best way to take her to
his cell."
"It must not be," replied her husband; "she has no idea of what death
really is; and the sight of the body would rill her mind with strange
fancies, and perhaps do her serious harm; for she herself is but a
poor weakly thing. You know I never refused her permission to visit
him while he was alive, but I cannot suffer it now." "It is
singular," he added, turning to me with a look of vexation, "that I
should have found less difficulty in quieting the complaints of all
the mourners for poor Robin within the Asylum, than in soothing the
grief of my own little girl. I do not like to treat her with
severity, and yet without it I see no hope of getting her away."
All that I had heard of the child, inspired me with a lively
compassion for her; and I asked to be allowed to try my powers of
persuasion. Permission was readily granted; and I instinctively had
recourse to the old man's last message, as the easiest way of gaining
access to her heart. "Annie," I said, gently, "do you know where
your friend is gone?" The simple question checked her sobs, and she
looked timidly in my face, but made no reply. "Poor Annie!" I
continued; "and did he indeed leave you without telling you whither
he was going?"
"Home, sir, home," she replied; and the accent, no less than the
words, recalled to my mind the childlike old man: "he often told me
that he was going home."
"True," I replied; "and he is gone home now. Do you really wish to
see him again?" She was silent; but the look of affection that
beamed on every feature was a sufficient answer; so I continued: "And
if you do see him again, Annie, where will it be?" Her voice
faltered, as she repeated the words, "At home;" and she again burst
into tears.
"Yes, Annie," I said, after a short pause, "you cannot see him here,
because he is gone away. He is now happy in the enjoyment of his
home, and you must wait till you can go to him there. But, perhaps,
your home is different from his. Is it so, Annie?"
"Oh, no," she answered, with unexpected earnestness, "we are all
children of the same Father, and all travel to the same Home--that
is," she added, looking down, and colouring deeply, "if we are
careful to keep in the path that leads to it."
"And what path is that, Annie?"
"The path of trustful obedience, and quiet faith, and holy love," was
her immediate reply.
I knew at once that the words were not her own, but that she spoke
from memory, and that I had accidentally led her to one of the old
man's allegories. I was anxious for my own sake to hear more of it,
and it seemed to me that it might be good for her own sorrow to turn
her thoughts for a little while into this channel; so I continued:
"And is it a pleasant path, Annie, that leads us home?"
"It is an up-hill path," she said; "but, as we walk along it, we can,
if we will, awake soft notes of music beneath our feet, and there are
whispering winds to cheer us on our way."
"And what, Annie," I asked, "do you mean by the soft music and the
whispering wind?"
"The soft music is prayer," she replied, "and the whispering wind,
the Holy Spirit of God."
"And can we," I said, "have the soft music without the whispering
wind? I mean, can we pray without the assistance of God's Holy
Spirit?" But there was no need for me to have explained the
question; the language of allegory was most familiar to the mind of
the child, and she had recourse to it in her reply. "No, sir," she
said, "for the spirit of harmony dwells in the breeze; and it is the
wind alone that gives life to the music, and bears it upward from
earth to Heaven."
I cannot tell how far she realized the deep meaning of these words,
for I did not venture to examine her upon them. I was afraid lest I
should only render indistinct the image which they conveyed to her
mind, by touching the colours with an unskilful hand.
Presently I resumed:--"It must, Annie, I think, be a pleasant path
along which the wind thus murmurs, and the music plays!"
"It is a pleasant path," she replied, "and yet it is very thickly
covered with thorns." "But," she added, and from the smile which for
a moment lit up her countenance, it seemed as though this were the
metaphor which pleased her best, "they are all magic thorns; and if
we look upward to the clear, blue sky, and tread firmly upon them,
they keep changing into flowers."
"And is there not another path," I said, venturing to guess at the
conclusion of the allegory, "which leads away from home, and along
which the flowers, as you tread upon them, keep changing into thorns?"
But I was wrong in my conjecture, for she looked perplexed, and
replied, "I do not know, sir, about the other paths; the old man
never used to talk to me but of one." And I felt ashamed of my
question, as I said within myself, "Oh, happy child, to know as yet
but of one path; and happy teacher, to have so shared the innocency
of childhood as to have spoken to her but of one!"
Presently, however, she continued, as though she observed my
confusion: "But, sir, he said there were flowers which grow by the
way-side. When the wind blows softly upon them they perfume the air;
and their fragrance is very sweet and pleasant to those who pass them
by; but if we stop to gather them, then they become magic flowers,
and keep changing into thorns. And do you know, sir, why it is so?"
"Not exactly," I replied; "I should like you to explain it to me."
"Because, sir," she said, "when we gather them, we stoop down, and
turn our eyes towards the earth, instead of gazing upward on the
clear, blue sky."
