y with the necessity of such poor creatures
as myself, as adjuncts to photography. Nature, he thinks, should lay on
the coloring, not man--the Sun himself should paint, not the human
hand." And with these, and kindred thoughts, she opened her escritoire,
and taking out her pencils sat down to the performance of her daily
labor.

Oh, blessed curse of Adam's posterity, healthful toil, all hail!
Offspring of sin and shame--still heaven's best gift to man. Oh,
wondrous miracle of Providence! divinest alchemy of celestial science!
by which the chastisement of the progenitor transforms itself into a
priceless blessing upon the offspring! None but God himself could
transmute the sweat of the face into a panacea for the soul. How many
myriads have been cured by toil of the heart's sickness and the body's
infirmities! The clink of the hammer drowns, in its music, the
lamentations of pain and the sighs of sorrow. Even the distinctions of
rank and wealth and talents are all forgotten, and the inequalities of
stepdame Fortune all forgiven, whilst the busy whirls of industry are
bearing us onward to our goal. No condition in life is so much to be
envied as his who is too busy to indulge in reverie. Health is his
companion, happiness his friend. Ills flee from his presence as
night-birds from the streaking of the dawn. Pale Melancholy, and her
sister Insanity, never invade his dominions; for Mirth stands sentinel
at the border, and Innocence commands the garrison of his soul.

Henceforth let no man war against fate whose lot has been cast in that
happy medium, equidistant from the lethargic indolence of superabundant
wealth, and the abject paralysis of straitened poverty. Let them toil
on, and remember that God is a worker, and strews infinity with
revolving worlds! Should he forget, in a moment of grief or triumph, of
gladness or desolation, that being born to toil, in labor only shall he
find contentment, let him ask of the rivers why they never rest, of the
sunbeams why they never pause. Yea, of the great globe itself, why it
travels on forever in the golden pathway of the ecliptic, and nature,
from her thousand voices, will respond: Motion is life, inertia is
death; action is health, stagnation is sickness; toil is glory, torpor
is disgrace!

I cannot say that thoughts as profound as these found their way into the
mind of Lucile, as she plied her task, but nature vindicated her own
laws in her case, as she will always do, if l