wwwww^ * * wwwwwww the heart, transplanted, sends out its tendrils in every direction, and learns to blossom and grow again. And thus do all of us, each in his appointed sphere and season, open new chapters in the great volume of Human Life. * * There is much of human attainment dependent on circumstances; let us not forget how much, also, I will not say how vastly more, depends on essential man. There is a deplorably immense multitude who live but to eat bounteously and daintily, with whom the sum of life is practically to compass the largest amount of rich viands, and gaudy trappings, with the smallest outlay of effort or perseverance to procure them. This mass will be at Rome Romans, at Moscow Russians, and nothing more. Alas for us! we are a dwarfed, distorted race! We are but the fragments and pigmies of what we might and should be! Here and there we see a judge, a general, a ruler, perchance a poet, an orator, a pastor, how seldom a whole man! Our excellence, what there is of it, runs in veins, in seams, in zig-zags; seldom is it found diffused and equable. Could a mental daguerreotype be held up before us, one on which the fullnesses and deficiencies of the character should vividly appear, what deformities and defects should we not be surprised to discern! far beyond any ability of paint and patches, of whalebone and padding, to disguise or conceal. What indiscreet philanthropists! what godless patriots! what uncharitable devotees! Must we abandon in despair the hope of a true manhood? Must human virtue be ever a tiny rivulet, meandering through a boundless bay of prejudices, selfishness, and passion? us hope otherwise. Let But life has not rugged and repulsive aspects only; even perverted and degraded as it is, it smiles upon us through kindly and sympathizing eyes. Viewed in a genial spirit, it presents themes of elevating, chastening contemplation. ter on a Texan prairie; in the clustering around some lowly New England fireside, of long-scattered members of a family which passed its childhood thereby, freely disbursing the hoarded coin they ill can spare, that they may gather from the distant Ohio, Iowa, Mississippi once more beneath the dear old rafters, so blackened with smoke and age, to receive for the last time the tottering father's grave, affectionate counsel, the pious mother's fervent, tearful blessing. * * * * The vital principle, which must be the basis of a true life, is forgetfulness of self in aspiration for general good. The act, of which selfish gratification or advantage is the impulse, can not be holy nor heroic; it can scarcely be other than ignoble and wrong. A life of selfish aims and exertions, how sordid and despicable! how groveling its morality! how lean its virtue! how icy and stolid its innocence! And yet this is the acme of much of the teaching and more of the example of the world. That evil inevitably leads to degradation and misery, is a truth which should receive every practicable demonstration, which should be early and deeply imprinted on every heart. But the avoidance of evil is a lesson for infancy in moral culture; goodness for the sake of goodness, for the love of goodness, that is the highest inculcation. Not to do right for the sake of happiness, in the usual low sense of the term, but for the sake of right, is the true precept. The whole life, even of the humblest, should be a spontaneous aspiration. Then goodness is no more a holiday cloak, a Sunday feat, but a breath, an atmos phere. Happy he who shall be enabled to show forth in his own what human life should be, unpolluted by evil passions, uncorroded by sordid cares, unchafed by the disappointment of selfish aspirations, ever shielded from the access of temptation and error, by finding delight in duty, and a tranquil joy in the widest diffusion of blessings. Not in the rough and stormy collisions of the market-place, the forum, the senate, Happy beyond power of evil destiny the battle-field are its true nobility, its shall he be whose life flows on in one calm, essential beauty manifested; but in the un- full current of active goodness, of unceascalculating hospitality of some rude squat-ing benevolence to man, of unbounded re liance on God. Looking back in the evening of his days through the dissolving mists of the past, he shall discern in every trial, discipline; in every sorrow, the salutary chastening of a Divine beneficence. And when the bowed frame and feeble limbs shall admonish him of failing power to execute the dictates of a still loving heart, he shall need no further witness of the benignity of that dispensation which sin recoils from as death, but, pillowed on that blessed Book, whose promises have lighted the dim pathway to millions, shall sleep to be awakened in heaven. [The preceding article is an extract from a Lecture on Human Life. The whole of the lecture, with many others, and also miscellaneous articles, may be found in a work by Horace Greeley, entitled "Hints toward Reforms," recently published by Messrs. Harper & Brothers. Ki-rauea, a