So the German Cardinal shared the taste of Browning’s Roman Bishop. It was a taste that spread rapidly from Italy about this time, and brought in its train swift ruin to the industry of the bronze craftsmen. But the day of disaster had not yet come, and meantime the young Peter Vischer was busy with other works. He had not yet, however, succeeded in being admitted as a meister of the Guild of Coppersmiths, and he took the present opportunity of submitting the Cardinal’s tomb-plate as his masterpiece. It was rejected for some obscure reason, just as, two years later, his splendid memorial of Frederick the Wise was rejected. Both of these pieces are signed “Opus M. Petri Fischers. Norimberge.” In face of the fact that they were not accepted as masterpieces we cannot interpret the letter M. in these inscriptions as the initial of _Magistri_ (master). It must stand rather for _Minoris_—“the work of Peter Fischer the younger.” The present memorial takes the form of a life-size character-study of a mighty prince of the Church, and it is set in a Renaissance framework. It is a noble and intense piece of work which has been spoilt by the inscription tablet which covers the body. Unlike his father, but like most other artists of his day, Peter Vischer the younger, as we gather from Neudörffer’s mention of him, did not confine himself to bronze work, but dabbled in various kindred arts. We have a noticeable instance of this in the “Allegory on the Reformation” (1524), an aquarelle now preserved at Weimar, which once roused the enthusiasm of Goethe, and which reveals to us his political and religious creed. In common with Hans Sachs, Albert Dürer, and Willibald Pirkheimer, and the great majority of Nurembergers, Peter Vischer had thrown in his lot with the Protestant Reformers, and boldly espoused the cause of Luther. Luther he here represents as some hero of old story who has destroyed the palace and upset the throne of the usurper, and scattered the base crowd of his courtiers. The Pope and the mighty princes of the Church have been put down from their seat and the horde of their hateful minions—Pride, Luxury, and Avarice—flee away. In their stead Faith, Hope, and Charity are about to enthrone Justice, whilst Luther, the humble and unworldly, shows the straight path to Christ, who descends from the clouds to save publicans and sinners. Rome’s might, it is implied, is broken; the German people can at last, through Luther’s act, hold direct communion with their Redeemer once more. Only a German Emperor, so it must have seemed to the German enthusiasts of that time, was wanting—no Spaniard like Charles V., with his brood of alien courtiers—to continue the work of Luther and to fulfil the national ideal. And perhaps, as Dr. Seeger suggests, Peter Vischer the younger looked to Frederick the Wise, Elector of Saxony, as the heaven-appointed Kaiser—that Prince whose portrait he executed in so loving and masterly a fashion two years later.