In sculpture, the United States may well be proud of Greenough, Hughes, and Hiram Powers. The celebrity of the former, in particular, is widely extended in Europe, as well as in his own land, and the merits of the latter two are steadily becoming more and more appreciated. It is much to be regretted that this sublime branch of art should meet with so little encouragement; but that it is sadly neglected, is undeniable. In this we have unwisely departed from the example left us by the ancients, who held the art of sculpture in high veneration, cherishing it as one of their greatest glories; and hence the immortal models that bave been transmitted from age to age, the wonder and admiration of successive generations.

But to return. We have established, we think satisfactorily, our position, that the United States possesses the true genius for art ; let us now briefly consider the means best calculated to promote its advancement and prosperity. We have before stated, that the worst obstacle art has had io encounter in this country, has been the imperfect means of education. No one, in the slightest degree conversant with the subject, will dispute this point. It becomes, then, the duty

, of the friends of American art, and they should consider it their exalted privilege, to endeavor to remedy this evil. It would redound much to the honor and dignity of the Government of this great and flourishing commonwealth, if it could be induced to lend the sanction of its influence toward the formation of a national taste for Art. In this it has a good example in the wholesome though tardy spirit of enlightened policy, which lately impelled the English government to vote a splendid appropriation for the erection of a grand National Gallery.

Now this is precisely what we need in the United States. A NATIONAL ACADEMY OF CONFEDERATED Artists, from all parts of the Union, branches of which shall be established in all its principal cities; each having a good collection of casts from the antique, and the best approved modern works, a good library, and competent professors, elected periodically from among the members.

The advantages promised by such a plan would be inestimable; nor do we esteem it impracticable. True, it would take time to establish such a system as we have here slightly sketched, nor could it probably be accomplished without more extended means than the friends of art at present possess. But once set in motion, the system would speedily support itself; and it may reasonably be assumed, that, should it become generally known, it would find friends among the wealthy, public-spirited, and influential of our citizens, who would willingly assist in its foundation.

We cannot but think, also, that the government should do something in the matter; not that we would wish it to exercise any control over the institution, when in operation, but for the sake of its own honor and dignity, which in fact is the honor and dignity of the nation, we would have it lend its assistance in some way. There would be both sound and honorable policy in such a course; for it cannot be doubted that it is the legitimate and high province of popular governments to foster and encourage, by every means in their power, those refined and elevated tastes among the people, which operate

as more effectual securities against immorality and vice, than can all the terrors of the law.

Europe would congratulate us on such a plan, and England, particularly, we feel assured, would not only rejoice, but would lend us aid in the scheme. Thank heaven, the time has passed away, when America and England could look with feelings of jealousy upon each other's greatness and prosperity. The few lingering remnants of ancient prejudice and bitter feeling which exist, are confined, on both sides, to unworthy and uninfluential classes. The interchange of honorable and pleasant courtesy, is becoming more and more frequent. She, from her old and time-honored dominion, looks with an eye of mingled tenderness and pride upon the budding glories of this land; for,' she inwardly exclaims, we share the triumph, when, in future years, this fair promise shall have reached its full and perfect consummation.' The patriotic son of America, in his proudest contemplations of his country's greatness, will dwell with pride upon his British origin. She,' he will say,' gave us language, manners, laws; and above all, from her we derived the true, warm blood, that has made us what we are. God bless her!' England, we repeat, will assist us in any scheme for the improvement of the arts, to the best of her ability. What American would not be proud to hear of 'The National Academy of the United States' vieing with the Royal Academy of England?—not in the spirit of mean and envious rivalry, but in that of fair and honorable competition; such as may worthily exist between two noble nations, separate but still kindred, and each equally proud of the relationship?

We sincerely hope that some of our master minds may think this subject worthy their attention. For himself, the writer has felt his incompetency to do it justice. He desires these remarks to be considered but as a mere outline of it; yet if they should happily induce other and abler hands to undertake the task of giving it form and substance, then he will not have written in vain.

SONNET.

'I TURN to clasp those forms of light,

And the pale morning chills mine eye!'

