Few persons disposed to linger in the footsteps of the ideal, and pass froin one of Nature's noblest creationsthe mighty oak-to the works of men, glorious masters in their calling, and realising all that men's power and capacity can afford them, will find their day's pleasure wearisome, if that day be spent in and about Panshanger.

Not to lose sight altogether of creature consolations, the White Horse at Hertingfordbury may be conscientiously recommended, where they may take their ease in an inn, whose landlord and landlady are obliging, civil, and moderate in their demands.

NUREMBERG.'

THE windows of the church are adorned with the arms of various noble families of the city, who were patrons of the edifice-a decoration very characteristic of Nuremberg, than which there is no town the citizens of which had a deeper or more enthusiastic love of their birthplace (another point of resemblance, by the way, to Venice): nothing gave them higher delight than in some way to amal gamate themselves with the being of their city, and Nuremberg was in all respects the best and the - most inimitable of all towns. This feeling still exists: every Nuremberger is an optimist so far as his own town is concerned, and the affection he bears it is unbounded. I had a curious instance of this in a girl whom I met in the north of Germany, and who, though she had been absent from her native town but a few months, almost went into hysterics with delight, on finding that we had but lately been in Nuremberg, and could discuss its beauties with her. The best example of this sentiment, however, is the legend which is related here of the pillars of the castle chapel, and which I may tell you as we walk home towards your hotel, which by my advice should be the "Red Horse." It is not the crack inn of the place; and, had I been guided by Murray alone, I should have gone to another, the name of which I forget, but that we luckily heard that a royal personage was staying there. Now, there is but one person for whom I feel greater respect than towards the royalty of England, and that person is myself. This respect led me most carefully to eschew a hotel favoured by any such exalted individual, and I repaired to the "Red Horse," which I can safely recommend as one of the most comfortable inns in Germany, and that is no small praise. But to our story.

Little Father Gregory, the officiating curate of the castle chapel, was a man in whom the peculiarity of the Nuremberg mind which I have alluded to was developed to its fullest extent. His forefathers had for centuries been enrolled amongst the burghers of that eity; he himself had been born and bred in it, and his faith in its perfection was unbounded. He believed it to be the cream of all the towns of Europe; whatever was in it was perfect in its kind, and no other place possessed (1) Concluded from page 254.

carried this opinion to the length of heresy, and believed either that a citizen of Nuremberg could do no wrong, or, at any rate, that his position as such would save him from the condign punishment awarded to inferior mortals; like the French lady under the old régime, who, when a preacher was endeavouring to warn his congregation by reflections on the recent death of a libertine nobleman of very old family, exclaimed, with a dissenting shake of the head, "Ah! depend upon it, God Almighty thinks twice before he dooms a man of such high quality." With these opinions of the unparalleled merits of his own city, it may easily be imagined that the good father frequently got himself into a scrape, when arguing with those who had seen more of the world than himself: the honest monk, having never been a traveller, could only oppose his own assertions to the arguments of strangers; and, though generally favoured with a most partial audience, was very often beaten on his own ground. These defeats, however, only served to root Father Gregory the more firmly in his opinion, so that it at length became a perfect idiosyncracy with him, and he would sooner have laid down his life than have allowed the inferiority of Nuremberg in any one point, however insignificant. With such sentiments, it may be believed that the curate was not a little annoyed at meeting, one evening, in a village a short distance from the town, a stranger merchant, who announced himself to have recently arrived from Rome, and would by no means concede such unqualified admiration.

"I grant," said he, taking a huge sip of beer, "that your city is a pretty and thriving place enough, and that you brew very good beer; but I have tasted as good liquor elsewhere, and I have seen cities to which this is not to be compared in regard of magnificence of building and extent."

"What cities may you speak of?" replied the monk, drumming on the table with an air of determination not to be satisfied-"what cities, good friend?"

