The whole pomp and splendor of this
gorgeous prison house was piled up on his breast, and _his_
struggles rent the prison for the world!
On a piece of parchment which is here kept framed is inscribed in
Luther's handwriting, in Latin, "Death is swallowed up in Victory!"
Nothing better could be written on the walls of this cell.
This afternoon I walked out a little to observe the German Sabbath.
Not like the buoyant, voluble, social Sunday of Paris, though still
consecrated to leisure and family enjoyment more than to religious
exercises. As I walked down the streets, the doors were standing open,
men smoking their pipes, women knitting, and children playing. One
place of resort was the graveyard of an antiquated church. A graveyard
here is quite different from the solitary, dismal place where we lay
our friends, as if to signify that all intercourse with them is at an
end. Each grave was trimmed and garlanded with flowers, fastened with
long strings of black or white ribbon. Around and among the graves
men, women, and children were walking, the men smoking and chatting,
not noisily, but in a cheerful, earnest way.
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