He has an intelligible and correct theory in regard to the fidelity of art to nature. For instance, he insists that he should _represent_, not imitate; and in making a bust of a man, the sculptor should express the higher moods of his subject, and show him with his better qualities brought to the surface. So the forms of nature should be idealized in the direction of their primitive tendency, and thus art help to express that ineffable longing of the soul, that reaching upward for a perfection that is approximated on earth, but never attained. This idealization is like the humor of Dickens, something more than nature in its grotesqueness, yet a stimulated growth of the natural quality. Palmer always takes nature for his model, and then assimilates it to that ideal beauty which dwells in his imagination and sheds a spiritual halo over the creation of his chisel. Like every true disciple of genius, he feels that he has a mission to perform, and that he is responsible for the influence he exerts on the tastes and aesthetic culture of the people. As you chat with him in his studio, dressed in his blouse and cap, his dark eye glowing with enthusiasm for his art, or sparkling with playful humor, standing before you tall and vigorous, you see in him one of the earnest workers for the elevation of our humanity. The utilities of the world will take care of themselves: let us foster the beautiful, because, like all divine attributes, man reaches it through striving, and is made better by its contemplation. Palmer does not look older than forty, and has perhaps not yet attained the fulness of his powers, but has in him the elements of a healthy growth. Work on, thou almoner of sweetest joys, thou pilgrim in that fairy realm whence come the high ideals of life; work on, striver for the perfect type of beauty and of truth, and in thy progress let the people trace our human nature rising to diviner heights--expanding to sublimer bounds! CLOUDS. RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO PROFESSOR GUYOT. High and fathomless above us vaults the pure aerial sky, Solemn bends its arch of Beauty round a world where all things die. On the dome through which Earth's swinging, spun of palpitating air, Angel artists fresco vapors into pictures passing fair. No cold canvas of dead color has the Mighty Master given: Trembles with His Infinity the azure vault of Heaven. On and in the lucent background float the ever-changeful forms, Sometimes glowing into glory, sometimes glooming into storms. God's blest seal is on creation; signs and symbols throng the sky, Though too dull to read their meaning droops the stolid human eye. Over mountain, over valley throng the clouds to soothe the sight; Through the dim walls of the city gleam they buoyant, fleeting, bright. Gentle, dreadful, or fantastic--nearer, farther as we gaze; Varied, spiritual, tender, forms and melts the surging haze.