We are in love with Sybil Lesley. She is full of _spunk_. That is not a vulgar word; or if it have been so heretofore, henceforth let it cease to be so, and be held synonymous with spirit. She shows it in her defiance of Sir Ralph on the shore of Solway--in her flight from the Tower of Elvar; and the character she displays then and there, prepares us for the part she plays in the peasant's cot in the glen of Dalgonar. We are not surprised to see her take so kindly to the duties of a rustic service; for we call to mind how she sat among the humble good-folks in the hall, when Thrift and Waste figured in that rude but wise Morality, and how the gracious lady showed she sympathised with the cares and contentments of lowly life. England has singled out John Clare from among her humble sons (Ebenezer Elliott belongs altogether to another order)--as the most conspicuous for poetical genius, next to Robert Bloomfield. That is a proud distinction--whatever critics may choose to say; and we cordially sympathise with the beautiful expression of his gratitude to the Rural Muse, when he says-- "Like as the little lark from off its nest, Beside the mossy hill, awakes in glee, To seek the morning's throne, a merry guest-- So do I seek thy shrine, if that may be, To win by new attempts another smile from thee." Now, England is out of all sight the most beautiful country in the whole world--Scotland alone excepted--and, thank heaven, they two are one kingdom--divided by no line, either real or imaginary--united by the Tweed. We forget at this moment--if ever we knew it--the precise number of her counties; but we remember that one and all of them--"alike, but oh! how different"--are fit birthplaces and abodes for poets. Some of them, we know well, are flat--and we in Scotland, with hills or mountains for ever before our eyes, are sometimes disposed to find fault with them on that ground--as if nature were not at liberty to find her own level. Flat indeed! So is the sea. Wait till you have walked a few miles in among the Fens--and you will be wafted along like a little sail-boat, up and down undulations green and gladsome as waves. Think ye there is no scenery there? Why, you are in the heart of a vast metropolis!--yet have not the sense to see the silent city of mole-hills sleeping in the sun. Call that pond a lake--and by a word how is it transfigured? Now you discern flowers unfolding on its low banks and braes--and the rustle of the rushes is like that of a tiny forest--how appropriate to the wild! Gaze--and to your gaze what colouring grows! Not in green only, or in russet brown, doth nature choose to be apparelled in this her solitude--nor ever again will you call her dreary here--for see how every one of those fifty flying showers lightens up its own line of beauty along the plain--instantaneous as dreams--or stationary as waking thought--till, ere you are aware that all was