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melancholy smile with which she listened to her daughter's merry prattle.

"Dear mother, you are not well, you would rather not go?"

"I am not well," answered Gertrude; "but I must go, or how could the thread be sold?"

"Let me go alone," cried Bertha, pausing in her employment, and looking earnestly in her mother's face, "I know the way perfectly, and you know I am ten years old; dear mother, please to let me go instead of you," she continued, as she threw her arms round her mother's neck and kissed her pale cheek.

"But the forest, Bertha; you will lose your way, or some harm will happen to you; I cannot let you go alone."

But Bertha urged so earnestly and so tenderly, the necessity of her mother's staying at home till her health was stronger, and explained so clearly the road she was to take through the portion of the forest which she would have to pass, that her mother at last yielded a reluctant consent; and Bertha lay down to rest that night, happy in the consciousness that she was old enough to be of some use, and steady enough to be trusted.

The next morning she rose early, and was soon ready to set forth upon her journey. Gertrude almost repented having given her consent; but she felt her own strength quite unequal to so long a walk, and knowing that for her child's sake it was her duty, if possible, to preserve her own life, she made no further opposition, and, giving Bertha the basket containing the thread, and a small oaten cake to serve as provision on the road, she repeated her injunctions to her, to return early, that she might not be overtaken by the close of the short autumnal day, before she had passed through the forest; and kissing her affectionately, and commending her to the care of Him who is the Father of the fatherless, she watched the little figure, until it became less and less, and finally disappeared amongst the trees; and then she returned to her lonely dwelling, to renew her prayers for the safety of her darling child. Bertha tripped merrily along; the sun broke gradually through the mist which had hitherto shorn it of its rays, and beamed forth in all its brightness, making the dew-drops glitter like diamonds; and the birds chanted their matin hymns, and hopped from bough to bough, and as their rainbow plumage glanced in the sunshine, they looked down upon Bertha with their bright eyes, till the little girl almost fancied that they were beautiful spirits of the wood, sent to be her companions on her lonely pilgrimage; and unconsciously, she raised her soft, clear child-like voice, and joined in their song.

Bertha walked on for a considerable time, and at last she began to feel somewhat weary, so she sat down on one of the large projecting roots of a lofty tree, which formed a convenient resting-place, and taking her little cake out of her basket she ate a part of it, and put the remainder back, intending to keep it till evening.

It was a pleasant cool spot like a bower, where Bertha had chosen her resting-place; there was a gentle breeze just stirring the leaves on the trees, and softly fanning her cheek; she took off her large straw hat, and, having laid it on the grass beside her, she gathered some of the flowers which formed a carpet at her feet, and amused herself with twining them into a garland.

Bertha had been for some time employed in this manner, when she suddenly observed something moving, near the foot of a tree at a little distance. She watched it for some moments, and then she perceived that it was a squirrel. She approached softly and cautiously, and as she came nearer it moved slowly to a short distance, but it did not hop away, or climb up into a tree, as she expected, so she came still nearer, and then she saw that the little creature was scarcely able to stir; it appeared to be either very ill, or to have received some injury. "Poor little thing," said Bertha, "it is

so weak it cannot run about to get its food as usual, and it is dying of hunger; I wonder if it would eat some of my cake?" and so she ran back and fetched the piece of cake out of her basket, and breaking it into small bits, she scattered it about on the ground, near to where the squirrel lay. She would not go quite close for fear of frightening it; then she retired to her old place under the tree, and she soon had the pleasure of seeing the little animal crawl slowly from one place to another, picking up the crumbs, and eating them with great apparent satisfaction.

Bertha now recollected that it was time to proceed on her journey; so tying on her hat, and taking her basket in her hand, she walked on as gaily as ever, quite refreshed by her long rest under the tree.

