On the Wooing of Martha Pitkin

Being a Versified Narrative of the Time of the Regicides in Colonial New England

Written by Charles Knowles Bolton, Bachelor of Arts, 1895

Preface to the Reader.

The Story of Martha Pitkin is partially recorded in the genealogies of the 
Pitkin and Wolcott families, and mentions of her name are not infrequent 
in the colonial records of the time.  The following facts may add to the 
interest of the narrative: - 

Martha Pitkin was born in London in 1638, the sister of Roger Pitkin of the 
English Army, and of William Pitkin, Attorney-General of Connecticut, whom she
followed to the New World in 1661, thinking to return with him to England, 
"not once supposing he intended to remain in the wilderness".  The Reverend 
Thomas Robbins, for many years the pastor of the New England parish she attended,
writes in his journal: "This girl put the colony in commotion".  Her grace and
beauty quite won all hearts, and the choice of a young man who was suitable 
to obtain her hand became a matter of general consultation.  She was married
on the 17th October, 1661, and died on the 13th October, 1719; she became the
mother of Governor Roger Wolcott of Connecticut; the grandmother of Governor 
Oliver Wolcott, signer of the Declaration of Independence; the great-grandmother
of the second Governor Oliver Wolcott, who succeeded Alexander Hamilton as 
Secretary of the Treasury, and of Governor Roger Griswold; and ancestor of 
Senator Edward Oliver Wolcott of Colorado and Lieutenant-Governor Roger Wolcott
of Massachusetts.

On the Wooing of Martha Pitkin.

A stone's throw from the country road
In the dim light of sundown stood
A settler's dwelling; its gray lines
Seemed blended now in leafy shade,
Now visible again, as day
Upon the western hills turned back,
And lingered long before the night.
There was a hush like that which steals
Over manorial halls when gay
Child laughter dies, and echoing steps
Grow fainter on the foot-worn stairs
And slumber comes.  There toward the west
Broad reedy meadows lay - where soon
The winding, blue Connecticut
Would rise to kiss the verdured spring.
Afar, the gentle smoke that towered 
Skyward, unworried by the wind,
Betokened peace in Hartford town;
Peace from the savage forms that huddled
At nightfall by their fitful fires
Under the shadowing great hills.

A single light burned where the room
Looked out toward Windsor in the north.
And here in the uncleared wilderness
A girl sat thinkg: "This the land
Of promise they have brought me to;
There dismal forests, there hewn walls
That sleep not lest the midnight step
Of murder bring its own red mark
Across the door.  Call this a home?
How could the brother that I loved
And reverenced, toil like a hind
While the other serves his king?

"Perhaps" - 
and then she rose, half listlessly,
The old stern beauty gone, and stood
Looking upon the bright north star
Beyond, a woman's tenderness
That cannot die, touching again 
Her blue eyes with the light of love - 
"Perhaps Will knows his duty here
As well as Roger his; perhaps
I was unkind to greet him so - 
The brother I crossed seas and wilds
To take to England's shores again - 
One I left serving there his king
To find another with his swine.
My heart reproved me; his reply?
'Beauty has liberties that know
No law for, Martha, is there law
That beauty need respect?'"

She paused
And smiled, smoothing the golden curles
That lay caressing about
Her throat.

"It was unkind", she said,
Her words repeating her first thought,
While she mused on of other things, - 
Of England fair with lawns, and grown
With poppy fields and primrose lanes;
England of bells and dance and song,
Welcoming king from over sea
To rule his own again; England
Of holy altars and fair towers
Where her scorned service rose again
In sweet thanksgiving through the land.
And here the howl of famished wolves,
And silence yet more ominous.
What here of loveliness, of home
Affection, of that other love?
Her heart woke from its lethargy,
And flushed her cheeks as the rose-heart
Leaps to the petals' outmost rim.
Then, as she thought of love a guest
Beneath those rough-hewn beams of pine,
She laughed aloud and merrily
Until the rafters overhead
Rang sweetly with weird murmuring;
And as the room grew still once more
The candle flickered to its end.