FAIR One! half known in memory, half ideal,
That in my morning dream wast by my side,
Walking in sweet communion, like a bride

Leaning upon my arm! ah, why not real,

Beautiful vision, that white, dream-like form,

Those soft dark eyes, those clustering tresses, curling
So tendril-like, adown thy cheek? Lo! whirling

In my chaotic fancy, comes a storm,

Silent and shadowy; but enough to scare

The bright form from my side, while ran my joy
Fullest and deepest. What dost thou destroy,
Relentless Day! Waking, I murmur, 'Where,

Where is bright Ethelinde? Is it all o'er?

Then close my eyes, and strive to dream of thee once more.

C. P. C

TO dwell upon the lordly mountain's brow,
To love the proud community of pines,
And the society of water-falls;
To gossip with the merry birds, that build
Their air y citadels upon the tops
Of the sky-piercing minarets of rock;
Or, half-enraptured, watch the far-off storm,
What time the crinkled lightning writes its creed
Upon the sable canvass of 'old night,'
And the terrific thunder's sounding bass
Doth shake the great rotunda of the sky!
To commune with the lordly forest-k ngs,
That stand, a great and valiant brotherhood,
Upon their rocky and cloud-girdled thrones,
Scarred with the lightnings of a thousand storms,
And bending 'neath their load of royalty;

To mark the flight of the dark hurricanes,
That meet upon the ever-sounding sea,
To hold conspiracy with the fierce crew
Of hungry breakers, and devouring waves,
That drench the gasping mariners, who yell
Upon the masts of princely argosies;
This is the soul's most perfect happiness ;,
For there is that within us which doth hold
No fellowship with earthly vanity,
But seeks a greater, grander element,
Where it may taste that high sublimity,
Which elevaies, refines, and warms the heart,
And fills its chambers with proud imagery,
And excellence, and beauty, all divine!
Father! these are thy works! I see thee here,
In the great wilderness, and I have marked
Thy pathway on the cloud-compelling storm,
And I have seen thy awful majesty
In the tree-twisting whirlwind, and have heard
Thy deep voice in the dying thunder's roar;
And therefore, in this great and glorious fane,
Father! I would for ever worship;
Whether the soft wind's flute-like harmony
Runs through the reeds at night-fall, and the stars
Look down into the streams, and the great sea
Offers to thee its hymn; or whether thou
Dost bid the dreadful lightning wink in heaven,
And call the trembling thunder from its couch,
What time the mountains echo back the crash
Of its vast palaces, and the high dome
Of heaven reverberates the awful peal!

Oh! ever let me be a worshipper
In temples so magnificent; for here
Religion sits upon the eternal hills,
And the imperial mountains, and doth make
Her great divan amid the cloistered gloom
Of ancient wood; or, pillowing her head
Upon the bosom of the thunder-cloud,
Investeth Night with great magnisicence,
And grander makes the long-contested wars
Of the loud-roaring storms, that fright the stars,
And vex with rage old Ocean's mighty soul;
And she doth plant her foot upon his breast,
When the hoarse-sounding hurricanes have woke
The anger of the mighty monarch waves,
And lifting up her queenly head in heaven,
Doth smile to hear the solemn thunder roll
Along the concave of heaven's echoing dome!

H. W. ROCKWELL

Ulica, Junc, 1839.

THE WATERLOO ALBUM.

BY ONE WHO SAW IT.

'AND Harold stands upon this place of skulls,
The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo!'

BYRON.

DID it ever happen to you, reader, in opening one of those books appertaining to most public establishments on the continent of Europe, known as 'salons de lecture,' and 'cabinets littéraires,' one of those livres de louage, which pass into every body's hands, and come under all eyes, to remark, beside the stains of tobacco, of coffee, of chocolate, and a variety of grease-spots, the notes, reflections, critiques, remarks, and observations, which also blot its margins, if the book contains any discussible idea, or any new proposition, which enlists the prejudices and excites the bile of the subscribers; divides them, sets them by the ears, for or against, as friends and enemies? Then commences the polemical, at the first page, to finish but at the last. The most buffoonish attacks, the queerest replies, questions, and answers; the most apposite, warm, and original; crossing and following each other, from the beginning to the end, in an inexhaustible vein, with a humor knowing no academical rules, and with a freedom always without fear, and with a taste which is never sans reproche. The entire book is thus peppered with commentaries, under which the subject is forgotten, like the body of a Turk, lost beneath the vestments with which he is overloaded.