Before she had gone very far she observed a little worm lying just in her path. She stepped to one side to avoid treading on it, and walked on; but presently she said to herself "perhaps somebody may pass this way, who may not see that poor little worm, and then it will be killed," so she went back and taking it up very gently, she laid it down amongst the grass at some distance from the path. As she did so, she could not help remarking what a curious little worm it was; she had never seen one like it, it was not an earth-worm, nor a caterpillar, nor a snail, it was about half an inch long, and of a white fleshy colour, quite unlike any other worm she had ever seen-what could it be?

The sun was now high in the heavens, and it penetrated even through the deep shade of the trees, and Bertha knew that it was mid-day, and she walked on rapidly, for she had still some distance to go.

She had not proceeded far, when the shrill note of a bird, loud, and quickly repeated, struck upon her ear; it sounded like a cry of pain or distress. Bertha listened, and looked in the direction whence the sound came, but she could discover nothing; still the note was repeated, louder and more rapidly, as though the poor bird knew that a gentle heart was near, and was appealing to it for aid. After spending some time in vainly pushing aside the thick underwood, and peering up amongst the branches of the lofty trees, Bertha came suddenly upon the object of her search.

It was a beautiful bird; its plumage was of the brightest blue, and on its head was a yellow crest, that glittered like gold. It remained in the same place, only fluttering its wings, and uttering its shrill cry of distress. As Bertha approached, she perceived that it had been caught in a fowler's snare. After many efforts she succeeded in disentangling the wires, and the captive spread its bright wings, and flew high up into the air, with a wild song of joy.

Bertha once again continued her journey, and arrived without further interruption at the town. She sold her mother's thread, executed the other commissions with which she had been entrusted, and some time before sunset she set out on her return.

It was a warm bright autumnal evening, but the rays of the setting sun, glittering through the yellow leaves, warned Bertha to hasten forward, for by the time she entered the forest it had sunk down behind the tall trees, and it had become so dark, that the stout heart of the little maiden began to beat somewhat faster than usual, as she tried, with her bright eyes, to pierce through the gloom which was rapidly gathering in the dark vistas before her. "Was she in the right path ?perhaps not-and yet she felt almost sure-no, she had not seen that lightning-scathed tree in the morningyet where could she have lost the path?-she would go back and try to find it."

But darker and darker the shades of night gathered around her, and, as she wandered on, now falling over the projecting roots of the trees, now feeling her way amongst their rugged stems, she only became further entangled in the thick and briery underwood. length, wearied and faint, she sat down at the foot of a tree, and wept bitterly. She thought how her mother

At

would sit before the cottage-door, watching for her all the evening, and then how she would go in and prepare the evening meal, and the cheerful fire, to greet her darling on her return; and then she fancied her wandering forth into the forest to seck her, and losing her way, and dying of grief and fear.

Bertha knew not how long she had remained in this state. By degrees she became almost stupified with terror; the huge boughs of the trees assumed frightful and terrific shapes, as they seemed to bend towards her, and extend their giant arms, as if to enfold her within their ghastly embrace. The poor child pressed down her hands over her eyelids to shut out the hideous forms that haunted her. She tried to pray, but her thoughts wandered, and became more and more confused, and a deathlike torpor was gradually stealing over her. She was suddenly roused by a slight rustling sound, which appeared almost close to her; she looked up, but she could see nothing. Again the sound was repeated, and then she felt something gently touch her foot; she put forth her hand, and there she felt a small round substance; she took it up, and to her surprise perceived that it was a filbert. In a few moments another was laid at her feet, then another, and then a great many more. Bertha ate the nuts, for she was very hungry, and as she did so, her strength returned rapidly, and still more nuts were brought; and presently, as she put out her hand to take thein, she felt a soft head thrust into it. "It must be the squirrel!" said Bertha,-"You dear little thing, how kind you are." Then the squirrel nestled close to her, just as if it understood what she said.

"Let me look at it," said an old man who was present, "I know more about those things than you do." He examined it carefully for a few moments, and then, he said, "It is a Diamond."

