Part 2
The tombstones (which the fathers of that ancient town should shame to have recorded) have been battered and broken for relics, till much of the inscription is gone already, and the footstone entirely removed.
But I have noted that Elizabeth Whitman was of superior merit, and had been recognized as a child of genius in its most earnest sense. From her earliest childhood she had been remarkable for a deeply poetic temperament, and it appears she was recognized as a poet of no common order by the most distinguished writers of the day--Barlow, Trumbull, and others. Why her name and writings have not been handed down to us by those who have essayed to make careful compilations of the literature of the past century, I am unable to divine. She was a relative as well of the last-named poet, Trumbull, on the side of his mother, who was Sarah Whitman, a sister of Rev. Elnathan Whitman, the father of Elizabeth.
I find in the journals of that time the following poem, which, though not the best of her productions, certainly gives evidence of much poetic power:--
TO MR. BARLOW.
_By his Friend_ ELIZABETH WHITMAN, _on New Year's Day_, 1783.
Should every wish the heart of friendship knows Be to your ear conveyed in rustic prose, Lost in the wonders of your Eastern clime, Or rapt in vision to some unborn time, Th' unartful tale might no attention gain; For Friendship knows not, like the Muse, to feign. Forgive her, then, if in this weak essay She tries to emulate thy daring lay, And give to truth and warm affection's glow The charms that from the tuneful sisters flow.
On this blest morning's most auspicious rise, Which finds thee circled with domestic joys, May thy glad heart its grateful tribute pay To Him who shaped thy course and smoothed thy way-- That guardian Power, who, to thy merit kind, Bestowed the bliss most suited to thy mind-- Retirement, friendship, leisure, learned ease, All that the philosophic mind can please; All that the Muses love, th' harmonious nine, Inspire thy lays, and aid the great design. But more than all the world could else bestow, All pleasures that from fame or fortune flow, To fix secure in bliss thy future life, Heaven crowned thy blessings with a lovely wife-- Wise, gentle, good, with every grace combined That charms the sense or captivates the mind; Skilled every soft emotion to improve, The joy of friendship, and the wish of love; To soothe the heart which pale Misfortune's train Invades with grief or agonizing pain; To point through devious paths the narrow road That leads the soul to virtue or to God.
O friend! O sister! to my bosom dear By every tie that binds the soul sincere; O, while I fondly dwell upon thy name, Why sinks my soul, unequal to the theme? But though unskilled thy various worth to praise, Accept my wishes, and excuse my lays. May all thy future days, like this, be gay, And love and fortune blend their kindest ray; Long in their various gifts mayst thou be blessed, And late ascend the realms of endless rest.
Among her papers, also, after her decease, was found a pastoral on "Disappointment," which here follows, evidently written during her seclusion in Danvers, with this brief and pathetic letter in stenographic characters:--
"Must I die alone? Shall I never see you more? I know that you will come; but you will come too late. This is, I fear, my last ability. Tears fall so fast I know not how to write. Why did you leave me in such distress? But I will not reproach you. All that was dear I forsook for you, but do not regret it. May God forgive in both what was amiss. When I go from here, I will leave you some way to find me. If I die, will you come and drop a tear over my grave?"
The poem, which continues in the same moving strain, is touching and tender, and betrays a heart full of refinement and sensibility.
DISAPPOINTMENT.
With fond impatience, all the tedious day I sighed, and wished the lingering hours away; For when bright Hesper led the starry train, My shepherd swore to meet me on the plain. With eager haste to that dear spot I flew, And lingered long, and then in tears withdrew. Alone, abandoned to love's tenderest woes, Down my pale cheeks the tide of sorrow flows; Dead to all joy that Fortune can bestow, In vain for me her useless bounties flow. Take back each envied gift, ye powers divine, And only let me call Fidelio mine. Ah, wretch! what anguish yet thy soul must prove! For thou canst hope to lose thy care in love; And when Fidelio meets thy tearful eye, Pale fear and cold despair his presence fly. With pensive steps I sought thy walks again, And kissed thy token on the verdant plain; With fondest hope, through many a blissful hour, We gave our souls to Fancy's pleasing power. Lost in the magic of that sweet employ, To build gay scenes and fashion future joy, We saw mild Peace over fair _Canaan_ rise, And shower her pleasures from benignant skies. On airy hills our happy mansion rose, Built but for joy--no room for future woes. Round the calm solitude with ceaseless song,
* * * * *
Sweet as the sleep of innocence the day, By transports measured, lightly danced away; To love, to bliss, the unioned soul was given, And--ah, too happy!--asked no brighter heaven. And must the hours in ceaseless anguish roll? Will no soft sunshine cheer my clouded soul? Can this dear earth no transient joy supply? Is it my doom to hope, despair, and die? O, come once more, with soft endearments come; Burst the cold prison of the sullen tomb; Through favored walks thy chosen maid attend Where well-known shades their pleasing branches bend; Shed the soft poison of thy speaking eye, And look those raptures lifeless words deny. Still he, though late, reheard what ne'er could tire, But, told each eve, fresh pleasures would inspire; Still hope those scenes which love and fancy drew, But, drawn a thousand times, were ever new.
