tly painted immediately from nature,
powerfully, expressively given. Somehow or other he did not take in this
country, and quitted it, leaving behind him very beautiful studies
strangely undervalued, and sold for little. The fact is, he was too true
to the solemnity and sobriety of nature to please a public led away by
gaudy display and meretricious colouring. Yet was he a man of more
genius--in landscape--than any nine out of ten of our best artists that
have, these last ten years, attempted to show nature or art upon our
academical walls. Poor Fearnley! We have heard that elsewhere he was
appreciated and successful. Stone and Herbert are good additions. Happy
is it when the feelings of the artist and poet are in unison; happier
still when the poet is himself the artist: and such is the case here. So
that, in many cases, they are really "Etched Thoughts"--not etched
translations of thoughts; and the work of the pen is not inferior to
that of the needle. In the "Deserted Village" was a continuous story;
every plate was in connexion with its preceding. In this publication,
every artist seems to have been left to his own choice of subject, and
to his free fancy.

Cope first comes under our notice. He commences the work with "Love,"
and a quotation from Spenser. As an etching, it is powerful, but we
doubt if quite true: there should be something to account, in such a
twilight scene, for the strong light upon the "Ladye-love!" Nor are we
quite satisfied with the love of the lover, or the reception it meets
with. The man or his guitar, one of the two, if not both, must be out of
tune. His "Veteran's Return" tells its tale, and a somewhat mournful
one; it is in illustration of some very good and pathetic lines by a
member of the club, H.J. Townsend; and as, we believe, they are not to
be met with out of "Etched Thoughts," we extract them for the
gratification of the reader:--

THE VETERAN'S RETURN.

The old yew, deck'd in even's parting beams,
From his red trunk reflects a ruddier ray;
While, flickering through the lengthen'd shadow, gleams
Of gold athwart the dusky branches play.
The jackdaws, erst so bustling on the tower,
Have ceased their cawing clamour from on high;
And the brown bat, as nears the twilight hour,
Circles--the lonely tenant of the sky.

The soldier there, ere pass'd to distant climes,
On Sabbath morn his early mates would meet;