I am here in the station house at Wittenberg. I have been seeing and
hearing to-day for you, and now sit down to put on paper the results
of my morning. "What make you from Wittenberg?" Wittenberg! name of
the dreamy past; dimly associated with Hamlet, Denmark, the moonlight
terrace, and the Baltic Sea, by one line of Shakspeare; but made more
living by those who have thought, loved, and died here; nay, by those
who cannot die, and whose life has been life to all coming ages.
How naturally, on reaching a place long heard of and pondered, do we
look round for something uncommon, quaint, and striking! Nothing of
the kind was here; only the dead flat of this most level scenery, with
its dreary prairie-like sameness. Certainly it was not this scenery
that stirred up a soul in Luther, and made him nail up his theses on
the Wittenberg church door.
"But, at any rate, let us go to Wittenberg," said I; "get a guide, a
carriage, cannot you?" as I walked to one window of the station house
and another, and looked out to see something wonderful. 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.
Wittenberg is now a mean little town; all looks poor and low; yet it
seems like a place that has seen better days. Houses, now used as
paltry shops, have, some of them, carved oaken doors, with antic
freaks of architecture, which seem to signify that their former owners
were able to make a figure in the world. In fact, the houses seem a
sort of phantasmagoria of decayed gentlefolk, in the faded, tarnished,
old-fashioned finery of the past. Our guide halts her trot suddenly
before a house, which she announces as that of Louis Cranach; then on
she goes. Louis is dead, and Magdalen, his wife, also; so there is no
one there to welcome us; on we go also. Once Louis was a man of more
consequence.
Now we come to Luther's house--a part of the old convent. Wide yawns
the stone doorway of the court; a grinning masque grotesquely looks
down from its centre, and odd carvings from the sides. A colony of
swallows have established their nests among the queer old carvings and
gnome-like faces, and are twittering in and out, superintending their
domestic arrangements. We enter a court surrounded with buildings;
then ascend, through a strange doorway, a winding staircase, passing
small, lozenge-shaped window. Up these stairs _he_ oft trod, in
all the moods of that manifold and wonderful nature--gay, joyous,
jocose, fervent, defiant, imploring; and up these stairs have trod
wondering visitors, thronging from all parts of the world, to see the
man of the age. Up these stairs come Philip Melanchthon, Lucas
Cranach, and their wives, to see how fares Luther after some short
journey, or some new movement. Now, all past, all solitary; the stairs
dirty, the windows dim.
[Illustration: _of Luther's room._]
And this is Luther's room. It was a fine one in its day, that is
plain. The arched recesses of the windows; the roof, divided in
squares, and, like the walls and cornice, painted in fresco; the
windows, with their quaint, round panes,--all, though now so soiled
and dim, speak plainly of a time when life was here, and all things
wore a rich and joyous glow. In this room that great heart rejoiced in
the blessedness of domestic life, and poured forth some of those
exulting strains, glorifying the family state, which yet remain. Here
his little Magdalen, his little Jacky, and the rest made joyous
uproar.
There stands his writing table, a heavy mass of wood; clumsy as the
time and its absurdities, rougher now than ever, in its squalid old
age, and partly chipped away by relic seekers. Here he sat; here lay
his paper; over this table was bent that head whose brain power was
the earthquake of Europe. Here he wrote books which he says were
rained, hailed, and snowed from the press in every language and
tongue. Kings and emperors could not bind the influence from this
writing table; and yet here, doubtless, he wrestled, struggled,
prayed, and such tears as only he could shed fell upon it. Nothing of
all this says the table. It only stands a poor, ungainly relic of the
past; the inspiring angel is gone upward.
Catharine's nicely-carved cabinet, with its huge bunches of oaken
flowers hanging down between its glass panels, shows Luther's drinking
cup. There is also his embroidered portrait, on which, doubtless, she
expended much thought, as she evidently has much gold thread. I seem
to see her conceiving the bold design--she will work the doctor's
likeness. She asks Magdalen Cranach's opinion, and Magdalen asks
Lucas's, and there is a deal of discussion, and Lucas makes wise
suggestions. In the course of many fireside chats, the thing grows.
Philip and his Kate, dropping in, are shown it. Little Jacky and
Magdalen, looking shyly over their mother's shoulder, are wonderfully
impressed with the likeness, and think their mother a great woman.
Luther takes it in hand, and passes some jests upon it, which make
them laugh all round, and so at last it grows to be a veritable
likeness. Poor, faded, tarnished thing! it looks like a ghost now.