II

Morning, with dew deep in the flowers,
Morning, with gold on leaf and bough,
and God's day, dear to pilgrim hearts.
Already from the distant hill
The drum-beat called the worshippers.
Grave, serious men in sombre hues
Rode up the winding road, erect
Upon their saddles; while behind,
Close clinging to the pillions, sat
Their wives.

Martha stood watching them,
Swaying between the humorous
And calm heroic of their lives.
The days sometimes seemed very long
From dawn to evening; in the sound
Of trees and birds she missed the throb
That quickens every heart within
Great London wall, making each pulse
Beat with its own; for Nature's heart
None know till they have lived with her
Through budding time and autumn bloom.
Yet from their quiet speech she learned
A reverence, and they grew mild
Before her.  For her fame had run 
From door to door upon the lips
Of our forefathers, than whom none
Knew better the born maajesty
Of gentle blood and gave it due.

Slowly they crossed the fields, and stood
Before the meeting-house which rang
With tramp of feet and clank of arms
Of those who garrisoned the door.
When she had reached the gallery
And knelt in prayer, in loyalty
To England's church of her dear home,
The glow of health lay rich and warm
About her cheeks and dimpled chin.
If someone then found her more fair
Than dreams, and saw nor birds that built
Their yearly nests between the beams,
Nor spider in his glistening web,
He sinned not more than other men.
The hour-glass in its polished framed
Was turned; and yet again the sands
Ran out.  The tithingman, sharp eyed,
Looked first this way, then that, and scanned
Each drowsy face, admonishing
The expectant sleeper with his staff.

The forenoon light wove lozenge shapes 
Upon the high-back pews below.
The preacher's twelfthly closed; the tune
Was set and all its stanzas sung
Joltingly as the meter ran.
The calm air of the Sabbath noon
Greeted the people filing down
The hillside after the long prayer.
Upon the uncertain road the few
Plain houses stood, and the great barns.
William walked silently, his thought
Upon the sermon, point by point,
To note it down as was his wont;
Martha his sister, lost in thoughts
Whose subtle meaning her own heart
Scarce knew, walked slowly by his side.

III

Behind them came Ozias Goodwin,
His daughter Hannah walking close
Beside him: he well knit and strong,
Seared with the heat of summer sun
And winter storm, and she grown fair
Amid the uncleared wilderness,
With Nature's touch upon her cheeks.
Hannah saw Martha and exclaimed:
"Father, there's Mistress Pitkin, come
From England, she whom all eyes scanned
At meeting when the minister
Thanked God that we had here with us
Such sisterly devotion.  Some,
I thought, looked longer than was need."
"Tut, child! lest Master Pitkin hear",
Her father said.

When they had passed,
Saluting each with grave decorum,
Martha looked searching at her,
And turning to her brother said:
"Has she, who goes beside the man,
Your heart?"  But his unfeigned surprise
Said "no" more than the subtle power
Of innocence itself, perhaps
That she should think what had not grown
In his own mind to consciousness.
"She knows you well", his sister said,
"And yet she gave me but a glance
To rest her eyes on you for that
Brief space in passing."

Scarce the words
Were spoken when the voice of one
Who hurried in his step detained them.
"A packet I have brought with me
From Boston.  As I thought to go
To-morrow by another way,
I hastened after to give it you."
William's face gladdened as he read
The superscription in the hand 
Of Roger Pitkin his own brother:
  For William Pitkin at Hertford Towne
  Neare Coneticut River.  Leave
  With Mr Thomas Smyth, neare to
  The Spring in Boston in New England.
"I thank you, and I trust you bring
Good news, friend Simon", William said.
"Think you not, Martha, it is sweet
On God's own day to have this sign
That He has blest and cared for those
Across the sea?"

