The Maniac

Source: The Lady’s Cabinet Album, circa 1840

What object in all this wide world is more pitiable, than a being bereft of reason , Heaven's best and noblest gift? Shut out from the world, its hopes, its fears, separated by an impassable gulf from all that was once near and dear, such beings seem to live in a creation of their own, peopled with the hideous monsters of a morbid and distempered fancy. The maniac may laugh, and it would seem that gleams of imaginary joy and hope, at intervals cross his mind; but, they are like the lurid glare of lightning amid the darkness of a tempestuous night. Alas! Who can contemplate “the wreck of all that is great and noble,” without feeling agony indescribable, that he can communicate no relief. The unhappy being is unconscious of pity or sympathy. Hard must be the heart, and mean the soul, that does not drop the tear of sensibility, whilst beholding the human mind in a state of total alienation.

It was near the close of a fine summer's day, the jarring elements were hushed to peace, and naught was heard on the flowery banks of the silver Lamoile, save the rustling of the leaves, fanned by the balmy zephyr and the mingled notes of the thrush mounted high upon the uppermost branch of the lofty pine, the planter flitting from shrub to shrub, chanting his merry lay, and numberless smaller songsters, whose notes, though not so sweet, added variety to the concert. The book of nature seemed invitingly open, and the lovely Eliza Elliot wandered forth to read its instructive page. Though her spirit was weighed down with grief, yet, it was a luxury to leave the busy din of the village, for the peaceful shade of the green woods, that skirted the banks of that romantic stream. Eliza was young; but eighteen years had passed since she first opened her eyes upon this world of sorrow. But though young, she had lived to see the vanity of all things earthly. A few months before, she was reveling in the rich sunlight of joyous existence, happy in the innocence of a heart untainted with guilt. But anguish and sorrow were now inmates of her once happy heart. Death had reft her of her best friend, that friend upon whom the young heart leans with the most perfect and assured confidence—her mother. O! is there any love in all this extended sphere of existence, which bears any comparison with the deep, tender affection between a mother and her child? Eliza had left home, and was residing for a few months with a beloved aunt. But neither the novelty of the scenery, or the tender assiduities of friends, possessed power to infuse into her mind that resignation, which she knew it was her duty to feel.

Still Eliza was pious, and however unfashionable unassuming piety may be, it was of the utmost importance to the heart-stricken girl. She had given her best days to Him who had strewed her path with flowers, and crowned her with blessings. From a child, she had been taught to beware of the narrow bigotry of sectarianism on the one hand, and the wild enthusiasm on the other; and that “the live which is the most useful to men, is the most acceptable to God.” But she had yet to learn, that in order to be useful we must be reconciled to move in our allotted sphere, and that mourning should ever be tempered with resignation.

She had wandered out to indulge the bitterness of her grief, and to view those charms which even grief had not deprived of their power to please, or rather to soothe. She entered her favorite bower, which was a small grove of birch and pine, the thick foliage of which was almost impervious to the rays of the sun. A moss-covered rock, at the foot of a large birch, served for a seat. Here Eliza sat meditating upon her sad fate, and seeking resignation to the will of her heavenly Father. To her erring view, no wretchedness seemed equal to hers. As she was indulging these reflections, a slight rustling was heard among the leaves; she hastily turned, and a wild being stood before her. She was the wreck of what might have once been beautiful. Her figure was tall, and even dignified; her green frock was fantastically decorated with fringes of evergreen, and a wreath of the same, intermingled with wild flowers, encircled her wrinkled brow. Eliza started from her seat, and would have fled, but the maniac extended her arm.

“Stay,” cried she, “dost thou fear me? Ella Claiborne will not harm thee, sweet innocent!”

Eliza shrunk from the wild and piercing gaze of the wretched being who detained her.

“Sit down, thou drooping lily,” said the maniac, “and let me look at thee. Tell me why you daily come here to weep, whist Ella Claiborne is always happy?” and a wild laugh accompanied these words. Eliza attempted to soothe her into calmness, and at length succeeded.

“Daily,” said she, “have I watched you, daily have I seen you weep; but trust me there is no good in tears, else they would long since have cooled this burning brow. But why do you weep?”

“Be calm,” said Eliza, “and you shall know.”

“Tell me, tell me quickly,” said the maniac, “I can not bear the horror of suspense:” and she beat her forehead, as if in agony.

“I weep for my mother,” said Eliza, “who is dead.”

“Poor lamb, then thou has indeed lost thy guardian angel. But thou hast still a Heavenly Father; I have none. For one act of disobedience, Ella Claiborne was thrust out from the world as a thing unholy. She does not live in the world. She has no earthly, no Heavenly Parent.”

Suddenly her impassioned gesticulation ceased, and with the most melancholy sweetness she sung,

“When lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy,
what art can wash her guild away?

“The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom, is to die.”

She ceased: again she became wild. “ Thou unhappy!” said she, “thou, who canst lean on heaven for support! Thou who hast friends to care for thee on earth and in the skies? Hear me. The world has called me crazed;” and she fixed her keen dark eye upon Eliza, to ascertain her opinion. “Yes, the world has called me mad; but no; it is not so. I am only condemned to live alone, to have no sympathy with the heartless beings around me. And now hearken to Ella Claiborne. Refuse not offered kindness or consolation, lest thou, like me, outlive them both. Revere thy Creator, lest, like me, thou shouldst be banished from his presence, and be doomed to live in a world of thine own, without friends or sympathy to cheer the horrid void. Compare thy woes with mine, and dare not call thyself wretched. But God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb: Ella will yet be happy.”

A gleam of hope lighted up her countenance, and she was gone. Eliza knelt and praised heaven that reason was still spared her. She returned home and related her adventure.

“'Tis crazy Nell,” said her aunt, “and her history may interest you. Her parents were worthy people, and spared no exertion in the education of their darling child. Ella was worthy their care; but she was beautiful. Be thankful, my dear Eliza, that you are not what the world calls beautiful. Beauty was the cause of the wretched Ella's misfortunes. She was admired and flattered, and what young mind is proof against adulation? Her sensibility was the most acute. The world of fashion, in which she moved, could not feel for her, but they could flatter her. Though this soothed, it could not satisfy. She sought a kindred spirit, one to whom she could unburden her full heart, one who had other thoughts and feelings than those around her. Such an one, she fancied she had found. What was lacking in the reality, was supplied by her vivid imagination, till the man, upon whom she had lavished her best affections, was transformed into the ideal being she had long sought. She loved him wholly and entirely. He was a villain—and Ella Claiborne was undone. She received a cold and heartless farewell from him. From that hour to this the light of reason has never shone upon her benighted mind.”

“Her parents do not live to behold her misery. They were long since removed from a world of anguish, despair, and wretchedness. The unhappy Ella I need not describe; you have seen her. She roams about, at one time fancying she is rich and happy, at another, that she is miserable and undone.”

“Truly,” said Ella, “I have learned wisdom from the maniac; and may I never again shrink from comparing my woes with those of others, and may the comparison ever, as now, teach me thankfulness and resignation.”