_Sleigh Rides--An Ardent Son of the South--The Author in the
Pulpit--The Flash of First Love, and Love at First Sight--First
Love Letters--Note of a Seedy Genius--Virtue with a
Slaveholder--Evidence of Maria’s Seduction--Her Affecting Appeal to
the Seducer--His Indifference and Inhumanity--The Evils of
Imprudence stare Maria in the Face--The Spot upon the Soul--Her
Promise Violated--The Words from the Crow Quill--She faints away._
Six months after the time which brought our last chapter to a close,
Maria attended the church of which I was pastor, in Brunswick. It was on
a Sabbath morning in midwinter. The snow lay deep on the ground, and the
merry bells and the happy faces of that morning of gay sunlight and
sparkling frost bespoke the pleasures to be anticipated from many a
sleigh-ride. On this occasion Maria was accompanied by a young man who
had arrived in the village the week previous, and entered the medical
college as a student. He was from Georgia, and his manly bearing,
brunette face, jet-black eyes, and curling ringlets, indicated his
temperament to be as ardent as a Southern sun could make it. His name
was Theodore Maxwell. His father trafficked in human flesh, and bartered
virtue for a price; and the loose improvidence of the son told plainly
of there being great wealth in the family. His demeanor indicated that
he was on the best terms with himself, and, moreover, that he had a
taste for licentious gratifications. He was rich, (no matter by what
means,) and that was quite sufficient to place him in full favor with
the women, and render him “a good fellow” with the men. Theodore and
Maria entered the church, and seated themselves in a pew on the broad
aisle.
I commenced the worship of God by reading the 44th Psalm, the singing of
which was followed by an Address to the Throne of Grace. I then read a
hymn, which, as well as the psalm, was very well executed by the choir.
I then commenced my sermon, from the following text: “Remember Lot’s
wife.” As I proceeded, the utmost of my ability was thrown into the
subject. I enlarged upon the development of the affections, the
gratitude we owe to the Almighty for a thousand gifts, and the blessed
union of two hearts by divine sanction: the nature of the evil thoughts
that should be cast away, and the principles which secure to virtue the
fruits of a blessed reward: the penalty of disobedience, and the
iniquity of the seducer. Few there are, among even the most earnest
admirers of the Bible, who truly appreciate its sublimity and poetry.
From the first line of Genesis to the last of Revelations, it is filled
with evidences of its divine origin. As I reached that point in my
discourse which depicted the bereavements of Lot, the cords of whose
heart were all severed by a decree of God’s wrath, I perceived that
Maria and her companion were deeply affected. THEIR EYES MET: IT WAS
LOVE!
* * * * *
There is no genuine love but love at first sight. This is the pure
offspring of unpolluted sympathy. All other love is merely the result of
observation, reflection, and compromise. The enduring passions flash
like the lightning; they scorch the soul, but it is warmed forever!
Miserable the creature whose love rises by degrees upon the frigid
morning of the mind! Amid the gloom and sorrow of existence, suddenly to
behold a form having a kindred soul, and to feel an overwhelming
conviction that, with that form, our destiny must be forever entwined;
that there is no more joy but in his joy, no sorrow but when he grieves;
that in the warmth of his love, in his smile of fondness, is all future
bliss--this is love. Magnificent, sublime, divine sentiment! An intense
flame burns in the breast of an adoring girl: she is an ethereal being.
She is out upon the sea of life, with a gaze fixed to a single star. If
that do not shine, there is no further joy in existence!
Oh Indiscretion! Oh Love! In vain are the teachings of moralists, that
thou art a delusion! Love, that can illumine the dark hovel and the
dismal garret, that can gladden the heart of the slave, and lighten his
shackles! The sage may assert that the gratification of vanity is thine
aim and end, but Love glances with contempt at the cold-blooded
philosophy of calculation.
LETTERS.
MARIA TO THEODORE.
_Sunday Night, 11 o’clock._
Dearest, Dearest Theodore: I have not yet lain down. Did you reach
home in safety? That was a swift, ugly horse! I would give worlds
to hear from you, Theodore, even one word! What joys hath God
revealed to me this day! Can our love endure forever? May angels
guard you, Theodore, and learn you to think of your betrothed
Maria! It begins to rain dreadfully, and I know not what to do. I
beat about my chamber like a silly bird in a cage. What a destiny
broods over us! Write me one line, only one line, to tell me of
your welfare. I shall be in despair until I hear from you. Do not
delay the bearer an instant. He promises to return in a very, very
short time. I will pray for you all this night, that seems as if it
would never end. God bless you, my darling Theodore! Do not fail to
write, and, till we meet again, believe me your own
MARIA.
