The old man_s home William Adams 484 downloads.pdf

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The old man's home
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of
the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will
have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using
this eBook.

Title: The old man's home

Author: William Adams

Release date: March 18, 2025 [eBook #75652]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: General Prot. Episcopal S. S. Untion, 1847

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/75652

Credits: Al Haines

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OLD
MAN'S HOME ***

"And I also shall go home." Page 31

THE
OLD MAN'S HOME.

BY THE REV. WILLIAM ADAMS, M. A.
AUTHOR OF "THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS,"
AND "THE DISTANT HILLS," ETC.

With Engravings from Original Designs,
BY WEIR.

NEW-YORK:
GENERAL PROT. EPISCOPAL S. S. UNION,
DANIEL DANA, Jr., AGENT,
Depository 20 John Street.
1848.

ENTERED according to act of Congress, in the year 1847, by JOHN W.
MITCHELL, (as TREASURER of the General Protestant Episcopal Sunday
School Union,) in the Office of the Clerk of the United States District Court
for the Southern District of New York.

TO

JOHN ADAMS,
Serjeant at Law,

AS A MARK OF FILIAL GRATITUDE

And Affection,

THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED

BY

THE AUTHOR.

FOR THEY

THAT SAY SUCH THINGS

DECLARE PLAINLY

THAT THEY SEEK A COUNTRY.

HEB. xi, 14.

The Old Man's Home.

CHAPTER I.
Each in his hidden sphere of joy or woe,
Our hermit spirits dwell and range apart;
Our eyes see all around in gloom or glow—
Hues of their own, fresh borrow'd from the heart
CHRISTIAN YEAR.

There is a scene on the coast of the Isle of Wight with which I have long
since become familiar, but which never fails to exercise a soothing
influence on my mind. It is at the eastern extremity of the landslip. Large
portions of the cliff have fallen away, and formed a dell so broken and
irregular, that the ground has the appearance of having at one time been
agitated by an earthquake. But Nature has only suffered the convulsion to
take place, in order that afterwards she might bestow her gifts upon this
favoured spot with a more unsparing hand. The wild and picturesque
character of the landscape is now almost lost sight of in its richness and
repose. The new soil is protected from the storms of winter by the cliff from
which it has fallen, and, sloping towards the south, is open to the full
warmth and radiance of the sun. In consequence of this, the landslip has as
it were, a climate of its own; and often when the more exposed parts of the
country still look dreary and desolate, is in the enjoyment of the blessings
of an early spring. Such was the season at which I first visited it. The grey
fragments of rock which lay scattered on the ground are almost hid by the
luxuriance of the underwood, and countless wild flowers were growing
beneath their shade. Below, the eye rested upon a little bay, formed by the
gradual advance of the sea; and all was so calm and peaceful, that as I
watched the gentle undulation of the waters, I could fancy them to be
moving to and fro with a stealthy step, lest they should disturb the
tranquillity of the scene.

I have said that a visit to this favoured spot never fails with me to have a
soothing influence. I feel as though I were treading on enchanted ground,
and the whole scene were allegorical; for it reminds me that, in like manner,
the wreck of all our earthly hopes and plans may but lay open our hearts to
the influence of a warmer sunshine, and enrich them with flowers which the
storms of life have no longer power to destroy. But I cannot now tell

whether these thoughts have their origin in the scene itself, or in an incident
that occurred the first time I visited it.

It was on the evening of the 18th of April, 1843. I had been long gazing
upon it, and had imagined that I was alone, when my attention was arrested
by a sigh from some one near me. I turned round, and saw a venerable old
man seated upon a fragment of the fallen cliff, beneath which the violets
were very thickly clustering. His hair was white as silver; his face deeply
furrowed, and yet pervaded by a general expression of childish simplicity,
which formed a strong contrast to the lines which must have been indented
upon it by care and suffering, no less than the lapse of years. I cannot recall
the words of the chance observation which I addressed to him; but it related
to the lateness and inclemency of the season, and I was at once struck by
the singularity of his reply: "Yes, yes," he said, musingly, "the winter has
indeed been very long and dreary; and yet it has been gladdened, from time
to time, by glimpses of the coming spring."

I now observed him more closely. There was a strangeness in his dress
which first excited my suspicion, and I fancied that I could detect a
restlessness in his light blue eye which spoke of a mind that had gone
astray. "Old man," I said, "you seem tired; have you come from far?"

"Ah, woe is me," he replied, in the same melancholy tone as before; "I
have indeed travelled a long and solitary journey; and at times I am weary,
very weary; but my resting-place now must be near at hand."

"And whither, then," I asked, "are you going?"

"Home, sir, home," he replied; and while his voice lost its sadness, his
face seemed to brighten and his eye grow steady at the thought; "I hope and
believe that I am going home."

I now imagined that I had judged him hastily, and that the answers
which I had ascribed to a wandering intellect proceeded in truth from depth
of religious feeling. In order to ascertain this, I asked: "Have you been long
a traveller?"

"Four score and thirteen years," he replied; and observing my look of
assumed wonder, he repeated a second time, more slowly and sadly than
before, "Four score and thirteen years."

"The home," I said, "must be very far off that requires so long a
journey."

