[Ill.u.s.tration: THE KNIGHT, DEATH AND THE DEVIL _Durer_]

One other of Durer"s pictures should be spoken of, though it hardly belongs last in order of time. It is really the summing up of much that he had done from time to time all through his busy life time.

This picture, called "_The Knight, Death and the Devil_," is an engraving on copper. The stern, intelligent men of the time, who were ready to face any danger in order to bear themselves according to their notions of right, are well represented in this splendid mounted knight. What though Death reminds him by the uplifted hourgla.s.s that his life is nearly ended? or that Satan himself stands ready to claim the Knight"s soul? There is that in this grand horseman"s face that tells of unflinching purpose and indomitable courage to carry it out against the odds of earth and the dark regions besides. One of our greatest art critics says of this work, "I believe I do not exaggerate when I particularize this point as the most important work which the fantastic spirit of German Art has produced." A reading of Fouque"s "Sintram" inspires us anew with the true spirit of Durer"s great work.

[Ill.u.s.tration: ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON _Durer_]

The gift to his natal city was Durer"s last work of note. The sickness that had been growing upon him, which was none other than consumption, gradually absorbed his energies and in April, 1528, he died. He was buried in St. John"s Cemetery in the lot belonging to the Frey family.

On the flat gravestone 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 G.o.d.

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 ill.u.s.tration and the originator of ill.u.s.trated 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."

[Ill.u.s.tration: 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 square the oriel window, where in old heroic days, Sat the poet Melchoir singing Kaiser Maximilian"s praise.

Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous world of art; Fountains wrought with richest sculpture standing in the common mart;

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, 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, Like the foamy sheaf of fountains rising through the painted air.

Here, when Art was still religion, with a simple, reverent heart Lived and labored Albrecht Durer, the Evangelist of Art;

Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with busy hand, Like an emigrant he wandered seeking for the Better Land.

_Emigravit_ is the inscription on the tomb-stone where he lies; Dead he is not, but departed--for the artist never dies.

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!

[A] These stanzas are here reproduced by the courtesy of Houghton, Mifflin & Co., the regular publishers of Longfellow"s works.