_Monday Morning._
Sweetest, Dearest One: Yours found me quite safe and well, at home,
smoking over a glass of wine. I love you, if that could be, more
than before. You was a darling, to send to inquire after my safety
and health so soon! A wet jacket frightens not me. God bless you,
enchanting one! I will pledge your name and welfare in a glass of
sparkling liquor--I will, ’pon my suavity.[4] Won’t that be
sublime! I sigh for the regaling drinks of my mother’s cupboard!
Your penny-wise people here in Maine would grudge a dog his bone,
and would starve one of my big Cuba hounds, I am sure. But when we
get off there, eh? Won’t you shine, a princess? I’ll pistol the
fool that says you’re not one. By my honor, you shall have a
hundred servants at your heels, deary, eh? Well, good bye for a
short time, love. I love you, and that’s gospel truth. I’ll be back
to-morrow. My soul goes forth after you, as the sunflower follows
in the wake of the sun.
Believe me to be your own THEODORE.
* * * * *
Such was the beginning of a correspondence of over a hundred letters,
and continuing nearly a year. A careful perusal of all of them, in the
order in which they were penned, indicates most clearly the phases of an
attachment as fatal to an innocent, unfortunate girl, as it was
heartless and betraying on the part of Maxwell. The first impulses of
their affections were doubtless mutually sincere. Afterwards the feeling
of Theodore changed, or his lust triumphed over the better qualities of
his nature. And the truth is not here to be disguised, that the love of
a man long immersed in the vices of slavery, and nurtured in slavery’s
very lap, (as Maxwell had been, from birth,) cannot be reckoned but as
the offspring of unmitigated sensuality. The infamy of such a life is
seldom surpassed by the atrocities of ocean piracy. A slaveholder cannot
appreciate the sublimity and purity of the guardian angel, Virtue.
Deadened in feeling by long familiarity with vice, and steeled to all
substantial goodness by the inhumanity of the traffic in female
loveliness, he desires no higher or purer delight than sensual
indulgence. Where earthly prospects are full of promise, the dark demon
of lust intrudes, and, strengthened by possession, flaps his wings in
exultation that the laws of a _Christian community_ are inadequate to
prevent the accomplishment of his dark designs. He riots in the
possession of numberless victims to his rapacious appetite! Youth,
innocence and beauty are immolated, at his bidding, on the altars of
licentiousness!
Wo to the fair daughter of the North, whose pure soul is at the mercy of
the Southern hyena! Wo to that spirit of slavish reverence for wealth,
which winks at any crime, if the criminal be only a man of wealth! In
this penurious and licentious age, money is the arch destroyer of female
chastity. Wo to the female votaries of Wealth and Fashion, whose feet
are in the snares of the soul-destroying seducer! Better to pine in want
till the coming of grey hairs, and die unbefriended, than yield thy
honor, poor worldling, to the exacting blandishments of wealth!
The letter of young Maxwell, as above given, may be regarded not only as
a fair specimen of the literature of slavery, but likewise as an
ebullition of that chivalric spirit which is the peculiar boast of the
Southron. Love, pistols, seduction, murder, dogs, horses, alligators,
and _improvident indolence_, are the ingredients of Southern chivalry.
All the letters of Theodore to Maria, now in our possession, abound in
the same swaggering emptiness. Many of them are filled with the grossest
obscenity. It would be foreign to our purpose to insert them here; our
history is sufficiently blackened with human frailty, without them.
But we cannot well refrain from presenting the reader with one more of
Maria’s letters, evidently written under the withering influence of
disappointment and shame. Still the repulsive brutality of Maxwell could
not stifle the flame of FIRST LOVE, that burned within her confiding,
forgiving, repentant heart. To his iron scoffs she returned tears,
tenderness, and supplications.
* * * * *
_June, Wednesday Evening._
Beloved Theodore: Shall we ever again meet? Shall I indeed ever again
listen to that sweet voice--that voice which sometimes bears such unkind
words--and will it tell me again that it loves me, with the selfsame
accents that ever ring in my fascinated ear? But oh, Theodore, speak
unkindly no more--no more neglect. I feel that there is a stain upon my
soul which all the waters of Jordan could not cleanse. But, Theodore,
you swore your fidelity in the face of Heaven. If you continue your
neglect, I shall die.
Oh, this love is a fever--a fever which has no antidote but death for
me! Could I but blot that fatal night from the scroll of time, my bliss
would never end. Why did the moon look down so palely, and the gold
stars laugh? You bathed my temples in the pearly dew, and spoke so
kindly--Oh, were you false even then? And _I_ your victim!
