The Coquette by Hannah Webster Foster (books to read in your 20s txt) 📕

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