We enter a court surrounded with buildings;
then ascend, through a strange doorway, a winding staircase, passing
small, lozenge-shaped window. Up these stairs _he_ oft trod, in
all the moods of that manifold and wonderful nature--gay, joyous,
jocose, fervent, defiant, imploring; and up these stairs have trod
wondering visitors, thronging from all parts of the world, to see the
man of the age. Up these stairs come Philip Melanchthon, Lucas
Cranach, and their wives, to see how fares Luther after some short
journey, or some new movement. Now, all past, all solitary; the stairs
dirty, the windows dim.
[Illustration: _of Luther's room._]
And this is Luther's room. It was a fine one in its day, that is
plain. The arched recesses of the windows; the roof, divided in
squares, and, like the walls and cornice, painted in fresco; the
windows, with their quaint, round panes,--all, though now so soiled
and dim, speak plainly of a time when life was here, and all things
wore a rich and joyous glow. In this room that great heart rejoiced in
the blessedness of domestic life, and poured forth some of those
exulting strains, glorifying the family state, which yet remain.
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