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nineteenth century, preaching Christiani
ty. Within the Catafalque, embowered
by a bronze canopy, the relics repose in
an oaken chest, covered with silver plates.
This elegant shrine resembles a Gothic
Chapel, but it is impossible for me to de
scribe the elaborate work, or the effect
produced by it. There are nearly a hun
dred figures, all graceful and expressive.
The twelve apostles occupy the twelve
niches about the coffin. This remarkable
work of art occupied the artist and his
live sons thirteen years.
The Bathhaus of Nuremburg is built in
the Italian style, and the great town hall
is ornamented by Albert Durer’s rich oil
paintings. The Triumphal Car of the
Emperor Maximilian, occupies a large
space on the walls. It is drawn by
twelve noble and richly caparisoned hor
ses. Adjoining this Hall is the Council
Chamber, and connected with this were
concealed doors in the wall, leading to
subterranean passages, partly excavated
in the rocks beneath. There are dungeons
and a torture chamber below. The se
cret doors leading from the Council Cham
bers are now closed up, but I insisted on
going and looking down through the
grates into the horrid dungeons. More
than that, I cared not to do.
Before visiting the imperial Castle
Burg, we lingered, to visit the house of
Albert Durer, which lies by the castle
gates. It is a large and curious building,
now owned and carefully preserved by a
society of artists. 1 could but think how
little of a home that house was to him,
and mourn that one of the saddest of
earthly lots was his; his was the dread
ful solitude of being linked to an un
congenial, unsympathizing being, who
grieved his gentle, noble spirit away
from earth. Our commissionaire called
her “chebn, base fiiiu,” beautiful, bad
wife. From reading the life of Albert
Durer, we learn that she was more un
happy than malicious. One of her great
faults, penuriousness, was the bane of the
unworldly artist. Why she was so
meanly, almost dishonestly, saving, he
knew not, till years had flown, and till
the habit of living together in misery was
formed. Then, Albert Durer found that
his wife was the victim of a morbid con
science. In early childhood, while play
ing with a younger brother, he strangled
himselt with a fruit stone. She in terror
SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE.
ran away, and he died alone. This
haunted her through life; she regarded
herself as the murderess of her brother,
and to expiate this, she wished to build a
chapel, and to dedicate it to him. For
this she hoarded like a miser, made her
self a slave to money, fretting at every
expenditure, till each day was a day of
penance to herself and husband. Proba
bly the same cowardice which led her to
run away without affording relief to her
dying brother, prevented her from frank
ly confessing to her husband, and ob
taining the benefit of his superior wis
dom.
Through the ivy mantled gates we
passed to the imperial Castle Burg, the
home of thirty emperors. While walk
ing a distance of thirty or forty feet
through that massive arched wav, I ob
tained an impression, which 1 want words
to express, of the strength of ancient
fortifications. Neither can I describe the
castle, founded upon a rock, itself so old
that it now requires artificial support.
One of the towers seems to antedate his
tory; it is more ancient than the city
itself. Very probably this was one of
the sites of Drusus’s eighty towers or
forts. This castle was built at different
times. In 1187, Frederick I. dated an
edict: “From our castle at Nuremburg”
Our commissionaire informed us that
thirty emperors had lived in that castle,
and it has been occasionally fitted up
for the ex king Lewis of Bavaria. I
looked at the register in the castle, and
counted the names of thirty emperors,
and the time they each spent at Nu
remberg, one of their homes, was re
corded.
In the court-yard is a linden tree, most
carefully preserved. It was planted seven
hundred years ago, by one of the empres
ses. Jars, containing flowering plants,
encircled the old tree, but 1 thought an
nuals should have kept at a respectful
distance, and left the hoary linden alone
in its glory. The ravens were flying
about the lonely castle’s towers. Up
the steep pavement, from the gateway
to the castle, the emperors ascended and
descended. Among the shades, where
now the ravens croak, once wandered the
noble Mary of Burgundy. The imperial
Castle Burg was one of her homes when
the chivalric Maxamilian brought her to
his dominions.* So long have I lingered
in my notice of this city, that I have
neither time nor space to speak now of
Munich. And yet how much that is in
teresting, remains to be told of Nurem
burg, this city of artists, of patricians,
of manufactures, of commerce, and of
inventions, once an imperial city, a home
of Emperors, the seat of Deists, a city,
\ enice like, with its lordly aristocracy,
its prison houses and palaces. Near one
of the Nuremburg churches, the mysteri
ous Casper Ilauser appeared, whose soul
was so cruelly buried ere light was per
mitted to dawn upon him.
I have only time to add, that at Mu
nich we were favoured with a sight of
royalty in vast numbers. Maximilian,
the King of Bavaria, is very striking in
appearance. Mary, the Queen, is very
pretty, and for her sake, at least, it is to
be hoped that her son is an improvement
on the father. Otho, King of Greece, we
saw twice in his peculiar costume. Also,
the Queen of Holland, the Archduchess
of Austria, the ex-King Lewis, and the
dowager Queen, and three Princes, were
so kind as to show themselves to us. Also,
the suite of the Queen of Prussia, on
their way with the Queen of Maximilian,
who lives in a hunting lodge by the Lake
Staniberg. We saw lights about the
Lake, and regretted the night, which pre
vented our having a view of this spot,
where it is said Charlemagne was reared.
As ever, your’s truly,
M. B.
* Then was her earthly felicity crowned, but a
cypress bud was woven into her biidul wieath —a
lew short years of happiness, too pure, too unal
loyed tor earth, and a fatal accident severing her
mortal ties, waited ber spirit, we trust, to a world
of love, but left Maximilian ever to deplore the
loss of that devoted spirit.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
SONNET.
“Well I am glad !” the hist dear words that fell
Upon my ear like some familiar strain,
Breaking the silent witchery of the spell
Her eye-> had wov’u about my heait aud brain !
Perhaps they spoke no common joy possessed ;
Perhaps had reference to some trivial thing,
A gem, a book, a bracelet, or a ring ;
Yet, in the rapture of that momeut blest,
They had to me a meaning deep as tears,
Wide as the rainbow circle of her life—
Telling the bliss of past and present years,
And the pure hopes with which her heart is rife.
Ah ! may it too—that casual phrase—be long
In Earih and Heaven, the burthen of her song, j
[December 4,