ntly
called--that have yet been discovered in England. Not in such did John
Clare abide--but many such he hath traversed; and his studies have been
from childhood upwards among scenes which to ordinary eyes might seem to
afford small scope and few materials for contemplation. But his are not
ordinary eyes--but gifted; and in every nook and corner of his own
county the Northamptonshire Peasant has, during some twoscore years and
more, every spring found without seeking either some lovelier aspect of
"the old familiar faces," or some new faces smiling upon him, as if
mutual recognition kindled joy and amity in their hearts.

John Clare often reminds us of James Grahame. They are two of our most
artless poets. Their versification is mostly very sweet, though rather
flowing forth according to a certain fine natural sense of melody, than
constructed on any principles of music. So, too, with their imagery,
which seems seldom selected with much care; so that, while it is always
true to nature, and often possesses a charm from its appearing to rise
up of itself, and with little or no effort on the poet's part to form a
picture, it is not unfrequently chargeable with repetition--sometimes,
perhaps, with a sameness which, but for the inherent interest in the
objects themselves, might be felt a little wearisome--there is so much
still life. They are both most affectionately disposed towards all
manner of birds. Grahame's "Birds of Scotland" is a delightful poem; yet
its best passages are not superior to some of Clare's about the same
charming creatures--and they are both ornithologists after Audubon's and
our own heart. Were all that has been well written in English verse
about birds to be gathered together, what a sweet set of volumes it
would make! And how many, think ye--three, six, twelve? That would be
indeed an aviary--the only one we can think of with pleasure--out of the
hedgerows and the woods. Tories as we are, we never see a wild bird on
the wing without inhaling in silence "the Cause of Liberty all over the
world!" We feel then that it is indeed "like the air we breathe--without
it we die." So do they. We have been reading lately, for a leisure hour
or two of an evening--a volume by a worthy German, Doctor Bechstein--on
Cage Birds. The slave-dealer never for a moment suspects the wickedness
of kidnapping young and old--crimping them for life--teaching them to
draw water--and, _oh nefas!_ to sing! He seems to think that