"Nay, nay, kind sir, do not speak thus," he answered: "our home is never
far off; and I might perhaps have arrived at it years and years ago. But often
during the early spring I stopped to gather the flowers that grew beneath my
feet; and once I laid me down and fell asleep upon the way. And so more
than four score and thirteen years have been wanted to bring me to the
home which many reach in a few days. Alas! all whom I love most dearly
have long since passed me on the road, and I am now left to finish my
journey alone."

During this reply, I had become altogether ashamed of my former
suspicion, and I now looked into the old man's face with a feeling of
reverence and love. The features were unchanged; but instead of the
childish expression which I had before observed, I believed them to be
brightened with the heavenliness of the second childhood, while the
restlessness of the light blue eye only spoke to me of an imagination which
loved to wander amid the treasures of the unseen world. I purposely,
however, continued the conversation under the same metaphor as before.
"You have not, then," I said, "been always a solitary traveller?"

"Ah, no," he replied: "for a few years a dear wife was walking step by
step at my side; and there were little children, too, who were just beginning
to follow us. And I was so happy then, that I sometimes forgot we were but
travellers, and fancied that I had found a home. But my wife, sir, never
forgot it. She would again and again remind me that 'we must so live
together in this life, that in the world to come we might have life
everlasting.' They are words that I scarcely regarded at the time, but I love
to repeat them now. They speak to me of meeting her again at the end of our
journey."

"And have all your children left you?" I asked.

"All, all," he replied. "My wife took them with her when she went away.
She stayed with me, sir, but six years, and left me on the very day on which
she came. It seems strange now that I could have lived with them day after
day without a thought that they were so near their journey's end, while I
should travel onward so many winters alone. It is now sixty years since they
all went home, and have been waiting for me there. But, sir, I often think
that the time, which has seemed so long and dreary to me, has passed away
like a few short hours to them."

"And are you sure, then," I said, "that they are all gone home?" It was a
thoughtless question, and I repented the words almost before they were
spoken. The tears rose quickly in the old man's eyes, and his voice trembled
with emotion, as he replied: "Oh! sir, do not bid me doubt it. Surely, every
one of them is gone home; one, at least, of the number is undoubtedly there;
and they all went away together, as though they were travelling to the same
place; besides, sir, my wife was constantly speaking to them of their home;
and would not their journey as well as my own have been prolonged, if their
home had not been ready for them? And when I think of them, I always
think of home; am I not, then, right in believing that all of them are there?"

There were allusions in this answer which I did not at the time
understand; but the old man's grief was too sacred for me to intrude further
upon it. I felt, also, that any words of my own would be too feeble to calm
the agitation which my thoughtless observation had caused. I merely
repeated a passage from holy Scripture, in reply, "Blessed are the dead that
die in the Lord, even so saith the Spirit, for they rest from their labours."

The old man's face again brightened, and as he wiped away the tears, he
added, "And 'Blessed,' also, 'are they that mourn, for they shall be
comforted.' There is not only a blessing for those who have been taken to
their rest, but there is the image of that blessing to cheer the old man who is
left to pursue his solitary journey."

At this moment, the sun, which had been obscured by a passing cloud,
suddenly shone forth, and its rays were reflected by a path of gold in the
silent waters. The old man pointed to it with a quiet smile; the change was
in such harmony with his own thoughts, that I do not wonder at the
metaphor it suggested to him. "There," said he, "is the blessing of the

mourner! See! how it shines down from the heaven above, and gilds with its
radiance the dreary sea of life."

"True," I replied; "and the sea of life would be no longer dreary, if it
were not for the passing clouds which at times keep back from it the light of
Heaven." His immediate answer to this observation proved the image which
he had employed, to be one long familiar to his own mind. "There are
indeed clouds," he said, "but they are never in Heaven; they hover very near
the earth; and it is only because our sight is so dim and indistinct that they
seem to be in the sky."

A silence of some minutes followed this remark. I was, in truth, anxious
that the old man should pursue the metaphor farther. But the gleam of light
passed away as the sun sunk behind the western hills. His feelings appeared
to undergo a corresponding change, and he exclaimed, hastily, "The day is
fast drawing to a close; and the night must be near at hand: I must hasten
onward on my journey. Come, kind sir, and I will show you where my
friends are waiting for me."

I was wondering whether he now spoke metaphorically or not, when my
thoughts were suddenly turned into a new channel, and my former painful
suspicions returned. As the old man leant upon his staff, his wrists became
exposed to view, and I saw that they were marked with deep blue lines,
which could only have been caused by the galling of a chain in former
years.

The poor wanderer observed the look I gave them. A sudden flush of
shame overspread his countenance, and he hurriedly drew down his
garment to conceal them. It was, however, but a momentary impulse; he
again exposed them to my view, and himself gazed sadly upon them, as he
said, "Why should I try to hide them, when they are left there to remind me
constantly of my true condition? For in times past I have borne the pressure
of more wearing bonds than those; and though I have been released from
them now, no one can tell how dark and deep is the stain that they have left
upon the soul." Something more he added, but his eye was turned meekly
towards Heaven, and it was only from the movement of his lips that I
fancied I could trace the words of the prayer, "Though we be tied and bound

with the chain of our sins, yet let the pitifulness of Thy great mercy loose
us."

