far more serious delay. "Of course," said the attendant, "anything is better than having recourse to violence." "Then," said I, "you accede to my request?" "Only," replied he, with a provoking smile," in case all other methods fail; but as the delay would be a real inconvenience to us, you must permit me first to try my powers of persuasion. Let me now beg of you, whatever surprise you may feel, to be careful to express none." He again lowered his voice as he said these words, and, in spite of the dislike inspired by the self-confidence of his manner, and of other stronger emotions, my curiosity was excited to know how he would proceed. He placed himself opposite to the old man, so as to intercept his view of the village, and then, having fixed his eye calmly and steadfastly upon him, with an appearance of real interest, thus soothingly addressed him: “I would gladly go on with you, Robin; but am sure you are under some mistake. Your wife and children cannot be in yonder village; they are not there, they are at home. Come quietly with me now, and perhaps this evening you may go home also." These simple words touched some hidden chord in the old man's heart, and their effect was almost magical. All other feelings passed away, and I forgot the presence of his companions, as I watched the change which they produced. His features became composed, his hand relaxed its hold, and his voice resumed its former tranquil tone, as he slowly repeated: "They are not there, they are at home; they are not there, they are at home. True, very true; they are not there, they are at home." Presently he raised his eyes to heaven, and the attendants, no less than myself, were overawed by the solemnity of his manner. There was a silence of a few seconds, during which he seemed to listen intently; and then, as though he had heard some echo from above, which confirmed the hope that had been held out to him, he confidently added: "And I also shall go home; and this very evening I shall be there." I was now forced to bid adieu to the old man. He appeared so sorry to leave me, that I promised to come and see him. I did not like to use the word asylum, so I said at his dwelling-place. "for to-morrow I shall not be there. If you see me again, kind stranger, it must be at home. May God bless you, and guide you on your way." The cart was already in motion, but he looked back once more, and waved his hand as he said, "Good-by, sir. Remember that we all are going home!" They were the last words I heard him speak, and it is perhaps from that cause that they made so strong an impression on my mind; for often since then, when I have been tempted to wander from the right path, or to murmur as I walked along it, I have thought upon the old man's parting warning, and asked myself the question, "Am I not going home?" 66 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 toward 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 a while absorbed in thought. He advanced softly "Not in my dwelling-place," he said, to the bedside, and it was not until, with "And did you refuse ?" I asked. a gentle hand, he had closed the old man's | expressed so earnest a wish that the chapeyes, that he broke the silence by observ- lain should be sent for." ing, "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, a heavenly." And while I read, it seemed as though I had found the text to the old man's history. 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 "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." 66 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 burden 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 afterward 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, 'O 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.' 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 who mourned his loss. A smile again crossed the features of my companion, as he replied: "There are many of the patients who loved him dearly, 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, 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 afterward throw some gloom over the bright and happy notions which they have now formed of his home." "and I replied that it might be so; 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. Mingled with conflicting emotions, the question from time to time arose in my mind," And was poor Robin really mad?" And again it was only my own infirmity which caused me to shrink from the reply. It is hard, indeed, to define madness; and the state of his intellect probably varied from time to time. Thus it may have been almost without a cloud during my brief interview with him. The stillness of the evening, and the unison of his own thoughts with the surrounding scene, may have breathed a soothing influence upon his mind. And yet, when I reflected calmly on that very interview, I felt that they were right in not suffering the old man to travel alone along the journey of life. His was the second childhood; simple, pure, and holy as the first, and yet, in his case, no less than the first, requiring a protector's care. He spoke and thought as a child, and children could understand him; but the calm mirror of his mind quickly grew troubled in his intercourse with men, and he then lost the power of explaining his thoughts, or perhaps of himself distinguishing between the shadow and the substance, the things of sight and the things of faith. Reason had resigned her sway during the mental conflict which had been caused by his calamities; and though peace and quietness had been restored, she never had attained sufficient vigor to resume it again. Nay, more; it may be that her lamp was the more dim and uncertain, on account of the brighter and clearer light which from that time burned unceasingly in his soul. It is possible that he was slow in observing the different shades of color that passed across earthly objects, because to his eye one unfading color was resting upon them all; and that his mere intellectual faculties remained weak and palsied, because out of this very weakness he had been made strong, and he was at all times conscious of the presence of a surer support and safer guide. And what matters it, if it were so? Why may we not revere poor Robin, and love him, and learn from him, and yet not shrink from acknowledging that his reason had gone astray? Surely, there is no one who would not gladly leave the hard, dull road of life, if only they could wander with him along the same bright and happy paths! I wandered from the old man's late home to the village of B-, where I made many inquiries after him, but all who knew him had passed away. At length I was directed to the cabin of an aged woman, who had lived to see four generations, but whose memory had become impaired; she, however, had sufficient reason left to direct me to the churchyard, where, she said, I would find all the information I required, to which place I at once repaired. The evening was drawing on as I entered it. I was alone; and as I trod, with a cautious reverence, upon the green sod, there was no sound to break the tranquillity of the scene, save the ripple of the waters at the edge of the cliff on which the churchyard stood. Their restless motion only made me feel the more deeply the stillness of the hallowed ground itself; and I thought that if the old man had been with me, he weeds, but my own eye grew dim with tears, as one by one the few sad words revealed to me the secret of the old man's history. His restlessness during the spring, the object of his last solitary journey, and parts of his conversation with myself, which before had seemed obscure, were now fully explained. The inscription was as follows: Sacred to the memory of SUSAN, WIFE OF ROBERT WAKELING, might have found in it an apt emblem of the Who died April 18, 1783, aged 28 years. quiet resting-place of the dead, lying on the very borders of the sea of life, and yet untroubled by its murmuring, and sheltered from its storms. I was not long in discovering the object which I sought. The rays of the setting sun at once directed me to a stone at the eastern extremity of the churchyard. It was distinguished from those around by a simple cross; but in spite of the soft light that was now shed upon it, it was with difficulty that I deciphered the inscription which it bore. For not only was the tomb itself thickly covered with moss and Also of their children, ALICE, HENRY, AND EDWARD, There was room on the stone for one name more, and it was there that I added the words: Also of ROBERT WAKELING, Who died April 18, 1843, aged 93 years. They remain as a simple record that the old man was indeed united at last, in body as well as spirit, to those whom he had so dearly loved, and mourned so long. |