And then they met,
Martha and Simon - he the son
Of Henry Wolcott the pioneer.
Are not there times, there must be, when
The eternal purpose is made known
In one heart's quicker beating, one
Flushed cheek foretelling to the heart
The end that makes a meeting sweet.
She did not need to look at him;
His presence brought to her once more
The village church and his clear eyes
Upon here.  All came back anew,
The sunlight on the high-back seats
In lozenge shapes; the spider's web
Across the rafters, and the stir
Of restless sitters in the heat.
But when this other voice crept in,
The drowsy intonation ceased;
The glad, fresh outer air seemed come
Again the birds, the blowers, the sun.
And Simon thought her, more than these,
The image of true loveliness.

Night came at last, more like a thing
Of life than dark in London seemed;
A thousand footed forms in black
From every tree crept forth and stood,
And down the shaded highway stalked
The spectre of all solitude.
Martha alone within her room
Sat musing by the candle light.
As some white flower, amid the rocks
That cut the outline of a peak,
Alone and helpless waits with joy
The morrow's sun, so she looked forward
With strange content.  That night she wrote
To him who stayed to serve his king
Within great London wall, and said
She should not come a little yet.
And sitting there she softly sang:

  "If I could feel, O Love, thy breath,
   And know that thou art nigh;
   If I could say
   'Hope comes to-day';
   If I could know the wind that saith
   'One loves me', then I would not die.

  "If I could hear, sweet Love, one word,
   Then should I know the whole;
   As sounds that dwell
   In pearly shell
   But echo oceans, tempest stirred,
   'T would waken bliss immeasurable.

  "Dear Love, if I could touch thy hand
   And feel thy warmer breast,
   Its quickening
   Would wake the spring
   Of all a longing spirit planned,
   Of all it hoped to die possessed."

IV

Two riders slowly toward the north
Rode through the forest, now in woods
Whose vistas were the deepening gloom
Of solitary night, and now
On rising banks, between which lay
The enchanted river.  Leafy boughs
Reflected in the glimmering stream,
With stars like drowsy fire-flies fallen
Between, all but deceived the horses
That chased for looser rein and drew
Nearer to Windsor.

Simon spoke:
"Brother, I would confess to you
A feeling that has crept on me
Until I know not if I am
The same calm man I used to be,
With little thought beyond the day
And its sun's rising.  There has grown
A loveliness in everything.
The bird's glad music seems a part
Of my own eager joy in living.
Brother, I need not tell you more,
Who know so well my heart and thought."
So Simon spoke, and as they rode
Out from the shadows he beheld
His brother's face grown very pale
And sadness heavy in his eyes.
He would have spoken, but a hand
Seemed at his shoulder and voice
Said Wait a little.  Thus they rode
In silence but for noise of hoofs
Breaking the crisp and thirsty grass.
"She loves you?" were his only words,
Spoken so low their horses' ears
Not even turned, nor at the short
Low answer "No", that Simon gave.

Could he who just had heard the joy
Of Simon's love have heart to say
"Give way to me"?  Could he bring in 
The chill of winter at the birth
Of spring?  His warm heart bade him bear
In silence.  Simon rode beside,
Amazed to see the unspoken truth
Should smite him so.  His brother's voice
Had more of a sweetness that it was 
More sad - a sweetness he could dream
Might have been hers it had so much
A woman's tenderness.  And then - 
Unconscious seal of his own love - 
He took his brother's hand and said:
"Where we may not go on together
You shall go first, and all my prayers
Shall plead for you."  Then neither spoke.
The smell of pine-trees filled the air,
And flowers beyond held waiting cups
Toward the gray sky.

"No", said his brother,
"No, Simon, you have loved as I,
And which of us could serve her best
For this world's happiness and that
To come, God knows, and his will
Shall make decision.  I will hold
This sweet wild rose and this poor weed
Behind me, one in either hand,
And he whom God knows would be best
For her, may he win her as he 
Shall choose the rose."

The moon came full 
Above the ominous black clouds,
And from the boughs that swayed and swung 
Across the narrow way, the birds
Looked out and twittered in the light.
The first house that foretold the town
Beyond, stood dim beside the road;
No face looked out as these two men
Rode by, one wavering 'twixt joy
And pity, with the wild sweet rose
That he had drawn pressed close upon
His beating heart, and one benumbed - 
A weed left in his outstretched hand.