Avaunt! avaunt! thou horrid dream! Begone! He is still true--my soul’s
light--my Theodore! But seldom he comes, or writes to me, of late.
Dearest love, I thought to meet you yesterday, at your boarding-house. I
called with Miss R. But you were gone, and (would you think it?) your
landlady tossed her head slyly, and said: “Perhaps he went out of town
to some grave-yard, last night!” Horrible! How ugly in her to say that!
I heeded not her base insinuation.
Would you suppose it? I went into your bedroom. I contrived to get there
unobserved. I was there but a moment--a precious moment. Don’t think it
wrong, don’t scold me, dear--but I kissed your pillow, and left a
tear-drop on it. I could not help it, dearest, when I reflected that
your darling head had rested there so often and so lately. Oh, that I
were now at your side! Every thing is so desolate without you--every
thing so harrows up the past! Oh that I could forget the past! But I
will not be miserable. I will be grateful to Heaven that I have been
loved by you.
Theodore! do not let your brow be clouded when you read this. Smile,
smile! as when you first greeted me, a stranger! God knows how much
devotion I lavished upon you for that kindness. Shall it now curse me?
Pray write to me. There is no misery so long as we love; but in the
flickering light of hope I see darkly.
To-day I have looked over all your letters. Some I pressed to my bosom
as priceless treasures; others dropped from my fingers like lead. Oh my
heart! Theodore, you are changeable. I am an unprotected, unbefriended
girl. I have reposed all in you. Your love is the only sunlight that can
illumine this life. Hot tears gush from my eyes, but that’s no matter.
God bless you, Theodore! All will yet go well, will it not? It cannot be
that you despise me, as the tongue of envy interprets your indifference.
If you do, I can endure this life no longer. Write, write! or visit,
this evening, your betrothed but unhappy
MARIA.
* * * * *
This letter, like a dozen others which had preceded it, produced no
response of any description. About ten days afterwards, towards evening,
there was a tap at the door of the house where Maria then was, alone. It
was Maxwell. She fell into his arms, and fainted. He had, on that day,
been apprised, through a tobacco warehouse in Boston, that his father
desired his speedy return to Georgia. He had now come to say
farewell--and a long and last farewell he meant it should be. When she
regained composure, and wiped the tears from her cheek, she pressed to
his forehead a kiss. Then he spoke: “Maria, I am summoned home.
To-morrow I go. I am here to bid you farewell. I have long avoided you;
now you will trouble me no more. It’s strange that you hang about me
so.” “Hush!” interrupted Maria, in a low tone; “speak not, but go.” The
blood of pride suffused her face; she saw the fruits of her fidelity
trampled in the dust, in these words of Maxwell--her devotedness the
mark of his derision. He had now come to announce his abandonment. As
this thought broke in upon her brain, she gazed at him with the
intenseness of despair.--Maxwell burst into a laugh. “Why, ma chere
amie,” said he, “such undauntedness of spirit as that would put two
thousand dollars upon your head, at a slave market. Suppose you go to
Georgia, and let my father advertise you for sale. Many slave-girls are
as white as you are. Then you would be provided for: all your wants
supplied. Perhaps some covey would make you his bed-favorite, with the
full freedom of his plantation.”[5]
Not a word or emotion escaped Maria during the utterance of this jargon
of slavery. Maxwell rose unbidden, and left the dwelling. When he was
out of sight, Maria gave utterance to a wild despair. From that moment
her nature again put on strange garments, and underwent another change.
A new lustre beamed in her eyes. It was the embodiment of an unsleeping
revenge. She saw her own wreck: and now that all was engulphed within
that avalanche of death, _disgrace_, she summoned to her aid the powers
of a long-slumbering fortitude--the fortitude of an injured woman, and
formed a stern resolve.
“I am lost. All is over. A thousand demons are hissing at me. I shrink
from the faces of my friends. This night I, too, will leave thee,
beautiful village, scene of my destruction! Henceforth my life shall be
dedicated to the society of strangers. Bravely will I play my part. I
will smile when I curse. I will win to destroy.”
Scarcely were these incoherent sentences finished, before Maria recalled
to her mind the old Seeress at the Lucky Basin--the letter of fate, and
her own solemn promise not to break its seal before the arrival of her
eighteenth birth-day. “Two long years yet,” said she, musingly; “I may
cease to breathe before that time; all is blighted even now. I will heed
my pledge no longer.” Immediately she started for her portfolio, up
stairs, in which it lay. She seized and broke it open in an instant:
“_To love so young; a Lamb and a Wolf; so young; A Killing Frost;
Destitution; Marriage; Crime; there is Blood! Death!_” One shriek
announced that the forbidden contents were known. Maria lay senseless
upon the floor!