He now began to move slowly forward. The ground was rough and
uneven, and his step so very feeble, that I expected every instant to see him
fall. He struck his foot against a stone, and I sprang forward to his
assistance. "Thank you, kind sir," he said, in his quiet way; "but do not fear
for me; my own frail limbs could not support me for an instant: but I have a
staff on which I lean; and though I may stumble at times, I cannot fall."

Again I was in doubt whether to interpret his words literally or not; but
my belief was that the old man almost unconsciously used the language of
allegory. Long habit had so taught him to blend together the seen and the
unseen world, that he could not separate them. Life was to him a mirror, and
in the passing objects of sight and sense, he never failed to recognise the
images of spiritual things.

CHAPTER II.
So wanderers, ever fond and true,
Look homeward through the evening sky,
Without a streak of heaven's soft blue,
To aid affection's dreaming eye.
CHRISTIAN YEAR.

At the conclusion of the last chapter I gave the opinion that I formed of
the old man from the brief conversation I myself had with him. The
following incident cast, as it were, a shadow upon it, and robbed it of its
brightness, but did not really alter it. My intercourse with him was brought
to a sudden and painful conclusion. It was at my persuasion that he crossed
a stile which separated the wild scenery of the landslip from the public road
leading to the little village of B——. I thought it would be easier for him to
walk along the more beaten track. He had yielded with apparent reluctance

to my request. His unwillingness appeared to proceed from instinct rather
than reason. It may in part have arisen from a kind of natural sympathy
which attracted him to that wild luxuriant spot; in part from an unconscious
dread of the danger to which he actually became exposed. He simply said,
"This smooth way was not made for the like of me, kind sir; but under your
protection I will venture along it."

Alas! I little thought of the kind of protection he required. We had
advanced but a few hundred yards, and had just reached the summit of the
hill which commanded the first view of the village church. The old man had
paused for a little while, and appeared to gaze upon it with a feeling of the
most intense interest; I was afraid, even by a passing question, to interrupt
the quiet current of his thoughts; when the silence was suddenly broken by
the creaking of a cart-wheel, which grated harshly on my ear; and almost
before I could look round, I heard a voice of rude triumph behind me,
crying out, "There he is—there he is—there goes the old boy! Stop him,
stop him, sir! he is mad."

I have no heart to describe the scene that followed: the poor wanderer
shuffled forward, with a nervous, hurried step; but in a few seconds the cart
was at his side; the driver immediately jumped out, and, seizing him by the
collar, with many a rude word and coarse jest, tried to force him to enter it.
For a moment, surprise and indignation deprived me of speech, for I had
began to regard the old man with such a feeling of reverent love, that it
almost seemed to me like a profanation of holy ground. When, however, he
turned his eyes towards me, with an imploring look, I recovered myself
sufficiently to demand by what authority he dared thus molest an
inoffensive traveller on his journey. In my inmost heart, I dreaded the
answer I should probably receive; neither was my foreboding wrong; the
man laughed rudely as he replied, "He has been mad, quite mad, for more
than fifty years; he escaped this morning from the Asylum, and one of the
keepers has been with me all day long scouring the country in search of
him."

It was in vain that I sought a pretext for disbelieving the truth of the
story. I could not help feeling that it did but confirm a suspicion which, in
spite of myself, had kept crossing my own mind; for the bright colouring

which was shed by faith on the thoughts and words of the old man was not
alone a sufficient evidence that they were under the guidance of reason. Yet,
of one thing, at least, I felt sure, that, whatever were the state of his
intellect, it could be no imaginary cause that now so strongly moved him.
My heart bled for him, as I listened to the pathetic earnestness with which
he implored the protection that I was unable to afford. He even forgot to use
the language of metaphor in the agony of his grief. "Indeed, indeed, sir," he
said, "they call me mad, but do not believe them, for I am not mad now.
There, there," he added, pointing towards the church, "my wife and children
are waiting for me. It was on this very day that they went away, and we
have now been parted sixty years. I have travelled very far to join them
once again before I die. Oh, have pity upon me! I only ask for one little half
hour, that I may go on in peace to the end of my journey."

Large drops of moisture trembled on his forehead as he uttered these
words; his whole face became convulsed with emotion, and he clung with
such intensity to my garment, that his rude assailant tried in vain to unloose
his grasp. The man himself was evidently frightened by the agitation which
his own violence had caused, and appeared doubtful how to proceed, when
the scene was fortunately interrupted by the arrival of his companion.

He was the keeper who had been sent from the Asylum with the cart,
but had left it in order to search the pathway which led through the landslip.
His look and manner afforded a striking contrast to those of the first comer,
who proved to be merely the owner of the vehicle, which had been hired for
the occasion. Immediately on his arrival, he reprimanded him for his rude
treatment of the old man, and insisted on his returning to the cart, and
desisting from all farther interference. My hopes were greatly raised by this,
and I flattered myself that I should now have little difficulty in obtaining for
the poor wanderer the indulgence which he sought. But I soon found my
mistake; and, under the irritated feelings of the moment, almost preferred
the rude conduct of the first comer to the quiet determination with which his
companion listened to my request.

