1Two worlds are ours: 'tis only Sin

2Forbids us to descry

3The mystic heaven and earth within,

4Plain as the sea and sky.

5CHRISTIAN YEAR.

6Very 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.

7These 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.

8The 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.

9The 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.

10"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."

11"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.

12After 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."

13I 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."

14"How do you mean?" I said; "surely he could not help feeling that he was alone?"

15"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."

16"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."

17I 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."

18I 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."

19"Do you mean," I asked, "that he imagined something had been preserved from the wreck of his own property?"

20"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."

21"And did he," I asked, "appear much hurt at the discovery?"

22"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."

23Another 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.

24"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."

25"And do you suppose," I said, "that the child liked to be with him?"

26"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."

27"Do you really mean," I asked, in some surprise, "that they were fairy tales?"

28"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."

29I 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."

30I begged him to relate the circumstance to which he referred.

31"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."

32There 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.

33* Acts xx. 35.

34With a view to pursuing the subject farther, I inquired whether the old man had restored the money.

35"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."

36And 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.