From the cathedral we passed out, and stopped a moment to examine the
adjoining church, now deserted, but whose three graceful spires have a
peculiar beauty. After a turn upon the platform we descended, and
drove to the Augustine Convent, now used as an orphan asylum. We
ascended through a court yard, full of little children, by some steps
into a gallery, where a woman came out with her keys. We passed first
into a great hall, the walls of which were adorned with Holbein's
Dance of Death.
From this hall we passed into Luther's room--a little cell, ten feet
square; the walls covered with inscriptions from his writings. There
we saw his inkstand, his pocket Testament, a copy of the Bible that
was presented to him, (by whom I could not understand,) splendidly
bound and illuminated. But it was the cell itself which affected me,
the windows looking out into what were the cloisters of the monastery.
Here was that struggle--that mortal agony--that giant soul convulsing
and wearing down that strong frame. These walls! to what groans, to
what prayers had they listened! Could we suppose a living human form
imperishable, capable of struggling and suffering, but not of dying,
buried beneath the whole weight of one of these gloomy cathedrals,
suffocating in mortal agony, hearing above the tramp of footsteps, the
peal of organs, the triumphant surge of chants, and vainly striving to
send up its cries under all this load,--such, it would seem, was the
suffering of this mighty soul.
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