University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.

The Lunatic Asylum.

—Shakspeare.

—Bryant.

—Shakspeare.

The attachment felt by the two individuals who had been
thrown together by what is called chance, at Cato's, was increased
during their walk home, and each felt the desire to
know more of the other. They were drawn to this first meeting
by an inscrutable succession of links, (a chain unknown to
themselves,) and although in most respects dissimilar, there
was one point which, after being brought in contact united
them; and caused a determination in both, although separated
by diverse occupations and the numerous bars that society places
between the rich and poor, to seek each other; and to commune
freely on that subject which occupied their secret
thoughts. A subject on which they could not—would not—
speak to the crowds with whom they mingled in common
worldly intercourse.

Spiffard had his feelings strongly interested in all that concerned
Mr. Littlejohn; but particularly in the fate of his son.
The father was habitually a visiter to the asylum. He had
treasures on the sea and on the land; on every sea and every
shore; but, where his greatest treasure was, there was his
heart also; and that was in a small room surrounded by keepers,
and bolts, locks and bars, the maniac's shriek, the idiot's

laugh, and the unmeaning gabble of unfortunate creatures,
once rational. It was not difficult for Mr. Littlejohn to induce
Spiffard, who cultivated the intimacy so strangely commenced,
to accompany him on a visit to the place where the
(not yet hopeless) wreck of his hopes—the ruins not irretrievable,
as he thought, of his beloved son, were deposited.

They met the amiable physician of the institution at the
door.

“How is he to-day?”

“Perfectly composed.”

They found the unfortunate man reading his bible. He appeared
between thirty and forty years of age. He looked up,
but scarce noticed their presence, resuming his studies as if no
one had entered the apartment. His fine features were colourless.
His black, strait, thin hair, was smoothed on his forehead,
and he repeatedly passed his hand over it, from the crown
of the head nearly to the eyes, seemingly unconscious of the
action. His left hand supported his head, or occasionally
turned a leaf, as he appeared to seek a text. His tall and finely
formed frame was clothed in sables. His bright, jet-black eyes
had rested a moment on his father, and then glanced vacantly
at Spiffard. No other motion indicated his knowledge of their
presence.

They unasked, took chairs; and had been seated several
minutes, (the father's eye fixed on the son, and Spiffard earnestly
observing both) when Mr. Littlejohn drew his chair nearer
to the student—but the approach was not heeded.

“My son,—”

“I do not wish to be interrupted, sir.”

“Is that all you have to say to your father?”

“By no means, all. But I do not wish to discuss the subject
now. I have been earnestly engaged for some time past in
this particular study; and have been examining many texts.
But although I do not feel that I owe any thing to you as a
father, I owe to myself, to you, and to society, the attentions
due from one gentleman to another.”

So saying he paused and shut the book. He then fixed his
penetrating eyes on the eyes of Spiffard for a moment; after
which they wandered restlessly, and he burst forth wildly—

“You have brought a stranger with you to witness the havoc
that you and I have made upon one of God's creatures. Why
is it? You have caged me here like a wild-beast, and now
bring the idle or curious to see the monster. Fine sport!
Fine sport!”

“This gentleman, my son—”

“I want no apologies sir. He is excusable—let him go
home and triumph in his own superior intellect—let him thank
Heaven that he is not like others.—I am aware of the cause
which did render it expedient to restrain me by bolts, and bars,
and keepers—did? Perhaps does. But I am, as I think, capable
of judging for myself, and have determined how long that
restraint shall last. You have exerted an authority founded
upon the supposed rights of a father: I have been inquiring
into those rights and find them null, and the authority an usurpation.
I owe you no obedience. I renounce what is miscalled
filial duty. You are the cause of my existing in this
world of folly and misery—I do not thank you for it.”

This was said with more calm bitterness than might have
been expected from his state, or than the words indicate. He
had ceased the action of his right hand at the time that with his
left, he closed the book; and clasping both, he now rested them
on the Bible, and looked full in his father's face.

“The book on which you lean, bodily, and I hope mentally,
bids you honour your father and your mother.”

“`That my days may be long in the land.' True. The
promised reward is earthly. All the promises to the Jews
were so. Warburton is right in that. That my days may be
long. Is that a blessing?—or a curse?”

“That depends upon ourselves,” said Spiffard, seeing that
the afflicted father remained silent.

“No sir! `it is the cause my soul—it is the cause'—it is the
hidden cause that controls all. I sought not this existence—I
sought not any existence—here, I am—and—miserable!”

