It is surely no cause for regret, as some of the Poet's admirers would have it to be, that Byron was not buried in Westminster Abbey, or St. Paul's. To either of those "shrines of the mighty," his tomb would scarcely have given an additional interest; while to the church of an obscure village in Nottinghamshire it has attracted hundreds of pilgrims, some from distant parts of the world, and of all classes of. society. Besides, in the heart of a great city it

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is not easy to turn aside on a sudden from the hurry of business or pleasure, to indulge in those feelings which a poet's grave has a tendency to excite. How few ever think of visiting Cripplegate church for the sake of Milton, and how many have travelled from a distance to Stratford-upon-Avon in honour of the memory of Shakspeare.

Such were among some of my reflections as I walked from Nottingham to Hucknall Torkard, on a poetical pilgrimage to the tomb of Byron. My way lay along dusty lanes, more favorable by their silence to a pedestrian's cogitations than to his walking by their roughness, and, in part, over a corner of the waste which was once "Merry Sherwood," sacred by a thousand recollections of

"The revelries that there have been,

In the sweet days of merry Robin Hood."

About two hours sauntering, aided by sundry inquiries concerning my road addressed to un

lettered hinds, who contrived by their directions

AND ITS ALBUM.

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most completely to puzzle me whenever I came to a turning, brought me to the village I was bound for.-Count Gamba is reported to have remarked a resemblance between Hucknall and Missolonghi. It is a long, straggling village, without a single trait of the picturesque about it. To reach the church, I ran the gauntlet of half a mile of as dirty-looking houses as one may meet on a summer's day," even in this age of pauperism.

The parish clerk lives in one of the cleanest cottages imaginable,-quite the beau ideal of an English peasant's home, in all save situation. His wife reminded me somewhat of Elspeth of the Craigburn foot, though neither so aged nor imbecile. The functionary himself is a fine specimen of the respectable church servant, inheriting the office from his father, calling the vicar his master, and feeling a sort of proprietary interest in the church and its concerns. Taking two or three huge keys-his precious chargefrom a corner cupboard, and his low broadbrimmed hat from its peg behind the door, he