The old man was right; it was a diamond, of marvellous size and brilliance; and when it was sold, it produced a large sum of money, sufficient to support Bertha and her mother all the rest of their lives in ease and comfort.

Bertha never forgot her walk through the forest; and many years after, when her grand-children used to prevail upon her to relate the story for their amusement round the Christmas hearth, she always ended her tale by saying, "Never neglect an opportunity of doing good, even to the least of God's creatures." M. A. S.

NUREMBERG.1

THE fame of the painter of Nuremberg was not limited to his fatherland: his name was honoured wherever art was cultivated. In Italy, through which country he made an artist's tour, of which the records yet remain in his letters, he was received with the highest honours in every city; but the most interesting incident of this journey was his meeting with Raphael, his brother in genius. These two great men regarded each other with mutual admiration; and Dürer, on his return home, testified his esteem by sending to Raphael a portrait of himself, accompanied by a letter and several of his engravingsa compliment which was returned in kind by the Italian. To the lover of art there is something very gratifying in the idea of this intercourse between two such persons-each reverenced in his own land as the master genius of his profession, each imbued with the same noble imagination and vivid perception of the beautiful, though differing, in that each breathed the peculiar spirit of his own country. Their means and their opportunities too were very unequal; bred up under an Italian sky, surrounded by the beauties of Nature in their most luxuriant loveliness, by the numerous relics of all that was most perfect in ancient art, as by the rival glories of the modern school, Raphael enjoyed every advantage for which the poet and the painter might sigh, whilst Dürer, in the uncongenial clime of the north, had to struggle with the comparative inferiority of his models and the deficiency of his instruction; but, though he fully appreciated the great

Just then, Bertha saw, at a short distance, a bright light shining like a star amongst the green grass. Gradually it approached nearer to her, and then she saw that it was a glow-worm, of wonderful size and brilliance. It came quite close to her and lay at her feet; the light it threw around was so bright that it illumined a space of several yards on every side, with a soft radiance like moonlight. "And are you come to help me, pretty glow-worm?" said Bertha. The glow-worm answered by approaching still nearer to her, and the little girl gathered a leaf, and laying the beautiful insect upon it, she held it in her hand. And now, the clear melodious note of a bird burst forth upon the still night air, and with a rushing sound the beautiful blue bird with the golden crest flew by, and alighted at Bertha's feet; then turning its head, and looking at her with its bright eye, and repeating its song, it hopped forward a little way, and then stood still, as if inviting her to follow. Bertha now arose, and fed by the squir-ness of his wants, he was far from being discouraged by rel, lighted by the glow-worm, and guided by the goldencrested bird, she proceeded on her way, full of thankfulness and joy.

After walking for about an hour, Bertha found herself at the termination of the forest, and a few steps more brought her to her mother's door.

them; his sojourn in Italy had taught him much, and he returned home to immortalize his name by still higher efforts. It is not only for his paintings that Dürer is celebrated; his genius excelled in every department of art; his engravings, of which great numbers are left to us, are wonderful both in design and execution; his When she entered, she found her mother nearly sculpture is admirable, and he was most successful also senseless from grief and terror, and some of her neigh-in architecture, both civil and military, the fortifications bours sat round her, trying to support her with hopes which they feared would never be realized; while others had gone forth in quest of the little wanderer.

The sight of her child soon restored Gertrude to life, and with tears of happiness and gratitude she pressed her darling to her bosom.