“My son, the book on which you rest, and on which our
hopes rest, has not inspired thoughts like these. They are
suggested by that which would lead to thanklessness towards
your God, as well as undutiful thoughts of your father and your
mother.”

“My poor mother!”

“Happily she has been spared—” The father checked himself,
and the son proceeded.

“I did love her. Surely not because she was my mother.
That was no more her choice than mine. I loved her because
she was good, kind, affectionate—as I ought to love all my
fellow-creatures—all—all—all—God's creatures placed here
by his will, not their own: enjoying and suffering—all—all
filled with life, and doomed to death by an unavoidable sentence,
passed upon them before birth. A death they must as

certainly undergo as though they had been arraigned before an
earthly judge, convicted of the most deadly crimes, and assigned
to the tender mercies of the jailer and the hangman. They
are reprieved from day to day, only to be told by-and-by, `to
night you must surely die.”' His father interrupted him.

“After the free gift of life, health, enjoyment—”

The insane man continued—“All! yes, all! before the moment
in which they breathe, are doomed to sickness, sorrow,
death, the grave and the worm; `to lie in cold obstruction and
to rot.”'

“And rise to light and life and immortality!”

“The death is certain; but—”

“Hold! I command you. Your father commands you to
forbear such language, and dismiss such thoughts.”

Here there was a long pause. The agitated father sat erect,
and with a flushed countenance, darted a look of authority upon
his son, who momentarily quailed under it. He lifted his arms
from the bible on which he had been leaning, and, as if surprised,
threw himself back in his chair, opening his large and
brilliant eyes with a confused expression; but another train of
thought and feeling soon came over his mind, and his face assumed
an expression of irony, bordering on contempt.

“Command! That's well enough said. Command! As
if one man could control the thoughts of another. Thought,
that is set in motion by circumstances unforseen and uncontrollable.
Words may be commanded; that it is which makes
hypocrisy so easy—damnable hypocrisy! Words ought to be
controlled, so as not to injure the hearer. I will be silent if my
words offend you, but for my thoughts they are uncontrollable.
You have come hither unbidden by me; contrary to my wish
or will have you come hither and broken in upon my studies,
as, without wish or will of mine, you were an agent in bringing
me into existenoe; for both, or either, I owe you neither thanks
nor ill-will. My good will towards you is founded on my
knowledge that you are a creature like myself, with like passions,
like sufferings, and doomed to a like end.”

“And is that all, my son?”

“No, no, not all. We have been thrown together so intimately,
that the joys and sorrows of life have appeared to flow
from one to the other, sometimes; and sometimes to both from
the same source. Remembrance of the past, gives more power
to your will, than to the wishes of another—so far, so far, and
no farther, no farther. I can see no farther, no farther—so—
you have confused me, sir. I wish you would depart.”

He arose to his utmost height, and frowned.

“God bless you, my son. I will see you soon again.”

“Well, well, well; good by! Come alone. Good by!” He
looked scowlingly on Spiffard; and as his visiters withdrew,
resumed his seat. His eyes were fixed upon the door, until it
closed after them.

Mr. Littlejohn was sometime silent as they descended the
stairs, and his companion felt no disposition to intrude upon
his thoughts. At length the afflicted father exclaimed—“It is
awful to witness the aberration of intellect; but cheering to see
that reason is making advances to her throne.”

“It is a blessed hope. You see amendment, sir?”

“I do.”

The worthy physician of the institution now met them, and
confirmed the father's hopes. It happened that the committee
of directors who, in turn, visited the institution, to see that the
benevolent intentions of the founders were duly carried into
effect, at this moment arrived; and the physician politely invited
Mr. Littlejohn and his companion, to join them in their
progress through the various departments. The merchant was
but too well acquainted with every thing relative to the place;
but to Spiffard all was new, and intensely interesting.

Their first visit was paid to that part of the building which is
assigned to the most outrageous, or the most hopeless cases of
insanity. Spiffard here found a few whose deranged intellects
and enfeebled bodies were the consequences of intemperance;
and these were of course the most attractive subjects of his
curiosity. The physician told him that in the apartments appropriated
to convalescents, more of this class were to be found;
for generally, when debarred this fatal indulgence, (the unnatural
cause of their malady,) health and reason were restored.