Can fancy paint, can words express, Can aught on earth my woes redress? E'en thy soft smiles can ceaseless prove Thy truth, thy tenderness, and love. Once thou couldst every bliss inspire, Transporting joy and gay desire; Now cold Despair her banner rears, And Pleasure flies when she appears; Fond Hope within my bosom dies, And Agony her place supplies. O thou, for whose dear sake I bear A doom so dreadful, so severe, May happy fates thy footsteps guide, And o'er thy _peaceful_ home preside; Nor let E----a's early tomb Infect thee with its baleful gloom.
Still another poem, of more genuine beauty and strength than either of these, has been preserved in her own handwriting, which I doubt not the reader will thank me for introducing here, although it bears more of recrimination than the others.
Thy presents to some happier lover send; Content thyself to be Lucinda's friend. The soft expression of thy gay design Ill suits the sadness of a heart like mine-- A heart like mine, forever doomed to prove Each tender woe, but not one joy of love.
First from my arms a dying lover torn, In early life it was my fate to mourn. A father next, by fate's relentless doom, With heartfelt woe I followed to the tomb. Now all was lost; no friends remained to guide My erring step, or calm life's boisterous tide.
Again th' admiring youths around me bowed; And one I singled from the sighing crowd. Well skilled he was in every winning art-- To warm the fancy, or to touch the heart. Why must my pen the noble praise deny, Which virtue, worth, and honor _should_ supply?
O youth beloved! what pangs my breast has borne To find thee false, ungrateful, and forsworn! A shade and darkness o'er my prospect spreads, The damps of night and death's eternal shades. The scorpion's sting, by disappointment brought, And all the horrors of despairing thought, Sad as they are, I might, perhaps, endure, And bear with patience what admits no cure. But here my bosom is to madness moved; I suffer by the wrongs of him I loved.
O, had I died by pitying Heaven's decree, Nor proved so black, so base, a mind in thee! But vain the wish; my heart was doomed to prove Each torturing pang, but not one joy of love. Wouldst thou again fallacious prospects spread, And woo me from the confines of the dead? The pleasing scenes that charmed me once retrace-- Gay scenes of rapture and ecstatic bliss? How did my heart embrace the dear deceit, And fondly cherish the deluding cheat! Delusive hope, and wishes sadly vain, Unless to sharpen disappointment's pain.
These are but the fragmentary proofs of her poetic ability; still they are the most that have been preserved bearing _full authenticity_; yet these betray a skilful and accustomed pen, though stamped with the bitterness of woe.
Here, then, we will take up the idea which we left several pages back, in order to introduce a quotation from a volume of singular power in behalf of those thus gifted, who are every where looked upon with some degree of suspicion at least, as I find our heroine was even long before she wandered from the path of virtue. I quote it only to soften the harsher judgment of the world, ever eager to condemn what it cannot comprehend; yet must it by no means be made to apologize for any sin.
While I am willing to be known as believing that genius can be governed by no conventional laws, but is ever a law unto itself, I am also in the full belief of the independent moral power of every individual to regulate his own acts according to the purest code of morality. But to the quotation, which, with the above remarks, the reader would find pertinent to time and place had he turned over the historical pages having a bearing on this romance which I have.
"The strong seductions and fierce trials of the heart of genius who shall estimate? * * * What does an ordinary mind know of the inner storm and whirlwind, as it were, of restlessness; the craving after excitement and high action; the inability to calm the breast and repose in fixity; the wild beatings and widowed longings after sympathy? * * * It is the severe lot of genius that its blessedness should be its bane; _that that wherein its heavenly franchise gives it to excel mankind is the point wherein it should be cursed above its brethren_!"
More I might quote; but these few extracts are sufficient for my purpose; and I hasten to conclude this chapter with what may to the general reader appear more relevant.
* * * * *
Not many years ago the Bell Tavern, as it was ever named, was razed to its foundation, and a new building erected on the spot where it stood. At this time a pleasant _jeu d'esprit_ from the humorous and ready pen--which has failed not to make its mark in the world--of Fitch Poole, Esq., of Danvers, was published, which gained a wide credence in its authenticity. This curious witticism affected to have discovered in the wall of the room which "Eliza Wharton" occupied an original letter from her to Mr. Edwards, dated May, 1778, besides various articles of her wearing apparel, such as slippers, &c., and also her guitar, all of which had been concealed in the ceiling since the sad close of her history. Numbers flocked to see them; but, as it was a mere pleasantry, the hoax was well received, and ended in the neighborhood of Danvers with the privileged "April fool's day" of its date, although it may even yet have believers in distant places.
