'The facts not otherwise than here set down.'
_Wife of Mantua_.
Amidst the exaggerations of modern literature, and the fictions of
that exuberant fancy, which in these latter days is tasked to gratify
a public taste somewhat vitiated, it is useful to present occasional
views of actual existence. Such are contained in the following sketch,
which is studiously simple in its language, and every event of which
is strictly true. We have this assurance from a source entitled to
implicit credit.
_Editors Knickerbocker_.
There is a vast amount of suffering in the world that escapes general
observation. In the lanes and alleys of our populous cities, in the
garrets and cellars of dilapidated buildings, there are pregnant cases
of misery, degradation, and crime, of which those who live in
comfortable houses, and pursue the ordinary duties of life, have
neither knowledge nor conception. By mere chance, occasionally, a
solitary instance of depravity and awful death is exposed, but the
startling details which are placed before the community, are regarded
as gross exaggerations. It is difficult for those who are unacquainted
with human nature in its darkest aspects, to conceive the immeasurable
depth to which crime may sink a human being,--and the task of
attempting to delineate a faithful picture of such depravity, though
it might interest the philosopher, would be revolting to the general
reader. There are, however, cases of folly and error, which should be
promulgated as warnings, and the incidents of the annexed sketch are
of this character. Mysterious are the ways of Providence in punishing
the transgressions of men,--and indisputable is the truth, that Death
is the wages of Sin.
* * * * *
Twenty years ago, no family in the fashionable circles of Philadelphia
was more distinguished than that of Mr. L----: no lady was more
admired and esteemed than his lovely and accomplished wife. They had
married in early life, with the sanction of relations and friends, and
under a conviction that each was obtaining a treasure above all price.
They loved devotedly and with enthusiasm, and their bridal day was a
day of pure and unadulterated happiness to themselves, and of pleasure
to those who were present to offer their congratulations on the joyous
event. The happy pair were the delight of a large circle of
acquaintances. In her own parlor, or in the drawing-rooms of her
friends, the lady was ever the admiration of those who crowded around
her, to listen to the rich melody of her voice, or to enjoy the
flashes of wit and intelligence which characterized her conversation.
Without the egotism and vanity which sometimes distinguish those to
whom society pays adulation, and too prudent and careful in her
conduct to excite any feeling of jealousy in the breast of her
confiding husband, Mrs. L----'s deportment was in all respects
becoming a woman of mind, taste, and polished education. Her chosen
companion noticed her career with no feelings of distrust, but with
pride and satisfaction. He was happy in the enjoyment of her undivided
love and affection, and happy in witnessing the evidences of esteem
which her worth and accomplishments elicited. Peace and prosperity
smiled on his domestic circle, and his offspring grew up in
loveliness, to add new pleasures to his career.
The youngest of his children was a daughter, named Letitia, after her
mother, whom, in many respects, she promised to resemble. She had the
same laughing blue eyes, the same innocent and pure expression of
countenance, and the same general outline of feature. At an early age
her sprightliness, acute observation, and aptitude in acquiring
information, furnished sure evidences of intelligence, and
extraordinary pains were taken to rear her in such a manner as to
develope, advantageously, her natural powers. The care of her
education devolved principally upon her mother, and the task was
assumed with a full consciousness of its responsibility.
With the virtuous mother, whose mind is unshackled by the absurdities
of extreme fashionable life, there are no duties so weighty, and at
the same time so pleasing, as those connected with the education of an
only daughter. The weight of responsibility involves not only the
formation of an amiable disposition and correct principles, but in a
great measure, the degree of happiness which the child may
subsequently enjoy. Errors of education are the fruitful source of
misery, and to guard against these is a task which requires judgment,
and unremitting diligence. But for this labor, does not the mother
receive a rich reward? Who may tell the gladness of her heart, when
the infant cherub first articulates her name? Who can describe the
delightful emotions elicited by the early development of her
genius,--the expansion of the intellect when it first receives and
treasures with eagerness, the seeds of knowledge? These are joys known
only to mothers, and they are joys which fill the soul with rapture.
Letitia was eight years old, when a person of genteel address and
fashionable appearance, named Duval, was introduced to her mother by
her father, with whom he had been intimate when a youth, and between
whom a strong friendship had existed from that period. Duval had
recently returned from Europe, where he had resided a number of years.
He was charmed with the family, and soon became a constant visitor.
