# Original Stories from Real Life/Chapter 3

CHAP. III.
The Treatment of Animals.—The Story of crazy Robin.—The Man confined in the Baſtille.
IN the afternoon the children bounded over the ſhort graſs of the common, and walked under the ſhadow of the mountain till they came to a craggy part, where the ſtream broke out, and ran down the declivity, ſtruggling with the huge ſtones which impeded its progreſs, and occaſioned a noiſe that did not unpleaſantly interrupt the ſolmen ſilence of the place. The brook was ſoon loſt in a neighbouring wood, and the children turned their eyes to the broken ſide of the mountian, over which ivy grew in great profuſion. Mrs. Maſon pointed out a little cave, and deſired them to ſit down on ſome ſtumps of trees, whilſt ſhe related the promiſed ſtory.
In yonder cave once lived a poor man, who generally went by the name of crazy Robin. In his youth he was very induſtrious, and married my father's dairy-maid; ​a girl deſerving of ſuch a good huſband. For ſome time they continued to live very comfortably; their daily labour procured their daily bread; but Robin, finding it was likely he ſhould have a large family, borrowed a trifle, to add to the ſmall pittance which they had ſaved in ſervice, and took a little farm in the neighbouring county. I was then a child.
Ten or twelve years after, I heard that a crazy man, who appeared very harmleſs, had piled by the ſide of the brook a great number of ſtones; he would wade into the river for them, followed by a cur dog, whom he would frequently call his Jacky, and even his Nancy; and then mumble to himſelf,—thou wilt not leave me—we will dwell with the owls in the ivy.—A number of owls had taken ſhelther in it. The ſtones which he waded for he carried to the mouth of the hole, and only juſt left room enough to creep in. Some of the neighbours at laſt recollected his face; and I ſent to enquire what misfortune had reduced him to ſuch a deplorable ſtate. The information ​I received from different perſons, I will communicate to you in as few words as I can.
Several of his children died in their infancy; and, two years before he came to his native place, one misfortune had followed another till he had ſunk under their accumulated weight. Through various accidents he was long in arrears to his landlord; who, ſeeing that he was an honeſt man, who endeavoured to bring up his family, did not diſtreſs him; but when his wife was lying-in of her laſt child, the landlord dying, his heir ſent and ſeized the ſtock for the rent; and the perſon from whom he had borrowed ſome money, exaſperated to ſee all gone, arreſting him immediately, he was hurried to gaol, without being able to leave any money for his family. The poor woman could not ſee them ſtarve, and trying to ſupport her children before ſhe had gained ſufficient ſtrength, ſhe caught cold; and through neglect, and her want of proper nouriſhment, her illneſs turned into a putrid fever; which ​two of her children caught from her, and died with her. The two who were left, Jack and Nancy, went to their father, and took with them a cur dog, that had long ſhared their frugal meals.
The children begged in the day, and at night ſlept with their wretched father. Poverty and dirt ſoon robbed their cheeks of the roſes which the country air made bloom with a precular freſhneſs; ſo that they ſoon caught a jail fever,—and died. The poor father, who was now bereft of all his children, hung over their bed in ſpeechleſs anguiſh; not a groan or a tear eſcaped from him, whilſt he ſtood, two or three hours, in the ſame attitude, looking at the dead bodies of his little darlings. The dog licked his hands, and ſtrove to attract his attention; but for awhile he ſeemed not to obſerve his careſſes; when he did, he ſaid, mournfully, thou wilt not leave me—and began to laugh. The bodies were removed; and he remained in an unſettled ſtate, often frantic; at length the phrenzy ſubſided, and he grew melancholy and ​harmleſs. He was not then ſo cloſely watched; and one day he contrived to make his eſcape, the dog followed him, and came directly to his native village.
After I had received this account, I determined he ſhould live in the place he had choſen, undiſturbed. I ſent ſome conveniences, all of which he rejected, except a mat; on which he ſometimes ſlept—the dog always did. I tried to induce him to eat, but he conſtantly gave the dog whatever I ſent him, and lived on haws and blackberries, and every kind of traſh. I uſed to call frequently on him: and he ſometimes followed me to the houſe I now live in, and in winter he would come of his own accord, and take a cruſt of bread. He gathered water-creſſes out of the pool, and would bring them to me, with noſegays of wild thyme, which he had plucked form the ſides of the mountain. I mentioned before, that the dog was a cur. It had, indeed, the bad trick of a cur, and would run barking after horſes heels. One day, when his maſter was gathering ​water-creſſes, the dog running after a young gentleman's horſe, made it ſtart, and almoſt threw the rider; who grew ſo angry, that, though he knew it was the poor madman's dog, he levelled his gun at his head—ſhot him—and inſtantly rode off. Robin ran to his dog—he looked at his wounds, and not ſenſible that he was dead, called to him to follow him; but when he found that he could not, he took him to the pool, and waſhed off the blood before it began to clot, and then brought him home, and laid him on the mat.
I obſerved that I had not ſeen him pacing up the hills as uſual, and ſent to enquire about him. He was found ſitting by the dog, and no entreaties could prevail on him to quit the body, or receive any reſreſhment. I inſtantly ſet off for this place, hoping, as I had always been a favourite, that I ſhould be able to perſuade him to eat ſomething. But when I came to him, I found the hand of death was upon him. He was ſtill melancholy; yet there was not ſuch a mixture of wildneſs in it as formerly.
​I preſſed him to take ſome food; but, inſtead of anſwering me, or turning away, he burſt into tears—a thing I had never ſeen him do before, and ſobbing, he ſaid, Will any one be kind to me!—you will kill me!—I ſaw not my wife die—No! they dragged me from her—but I ſaw Jacky and Nancy die—and who pitied me?—but my dog! He turned his eyes to the body—I wept with him. He would then have taken ſome nouriſhment, but nature was exhauſted—and he expired.
Was that the cave? ſaid Mary. They ran to it. Poor Robin! Did you ever hear of any thing ſo cruel? Yes, anſwered Mrs. Maſon; and as we walk home I will relate an inſtance of ſtill greater barbarity.
I told you, that Robin was confined in a jail. In France they have a dreadful one, called the Baſtille. The poor wretches who are confined in it live entirely alone; who have not the pleaſure of ſeeing men or animals; nor are they allowed books. They live in comfortleſs ſolitude. Some have amuſed themſelves by making figures ​on the wall; and others have laid ſtraws in rows. One miſerable captive found a ſpider; he nouriſhed it for two or three years; it grew tame, and partook of his lonely meal. The keeper obſerved it, and mentioned the circumſtance to the ſuperior, who ordered him to cruſh it. In vain did the man beg to have his ſpider ſpared. You find, Mary, that the naſty creature which you deſpiſed was a comfort in ſolitude. The keeper obeyed the cruel command and the unhappy wretch felt more pain when he heard the cruſh, than he had ever experienced in his long confinement. He looked round a dreary apartment, and the ſmall portion of light which the grated bars admitted only ſerved to ſhew him, that he breathed where nothing elſe drew breath.