Prevod
Pod imenom Eliza Wharton je kratek čas živela ženska, ki naj bi ji bilo v resnici ime Elizabeth Whitman. O njej je malo znanega in domneva se, da je odšla med tujce, da bi prikrila svojo sramoto. Umrla je, ne da bi povedala svojo zgodbo. Leta 1788 je prispela v gostilno Bell v Danversu v spremstvu moškega, ki je poskrbel, da so jo primerno nastanili, nato pa se odpeljal in se nikoli več vrnil. Bila je očarljiva, lepa in lepo vzgojena ženska, njen obraz pa je zastirala nežna otožnost. Ostajala je v hiši s svojimi knjigami, šivanjem in kitaro ter se ogibala opravljanju brezdelnežev. Govorila je, da je njen mož na potovanju, in kadar je sprejemala obiskovalce, je bilo na njeni mizi videti pismo, naslovljeno na »gospo Elizo Wharton«. Nekoč se je pred njenimi vrati ustavil neznanec in prebral ime na njih. Ko je odšel naprej, je ženska zastokala: »Pogubljena sem!« Neka dobrosrčna ženska je videla, da potrebuje nego, in jo kljub vaškemu opravljanju vzela k sebi domov. Tam je po rojstvu mrtvega otroka umrla. Med njenimi stvarmi so našli pisma, polna pretresljivih prošenj, in nekaj verzov, ki so se končali takole:
»O ti, zavoljo kogar nosim usodo strašno in trpim, naj sreča vodi tvoje korake in mirni dom ti čuva blag; naj prezgodnji grob Elize ne zagrne te v svoj zlovešči mrak.«
Nad njenim grobom so postavili kamen — kdo ga je dal postaviti, ni znano — in vanj vklesali tale napis: »Ta skromni kamen so v spomin na Elizabeth Whitman dali napisati njeni žalujoči prijatelji, katerih srca je osvojila z izjemno nežnostjo in ljubeznivostjo. Obdarjena z izrednim umom in učenostjo se jim je še bolj priljubila s svojo skromnostjo in dobroto. Naj prizanesljivost zagrne njene slabosti, saj je bilo njeno usmiljenje do drugih veliko. Zadnje boleče trenutke je prestala daleč od vseh prijateljev in bila zgled mirne vdanosti v usodo. Umrla je 25. julija 1788, v sedemintridesetem letu starosti, in solze tujcev so močile njen grob.«
Izvirnik
Under the name of Eliza Wharton for a brief time lived a woman whose name was said to be Elizabeth Whitman. Little is known of her, and it is thought that she had gone among strangers to conceal disgrace. She died without telling her story. In 1788 she arrived at the Bell Tavern, Danvers, in company with a man, who, after seeing her properly bestowed, drove away and never returned. A graceful, beautiful, well-bred woman, with face overcast by a tender melancholy, she kept indoors with her books, her sewing, and a guitar, avoiding the gossip of the idle. She said that her husband was absent on a journey, and a letter addressed to “Mrs. Eliza Wharton” was to be seen on her table when she received callers. Once a stranger paused at her door and read the name thereon. As he passed on the woman groaned, “I am undone!” One good woman, seeing her need of care and defiant of village prattling, took her to her home, and there, after giving birth to a dead child, she passed away. Among her effects were letters full of pathetic appeal, and some verses, closing thus:
“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 Eliza's early tomb Infect thee with its baleful gloom.”
A stone was raised above her grave, by whom it is not known, and this inscription was engraved thereon: “This humble stone, in memory of Elizabeth Whitman, is inscribed by her weeping friends, to whom she endeared herself by uncommon tenderness and affection. Endowed with superior genius and acquirements, she was still more endeared by humility and benevolence. Let candor throw a veil over her frailties, for great was her charity for others. She sustained the last painful scene far from every friend, and exhibited an example of calm resignation. Her departure was on the 25th of July, 1788, in the thirty-seventh year of her age, and the tears of strangers watered her grave.”