When Bertha was a little recovered from her fatigue she related all that had happened to her. "And where is the bird, my child?" said her mother. Bertha now, for the first time, looked round for her beautiful guide, but the golden-crested bird was gone. "But here is the glow-worm, mother; I have it safe in this leaf." Bertha opened the leaf, but instead of a glow-worm there lay something, bright and sparkling, but clear, and hard, and colourless, like glass. "Oh, where is my pretty glow-worm?" said the little girl, in a tone of disappointment, this is only a bit of glass, yet how bright it is."

of his native city having been formed, as is said, under his superintendence. Yet, universally as he was honoured, though kings and emperors loaded him with favours, though cities invited his visit, though at Antwerp he was escorted to his house by torchlight, after the fashion of the Roman consuls, he still retained the sweetness and unpretending simplicity of his nature. "He had," says his biographer, "the most agreeable manners, his converse was sprightly and good-humoured; he lived with the great without despising the little, and delighted in praising and encouraging his youthful brethren in art." After all, his mild and gentle disposition was his bane, for it caused him to die of a disease, which, with a different temperament, he would have been able to resist. This fatal affliction was a termagant wife. They say that the late Lord E., who was

(1) Continued from p. 233.

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troubled in the same way, whenever he visited his native town in the north, was in the habit of dining with a plain old fellow, who had been his friend in boyish days. On one of these occasions the chancellor, talking over his successes in life, observed-" Well, throughout all I have had one single obstacle to contend with, one thorn in my side, and I never could get over it." Ah, John," interrupted his matter-of-fact friend, "I'll tell you how to manage the thing: just tie the obstacle, as you call her, to the bed-post one morning, and give her as sound a hiding as we used to get ourselves at school." His lordship, who had not intended any reference to this peculiar obstacle, paused, looked foolish, and turned the conversation. Lawyers, however, are formed of tougher material than painters. The chancellor's constitution was not at all affected by his sufferings, but Dürer, who, even had he known of the sovereign recipe given above, would not have put it in practice, lingered for some time, and at length sank at the age of fifty-seven, a victim to his wife's incorrigible temper. His grave is still pointed out in the churchyard of St. John at Nuremberg.

Close beside Dürer's house stands the church of St. Sebaldus with its two tall and graceful steeples, its pointed gothic windows of beautifully painted glass, and its round hump-backed roof of red tiles. The inside is adorned with paintings and sculpture of the palmy days of Nuremberg, and presents a striking instance of the enlightened manner in which the reformation took place in this city. None of the ornaments which adorned it under the ancient regime have been removed or defaced; the church, though Lutheran in its worship, still retains all the semblance of a Roman Catholic temple, and even the lights, which were vowed to be kept perpetually burning over the tombs of particular families, are still there. In fact, the great religious reformation was attended with far less violence in Nuremberg than anywhere else. One reason of this moderation no doubt was the superior intelligence of the burghers, which led them to the conclusion, that it was not necessary to destroy all that was beautiful in the old religion when they renounced its errors; but another cause is to be found in the early period at which the reformed doctrines were embraced. Nuremberg was amongst the first cities in Germany which declared in favour of Luther: the bitterness of religious contention had not then inflamed the passions, and blinded the understandings of its votaries; and even then, the way had long been prepared for the change, for even a century before, when Huss was on his road to Constance, there to suffer for the principles of the Reformation, his presence in Nuremberg was hailed with delight by its citizens and magistrates. The principal ornament of St. Sebald's church is the shrine of the saint, a splendid piece of bronze work by Peter Vischer, a celebrated sculptor who was contemporary with Albert Dürer. The design is that of a Gothic chapel in miniature, richly carved and fretted, which incloses the relics of the saint. The base is supported upon six enormous snails, and it is thronged with innumerable figures of the Apostles, the fathers, cupids, and so forth, all most admirably executed, especially the Apostles; at one end in a retired corner is a figure of Vischer himself in his working apron, with his tools in his hand. The artist complained that he was very badly paid for this masterpiece, and indeed, if there be any truth in the tradition, that he was employed on it with his five sons for thirteen years, a very considerable sum would have been requisite to indemnify him.