He merely smiled at the account I gave of my own interview with the
old man; and when I suggested that it contained no evidence of insanity,
shook his head, and replied, "You do not know poor Robin. His notions

about home are the peculiar feature of his madness; but you are not the first
person that has been deceived by them."

He spoke in a low tone, as though he were anxious not to be overheard.
But the precaution seemed unnecessary; for, though the old man had
mechanically retained his grasp on my garments, he was now looking
eagerly towards the village church, and I could see, from the expression of
his countenance, that his thoughts had passed away from the scene around
him.

When I found my arguments of no avail, I changed my ground, and
besought as a favour that he would make the trial of letting the old man
proceed to the end of his journey, and trust to his promise to return quietly
from thence. "Sir," he replied, in a louder voice, "I should have no more
hesitation in trusting the word of poor Robin than your own. He never
deceived me; and, under ordinary circumstances, I would at once grant his
request; but the hour is late, and, as it is, the night will close in upon us
before we can get back to the town of N——. The responsibility will rest
upon me, if mischief should arise from any additional delay. I am sure
Robin himself would not desire it." As he said this, he turned towards the
old man, but his countenance was unchanged, his eye still fixed upon the
church, and he either had not heard the words at all, or they had failed to
convey any distinct impression to his mind.

After a pause, I again renewed my entreaties, urging that it would at
least be a better plan than having recourse to violence, which must
eventually produce a 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 stedfastly 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."

While I was still pondering on these words, the old man had of his own
accord quietly placed himself in the cart, and his companions had seated
themselves by his side. They were on the point of driving off before the
thought occurred to me of offering him money. I drew out my purse, half
expecting him to refuse the proffered gift; and it was with a strong feeling
of disappointment that I observed the look of satisfaction, almost amounting
to eagerness, with which he took the silver from my hand. I said within
myself, "Can it be, then, that the taint of covetousness is to be found in a
mind from which every earthly affection seems so entirely to have been
withdrawn?" But I wronged him by the thought. The money was
immediately taken from him, and he resigned it to another no less gladly
than he had received it from me. "It will not do," said the keeper, "to let him
have it himself: he will merely give it away to the first beggar that he meets.
He has not the slightest notion of the real value of money. It shall be laid
out for his benefit; and till then it will be safe in my keeping."

My countenance may have expressed dissatisfaction at the change,
though, in truth, I had no objection to make to it. But the old man himself
interrupted me before I could reply, and said, "Do not be afraid, kind sir,
whether it remain with me or him; your treasure will be safe, quite safe; it
matters not now whether it remain with me or him;" and then added, in a
more solemn tone, "safe 'where neither rust nor moth doth corrupt, and
where thieves do not break through and steal.' I will take it home with me;
and when you also go home, you will find it there." And I now understood
how it was for my sake that he had so gladly welcomed the gift; and I
thought, too, that if in truth money had a real value at all, it must be the one
which was assigned to it by him.

The men were in a hurry to depart, and I was now forced to bid adieu to
the old man. He appeared so sorry to leave me, that I promised on the
morrow to come and see him. I did not like to use the word Asylum, so I
said at his dwelling-place. The expression at once caught his ear, and re-
awakened the train of thought which my gift had interrupted for a time.

"Not in my dwelling-place," he said, "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 bye, 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 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?"

CHAPTER III.
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.

CHAPTER IV.
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."

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.

CHAPTER V
Oh, bliss of child-like innocence, and love
Tried to old age! creative power to win,
And raise new worlds, where happy fancies rove,
Forgetting quite this grosser world of sin.
CHRISTIAN YEAR.

The rooms of the Asylum were hot and close, and as the outer door
opened, it. was very pleasant to escape from them into the fresh, open air.
While we did so, my mind experienced a similar kind of relief, as the
plaintive accents of childhood broke in on my prolonged conversation with
the superintendent.

In spite of the interest I took in his narrative itself, it was with a feeling
of oppression that I had listened to it; and there was something very
refreshing in the sudden change. The sounds which I now heard proceeded
from little Annie. She was standing on the threshold, just as I had seen her
when I entered, except that her grief was of a less quiet character than
before, and something of impatience seemed to be mingled with it.

"It is no use," said her mother, as we approached; "the poor child will
fret herself into a fever, and I cannot persuade her to come away. She does
nothing but beg and entreat to be allowed to see poor Robin again. I really
believe it will be the best way to take her to his cell."

"It must not be," replied her husband; "she has no idea of what death
really is; and the sight of the body would rill her mind with strange fancies,
and perhaps do her serious harm; for she herself is but a poor weakly thing.
You know I never refused her permission to visit him while he was alive,
but I cannot suffer it now." "It is singular," he added, turning to me with a
look of vexation, "that I should have found less difficulty in quieting the
complaints of all the mourners for poor Robin within the Asylum, than in
soothing the grief of my own little girl. I do not like to treat her with
severity, and yet without it I see no hope of getting her away."

