Melancholy and imbecility marked the features of the wretches allowed to breathe at large; for the frantic, thoſe who in a ſtrong imagination had loſt a ſenſe of woe, were cloſely confined. The playful tricks and miſchievous devices of their diſturbed fancy, that ſuddenly broke out, could not be guarded againſt, when they were permitted to enjoy any portion of freedom; for, ſo active was their imagination, that every new object which accidentally ſtruck their ſenſes, awoke to phrenzy their reſtleſs paſſions; as Maria learned from the burden of their inceſſant ravings.
Sometimes, with a ſtrict injunction of ſilence, Jemima would allow Maria, at the cloſe of evening, to ſtray along the narrow avenues that ſeparated the dungeon-like apartments, leaning on her arm. What a change of ſcene! Maria wiſhed to paſs the threſhold of her priſon, yet, when by chance ſhe met the eye of rage glaring on her, yet unfaithful to its office, ſhe ſhrunk back with more horror and affright, than if ſhe had ſtumbled over a mangled corpſe. Her buſy fancy pictured the miſery of a fond heart, watching over a friend thus eſtranged, abſent, though preſent—over a poor wretch loſt to reaſon and the ſocial joys of exiſtence; and loſing all conſciouſneſs of miſery in its exceſs. What a taſk, to watch the light of reaſon quivering in the eye, or with agonizing expectation to catch the beam of recollection; tantalized by hope, only to feel deſpair more keenly, at finding a much loved face or voice, ſuddenly remembered, or pathetically implored, only to be immediately forgotten, or viewed with indifference or abhorrence!
The heart-rending ſigh of melancholy ſunk into her ſoul; and when ſhe retired to reſt, the petrified figures ſhe had encountered, the only human forms ſhe was doomed to obſerve, haunting her dreams with tales of myſterious wrongs, made her wiſh to ſleep to dream no more.
Day after day rolled away, and tedious as the preſent moment appeared, they paſſed in ſuch an unvaried tenor, Maria was ſurpriſed to find that ſhe had already been ſix weeks buried alive, and yet had ſuch faint hopes of effecting her enlargement. She was, earneſtly as ſhe had ſought for employment, now angry with herſelf for having been amuſed by writing her narrative; and grieved to think that ſhe had for an inſtant thought of any thing, but contriving to eſcape.
Jemima had evidently pleaſure in her ſociety: ſtill, though ſhe often left her with a glow of kindneſs, ſhe returned with the ſame chilling air; and, when her heart appeared for a moment to open, ſome ſuggeſtion of reaſon forcibly cloſed it, before ſhe could give utterance to the confidence Maria's converſation inſpired.
Diſcouraged by theſe changes, Maria relapſed into deſpondency, when ſhe was cheered by the alacrity with which Jemima brought her a freſh parcel of books; aſſuring her, that ſhe had taken ſome pains to obtain them from one of the keepers, who attended a gentleman confined in the oppoſite corner of the gallery.
Maria took up the books with emotion. "They come," ſaid ſhe, "perhaps, from a wretch condemned, like me, to reaſon on the nature of madneſs, by having wrecked minds continually under his eye; and almoſt to wiſh himſelf—as I do—mad, to eſcape from the contemplation of it." Her heart throbbed with ſympathetic alarm; and ſhe turned over the leaves with awe, as if they had become ſacred from paſſing through the hands of an unfortunate being, oppreſſed by a ſimilar fate.
Dryden's Fables, Milton's Paradiſe Loſt, with ſeveral modern productions, compoſed the collection. It was a mine of treaſure. Some marginal notes, in Dryden's Fables, caught her attention: they were written with force and taſte; and, in one of the modern pamphlets, there was a fragment left, containing various obſervations on the preſent ſtate of ſociety and government, with a comparative view of the politics of Europe and America. Theſe remarks were written with a degree of generous warmth, when alluding to the enſlaved ſtate of the labouring majority, perfectly in uniſon with Maria's mode of thinking.
She read them over and over again; and fancy, treacherous fancy, began to ſketch a character, congenial with her own, from theſe ſhadowy outlines.—"Was he mad?" She re-peruſed the marginal notes, and they ſeemed the production of an animated, but not of a diſturbed imagination. Confined to this ſpeculation, every time ſhe re-read them, ſome freſh refinement of ſentiment, or acuteneſs of thought impreſſed her, which ſhe was aſtoniſhed at herſelf for not having before obſerved.
What a creative power has an affectionate heart! There are beings who cannot live without loving, as poets love; and who feel the electric ſpark of genius, wherever it awakens ſentiment or grace. Maria had often thought, when diſciplining her wayward heart, "that to charm, was to be virtuous." "They who make me wiſh to appear the moſt amiable and good in their eyes, muſt poſſeſs in a degree," ſhe would exclaim, "the graces and virtues they call into action."