Thus it was, that I forgot Waterloo, that immense text, that Homerical subject, that modern epic, before the notes, of all sorts and sizes, grave or light, gay or sad, sensible or stupid, which were written apropos of this grand event. It was thus that I forgot Napoleon, Wellington, Blucher, France, England, and Germany, all the Iliad of our day, before an ALBUM, that I met with, during a visit which I paid last summer to the field of Waterloo.

6

I had hardly arrived there, and put up at the famous 'Auberge de la Belle Alliance,' when the bar-maid handed me two volumes, which were endorsed with the pompous title of THE WATERLOO ALBUM.' Here,' said she, at the same time tendering a pen, write your name, and add, if you will, whatever idea may be created in your mind by the spot where you are; it will cost but ten sous.'

6

That is nothing,' said I, impressed with the idea that I was about to give birth to one of those sentences à grand effet, which at once make and establish one's reputation, and I seized the pen.

Unfortunately, my head was too full; not a single idea could make its sortie; perhaps I should have returned the pen without farther troubling myself, if the idea had not suggested itself of scrutinizing the contents of the volume, with a view to inspiration. Capital idea!' said I; 'I shall certainly find something good; I cannot do a saner thing;' and thereupon I seized the Album, and opened it with the most profound respect.

The first line that struck my eye, was this

:

Being desirous, and in search, of something less laconic, I passed on. Mr., Mrs., and Miss LAVINIA RAMSBOTTOM visited the plain of Waterloo, the seventeenth of August, 1826.'

'D. Who the devil are these Ramsbottoms ?'* 'R. Demandez-le à John Bull.'

'Ask John Bull.'

This question and response, written under names so boldly cut, of the family of the Ramsbottoms, but more particularly the fear that a member of le grand famile of John Bull might reply to the interpellation, by some discourteous remarks, caused me to pass these lines as I had the first. I therefore turned the leaf, and my eyes fell upon the following:

This plain, celebrated by the valor of the English, has been visited by three English travellers. They are three geese, you will say, to come so far to see the theatre where so many friends and enemies, mortally wounded, now lie confounded, and where poor Napoleon received a fatal blow. Our English hearts beat with pleasure; and this being the case, we hasten to bid you good night!'

A vexed commentator added the following note:

Que de stupidités, helas! Nous fournit ici la plume d'un sot Anglais! What stupidity, alas! is here exhibited, from the pen of a silly Englishman!"

The annexed lines, written on the back of the cover to the first volume, breathe, without doubt, much liberalism :

'Avromfort, and his friend Gaslebois, have run through this book, and have shuddered to see its pages soiled with abuse. To a man de cœur, there is no nation.'

But the absurd paused not for this. the side of these lines:

Voici, what is to be found by

Mr. Burra, of London, writes upon this book, in the hope that his friends will remember his name. This is a very bad pen.'

Farther on:

Tom Serle, an English actor, who played the principal parts at the Brussels theatre, has visited this place, with Bob Roberts; both have been assez bêtes, to feel hot, and to be tired.'

The words assez bêtes were underlined, and a critic makes this remark:

Celle est la nature de Tom Serle et de Bob Roberts.'

Farther on, are the following lines, applied to the same personages: Vilains animaux, if you should ever attempt to get up a subscription at Brussels, instead of giving any thing, I shall most certainly claim back the four francs which I was assez bête to pay to see you!'

* UNPARDONABLE ignorance! Did not this distinguished traveller, grammarian, and linguist, describe at large, among the various sights which she beheld, while on her 'tour to explode the European continent,' her visit to Waterloo? She tells us, if we remember rightly, that when she reached the ground, her feelings was so overcoming, that she thought she should have perspired. An old gray-headed Frenchman, from Sanclew,' near Paris, who wore rusty tips on his lips, like a poodle,' pointed out to LAVINIA RAMSBOTTOM the very spot where he himself, during the battle, 'see a body of artillery officers a-firing away, with their bombs in mortars, like any thing.' Moreover, he showed her the tuch-whole of a gun that he took away clandecently at the time, and that bu'sted in the hands of an Englishman, who was p'inting it directly at Napoleon's hat, when his head was in 't.' Not know Mrs. RAMSBOTTOM! Credat Judæas!

EDS. KNICKERBOCKER.