volcano situated in Owyhee, one of the Sandwich Islands. It is said to have the largest crater, and to be the most terrific volcano on the globe. The crater is about a mile in diameter, and apparently some eight hundred feet deep. The bottom is covered with a lake of lava, and in many parts it is one vast flood of liquid fire, in a constant state of ebullition. Upward of fifty small craters or openings rise above the surface of this burning lake. Or'e-gon, the large river in the Oregon territory, now called Columbia River. Can-ton', the principal port in China for foreign trade.] SCIENCE. BY JOSEPH B. HOAG. THE world in primal darkness lay, In darkness drear and dread, At length the star of science rose Upon her balmy wings she bore The thoughts of man away, And bade him boundless worlds exploreNo more in darkness stay. She bade him walk the ethereal blue Glad man obeyed; to him the keys And owned him child of Heaven. The lightning's glare that rends the sky, He rides upon the briny deep, Where foaming billows rise, O'er rocks and hills with mighty speed At will he swiftly flies. And science shows His handiwork, "I remember that I used to draw before I left Carolina, and that my favorite amusement was making little landscapes about the roots of an old tree in the country. The only particulars of these, which I can now call to mind, were a cottage built of sticks, shaded by little trees. Another employment was that of converting the forked stalks of the wild fern into little men and women, by winding about them different colored yarn. These were sometimes presented with pitchers made of the pomegranate flower. Such childish fancies were the straws by which, perhaps, an observer might then have guessed which way the current was setting for after-life. "My chief pleasure was soon found in drawing from prints of figures, landscapes, and animals. But I soon began to make pictures of my own. The earliest compositions that I remember, were the Storming of Count Roderick's Castle, and the siege of Toulon, from a poor romance of that day. To these succeeded many others which have passed into oblivion. 66 Though I never had any regular instructor in the art, I had much incidental instruction, which I have always through life been glad to receive from every one in advance of myself. There is no such thing as a self-taught artist, in the ignorant acceptation of the term; for the greatest genius that ever lived must be indebted to others, if not by direct teaching, yet indirectly through their works. I had, in my school-days, some of this latter kind of instruction, from a very worthy and amiable man, a Mr. King, of Newport, who made quadrants and compasses, and occasionally painted portraits. I used at first to make frequent excuses for visiting his shop that I might look at "My leisure hours at college were chiefly devoted to the pencil, in composing figures and landscapes. I do not remember that I preferred one to the other; my only guide to the choice was the inclination of the moment." At the age of twenty-two his love of painting, and enthusiasm for this employment, became so great, that he determined to visit the shrines of art in the old world. Accordingly he set sail for Europe, and arrived in London about the middle of June, 1801. Here he became a student at the Royal Academy. West was then in the zenith of his fame, and he kindly and warmly welcomed his fellow-countryman. Here is Allston's tribute to him: "Mr. West received me with the greatest kindness. I shall not forget his benevolent smile when he took me by the hand; it is still fresh in my memory, and linked with one of a like kind which accompanied the last shake of the hand, when I took a final leave of him, in 1818. His gallery was open to me at all times, and his advice always readily and kindly given. He was a man overflowing with the milk of human kindness." In 1804 Allston visited Paris, where he remained a few months. While there he painted a few compositions of his own, and made a copy from Rubens. Next he turned his face toward the sunny south, and passed nearly four years in Italy, remaining most of this time at Rome. In that wondrous city, where art and history have clustered their treasures, his existence was like a blissful dream. The climate, the association, the arts, the ruins, and every thing around him seemed perfectly adapted to his intellectual wants. Here he met Coleridge, and happily passed the hours amid those ruins, and olive groves, as the wisdom and noble sympathy of two such beings mingled in unison while sharing each other's society. Speaking of this distinguished person, he says: "To no other man whom I have known, do I owe so much intellectuality as to Mr. Coleridge, who has honored me with his friendship for more than twenty-five years. He used to call Rome the silent city; but I never could think of it as such while with him; for meet him when or where I would, the fountain of his mind was never dry. Like the far-reaching aqueducts that once supplied this mistress of the