There sat the Elector of Saxony, in full armor, on
his horse, which was likewise cased in steel. There was the suit of
armor in which Constable Bourbon fell under the walls of Rome, and
other celebrated suits, some covered with fine engraved work, and some
gilded. A quantity of banners literally hung in tatters, dropping to
pieces with age. Here were the middle ages all standing.
Then we passed up to a grand hall, which is now being restored with
great taste after the style of that day--a long, lofty room, with an
arched roof, and a gallery on one side, and beyond, a row of
Romanesque arched windows, commanding a view of the country around.
Having finished the tour of this part, we went back, ascended an old,
rude staircase, and were ushered into Luther's Patmos, about ten or
twelve feet square. The window looked down the rocky sides into an
ocean of seething mist. I opened it, but could see nothing of all
those scenes he describes so graphically from this spot. I thought of
his playful letter on the "Diet of the Rooks," but there was not a
rook at hand to illustrate antiquity. There was his bedstead and
footstool, a mammoth vertebra, and his writing table.
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