on the road, throng the happy Nurembergers, who don their best attire on this Sunday evening, and sally forth to enjoy the holiday. It seems like realisation of the early scene in "Faust." The German burying-grounds are simple and lovely. But this of St. John's is very different from the Gottesacker at Bonn, or those of Tyrol. Here, half the tombs, which lie flat, are decorated with bronze or iron ornament plates, containing in addition to inscriptions the armorial bearings of the deceased, elaborated in bold relief. One might deem that all the chivalry of Europe was congregated here, and were jealously retaining their privilege of precedence. Trees and flower-bushes, acacias and willows, are everywhere in wild luxuriance. On many of the stones, or around the little crosses, are wreaths of immortelles and flowers of every hue; and often beautiful is the arrangement, where the metal scutcheon gleams amid the roses on the monument. Near a high and richly sculptured cross is Albrecht Dürer's grave, his monogram and epitaph sufficient guide.

ME. AL. Du.

Quidquid ALBERTI DURERI mortale fuit

Sub hoc conditur tumulo

Emigravit VIII Idus Aprilis MDXXVIII.

His house near the Zeirkathener Thor is a simple and impressive mansion, suitable to the severe magnificence of the artist's manner, in his later paintings. His portrait, also, even the one taken latest, when time and sorrow had assailed the upright boldness of his glance, shews him to be one of Nature's noblemen. We remember his life, truly in keeping with his aspiration, his unselfishness, his freedom from envy, avarice, or meanness of any kind. Here was one record of him at our feet: but he has left a surer trace in our own heart, and in the heart of thousands in days gone by, helping them to help on others.

But look! in the distance is a long procession, clad in black; yet surely not a funeral? For in the front are many girls who bear a heaped profusion of gay

flowers, and following them another girl with basket slung upon her shoulder. Now we see that those behind are carrying something like a car of triumph, for it is crowned with white flowers, green wreaths, and garlands. One walks beside them, and exhibits tinsel decorations, silver crosses and insignia. But now they are close at hand, the crowd has gathered to one spot, and we perceive, what at first was unnoticed, a priest in simple black advancing with the bearers. It is indeed a funeral. They gather to the grave in silence, the white flowers are lifted from the pall, and the coffin is lowered to its solemn resting-place. Then from the group of mourners, the youngest of the band, arises such a hymn-so soft, so sad, and full of melody, that if the spirit still were lingering near, it might take its flight with a foretaste of heaven. Then the deep voice of the clergyman is heard, as he reads an exhortation to survivors, and tells the deeds of that departed one "not dead, but gone before." "Neun and Zwanzig Jahr"-only nine and twenty? Old enough! perhaps : to fade whilst flowers still linger in our fancy, before the bloom of life has altogether faded. No need to weep and yet, how few there are of all that large assemblage who are not in tears. Impressively the words are sounding. No pomp, no glitter seen now, all severely patriarchal, like a family meeting, not a convocation of fellow-citizens. When all is said that can be said for comfort or warning, when the Lord's Prayer has been read and joined in by all near, then the girls who stand around the grave, weeping so bitterly, cast handfuls of fresh flowers into the dark trench: more and more flowers from the mother, from the little children, from the old women who press forward to add their tribute. Roars a peal of musketry-anotherand another and the death-bell of St. John's is echoed by that of some church not far distant, and the sound borne on to Nuremberg by repetitions, whilst the flowers are heaped high within the grave; and one by

one the maidens cast three sprinklings of fresh earth upon it. Strangers, who have come far, as their dusty garments prove, step forward also, and scatter ashes unto ashes. They disperse at last towards the gates, and all is over.

