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 | My Mind and its Thoughts, in Sketches, Fragments, and Essays |  |
John, the founder of the transatlantic race of Apthorp, was a man of taste and talent in the Fine Arts; particularly those of Painting and Architecture. A taste and talent, which has in some instance been transmitted to his descendants even of the fifth generation.
An ardent imagination, and an ambitious desire of mental improvement, led him from his native country of Wales. And in England, he saw, loved, and married, Miss Ward, a celebrated beauty, with a large fortune, whose Portrait, by Sir Peter Lely, yet remains with her descendant. This portrait is distinguished by the long dark eyes, which that artist preferred and made fashionable.
The qualities of both parents live, and are conspicuous in some of their descendants. A highly respectable individual of these, whose superiority of mind may possibly disdain such recollections, was, in his minority, so transcendantly handsome, that upon a Tour through the Southern States, he was generally designated “The Eastern Angel.” As he now is, the Genius of Canova, might design that form as a model for the sublime statue of melancholy, since his fortunes have fallen—like those of his race—a voluntary sacrifice to the best sentiments, and the noblest feelings of humanity, while domestic bereavements coming yet nearer to his gracious heart have left it the prey of sorrow.
Charles Bulfinch, Esq. of Washington, at this time, the National Architect, is one more evidence of the inestimable happiness of a good descent.
The homage of my soul is thine,
Where Cambria's minstrel-realm appears
A beauty—or in smiles—or tears.
In scenes, where rich the sun-beam glows,
And swift the sleepless torrent flows,
Beneath the mountain's weight of snows—
The fathers of my sires, had there
Birth—blessings—griefs, and sepulchre;
A favoured race, to fortune known,
Still on the rude armorial stone,
Mid the cold ivy's trembling green,
The annals of their deeds are seen.
By Lion-hearted Richard led,
How bold they fought, how fearless bled—
How erst the shield, whose CRESTED pride,
A royal gift—in crimson dyed,—
Had graced that Christian Warrior's side,
Whose sons, in youth's romantic day,
Tempting rude ocean's dangerous sway,
To the far land of promise came,
Not forced by want, nor driven by shame;
But to endearing fancy true,
Fancy, that loves and woos the distant and the new.
These, to the young and lovely shore,
The glories of their lineage bore,
Talent, and taste, and truth severe,
And honour, as existence dear;
Was pity's oft relenting mind;
And bounty's glowing heart so warm,
And beauty of celestial form.
| My Mind and its Thoughts, in Sketches, Fragments, and Essays | |