"Nay, then," answered the stranger, "I could name several; but I will give only onee-Rome, for instance." "Rome!" exclaimed Father Gregory, with an expression of disdain: "I do not talk of ruins, but of existing edifices. Some thousand years ago, Rome might have been matched with Nuremberg, but not now."

"Good, now," returned the other, "we will leave the ruins out of the question, although, methinks, you give me but hard measure in requiring that of me; but we will take the newer buildings. What say you to the grand cathedral of St. Peter?"

"We have no cathedral here," returned the monk, "because we have no bishop. Whether in that respect Rome may claim an advantage over us or no, I shall leave it to yourself to decide. But for churches and chapels, we have those may match with any in the imperial city.”

"There, now, I cannot agree with you, good father," answered the other. "I leave for the north in an hour, and I was in your town this very day, and have seen most of the finer edifices with which it is adorned. Amongst others I saw your own little chapel, which I dare swear is a neat, old fashioned thing enough; but I saw one, the very model of it, at Rome, which has the advantage over yours."

"In what point, if I may ask?" said the monk drily. "It requires the four pillars which are in the chapel at Rome," replied his antagonist.

"Pillars!" returned the monk; "you must have had but sorry eyes, if you saw them not in our chapel as well as at Rome."

showed their astonishment at his folly, in thus asserting what they knew to be a falsehood.

Well, then," exclaimed the stranger, rising, "the matter will be easily determined. I had intended to have pursued my journey hence without returning to your city, but since this question has arisen, I will even conclude some business which will detain me here an hour or two, and then proceed straight to the chapel, so that it shall at once be seen whether I am wrong, or whether this assertion of yours be not the offspring of that self-conceit, for which you citizens of Nuremberg are so notorious."

So saying, he departed, leaving the good father in no very enviable state of mind; his companions crowded around, consoling him, as is usual on such occasions, by showing him the extreme folly of which he had been guilty; whilst, to all their arguments, the poor monk could only reply by groans and asseverations, that he had but done his best to maintain the honour of his native town, since he had understood from the beginning that the stranger was not to be in Nuremberg again. Recrimination and repentance, however, were now of no avail, and Father Gregory, who was in no mood for company, set out on his solitary walk to the city. On the road he turned over in his mind all the possible and impossible modes of preventing the dire disgrace which would fall on his beloved Nuremberg, when the insolent traveller should discover his triumph. At times he even thought of waylaying the stranger, and assassinating him; again of burning down the chapel, ere he arrived to see the want of pillars. He called every saint in the calendar to his assistance, and finally, in the bitterness of his soul, exclaimed, that were the devil to proffer him aid, he would accept of it rather than the honour of Nuremberg should be tarnished. Help from the latter quarter was nearer than Father Gregory deemed, when this assertion escaped his lips. As he approached the heathen tower of the castle, on his way to the chapel which was the source of all his tribulation, the monk perceived a figure scated beneath one of the rude figures from which the tower derives its name, and its incontrovertible reputation of being haunted. As he passed, the figure arose, and a tall and very gentlemanly looking man in black, addressed the monk most courteously by name. You wished for my assistance," said he, "in this little difficulty which you have fallen into, and I shall be most happy to accommodate you." "I beg your pardon," replied the astonished monk, I do not quite understand you."

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"Pooh, pooh!" returned the other, "I wonder that you should be so slow of apprehension. It was but this moment you were saying, that were I to offer to extricate you from this dilemma, with regard to the pillars, or rather the no pillars of the chapel, you would accept of my aid. Now I both can, and will assist you, for not only shall the chapel be furnished with pillars, but I will fetch for that purpose the identical pillars from Rome, which were the origin of your dispute."

are

"I am to understand, then," said Gregory, "that you

"Exactly so," interrupted his new acquaintance, with a graceful wave of the hand, "exactly so; amongst friends there is no necessity for naming names."

