Here
his little Magdalen, his little Jacky, and the rest made joyous
uproar.
There stands his writing table, a heavy mass of wood; clumsy as the
time and its absurdities, rougher now than ever, in its squalid old
age, and partly chipped away by relic seekers. Here he sat; here lay
his paper; over this table was bent that head whose brain power was
the earthquake of Europe. Here he wrote books which he says were
rained, hailed, and snowed from the press in every language and
tongue. Kings and emperors could not bind the influence from this
writing table; and yet here, doubtless, he wrestled, struggled,
prayed, and such tears as only he could shed fell upon it. Nothing of
all this says the table. It only stands a poor, ungainly relic of the
past; the inspiring angel is gone upward.
Catharine's nicely-carved cabinet, with its huge bunches of oaken
flowers hanging down between its glass panels, shows Luther's drinking
cup. There is also his embroidered portrait, on which, doubtless, she
expended much thought, as she evidently has much gold thread. I seem
to see her conceiving the bold design--she will work the doctor's
likeness.
Pages:
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484