The Maniac Wife

A Detective’s Experience

Not far from Canal street, towards the rear of the city, is an old house, embowered in trees and shrubs of beautiful foliage. The wide lawn and extensive grounds are fashioned into many a promenade and bower, where the cool shadows linger lovingly all day long. The long galleries of the old mansion are supported by marble pillars, and an Italian Faunus, carved from the quarries of Carrara, guards the flight of steps which sweep up from the bosom of the lawn. Bending above the rural deity is a statue of Diana, ready, seemingly, to catch the whispered words [Cybele] is telling him, as she points to the moon. Scattered over the wide grounds are quaint groups of statuary: Ino flying from the rage of her husband, and Athamas with her son in her arms; all evening the culture and taste of the owner. But the grass has grown through the crevices of the walks, and the statuary is stained with age. The tangled weeds are choking out the rare exotics, and the fading flowers have a dying odor in their faint perfume. Decay has eaten into the crumbling walls of the grand old house, and the ruined gables creak and cry when shaken by the elements.

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