"But, Annie," I observed, "you have not yet told me what are the
flowers which we gather, or the thorns on which we tread."
"The thorns," she replied, "are the trials and afflictions which God
sends us; the flowers are the pleasures and amusements which we make
choice of for ourselves."
"Then, Annie," I said, "the children who gather the magic flowers are
those who follow their own will, while those who tread upon the magic
thorns are such as submit themselves quietly to the will of God."
Her countenance became grave, and I saw that she already guessed my
meaning. I thought her mind was now sufficiently prepared to allow
me to apply directly to her own case the old man's allegory; and it
seemed as though his spirit were resting upon me while I did so, and
I used almost unconsciously the language of metaphor.
"Annie," I continued, "a very sharp and piercing thorn was but
yesterday placed in your path. Your foot is young and tender, and I
do not wonder that you should shrink from treading upon it." She
trembled violently at this direct allusion to her grief, and yet
looked anxiously in my face, as though she wished me to say more. My
own voice began to falter, and I could only add, "But, believe me,
your kind friend did not deceive you; the thorn of affliction lies on
the path homewards; and if you have but courage to walk quietly on,
there is none that with greater certainty will change into a flower.
Go, Annie, and awaken the soft music, and you will be cheered by the
whispering wind."
One by one the tears trickled down her cheeks, as she turned to her
mother, and said, "Forgive me for my impatience; I am ready now,
dearest mother, to accompany you home; or I will go home directly
myself, and you shall follow me." She did not trust herself to pause
an instant, or make any further reply, but expressed her gratitude to
me by a look, and at once hastened away: and while she went, so vivid
was the impression which the allegory had made on my own mind, that
the wind which played with her garments seemed to possess some holy
charm, and I could fancy that I was listening to strains of music, in
the soft echo of her receding steps.
The mother also was silent; but there was no mistaking the expression
of her countenance. The subdued smile on her lips, and the bright
tears that trembled in her eyes, as she raised them to Heaven, told
me that she was following the same solemn train of thought with
myself, and treasuring yet more deeply in her heart the sayings of
her child.
There was a pause of some seconds, and the sound of little Annie's
footsteps had just died away, when the stillness was again broken by
her father's voice. "You were fortunate, sir," he said, "in leading
her to the story of the homeward path; many visitors have considered
it the most beautiful of all that the old man told. It was a great
favourite with the child. I have often heard her repeating detached
portions of it to herself, though I was not aware that she had found
in them so deep a meaning.--It is strange, very strange," he added,
thoughtfully, "for I cannot even now tell who could have explained
them to her. I also have often looked back with wonder on the
answers of the child. But there is a passage from Holy Scripture,
which seems to be their best interpreter, and they never fail to
recall it to my mind: "I thank thee, O Father, Lord of heaven and
earth, that thou hast hid these things from the wise and prudent, and
hast revealed them unto babes."*
* Luke x. 21.
Poor Annie! My conversation with her gave a ray of brightness to a
visit which otherwise had in it enough of gloom. Nor has this
feeling been in any way changed by the early death of the child.
There is still peace and joy in every thought connected with her,
though within a few months of my first visit to the Asylum little
Annie was laid in her quiet grave. She laboured but one short hour
in the vineyard, and then was taken to the same home with the old man
who had borne so long and so patiently all the burthen and heat of
the day. Yet my own heart was a witness that even her little hour of
labour had not been without its fruit. A romantic story was told
concerning the cause of her death. It was said that she had never
recovered the loss of her friend, but gradually pined away in
consequence of it, and at length died of a broken heart. But I
believed not the tale; for little Annie did not sorrow as those
without hope; and though, perhaps, the cord of affection, that united
her so closely to the old man, may have hastened her progress to the
home to which he was gone, I do not think that her bereavement was
the cause of her death. I had left her with the impression that she
was not long for this world. I cannot exactly describe from whence
this feeling arose. It was not merely because her cheek was wan, and
her complexion delicate, and her little heart seemed to beat with too
eager emotion for the frail prison in which it was confined; but
there was something in her voice, look, and manner, which kept
reminding me of the world of spirits; as though, in all her youth and
innocence, she were walking on its very borders, and her gentle form
might at any moment fade into the mist, and vanish from my view.