V

Martha stood watching where the cows
Came slowly down the narrow lane,
Stopping on either side to reach
The uncropped grass between the bars.
Some raised their kindly eyes at touch
Of her white hand upon their necks,
And some but tossed their glossy heads.
She was so occupied she scarce
Had heard the footsteps coming near
And Simon's greeting; for the cows 
Recalled her English meadow lands.

"And should you not be glad", she said,
To see the Avon and the Thames
Stretching away to west and east
By purple heather fields, and gorse
Dotting the undulating hills - 
To see Bow Church again, or gay
Vauxhall, and Richmond, where the King
Has been?"

"The coming of King Charles",
He said, "brings pain as well as joy;
I did but ride to-day by horse
From the New Haven colony
Where Goffe and Whalley, those two men
Who signed the death of Charles the First,
Lie now in hiding; Endecott,
Of Massachusetts Bay, talked loud
Of their arrest - although some say
His was but simulated zeal
To please the king; and so they came,
The regicides, to ask protection
We cannot give.  But Winthrop here
Demanded papers, had a doubt
Of right to act, delaying long
Until the officers declare 
Us traitors one and all."

"But you", 
She said, "you would not hesitate
To see these wicked men in irons?"

"Good Mr. Davenport declares", 
He answered her evasively,
"That they remained there but a little
And now are gone.  Meanwhile the news
Brings men from all the country round 
To watch the angry officers
Search house and barn.  A goodman said
He saw them, dressed in lace and gold,
Ride down the road and over bridge
Beneath which Goffe and Whalley hid.
Two months these men have lain concealed
Within a cave where food and drink 
Are brought to them, and so they live
Trusting the simple country folks."

From this they talked of other things,
Of famed, fair cities she had seen,
Of frontier hardships he had borne;
And of the common joys that prove
Us kin.  For truly is it said:

  In ancient streets, where all around 
  The great have made it sacred ground,
  Or in the mart
  Where throbs the heart
  Of commerce, joy is found.

And then they wandered on and on
In silence, listening to birds
Low twittering above their nests,
And distant water murmuring.

  In woodland paths where ivy grows
  And arbutus precedes the rose,
  Or in the hills
  Where leap the rills
  Live pleasure and repose.

The air was warm and redolent
With spring; the new buds overhead
Lay soft against the purpling sky,
And wintergreen sprang from dead leaves
That rustled in the wind.

  In woodland paths, in ancient streets,
  Are gathered life's most treasured sweets,
  Or in the mart
  If thine own heart
  Makes lovely all it meets.

Such days
Are few in any life, when youth
And spring and love's first questionings
Together quicken the heart.
And as the days went by, with buds
And blossoms giving proof of fruit
To come, Martha grew more a woman,
More serious and calm and sweet.
And Simon sitting by the hearth
Said to himself, "She is so much
A part of our own simple life
That she will never sail away."

VI

The pale, pink arbutus had bloomed 
Beneath seared leaves and fallen boughs;
The dandelion straight had stood
with bending buttercups around;
The wild-rose in the wind-blown meadows
Had peeped above the tasseled grass,
And sumac, like the sunset flow
Of day, now came to crown the woods
With beauty at the waning year.

Martha stood looking toward the west
Where Hartford lay across the river
Under the guarding hills.  The time
Had passed so swiftly since the day
The ship bore her beyond the cliffs
Of Dover toward Connecticut.
Should she return?  Her heart grew sad
At thought of those white sails full spread
Toward England.  She had said to Roger:
"As fast as ship can carry us
William and I will come again,
For he can have no thought to live
Forever in that wilderness."

And now she held an open letter
That through the still, slow-passing hours
Her hand had written, while the tears
Stood in her eyes.  She could not go,
Yet could she stay and live alone?
The letter was addressed "To wait
In Posterne Street, neare Little Morefields,
Signe of the Goerge, London within",
And said to Roger "I must come".