Having the entire confidence of his old friend and companion, all
formality in reference to intercourse was laid aside, and he was
heartily welcomed at all hours, and under all circumstances. He formed
one in all parties of pleasure, and in the absence of his friend,
accompanied his lady on her visits of amusement and pleasure,--a
privilege which he sedulously improved whenever opportunity offered.
Duval, notwithstanding his personal attractions and high character as
a 'gentleman,' belonged to a class of men which has existed more or
less in all ages, to disgrace humanity. He professed to be a
philosopher, but was in reality a libertine. He lived for his own
gratification. It monopolized all his thoughts, and directed all his
actions. He belonged to the school of Voltaire, and recognized no
feeling of the heart as pure, no tie of duty or affection as sacred.
No consideration of suffering, of heart-rending grief, on the part of
his victim, were sufficient to intimidate his purpose, or check his
career of infamy. Schooled in hypocrisy, dissimulation was his
business: and he regarded the whole world as the sphere of his
operations,--the whole human family as legitimate subjects for his
villainous depravity.
That such characters,--so base, so despicable, so lost to all feelings
of true honor,--can force their way into respectable society, and
poison the minds of the unsullied and virtuous, may well be a matter
of astonishment to those unacquainted with the desperate artfulness of
human hearts. But these monsters appear not in their true character:
they assume the garb and deportment of gentlemen, of philosophers, of
men of education and refinement, and by their accomplishments, the
suavity of their manners, their sprightliness of conversation,
bewilder before they poison, and fascinate before they destroy.
If there be, in the long catalogue of guile, one character more
hatefully despicable than another, it is the libertine. Time corrects
the tongue of slander, and the generosity of friends makes atonement
for the depredations of the midnight robber. Sufferings and calamities
may be assuaged or mitigated by the sympathies of kindred hearts, and
the tear of affection is sufficient to wash out the remembrance of
many of the sorrows to which flesh is heir. But for the venom of the
libertine, there is no remedy,--of its fatal consequences, there is no
mitigation. His victims, blasted in reputation, are forever excluded
from the pale of virtuous society. No sacrifice can atone for their
degradation, for the unrelenting and inexorable finger of scorn
obstructs their progress at every step. The visitation of death,
appalling as is his approach to the unprepared, were a mercy, compared
with the extent and permanency of this evil.
Duval's insidious arts were not unobserved by his intended victim. She
noticed the gradual development of his pernicious principles, and
shrunk with horror from their contaminating influence. She did not
hesitate to communicate her observations to her husband,--but he,
blinded by prejudice in favor of his friend, laughed at her scruples.
Without a word of caution, therefore, his intercourse was
continued,--and such was the weight of his ascendant power,--such the
perfection of his deep laid scheme, and such his facility in glossing
over what he termed _pardonable_, but which, in reality, were grossly
licentious, indiscretions of language and conduct,--that even the lady
herself was induced, in time, to believe that she had treated him
unjustly. The gradual progress of licentiousness is almost
imperceptible, and before she was aware of her error, she had drunk
deeply of the intoxicating draught, and had well nigh become a convert
to Duval's system of philosophy. Few who approach this fearful
precipice are able to retrace their steps. The senses are
bewildered,--reason loses its sway,--and a whirlpool of maddening
emotions takes possession of the heart, and hurries the infatuated
victim to irretrievable death. Before her suspicions were awakened,
the purity of her family circle was destroyed. Duval enrolled on his
list of conquests a new name,--_the wife of his bosom friend!_
An immediate divorce was the consequence. The misguided woman, who but
late had been the ornament of society and the pride of her family, was
cast out upon the world, unprotected, and without the smallest
resource. The heart of the husband was broken by the calamity which
rendered this step necessary, and he retired, with his children, to
the obscurity of humble life.
* * * * *
At a late hour on one of those bitter cold evenings experienced in the
early part of January, of the present year, two females, a mother and
daughter, both wretchedly clad, stood shivering at the entrance of a
cellar, in the lower part of the city, occupied by two persons of
color. The daughter appeared to be laboring under severe
indisposition, and leaned for support on the arm of her mother, who,
knocking at the door, craved shelter and warmth for the night. The
door was half opened in answer to the summons, but the black who
appeared on the stairs, declared that it was out of his power to
comply with the request, as he had neither fire,--except that which
was furnished by a handful of tan,--nor covering for himself and wife.
