all stages of life. What we thought of the generation just past, the advancing one thinks of us; and this will, in turn, have the conceit knocked out of it by its successor. Human energy, like human love, is on an ascending series. It does not look back, but reserves itself for the future. The parent mourns over the seeming indifference or ingratitude of the child, and wonders that anxiety and deep yearning affection are not requited in kind and with the same disinterested devotion. If the outlay rarely returns, it is not squandered, but is hoarded up to be lavishly paid, with interest, to the children's children. We must rest satisfied with this prospective remuneration, and not grudge an expenditure which, if never refunded to us, rejoices our descendants. If we imagine that we know something more than our immediate ancestors we willingly give up to our immediate progeny. It is a matter of astonishment what an extraordinary quantity of superhuman babies are born daily, though a writer has rather irreverently remarked — that, considering the universality of wonderful children, it is rather surprising the world should contain so many ordinary men and women. Indeed, there must be many divisions of this Union to provide for an infinitesimal fraction of those who are destined to the Presidential mansion, and a prodigious increase of States to give chairs to the smallest possible portion of embryo

Governors.

eyes

The great discoveries which affect human destiny, may sometimes break through cloud and storm, dazzling the of men; but they oftener come slowly on the uncertain vision, and the serene heavens are not disturbed by the gradually dawning light. Accident occasionally brings forth some new secret of nature, or by casual combination produces effects which are in themselves important, or suggestive of something hitherto unthought of. Men plodding for one thing, find another, and are astonished at

their own fame. Some till the earth and turn up gold, whilst others seek only the gold, and our frugal mother sends them back with empty hands. A search for the East Indies resulted in the discovery of America. The alchemist in his midnight watch for that mighty revelation which would indefinitely prolong his existence, for the enjoyment of boundless wealth, drew out, from alembic and crucible, the elements of that science whose practical application has become auxiliary to some of the most valuable branches of art.

But the tide of human progress is not controlled by chance. It bears on its flood abundant testimonials, that intelligence and thought and system have swayed its movement. The great improvements, which have signalized the age in which we live, have mostly originated in deep thinking, carnest men, and been carried to perfection by patient and laborious reflection. Success, in any description of art, can only be obtained by a concentration of mental power, directed with unwavering purpose to its object. The close application of a life can scarcely master the rudiments of some pursuits, and in none can excellence be reached without determined will and undivided attention. There is an activity in man which must find something on which to expend itself, and it has been reserved for our day and generation to see the energies of mind and body brought in joint relation, and devoted with united strength to the arts of peace.

The distinction of Fine and Mechanic Arts, is in a great measure done away. There was once a broad line between them, and one disdained an alliance with the other. It was supposed that genius could not descend from her etherealized habitation and mingle with her plebeian brother. She is now no longer a resident of the clouds, but dwells on the solid earth. She stands by forge and anvil, loves the clatter of the factory, enters the workshop and pre

sides over the combinations which give soul to matter, lingers in dingy corners where the pale mechanic thinks out the problems which revolutionize art, hovers round the swarthy brow and clings to the calloused hand of labor. She has become democratic, wears homespun, and keeps company with paper caps and leather aprons, as though she were a candidate for office and wanted votes. There was a time when she lived in lordly halls and moved among the mighty of the earth, but her taste and manners have been improved, and she has become, at last, a useful member of society.

There is an ignis fatuus, men call genius, which leads them a weary chase over many a quagmire, swamping some and leaving others so begrimed with their unprofitable travel, that no vestige remains of the freshness with which they started. To follow this they abandon the firm ground, for which nature intended them, and, forfeiting the respectibility of mediocrity, sink into hopeless insignificance, after vainly striving for immortality.

Parental pride is aroused when an idle boy, in some unfortunate moment, pinches crumbs of bread unto a likeness of a human face, or disfigures the barn door with a representation of some denizen of the farm-yard, the horns solving the dilemma whether the prodigy is intended for a cow or a horse. A spark of light divine is supposed to have fallen on the family, and the young maker of dough faces must relinquish the hoe for the brush or the chisel. A very competent farmer is spoiled to make a very indifferent artist, and instead of dwelling in his proper sphere, among scenes of nature, he is sent to cover the walls of a city attic with productions which insult and degrade her.

Young man, who art now toiling in thy mistaken vocation, looking for the inspiration which comes not and will never come, resign thy unprofitable task, and leave this

daubing of paint and kneading of clay. If thou wert born for the application of colors, it is the covering of clapboards, not of canvas that calls to thee: thy mission may be in stone, but it is the handling of granite, not the chipping of marble- the laying of one fragment upon another, in the elongated and substantial form adopted for land boundaries. Flourish thy palette, cut and carve as thou wilt, the ideal, that is not in thee, cannot be given to the dead things thou art striving to torture into life. After all thy grimaces and contortions, there will only be before thee a picce of party-colored cloth, or a cold, misshapen block. Return to the old homestead; the garden is growing to weeds, and the tumbling fences will rejoice in thy handiwork: or go back to thy old craft, whatever it was, and resume it like a man. It is as honorable as the one of thy adoption, and will bring, with more lucrative conse quences, the consciousness of being once more in a congenial element.

Perfection in high art comes at long intervals, and ages go by without a beam of light to show that it is not utterly erased from the power of men. Phidias and Buonarotti do not come back, though Canova and Thorwaldsen have lived. Raphael and Titian are fading away, and no hand catches the soul of their productions, which will, at no distant day, live only in song and story. Followers, like autumn leaves, have strewed over the land where they lived and died, striving, in humble imitation, to rekindle the flame, but it comes not at their bidding. Prometheus worked in vain until he brought down fire from heaven, and art is worthless without the divine enthusiasm which gives it life. The Florentine sculptor felt its glow, who, on finishing his statue, with the last stroke threw down the chisel and exclaimed, "Speak, speak now! I am sure you can."

The tame, dull plodding, that wears away the tedious.

years, has no affinity with genius, though the latter is a useless gift without the patient labor which teaches it to direct itself. The mightiest names that have been chronicled of human talent, bent down to work, and only secured their fame by severe devotion to the principles of art. They felt that genius was an unavailable incumbrance without instruction, and drawing around them kindred sciences, made them tributary to the divinity within them.

The history of painting, traced by its productions, is a singular commentary on the relation of that art to the character of the age in which it flourished. During the period of its greatest excellence it was fettered by the church, and its flight so impeded by ghostly legends and saintly mysteries, that it was not, in succeeding years, wholly able to divest itself of those influences. In more modern times, historical painting has been superseded by that demand which consults the happiness of posterity, and makes provision to convey, to an approving future, the form and expression which, no doubt, charm their cotemporaries. If there is any truth in the samples which decorate the walls of ancient habitations, the past has had a severe drain on its admiration, and wonder is excited, whether such men and women really existed, or were wrought out from the pasteboard imagination of the artist. Whether our amiable predecessors, having been duly starched for the occasion, gave rigid instructions, or the painter considered it his duty to disregard the softer emotions and hand down only the austere and unimpressi ble, may be placed among the mootable questions. But, if such pictures are faithful delineations of the past, what a grim ancestry we must have had! It was, surely, made for stern things only, for a smile could never have passed over such faces without cracking every feature.

If the world does not grow wiser as it grows older, it certainly assumes a more benignant aspect, if we may