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Cranach (it seems as if half the pictures I had seen lately at
Nuremberg and other places were by him and
Musaeus); in the new churchyard, the tombs of
Goethe and
Schiller.
And now, you see, I have at length torn myself away from
Munich.
Have n't you sometimes had misgivings that I intended to cut you all at home, and had married and settled down in
Munich for life?
No, I have left, and, what's more, I have seen
Nuremberg!
I don't think I can make an attempt at description.
It has given me more pleasure than
all that I had seen before.
It is all old; it is all rich; it is all history; it is all carving,— carving in brown stone of every pattern and figure.
No fish, flesh, or fowl that is not carved there.
And then those old fellows, who, so to speak, left their lives everywhere about their dear old city,—
Albert Durer,
Adam Kraft, Veit Stoss, and
Peter Vischer too. And yet the
Bavarian court resides at
Munich, a city on a perfect flat, no beauty in the houses, and the worst climate in the world.