E. F. Ellet

“ Meantime, the Revolutionary struggle had commenced. The gloom that had accompanied the outburst of the storm, hung over the whole land; the news of the carnage on the plains of Lexington—the sound of the cannon at Bunker Hill, had reached every dwelling, and vibrated on the heart of every patriot in New England. The zeal which had urged the men to quit their homes for the battlefield, found its way to a female bosom; Deborah felt as if she would shrink from no effort or sacrifice in the cause which awakened all her enthusiasm. ”

“ Alas! those years of enthusiasm are flown; the harmony is broken! The flowers that mark the coming of spring, have no longer a voice for me; the startling thunder, that once spoke of the sunshine and beauty about to succeed the short-lived storm—has no significance; even the tones of that magnificent music fail to lift my soul to the height of devotion, inspiring her to mingle her adoration with the world-wide hymn of praise! My heart is hard and cold; but seldom roused, and relapsing into deadness when the brief excitement is over. I am older even in feeling than in years. ”

“ How picturesque is the grouping of scenes we have at this point, and how do woman's strength of character and ardent affection shine amid the surrounding gloom! The army on its retreat—the sick and wounded abandoned to the mercy of the victors—the state of confusion following disasters so fatal to British power—the defeated general appealing in behalf of the suffering wife, by his tribute, written in haste and agitation, to her grace and excellence, and his expression of compassion for her hard fortune—and her own forgetfulness of danger, in hastening to her husband's aid! ”

“ Yield up their honey to the fluttering insect.
How well for those who bask in Pleasure’s smile,
She wears a mask!
Leonardo.
But your smile is the sunlight
That banishes all gloom where’er it shines.
Fiorilla.
Yet envious philosophers have said
The sun himself, that warms and gladdens all,
Is a cold, lifeless mass. No more of that.
His beams can scorch and wither—so can those
You’ve aptly likened to them, when condensed
In hatred’s burning glass.
Leonardo.
I cannot guess
Your meaning.
Fiorilla.
Contarini—you may deem
’Twas vanity—’twas pride—that bound me to him! ”

“ It seemed as if every eye in the assembly was fixed on the calm, noble face of the venerated artist; as if every heart beat with love for him; as if all feared to break the spell of hushed and holy silence. Then came, like a succession of heavenly melodies, the music of the “Creation,” and the listeners felt as if transported back to the infancy of the world.
At the words, “Let there be light, and there was light,” when all the instruments were united in one full burst of gorgeous harmony, emotion seemed to shake the whole frame of the aged artist. ”

“ Breathed its wild dirge o’er Memnon’s tomb;
To give the statue voice and might,
From the pure day-god’s eye of light
One beam must pierce the gloom.
Thou wouldst that rousing in my breast
The fires that ’neath their ashes lie,
I barter now my spirit’s rest
For tones that vanish with a sigh.
Ah! glory is a shadow’s dream!
Too brief even to its votaries seem
The fleeting days its charms that prove!
Thou wouldst that in the mocking strife
I waste my last frail breath of life—
I would that breath preserve—to love! ”

“ The second can not be mistaken; even the most unpracticed eye would discern at a glance that it is a Frenchwoman—piquant, lively, graceful, evidently not so much engrossed with her art as to be insensible to admiration as a woman—this is the well-known Madame Le Brun. Opposite the fair Parisian is a third portrait, a woman still in the bloom of life, but destitute of all brilliancy of coloring, with an expression grave and pensive almost to melancholy. She is seated on a stone, in the midst of a solitary landscape, a portfolio with sketches in one hand, a pencil in the other. ”

“ If the figures of the picture are at first fierce and repulsive—the figures of brethren armed against brethren, of mercenary Germans and frantic savages, Canadian rangers and American ploughmen, all bristling together with the horrid front of war—what a charm of contrast is presented, when among these stern and forbidding groups is beheld the form of a Christian woman moving to and fro, disarming the heart of every emotion but reverence, softening the misfortunes of defeat, and checking the elation of victory! ”

“ Beekman is described as an accomplished lady of the old school. She was remarkable for force of will, resolution, and a lofty sense of honor. Steadfast in her principles, she had a mind of uncommon vigor, and a heart alive to all kindly and noble feelings. In the prime of life she possessed a great share of personal beauty, while her manners were courteous, dignified and refined. Her conversation, brilliant and interesting, was enlivened by stores of anecdote supplied by a memory unusually retentive, and many were the thrilling tales of the olden time heard from her lips. ”

“ SCENE III. A Garden—Teresa appears, descending the steps of a balcony.
Teresa.
’Tis sunset, and he is not here; though wont
To anticipate the hour! It matters not.
How lovely is the silvery, deepening twilight!
There needs but some faint sound, in melody
Stealing upon the silence—some fond whisper
Which makes us sigh for quiet in return,
To muse upon its meaning!
(A strain of music without, which continues for some moments.)
Enter Foscarini.
Foscarini.
She listens like a goddess, fresh from heaven,
To airs that breathe nought heavenly save her name. ”

“ The beauty of woman moved me with but the artist’s rapture! Yet must I degrade my art to the vain rabble; must paint apish faces, while visions of divine loveliness float before me; must feel the genius within me comprehended by none; must be driven to despair of myself! Gifted as few are, free from guilt, I must ask myself, at five and twenty, wherefore have I lived? ”

