re and art contributed to elevate his
character. This is always the case. Scarcely any person has become
renowned for learning, in whom this love was not early developed. Sir
Francis Chantrey was one of the most distinguished artists of his day,
possessing a nice discrimination and a most delicate taste, to aid him
in his remarkable imitations of nature. He was reared upon a farm, where
he enjoyed the innocent pleasure of ranging the forests, climbing hills,
bathing in ponds and streams, and rambling through vale and meadow for
fowl and fish, all of which he did with a "relish keen." Perhaps he owed
more to the inspiration of the wild scenes of Derby Hills, than to all
the books that occupied his attention in his boyhood's days. The same
was true of the gifted poet Burns, whose sweet and lofty verse has made
the name of Scotland, his native land, immortal. He took his first
lessons from the green fields, and gushing bird-songs, on his father's
farm. Silently, and unconsciously to himself, dame Nature waked his
poetic genius into life, when he followed the plough, angled in his
favorite stream, or played "echo" with the neighboring woods. The late
Hugh Miller, also, the world-renowned geologist, might have been unknown
to fame but for the unconscious tuition that he derived from the rocky
sides of Cromarty Hill, and his boyish exploration of Doocot Caves. He
loved nature more than he loved art. There was nothing that suited him
better than to be scaling the rugged sides of hills, exploring deep,
dark caverns, and hunting shells and stones on the sea-shore. He was
naturally rough, headstrong, and heedless--qualities that tend to drag a
youth down to ruin. But his love of nature opened a path of innocent
thought and amusement before him, and saved him from a wretched life.

Thus the facts of history show that there is more hope of a boy who
loves the beautiful in nature and art, than of him who, like Sam Drake,
cared for neither. Perhaps we shall learn that it would have been better
for Sam if he had thought more favorably of nature, and less of rude and
cruel sports.

The boys reached the top of the hill before two o'clock. Sam Drake was
the first to set his foot upon its solid apex, and he signalized the
event by swinging his hat, and shouting,

"Three cheers for the meeting-houses!"

This was done, of course, as a sort of reflection upon Nat, who made no
reply. Sam was about three years older than Nat, and yet Nat wa