The monk was silent for a while. He was neither so much surprised nor terrified as might have been expected, for visits from the angels of darkness were in those days, if we may credit history, not nearly so few and far between as from the inhabitants of a higher sphere; and besides, being a priest, it was all in the way of his profession. Still he paused, not so much to consider whether he should accept the offer, for that in his desperate circumstances he had already determined on, but to reflect on the means of driving the best bargain for himself.

"In case I were to incline to deal with you," said he, at length, "the price of your services would, I suppose, be the same that you usually demand?"

"Certainly!" was the reply, "no other terms can be listened to. Agree to the little transference which I invariably adhere to, and the pillars shall be brought from Rome at once."

But," persisted the monk, "this plaguy traveller, whom may the saints confound!" his friend winced a little, "will be here immediately; now it is a long way to Rome, and these pillars will be a heavy weight: are you sure that you will be able to bring them here in time?"

"Make your mind easy on that score," returned the other, "the pillars shall be here before you can say a score of litanies, read as fast as you choose, or the bargain shall be no bargain."

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Say you so?" cried the father, eagerly, who being noted for a fast reader, saw in this proposal an opening for escape on his own part, as well as for triumph over the traveller; "then I agree to your terms. Bring the pillars from Rome, ere I can say a score of litanies, and I shall not grumble at your terms."

"Agreed!" cried the gentleman in black, and vanished, as did the monk-the one to Rome, and the other to his chapel to commence his litanies. The devil flew straight to his destination, rested a minute or two to take breath, and then neatly unpacking the pillars, set out on his return to Nuremberg. Meanwhile the monk, now that he had time to reflect on the terms of his bargain, felt anything but comfortable. In a moment of anxiety, and even despair, he had no doubt ratified the contract, but the more he thought of his conduct, the more he repented of his rashness. Rome no doubt was a long way off, and the time allowed to his sable friend was, comparatively speaking, a very short one; but the monk well knew both the surprising powers, and the caution of him with whom he had bargained, and reflecting on the confidence with which he had mentioned the time for the accomplishment of his task, felt that he would never have agreed to it, had he not been certain that it would suffice. These considerations, so far from expediting poor Father Gregory in his litanies, impeded him, for so great was his terror and anxiety, that each sentence, as he fumbled it over, cost him thrice the time it would have required under other circumstances: he stammered, he mistook, repeated unnecessarily, and grew worse and worse, till at length he came to a dead stop, from sheer inability to articulate. At this moment casting a look through the open door of the chapel, he heard a loud rustling sound, and perceived his friend, who, with a grin of satisfaction, was easing his shoulders of the weight of the pillars. The monk was paralysed; his knees shook under him; and he all but fell to the ground;-his own task was not half accomplished, and yet here were the pillars already brought from Rome, and only requiring to be stationed in the chapel. Father Gregory was in despair, and was about to yield himself up to his fate, when a bright thought suddenly struck him. He knew the potency with many persons of a thumping falsehood; and if it be right in the general case to tell truth and shame the devil, he felt that there could be no harm in the present, in telling one to confound the father of lies himself. Snapping his fingers, therefore, with an air of triumph, he rushed out of the chapel, exclaiming, "I have won, -won hollow!"

"How!" inquired his friend, in no small astonishment, "what mean you by this turbulent joy?"

"In good sooth," returned the monk, "simply that I have triumphed for you have yet to fasten me up these pillars, and I have finished my part of our contract."

"How!" exclaimed the other, "have you finished?" "Sure enough!" returned Gregory, "the last litany is just at an end: so be quick, I pray you, and conclude your work. ́

That," cried the baffled demon, "you may do for yourself, and thank me for having been fool enough to help you half way!" and so saying, he disappeared, with a yell of rage.

