iterally, the city is full of the memory
of them; and the business of the city, aside from its manufactory of
endless, curious toys, seems to consist in reproducing them and their
immortal works to sell to strangers.

Other cities project new things, and grow with a modern impetus:
Nuremberg lives in the past, and traffics on its ancient reputation. Of
course, we went to see the houses where these old worthies lived, and
the works of art they have left behind them,--things seen and described
by everybody. The stone carving about the church portals and on side
buttresses is inexpressibly quaint and naive. The subjects are sacred;
and with the sacred is mingled the comic, here as at Augsburg, where
over one portal of the cathedral, with saints and angels, monkeys
climb and gibber. A favorite subject is that of our Lord praying in the
Garden, while the apostles, who could not watch one hour, are sleeping
in various attitudes of stony comicality. All the stone-cutters seem to
have tried their chisels on this group, and there are dozens of
them. The wise and foolish virgins also stand at the church doors in
time-stained stone,--the one with a perked-up air of conscious virtue,
and the other with a penitent dejection that seems to merit better
treatment. Over the great portal of St. Lawrence--a magnificent
structure, with lofty twin spires and glorious rosewindow is carved "The
Last Judgment." Underneath, the dead are climbing out of their stone
coffins; above sits the Judge, with the attending angels. On the right
hand go away the stiff, prim saints, in flowing robes, and with palms
and harps, up steps into heaven, through a narrow door which St. Peter
opens for them; while on the left depart the wicked, with wry faces and
distorted forms, down into the stone flames, towards which the Devil is
dragging them by their stony hair.

The interior of the Church of St. Lawrence is richer than any other I
remember, with its magnificent pillars of dark red stone, rising and
foliating out to form the roof; its splendid windows of stained glass,
glowing with sacred story; a high gallery of stone entirely round the
choir, and beautiful statuary on every column. Here, too, is the famous
Sacrament House of honest old Adam Kraft, the most exquisite thing I
ever saw in stone. The color is light gray; and it rises beside one of
the dark, massive pillars, sixty-four feet, growing to a point, which
then strikes the arch of the roof, and there