Home authors and home artists; or, American scenery, art, and literature . EY OF THE II d US A TONIC. power of Holland, and if that republic had flourished, while Englandfell into decay. The Dutch emigration would, of course, have filledthe valley of the. Housatonic Bilderdijk would have been at thismoment the favorite poet of the people on that river ; the romancesof Loosjes would have taken the place of those of Walter Scott; themore devout would have read the sermons of Van der Palm, and thelovers of mirth would have laughed at the jokes of Weiland. So faras concerns the fine arts, the dwel
Home authors and home artists; or, American scenery, art, and literature . EY OF THE II d US A TONIC. power of Holland, and if that republic had flourished, while Englandfell into decay. The Dutch emigration would, of course, have filledthe valley of the. Housatonic Bilderdijk would have been at thismoment the favorite poet of the people on that river ; the romancesof Loosjes would have taken the place of those of Walter Scott; themore devout would have read the sermons of Van der Palm, and thelovers of mirth would have laughed at the jokes of Weiland. So faras concerns the fine arts, the dwellings would have been more pic-turesque, comfortable Dutch houses with low roofs and spacious stoops,embowered in trees, instead of the grim, naked, and tasteless habitationsof the Yankees. The painters who sought their subjects among theinhabitants of the valley would have painted interiors after the man-ner of Teniers, or elaborate and highly finished landscapes, in whichfidelity to nature was more regarded than the selection of objects, afterthe. manner of Cuy] >.. THE A 1)1 U()i\ I) AC K MO I ATA INS BY ALFRED II. STREET. Upon a beautiful July evening, the writer was passing up LakeChanaplain in one of the fine steamboats that ply upon it> Lovelywaters. Bappening to raise his eyes from the plain of glass whichstretched before him, his attention was arrested by a mountain matracing: an irregular line against tin* golden background of the over the highest peak was the descending sun, and the wholemass was invested with an azure hue soft as a remembered sorrow,and sweet as a hope of flic future. It seemed a- if seraphic musicmighl breathe from that dreamy mist, as if on those summits restedthe quietude of Leaven. It was the mass of the Ai>ironi>acks. These splendid mountains form a group, the loftiest of a range which extends, in the Northern section of New-York, fr Little Falls on the Mohawk to Trembleau Point on Lake Champlain. Thegroup heaves up into a
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