X 
trative drawings, I find portraits of thirty natives among 
the comparatively few subjects which a work like the 
present could include. Many far more magnificent 
might have been selected; but it is the poetiy of our 
own meadows, and lanes, and dingles, and “ little 
running brooks,” that I wished to point out to my 
readers. Had I only made acquaintance with Flowers 
in the costly conservatory, or the trimly laid-out 
garden (though I dearly love a garden), I should not 
feel their beauty and blessings half so deeply as I now 
do. Wild Flowers seem the true philanthropists of their 
race. Their generous and cheerful faces ever give a 
kindly greeting to the troops of merry village children 
who revel in their blossomy wealth ; and right welcome 
are they, gladdening the eyes of the poor town me¬ 
chanic, when he breathes the pure, fresh country 
air on Sunday, and gathers a handful of Cowslips, 
or Daffodils, or prouder Foxgloves, to carry home and 
set in the dim window of his pent-up dwelling. So 
dear and beautiful are Wild Flowers, that one would 
think every body must love them; to many persons, 
however, much of the delight they bring to me would 
seem out of place, extravagant—unintelligible; but I 
hope to conciliate even these dissenters from my creed, 
by the extracts I have introduced from our great old 
Poets. And it may be well here to mention, that 
my first intention was to admit passages from our 