The mother, however, too much inured to suffering to be easily
rebuked, declared that herself and daughter were likely to perish from
cold, and that even permission to rest on the floor of the cellar,
where they would be protected, in some degree, from the 'nipping and
eager air,' would be a charity for which they would ever be grateful.
She alleged, as an excuse for the claim to shelter, that she had been
ejected, a few minutes before, from a small room which, with her
daughter, she had occupied in a neighboring alley, and for which she
had stipulated to pay fifty cents per week, because she had found
herself unable to meet the demand,--every resource for obtaining money
having been cut off by the severity of the season. The black, more
generous than many who are more ambitious of a reputation for
benevolence, admitted the shivering applicants, and at once resigned,
for their accommodation for the night, the only two seats in the
cellar, and cast a fresh handful of tan upon the ashes in the fire
place.
It was a scene of wretchedness, want, and misery, calculated to soften
the hardest heart, and to enlist the feelings and sympathies of the
most selfish. The regular tenants of the cellar were the colored man
and his wife, who gained a scanty and precarious subsistence, as they
were able, by casual employment in the streets, or in neighboring
houses. Having in summer made no provision for the inclemencies of
winter, they were then utterly destitute. They had sold their articles
of clothing and furniture, one by one, to provide themselves with
bread, until all were disposed of, but two broken chairs, a box that
served for a table, and a small piece of carpeting, which answered the
double purpose of a bed and covering. Into this department of poverty
were the mother and daughter,--lately ejected from a place equally
destitute of the comforts of life,--introduced. The former was a woman
of about fifty years, but the deep furrows on her face, and her
debilitated frame, betokened a more advanced age. Her face was wan and
pale, and her haggard countenance and tattered dress, indicated a full
measure of wretchedness. Her daughter sat beside her, and rested her
head on her mother's lap. She was about twenty-five years of age, and
might once have been handsome,--but a life of debauchery had thus
early robbed her cheeks of their roses and prostrated her
constitution. The pallidness of disease was on her face,--anguish was
in her heart.
Hours passed on. In the gloom of midnight, the girl awoke from a
disturbed and unrefreshing slumber. She was suffering from acute pain,
and in the almost total darkness which pervaded the apartment, raised
her hand to her mother's face. 'Mother,' said she, in faltering
accents, 'are you here?'
'Yes, child: are you better?'
'No, mother,--I am sick,--sick unto death! There is a canker at my
heart,--my blood grows cold,--the torpor of mortality is stealing upon
me!'
'In the morning, my dear, we shall be better provided for. Bless
Heaven, there is still one place which, thanks to the benevolent, will
afford us sustenance and shelter.'
'Do not thank Heaven, mother: you and I are outcasts from that place
of peace and rest. We have spurned Providence from our hearts, and
need not now call it to our aid. Wretches, wretches that we are!'
'Be composed, daughter,--you need rest.'
'Mother, there is a weight of woe upon my breast, that sinks me to the
earth. My brief career of folly is almost at an end. I have erred,--oh
God! fatally erred,--and the consciousness of my wickedness now
overwhelms me. I will not reproach you, mother, for laying the snare
by which I fell,--for enticing me from the house of virtue,--the home
of my heart-broken father,--to the house of infamy and death: but oh,
I implore you, repent: be warned, and let penitence be the business of
your days.'
The hardened heart of the mother melted at this touching appeal, and
she answered with a half-stifled sigh:
'Promise me then, ere I die, that you will abandon your ways of
iniquity, and endeavor to make peace with Heaven.'
'I do,--I do! But, alas my child, what hope is there for me?'
'God is merciful to all who ----'
The last word was inaudible. A few respirations, at long intervals,
were heard, and the penitent girl sunk into the quiet slumber of
death. Still did the mother remain in her seat, with a heart harrowed
by the smitings of an awakened conscience. Until the glare of daylight
was visible through the crevices of the door, and the noise of the
foot passengers and the rumbling of vehicles in the street had aroused
the occupants of the cellar, she continued motionless, pressing to her
bosom the lifeless form of her injured child. When addressed by the
colored woman, she answered with an idiot stare. Sensibility had
fled,--the energies of her mind had relaxed, and reason deserted its
throne. The awful incidents of that night had prostrated her
intellect, and she was conveyed from the gloomy place, A MANIAC!
The Coroner was summoned, and an inquest held over the body of the
daughter. In the books of that humane and estimable officer, the name
of the deceased is recorded,--'LETITIA L----.'