However, I had not been long with M. Heerdegen, before a clergyman, of small stature and spare countenance, made his appearance and saluted me.  He had seen the carriage pass, and learnt, on enquiry, that the traveller within it had come expressly to see M. Heerdegen.  He introduced himself as the curate of the neighbouring church, of which M. Fronmueller was the rector or pastor:  adding, that his own church was the only place of Christian worship in the village.  This intelligence surprised me; but the curate, whose name was Link, continued thus:  “This town, Sir, consists of a population of ten thousand souls, of which four-fifths are Jews; who are strictly forbidden to sleep within the walls of Nuremberg.  It is only even by a sort of courtesy, or sufferance, that they are allowed to transact business there during the day time.”  M. Link then begged I would accompany him to his own church, and to the rector’s house—­taking his own house in the way.  There was nothing particularly deserving of notice in the church, which has little claim to antiquity.  It had, however, a good organ.  The rector was old and infirm.  I did not see him, but was well pleased with his library, which is at once scholar-like and professional.  The library of the curate was also excellent of its kind, though limited, from the confined means of its owner.  It is surprising upon what small stipends the Protestant clergy live abroad; and if I were to mention that of M. Link, I should only excite the scepticism of my readers.

I was then conducted through the village—­which abounded with dirty figures and dirty faces.  The women and female children were particularly disgusting, from the little attention paid to cleanliness.  The men and boys were employed in work, which accounted for their rough appearance.  The place seems to swarm with population—­and if a plague, or other epidemic disorder should prevail, I can hardly conceive a scene in which it is likely to make more dreadful havoc than at Furth.  Although I had not obtained any thing very special at this place, in the book way, I was yet glad to have visited it—­were it only for the sake of adding one more original character to the bibliopolistic fraternity upon the Continent.  In spite of the very extraordinary line of business which M. Heerdegen chooses to follow, I have reason to think that he “turns a good penny” in the course of the year; but own that it was with surprise I learnt that Mr. Bohn, the bookseller of Frith Street,[179] had preceded me in my visit—­and found some historical folios which he thought well worth the expense of conveyance to England.