All that I had heard of the child, inspired me with a lively compassion
for her; and I asked to be allowed to try my powers of persuasion.
Permission was readily granted; and I instinctively had recourse to the old
man's last message, as the easiest way of gaining access to her heart.
"Annie," I said, gently, "do you know where your friend is gone?" The
simple question checked her sobs, and she looked timidly in my face, but
made no reply. "Poor Annie!" I continued; "and did he indeed leave you
without telling you whither he was going?"

"Home, sir, home," she replied; and the accent, no less than the words,
recalled to my mind the childlike old man: "he often told me that he was
going home."

"True," I replied; "and he is gone home now. Do you really wish to see
him again?" She was silent; but the look of affection that beamed on every
feature was a sufficient answer; so I continued: "And if you do see him
again, Annie, where will it be?" Her voice faltered, as she repeated the
words, "At home;" and she again burst into tears.

"Yes, Annie," I said, after a short pause, "you cannot see him here,
because he is gone away. He is now happy in the enjoyment of his home,
and you must wait till you can go to him there. But, perhaps, your home is
different from his. Is it so, Annie?"

"Oh, no," she answered, with unexpected earnestness, "we are all
children of the same Father, and all travel to the same Home—that is," she
added, looking down, and colouring deeply, "if we are careful to keep in the
path that leads to it."

"And what path is that, Annie?"

"The path of trustful obedience, and quiet faith, and holy love," was her
immediate reply.

I knew at once that the words were not her own, but that she spoke from
memory, and that I had accidentally led her to one of the old man's
allegories. I was anxious for my own sake to hear more of it, and it seemed
to me that it might be good for her own sorrow to turn her thoughts for a
little while into this channel; so I continued: "And is it a pleasant path,
Annie, that leads us home?"

"It is an up-hill path," she said; "but, as we walk along it, we can, if we
will, awake soft notes of music beneath our feet, and there are whispering
winds to cheer us on our way."

"And what, Annie," I asked, "do you mean by the soft music and the
whispering wind?"

"The soft music is prayer," she replied, "and the whispering wind, the
Holy Spirit of God."

"And can we," I said, "have the soft music without the whispering
wind? I mean, can we pray without the assistance of God's Holy Spirit?"
But there was no need for me to have explained the question; the language
of allegory was most familiar to the mind of the child, and she had recourse
to it in her reply. "No, sir," she said, "for the spirit of harmony dwells in the
breeze; and it is the wind alone that gives life to the music, and bears it
upward from earth to Heaven."

I cannot tell how far she realized the deep meaning of these words, for I
did not venture to examine her upon them. I was afraid lest I should only

render indistinct the image which they conveyed to her mind, by touching
the colours with an unskilful hand.

Presently I resumed:—"It must, Annie, I think, be a pleasant path along
which the wind thus murmurs, and the music plays!"

"It is a pleasant path," she replied, "and yet it is very thickly covered
with thorns." "But," she added, and from the smile which for a moment lit
up her countenance, it seemed as though this were the metaphor which
pleased her best, "they are all magic thorns; and if we look upward to the
clear, blue sky, and tread firmly upon them, they keep changing into
flowers."

"And is there not another path," I said, venturing to guess at the
conclusion of the allegory, "which leads away from home, and along which
the flowers, as you tread upon them, keep changing into thorns?"

But I was wrong in my conjecture, for she looked perplexed, and
replied, "I do not know, sir, about the other paths; the old man never used to
talk to me but of one." And I felt ashamed of my question, as I said within
myself, "Oh, happy child, to know as yet but of one path; and happy
teacher, to have so shared the innocency of childhood as to have spoken to
her but of one!"

Presently, however, she continued, as though she observed my
confusion: "But, sir, he said there were flowers which grow by the way-
side. When the wind blows softly upon them they perfume the air; and their
fragrance is very sweet and pleasant to those who pass them by; but if we
stop to gather them, then they become magic flowers, and keep changing
into thorns. And do you know, sir, why it is so?"

"Not exactly," I replied; "I should like you to explain it to me."

"Because, sir," she said, "when we gather them, we stoop down, and
turn our eyes towards the earth, instead of gazing upward on the clear, blue
sky."

"But, Annie," I observed, "you have not yet told me what are the
flowers which we gather, or the thorns on which we tread."

"The thorns," she replied, "are the trials and afflictions which God sends
us; the flowers are the pleasures and amusements which we make choice of
for ourselves."

"Then, Annie," I said, "the children who gather the magic flowers are
those who follow their own will, while those who tread upon the magic
thorns are such as submit themselves quietly to the will of God."

Her countenance became grave, and I saw that she already guessed my
meaning. I thought her mind was now sufficiently prepared to allow me to
apply directly to her own case the old man's allegory; and it seemed as
though his spirit were resting upon me while I did so, and I used almost
unconsciously the language of metaphor.

"Annie," I continued, "a very sharp and piercing thorn was but
yesterday placed in your path. Your foot is young and tender, and I do not
wonder that you should shrink from treading upon it." She trembled
violently at this direct allusion to her grief, and yet looked anxiously in my
face, as though she wished me to say more. My own voice began to falter,
and I could only add, "But, believe me, your kind friend did not deceive
you; the thorn of affliction lies on the path homewards; and if you have but
courage to walk quietly on, there is none that with greater certainty will
change into a flower. Go, Annie, and awaken the soft music, and you will
be cheered by the whispering wind."

