Ignorant of the death of his father
and his elder brother, the dread misery of encountering them with his
brother's blood on his soul, barred his way home. He could not bear the
thought of reading in their eyes his own horror of himself. His money was
soon spent, and for months he had to endure severe hardships--of simple,
wholesome human sort. He thought afterward that, if he had had no trouble
of that kind, his brain would have yielded. He would have surrendered
himself but for the uselessness of it, and the misery and public stare it
would bring upon his family.
Knowing German well, and contriving at length to reach Berlin, he found
employment there of various kinds, and for a good many years managed to
live as well as he had any heart for, and spare a little for some worse
off than himself. Having no regard to his health, however, he had at
length a terrible attack of brain-fever, and but partially recovering his
faculties after it, was placed in an asylum. There he dreamed every night
of his home, came awake with the joy of the dream, and could sleep no
more for longing--not to go home--that he dared not think of--but to look
upon the place, if only once again. The longing grew till it became
intolerable. By his talk in his sleep, the good people about him learning
his condition, gave and gathered money to send him home. On his way, he
came to himself quite, but when he reached England, he found he dared not
go near the place of his birth.
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