Still stands the forest primeval; but under the shade of its branches Dwells another race, with other customs and language. In the fisherman's cot the wheel and the loom are still busy ; Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their kirtles of homespun, And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline's story, While from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced, neighboring ocean Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest. NUREMBERG. In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadow-lands Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg, the ancient, stands. Quaint old towns 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 through every clime.1 In the courtyard of the castle, bound with many an iron band, Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous world of Art : Fountains wrought with richest sculpture standing in the common mart; 1 That their great imperial city stretched its hand through every clime. An old popular proverb of the town runs thus : "Nürnberg's Hand Geht durch alle Land." Nuremberg's hand Goes through every land. 1 Sat the poet Melchior singing Kaiser Maximilian's Praise. Melchior Pfinzing was was one of the most celebrated German poets of the sixteenth century. The hero of his Teuerdank was the reigning emperor, Maximilian; and the poem was to the Germans of that day what the Orlando Furioso was to the Italians. Maximilian is mentioned before, in the Belfry of Bruges. 111 And above cathedral doorways saints and bishops carved in stone, By a former age commissioned as apostles to our own. In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined his holy dust,1 And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from age to age their trust; In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of sculpture rare,2 Like the foamy sheaf of fountains, rising through the painted air. Here, when Art was still religion, with a simple, reverent heart, Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with busy hand, Emigravit is the inscription on the tombstone where he lies; Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine seems more fair, That he once has trod its pavement, that he once has breathed its air! Through these streets so broad and stately, these obscure and dismal lanes, Walked of yore the Mastersingers, chanting rude poetic strains. From remote and sunless suburbs, came they to the friendly guild, Building nests in Fame's great temple, as in spouts the swallows build. As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too the mystic rhyme, And the smith his iron measures hammered to the anvil's chime ; In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined his holy dust. The tomb of Saint Sebald, in the church which bears his name, is one of the richest works of art in Nuremberg. It is of bronze, and was cast by Peter Vischer and his sons, who labored upon it thirteen years. It is adorned with nearly one hundred figures, among which those of the Twelve Apostles are conspicuous for size and beauty. In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of sculpture rare. This pix, or tabernacle for the vessels of the sacrament, is by the hand of Adam Kraft. It is an exquisite piece of sculpture in white stone, and rises to the height of sixty-four feet. It stands in the choir, whose richly-painted windows cover it with varied colors. Thanking God, whose boundless wisdom makes the flowers of poesy bloom In the forge's dust and cinders, in the tissues of the loom. Here Hans Sachs, the cobbler-poet, laureate of the gentle craft, Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters,' in huge folios sang and laughed. But his house is now an ale-house, with a nicely sanded floor, And a garland in the window, and his face above the door ; Painted by some humble artist, as in Adam Puschman's song,2 As the old man gray and dove-like, with his great beard white and long. And at night the swart mechanic comes to drown his cark and care, Quaffing ale from pewter tankards, in the master's antique chair. Vanished is the ancient splendor, and before my dreamy eye Wave these mingling shapes and figures, like a faded tapestry. Not thy Councils, not thy Kaisers, win for thee the world's re gard; But thy painter, Albrecht Dürer, and Hans Sachs, thy cobblerbard. Thus, O Nuremberg, a wanderer from a region far away, As he paced thy streets and court-yards, sang in thought; his careless lay: Gathering from the pavement's crevice, as a floweret of the soil, The nobility of labor,-the long pedigree of toil. 1 Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters. The Twelve Wise Masters was the title of the original corporation of the Mastersingers. Hans Sachs, the cobbler of Nuremberg, though not one of the original Twelve, was the most renowned of the Mastersingers, as well as the most voluminous. He flourished in the sixteenth century; and left behind him thirty-four folio volumes of manuscript, containing two hundred and eight plays, one thousand and seven hundred comic tales, and between four and five thou sand lyric poems. 2 As in Adam Puschman's song. Adam Puschman, in his poem on the death of Hans Sachs, describes him as he appeared in a vision: 23-L & B-F "An old man, BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF CAPTAIN MYLES STANDISH. MYLES STANDISH-for so he spelled the name, and so his lineal descendant of the same name spells it to-day-was one of the most picturesque figures of the Plymouth Colony. The soldier is always an interesting figure. But this soldier had traits that made him doubly interesting, especially in the circumstances of his position in Plymouth Colony. The story of his courtship rests upon tradition, and the few historical references narrated in Longfellow's poem are given with substantial accuracy. John Standish was one of the king's servants, and was one of the first who wounded Wat Tyler after he had been felled by the Lord Mayor of London. For this he, along with others, was knighted. The family estate was in Lancashire. There were two branches of the family, one at Standish Hall, and the other at Duxbury Hall, near by. Myles is supposed to have sprung from the Duxbury branch, the chief reason for this being that he gave the name Duxbury to the town which he founded. The parish church for both estates was at Chorley. The armorial bearings of the family are thus given: Azure, three Standishes argent. The crest On a wreath, a cock argent, combed and wattled gules. In this blazonry the three Standishes mentioned seem to be simply three dishes (stan-dishes, or stand-dishes?), and are represented by three circles. It may here be said that the baronetcy of Standish was created in 1676, and became extinct in 1812. The only positive evidence as to the precise date of his birth is found in Queen Elizabeth's commission, which gives it as 1584. His birth was undoubtedly recorded in the parish register at Chorley. But although the records of this registry are otherwise complete from 1549 to 1652, the leaf for 1584-85 has been pumiced so carefully as to leave no trace of the writing. The conclusion is inevitable that "legal proof of Standish's birth and descent has been destroyed to secure a fraudulent transfer of his inheritance." According to Morton, he was "heir-apparent unto a great estate of lands and livings surreptitiously kept from him, his great-grandfather being a second or younger brother from the house of Standish." He was thus compelled to seek his own fortune, and, from various motives which can be easily divined, he chose the profession of arms, which in those days represented an animus widely different from that of to-day. He was sent by Her Majesty to serve in the Netherlands, in aid of the Dutch and Flemish against Philip II. of Spain. He was quartered at Leyden at the time Pastor John Robinson, with his Pilgrimi Church, settled there. He was not a member of that church-the Standish family had always been Roman Catholic-but he formed warm friendships among the members. When, therefore, the Pilgrims emigrated, 114 |