Thus, kind reader, have I accomplished the task assigned me with fidelity to truth and to humanity, and here lay the offering on the altar of universal love without excuse.
JANE E. LOCKE.
BOSTON, 1854.
NOTE.--For important facts which have greatly aided me in preparing this prefatory chapter I am much indebted, as I would here gratefully acknowledge, to Ezekiel White, Esq., of Easthampton, and Mrs. H.V. Cheney, of Montreal.
J.E.L.
[Footnote A: John Whitman, whose father was brother to the grandfather of "Eliza Wharton," married a daughter of Rev. Mr. Foster, of Stafford, Connecticut, who afterwards settled in Stow, Massachusetts, and who was father of Rev. John Foster, of Brighton, Massachusetts, the husband of the author of this book.]
THE COQUETTE; OR, THE HISTORY OF ELIZA WHARTON.
LETTER I.
TO MISS LUCY FREEMAN.
NEW HAVEN
An unusual sensation possesses my breast--a sensation which I once thought could never pervade it on any occasion whatever. It is _pleasure_, pleasure, my dear Lucy, on leaving my paternal roof. Could you have believed that the darling child of an indulgent and dearly-beloved mother would feel a gleam of joy at leaving her? But so it is. The melancholy, the gloom, the condolence which surrounded me for a month after the death of Mr. Haly had depressed my spirits, and palled every enjoyment of life. Mr. Haly was a man of worth--a man of real and substantial merit. He is, therefore, deeply and justly regretted by _his_ friends. He was chosen to be a future guardian and companion for me, and was, therefore, beloved by _mine_. As their choice, as a good man, and a faithful friend, I esteemed him; but no one acquainted with the disparity of our tempers and dispositions, our views and designs, can suppose my heart much engaged in the alliance. Both nature and education had instilled into my mind an implicit obedience to the will and desires of my parents. To them, of course, I sacrificed my fancy in this affair, determined that my reason should concur with theirs, and on that to risk my future happiness. I was the more encouraged, as I saw, from our first acquaintance, his declining health, and expected that the event would prove as it has. Think not, however, that I rejoice in his death. No; far be it from me; for though I believe that I never felt the passion of love for Mr. Haly, yet a habit of conversing with him, of hearing daily the most virtuous, tender, and affectionate sentiments from his lips, inspired emotions of the sincerest friendship and esteem.
He is gone. His fate is unalterably, and I trust happily, fixed. He lived the life, and died the death, of the righteous. O that my last end may be like his! This event will, I hope, make a suitable and abiding impression upon my mind, teach me the fading nature of all sublunary enjoyments, and the little dependence which is to be placed on earthly felicity. Whose situation was more agreeable, whose prospects more flattering, than Mr. Haly's? Social, domestic, and connubial joys were fondly anticipated, and friends and fortune seemed ready to crown every wish; yet, animated by still brighter hopes, he cheerfully bade them all adieu. In conversation with me but a few days before his exit, "There is," said he, "but one link in the chain of life undissevered; that, my dear Eliza, is my attachment to you. But God is wise and good in all his ways; and in this, as in all other respects, I would cheerfully say, His will be done."
You, my friend, were witness to the concluding scene; and, therefore, I need not describe it.
I shall only add on the subject, that if I have wisdom and prudence to follow his advice and example, if his prayers for my temporal and eternal welfare be heard and answered, I shall be happy indeed.
The disposition of mind which I now feel I wish to cultivate. Calm, placid, and serene, thoughtful of my duty, and benevolent to all around me, I wish for no other connection than that of friendship.
This letter is all an egotism. I have even neglected to mention the respectable and happy friends with whom I reside, but will do it in my next. Write soon and often; and believe me sincerely yours,
ELIZA WHARTON.
LETTER II.
TO THE SAME.
NEW HAVEN.
Time, which effaces every occasional impression, I find gradually dispelling the pleasing pensiveness which the melancholy event, the subject of my last, had diffused over my mind. Naturally cheerful, volatile, and unreflecting, the opposite disposition I have found to contain sources of enjoyment which I was before unconscious of possessing.
