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.
Wittenberg is now a mean little town; all looks poor and low; yet it
seems like a place that has seen better days.
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