The little monk chuckled, and rubbed his hands with delight, and then, to make all sure, retreated again into the chapel, and finished his litanies; thus actually fulfilling his share of the contract first, inasmuch as the pillars had not been set up. They were put up, how ever, by the monk in a day or two, but the traveller never came to see them, and, indeed, never was heard of more; and the general opinion was, that he was no mortal traveller, but the devil himself, who had assumed this shape with a deep-laid design of tarnishing the honour of Nuremberg, and kidnapping Father Gregory, by means of his well-known foible, in both of which projects he was foiled by the address of the good monk. Such is the tale of the pillars in the castle chapel, very much as related by our guide. I give it as a specimen of the innumerable legends connected with Nuremberg, over the greater number of which it has this advantage, that there can be no doubt of its truth; for if you require proof before believing, there are the pillars themselves, and what better evidence can you have.

No one should leave Nuremberg without visiting the Rosenau, which is the principal beer and tea garden of the town. It is a great improvement on the usual plea sure gardens of Germany, which in general are anything but distinguished for beauty; whilst the Rosenau is a very pretty little spot, neatly laid out with trees and flowering shrubs, and adorned with a Chinese pavilion, glittering in all the glories of tinsel and bright paint, which the citizens look on as a triumph of picturesque art; but its principal attraction to the tourist is that, in the company to be found there, you see not only the burghers of the present day, but the identical beings who flourished in their stead some centuries back. For in Nuremberg, as I hinted before, it is not only the houses which retain their ancient character, although many of these have been for hundreds of years devoted to the same purposes, (as, for instance, that of Behaim, the chart-maker and navigator, who claims the honour of having discovered America, which house is still a chart manufactory; so that if a Nuremberg Rip van Winkle were to arise, he would have no difficulty in recognising his old haunts,) but the people themselves are unchanged. Many of them reside in the same houses which have been occupied by their families from time immemorial, and follow the same trades as their forefathers in the sixteenth century. Here, in the Rosenau, you have the best opportunity of seeing these original personages collectively, and an interesting sight it is; they converse, and drink, and smoke, with a most characteristic gravity, and their whole appearance and demeanour is as old-fashioned as you would wish: there are staid sober-looking fathers of families, of portly and agreeable mien; smooth, simple-looking young men, and uncommonly pleasant matrons, smiling and tidy; the very children have an air of correctness, which one seldom sees; and the young ladies, sly and coquettish as they are, have a look of simple ingenuousness which renders them ten times more attractive. The amusements are much the same as are to be found in all German gardens; that is to say, the company listen to a band of thumping music, whilst the men smoke, and drink beer, and the women coffee deluged with milk, and sweetened to syrup. In addition to these exhilarating entertainments, there is the still more exciting diversion of paddling about in small punts in the greasy water which surrounds the garden. This appears to be considered a peculiarly delightful recreation,-persons of all ages and sexes engage in it; and I particularly remarked one smart and smiling young lady, who was evidently proud of her dexterity at the paddle, and who glanced at us with naïve coquetry, as she rowed along a young man, evidently a favoured swain, in their little tub. Indeed to persons of whom not one in ten thousand has seen the sea, nor one in a thousand a river larger than the Pegnitz, this navigation must appear quite hazardous enough to be delightful. After all, that

which especially pleased me in the company in the Rosenau, as, indeed, in all Nuremberg, is this primitive simplicity of mind and demeanour which pervades the whole. You will say this is the general characteristic of Germany; but the peculiar charm of Nuremberg is, that this spirit is developed here so much more thoroughly than anywhere else. The Rosenau, however, is the resort of the aristocracy only, but if you wander about the town of an evening, you will find many a retreat for pleasure, of a humbler, but equally interesting character; there are little al fresco taverns situated in green arbours, adorned with variegated lamps, and redolent of cheese and sausages; above all there is one most picturesque spot, the name of which I forget, a little green grove by the water side, where booths are pitched for the cooking and vending of mysterious viands, of a coarse, but most savoury nature. In all of them reigns the same spirit of unpretending comfort and decent enjoyment. Talking of these evening amusements, I would advise every one who has the opportunity, to see Nuremberg by night as well as by day; every city should be so seen, but this one, the principal feature of which is its antiquity, more than any other. On the last night of our stay there, we walked through at a late hour. There was a bright moonlight, and the scene was pecu liarly impressive-whether gazing on the worn-out rampart, where the crumbling walls are overhung with creepers, and the massive towers cast gigantic shadows of inky darkness across the deep fosse, or glancing up at the lofty graceful spires of the noble churches, looking down from the silent bridges into the black waters of the Pegnitz, or straying amongst the tall spectral houses, the effect is entirely distinct from, and superior to that of the same objects seen in daylight, amidst the busy traffic of men; there is a congeniality between the place and the hour and atmosphere. The town, unlike our modern cities, is perfectly still; and, as you roam about in that wizard light through the ghostly streets, the full impress of their antiquity comes upon you, and you feel yourself transported to another and unknown age.