How interesting! how humiliating! is the spectacle which
a mad-house presents. Our fellow-creatures, in form like ourselves,
deprived of the portion of man which distinguishes him
from the brute creation. The senses, those inlets of ideas to
the mind, so diseased or perverted as to give false impressions;
or the mental faculty itself so disordered, as to combine all impressions
and recollectious erroneously. The varied forms and
degrees of the malady; its suspended operation and renewed
action; its various causes, and the varied effect of those causes;
what constitution of body, what mode of life, most tends to produce
mental alienation: what subjects are these for inquiry!
All these and their remedies were familiar to the urbane physician
who accompanied the visiters, and who was accosted by

the patients in a manner that proved their confidence in his humanity,
and reliance upon his skill. He appeared among them
as an acknowledged friend. Have we, when deprived of reason,
an instinct that acknowledges worth?

Yells, more dreadful than ever struck the ear of traveller in
desert or wilderness, from wolf or hyena; sounds more heart-rending,
because, though not resembling any thing human, they
were known to proceed from human organs; shrieks, unlike
the cries of man or woman, were heard from one of the apartments,
and a keeper, at the bidding of the superior, unlocked
the door. The naked wretch within ceased his yells, turned
his eyes on the intruders, then quickly averted them, and pulled
the straw on which he lay partly over his body, covering his
nakedness, as if conscious of his degraded condition.

Strange as it may appear, the physician addressed him as if
speaking to one possessed of reason, and kindly inquired,
“How do you feel to-day, Burford?”

“Better, better,” was the answer.

“If you will keep your clothes on, you may come out to-morrow.”

The spectators turned away. The door was locked and the
most heart-piercing yells succeeded instantly on turning the key.

“During these paroxysms, he will neither suffer bed, bed-clothes,
or clothing to touch him, but rends every thing to
pieces.”

“Such are the changes in this unhappy young man's disease,”
remarked Mr. Littlejohn, “that a few days past I saw
and conversed with him in the visiters' parlour, quietly and
cheerfully. I found him there, well-dressed, and looking in
health; he was in attendance upon a female relative, who had
come to see him.”

“Were there no symptoms of derangement about him?”
inquired Spiffard.

“To an observer, there were. His attentions to the lady
were over-done. But I have seen an awkward youth, many
miles from a mad-house, behave in much the same manner.
Then, when excited by conversation, he began to talk of purchasing
large tracts of waste lands, and laying out towns in the
wilderness; but that being the common talk of our country, I
should have thought nothing of it, if I had not heard it within
these walls. What we know to be madness here, passes elsewhere
for common sense; and when we hear wisdom among
worldlings, we say `surely the man's mad.”'

Although this gallery, and its suite of neat, airy, and comfortable

apartments, was but too well filled with the most ungovernable
patients of the institution, there was but one other
who appeared to be under restraint. This was a man of middle
age, and vulgar appearance. He had the liberty of the
gallery in common with others; but his arms were secured by
a leathern belt, passed around his body, which left the hands
only a partial and circumscribed liberty. This person appeared
ashamed of the addition to his equipage, and followed the
doctor with importunities, uttered in whispers.

“When you are better your arms shall be liberated. You
know that you attempted to strike your friend. You will soon
be well, and then you will go home.”

“I am very well, very well.” But he averted his eyes from
the steadfast examination of the physician, and silently turned
away.

A few of the inmates of this hall or gallery, were silent, dejected,
melancholy. One was sunk into perfect idiocy, a more
hopeless state, a more humiliating spectacle to the sane, than
even the raving maniac. Generally, the patients were lively
and talkative. A genteel appearing man addressed Spiffard;
and with a manner little denoting insanity, requested him to
note the physiognomy of a person at a little distance from them.
Spiffard, who was deceived by the manner and appearance of
the lunatic, and thought him either a visiter, like himself, or
perhaps, an assistant to the physician, followed where he led.
“You will say he has the finest face in the world, and a head
like an antique statue.”

They stopt before a figure who stood to be gazed at, with an
unmeaning smile; and whose countenance, head, or person,
had neither expression, form, nor proportion, but of the most
ordinary description.

“Behold that face; what a contour! what symmetry!
there's a head of intellectual indications!” and the sprightly
lunatic placed his hand on the head of his silent brother; treating
it as familiarly as a phrenologist does a skull or a block,
submitted to his fingers. “He's an Indian to be sure, or a
half-breed, but Greece nor Rome never produced such a forehead:”
putting back the coarse black hair of the tall, swarthy,
stupidly-passive subject. “There's a face! It is more than
human! The countenance of a god, rather than of a man!”
Spiffard had, befere this, perceived his mistake, and notwithstanding
the morbid melancholy which all appearance of intellectual
aberration caused in him, he could not but smile, as he
bowed assent, and hastened to join his companions. He soon

after saw this lively admirer of beauty showing a small japaned
tin box to the visiters, and expatiating upon the form, brilliancy,
and immense value of a collection of pebbles, which it
contained. “Jewels of the first water.”

