g. Its fortifications are rugged and strong. Its towers
imposing. It dates back to the Huns. Frederick Barbarossa frequently
occupied the castle which frowns down on you from the heights. Hans
Sachs, the poet, sang here. Albrecht Durer painted here. Peter Vischer
perhaps dreamed out the noble original of my beautiful King Arthur here.

From the quaint and awkward statues of saints and heroes in church and
state, to such delicate examples of sculpture as the figure of the
Virgin in the Hirschelgasse, so delicate and graceful that it was once
attributed to an Italian master, you realise how early the arts were
established here and how sedulously they were pursued. Everywhere are
works of art, from the cruder decorations over doorways and windows to
the paintings of Durer in the Germanic Museum. It is a sad reflection to
me that most of Durer's work, and all of his masterpieces, are in other
cities--Munich, Berlin, and Vienna, and that, as it is in Greece, only
their fame remains to glorify the city of his birth.

His statue, copied from a portrait painted by himself, stands in the
Albrecht-Durer Platz, and in his little house are copies of his
masterpieces and a collection of typical antique German furniture and
utensils. The exquisite art of glass-staining is the suitable occupation
of the custodian who shows you about the house.

Indeed, wood carving, glass staining, engraving of medals and
medallions, copying ancient cabinets and quaint furniture are, if not
the principal, at least the most interesting occupations pursued in
Nuremberg to-day. In searching out the little shops I also found that
table linen, superbly embroidered and decorated with drawn-work of
intricate patterns was here in a bewildering display.

Dear Nuremberg! A stroll through your lovely streets is a feast for the
eye and a whip to the imagination that no other city in the German
Empire can duplicate or approach. You abound in quaint doorways, over
which if I step, I find myself transplanted to the scenes of tapestries
and old prints, and I can easily imagine myself framed and hanging on
the wall quite comfortable and happy.

One of these tiny doorways led us, on a bright Sunday afternoon, into
one of the oddest places we ever saw. It was the
Bratwurst-Glocklein--such a restaurant as Doctor Johnson would have
deserted the Cheshire Cheese for, and revelled in the change.

It appeared to be a thousand years old. Perhaps Melanchthon expounded
the