The great building behind this church is the townhouse a structure which, in size and magnificence, is quite worthy of the town to which it appertains. It is a large pile of massive stone, built round a large square court, not in the Gothic but the Italian style, and was in its day honoured by the visits of emperors. If you choose to enter, you will be shown some fine rooms, adorned with not particularly good pictures, and a re

presentation in stucco, in one of the passages, of a tournament, which is very curious, as having been executed from the life, and would be well worth looking at, were it not that it is placed on the ceiling instead of the wall, so that in order to examine it, you are obliged to stand with your head bent backwards, in a posture which is liable to give one an unpleasant pain in the nape of the neck. Formerly, they used also to show the subterranean dungeons in which prisoners were confined, and the instruments of torture to which they were occasionally subjected, but the good town has got ashamed of these fine old relics of the olden time, and they are now sealed from the gaze of strangers.

The great market-place, which is near at hand, presents two most characteristic specimens of the Gothic mind in its grotesque and its beautiful aspects. The first is displayed in the church of St. Mary, a Catholic chapel, which looks the very quintessence of antiquity, -a small dingy edifice, more like a wrinkled, shrivelled old woman than anything else, with everything about it extremely plain, except the front entrance, which is by a triangular porch, rising to a point by steps at either side, the whole adorned with carvings and figures, of which it is difficult to say whether they are most remarkable for their quaintness or elegance. Beside it stands the Schöne Brunnen (Beautiful Fountain), justly so called, for it is one of the most beautiful specimens of Gothic architecture to be found in any country. It consists of a tall and slender spire, open on all sides, and carved in the most exquisite and fanciful manner, besides being adorned with small figures, also of admirable workmanship, representing the nine worthies, the seven electors of the empire, and various other personages. The Nurembergers have been particularly successful in their fountains; besides this, which is the gem of the whole, they have a very beautiful one, on the other side of the town, supported by female figures of great grace; another in the Townhouse, surmounted by a boy in bronze most admirably executed, and several more in different places, all remarkable for their excellence. Behind the principal market, which is nothing more than a large open space, surrounded by plain wooden booths, is the goose market; goose meaning, I suppose, poultry in general, for I cannot suppose that the article of geese should be so important as to justify the allotting a special market to it alone. The peculiar nature of the traffic carried on there is pointed out by a small figure, which stands in the centre, representing a peasant with a goose under either arm. It is a capital statue in spirit and design. Nothing can exceed the admirable effect produced by the bandiness in the legs of the principal figure, and the expression of his face, which would seem to give him quite as good a title to the epithet of goose, as can be put forward by the birds which he carries. This is also a fountain, the water proceeding from the mouths of the two (feathered) geese, and is by the same artist, by name Labenwolf, who executed the boy in the Townhouse. The chief object of attraction here is, however, the house of Hans Sachs, the cobbler poet. This hero is one of the trio of worthies, of whom the Nurembergers never can talk enough, the other two being Dürer and Vischer, and he is perhaps more characteristic of his age and his city than either of his brethren. His history is thus characteristic, as showing the good burghers of Nuremberg, and of the German cities in general, to have been so completely wrapped up in their own modes of living and thinking, as to have been unable to conceive that anything could succeed, which was not reduced to their own artificial standard, and enveloped in their own peculiar garb, so that even poetry was made a matter of burgher rule, as if it had been a craft, like that of the cooper or blacksmith. Poetry passed in Germany through a stage, to which in our country we have never had anything at all analogous. When the age of chivalry, properly so called, had passed away, and with it the inspiration of

