The examiner. [volume] (Louisville, Ky.) 1847-1849, 1847-09-18

We should all cultivate this feeling. w,
know not, and never can know on earth, the
JOY it may bring, or the good il may do here and
hereafter
IL seems TO most persons, like vain dreaming
to talk of the iove Of the beautiful Yet we al
have this feeling in us, and We could expand it
indefinitely, if we would only nurture anG
nurse it,
friend OF ours, in passing along the street
one day, caught, at an opening. a view of the
sky. he stopped, and ga1ed upon it, 1t wa,
one of our glorious sunsets. The coddy earth
looked like giitcring gold, and the clouds like
molten palaces Of light, as the whole canopv O,
heaven was lit up with beauty land the sinking orb
of day appeared the very eye of it. A ragged ur.
chin stood close by him, and, with eager interest
watched the scene. He was the picture of neg
lect and squalid want, and seemed sad and
wild contrast to the sweet and eloquent harmo-
ny which nature murmured forth that day Sc
richly. But his soul was full, and forgetting
where he was, and himself, he exclaimed earnest.
ly, "lsn't it grand, sir-Isn't it grand"
There are none who are deprived Of this feel.
ing except those who brutality destroy it, or the
unfortunate ones whom society forces to feed
upon crime and iniquity. The lawyer in his of
fce, the merchant in his store, the farmer in his
fields, the artisan in his shop, may think thew
have no time to cultivate or enjoy il. sad
mistake. They have time, one and all, and
what is more, the cultivation of the love of the
beautiful would purify their feelings, and
add TO their worth. and thus liz them more and
more for the proper discharge Of their duties
This feeling does not belong TO the learned. II
can be claimed by no class. Ii is universal as
man. He who can look up into the sky, and
dwell upon its thick inlaid floor Of worlds, or
gaze with delight upon the green earth when its
summer mantle is on, or when its cold bosom Is
barred by winter, or covered with his snow-blan-
ket, or peer, joyously, into the running brook,
or upon the shaded hill, or the simple, wild
flower that peeps out from beneath the worn
rocks that lie on its bosom, has this love, and
may unfold IL to such degree as to be always
pure and happy.
Listen, fair sister, tells her story and learn,
how natu rally love of the beautiful, will lead
us to love our God AT short distance from
her dwelling, winds mountain stream. Her
heart had grown to its sweet music, though her
foot had not for along time pressed its messy mar
gin She had played on its banks in childhood, and
loved in soberer hour TO linger i'm its deep din
giles. and cool gens. She was, she says, too selfish
at first, with her deeply chastened and wounded
spirit to heed the rivulct,, but it sang on, and
from habit, rather than design, she bent to the
crystal water. II seemed TO her to be singing a
song, and that she could hear in the soft, dream
like tones of its chorus. "sr men are brothers"
Like ''thc shadow Of great rock was to her
that beautiful utterance. The little brook link
cd her to the villagers close by with a chain
lighter than air, yet stronger than adamant.
The outward she had invested with the hues of
he inner world. Thus speaks our fair friend:
There are times when the very sound Of the
human voice, though its accent be familiar, and
Is sweet as the echo of our cradle hymn, may
wound rather than heal. But we never shrink
rom that ministry which the spirit can receive,
lifting alone and In silence. I was very sorrow
Ill, and, that might not hear the words which
knew were yelling to the lips Of loving ones,
went out and sought communion with the
stream. It. was bleak day in March.
'atches Of earth altsrnated with banks Of snow,