diligence; Peter Vischer, who worked in metals; Hans Sachs, a cobbler and poet, who produced, inter alia, more plays than any writer except Lope de Vega; and who was consequently always going beyond his last: and Melchior Pfinzing, who sat in the pretty oriel at St. Sebald’s, mentioned above, and wasted a good deal of time there (at least this is our opinion) in writing the long poem called “Theuerdank.” Also is entitled to great praise the anonymous inventor of the Schöne Brunnen.
The churchyard of St. John’s, outside the town must be visited, and the Dolorous Way leading thereto from the Pilate’s House within the city. How Martin Ketzel travelled to Jerusalem twice to take measurements of the true Via Dolorosa, and employed Adam Kraft to execute the Stations, can be read in Murray. The way terminates in a Calvary, also the work of Kraft. Six of the Stations are in tolerable preservation, but somewhat weather-worn: others have been defaced or taken away.
St John’s Church in the cemetery is a small and beautiful gothic building. In the burial-place are about 3,500 graves, covered by thick masses of stone, on most of which are bronze tablets, effigies and inscriptions, with dates and armorial distinctions; whilst wreaths of living flowers and of immortelles are plentifully strewed on the tombs. Some of the dates reach back 500 years. Among this crowd of dead lies Albert Dürer.
Visiting God’s Acre on a September afternoon, and walking slowly back to the walled city, some impressions of tenderness stole into the heart. That city, which was once so “full of stirs,” now quiet, still industrious, descended from its proud, defiant throne, stood there with its gates stretched wide,
“Open unto the fields and to the sky.”
Age has, with hoar hairs, bestowed on it the greater blessing of a calm and peaceful decadence. It seems to have attained “the philosophic mind.” Its children love it, and dwell with honest pride on the deeds of its manhood, the trophies of which are piled around. Let us hope that the great captains and conquerors of our own and of every future day will leave Nuremberg in its well-merited repose; and that
“—An old age serene and bright,
And lovely as a Lapland night,
May lead it to its grave.”
THE LEGEND OF THE REDBREAST.
“There is a little bird, mamma,
Upon our holly-tree.
And with his twinkling great black eye
He looks so shy at me.
“I love that little bird, mamma,
So gentle and so still,
To see him pluck the berries bright,
Between his slender bill.
“That he is God's ‘own bird,’ mamma,
You very oft have said:
Why is his little eye so bright,
His little breast so red?”
“It is a pretty tale, my child,
Come stand beside my knee,
And I will tell my little Kate
Red Robin’s history.
“When Jesus for my little girl
And all his children died,
By wicked men unto the cross,
Nailed fast and crucified;
“There came a gentle little bird,
Who, with his efforts weak,
Pluck’d one from out the ‘crown of thorns’
Within his tiny beak.
“And as he pull’d, the crimson stream,
The holiest and the best,
Flowing from where the thorn had been,
Stain’d Robin’s downy breast:
“So ever when the snow comes round
To end the wintry year,
Perch’d high upon the holly-bough
The Redbreast warbles clear.
“No other songster on the spray
At Christmas time is heard;
But when the Saviour’s birth we keep
We hear ‘The Saviour's bird.’”
PUTTING UP THE CHRISTMAS.
What mirth, what lightness of heart and harmless fun begin, when in every house the ensign of Old Christmas—dark green and vermilion—is set up amid sly jokes and merry laughter. We will lay a harmless wager that hid in that thick bough the misletoe peeps forth in a most convenient position for the due performance of the mystic rite attached to its worship. Why is it that the girls are always found thus feathering Cupid’s darts behind the scenes in this flagrant manner? Ten to one but they will give their handiwork a wide berth in the most coquettish manner the moment that tiresome Charley or impudent Fred prepares to accept their invitation in the best possible spirit; and ten to one that before the dance is over, they will, by pure accident, of course, be passing close beneath its mirth-giving shade. Long may the holly flourish, and long may its bright red berries laugh from its midst, as fair hands and bright eyes weave them into pleasant man-traps.
Meantime the younger folk have been busy with the Christmas Trees. The children of the dark pine forest have of late been pressed into the service of Old Father Christmas. Torn from their bleak hill-sides, and abstracted from the monotonous long-drawn files of the nursery gardens, how they must be astonished to find themselves suddenly placed in the midst of a mob of bright-eyed children, laden to the very tips of their branches with sweets and packets, and burdened with the light of a hundred twinkling tapers.
But we elder ones also have our Christmas Tree on a larger scale. The great city decorates and lights up and holds out its million hands with presents suitable for the season. It is interesting to watch the slow degrees by which the advent of Old Father Christmas is made known. The grocer, for weeks before, makes preparations. His windows are burdened with hills of currants; a desert of brown sugar spreads away into the interior; there is an attempt at modelling the human form divine, in the shape of a man constructed of a