One by one the tears trickled down her cheeks, as she turned to her
mother, and said, "Forgive me for my impatience; I am ready now, dearest
mother, to accompany you home; or I will go home directly myself, and
you shall follow me." She did not trust herself to pause an instant, or make
any further reply, but expressed her gratitude to me by a look, and at once
hastened away: and while she went, so vivid was the impression which the
allegory had made on my own mind, that the wind which played with her
garments seemed to possess some holy charm, and I could fancy that I was
listening to strains of music, in the soft echo of her receding steps.

The mother also was silent; but there was no mistaking the expression
of her countenance. The subdued smile on her lips, and the bright tears that
trembled in her eyes, as she raised them to Heaven, told me that she was
following the same solemn train of thought with myself, and treasuring yet
more deeply in her heart the sayings of her child.

There was a pause of some seconds, and the sound of little Annie's
footsteps had just died away, when the stillness was again broken by her
father's voice. "You were fortunate, sir," he said, "in leading her to the story
of the homeward path; many visitors have considered it the most beautiful
of all that the old man told. It was a great favourite with the child. I have
often heard her repeating detached portions of it to herself, though I was not
aware that she had found in them so deep a meaning.—It is strange, very
strange," he added, thoughtfully, "for I cannot even now tell who could
have explained them to her. I also have often looked back with wonder on
the answers of the child. But there is a passage from Holy Scripture, which
seems to be their best interpreter, and they never fail to recall it to my mind:
"I thank thee, O Father, Lord of heaven and earth, that thou hast hid these
things from the wise and prudent, and hast revealed them unto babes."*

* Luke x. 21.

Poor Annie! My conversation with her gave a ray of brightness to a visit
which otherwise had in it enough of gloom. Nor has this feeling been in any
way changed by the early death of the child. There is still peace and joy in
every thought connected with her, though within a few months of my first
visit to the Asylum little Annie was laid in her quiet grave. She laboured but
one short hour in the vineyard, and then was taken to the same home with
the old man who had borne so long and so patiently all the burthen and heat
of the day. Yet my own heart was a witness that even her little hour of
labour had not been without its fruit. A romantic story was told concerning
the cause of her death. It was said that she had never recovered the loss of
her friend, but gradually pined away in consequence of it, and at length died
of a broken heart. But I believed not the tale; for little Annie did not sorrow

as those without hope; and though, perhaps, the cord of affection, that
united her so closely to the old man, may have hastened her progress to the
home to which he was gone, I do not think that her bereavement was the
cause of her death. I had left her with the impression that she was not long
for this world. I cannot exactly describe from whence this feeling arose. It
was not merely because her cheek was wan, and her complexion delicate,
and her little heart seemed to beat with too eager emotion for the frail
prison in which it was confined; but there was something in her voice, look,
and manner, which kept reminding me of the world of spirits; as though, in
all her youth and innocence, she were walking on its very borders, and her
gentle form might at any moment fade into the mist, and vanish from my
view.

The more I reflected on this, the more sure I became that little Annie
had lived her time, and that no sudden shock had broken prematurely the
thread of life. I thought that this assurance might afford some comfort to her
parents in their heavy affliction; for Annie was an only daughter. But when I
called upon them, the mother alone was at home; and I soon found that she
needed no consolation which I could afford her. She had her own secret
store of treasure in every word that had fallen from her darling child. I shall
never forget the look with which she said to me, "Ah, sir, I understood very
little of her words while she was alive; but the moment she was gone, it
seemed as though a light was shining upon them from another world, and I
can read them plainly now." And then, after a pause, she added, "Do you
remember, sir, on the very day you were with us, how she said, 'I will go
home directly myself, and you shall follow me?' I remembered it well; and
she saw from my countenance that I guessed her meaning. "Yes," she
continued, as, in spite of every effort to suppress it, the big tear rolled down
her cheek, "it was in order that her father and myself might learn to follow
her, that little Annie was taken Home. He too, sir, has become since then an
altered man."

A silent pressure of the hand was my only reply, for I felt that the
afflicted mother had learnt more truly than I could teach her the lesson
which was to be gathered from the death of her child.

CHAPTER VI.
Gently along the vale of tears
Lead me from Tabor's sunbright steep;
Let me not grudge a few short years
With thee toward Heaven to walk and weep.

But, oh! most happy, should thy call,
Thy welcome call, at last be given—
"Come, where thou long hast stor'd thy all!
Come, see thy place prepar'd in Heaven!"
CHRISTIAN YEAR.

The recollection of little Annie has made me wander from my story, and
I must now hasten to bring it to a conclusion. I left the Asylum, pondering
deeply on the things I had heard and seen. My heart was sad within me; for
I could not help giving way to a feeling of compassionate sorrow as I
thought of the old man's solitary lot.

