was let in a little bronze tablet on which was
a simple inscription written by his friend Pirkheimer. A century and
a half later Sandrart, the historian of German painters, visited the
tomb, then in ruins. He caused it to be repaired and added another
inscription which has been translated into English:--

"Rest here, thou Prince of Painters! thou who wast better
than great,
In many arts unequaled in the old time or the late.
Earth thou didst paint and garnish, and now in thy new abode
Thou paintest the holy things overhead in the city of God.
And we, as our patron saint, look up to thee, ever will,
And crown with laurel the dust here left with us still."

Durer's character was one of the purest to be found on the honor-list
of the world. He bore heavy burdens with patience and was true to his
country and to himself in the most distracting of times. He was the
father of popular illustration and the originator of illustrated
books. He was as many-sided in his genius as Da Vinci and as prolific
as Raphael, though along a different line. That he was architect,
sculptor, painter, engraver, author and civil engineer proves the
former point, while the fact that he left a great number of signed
works satisfies us regarding the latter comparison. One who knew him
wrote of him in these words,--"If there were in this man anything
approaching to a fault it was simply the endless industry and
self-criticism which he indulged in, often even to injustice."

[Illustration: STATUE OF ALBRECHT DURER, NUREMBERG]

In closing this sketch, nothing can so delightfully summarize the
beauty of the old town of Nuremberg and the character of its great
artist as a part of Longfellow's poem, _Nuremberg_:[A]

In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadow-lands,
Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg the ancient stands.

Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of art and song,
Memories haunt thy pointed gables like the rooks that round them
throng:

Memories of the Middle Ages, when the Emperors, rough and bold,
Had their dwelling in thy castle, time defying, centuries old;

And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in their uncouth rhyme,
That their great imperial city stretched its hand thro' every clime.

In the court-yard of the castle, bound with many an iron band,
Stands the mighty linden planted by Queen Cunigunde's hand;

On the