Perhaps the most extraordinary character in this portion of
the building, was an insane man, who had been tried for murder,
and found guilty; but as insanity as well as murder had
been proved by the trial, he was sentenced to perpetual confinement,
instead of the mosaic penalty which still holds a
place in modern codes of justice. This person appeared to be
about fifty years of age, and was indulged in the whim of wearing
his beard uncut, which floated in waves of iron-grey over
his breast. His scanty hair corresponded in hue, but was
trimmed short. His figure was athletic, of moderate height,
and his dress a grey suit of coarse texture, furnished by the
institution, well suited to his condition, but by no means corresponding
with the oriental condition of his beard. He appeared
to recognize the directors, and to be pleased by their
salutations. He answered some ordinary questions rationally,
but soon commenced talking with a volubility, rapidity, and
wildness, that were astonishing to Spiffard.

The wretched man we have attempted to describe, imagined
himself to be gifted with power more than human; and to be
likewise one of the crowned and anointed rulers over the earth.
He consequently appeared to delight in the destruction of life.
But, unlike his brethren of the sceptre, he made no pretence of
shedding blood for the sake of religion, peace, mercy, charity,
or even honour; he seemed content to have it thought that he
destroyed, to show his power to destroy. A murderer, he was,
like other sanctioned murderers, inclined to talk of death inflicted,
and atrocities committed by his orders; although he di
not pretend that his murders were perpetrated for the good of
the human race.

One of the visiting directors asked if he would be glad to see
the governor.

“No. He is my enemy; and you are my enemy.”

“Would you know him, if he should be present?”

“How should I know him, when I never saw him?”

“Is this gentleman the governor?” pointing to Spiffard.

“No. How do you do, sir?” shaking hands with the
comedian, without any assumption of regal dignity; or, as
appeared by his subsequent words, without having the idea of
his royal worth suggested, until that of blood had preceded it.

“Do you live in New-York?”

“Yes.”

“You have but just come here. Are you mad?”

“Not more than most folks.”

“That's what most people think. I like your looks. But
you are mad. You do not know me; but I have a power
which enables me to see; a power—you must have heard that
a man was shot at Claverick yesterday. I shot him. I killed
that man. My orders are obeyed promptly—on the instant. I
say shoot that man, and it is done. They fire when I give the
word of command, as a regiment obeys the order of its colonel.
I say it, and they are dead. When the powder-mill blew up in
Rhode-Island, and all the workmen were torn to pieces, scattered
limb from limb, tossed in the clouds and smoke, mangled
by the beams and rafters, I did it! Talk of power! There's
the Emperor of China, and the Emperor of Russia. Talk of
holy alliance! There's an alliance more than holy. The Emperor
of Morocco's sister is to be married to the Emperor of
Austria, and the Autocrat of all the Russias, whose present
wife, you know, is sister to the Grand Turk—but the pope will
absolve Prince Metternich, and then —”

His “bald, disjointed” talk, became each moment more incoherent;
but occasionally reverted to his own destructive
power, and his delight in human misery; always connecting
these with his kingly condition, which, very naturally, sanctioned
his desires. He was, in fancy, an Emperor; and doubtless,
as such, an appointed scourge of the human race. Yet
his imperial majesty very submissively filled the station of
scullion in the kitchen of the hospital; and while his will dealt
destruction as a king or an autocrat, his hands very mechanically
washed dishes.

After an examination of the comforts which enlightened
benevolence bestows upon the afflicted, the visiters were conducted
to an open place, or enclosure, where, the day being
fine, the convalescent or tractable patients, took exercise.
Some were amusing themselves, or basking in the rays of the
sun. Some walking or lounging under a long shed, or covered
way, erected for their accommodation. They had all dined,
for the insane dine at mid-day, the reasoning and refined
at night.

A young gentleman was walking under the shed, and intently
engaged with a book. One of the directors asked, “What
are you reading?”

“Freneau's poems. There is much good in them.”

“Poor Phillip! He is almost forgotten, like some other of
our literary pioneers,” said the director.

“Sir, he deserves better of Americans,” was the reply.