The more I reflected on this, the more sure I became that little
Annie had lived her time, and that no sudden shock had broken
prematurely the thread of life. I thought that this assurance might
afford some comfort to her parents in their heavy affliction; for
Annie was an only daughter. But when I called upon them, the mother
alone was at home; and I soon found that she needed no consolation
which I could afford her. She had her own secret store of treasure
in every word that had fallen from her darling child. I shall never
forget the look with which she said to me, "Ah, sir, I understood
very little of her words while she was alive; but the moment she was
gone, it seemed as though a light was shining upon them from another
world, and I can read them plainly now." And then, after a pause,
she added, "Do you remember, sir, on the very day you were with us,
how she said, 'I will go home directly myself, and you shall follow
me?' I remembered it well; and she saw from my countenance that I
guessed her meaning. "Yes," she continued, as, in spite of every
effort to suppress it, the big tear rolled down her cheek, "it was in
order that her father and myself might learn to follow her, that
little Annie was taken Home. He too, sir, has become since then an
altered man."
A silent pressure of the hand was my only reply, for I felt that the
afflicted mother had learnt more truly than I could teach her the
lesson which was to be gathered from the death of her child.
CHAPTER VI.
Gently along the vale of tears
Lead me from Tabor's sunbright steep;
Let me not grudge a few short years
With thee toward Heaven to walk and weep.
But, oh! most happy, should thy call,
Thy welcome call, at last be given--
"Come, where thou long hast stor'd thy all!
Come, see thy place prepar'd in Heaven!"
CHRISTIAN YEAR.
The recollection of little Annie has made me wander from my story,
and I must now hasten to bring it to a conclusion. I left the
Asylum, pondering deeply on the things I had heard and seen. My
heart was sad within me; for I could not help giving way to a feeling
of compassionate sorrow as I thought of the old man's solitary lot.
His past history seemed, indeed, to be lost in almost hopeless
oblivion. But I knew that he must have been crushed and broken down
by some terrible calamity in early youth; that he had been awakened
from the stupor which it produced to the stern reality of bonds and
chains, and then been doomed to a dull, unvaried captivity, not for
days, weeks, or months, but for a long period of more than fifty
years. Thus reason kept drawing a melancholy picture of one without
home, without friends, dependent on charity for his daily bread,
whose whole existence was a dreary void, with no employment to
beguile his thoughts, no hope to cheer him on his way. It needed
only the recollection of that peculiar solitude of mind, which is
almost the certain offspring of insanity, to complete its gloom.
And yet, after all, it was my own infirmity which made me sad; for,
when I had strength to gaze on the same picture with the eye of
faith, bright and beautiful were the images that I saw. I then
perceived that he was not without home, for his home was in the land
of spirits beyond the grave; he was not without friends, for his wife
and children were waiting for him there; while he remained upon
earth, he was not dependent, for he felt his daily wants to be
supplied by a Father's care; he never, for a single instant, was
without occupation, for he had a long warfare to accomplish, a
distant journey to perform; and still less was he uncheered by the
blessing of hope, for he was able to rest in humble trust on his
Saviour's promise, and go on, day after day, laying up treasures for
himself, which neither moth nor rust could corrupt, nor thieves break
through and steal. Out of the loneliness caused by his affliction he
had created a new world for himself, or rather, he had been drawn by
it to live in that world which, though unseen, God has really created
for us all. And surely to him life could never have been dull and
unvaried, while he was able to trace the types and emblems of
spiritual things alike in the passing gleams of sunshine, and in the
dark shadows that rested upon his path!
Mingled with these conflicting emotions, the question from time to
time arose in my mind, 'And was poor Robin really mad?' And again it
was only my own infirmity which caused me to shrink from the reply.
It is hard indeed to define madness; and the state of his intellect
probably varied from time to time. Thus it may have been almost
without a cloud when little Annie was his companion. So, also,
during my own brief interview with him, the stillness of the evening,
and the unison of his own thoughts with the surrounding scene, may
have breathed a soothing influence upon his mind. And yet when I
reflected calmly on that very interview, I felt that they were right
in not suffering the old man to travel alone along the journey of
life.
His was the second childhood; simple, pure, and holy as the first,
and yet, in his case, no less than the first, requiring a protector's
care. He spoke and thought as a child, and children could understand
him; but the calm mirror of his mind quickly grew troubled in his
intercourse with men, and he then lost the power of explaining his
thoughts, or perhaps of himself distinguishing between the shadow and
the substance, the things of sight and the things of faith. Reason
had resigned her sway during the mental conflict which had been
caused by his calamities; and though peace and quietness had been
restored, she never had attained sufficient vigour to resume it
again. Nay more; it may be that her lamp was the more dim and
uncertain, on account of the brighter and clearer light which from
that time burned unceasingly in his soul. It is possible that he was
slow in observing the different shades of colour that passed across
earthly objects, because to his eye one unfading colour was resting
upon them all; and that his mere intellectual faculties remained weak
and palsied, because out of this very weakness he had been made
strong, and he was at all times conscious of the presence of a surer
support and a safer guide.