I

And now, reader, we have had enough of Nuremberg. have not attempted any regular description of it, because it is exactly one of those places of which it is impossible to give a satisfactory description. I have merely attempted to give an idea of the feelings pro- | duced in my own mind by my visit to this, to me one of the most interesting of German towns. But it is a place which must be seen to be understood; and to every one who wishes to know what the German burgher life was in olden times, and to view, perhaps, the most uncontaminated German life of the present day, I would say, go to Nuremberg: it is luckily out of the general route of sight-seers, and has, therefore, retained far more of its original simplicity than other cities, with not half the same attractions; but the day will soon come, when its citizens will value their curiosities, not from an honest pride in their excellence, but for the money they will bring, and then the real attraction of their town, the inward spirit of primitiveness, which vivifies the outward aspect of its antiquity, will have departed.

THE FASCINATING POWER OF SERPENTS.

In the infancy of science the simplicity of truth was warped by superstition, and imagination frequently supplied that which observation failed to detect. From the time of Bacon it has been quite as much the business of philosophy to eradicate error as to enlarge the boundaries of knowledge, and, although the garden of science is becoming every year more and more flourishing and fair, it is still disfigured by many weeds which the multitude esteem as healthful plants. The belief in omens, in weather prognostics, in the preternatural attributes of certain animals, still forms part of the intellectual creed of many educated persons; they have aversions and antipathies which they are not ashamed to own, and they turn with dread or disgust from some of the most interesting of God's creatures.

It is this very dread or disgust which has caused the mind to invest certain animals with attributes which do not belong to them. Thus it has long been supposed that the serpent possesses the power of fascinating its prey, of exciting a certain magical influence, which renders it impossible for the animal to escape when once the reptile has fixed its eyes upon it.

This superstition, for such we must call it, has been adopted by many distinguished naturalists, who hold as it were the book of nature in their hands; by men of learning and genius; by classical scholars grown old in the disbelief of similar fables, heightened and embellished by the charms of poetry; and by the common people in general. In the rural districts of America there is scarcely a man or woman that will not relate some wonderful story as a proof of this fascinating power; they teach their children to believe it, and thus it forms one of the earliest prejudices of the infant mind.

It is remarkable that among the many superstitions attached by the ancients to the actions of animals the reputed fascinating power of serpents should not have occurred to them. It is said to have originated among the North American Indians; this, however, is doubtful, for they only speak of the great ingenuity of the serpent in catching birds, squirrels, &c. A Mohegan Indian told Dr. Barton that his countrymen entertained the opinion that the rattle-snake had the power to charm or bewitch squirrels and birds, and that it did so with its rattle, which it shook, thereby inviting the animals to descend from the trees, when they became an easy conquest. A Choktah Indian bore a similar testimony as to the fascinating power of the rattle-snake, but knew nothing respecting the means employed.

Linnæus in his Systema Natura gives credit to this fascinating power of serpents. He says-Whoever is wounded by the hooded serpent expires in a few minutes; nor can he escape with life who is bitten by the rattlesnake in any part near a great vein. But the merciful God has distinguished these pests by peculiar signs, and has created them most inveterate enemies; for, as he has appointed cats to destroy mice, so has he provided the ichneumon against the former serpent, and the hog to persecute the latter. He has, moreover, given the crotalus a very slow motion, and has annexed a kind of rattle to its tail, by the motion of which it gives notice of its approach; but, lest this slowness should be too great a disadvantage to the animal itself, he has favoured it with a certain power of fascinating squirrels from high trees, and birds from the air into its throat, in the same manner as flies are precipitated into the jaws of the lazy toad."