the Minnesingers or Troubadours, who robed poetry in the garb of chivalry, it fell into the hands of the burghers. These excellent people at once constituted it a craft; and the guild of poets was enrolled amongst, and as regularly recognised as any other of, the mercantile brotherhoods, whilst the same forms and regulations applied to it as to the other guilds. The members were divided into apprentices and master poets, and the young aspirant, after serving his time of probation, as in other trades, usually travelled for some time in order to perfect his hand, and then having produced a piece which was considered to warrant his claim to admission, was solemnly inducted as a master workman. All this appears to us sufficiently strange, and the strangest part of the whole perhaps is, that these poetic mechanics should really have turned out what was worth reading. This, nevertheless, they achieved, and, of the whole of this strange race of bards, Hans Sachs, or, as his real name is said to have been, Loutzdorffer, was in his day, as he is still, the most renowned. He was by trade a shoemaker as well as a poet, knocking off his verses to the tune of the hammer with which he cobbled his soles, and from the immense number of his poetical effusions, would appear to have found the stringing a copy of verses no more difficult a matter then the making a pair of shoes. His productions were of all kinds, from the rude comedies and mysteries then in vogue, to drinking and love songs and satirical pasquinades. It was in his bacchanalian lyrics that he was most successful; inspired by his own mirthful genius, and by that good Nuremberg beer of which he was as fond as his great cotemporary Luther, he poured forth without effort that tide of grotesque song, teeming with quaint drolleries and burlesque morality, which has made his name dear to, and his songs sung by, the German topers even of the present day. Hans, however, had a political object in many of his poems, the principal subjects for attack being the monks, whom he denounced most lustily for their idleness and love of the good things of this world; accusations which might be very well founded, but which did not come with the best possible grace from one so notoriously given to the same gratifications as our jovial cobbler.

Political and religious differences, however, sever all bonds of union, even those between boon companions; and Hans's poems were not without their effect on the great movement which was, during his life, convulsing Germany; so that, as the song of "Lilliburlero" is said to have rhymed the Stuarts out of their throne, the doggrel verses of the Nuremberg shoemaker gave no small assistance to Luther, and the biting satire of Sachs went a long way with many who would not have been affected by the most laboured argumentation of the more prominent reformers. Hans, however, was not always very discriminating in his attacks; his pas quinades occasionally got him into scrapes; and one of them, whether or not it be historically true in all its details, is the foundation of rather a good story, which may one day be presented to the readers of Sharpe's Magazine.

I think the title which I have given Nuremberg, of the Gothic Venice, is that which best describes its character. It has been called the Pompeii of the Middle Ages, but it has the advantage over Pompeii, of being a still living city; and again it has been styled the Gothic Athens, but the sober, business-like temperament of the town and its inhabitants scarcely support the claim to such an appellation. It is not only in the character of its citizens, which combined the attributes of the haughty noble with those of the enterprising trader, and the munificent patron of art with the plodding merchant, that this analogy is observable, but even in many respects in the outward features of the town. It is most strikingly exemplified in those streets which border upon the Pegnitz: the river flows deep, smooth, and waveless, more like a canal than a living stream, and the houses rise up direct from its margin,

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the basement story washed by the placid water. houses, indeed, are not marble palaces, rich in all the graces of Italian architecture, but their tall, massive walls, high and pointed roofs, gloomy windows and heavy galleries overhanging the water, have an air of stern and imposing strength, which better befits the character of the scene. Indeed, I do not know that an artist could anywhere get a more striking street view than is to be seen from some of the bridges which span the Pegnitz; (one of them is built in imitation of the Rialto, and a very good imitation it is, too;) the antique appearance of the houses, most of them many centuries of age, eked out with apartments built on wooden projections, which overhang the river, and apparently dropping to pieces with rottenness-the perfect quiet of the whole, save when a boat pushes from the watergate of one of the houses and glides silently across the stream,-all this forms no ordinary study. It is, however, only on the river that this appearance of solitude prevails-everywhere else the city is remarkable for its gay and cheerful aspect: the wide and nicely kept streets have an airy and open look which is quite delightful, and this pleasurable feeling is enhanced by the fanciful decorations of the houses, and the bright colours of the blinds in the oriel windows, from behind which a merry face often peeps forth; the ways are thronged with busy passengers, whilst every now and then a loud laugh resounds from one of the numerous beer-shops to be found in each street.