My friends here are the picture of conjugal felicity. The situation is delightful--the visiting parties perfectly agreeable. Every thing tends to facilitate the return of my accustomed vivacity. I have written to my mother, and received an answer. She praises my fortitude, and admires the philosophy which I have exerted under what she calls my heavy bereavement. Poor woman! she little thinks that my heart was untouched; and when that is unaffected, other sentiments and passions make but a transient impression. I have been, for a month or two, excluded from the gay world, and, indeed, fancied myself soaring above it. It is now that I begin to descend, and find my natural propensity for mixing in the busy scenes and active pleasures of life returning. I have received your letter--your moral lecture rather; and be assured, my dear, your monitorial lessons and advice shall be attended to. I believe I shall never again resume those airs which you term _coquettish_, but which I think deserve a softer appellation, as they proceed from an innocent heart, and are the effusions of a youthful and cheerful mind. We are all invited to spend the day to-morrow at Colonel Farington's, who has an elegant seat in this neighborhood. Both he and his lady are strangers to me; but the friends by whom I am introduced will procure me a welcome reception. Adieu.
ELIZA WHARTON.
LETTER III.
TO THE SAME.
NEW HAVEN.
Is it time for me to talk again of conquests? or must I only enjoy them in silence? I must write to you the impulses of my mind, or I must not write at all. You are not so morose as to wish me to become a nun, would our country and religion allow it. I ventured, yesterday, to throw aside the habiliments of mourning, and to array myself in those more adapted to my taste. We arrived at Colonel Farington's about one o'clock. The colonel handed me out of the carriage, and introduced me to a large company assembled in the hall.
My name was pronounced with an _emphasis_, and I was received with the most flattering tokens of respect. When we were summoned to dinner, a young gentleman in a clerical dress offered me his hand, and led me to a table furnished with an elegant and sumptuous repast, with more gallantry and address than commonly fall to the share of students. He sat opposite me at table; and whenever I raised my eye, it caught his. The ease and politeness of his manners, with his particular attention to me, raised my curiosity, and induced me to ask Mrs. Laiton who he was. She told me that his name was Boyer; that he was descended from a worthy family; had passed with honor and applause through the university where he was educated; had since studied divinity with success; and now had a call to settle as a minister in one of the first parishes in a neighboring state.
The gates of a spacious garden were thrown open at this instant, and I accepted with avidity an invitation to walk in it. Mirth and hilarity prevailed, and the moments fled on downy wings, while we traced the beauties of Art and Nature, so liberally displayed and so happily blended in this delightful retreat. An enthusiastic admirer of scenes like these, I had rambled some way from the company, when I was followed by Mrs. Laiton to offer her condolence on the supposed loss which I had sustained in the death of Mr. Haly. My heart rose against the woman, so ignorant of human nature as to think such conversation acceptable at such a time. I made her little reply, and waved the subject, though I could not immediately dispel the gloom which it excited.
The absurdity of a custom authorizing people at a first interview to revive the idea of griefs which time has lulled, perhaps obliterated, is intolerable. To have our enjoyments arrested by the empty compliments of unthinking persons for no other reason than a compliance with fashion, is to be treated in a manner which the laws of humanity forbid.
We were soon joined by the gentlemen, who each selected his partner, and the walk was prolonged.
Mr. Boyer offered me his arm, which I gladly accepted, happy to be relieved from the impertinence of my female companion. We returned to tea; after which the ladies sung, and played by turns on the piano forte; while some of the gentlemen accompanied with the flute, the clarinet, and the violin, forming in the whole a very decent concert. An elegant supper, and half an hour's conversation after it, closed the evening; when we returned home, delighted with our entertainment, and pleased with ourselves and each other. My imagination is so impressed with the festive scenes of the day that Morpheus waves his ebon wand in vain. The evening is fine beyond the power of description; all Nature is serene and harmonious, in perfect unison with my present disposition of mind. I have been taking a retrospect of my past life, and, a few juvenile follies excepted, which I trust the recording angel has blotted out with a tear of charity, find an approving conscience and a heart at ease. Fortune, indeed, has not been very liberal of her gifts to me; but I presume on a large stock in the bank of friendship, which, united with health and innocence, give me some pleasing anticipations of future felicity.
Whatever my fate may be, I shall always continue your
ELIZA WHARTON.
LETTER IV.
TO MR. SELBY.
NEW HAVEN.
You ask me, my friend, whether I am in pursuit of truth, or a lady. I answer, Both. I hope and trust they are united, and really expect to find Truth, and the Virtues and Graces besides, in a fair form. If you mean by the first part of your question whether I am searching into the sublimer doctrines of religion,--to these I would by no means be inattentive; but, to be honest, my studies of that kind have been very much interrupted of late. The respectable circle of acquaintances with which I am honored here has rendered my visits very frequent and numerous. In one of these I was introduced to Miss Eliza Wharton--a young lady whose elegant person, accomplished mind, and polished manners have been much celebrated. Her fame has often reached me; but, as the Queen of Sheba said to Solomon, the half was not told me. You will think that I talk in the style of a lover.