Linnæus received his account from some of his many pupils travelling in different parts of the world, probably from Kalm, in whose Travels in North America the following details on the subject are given :The snake, whatever its species may be, lying at the bottom of the tree or bush upon which the bird or squirrel sits, fixes its eyes upon the animal which it designs to fascinate or enchant. No sooner is this done

than the unhappy animal is unable to escape. It utters a piteous cry; and, if it is a squirrel, runs up the tree for a short distance, comes down again, then runs up, and lastly comes lower down again. On that occasion," says the Professor, it has been observed that the squirrel always goes down more than it goes up. The snake still continues at the root of the tree, with its eyes fixed on the squirrel, with which its attention is so entirely taken up that a person accidentally approaching may make a considerable noise without the snake's so much as turning about. The squirrel, as before mentioned, comes always lower, and at last leaps down to the snake, whose mouth is already wide open for its reception. The poor little animal then, with a piteous cry, runs into the snake's jaws, and is swallowed at once, if it be not too big; but, if its size will not allow it to be swallowed at once, the snake licks it several times with its tongue, and smoothens it, and by that means makes it fit for swallowing."

The celebrated comparative anatomist, Blumenbach, also admits, "that squirrels, small birds, &e., voluntarily falling from trees into the jaws of the rattle-snake lying under them, is certainly founded in fact; nor is this much to be wondered at, as similar phenomena have been observed in other species of serpents, and even in toads, hawks, and in cats, all of which to appearance can, under particularcircumstances, entice other small animals by mere steadfast looks. Thus the rattles of this snake are of peculiar service; for their hissing noise causes the squirrels, whether impelled by a kind of curiosity, misunderstanding, or dreadful fear, to follow it, as it would seem, of their own accord. At least I know from well informed eye-witnesses that it is one of the common practices among the younger savages to hide themselves in the woods, and by counterfeiting the hissing of the rattle-snake to allure and catch the squirrels."

Mr. Barker, in his Travels in North and South Carolina, speaking of rattle-snakes, says :—

"They are supposed to have the power of fascination in an eminent degree, so as to enthral their prey. It is generally believed that they charm birds, rabbits, squirrels, and other animals, and by steadfastly looking at them, possess them with infatuation: be the cause what it may, the miserable creatures undoubtedly strive by every possible means to escape, but alas! their endeavours are in vain, they at last lose the power of resistance, and flutter or move slowly, but reluctantly, towards the yawning jaws of their devourers, and creep into their mouths, or lie down and suffer themselves to be taken and swallowed."

In considering the value of these, and many similar statements which might be cited, it is important to remark that not one of the writers speaks on his own personal testimony. Kalm even admits that he never saw an instance of fascination, but he gives a list of more than twenty persons, "among whom are some of the most creditable people, who have all unanimously, though living far distant from each other, asserted the same thing."

A distinguished scientific writer on serpents, M. de la Cépéde, assuming the description of Kalm to be founded in truth, thinks it probable that when an animal has been seen to precipitate itself from the top of a tree into the jaws of a rattle-snake, it has been already bitten; that, after escaping, it manifested by its cries and agitation the violent action of the poison left in its blood, and diffused by the envenomed inoculation of the reptile's tooth; that, its strength gradually decaying, it would fly or leap from branch to branch, till, finally, exhausted, it would fall before the serpent, which, with inflamed eyes and eager looks, would watch attentively every motion, and then dart on his prey when it retained but a small portion of life.

Other writers who are not disposed to admit the fascinating power of the serpent's eyes, adopt the opinion, which was formerly not uncommon, that serpents have the power of diffusing an infectious odour around them,