The treatment of animals.—The story of crazy Robin.—The man confined in
the Bastille.
In the afternoon the children bounded over the short grass of the common,
and walked under the shadow of the mountain till they came to a craggy
part; where a stream broke out, and ran down the declivity, struggling
with the huge stones which impeded its progress, and occasioned a noise
that did not unpleasantly interrupt the solemn silence of the place. The
brook was soon lost in a neighbouring wood, and the children turned their
eyes to the broken side of the mountain, over which ivy grew in great
profusion. Mrs. Mason pointed out a little cave, and desired them to sit
down on some stumps of trees, whilst she related the promised story.
In yonder cave once lived a poor man, who generally went by the name of
crazy Robin. In his youth he was very industrious, and married my
father’s dairy-maid; a girl deserving of such a good husband. For some
time they continued to live very comfortably; their daily labour procured
their daily bread; but Robin, finding it was likely he should have a
large family, borrowed a trifle, to add to the small pittance which they
had saved in service, and took a little farm in a neighbouring county. I
was then a child.
Ten or twelve years after, I heard that a crazy man, who appeared very
harmless, had piled by the side of the brook a great number of stones; he
would wade into the river for them, followed by a cur dog, whom he would
frequently call his Jacky, and even his Nancy; and then mumble to
himself,—thou wilt not leave me—we will dwell with the owls in the ivy.—A
number of owls had taken shelter in it. The stones which he waded for he
carried to the mouth of the hole, and only just left room enough to creep
in. Some of the neighbours at last recollected his face; and I sent to
enquire what misfortune had reduced him to such a deplorable state.
The information I received from different persons, I will communicate to
you in as few words as I can.
Several of his children died in their infancy; and, two years before he
came to his native place, one misfortune had followed another till he had
sunk under their accumulated weight. Through various accidents he was
long in arrears to his landlord; who, seeing that he was an honest man,
who endeavoured to bring up his family, did not distress him; but when
his wife was lying-in of her last child, the landlord dying, his heir
sent and seized the stock for the rent; and the person from whom he had
borrowed some money, exasperated to see all gone, arresting him
immediately, he was hurried to gaol, without being able to leave any
money for his family. The poor woman could not see them starve, and
trying to support her children before she had gained sufficient strength,
she caught cold; and through neglect, and her want of proper nourishment,
her illness turned to a putrid fever; which two of the children caught
from her, and died with her. The two who were left, Jacky and Nancy,
went to their father, and took with them a cur dog, that had long shared
their frugal meals.
The children begged in the day, and at night slept with their wretched
father. Poverty and dirt soon robbed their cheeks of the roses which the
country air made bloom with a peculiar freshness; so that they soon
caught a jail fever,—and died. The poor father, who was now bereft of
all his children, hung over their bed in speechless anguish; not a groan
or a tear escaped from him, whilst he stood, two or three hours, in the
same attitude, looking at the dead bodies of his little darlings. The
dog licked his hands, and strove to attract his attention; but for awhile
he seemed not to observe his caresses; when he did, he said, mournfully,
thou wilt not leave me—and then he began to laugh. The bodies were
removed; and he remained in an unsettled state, often frantic; at length
the phrenzy subsided, and he grew melancholy and harmless. He was not
then so closely watched; and one day he contrived to make his escape, the
dog followed him, and came directly to his native village.
After I had received this account, I determined he should live in the
place he had chosen, undisturbed. I sent some conveniences, all of which
he rejected, except a mat; on which he sometimes slept—the dog always
did. I tried to induce him to eat, but he constantly gave the dog
whatever I sent him, and lived on haws and blackberries, and every kind
of trash. I used to call frequently on him; and he sometimes followed me
to the house I now live in, and in winter he would come of his own
accord, and take a crust of bread. He gathered water-cresses out of the
pool, and would bring them to me, with nosegays of wild thyme, which he
plucked from the sides of the mountain. I mentioned before, that the dog
was a cur. It had, indeed, the bad trick of a cur, and would run barking
after horses heels. One day, when his master was gathering
water-cresses, the dog running after a young gentleman’s horse, made it
start, and almost threw the rider; who grew so angry, that though he knew
it was the poor madman’s dog, he levelled his gun at his head—shot
him,—and instantly rode off. Robin ran to his dog,—he looked at his
wounds, and not sensible that he was dead, called to him to follow him;
but when he found that he could not, he took him to the pool, and washed
off the blood before it began to clot, and then brought him home, and
laid him on the mat.
I observed that I had not seen him pacing up the hills as usual, and sent
to enquire about him. He was found sitting by the dog, and no entreaties
could prevail on him to quit the body, or receive any refreshment. I
instantly set off for this place, hoping, as I had always been a
favourite, that I should be able to persuade him to eat something. But
when I came to him, I found the hand of death was upon him. He was still
melancholy; yet there was not such a mixture of wildness in it as
formerly. I pressed him to take some food; but, instead of answering me,
or turning away, he burst into tears,—a thing I had never seen him do
before, and, sobbing, he said, Will any one be kind to me!—you will kill
me!—I saw not my wife die—No!—they dragged me from her—but I saw Jacky
and Nancy die—and who pitied me?—but my dog! He turned his eyes to the
body—I wept with him. He would then have taken some nourishment, but
nature was exhausted—and he expired.
Was that the cave? said Mary. They ran to it. Poor Robin! Did you ever
hear of any thing so cruel? Yes, answered Mrs. Mason; and as we walk
home I will relate an instance of still greater barbarity.
I told you, that Robin was confined in a jail. In France they have a
dreadful one, called the Bastille. The poor wretches who are confined in
it live entirely alone; have not the pleasure of seeing men or animals;
nor are they allowed books.—They live in comfortless solitude. Some have
amused themselves by making figures on the wall; and others have laid
straws in rows. One miserable captive found a spider; he nourished it
for two or three years; it grew tame, and partook of his lonely meal.
The keeper observed it, and mentioned the circumstance to a superiour,
who ordered him to crush it. In vain did the man beg to have his spider
spared. You find, Mary, that the nasty creature which you despised was a
comfort in solitude. The keeper obeyed the cruel command; and the
unhappy wretch felt more pain when he heard the crush, than he had ever
experienced during his long confinement. He looked round a dreary
apartment, and the small portion of light which the grated bars admitted,
only served to shew him, that he breathed where nothing else drew breath.