The Coquette, or, The History of Eliza Wharton / A Novel: Founded on Fact

by Hannah Webster Foster

We might here also dwell upon the idiosyncrasies of genius as applicable to her case, which are generally banned, of whatever character they may be, and evermore shut out all sympathy, till, in despair or despite, folly is made crime. But since sin must ever be arraigned for itself, and error is prone to plead for mercy, I leave no word here that can be misconstrued or misapplied. Certain it is that Elizabeth Whitman was marked as one of strangely fluctuating moods, as the truly gifted ever are, and of a wild, incomprehensible nature, little understood by those who should have known her best, and with whom she was most intimate. Over this, in tracing her history, it were well to pause, were it not that thus we might give countenance to this prominent fact of modern days, that the eccentricities of genius are often substituted for genius itself, or are made its prime characteristics, as the gold of the jeweller is recommended for its beauty and strength in proportion to its alloy.

However much we may regret the waywardness of such a heart in the present instance, in that it rejected one so nobly qualified as was Mr. Buckminster to appreciate its genius and its love, while sympathizing with his own mortifying disappointment, (for this we must admit,) that she had in the secrets of her nature a preference for another, we cannot altogether know its results. So cautiously and discreetly did he, through a long and beautiful life, qualify both his lips and his pen, that little or nothing remains beyond these letters of the novelist—which we may not doubt are authentic, as they were long in the possession of Mrs. Henry Hill, of Boston, the "Mrs. Sumner" of the novel—to tell how the heart was instructed, and how blighted hope and blasted affection were made the lobes through which the spirit caught its sublimest and holiest respiration. We know

"Through lacerations takes the spirit wing,
And in the heart's long death throe grasps true life."

One little remark which has been suffered to creep into his Memoirs is, however, of peculiar significance. I quote it here.

In speaking of Connecticut to a friend, he says, "My place was there; I always wished that state to be my home; but Providence has directed my line of duty far away from the place of my first affections."

He also—as one who had every means of knowing the fact has informed me—was deeply affected on reading the "romance" here following, and at the time remarked that, had the author been personally acquainted (not knowing that she was) with the circumstances of his engagement with Elizabeth Whitman, she could not have described them with more graphic truth.

The Hon. Pierrepont Edwards, to whom was given the preference and precedence above referred to, and who is made to assume in the chapters of the novel the name of "Sanford," was the son of Rev. Jonathan Edwards, president of Princeton College, New Jersey. His maternal grandmother was Esther, the second daughter of the Rev. Solomon Stoddard, and sister to the paternal grandmother of Elizabeth Whitman, the wife of Rev. Samuel Whitman before mentioned. A Mr. Burt has by some been identified with this "Sanford," the rival of "Boyer," yet without the least pretension in history to authenticity. Nor can we place much reliance upon the letters here introduced as his in point of originality, as there is sufficient reason for believing that these are, for the most part, of the author's invention, founded upon the current reputation of his after years. And we may be happy in so considering them, since they would betray a character, even in earliest manhood, too depraved and debased for honorable mention, although his errors were no doubt altogether beyond the palliation of a woman's pen. Yet we would fain look at him, in youth at least, as undebauched and uncorrupt, however stained may be the record of his manhood.

Between him and Elizabeth Whitman there was, notwithstanding, over all and under all, a close affinity of spirit; and there is no question, aside from the frailties and objections which the writer of the romance has introduced, that there was a marriage of the soul, superseding all after ties which worldliness and depravity might have consummated, that overshadows sin, and may not pass into our reckoning. Not only such a marriage, but one, though secret, actually sanctioned by the laws of the land, she is known to have declared a fact previous to her death.

Question this who may, that deep down under the impulses of surging passion there existed a purer and holier affection for her, is in history sufficiently clear. They had been set in family connection, intimate by kin, intimate in earliest life by every outward tie, and especially intimate by the subtile affinities of their spiritual natures. Yet he who can, under any circumstances, entreat the love of woman, and then take advantage of her weakness or her confidence, is an anomaly in nature, and should have a special, judiciary here and in heaven.

Since so much of the romance here following is truth, veritable truth, it is to be regretted that any error of historical character was suffered to assume importance in the narrative. Yet this is so often the case in works of this kind, that it is not remarkable here. More surprising is it that truth was so carefully and conscientiously guarded and preserved.