redit of Wales, we hope Mr Horsley did not sketch these from
nature; yet is there a fearful look of natural acrimony in the one, and
sheer busybodyism in the other. The plate is beautifully etched. His
"Moonlight" is not quite clear enough--there are too many sparkling
lights. The "Shady Seat" is prettily designed; the lady looks rather too
alarmed, and, for the subject, perhaps there is not enough of shadow--
certainly not "enough for two." We at once recognize Stonhouse in the
"Evening effects of Solitude," and his "Neath Abbey." The former he thus
describes:--

"There, woods impervious to the breeze,
Thick phalanx of embodied trees--
Here, stillness, height, and solemn shade
Invite, and contemplation aid."

We are sure that Neath Abbey is from nature, for it has the sooty and
smoked character of that manufacture-ruined ruin. But we must not pass
by his "Dorothea" from Don Quixote. Nothing can be more happily
expressed than the deep shady retirement of the wood; there are nice
gradations of shades, which is the very character of retirement, and
Dorothea is herself in it, not a bright figure in a black mass--and good
is the figure too, but the feet are unfinished.

Mr Creswick is a large contributor, and least fortunate in his first: it
is not the scene so well given in verse by his friend Townsend; for it
is too pretty, too tight. It wants the "lane;" it is the road-side.

"THE WAYSIDE.

"A lane, retired from noisy haunts of men,
Whose ruts the solitary lime cart tracks,
Whose hedge-sides, propp'd by many a mossy stone,
Are checker'd o'er with foxglove's purple bloom,
Or graceful fern, or snakehood's curling sheath,
Or the wild strawberry's crimson peeping through.
There, where it joins the far-outstretching heath,
A lengthen'd nook presents its glassy slope,
A couch with nature's velvet verdure clad,
Trimm'd by the straggling sheep, and ever spread
To rest the weary wanderer on his way.
There, oft the ashes of the camp-fire lie,
Marking the gipsy's chosen place of rest.
Black roots of half-charr'd furze, and capons' bones--
Relic of spoils from distant farmers' coop--
Point to the revels of preceding night.
And fancy pictures forth the swarthy group,
Their dark eyes flashing in the ruddy glare;
While laughter, louder after long constraint,
From every jocund face is pealing round.