1Ever the richest, tenderest glow

2Sets round th' autumnal sun—

3But there sight fails; no heart may know

4The bliss when life is done.

5CHRISTIAN YEAR.

6I 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.

7"And did these," I asked, "render him for the time violent and intractable?"

8"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."

9"Perhaps," said I, "he may have meant that he was praying to his Father in Heaven.

10"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."

11And 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.

12"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."

13I was not sorry to change the conversation, by inquiring how he had contrived his escape.

14"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."

15"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."

16"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."

17"And had he been there?" I said.

18"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."

19Now 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.

20"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."

21I 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.

22My 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."

23There 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.

24A 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.

25* Heb. xi. 13-15.

26Another 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.

27I 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."

28"And did you refuse?" I asked.

29"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."

30I 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."

31"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."

32My 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."

33I 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.

34"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!"

35The 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!

36As 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."

37"And did you," I asked, "then tell them that he was dead?"

38"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!'"

39Still I observed that I had remarked on the countenance of many of the patients an expression of sadness.

40"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."

41I 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.

42My 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.

43"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."

44"Did he, then," I asked, "believe that his warfare had long been at an end?"

45"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."

46I 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."

47"Yes," I added, "and entered into a solemn engagement to fight manfully under His banner, against sin, the world, and the Devil."

48"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."

49I 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.