She stood there, fairer than all else,
With morning sunshine in her eyes,
Her golden hair blown timidly
About her temples.  Once the world - 
Her little world, and where so fair
A universe as that wihin
One's own heart yearning and content - 
Her world had seemed so full of light,
So blessed with happy premonition,
When word that William was to wed
Made her seem all unwanted there,
Made the dry meadows look forlorn
And the low rafters desolate.
She saw gay children pass the door,
She saw the reapers in the fiels,
She heard the lowing cows far down
The village road; these once were part
Of her own life that she had grown
To love.

But while she stood there, musing,
Simon drew nearer, rein in hand.
"I hope I find my lady well"
He said, half gaily, as he sprang
From saddle at the door; and then
Seeing distress but half concealed
In her pale cheeks and tearful eyes,
He took her trouble for his own,
Giving a lover's sympathy
Until she blushed before his gaze.

"I came", he said, "at once from Windsor
At news of William's happiness
To wish him life's best joy, to pray
That every hope love's dawn shall waken
May carry comfort all the way
In best fulfillment.  May it be" - 
His voice grew mellower, more low - 
"That my own joy in his is more
Because you too are fond of him?"
Martha scarce raised her eyes the while
He spoke.  Her little universe
Seemed coming back to her, and now
The light crept in to grace here eyes,
New color flushed her cheeks, and wind
Came dallying her draperies
Until each bit of ribband shared
The mystery of her own beauthy.

"I sometimes thought", he said, "these flowers
And woods and streams would weave a charm 
To keep you with us; but the fields
Of England - you have seen, not I
Who came a child upon these shores - 
They have the rose where we have thorns,
The manor-house has ivy towers
Where we have only barren walls
And tireless winds."

"But these are yours", 
Thus slowly did she answer him,
"The winding road, the village green,
The little church, the blazing hearth;
And I am but a visitor
Who learns to love, perchance, what those
About her love, yet for return
May claim but transient courtesy."

"The little that we have is yours",
He said; "your love has made it so.
And being yours, were these sown fields
The desert land, they were more blessed
That you have loved them for our sakes;
The eyes see beauty where the heart 
Beats quicker with its memories.
Martha, could love for any man - 
For me - make this poor colony 
A home?  Could you forsake dear friends
And faces wedded to past joys,
Associations that make strong
Soldier in loyalty, and woman
In faith, leave comfort, safety, all?"
And she, with thought still lingering
Upon her girlhood's happiness,
Lifted her eyes to his and said:
"Yes, if you love me, everything."

First  edition Nov. 1894, 350 copies with 50 additional copies on large paper
Second edition Feb. 1895, 350 copies

From History of Women, #3868, Reel 509, Research Publications Inc.
Transcribed Feb. 11, 2001 by Ron Bauerle, rdbauerle@juno.com

Ron's comments:
Apparently the regicides referred to above are the killers of Charles I of 
England, who was overthrown and executed in 1649 by the forces of Oliver 
Cromwell, who led England in its first experiment with republicanism.  
This was apparently the first time that a king had been killed by his own 
people, as opposed previously to relatives or other competitors/usurpers.  
Cromwell died in 1658, and in 1660 Charles II, son of Charles the "Martyr"
became king again.  I was under the impression that the Puritans had no great
love for their king, and in fact his support of religious intolerance was the
main reason they had left England...

Interesting that Simon's beating out his brother for Martha's hand came down
to the equivalent of a coin toss (the "pick the flower or the weed" contest);
note that Simon (1624-1689?) was 14 years older than Martha (1638-1719); 
Simon's first wife Joanna Cook died in 1657 at the age of 19 (thus she was 
as old as Martha).  After Simon Wolcott died, Martha married Daniel Clark in
1689.  Daniel, through his first marriage to Mary Newberry, was the grandfather
of Jemima Clark, who married Daniel Cooley Jr., the son of Daniel Cooley and 
Elizabeth Wolcott, the daughter of Simon and Martha; in other words, Martha's
second husband was her granddaughter-in-law's grandfather (got that? :^))