Talking of beer, we may as well step in and have a glass, for this trudging through streets is dry work, and the beer of Nuremberg is excellent, very different to the wishy-washy stuff which the students of Bonn and Heidelberg delight in. The beer-shop you see, is a sort of cellar, but very cool and pleasant in this hot weather. It bears rather a curious name, being styled the "Jacob's Ladder:" the Nurembergers are very much given to these odd titles, for there is another beer-shop called the "Valley of Tribulation," besides many others, the appellations of which smack of the puritan rather than the publican. Cellar though this is, however, everything is extremely neat and tidy. The beer is brought, brisk and sparkling, in bright clean glasses; and nothing can be more faultless of dust and stain than the tables and benches, coarse wooden things though they are. Indeed, this characteristic of cleanliness appears to me a distinguishing peculiarity of Nuremberg, as compared with other German towns of an old date. From what cause this arises I cannot pretend to say, unless, indeed, it be the absence of Jews; for I have observed that the amount of filth invariably maintains an exact ratio to the number of Israelites in a town. Now in Nuremberg there are no Jews: there were a great many in former times, but the honest burghers found that the Hebrews were a great deal too sharp for them, and were monopolizing all the trade; so the whole colony were expelled, not exactly with a fork, as the Latin poet has it, but with a very significant hint that they had better not come back again. Whether they took their dirt with them I cannot say, but they would appear to have left none behind.

The great sight on this side of the town is the church of St. Lawrence, which surpasses even that of St. Sebaldus in grandeur of design and beauty of decoration. The principal entrance is adorned with carving in stone, of a luxuriance and elegance which I have seldom seen equalled, and the interior is quite as remarkable. Lofty and spacious as is the rival church of St. Sebaldus, this is still more so, and the noble effect of the whole is enhanced by the height and gorgeous painting of the Gothic windows. As a set-off to the shrine of Peter Vischer, there is here the masterpiece of Adam Kraft, a sculptor almost equally prized by the enthusiastic Nurembergers. It is called the Sakraments Häuslein, the repository for the sacramental wafer, but is so only in name, being in reality an open Gothic spire of exquisitely elaborate workmanship, supported on three

kneeling figures of Kraft and his two apprentices, the whole being between sixty and seventy feet in height. The entire work is of carved stone; but so delicate is the tracery, and so bold and unrestrained the main design, that it was not till the test had actually been applied, that it was believed not to be merely of plaster moulded; and even yet, looking at the light and airy elegance of this really ponderous structure, one can scarcely conceive that it should ever have been created from such stubborn material. Whether regarded as a work of art, or a mere triumph of mechanical skill, it arouses one's warmest admiration.

(To be continued.)

COUNTRY SKETCHES.

No. II.

A SUMMER'S MORNING AT HEVER.

THE scenery is very beautiful in the neighbourhood of Hever: probably no part of Kent is more richly wooded or less populated. It matters not whether the ride or walk to it is taken from the stations at Edenbridge or Penshurst, both are equally interesting.

From the village of Penshurst the road lies through a long series of lanes, where the hedges are thickly studded with oaks and beeches, whose branches mingle as they meet; yet afford views, on either side, of a country very highly cultivated. Hop grounds, or "gardens," as they are called, are interspersed with corn-fields, and add greatly to the picturesque beauty of the scene. Then there is the village of Chiddingstone, or Chidingstone, with its old-fashioned homesteads, and a group of houses opposite the church, that bear a very old date. They are constructed in the usual solid manner of the old times; and wear still a substantial appearance. Huge masses of timber, quaint carved work, and gable ends, make up an ensemble worth stopping for a halfhour's rest to admire. Gossips, too, will point out the stone where the admonitions were bestowed in days gone by, which gave a name to the place. Near, and progressing to the journey's end, there is a pretty wood and some rock to pass through, and a modern castle to leave to the left, which tend very agreeably to diversify

the way.

The same kind of farm houses, cottages with black timbers, and gable ends, are to be seen at Hever. It is a very quiet, secluded, out-of-the-world spot; where change with her magical wand seems to have never been. All things wear an old look. It is said on proper statistical authority that the population has decreased within the last twenty years; a fact which, if the present aspect of the place may be taken as a criterion, cannot be doubted. There are no new buildings to be scen anywhere; all is as it might have been years ago.

