looks about him with alarm at the prospect, lo! beneath his feet are found, in mines of bitumen and mountains of anthracite, the long hidden treasures of Providence the treasure-houses of that care and kindness, which at every new step of human improvement, instead of appearing to be superseded, seem doubly entitled to the name of Providence.

Nature, too, is itself a world of mechanism; and it invites mechanic art at every step to admire that intelligent, and if I may say so, that congenial wisdom which is displayed in it. The human body is a structure of art, fearfully and wonderfully made. The human arm and hand is a tool, an instrument; and what an instrument!-composed of twenty or thirty solid, separate parts, besides the cartilages, ligaments and nerves, that give it its wonderful security, strength and tact. What indefeasible cunning lies in that right hand; nay, what latent cunning-every new year of mechanic discovery developing it more and more-what latent cunning sleeps in the sinews and nerves of that folded palm! And then that curious rotary motion of the fore-arm; what efforts of mechanic art have there been to imitate that skill of the great Maker of our frame! And again the human head-that dome of the house of life is built upon the most perfect principles of that kind of structure; with its thicker bones in the base of the skull, like the solid masonry of a Roman arch; with its interior and supporting ridges of bone, like the flying buttresses of a Gothic cathedral. The dome of St. Sophia, in Constantinople, built in the time of the Emperor Justinian, fell three times during its erection; the dome of the Cathedral of Florence stood unfinished 120 years, for the want of an architect; and yet it has been justly

said, that every man employed about them, had the model in his own head.

All nature is not only, I repeat, a world of mechanism, but it is the work of infinite art; and the artisan, the toiler, is but a student, an apprentice in that school. And when he has done all, what can he do to equal the skill of the great original he copies; to equal the wisdom of Him who has "stretched out the heavens like a curtain, who laid the beams of his chambers on the waters!" What engines can he form like those which raise up through the dark labyrinths of the mountains, the streams that gush forth in fountains from their summits? What pillars and what architecture can he lift up on high,like the mighty forest trunks and their architrave and frieze of glorious foliage? What dyes can he invent, like those which spread their ever-changing and many-coloured robes over the earth? What pictures can he cause to glow, like those which are painted on the dome of heaven?

It is the glory of art that it penetrates, and developes the wonders and bounties of nature. It draws their richness from the valleys, and their secret stores from the mountains. It leads forth every year fairer flocks and herds upon the hills; it yokes the ox to the plough, and trains the fiery steed to its car. It plants the unsightly germ, and rears it into vegetable beauty; it takes the dull ore and transfuses it into splendour, or gives it the edge of the tool or the lancet; it gathers the filaments which nature has curiously made, and weaves them into soft and compact fabrics. It sends out its ships to discover unknown seas and shores; or it plunges into its work-shops at home, to detect the secret that is locked up in mineral, or is flowing in liquid matter. It scans the spheres and systems of heaven with its far sight; or turns with microscopic eye, and

finds in the drops that sparkle in the sun, other worlds crowded with life. Yet more; mechanic art is the handmaid of society. It has made man its special favourite. It clothes him with fine linen and soft raiment. It builds him houses, it kindles the cheerful fire, it lights the evening lamp, it spreads before him the manifold pages of wisdom: it delights his eye with gracefulness, it charms his ear with music: it multiplies the facilities of communication and the ties of brotherhood; it is the softener of all domestic charities, it is the bond of nations.

Gentlemen of the American Institute! you need no commendation of mine; your works speak for you; and I have only to wish, that they may advance in improvement and extend in utility; an honour to yourselves, and a blessing to our common country!

XVI.

THE IDENTITY OF ALL ART.*

GENTLEMEN OF THE APOLLO ASSOCIATION:

THE ground on which I shall place myself, in addressing to you a few observations this evening, is the identity of all art; identity in object, in the principles of criticism and culture, and in the reasons for promoting it. This is, at once, my subject, and my apology; my apology, I mean, for this seeming departure from my own walk. Your invitation, indeed, will acquit me of presumption with you; but this is the apology which I have offered to myself. For I do not feel that I am departing from my own walk, so far as I may at first seem to do. Letters and the arts of design, belong to the same great school. I consider myself as an artist, however humble, as much as any one who has placed a painting on your walls. I regard the principles of all intellectual production, as being essentially the same.

It is a common idea that painting, as an art, and pictures, as objects of criticism, stand entirely by themselves; that they do not come within the range of men's ordinary judgment and feelings; that common men have no business to say anything about them. Of an oration they think they can judge, but not of a

* An Introductory Lecture before the Apollo Association in New York, in 1840. This Institution has since taken the title of the American Art-Union.

painting; of a book, but not of a picture; of a fine landscape, but not of its representation on the canvass. But as I do not admit the propriety of this distinction, I do not feel the need of any pretension or pride of connoisseurship, to warrant me in offering some thoughts to you on the present occasion: introductory as they appropriately are for me with my limited knowledge, and as I doubt not they will be, to deeper views by others on the whole subject of art.

Let us then consider the identity of all art. If I am not mistaken, the topic will yield some reflections,not inappropriate to the purposes of this meeting and to the design of this course of Lectures.

I say the identity of all art; but I might say the identity of all action. As the universe is the expression of a Mind; as everything in heaven and on earth, is significant of something beyond itself; as every movement has a meaning-not a rolling world nor a falling leaf excepted-and the whole creation thus bodies forth an idea; so, within the limited range of man's action, all is expression. There is nothing of final import in the whole world of man's industry or agency but this-but expression; and he who has not seen this, has seen nothing. He has neither the artist's, nor the poet's, nor the Christian's eye. He who sees nothing around him but a hard, dull, intractable, lifeless world, nothing but machinery, brick and mortar, hewn stone and wood work-that man understands nothing, can interpret nothing, can describe, can paint nothing. He cannot paint still-life, without this insight. Without this, he will be but a sort of Chinese painter. The very flowers and birds which the Chinese paint so beautifully, look like wax-work; and the portraits which they copy, seem, but for some coloring, to be pictures of the dead. But the mere