In one corner is a work of art by Luther--no less than a stove planned
after his own pattern. It is a high, black, iron pyramid, panelled,
each panel presenting in relief some Scripture subject. Considering
the remote times, this stove is quite an affair; the figures are, some
of them, spirited and well conceived, though now its lustre, like all
else here, is obscured by dust and dirt. Why do the Germans leave this
place so dirty? The rooms of Shakspeare are kept clean and in repair;
the Catholics enshrine in gold and silver the relics of their saints,
but this Protestant Mecca is left literally to the moles and the bats.
I slipped aside a panel in the curious old windows, and looked down
into the court surrounded by the university buildings. I fancied the
old times when students, with their scholastic caps and books, were
momently passing and repassing. I thought of the stir there was here
when the pope's bull against Luther came out, and of the pattering of
feet and commotion there were in this court, when Luther sallied out
to burn the pope's bull under the oak, just beyond the city wall near
by. The students thought it good fun; students are always progressive;
they admired the old boy for his spirit; they threw up caps and
shouted, and went out to see the ceremony with a will. Philip
Melanchthon wondered if brother Martin was not going a little too
fast, but hoped it would be overruled, and that all would be for the
best! So, coming out, I looked longingly beyond the city gate, and
wanted to go to the place of the oak tree, where the ceremony was
performed, but the party had gone on.
[Illustration: _of Melanchthon's house._]
Coming back, I made a pause opposite the house on which is seen the
inscription, "Here Melanchthon lived, labored, and died." A very good
house it was, too, in its day; in architecture it was not unlike this.
I went across the street to take a good look at it; then I came over,
and as the great arched door stood open, I took the liberty of walking
in. Like other continental houses, this had an arched passage running
through to a back court and a side door. A stone stairway led up from
this into the house, and a small square window, with little round
panes, looked through into the passage. A young child was toddling
about there, and I spoke to it; a man came out, and looked as if he
rather wondered what I might be about; so I retreated. Then I threaded
my way past queer peaked-roofed buildings to a paved court, where
stood the old church--something like that in Halle, a great Gothic
structure, with two high towers connected by a gallery. I entered.
Like the other church it has been whitewashed, and has few
architectural attractions. It is very large, with two galleries, one
over the other, and might hold, I should think, five thousand people.
Here Luther preached. These walls, now so silent, rung to the rare
melody of that voice, to which the Roman Catholic writers attributed
some unearthly enchantment, so did it sway all who listened. Here,
clustering round these pillars, standing on these flags, were myriads
of human beings; and what heart-beatings, what surgings of thought,
what tempests of feeling, what aspirations, what strivings, what
conflicts shook that multitude, and possessed them as he spoke! "I
preach," he said, "not for professor this or that, nor for the elector
or prince, but for poor Jack behind the door;" and so, striking only
on the chords common to all hearts, he bowed all, for he who can
inspire the illiterate and poor, callous with ignorance and toil, can
move also the better informed. Here, also, that voice of his, which
rose above the choir and organ, sang the alto in those chorals which
he gave to the world. Monmouth, sung in this great church by five
thousand voices, must needs have a magnificent sound.
The altar-piece is a Lord's Supper, by Louis Cranach, who appears in
the foreground as a servant. On each side are the pictures of the
Sacraments. In baptism, Melanchthon stands by a laver, holding a
dripping baby, whom he has just immersed, one of Luther's children, I
suppose, for he is standing by; a venerable personage in a long beard
holds the towel to receive the little neophyte. From all I know of
babies, I should think this form of baptism liable to inconvenient
accessories and consequences. On the other side, Luther is preaching,
and opposite, foremost of his audience are, Catharine and her little
son. Every thing shows how strictly intimate were Luther, Melanchthon,
and Cranach; good sociable times they had together. A slab elaborately
carved, in the side of the church, marks the last rest of Lucas and
Magdalen Cranach.
I passed out of the church, and walked slowly down to the hotel,
purchasing by the way, at a mean little shop, some tolerable
engravings of Luther's room, the church, &c. To show how immutable
every thing has been in Wittenberg since Luther died, let me mention
that on coming back through the market-place, we found spread out for
sale upon a cloth about a dozen pairs of shoes of the precise pattern
of those belonging to Luther, which we had seen in Frankfort--clumsy,
rude, and heelless. I have heard that Swedenborg said, that in his
visit to the invisible world, he encountered a class of spirits who
had been there fifty years, and had not yet found out that they were
dead. These Wittenbergers, I think, must be of the same conservative
turn of mind.
Failing to get a carriage to the station, we started to walk. I paused
a moment before the church, to make some little corrections and
emendations in my engravings, and thought, as I was doing so, of that
quite other scene years ago, when the body of Luther was borne through
this gate by a concourse of weeping thousands. These stones, on which
I was standing, then echoed all night to the tread of a closely-packed
multitude--a muffled sound, like the patter of rain among leaves.
