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.