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.