  The following morning Mr. Winter left the ladies, who walked aimlessly, not caring much where they went, it was all so full of interest to them. Accidentally they visited quite an interesting place called the Preller House. It was built three hundred years ago by a Venetian nobleman, and is now The ceilings are very fine, and in two of the rooms were only discovered when the present occupants were having gas-pipes put in the house. Mr. Winter did not come home to dinner, and in the afternoon Mrs. Winter and the girls went to the Museum, where they found more to interest them than anywhere they had been. It had a very large and interesting collection of paintings and antiquities, but the girls enjoyed seeing the old cloister—the first they had ever seen. That evening when Mr. Winter came home, he told his wife that he should only be obliged to remain one more day, and they must entertain themselves again without him. The next morning Mrs. Winter took a guide with them, as she wished to visit some of the shops where they could collect some curiosities. They also went to the Market square, where the poor people can buy everything they need at very reasonable prices. The guide took them first to St. Lawrence's Church. This church, he told them, was mentioned as early as 1006, and had the handsomest artistic decoration of any of the celebrated churches throughout Germany. The finest portion is the choir, with a vaulted roof supported by slender pillars from which the arches are formed like palm branches. The guide wished them particularly to look at the Gothic bronze chandelier, which weighs four hundred and eighty-two pounds, and was cast by Peter Vischer in 1489. The girls were charmed by the seven windows of the choir, which are considered the best examples of Nuremberg glass-painting from 1450 to 1490. The last window, called the Emperor's, was presented by the citizens of Nuremberg in memory of the restitution of the German Empire. It was put in the 22d of March, 1881. Mrs. Winter was much interested in some beautiful tapestries representing the There were many more paintings of much interest, some of them Albert DÜrer's. As they were leaving, the girls saw some richly carved chairs by the doors, and asked the guide why they were there. He told them that they formerly belonged to the guilds, and the masters sat in them, in turn, to receive alms. From this church our party was driven to St. Sebaldus's, which was finished in the tenth century. One of the most interesting things they saw was the font, which was remarkable not only as the first product of Nuremberg's foundries, but as having been used to christen King Wenceslas of Bohemia, in 1361. There were more paintings of DÜrer's to be seen here, but the finest work was the sepulchre of St. Sebaldus in the centre of the choir. It is the most extensive work German art has ever produced, and was cast by Peter Vischer and his five sons. "It was commenced in 1508 and completed in 1519. It rests on twelve snails, having four dolphins Of course there were many more objects of interest to be seen, but Mrs. Winter thought they had seen enough; so they were driven home to dinner. In the afternoon they took a drive out of the city to a beer-garden situated at the side of a pretty lake. They had some tea, and walked on the borders of the lake quite a distance. Mrs. Winter said, "I wish we had such a quiet, pretty place near home where we could spend an afternoon as delightfully as we have here." That evening Nellie said, "Dear Mrs. Winter, how can I ever thank you and your husband for this trip? Mamma could not have come, and never shall I forget what I have enjoyed through your kindness." Alice said, "Now, mamma, will you not add to our pleasures by repeating Longfellow's beautiful poem on Nuremberg before we go to bed?" "Dear Mrs. Winter, please do," said Nellie. "I have never heard of it, but I know it must be very lovely." "Very well," said Mrs. Winter. "I certainly never knew a more appropriate time to recite it than now." The girls gathered around her in the twilight as she sweetly commenced:— In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadow-lands Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg, the ancient, stands. Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of art and song, Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks that round them throng: Memories of the Middle Ages, when the emperors, rough and bold, Had their dwelling in the castle, time defying, centuries old; And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in their uncouth rhyme, That their great imperial city stretched its hand through every clime. In the courtyard of the castle, bound with many an iron band, Stands the mighty linden planted by Queen Cunigunde's hand; On the square the oriel window, where in old heroic days Sat the poet Melchior singing Kaiser Maximilian's praise. Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous world of Art— Fountains wrought with richest sculpture standing in the common mart; And above cathedral doorways saints and bishops carved in stone, By a former age commissioned as apostles to our own. In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined his holy dust, And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from age to age their trust; In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of sculpture rare, Like the foamy sheaf of fountains, rising through the painted air. Here, when Art was still religion, with a simple, reverent heart, Lived and labored Albrecht DÜrer, the Evangelist of Art; Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with busy hand, Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the Better Land; Emigravit is the inscription on the tombstone where he lies; Dead he is not, but departed,—for the artist never dies. Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine seems more fair, That he once has trod its pavement, that he once has breathed its air. Through these streets, so broad and stately, these obscure and dismal lanes, Walked of yore the Mastersingers, chanting rude poetic strains. From remote and sunless suburbs came they to the friendly guild, Building nests in Fame's great temple, as in spouts the swallows build. As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too the mystic rhyme, And the smith his iron measures hammered to the anvil's chime; Thanking God, whose boundless wisdom makes the flowers of poesy bloom In the forge's dust and cinders, in the tissues of the loom. Here Hans Sachs, the cobbler-poet, laureate of the gentle craft, Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters, in huge folios sang and laughed; But his house is now an ale-house, with a nicely sanded floor, And a garland in the window, and his face above the door; Painted by some humble artist, as in Adam Puschman's song, As the old man, gray and dove-like, with his great beard white and long, And at night the swart mechanic comes to drown his cash and care, Quaffing ale from pewter tankards, in the master's antique chair. Vanished is the ancient splendor, and before my dreamy eye Wave these mingling shapes and figures, like a faded tapestry. Not thy councils, not thy Kaisers, win for thee the world's regard; But thy painter, Albrecht DÜrer, and Hans Sachs thy cobbler-bard. Thus, O Nuremberg, a wanderer from a region far away, As he paced thy streets and courtyards, sang in thought his careless lay; Gathering from the pavement's crevice, as a floweret of the soil, The nobility of labor—the long pedigree of toil. Mr. Winter said, "Why, Agnes, I never heard you recite that poem so well." "I never did," said his wife; "for I never truly felt it before." "Thank you, mamma dear," said Alice. "Now we will go to bed, feeling all the happier for the lovely poem which has put our best thoughts into words." STRASBOURG CATHEDRAL—SIDE VIEW. |
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