I remember some who
were evidently the victims of monomania,--haunted and hunted by some
dark thought,--possessed by a fixed idea. One, a black-eyed, wild-
haired woman, with a whole tragedy of sin, shame, and suffering written
in her countenance, used often to visit us, warm herself by our winter
fire, and supply herself with a stock of cakes and cold meat; but was
never known to answer a question or to ask one. She never smiled; the
cold, stony look of her eye never changed; a silent, impassive face,
frozen rigid by some great wrong or sin. We used to look with awe upon
the "still woman," and think of the demoniac of Scripture who had a
"dumb spirit."
One--I think I see him now, grim, gaunt, and ghastly, working his slow
way up to our door--used to gather herbs by the wayside and call himself
doctor. He was bearded like a he goat and used to counterfeit lameness,
yet, when he supposed himself alone, would travel on lustily as if
walking for a wager. At length, as if in punishment of his deceit, he
met with an accident in his rambles and became lame in earnest, hobbling
ever after with difficulty on his gnarled crutches. Another used to go
stooping, like Bunyan's pilgrim, under a pack made of an old bed-
sacking, stuffed out into most plethoric dimensions, tottering on a pair
of small, meagre legs, and peering out with his wild, hairy face from
under his burden like a big-bodied spider.
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