s pictures have in them a sentiment--nature with him is
sentient and suggestive. The very stillness--the silence, the quiet of
the old foot-road is the contemplative of many a little history of them
whose feet have trod it: such is the character of "The Terrace." But the
most strikingly beautiful is "Welsh Glen"--

"The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides,
The woods wild scatter'd clothe their ample sides."

What sketcher has not frequently come upon a scene like this, and, with
a delight not unmixed with awe, hoped to realize it--and how many have
failed! How often have we looked down upon the quiet and not shapeless
rocky ledges just rising above and out of the dark still water; while
beyond them, and low in the transparent pool, are stones rich of hue,
and dimly seen, and beyond them the dark deep water spreads, reflecting
partially the hues of the cliffs above--and watched the slender boughs,
how they shoot out from rocky crevices, and above them branches from
many a tree-top high up, hanging over; while we look up under the green
arched boughs, and their fan-spreading leafage--every tree, every leaf
communing, and all bending down to one object, worshipping as it were
the deep pool's mystery! Here is the natural Gothic of Pan's temple--and
out from the deep pass, golden and like a painted window of the sylvan
aisle, glows the sun-touched wood, illuminated in all its wondrous
tracery. In such a scene--where "Contemplation has her fill"--the
perfect truth of this highly finished picture is sure to renew the
feeling first enjoyed--enjoyed in solitude: it should have no figure but
ourselves, for we are in it--and it has none. The colouring and
execution are most true to nature; if we would wish any thing altered,
it would be the sky, which is a little too light for the deep solemnity
of all below it. Exquisitely beautiful as are these scenes from Mr
Creswick's pencil, we doubt if he has reached or knows his own power. He
has yet to add to this style the largeness of nature. We should venture
to recommend to his reading, again and again, those parts of Sir
Joshua's Discourses which treat of the large generality of nature.

Stanfield is, as usual, remarkably clear, more characteristic of
himself, his manner, than of the places of his subjects--ever the same
coloured lights and shadows. His compositions are well made up, there is
seldom a line to offend. In "Mazorbo and Torcello, Gulf of Venice,"
however,