expell the poyson, which is a root called Snakeweede,
which must be champed, the spittle swallowed & the
roote applied to the sore; this is present cure against
that which would be present death without it; this
weede is ranke poyson, if it be taken by any man
that is not bitten, unlesse it be physically compounded;
whosoever is bitten by these snakes his
flesh becomes spotted like a leaper untill he be
perfectly cured. It is reported that if the party live
that is bitten, the snake will dye, & if the party dye
the snake will live. This is the most poysonous and
dangerous creature, yet nothing so bad as the report
goes of him in England. For whereas hee is said to
kill a man with his breath, & that hee can flie, there
is no such matter, for he is naturally the most
sleepie & unnimble creature that lives, never offering
to leape or bite any man if he be not trodden on
first: & it is their desire in hot weather to lie in
pathes, where the sun may shine on them, where
they will sleepe so soundly that I have known foure
men stride over one of them & never awake her: five
or six men have been bitten by them, which by
using snakeweede were all cured, never yet any
losing his life by them. Cowes have been bitten,
but being cut in divers places & this weede thrust
into their flesh were cured. I never heard of any
beast that was yet lost by any of them, saving one
mare." (p. 38.)

From New England's Rarities. Discovered by
John Josselyn, Gent. London, 1672.

"The Rattle Snake who poysons with a vapour
that comes through two crooked fanges in their
mouths; the hollows of these fanges are black as
ink. The Indians when weary with travelling, will
take them up with their bare hands, laying hold with
one hand behind their head, and with the other
taking hold of their tail, & with their teeth tear off
the skin of their backs & feed upon them alive,
which they say refresheth them." Ugh!! (p. 38.)

We are aware of no earlier accounts; so that,
in the scope of this article, the reader has the
first and the very last words concerning the
serpent in question.

SENT TO THE TOWER.

NEITHER for my stubborn patriotism, like
Owen Glendower; nor for my faithfulness to
my sovereign, like Sir Simon Barley; nor
through my weakness of character, like Richard
the Second; nor because of the jealousy
of ambitious relatives, like the Henrys and
Edwards; nor on a charge of witchcraft, like
Lord Hastings; nor for aspiring to marry
above me, like Arundell of Norfolk; nor for
my religious zeal, like Sir Thomas More, Cranmer,
Ridley, Latimer, Anne Askew, and the
seven bishops; nor for my royal blood, like
the venerable Countess of Salisbury; nor for
my ambition, like the Dudleys; nor as a
victim to court intrigues, like Raleigh, Cromwell,
and Essex; nor for my treason, like
Balmerino and Lovat; nor for defying the
Speaker's warrant, like Sir Francis Burdett
—have I been sent to the Tower. A sense
of shame, combined with ignorance, pure and
unadulterated, has brought me here, and I
place myself in the custody of a warder
with a complete sense of humility and
submission. "Whilst contemplating the Tower of
London," my guide-book tells me, "the mind
spontaneously reverts to the Norman Conquest."
What has been the matter with my mind, that,
instead of "spontaneously reverting," as it
ought to have done, I have lived all these years
in London without visiting its famous fortress?
I once penetrated secret chambers in Nantes
armouries, and discovered an inscription, "Arthur
and Thomas Jackson of Bristoll, prisoners of Warr
1703," as my reward; I have journeyed to Champtocé
for the express purpose of gazing on the
ruined castle of that Sieur de Retz, who is said
to have been the original Blue Beard; and have
visited modern dungeons and ancient donjohns,
castles, galleries, and fortresses in most of the
countries in Europe. But the show-places of
my own city are unknown to me. I have never
been up the Monument, nor through
Westminster Abbey. My knowledge of St. Paul's
is limited to distant views of its dome, and
nearer views of its railings. The Thames
Tunnel is a picture, a magic-lantern slide, the
top of my old nurse's workbox, a stopping
pier for Greenwich steamboats, a gaudy
paperweight; but it is not a reality for me. I could
not tell you the way to the Mint; and I saw
the state apartments at Windsor Castle for the
first time on Tuesday week. In short, after
living in London more years than I care to say,
its sights are as strange to me as those of Paris
and Vienna, of Munich and Florence, of Rome
and Milan, are familiar. Taking myself seriously
to task, I determine to devote time to the
sights of London, and at once find myself at
sea. On asking to be taken up to the ball
of St. Paul's I find divine service going on, and
the beadle scandalised at my request. Walking
on to Monument-yard, the janitor points silently
to a painted board, which says "no one admitted
while the Monument is under repair," and looks
as if he thought me a barbarian for troubling him
under the circumstances. It is now dusk, and I
defer my visit to the Tower until next day.
Excited and eager, I rise early, perform a journey
by railway and by steamer, and present myself
at the gates at nine, to find that the warders
do not begin duty till half-past ten, and that
the first "show-round" will not be for one
hour and fifteen minutes later. So much for a
Londoner's ignorance of London. A country
cousin, or an intelligent Zulu visitor, would
have managed better; and having made
pilgrimages to the city in vain on two separate
days, I take a penny steamboat ticket at
Westminster on a third, with my confidence considerably
shaken in my own knowledge of town.

My first thoughts on board are, why have I
neglected this mode of conveyance so long, and
why are not the steamers fuller of the class who
ride in hansoms, and to whom personal economy
is not an object in life? Within given points,
your steamboat is a swifter as well as a cheaper
means of gaining your destination, but I see few
people on board to whom the saving of time is
likely to be of consequence. Yet any one going,
we will say from the Houses of Parliament to