And what matters it, if it were so? Why may we not revere poor
Robin, and love him, and learn from him, and yet not shrink from
acknowledging that his reason had gone astray? Surely there is no
one who would not gladly leave the hard, dull road of life, if only
they could wander with him along the same bright and happy paths!
There is no one who would not give the choicest gifts of reason twice
told, if only they could purchase for them the child-like faith of
that simple-hearted man!
I was half sorry when my arrival at the village of B---- made me
change these silent meditations for the attempt to investigate the
old man's connexions and history. It was not, however, mere
curiosity that prompted me to do so. I was anxious, if it were
possible, to save him from a pauper's grave. For a long time my
inquiries were in vain. Some few, indeed, had heard of poor Robin,
for his fame, as I have said, had spread beyond the walls of the
Asylum; but the name of Wakeling was unknown to them; and they did
not believe he had ever been connected with the parish of B----.
They referred me, however, to the cottage of the oldest inhabitant of
the village. She was a widow, of very great age, having lived to see
four generations around her. A few years since, they said, she was
able to speak distinctly of events that had happened more than half a
century ago, but latterly her memory had become impaired.
When I mentioned to her the name of Wakeling, the word at once
awakened some recollection of the past. She twice repeated it, and
added, almost mechanically, "Good and excellent people, sir, and very
kind to the poor." But when I questioned her as to their occupation
and history, and asked what had become of them, she shook her head,
as though the thread of memory had been broken off, and she was
unable to unite it again.
As a last hope, I referred directly to the spring of 1783, and
inquired whether it had been marked by any particular occurrence.
"Ah, sir," she replied, "much of the past is now like a dream to me,
but that is a period which I never can forget." The tone of sadness
in which these words were uttered, proved some deep sorrow to be
connected with the remembrance of it; and on further questioning, I
learnt that it was a season in which an infectious fever had raged in
the village, and that whole families had been carried off by its
ravages: she herself had then been left an orphan. But though her
recollection of the illness itself seemed as vivid as though it had
occurred but yesterday, of the Wakelings she could say nothing with
distinctness. It may be that her mind was too absorbed with the
remembrance of her own grief to allow her to recur to that of others;
or it may be that, even at the time, in the general affliction the
loss of an individual, however grievous, had been scarcely noticed,
and soon forgotten. At length she seemed to grow weary of my
importunity, and said, "I cannot tell who may have lived, and who may
have died: you must go, sir, to the churchyard, and there you will
find the only certain history of that fatal spring."
A new thought was suggested by these words, and I repaired thither in
the hope that I might find that information which I had sought in
vain from the living, among the silent records of the dead.
The evening was now drawing on, and it was in truth the very hour at
which but yesterday I had parted from the old man. I was alone; and
as I trod, with a cautious reverence upon the green sod, there was no
sound to break the tranquillity of the scene, save the ripple of the
waters at the edge of the cliff on which the churchyard stood. Their
restless motion only made me feel the more deeply the stillness of
the hallowed ground itself; and I thought, that if the old man had
been with me, he might have found in it an apt emblem of the quiet
resting-place of the dead, lying on the very borders of the sea of
life, and yet untroubled by its murmuring and sheltered from its
storms. I was not long in discovering the object which I sought.
The rays of the setting sun at once directed me to a stone at the
eastern extremity of the churchyard. It was distinguished from those
around by a simple cross; but in spite of the soft light that was now
shed upon it, it was with difficulty that I deciphered the
inscription which it bore. For not only was the tomb itself thickly
covered with moss and weeds, but my own eye grew dim with tears, as
one by one the few sad words revealed to me the secret of the old
man's history. His restlessness during the spring, the object of his
last solitary journey, and parts of his conversation with myself,
which before had seemed obscure, were now fully explained. The
inscription was as follows:--
SACRED
TO THE MEMORY OF
SUSAN, WIFE OF ROBERT WAKELING,
WHO DIED
APRIL 18TH, 1783, AGED 28 YEARS.
ALSO OF THEIR CHILDREN,
ALICE, AGED 6 YEARS, HENRY, AGED 5 YEARS,
AND EDWARD, AN INFANT,
WHO SURVIVED HER ONLY A FEW DAYS.
"I SHALL GO TO THEM
BUT THEY SHALL NOT RETURN TO ME."
2 SAM. XII. 21
There was room beneath the text from Holy Scripture for one name
more, and it was there that I added the words:
ALSO OF ROBERT WAKELING,
WHO DIED
APRIL 18TH, 1843, AGED 93 YEARS.
They remain as a simple record that the old man was indeed united at
last, in body as well as spirit, to those whom he had so dearly
loved, and mourned so long.
[Transcriber's note: Odd and unusual spellings are as printed.]
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