s throw out their
sheltering leafage, and the innocent insects know it is their home; and
even in the seeming silence, if you listen, may you hear the still voice
of a busy creation, a world of a few summer hours--yet seemeth it to
them an eternity of enjoyment. And such a scene we have in the "Woody
Scene," by Thomas Fearnley--poor Fearnley!--and is it not lightly,
elegantly touched with the needle? the scene realized? Or, would you see
a wilder spot, turn to his "Norwegian Scenery," and see the saw-mill, or
whatever the building be, at the very entrance of the deep wood in its
gloom, with the mountain torrent pouring over the rocks. In this
sequestered spot, man has built him a home, and turned to human uses the
rebellious waters, even on the very skirts of the wilderness; and there
he is, for his hours are not all of toil, gloriously angling, for he has
hooked his fish. Poor Fearnley! would he could have remained in this
country! Had he been moderately patronised, he might have added an
honourable name to our dictionary of painters.

And what has become of Webster? We remember well his "Boys let loose
from School." Here he is--and but one plate--"Anticipation"--well named.
The pie is come home, and the boy's eyes open, and his mouth waters. The
story is quaintly told by Townsend thus:--Lights and shadows of boyish
days! how bright and deep they are! The schoolmaster's frown may be
charmed away by the gift of a new top, or a score of marbles. But what
are these in the cotter's life to the stirring vicissitudes of a pie!
----Before its departure for the bakehouse, did he not ponder admiringly
on the delicate tact that mingled the bony scraps with.

'Herbs, and other country messes,
Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses?'

"Since then, _imagination_ has been at play; and, in accordance with its
suggestions, his bib and tucker have been donned, as trusty adjutants to
the formidable wooden spoon. Thus armed, while sister Phillis--the
creative genius of the savoury structure--regards the baker's boy with
her modest glance, young Corydon, with his prophetic anticipation, is
ogling the baker's burden. If his knife be as sharp as his appetite,
'twill want no whetting! We must expect that, in the afternoon, when
anticipation shall have faded through the stages of its fulfilment, if
no longer entranced by the pleasures of Hope, he will solace himself
with those of Memory." And there, sure enough, is the grinning bak