world, its living streams seemed specially to flow for every classic ruin over which we wandered. In personal appearance Allston was remarkable. His figure was slight, and his action significant of spiritual grace. His hair was long, and hung carelessly about his neck. His face was small, and showed a kind of nervous ruggedness-and his eyes were large and lustrous. His appearance was such, that the first sight of him made the beholder feel that he was a re markable man. Even when passing along the street, there was an abstractive, unearthly air about him, that often made the careless stop to look at him; yet there probably never was so gifted a man more free from all consciousness of superiority. His mind was not fixed upon reputation, but upon an exalted standard of excellence, toward which he earnestly pressed. No one who ever knew him can forget the grace of his social character; the simple hospitality with which he welcomed the visitor; his sweet encouragement to the young; and his ardent sympathy for every form of beauty and truth. Add to all this, a beautiful self-respect and child-like frankness, and nothing is wanting to win the hearts of all. Allston's first wife was a sister of the late Dr. Channing. After her decease he was married to a sister of Dana, the poet, with whom he lived till his death, which took place in 1843. His life was one of earnest communion with the true and the beautiful; and his conversation was often tinged with the colorings of the spiritual world. His language was never more clear, significant, and spiritual than on the night of his death. This event was very unexpected. He had painted all day, and with usual cheerfulness spent the evening in conversation. At a late hour he complained of a pain in his breast, to which he had been occasionally subjected. His wife left the room to bring some remedy, which had relieved him on former occasions. When she returned he was leaning back in his chair, apparently in a doze. She touched his shoulder; his eyes opened with a calm, sweet expression, and closed again. He sighed gently, and ceased to breathe. Thus was softly loosened the tie that bound that gifted and pure spirit to mortal life. He passed away at the age of sixtyfour years, in the full activity and consciousness of his powers, without any struggle or decay. The memory of such a man is worthy of being enshrined in the hearts of his countrymen. ACHIEVEMENT OF SCIENCE. HE following description of the practical importance of the science of navigation, the value of the magnetic needle, and illustration of mystery, reason, and faith, is from a little essay, by the Rev. Mr. Peabody, of Bos ton: Night comes down over a ship at sea, and a passenger lingers, hour after hour, alone on the deck. The waters plunge and welter, and glide away beneath the keel. Above, the sails tower up in the darkness, almost to the sky, and their shadow falls a burden on the deck below. In the clouded night no star is seen, and as the ship changes her course, the passenger knows not which way is east, or west, or north, or south. What island, All what sunken rocks may be on her course, or where they are, he knows not. around, to him, is mystery. He bows down in the submission of utter ignorance. But men of science have read the laws of the sky. And the next day this passenger beholds the captain looking at a clock, and taking note of the pace of the sun, and with the aid of a couple of books, composed of rules and mathematical tables, making calculations. And when he has completed them, he is able to point almost within a hand's breadth to the place at which, after unnumbered windings, he has arrived in the midst of the seas. Storms may have beat, and currents drifted, but he knows where they are, and the precise point where, a hundred leagues over the water, lies his native shore. Here is reason appreciating and making use of the revelations of science. Night again shuts down over the waste of waves, and the passenger beholds a single seaman stand at the wheel, and watch, hour after hour, as it vibrates beneath a lamp, a little needle, which points ever, as it were, a living finger to the steady pole. This man knows nothing of the rules of navigation, nothing of the course of the sky. But reason and experience have given him faith in the commanding officer of the ship, faith in the laws that control her course, faith in the unerring integrity of the little guide before him. And so without a single doubt, he steers his ship on, according to a prescribed direction, through night and the waves. And that faith is not disappointed. With the morning sun, he beholds far away, the summits of the gray and misty highlands, rising like a cloud on the horizon; and as he nears them, the hills appear, and the lighthouse at the entrance of the harbor, the spires of the churches and the shining roofs, a sight of joy—and he tries to detect his own dwelling. If you mean to be happy when old, be temperate when you are young. Dare to be good though the world laugh at you. |