er's
boy, and the pie admirably baked; and the boy of the bib and tucker, and
the wooden spoon, realizing it through his nostrils, and magnifying it
through his eyes; and there is the neat-handed Phillis, who cares little
for the eating. Feminine and gluttonous seldom come together. "The
little glutton" is ever the male. This was in Webster's own way, and he
has hit it off truly; he has seen it hundreds of times, and knew as well
as Townsend who should have the wooden spoon. We find we have omitted to
notice one plate, and that by Redgrave. We did not expect landscape by
his hand. It is, however, very clever; there is a light over the dark
church-tower which a little offends. Keep down that a little, and you
recognize the true effect of nature. It is a view of Worcester. "A
spot," says Mr Redgrave, "memorable as the scene of that battle
signalized by Oliver Cromwell as the 'crowning mercy;' and whence the
young Charles II. commenced the series of romantic and perilous
adventures which terminated in his safety."

Our work of criticism is at an end; not so our pleasure. We shall look
at this choice volume again and again; and as we have somewhat
arrogantly, and with a conceit of our ability and right so to do, taken
the Etching Club under our especial care, regard, and patronage, we
shall think ourselves at liberty to encourage and to exhort them
whenever we see fit. We therefore do exhort them to go on, to give a
taste for painters' etchings, to improve themselves, too; and let each
make it a rule to himself never to take the trouble to touch a subject
that is not worth doing; nor to tell a story not worth telling, however
such may seem to look pretty or with effect upon copper or paper; by all
means to avoid "annual sentimentalities," and commonplace "acting
charades;" and never to forget that expression is the soul of the art.
For the present, we dismiss them with thanks--like the prudent
physician, who, as Fielding says, always stands by to see nature work,
and contents himself by clapping her on the back, by way of approbation,
when she does well.

A LOVE-CHASE--IN PROSE.

CHAPTER I.

Bandvale Hall had lain empty for a long time--old Frank Edwards, so well
known as a sportsman, had been dead for eighteen years, his horses sold,
his kennels dismantled, and his son, after so absurdly long a minority,
(for his father had capriciously fixed his majority at twenty-three,)
only now coming of age; but whether h