This patient entered freely into conversation, in a connected,
but rather hurried manner. He appeared cheerful, inquiring
after friends in the city, but did not appear to regret his confinement,
though he indirectly alluded to it. The director, to
whom he spoke to as a friend, he was well acquainted with,
asking him if he was not coming to town.

“No.”

“Mrs. Tourberville and her daughters often inquire after
you.”

“Do they live in Pearl-street still?”

“In the same place. One of the daughters is lately married.”

“Which?” He was told, smiled, and resumed his reading
and walking, as one content with his condition.

Several of the patients importuned the physician for permission
to go home; assuring him that they were perfectly well.
He, with great address and amenity, evaded their requests, and
they gave up the point, seemingly impressed with the idea of
complete restraint upon their will. One man very sportively
invited each person who approached him to play at tossing
coppers or cents.

“Come doctor! head or tail? I want to win some silver.”

“What do you want with silver?”

“To buy cigars.”

“There are none to be bought here.”

“I'll toss, heads or tails for a box, and send to town for
them. Here goes! I cry head, no, tail. I've won, I've won!”

“You must win if you take both sides.”

“Ha! ha! ha! well said. But I'm staunch for Jefferson!
No Jay's treaty for me.”

The doctor told Spiffard that electioneering and drinking, so
fatally common at the houses in which the polls were held, had
brought this person to the state in which he saw him. This
touched our hero's sympathetic string, and he eagerly inquired
into his case, and the probabilities of cure.”

“He is recovering; and if he refrains from ardent spirits
after his return home, as he is obliged to do here, he will be
again a sane and useful citizen.” They left him shouting,
“Jefferson forever! Ten to one on our candidate.”

Returned to the house, they passed through several galleries,
looked in upon the convenient and airy sleeping apartments,
and visited a room where there was a small library.

At a table several of the inmates were reading. One was
writing. His letter he willingly exhibited, requesting that it
might be put in the post office. It was filled with offers to
purchase vast tracts of soil, and addressed to a well known
land-speculator, who had rested upon a very small territory in
the church-yard some years before. This patient had lost
both fortune and reason in schemes, which still with delusive
hope bewildered him.

“Without the aid of alcohol?” asked Spiffard.

“Yes. Cupidity—the inordinate desire to possess, is sufficient
of itself to turn the brain—and the madness is incurable.”

Among these patients, Spiffard recognised a man of the
name of Knox, whose insanity had been produced by extreme
intemperance. He was subject to outbreakings even here,
although debarred from alcohol in any shape. He was at this
time calm and appeared well; indeed much better than when
he was at liberty, and engaged at the theatre, (for he was an
English actor,) where he was seldom free from the tyranny of
the appetite he served. His great desire was to obtain his
discharge. This is the same person of whom it is recorded
in Cooke's memoirs, that being as usual imperfect in his part,
and playing Gloster to Cooke's Lear, when he uttered the
words “Ye gods, give Gloster his discharge;” the old tragedian
said in an under tone, “wait till Saturday, and the manager
will give you your discharge, you black-guard.” He was
discharged; and Cooke in pity for a time supported him.

Their last visit was to the gallery, and to its adjoining apartments,
appropriated to the female patients. As they approached,
a confused, but not discordant, sound of many voices was
heard. Loud but cheerful and silver tones, mingled with
playful laughter. As the attendant opened the door of the
gallery while the inmates, (owing to their own merriment,)
were unconscious of the approach of intruders, several of the
ladies were surprised in the midst of their unrestrained, infantile
playfulness. The mask was off. For the insane carry
the social mask even into the madhouse.

One lady—for such her dress and manners spoke her—was
sitting on the floor, as if at a game of romps with her companions
who stood laughing near. On the entrance of the visiters,
she jumped up—smiled—blushed—and as though
ashamed of being caught romping, ran into a side apartment:
she soon however returned, and addressing Littlejohn by the
appellation of “Grand-papa,” asked him to take a walk with

her, at the same time placing her arm within his. Before he
could answer, one of her companions cried “Fy, fy! Mary
Ann,” and the playful challenger looking at the doctor, who
shook his head, withdrew her white and slender arm, laughed,
and again vanished.

One of these apartments was devoted to female occupation
of a graver kind; reading and needle-work; and several well
dressed women were happily employed, patients and their attendants,
in orderly work and cheerful conversation.

On the return of the visiters from this quiet scene, some
objects presented themselves that were more or less distressing
to their feelings. A very pretty, delicately formed and
tastefully dressed lady, who had been conversing with one of
the visiting committee, approached gracefully to Spiffard, and
accosted him.

