One poor wretch
springs from his couch, crying, "Oh, death! death! come soon!" and
his features glare with terror. Again he utters a wild shriek, and
bounds round the room, looking madly at one and another, as if
chased by some furious animal. The figure of a female, whose
elongated body seems ready to sink under its disease, sits on a
little box in the corner, humming a dolorous air, and looking with
glassy eyes pensively around the room at those stretched in their
berths. For a few seconds she is quiet; then, contorting her face
into a deep scowl, she gives vent to the most violent bursts of
passion,--holds her long black hair above her head, assumes a tragic
attitude, threatens to distort it from the scalp. "That one's lost
her mind-she's fitty; but I think the devil has something to do with
her fits. And, though you wouldn't think it, she's just as harmless
as can be," Mr. Praiseworthy coolly remarks, looking at Mrs.
Rosebrook, hoping she will say something encouraging in reply. The
lady only replies by asking him if he purchased her from her owner?
Mr. Praiseworthy responds in the affirmative, adding that she
doesn't seem to like it much. He, however, has strong hopes of
curing her mind, getting it "in fix" again, and making a good penny
on her. "She's a'most white, and, unfortunately, took a liking to a
young man down town. Marston owned her then, and, being a friend of
hers, wouldn't allow it, and it took away her senses; he thought her
malady incurable, and sold her to me for a little or nothing," he
continues, with great complacency.
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