of himself which is now at
Munich, and is the favorite of all lovers of the great artist. It
shows a high and intellectual forehead, and tender and loving eyes,
with long curling hair which falls far down on his shoulders. In many
respects it bears the closest resemblance to the traditional pictures
of Christ, with its sad and solemn beauty, and large sympathetic eyes,
and has the same effeminate full lips and streaming ringlets.

During the next five years Duerer was in some measure compensated for
the trials of his home by the cheerful companionship of his old friend
Pirkheimer, who had recently returned from service with the Emperor's
army in the Tyrolese wars. At his hospitable mansion the artist met
many eminent scholars, reformers, and literati, and broadened his
knowledge of the world, while receiving worthy homage for his genius
and his personal accomplishments. Baumgaertner, Volkamer, Harsdorfer,
and other patricians of the city, were his near friends; and the
Augustine Prior, Eucharius Karl, and the brilliant Lazarus Spengler,
the Secretary of Nuremberg, were also intimate with both Duerer and
Pirkheimer. During the next twenty years the harassed artist often
sought refuge among these gatherings of choice spirits, when weary of
his continuous labors of ambition.

Duerer pathetically narrates the death of his venerable father, in
words as vivid as one of his pictures, and full of quaint tenderness:
"Soon he clearly saw death before him, and with great patience waited
to go, recommending my mother to me, and a godly life to all of us. He
received the sacraments, and died a true Christian, on the eve of St.
Matthew (Sept. 21), at midnight, in 1502.... The old nurse helped him
to rise, and put the close cap upon his head again, which had become
wet by the heavy sweat. He wanted something to drink; and she gave him
Rhine wine, of which he tasted some, and then wished to lie down
again. He thanked her for her aid, but no sooner lay back upon his
pillows than his last agony began. Then the old woman trimmed the
lamp, and set herself to read aloud St. Bernard's dying song; but she
only reached the third verse, and behold his soul had gone. God be
good to him! Amen. Then the little maid, when she saw that he was
dying, ran quickly up to my chamber, and waked me. I went down fast,
but he was gone; and I grieved much that I had not been found worthy
to be beside him at his end."

At this time Albert took home his brot