I must now say a few words respecting the present state of the FINE ARTS at Nuremberg, and make mention of a few things connected with the vicinity of the town, ere I conduct the reader to Manheim:  regretting, however, that I am necessitated to make that account so summary.  I consider M. KLEIN to be among the very brightest ornaments of this place, as an artist.  I had seen enough of his productions at Vienna, to convince me that his pencil possessed no ordinary powers.  He is yet a young man; somewhere between thirty and forty, and leads occasionally a very romantic life—­but admirably subservient to the purposes of his art.  He puts a knapsack upon his back, filled with merely necessary articles of linen and materials for work—­and then stops, draws, eats, drinks, and sleeps where it pleases him:  wherever his eye is gratified by strong characteristics of nature—­whether on cattle, peasants, soldiers, or Cossacks.

Klein appears to have obtained his exquisite knowledge of animal painting from having been a pupil of GABLER—­a professed studier of natural history, and painter of animals.  The pupil was unluckily absent from Nuremberg, when I was there; but from many enquiries of his ultimate friends, I learnt that he was of a cheerful, social disposition—­fond of good company, and was in particular a very active and efficient member of a Society of Artists, which has been recently established at Nuremberg.  Klein himself, however, resides chiefly at Vienna—­there not being sufficient patronage for him in his native city.  His water-coloured drawings, in particular, are considered admirable; but he has lately commenced painting in oil—­with considerable success.  His etchings, of which he has published about one hundred, are in general masterly; but perhaps they are a little too metallic and severe.  His observation of nature is at once acute and correct.

In the neighbourhood of Nuremberg—­that is to say, scarcely more than an English mile from thence—­are the grave and tomb-stone of ALBERT DURER.  Dr. Bright having printed that artist’s epitaph at length[177]—­and it being found in most biographical details relating to him—­it need not be here repeated.  The monument is simple and striking.  In the churchyard, there is a representation of the Crucifixion, cut in stone.  It was on a fine, calm evening, just after sunset, that I first visited the tombstone of Albert Durer; and shall always remember the sensations, with which that visit was attended, as among the most pleasing and impressive of my life.  The silence of the spot,—­its retirement from the city—­the falling shadows of night, and the increasing solemnity of every monument of the dead—–­ together with the mysterious, and even awful effect, produced by the colossal crucifix... but yet perhaps, more than either, the recollection of the extraordinary talents of the artist, so quietly sleeping beneath my feet ... all conspired to produce a train of reflections which may be readily conceived, but not so readily described.  If ever a man deserved to be considered as the glory of his age and nation, ALBERT DURER was surely that man.  He was, in truth, the Shakspeare of his art—­for the period.