NUREMBERG.--_Continued._
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 used as a furniture warehouse. There is a chapel in it, and some
of the old furniture still remains.
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.
Mrs. Winter then said, "Now, girls, we will visit those churches of
which we have only seen the outside."
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 lives of St. Lawrence and St.
Catharine, and are over four hundred years old.
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 at its corners, the whole forming a pagan
temple adorned with the Twelve Apostles. It is surmounted by twelve
smaller figures, and finally by an infant Christ holding a globus in
his hand, the latter being a key of the whole monument, when it is to
be rent asunder. There is also a fine portrait of Peter Vischer in this
church."
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."
Mrs. Winter told her that the pleasure she had given them was more than
hers, as it had added so much to Alice's happiness.
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.
"How very beautiful!" said Nellie. "Thank you so much, Mrs. Winter, for
reciting it to us. I shall learn it myself when I get home, trusting I
may sometime give as much pleasure to another as you have given me."
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."
[Illustration: STRASBOURG CATHEDRAL--SIDE VIEW.]