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Much good German sculpture may be seen in Nüremberg. The Schöner Brunnen, the beautiful fountain, is a delight, in spite of the fact that one is not looking at the original, which was relegated to the museum for safe keeping long ago. The carving, too, on the Frauenkirche, and St. Sebald's, and on St. Lorenz, is as fine as anything one will find in Germany.
It was my inestimable privilege the other morning it was All-Saints' Day to see the archbishop in the old Frauenkirche, the ancient cathedral, where hang tattered banners that were captured from the Turks three centuries ago, to see him seated in the choir, overlooked by saints and apostles carved in wood by some forgotten artist of the fifteenth century.
Indeed, there is no church in Munich, except the old cathedral, the Frauenkirche, with its high Gothic arches, stained windows, and dusty old carvings, that gives one at all the sort of feeling that it is supposed a church should give. The court chapel interior is boastingly said to resemble St. Mark's, in Venice.
In half an hour she was alone in the kitchen down-stairs, and Tetchen had started to the Frauenkirche, or to whatever other place was more agreeable to her for the occupation of her Sunday morning.
Syrens hold candelabra at the angles; and the centre has an air of singular lightness and grace. It is supported at the base by huge snails. To him were his fellow-townsmen indebted for the grand gate of the Frauenkirche, the series of sculptures on the “Via Dolorosa,” numerous others in the churches and public buildings, but principally for the “Sacramentshauslein,” in the Church of St.
It was my inestimable privilege the other morning it was All-Saints' Day to see the archbishop in the old Frauenkirche, the ancient cathedral, where hang tattered banners that were captured from the Turks three centuries ago, to see him seated in the choir, overlooked by saints and apostles carved in wood by some forgotten artist of the fifteenth century.
It was my inestimable privilege the other morning it was All-Saints' Day to see the archbishop in the old Frauenkirche, the ancient cathedral, where hang tattered banners that were captured from the Turks three centuries ago, to see him seated in the choir, overlooked by saints and apostles carved in wood by some forgotten artist of the fifteenth century.
She took a small room in an old tower near the Frauenkirche and lived the students' life, probably the freest of any city in the world. She dropped her title and name lest she be barred from that socialistic community as well as discovered by horrified relatives, and called herself Gisela Döring.
The women night-workers in the factories, fifteen minutes before the signal from the Frauenkirche, had pretended to strike, seized all the hand arms available and shot down the men who attempted to control them. The men in the secret had gone with them and were already about their business.
The city spires had a mysterious appearance in the gray haze; and above all, the round-topped towers of the old Frauenkirche, frosted with a little snow, loomed up more grandly than ever.
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