through that same old gateway he set forth for the march which closed on Bosworth Field. The first Charles here planted his standard in 1642-an ominous storm blew it down that night; here he was brought, a prisoner, in 1646.

The view from the castle terrace is exceedingly fine, comprising a vast extent of waving grain-fields, and meadows, and wooded hills, beautified by silvery streams, sweet rural villages, picturesque old churches, and elegant residences.

We were greatly pleased with a drive about the town, which has some fine churches, and a goodly number of literary, scientific, and charitable institutions. We saw "Gallows Hill," where Robin Hood and Little John released Will Stukely, and hung "the proud sheriff" in his stead, and the house in which Henry Kirke White was born. Nottingham is peculiarly favoured in being the natal dating-place of poets. Thomas Bailey, and his son, Philip "Festus" Bailey, William and Mary Howitt, Thomas Miller, the "basket-maker," and a score of others more or less distinguished, were born in the shadow of "the great rock."

On our way to Lincoln, we passed the residence of Sir Robert Peel, and the ruins of Newark Castle, which show oddly in the midst of the busy town, hard by the railway station. Lincoln is built on the rocky site of an old Roman city; and here, for the first time, I saw Roman arches, roads, and pavements.

The ruins of Lincoln Castle and of the Episcopal Palace are the finest I have yet seen; but everything sinks into insignificance beside the magnificent cathedral. We ascended to the top of the great tower. O, such a fearful "getting up stairs!" But the grand prospect from the summit well repaid us for our toil and

loss of breath.

On descending, we found one or two vicars, and a little crowd of white-gowned boys, performing service in the chapel. We heard the organ rolling its melodious thunder through the solemn arches, and the choristers singing a beautiful anthem. But, beyond the solemnity of sound, the grandeur of noble music, the English worship struck me as utterly unsuited to the splendour of old Catholic cathedrals. It has form without poetry, ceremony without mystery. It is wanting in the ideal and picturesque; and so, to the outward eye at least, comparatively cold and tasteless. There is a dreary bareness, an incompleteness, about a vast cathedral like this, without the warmth and glory spread abroad by pictures of saints and "the Virgin of virgins," without the grace of sculpture, the pomp of gorgeous priestly robes, the silvery wreaths of incense, the radiance of illuminated altars, and, above all, the presence of a kneeling crowd of fervent and humble worshippers. If we are to have a religion of form, let it be the perfection of form, say many in these days; if we are to worship through the outward and visible, let at least our types and symbols be beautiful and harmonious. In a country of confiscated cathedrals, and churches denuded and despoiled of their fitting and legendary accessories, I can easily understand this Puseyite reaction. Though it is undoubtedly in many directions a strike for

VOL. XXXV.

Ꭱ

power, it is in some a mere rebellion of taste. This sentimental passion for all things mediæval, from the illuminated prayer-book of the noble lady to the Gothic red-brick country-house of the retired grocer-this rage for mouldy tapestry, ingeniously-uncomfortable chairs, and hideous old saints in stained glass, is a part of the same religious back set.

POEMS: BY JOHN FRANCIS WALLER, LL.D.*

HERE is a very interesting little volume of miscellaneous verse, which glides "trippingly o'er the tongue," as we repeat the songs and ballads, and conveys the impression that it has been written without labour, and flowed spontaneously from the well-stored imagination of the writer. Half the pleasure of reading is lost, when we toil on with an effort to be entertained or roused, painfully suggestive of the difficulty with which the pages before us have been filled. In poetry, above every other class of composition, truth, ease, and simplicity constitute the leading charms. A single verse of unsophisticated feeling wins more than a whole canto of the mystical obscurity, which is sometimes mistaken by the authors for the true Heliconian inspiration. Herein lies the peculiar strength of Goldsmith, Burns, and Moore, the most graceful and popular of lyric poets, who are ever fresh and delightful, because they are natural, and express ideas with which all can sympathise, in language which every one can understand. In the opposite extreme we may equally trace the weakness of many modern bards, who make a desperate grasp at the sublime, and expect to soar into reputation by becoming unintelligible. The present age has been pronounced unpoetical. The fault, we think, lies rather with the authors than the public. The divine art will never lack encouragement, if its votaries strike the lyre of Apollo with appropriate skill. Mr. Waller has long been known as one of the leading contributors to the "Dublin University Magazine," and other periodicals, under the literary sobriquet of "Jonathan Fickle Slingsby." As an Irish poet he has proved himself a worthy successor of the brilliant names which have preceded him. He writes with warmth and intensity, regulated by classic taste, and a spirit of pure devotion undisfigured by cant. We have not room for extracts, but "The Music of Nature," "Angel Hymns,” "Laborare est orare," and the three short lyrics, "Spring," "Summer," and "Winter," may be named as happy illustrations of his peculiar style. Seeing how well he has done what he has already given to the public, we look for some higher attempt from a mind so highly cultivated.

* London, Orr and Co.; Dublin, M'Glashan. 1854.

THE EMPEROR NICHOLAS AND THE WAR IN

THE EAST.

WITH A MAP OF THE SEAT OF WAR.

FOUR hundred years have been added to the age of the world and the experience of man, since Mahomet the Second, in 1453, after fifty-eight days of reiterated assault, spurred his fiery charger through the yawning breach in the walls of Constantinople, while the recreant Genoese, John Justiniani, fled, subdued by the anguish of his wounds, and the last Palæologus fell like an emperor at his post. The breach was ill repaired, and is still distinguishable, while fragments of the shattered walls lie crumbling in the ditch-emblems of Turkish apathy and fatalism, records of their triumph and omens of their predicted fall. Every successive autocrat of Russia has persuaded himself that he and his countrymen, as representatives of the Orthodox Church, are sooner or later destined to be the instruments of retribution, and to replant the cross on the temples which the crescent has usurped. Their wars against the Moslemah have been in essence as much religious as political; a revival of the ancient crusades; and they have pressed steadily and avowedly on to the coveted object, which appeared within their grasp from the hour when Catherine the Second exclaimed on receiving the despatch of Suvaroff, announcing the capture of Ismail," Now the road to Constantinople is open before us." Other enterprises may have diverted them from their course during a feverish interval; diplomatic or physical difficulties may have compelled them to pause for a time in mid career; but their eyes have never been turned from the Bosphorus and the Dardanelles. The prize seemed within their grasp when Diebitsch crossed the Balkan, in 1829, and encamped with a few exhausted thousands on the plains of Adrianople-a rash but successful demonstration, which succeeded when it ought to have failed, and terrified the Sultan into an abject peace, when the bear had rushed voluntarily into the toils, and lay completely at his mercy. Again, in 1833, they approached still nearer to the long-desired goal. Called upon as unwelcome auxiliaries, in the last moment of Turkish despair, to repel the Syrian invasion, Russian legions encamped on the heights of Scutari, and feasted their eyes on the stately dome of St. Sophia, and the glittering minarets of the Seraglio. For the first time, Russia retired when she had been called in to protect, and feigned moderation while thirsting for conquest. The storm has now gathered again more fiercely than ever from the same ominous quarter, and everything indicates that this time the coming struggle is to be for life and death. Either Russia will be permitted to accomplish her ends, or she will receive such a lesson as will force. her henceforward to live contented as a respectable member of the European family, and occupy herself with internal improvmeents.

VOL. XXXV.