There rose through the long, dark hours, alternately, the unrestrained
sobbings of the throng, and the grand choral of Luther's psalms, words
and music of his own. Never since the world began was so strange a
scene as that. I felt a kind of shadow from it, as I walked homeward
gazing on the flat, dreamy distance. A great windmill was creaking its
sombre, lazy vanes round and round,--strange, goblin things, these
windmills,--and I thought of one of Luther's sayings. "The heart of a
human creature is like the millstones: if corn be shaken thereon, it
grindeth the corn, and maketh good meal; but if no corn be there, then
it grindeth away itself." Luther tried the latter process all the
first part of his life; but he got the corn at last, and a magnificent
grist he made.
Arrived at the station, we found we must wait till half past five in
the afternoon for the train. This would have been an intolerable doom
in the disconsolate precincts of an English or American station, but
not in a German one. As usual, this had a charming garden, laid out
with exquisite taste, and all glowing and fragrant with plats of
verbena, fuschias, heliotropes, mignonette, pansies, while rows of
hothouse flowers, set under the shelter of neatly trimmed hedges, gave
brightness to the scene. Among all these pretty grounds were seats and
walks, and a gardener, with his dear pipe in his mouth, was moving
about, watering his dear flowers, thus combining the two delights of a
German, flowers and smoke. These Germans seem an odd race, a mixture
of clay and spirit--what with their beer drinking and smoking, and
their slow, stolid ways, you would think them perfectly earthly; but
an ethereal fire is all the while working in them, and bursting out in
most unexpected little jets of poetry and sentiment, like blossoms on
a cactus.
The station room was an agreeable one, painted prettily in frescoes,
with two sofas. So we arranged ourselves in a party. S. and I betook
ourselves to our embroidery, and C. read aloud to us, or tried the
Amati, and when we were tired of reading and music we strolled in the
garden, and I wrote to you.
I wonder why we Anglo-Saxons cannot imitate the liberality of the
continent in the matter of railroad stations, and give the traveller
something more agreeable than the grim, bare, forbidding places, which
now obtain in England and America. This Wittenberg is but a paltry
town; and yet how much care is spent to make the station house
comfortable and comely! I may here say that nowhere in Europe is
railway travelling so entirely convenient as in Germany, particularly
in Prussia. All is systematic and orderly; no hurrying or shoving, or
disagreeable fuss at stations. The second class cars are, in most
points, as good as the first class in England; the conductors are
dignified and gentlemanly; you roll on at a most agreeable pace from
one handsome station house to another, finding yourself disposed to be
pleased with every thing.
There is but one drawback to all this, and that is the smoking.
Mythologically represented, these Germans might be considered as a
race born of chimneys, with a necessity for smoking in their very
nature. A German walking without his pipe is only a dormant volcano;
it is in him to smoke all the while; you may be sure the crater will
begin to fume before long. Smoking is such an acknowledged attribute
of manhood, that the gentler sex seem to have given in to it as one of
the immutable things of nature; consequently all the public places
where both sexes meet are redolent of tobacco! You see a gentleman
doing the agreeable to a lady, cigar in mouth, treating her
alternately to an observation and a whiff, both of which seem to her
equally matters of course. In the cars some attempt at regulation
subsists; there are cars marked "_Nich rauchen_" into which
_we_ were always very careful to get; but even in these it is not
always possible to make a German suspend an operation which is to him
about the same as breathing.
On our way from Frankfort to Halle, in a "_nich rauchen_" car,
too, a jolly old gentleman, whose joyous and abundant German sounded
to me like the clatter of a thousand of brick, wound up a kind of
promiscuous avalanche of declamation by pulling a matchbox from his
pocket, and proceeding deliberately to light his pipe. The tobacco was
detestable. Now, if a man _must_ smoke, I think he is under moral
obligation to have decent tobacco. I began to turn ill, and C.
attacked the offender in French; not a word did he understand, and
puffed on tranquil and happy. The idea that any body did not like
smoke was probably the last that could ever be made to enter his head,
even in a language that he did understand. C. then enlisted the next
neighbor, who understood French, and got him to interpret that smoke
made the lady ill. The chimney-descended man now took his pipe out,
and gazed at it and me alternately, with an air of wondering
incredulity, and seemed trying to realize some vast conception, but
failing in the effort, put his pipe back, and smoked as before! Some
old ladies now amiably offered to change places with me, evidently
regarding me as the victim of some singular idiosyncrasy. As I
changed, a light seemed to dawn on the old chimney's mind--a
good-natured one he was; he looked hard at me, and his whiffs became
fainter till at last they ceased, and he never smoked more till I was
safe out of the cars.