sitoriness of worldly
grandeur. With a rock for its base, and walls almost of adamant for its
support--situated also upon an eminence which may be said to look
frowningly down over a vast sweep of country--the Citadel of Nuremberg
should seem to have bid defiance, in former times, to every assault of
the most desperate and enterprising foe. It is now visited only by the
casual traveler--who is frequently startled at the echo of his own
footsteps.

While I am on the subject of ancient art--of which so many curious
specimens are to be seen in this Citadel--it may not be irrelevant to
conduct the reader at once to what is called the Town Hall--a very large
structure--of which portions are devoted to the exhibition of old
pictures. Many of these paintings are in a very suspicious state, from
the operations of time and accident; but the great boast of the
collection is the "Triumphs of Maximilian I.," executed by Albert
Duerer--which, however, has by no means escaped injury. I was accompanied
in my visit to this interesting collection by Mr. Boerner, and had
particular reason to be pleased by the friendliness of his attentions,
and by the intelligence of his observations. A great number of these
pictures (as I understood) belonged to a house in which he was a
partner; and among them a portrait, by Pens, struck me as being
singularly admirable and exquisite. The countenance, the dress, the
attitude, the drawing and coloring, were as perfect as they well might
be. But this collection has also suffered from the transportation of
many of its treasures to Munich. The rooms, halls, and corridors of this
Hotel de Ville give you a good notion of municipal grandeur.

In the neighborhood of Nuremberg--that is to say, scarcely more than an
English mile from thence--are the grave and tombstone of Albert Duerer.
The monument is simple and striking. In the churchyard there is a
representation of the Crucifixion, cut in stone. It was on a fine, calm
evening, just after sunset, that I first visited the tombstone of Albert
Duerer; and I shall always remember the sensations, with which that visit
was attended, as among the most pleasing and impressive of my life. The
silence of the spot--its retirement from the city--the falling shadows
of night, and the increasing solemnity of every monument of the
dead--together with the mysterious, and even awful, effect produced by
the colossal crucifix--but yet, perhaps, more than either, the
recollect