The village is situate on the brow of a hill, on the summit of which, Henry VIII. is said to have been in the habit of sounding his bugle-horn when he came a-wooing to the fair Mistress Anne. Gallants of that time were wont so to announce their arrival to the ladye of their love. Some chroniclers assign to the act a more precautionary meaning, and assert that it was done in order to procure assistance, in consequence of the bad state of the roads.

A very humble hostelry now stands there, whose sign-board is decorated with a portrait of the bluff king. Many a long year has it swung to wind and gale, and bears the sad testimony of its age by rack and rent. Nearly opposite is the church, with taper spire. It is a plain country-looking house of prayer, but has within it some fine monumental brasses. Within the porch,

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and under the belfry, is the oldest; it is an inscription to the memory of one of the Cobham family. On the floor of the body of the church is a full-length female figure, with armorial bearings, and the feet resting on a dog. It has a small tablet to state that it was placed to record the existence of one Margaret Cheyne, a connexion of the Bullen or Boleyn family.

In a recess on the wall near the altar is the figure of a man kneeling: this was the tutor of the Waldegraves. But the gem of all is a recumbent effigy on an altar tomb. This is one of the finest brasses of its era. It represents Sir Thomas Boleyn, in his robes as a Knight of the Garter. It is as large as life, and has the following inscription fixed above the head; the legend is singularly reversed :

"Here lieth Sir Thomas Bullen,
Knight of the Order of the Garter,
Earl of Wilscher and Erle of Ormonde,
Which decessed the 12 daie of Marche,
In the yere of our Lord 1538."

The costume, heraldic insignia, and general characthe brass is altogether a most vivid representation of teristics of the period are most faithfully depicted; and the high personage in honour of whom it was engraven. By means of common heel-ball, and a roll of paper, kept purposely on sale at a neighbouring cottage, a very good impression may be taken. It will be the work though of two, if not three hours, and as that would consume too much of the time of even a summer morning's visit, the visitor is recommended to make a bargain with the clerk, who will let him have one or more impressions of this and the other brasses at a very reasonable rate.

There is a stone close by this tomb, which testifies, by the indentions on it, to have once held a brass cross. down in the chancel of the church at Penshurst; why or Such is the case. It was taken from hence, and laid wherefore is not recorded. The cross is there, about a foot and a half in height, and has this inscription at its base :-

"Thomas Bullayen the sone Of Sir Thomas Bullayen."

This is an interesting memorial, inasmuch as Sir Harris Nicolas states in his work on the Peerage, that this same Sir Thomas had but one son, George Boleyn, who was attainted and beheaded vita patris. The probability is that this was really and truly a monument to a brother of Anne Boleyn's, consequently son of Sir Thomas; and that he died young. It was often customary to erect on the tombs of the early departed, some religious emblem.

It is time, however, to quit these wanderings among the tombs, and inspect the castle, which stands a very short distance from the church.

It is situate somewhat in a hollow, and is surrounded by a moat formed of the river Eden, a small branch of the Medway. It is in excellent preservation, and affords an admirable specimen of the architecture of the time. It was formerly a manor-house, belonging to William de Hevre, and was embattled by him in the reign of Edward III. It consists of a central keep with two square towers on either side, a quadrangular house with a court paved with red bricks, very fantastically arranged. The keep is pierced with a gate of enormous strength, and three portcullises with doors studded with stout picces of iron, nails, &c., attest the great pains that were taken to render the place impregnable in case of a siege, or sudden assault. One of these doors is still in a most complete state of order and preservation, and retains its original bolts, latch, etc. On the exterior front of the keep, and over the outer gate, are several machicolations and some elegant stone tracery. Some outbuildings now used as granaries and farmstores are evidently remains of offices appertaining to the castle. The present entrance to the edifice is through the old dining hall, now tenanted by a farmer,

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