And burned through long ages of darkness and storm!
In this Protestant church, even the shrine of St. Sibbald has kept its place, if not to the honour and glory of the saint, at least to the honour and glory of the city of Nuremberg; it is considered as the chef-d'œuvre of Peter Vischer, a famous sculptor and caster in bronze, cotemporary with Albert Durer. It was begun in 1506, and finished in 1519, and is adorned with ninety-six figures, among which the twelve apostles, all varying in character and attitude, are really miracles of grace, power, and expression; the base of the shrine rests upon six gigantic snails, and the whole is cast in bronze, and finished with exquisite skill and fancy. At one end of this extraordinary composition the artificer has placed his own figure, not obtrusively, but retired, in a sort of niche; he is represented in his working dress, with his cap, leather apron, and tools in his hand. According to tradition, he was paid for his work by the pound weight, twenty gulden (or florins) for every hundred weight of metal; and the whole weighs one hundred and twenty centners, or hundred weight.
The man who showed us this shrine was descended from Peter Vischer, lived in the same house which he and his sons had formerly inhabited, and carried on the same trade, that of a smith and brass-founder.
The Moritz-Kapel, near the church, is an old gothic chapel once dedicated to St. Maurice, now converted into a public gallery of pictures of the old German school. The collection is exceedingly curious; there are about one hundred and forty pictures, and besides specimens of Mabuse, Albert Durer, Van Eyck, Martin Schoen, Lucas Kranach, and the two Holbeins, I remember some portraits by a certain Hans Grimmer, which impressed me by their truth and fine painting. It appears from this collection that for some time after Albert Durer, the German painters continued to paint on a gold ground. Kulmbach, whose heads are quite marvellous for finish and expression, generally did so. This gallery owes its existence to the present king, and has been well arranged by the architect Heideldoff and professor von Dillis of Munich.
In the market-place of Nuremberg stands the Schönebrunnen, that is, the beautiful fountain; it bears the date 1355, and in style resembles the crosses which Edward I. erected to Queen Eleanor, but is of more elaborate beauty; it is covered with gothic figures, carved by one of the most ancient of the German sculptors, Schonholfer, who modestly styles himself a stone-cutter. Here we see, placed amicably close, Julius Cæsar, Godfrey of Boulogne, Judas Maccabæus, Alexander the Great, Hector of Troy, Charlemagne, and king David: all old acquaintances, certainly, but whom we might have supposed that nothing but the day of judgment could ever have assembled together in company.
Talking of the day of judgment reminds me of the extraordinary cemetery of Nuremberg, certainly as unlike every other cemetery, as Nuremberg is unlike every other city. Imagine upon a rising ground, an open space of about four acres, completely covered with enormous slabs, or rather blocks of solid stone, about a foot and a half in thickness, seven feet in length, and four in breadth, laid horizontally, and just allowing space for a single person to move between them. The name, and the armorial bearings of the dead, cast in bronze, and sometimes rich sculpture, decorate these tombs: I remember one, to the memory of a beautiful girl, who was killed as she lay asleep in her father's garden by a lizard creeping into her mouth. The story is represented in bronze bas-relief, and the lizard is so constructed as to move when touched. From this I shrunk with disgust, and turned to the sepulchre of a famous worthy, who measured the distance from Nuremberg to the holy sepulchre with his garter: the implement of his pious enterprise, twisted into a sort of true-love knot, is carved on his tomb. Two days afterwards I entered the dominions of a reigning monarch, who is at this present moment performing a journey to Jerusalem round the walls of his room.[ 24] How long-lived are the follies of mankind! Have, then, five centuries made so little difference?
The tombs of Albert Durer, Hans Sachs, and Sandraart, were pointed out to me, resembling the rest in size and form. I was assured that these huge sepulchral stones exceed three thousand in number, and the whole aspect of this singular burial-place is, in truth, beyond measure striking—I could almost add, appalling.
I was not a little surprised and interested to find that the principal Gazette of Nuremberg, which has a wide circulation through all this part of Germany, extending even to Frankfort, Munich, Dresden, and Leipsig, is entirely in female hands. Madame de Schaden is the proprietor, and the responsible editor of the paper; she has the printing apparatus and offices under her own roof, and though advanced in years, conducts the whole concern with a degree of activity, spirit, and talent, which delighted me. The circulation of this paper amounts to about four thousand: a trifling number compared to our papers, but a large number in this economical country, where the same paper is generally read by fifty or sixty persons at least.
All travellers agree that benevolence and integrity are the national characteristics of the Germans. Of their honesty I had daily proofs: I do not consider that I was ever imposed upon or overcharged during my journey, except once, and then it was by a Frenchman. Their benevolence is displayed in the treatment of animals, particularly of their horses. It was somewhere between Nuremberg and Hof, that, for the first and only time, I saw a postilion flog his horse unmercifully, or at least unreasonably. The Germans very seldom beat their horses: they talk to them, remonstrate, encourage, or upbraid them. I have frequently known a voiturier, or a postilion, go a whole stage—which is seldom less than fifteen English miles—at a very fair pace, without once even raising the whip; and have often witnessed, not without amusement, long conversations between a driver and his steed—the man, with his arm thrown over the animal's neck, discoursing in a strange jargon, and the intelligent brute turning his eye on his master with such a responsive expression! In this part of Germany there is a popular verse repeated by the postilions, which may be called the German rule of the road. It is the horse who speaks—