His past history seemed, indeed, to be lost in almost hopeless oblivion.
But I knew that he must have been crushed and broken down by some
terrible calamity in early youth; that he had been awakened from the stupor
which it produced to the stern reality of bonds and chains, and then been
doomed to a dull, unvaried captivity, not for days, weeks, or months, but for
a long period of more than fifty years. Thus reason kept drawing a
melancholy picture of one without home, without friends, dependent on
charity for his daily bread, whose whole existence was a dreary void, with
no employment to beguile his thoughts, no hope to cheer him on his way. It
needed only the recollection of that peculiar solitude of mind, which is
almost the certain offspring of insanity, to complete its gloom.

And yet, after all, it was my own infirmity which made me sad; for,
when I had strength to gaze on the same picture with the eye of faith, bright
and beautiful were the images that I saw. I then perceived that he was not

without home, for his home was in the land of spirits beyond the grave; he
was not without friends, for his wife and children were waiting for him
there; while he remained upon earth, he was not dependent, for he felt his
daily wants to be supplied by a Father's care; he never, for a single instant,
was without occupation, for he had a long warfare to accomplish, a distant
journey to perform; and still less was he uncheered by the blessing of hope,
for he was able to rest in humble trust on his Saviour's promise, and go on,
day after day, laying up treasures for himself, which neither moth nor rust
could corrupt, nor thieves break through and steal. Out of the loneliness
caused by his affliction he had created a new world for himself, or rather, he
had been drawn by it to live in that world which, though unseen, God has
really created for us all. And surely to him life could never have been dull
and unvaried, while he was able to trace the types and emblems of spiritual
things alike in the passing gleams of sunshine, and in the dark shadows that
rested upon his path!

Mingled with these 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 when little
Annie was his companion. So, also, during my own 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 vigour 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 colour that passed across earthly objects, because to
his eye one unfading colour 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 a 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! There is no one who would not give
the choicest gifts of reason twice told, if only they could purchase for them
the child-like faith of that simple-hearted man!

I was half sorry when my arrival at the village of B—— made me
change these silent meditations for the attempt to investigate the old man's
connexions and history. It was not, however, mere curiosity that prompted
me to do so. I was anxious, if it were possible, to save him from a pauper's
grave. For a long time my inquiries were in vain. Some few, indeed, had
heard of poor Robin, for his fame, as I have said, had spread beyond the
walls of the Asylum; but the name of Wakeling was unknown to them; and
they did not believe he had ever been connected with the parish of B——.
They referred me, however, to the cottage of the oldest inhabitant of the
village. She was a widow, of very great age, having lived to see four
generations around her. A few years since, they said, she was able to speak
distinctly of events that had happened more than half a century ago, but
latterly her memory had become impaired.

When I mentioned to her the name of Wakeling, the word at once
awakened some recollection of the past. She twice repeated it, and added,
almost mechanically, "Good and excellent people, sir, and very kind to the
poor." But when I questioned her as to their occupation and history, and
asked what had become of them, she shook her head, as though the thread
of memory had been broken off, and she was unable to unite it again.

As a last hope, I referred directly to the spring of 1783, and inquired
whether it had been marked by any particular occurrence. "Ah, sir," she
replied, "much of the past is now like a dream to me, but that is a period
which I never can forget." The tone of sadness in which these words were
uttered, proved some deep sorrow to be connected with the remembrance of
it; and on further questioning, I learnt that it was a season in which an
infectious fever had raged in the village, and that whole families had been
carried off by its ravages: she herself had then been left an orphan. But
though her recollection of the illness itself seemed as vivid as though it had
occurred but yesterday, of the Wakelings she could say nothing with
distinctness. It may be that her mind was too absorbed with the
remembrance of her own grief to allow her to recur to that of others; or it
may be that, even at the time, in the general affliction the loss of an
individual, however grievous, had been scarcely noticed, and soon
forgotten. At length she seemed to grow weary of my importunity, and said,
"I cannot tell who may have lived, and who may have died: you must go,
sir, to the churchyard, and there you will find the only certain history of that
fatal spring."

A new thought was suggested by these words, and I repaired thither in
the hope that I might find that information which I had sought in vain from
the living, among the silent records of the dead.

The evening was now drawing on, and it was in truth the very hour at
which but yesterday I had parted from the old man. 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 might have found in it an
apt emblem of the 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 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,
WHO DIED
APRIL 18TH, 1783, AGED 28 YEARS.
ALSO OF THEIR CHILDREN,
ALICE, AGED 6 YEARS, HENRY, AGED 5 YEARS,
AND EDWARD, AN INFANT,
WHO SURVIVED HER ONLY A FEW DAYS.

"I SHALL GO TO THEM
BUT THEY SHALL NOT RETURN TO ME."
2 SAM. XII. 21

There was room beneath the text from Holy Scripture for one name
more, and it was there that I added the words:

ALSO OF ROBERT WAKELING,
WHO DIED
APRIL 18TH, 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.

[Transcriber's note: Odd and unusual spellings are as
printed.]

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OLD MAN'S
HOME ***

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be
renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law
means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the
Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States
without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules,
set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying
and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the
PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a
registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for an eBook,
except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying
royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge
anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is
very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation
of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project Gutenberg
eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may do
practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected by
U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license,
especially commercial redistribution.

