The Maine Law Advocate

The Beautiful Maniac.

"The fire that on my bosom preys
Is alone as some volcanic isle,
No torch is kindled at its blaze—
A funeral pile."

In the morning train from Petersburg, there was a lady closely veiled, in the same car with ourselves. She was dressed in the purest white, wore gold bracelets, and evidently belonged to the higher circles of society. Her figure was delicate, though well developed and exquisitely symmetrical; and when she occasionally drew aside her richly embroidered veil, the glimpse of the features the beholder obtained, satisfied him of her extreme loveliness. Beside her sat a gentleman in deep mourning, who watched over her with unusual solicitude, and several times when she attempted to rise, he excited the curiosity of the passengers by detaining her in her seat.

Outside of the cars all was confusion; passengers looking to baggage, porters running, cab-men cursing, and all the hurry and bustle attending the departure of a railroad train. One shrill, warning whistle from the engine, and we move slowly away.

At the first motion of the cars, the lady in white started to her feet with one heart-piercing scream, and her bonnet falling off, disclosed the most lovely features we ever contemplated.—Her raven tresses fell over her shoulders in graceful disorder, and clasping her hands in prayer, she turned her dark eyes to heaven. What agony was in that look! what beauty, too, what heavenly beauty—had not so much misery been stamped upon it. Alas! that one glance told a melancholy tale.

She was changed
As by the sickness of a soul, her mind
Had wandered from its dwelling, and her eyes
They had not their own lustre, but the look
Which is not of earth: she was become
The queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughts
Were combinations of disjointed things.
And forms impalpable and unperceived
Of others' sight, familiar were to her."

Her brother—the gentleman in black—was unremitting in his efforts to soothe her spirit.—He led her back to her seat; but her hair was still unbound, and her beauty unveiled. The cars rattled on, and the passengers in groups resumed their conversations. Suddenly a melody arose, it was the beautiful maniac's voice, rich, full and inimitable. Her hands were crossed on her heaving bosom, and she waved her body as she sung, with touching pathos—

"She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,
And lovers are around her sighing;
But coldly she turns from their gaze and weeps,
For her heart in his grave is lying
She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains
Every note which he loved awakening—
Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains
How the heart of the minstrel is breaking!"

Her brother was unmanned, and he wept as only man can weep. The air changed, and she continued—

"Has sorrow thy young heart shaded
As clouds o'er the morning fleet!
Too fast have those young days faded
That even in sorrow were sweet!
If thus the unkind world wither
Each feeling that once was dear!
Come, child of misfortune! come hither
I'll weep with thee tear for tear!"

She then sung a fragment of a beautiful hymn:

"Jesus, lover of my soul,
Let me to Thy bosom fly."

Another attempt to rise up was prevented, and she threw herself on her knees beside her brother, and gave him such a mournful, entreating look, with a plaintive "Save me, my brother! save your sister!" that scarcely a passenger could refrain from weeping. We may say scarcely for there was one man (was he a man?) who called on the conductor to "put her out of the car!" He received the open scorn of the company. His insensibility to such a scene of distress almost defies belief; and yet this is in every particular an "ower true tale," Should he ever read those lines, may his marble heart be softened by the recollection of his brutality.

Again the poor benighted beauty raised her bewitching voice to one of the most solemn, sacred airs:

"Oh! where shall rest be found
Rest for the weary soul?"

And continued her melancholy chant until we reached the steamer Mount Vernon, on board of which we descended the magnificent James River, the unhappy brother and sister occupying the "ladies' cabin." His was a sorrow too profound for ordinary consolation; and no one dare to intrude upon his grief to satisfy this curiosity.

We were standing on the promenade deck admiring the beautiful scenery of the river, when at one of the landings the small boat pulled away from the shore with the unhappy pair, en route for the Asylum at
She was standing
erect in the stern of the boat, her head still uncovered, and her white dress and raven tresses fluttering in the breeze. The boat returned and the steamer moved on for Norfolk. They were gone! that brother with his broken heart—that sister with her melancholy union of beauty and madness.—Charleston Courier