Nothing Was In
Sight, However; And After The Usual Sputter Of Gutturals Which
Precedes Any Arrangement In This Country, We Were Mounted In A High,
Awkward Carriage, And Rode To The Town.
Two ancient round tower and a
wall first met my eye; then a drawbridge, arched passage, and
portcullis.
Under this passage we passed, and at our right hand was
the church, where once was laid the worn form that had stood so many
whirlwinds - where, in short, Luther was buried. But this we did not
then know; so we drove by, and went to a hotel. Talked English and got
German; talked French with no better success. At last, between W., G.,
and the dictionary, managed to make it understood that we wanted a
guide to the Luther relics. A guide was after a time forthcoming, in
the person of a little woman who spoke no English, whom, guide book in
hand, we followed.
The church is ancient, and, externally, impressive enough; inside it
is wide, cold, whitewashed, prosaic; whoever gets up feeling does it
against wind and tide, so far as appearances are concerned. We advance
to the spot in the floor where our guide raises a trap door, and shows
us underneath the plate inscribed with the name of Luther, and by it
the plate recording the resting-place of his well-beloved Philip
Melanchthon; then to the grave of the Elector of Saxony, and John the
Steadfast; on one side a full length of Luther, by Lucas Cranach; on
the other, one of Melanchthon, by the same hand. Well, we have seen;
this is all; "He is not here, he is risen." "Is this all?" "All," says
our guide, and we go out. I look curiously at the old door where
Luther nailed up his theses; but even this is not the identical door;
that was destroyed by the French. Still, under that arched doorway he
stood, hammer and nails in hand; he held up his paper, he fitted it
straight; rap, rap, - there, one nail - another - it is up, and he
stands looking at it. These very stones were over that head that are
now over mine, this very ground beneath his feet. As I turned away I
gave an earnest look at the old church. Grass is growing on its
buttresses; it has a desolate look, though strong and well kept. The
party pass on, and I make haste to overtake them.
Down we go, doing penance over the round paving stones; and our next
halt is momentary. In the market-place, before the town house, (a
huge, three-gabled building, like a beast of three horns,) stands
Luther's bronze monument; apple women and pear women, onion and beet
women, are thickly congregated around, selling as best they may. There
stands Luther, looking benignantly, holding and pointing to the open
Bible; the women, meanwhile, thinking we want fruit, hold up their
wares and talk German. But our conductress has a regular guide's trot,
inexorable as fate; so on we go.
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