START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or any
other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project Gutenberg”), you
agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project Gutenberg License
available with this file or online at www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing
Project Gutenberg electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg electronic work,
you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to and accept all the
terms of this license and intellectual property (trademark/copyright)
agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all the terms of this agreement,
you must cease using and return or destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg
electronic works in your possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy
of or access to a Project Gutenberg electronic work and you do not agree to
be bound by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the
person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be used on
or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who agree to be
bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few things that you can
do with most Project Gutenberg electronic works even without complying
with the full terms of this agreement. See paragraph 1.C below. There are a
lot of things you can do with Project Gutenberg electronic works if you
follow the terms of this agreement and help preserve free future access to
Project Gutenberg electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation”
or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project
Gutenberg electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the
collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an individual
work is unprotected by copyright law in the United States and you are

located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from
copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative works
based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg are
removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project Gutenberg
mission of promoting free access to electronic works by freely sharing
Project Gutenberg works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for
keeping the Project Gutenberg name associated with the work. You can
easily comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg License when you
share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in a
constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check the
laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement before
downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or creating
derivative works based on this work or any other Project Gutenberg work.
The Foundation makes no representations concerning the copyright status
of any work in any country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate
access to, the full Project Gutenberg License must appear prominently
whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg work (any work on which the
phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project
Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, copied
or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the Project Gutenberg™ License included with
this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in
the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country
where you are located before using this eBook.

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is derived from
texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not contain a notice
indicating that it is posted with permission of the copyright holder), the
work can be copied and distributed to anyone in the United States without
paying any fees or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a
work with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on
the work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs
1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the
Project Gutenberg trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is posted with the
permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution must comply
with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional terms imposed
by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked to the Project
Gutenberg License for all works posted with the permission of the
copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg License
terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this work or any
other work associated with Project Gutenberg.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without prominently
displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with active links or
immediate access to the full terms of the Project Gutenberg License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any
word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or
distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg work in a format other than “Plain
Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version posted on the
official Project Gutenberg website (www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no
additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a copy, a means of
exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work
in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format
must include the full Project Gutenberg License as specified in paragraph
1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, performing,
copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg works unless you comply
with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing access to
or distributing Project Gutenberg electronic works provided that:

• You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from the
use of Project Gutenberg works calculated using the method you
already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to the
owner of the Project Gutenberg trademark, but he has agreed to donate
royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within 60 days
following each date on which you prepare (or are legally required to
prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly
marked as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, “Information about
donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.”

• You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he does
not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ License. You
must require such a user to return or destroy all copies of the works
possessed in a physical medium and discontinue all use of and all
access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ works.

• You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any
money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
receipt of the work.

• You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free distribution
of Project Gutenberg™ works.

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg™
electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set forth in
this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of the Project

Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3
below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread works
not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project Gutenberg™
collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, and
the medium on which they may be stored, may contain “Defects,” such as,
but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription
errors, a copyright or other intellectual property infringement, a defective or
damaged disk or other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that
damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except
for the “Right of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the
Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all liability to
you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal fees. YOU AGREE
THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT
EXCEPT THOSE PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE
THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY
DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE LIABLE
TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL,
PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE
NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you
discover a defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you
can receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with
your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with the
defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a refund.
If you received the work electronically, the person or entity providing it to

you may choose to give you a second opportunity to receive the work
electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy is also defective, you
may demand a refund in writing without further opportunities to fix the
problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth in
paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING
BUT NOT LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR
FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied warranties or
the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. If any disclaimer or
limitation set forth in this agreement violates the law of the state applicable
to this agreement, the agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum
disclaimer or limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity
or unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in accordance
with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production,
promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works,
harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, that
arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do or cause
to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg work, (b)
alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg
work, and (c) any Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project
Gutenberg

Project Gutenberg is synonymous with the free distribution of electronic
works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers including
obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists because of the

efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from people in all walks of
life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the assistance
they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg’s goals and ensuring
that the Project Gutenberg collection will remain freely available for
generations to come. In 2001, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation was created to provide a secure and permanent future for
Project Gutenberg and future generations. To learn more about the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations
can help, see Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at
www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit 501(c)
(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the state of
Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal Revenue Service.
The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification number is 64-6221541.
Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation are tax
deductible to the full extent permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s
laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 41 Watchung Plaza #516,
Montclair NJ 07042, USA, +1 (862) 621-9288. Email contact links and up
to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website and
official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread
public support and donations to carry out its mission of increasing the
number of public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed
in machine-readable form accessible by the widest array of equipment

including outdated equipment. Many small donations ($1 to $5,000) are
particularly important to maintaining tax exempt status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United States.
Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a considerable effort,
much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up with these
requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations where we have not
received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND DONATIONS or
determine the status of compliance for any particular state visit
www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we have
not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition against
accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who approach us
with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make any
statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from outside the
United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation methods
and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other ways including
checks, online payments and credit card donations. To donate, please visit:
www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg
electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg
concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared with
anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project Gutenberg
eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed editions,
all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in the U.S. unless a

copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily keep eBooks in
compliance with any particular paper edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search facility:
www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg, including how
to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation,
how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email
newsletter to hear about new eBooks.