We know not, Karl and I, but that in these foreign wanderings we more nearly understand the deep unspeakable mystery pervading life, than in our familiar haunts. Certainly we better recognise a similarity between diverse beings. The men with whom we converse, however, affect us less than those who are for ever removed from conversation. We seem to have long known and loved, not only Albert Dürer, but also this newly-buried Herr von Schwalbach. We surely had accompanied him in his student walks, had listened to his glowing words of love for Vaterland, for that blueeyed girl who knelt beside us. Together we had traversed the bewildering philosophy of Hegel, and found safe ground beyond; had chaunted Korner's sword-lay, had murmured ballads of Uhland, laughed at Hans Sach's Schumacher and Poet Dazu, compared notes of admiration about Jean Paul Richter, wondered concerning Kasper Hauser, that modern marvel of Nuremberg; until we scarcely could believe that all yon dispersing crowd were strangers to us, and we ourselves but lonely dreamers of dreams, and seers of visions; dreams that appear so baseless and so idle, but which are interwoven in the mind more firmly than most daily actions; visions that no reality can surpass, no change obliterate. What save a live of fancies can lend that nameless charm to travel? It is the flowery garland wound around the pillar, as at Roslin Chapel, not weakening strength, but adding grace to the supporting column. It is not with a brooding over graves, but with a recognition of the universal brotherhood in life and in death-that we take our departure from Nuremberg.

J. W. E.

A HUNDRED MILES IN A LEAKY CANOE.

HE Lent Term was drawing to a close and becoming decidedly monotonous, when it occurred to my two friends and myself, that it would be pleasant to do something at which the world should turn pale. Being Mathematical men we should like to denote ourselves as a, a,, a, but for greater perspicuity we will simply say A, B, and C. To accomplish our object, we decided that the pleasantest plan would be a canoe expedition, and thinking that a river voyage would lack excitement, we determined on essaying the nearest available part of the Briny Ocean, i.e. The Wash. Accordingly having chosen the most suitable of Mr. Rutt's canoes, and taking a 'last stirrup-cup' with our friends, we started on Tuesday morning with a pleasant breeze dead against us.

In discussing our route we had decided that it would be easy to reach Lynn in one day, that is, ten hours at five miles per hour. But finding the wind dead against us, we came to the conclusion that two days would be more probably the time, as our sails were of little or no use; and indeed I expressed my opinion that my sail would be the upsetting of me. However C assured us that it was impossible to upset, and went ahead in the most dashing style; but he had not enunciated this proposition of impossibility very long before, in taking a graceful swoop, his sail shifted and the contents of his canoe, including two bottles of highly prized cherry-brandy, went to the bottom. With

some difficulty we got C and his canoe ashore and did the best we could towards drying him, and as we were now near Ely we paddled on and put up there for the night; C having made friends with the landlord appeared at dinner, to our great amusement, in a pair of trousers and a coat that would have enclosed a bullock with ease.

The next morning we made a good breakfast and a good start, though the wind was still dead against us, and in the long reaches beyond Ely was very trying. Notwithstanding this, having lunched twice by mistake, we reached Denver sluice by four o'clock, and found to our dismay that the tide, which runs up to this point, would be hard against us, it was useless therefore to proceed, and to our further dismay we found that the only Inn at Denver could not put us up. So, leaving our boats in the care of a miniature Polyphemus, we walked on to Downham, where we were made very comfortable for the night, so comfortable indeed that B proposed to pass a second night in the same place. However, next morning, assuring each other that we were really roughing it, we took a dog-cart and drove down to Denver again, and getting under weigh ran down to Lynn with the tide (15 miles) in two hours; a very pleasant run it was too, as the wind was now for the first time just available and the tide running out at a good pace.

We reached Lynn about one o'clock, and after a small interchange of repartee with the bargees on the shipping, we landed at a boat-house, and finding that the tide would begin to run in again in a few hours, we decided to look about us. Accordingly we put up at "The Globe," where the civility we met with was only equalled by the length of our bill. Having refreshed the inner man, we strolled down to the boathouse and had a talk with some sailors there, who declared it perfect madness to venture near the sea in such boats as ours. As we had several hours to spare,