“ There may be aspiration without genius; there can not be genius without aspiration; and where genius is backed by industry and perseverance, the aspiration of one period will meet its realization in another.
To go to Rome—to make herself acquainted with all its treasures of art, ancient and modern—to study and work as the masters of both periods had studied and worked before her—this was now our youthful artist’s ambition ”

“ Yet would I endeavor to look forward to the goal with hope; and though the path is no longer strewed with flowers, trust to the sustaining hand of friendship to lead me safely through, and in assisting me to rise superior to my misfortunes, make me content to drag out the remainder of life, till the Being who has deprived me of husband and father, will kindly close the melancholy scene, and once more unite me to them in a world of peace, where the tyrant shall no more wantonly shed the blood of his innocent subjects, and where vice and virtue will receive their reward. ”

“ The childhood and youth of Cornelia passed in peace and happiness in her pleasant home. On her marriage, about the age of seventeen, with Gerard G. Beekman, she removed to the city of New York, where her residence was in the street which bears her name. Her husband was in mind, education, and character, worthy of her choice. Not many years of her married life had passed, when the storm of war burst upon the land, and, taught to share in aspirations for freedom, she entered into the feelings of the people with all the warmth of her generous nature. ”

“ Clings like the ivy, to the wreck of years;
Whose hope can hail no future, holier morn:—
I, who have held in earth nor root nor seed,
Pass without effort, like the fragile weed
On evening breezes borne.
Like is the poet to the birds of flight
Which shun the strand that ocean crests with white,
Nor seek mid forest shades their brief repose;
Poised on the wave, they pass the far-off shore
With heedless warblings—and the world no more
Than their wild voices, knows.
No master’s hand along the sounding wires
Guided mine own, nor taught my soul its fires ”

“ And the tops of the trees waving and whispering—the bushes answering in sighs—the brook singing its constant, yet ever new melody—the flowers moving like magic bells—the wild bird trilling his song! And when the sun is set, and the moon climbs the rocky verge and pours her soft silvery light on the scene,—or when dark clouds gather in the heavens, and hissing lightnings dart through them, and echo reverberates the thunder, and the swollen stream roars, and foams over the rocks and the crushed trees—all is to me, music! ”

“ A place among the most gifted and the most illustrious women who, in any country or in any age, have devoted themselves to the fine arts, must be accorded to Elisabetta Sirani. She has been pronounced a complete artist; unrivaled by any of her sex in fertility of invention, in the power of combining parts in a noble whole, in knowledge of drawing and foreshortening, and in the minute details that contribute to the perfection of a painting. Had she lived longer, she would have equaled any painter of her time. ”

“ God wrought my spirit of the subtle fire;
All she approached her being did inspire.
Ah, fatal gift! with love o’erfraught, I die.
All I have touched resolves in dust away—
So on the wasted heath the lightning’s ray
Sinks, its own ruins nigh.
Time? ’tis no more.—Fame?—What is to the sage
This echo vain from age transferred to age?
This name—the toy of centuries yet to dawn?
Ye who would promise the far future’s reign,
Hear—hear my harp’s last utterings.—’Tis in vain!
With the gale’s sweep they’re gone!
Ah! yield to craving death a hope more meet! ”

“ Once cold can it ever be warmed again to that bright luxuriance of life and feeling? And how soon does the tender flower born of fantasy, wither in the breath of reality—never to bloom again! Memory of the lost paradise alone remains; it is well if there remain not also the saddest fruit of disappointment—a sceptical scorn of all that seems winning and lovely. Happy he whom fate deprives of the object of his love before the sweet illusion is over! No words can paint his heartfelt anguish at the loss. But one bliss is left him; the image of the beloved is still robed in its magic charms ”

“ Ye may twine young flowers round the sunny brow
Ye deck for the festal day,—
But mine is the shadow that waves o’er them now,
And their beauty has withered away.
Ye may gather bright gems for glory’s shrine,
Afar, from their cavern home—
Ye may gather the gems—but their pride is mine,
They will light the dark cold tomb.
The warrior’s heart beats high and proud,
I have laid my cold hand on him;
And the stately form hath before me bowed,
And the flashing eye is dim. ”

“ Receive my thanks, father; you have given me much to-day!”
“I know, Friedemann, you at least appreciate and honor my design; so that I receive much from you. Such appreciation is most gratifying to us from those we love, and is the highest reward earth can bestow.”
“And you, father, have understood me?”
“Yes—grieve not over the judgment of others; yet while you endeavor to deserve the appreciation, the regard of your equals, labor to instruct those who cannot repay you thus. Will man assume more than higher powers—and only show to the best, that he belongs to the best! ”

“ Shall I, whose spirit has flagged in the race, long ere the goal was won, pluck at inferior honors? Shall I cumber the arena to dishearten others, when I can obtain no prize? How am I to inspire the public with confidence when I have lost it in myself? How can I kindle passion in others, who am dead to its fires? No, Count Albert, I have become insensible to the deepest, the highest wonders of music. I will not insult her by a dragging, desperate mediocrity. ”

“ That word which fills the seraph’s holiest strain—
The word—“I love!”—pronounced by gods and men—
This—this is worth a tear!
A tear! a vain regret—an idle breath!
My soul mounts heavenward on the wings of death.
I go—where all our loftiest wishes rise;
I go—where hope hath fixed her burning gaze—
I go—where float my lute’s high notes of praise—
Where tend my latest sighs.
Like birds that see through darkness of the tomb,
The spirit’s eye hath pierced my gathering gloom,
With prophet instinct pointing to the dead ”