A low walk and pillared gateway, over whose broken pediment the willow bends mournfully, mark this place of tombs. The churchyard is sprinkled with trees: to the south, the shadows of a thicker fringe of branches deepen the natural solemnity of the place. It is here that the mighty dead of the White City are sleeping the sleep that knows no waking; but, as we seek the graves of Durer, Sachs, or Pirkheimer, we pass along the rows of flat tombstones quietly, with hushed voices and reverent steps, as if dreading to disturb even the silence of their inviolable repose.[64] On every side of us are emblems of the past glory and pride of Nuremberg. There are no headstones to the tombs, but every slab, in high relief of imperishable bronze fashioned by the skill of the most distinguished artists,[65] bears the coats-of-arms and devices of the civic noble who moulders beneath. What pomp of funeral processions must have ascended the steep from the city, year by year, through that gateway, to convey another, and yet another, wealthy burgher from the busy scenes of commerce and office, to the silent abodes of the dead! Poets and artists, too, as well as patricians, lie here; and the indistinguishable dust of the famous and infamous, of rich and poor, known and unknown, old and young mingles in this still churchyard of St. John. "Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust." We feel the pathos, the pity of it, as we stand here and read the message of the tombstones; but even more clearly does St. John's Churchyard suggest that other mood:-- "Hark! how the sacred calm that breathes around Bids ev'ry fierce tumultuous passion cease; In still small accents whispering from the ground A grateful earnest of eternal peace." CHAPTER X _The Houses, Wells, and Bridges_