“I am told sir, that you are the celebrated actor, Mr. Spiffard.”

“Spiffard is my name, madam.”

“You don't look like an actor.”

“How so, madam?”

“I hardly know. I thought you were old.”

“Actors assume all ages—take all shapes.”

“So do all men. But you look very serious as well as
very young. I declare I should almost think you had been
crying, and that I saw tears still in your eyes.”

Such had been and was the fact, although unobserved by
Spiffard's sane companions. He smiled and said, “I am
a poor actor, madam.”

“Don't say so: I have heard of you. Do you think I
should make a figure on the stage?”

“A most interesting one.”

“Pshaw! I don't mean so—but you men are ever ready
to flatter. But I do think I could play Ophelia. `There's
rue for you'—O, no! not for you—for you, naughty man,”
and she turned playfully to the doctor. “You are the king,
you know.”

“But not a murderer.”

“I don't know that.” Then addressing Spiffard again she
added “Ophelia must be played by a singer and I can sing,”
and with wild and sweet expression, and a voice such as Mrs.
Merry possessed, she sung

But I won't sing if it makes you sad. I thought actors were
always merry.”

Spiffard turned away to hide his emotion; and the physician
led the songstress off, whispering in her ear, “You see it makes
him weep.”

Their inspection of this noble building terminated with a
view from the roof, which presented one of the most magnificent
panoramic pictures the eye of man is ever permitted to
behold. Cheerful, thriving villages, fields rich in culture, roads
thronged with carriages, cities, and their glittering pinacles, only
divided from each other by the waters and ships that enriched
them. The greater of these cities, like the proud mistress of
the east, projects a garden, (unpolluted by the crimes of a seraglic,)
into her own Bosphorus and Marmora; and receives in
her golden horn, the flags and the wealth of every land and
sea, while she smiles on a Galata and Pera, where the same
laws and interests prevail among the same free and happy people.
From these sublime prospects, our friends descended,
to be reminded of what immediately surrounded them, and of
their own personal and physical wants.

By invitation, Mr. Littlejohn and his companion partook of
the dinner provided for the visiting committee. Spiffard remarked
that the philanthropic physician had, previous to taking
his place at the board, employed himself in persuading a gentleman,
who paced up and down the hall, to join the company.
He succeeded in placing the melancholy man at the table, and
induced him to eat, and even to take one glass of wine; for
wine was not banished from the temperate board of the asylum;
neither was it ever abused.

This person, who now attracted Spiffard's special attention,
was a patient whose malady permitted that he should have the
freedom of the house and garden. After dinner, Spiffard learned
that this gentleman's insanity is what is called a religious madness!
He had been a merchant—became a preacher—and
finally, under the oppression of bodily disease, came to the
maniacal conclusion, that he was selected from all mankind to
suffer a state of hopeless reprobation; that no redemption
availed, nor repentance could save him.

While talking with his informant, the unhappy gentleman
approached, and Spiffard had an opportunity of hearing him on
the subject of his misery.

“You are better, Mr. Treffil, for joining us, and taking a
glass of wine.”

“Yes; for an instant. But the sense of my condition returns
with redoubled force the next moment.”

“Sir, instead of avoiding cheerful company, you must seek
it. You are labouring under a mistake; and when restored to
bodily health, you will be convinced of the falacy of these tormenting
phantasies.”

The sufferer shook his head. “It is vain for me to tell you
of the communications I have had with the world of spirits. I
know you cannot conceive of them, or believe me. My doom
is fixed irretrievably.”

“God is good beyond our conception, and infinitely merciful.”

“I know what you would say; I have, myself, talked thus
to others. To others the words may apply. I have heard
reasons for my condemnation that are incontrovertible. My
sins are unpardonable. I know that there is no hope for me.
I have heard it proclaimed to all the worlds of the universe. I
have been transported from planet to planet bodily. I know
that you do not believe it. From star to star, through the
immensity of space, filled with—. What I have seen and
heard, I am forbid to tell.”

“Before Spiffard and his friend left the asylum, the latter
paid another visit to his son. He went unaccompanied. On
his re-appearance, Spiffard asked, “How did you find him
sir?”

“In tears. He seemed to be conscious that his former reception
of me had been harsh. He took my hand, and tenderly
pressed it at my departure, begging me to see him soon.”

As the evening approached, our pedestrians, notwithstanding
kind invitations to ride, returned as they came, on foot; musing
and conversing on the scenes they had witnessed, this being
to Spiffard, a most instructive day.